All posts for the month March, 2012

Tuesday Tales… My first post for Tuesday Tales, a snippet from “The Cowboy Queen”. Heat rating PG

Published March 5, 2012 by patricialogan

Today’s prompt is the word ‘LIFE’

“How can he not be happy, baby? Look at yourself. You’re by far, the most beautiful person on earth.” Ricky offered up a tiny smile, not really sure of himself at all. His boyfriend Michael Francis was a world famous super model. He jet-setted all over the world and had women and men falling at his feet. He could have anyone he wanted so why had he settled on a farm raised Nebraska boy like Ricky LaGrange? It still made no sense to Ricky at all. Ricky’s job at “The Red Room”, one of the hottest gay bars in all of West Hollywood, though prestigious within the gay community, wasn’t anything compared with being flown all over the world and paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to strip down to a tiny Speedo and be photographed. Michael’s cell phone never stopped ringing. Everyone wanted a piece of the tall, handsome hunk.

Ricky stared into the mirror, seeing the damage the drama had caused and then tried to ignore it. He applied cold cream to his face and wiped through it with a tissue as Mams struggled to style the young man’s hair.

“There now, look how beautiful you are baby?” The large wigged man stood back, admiring his handiwork with a smile. Ricky’s hair lay flat now, brushed out and hanging over one eye, just the way he liked. “But why would you ask me if Michael would enjoy his present? Of course he will, darlin. What kind of crazy man wouldn’t want to go to a dude ranch and be surrounded by Marlboro men and cowboys for a week? Oh… the smell of leather…” Ricky watched him hum in ecstasy.

“Straight men,” Ricky answered with a quirky smile and tongue in cheek. The tall black man stared down at him, his wrinkles prominent in the aging face. He grinned and Ricky was nearly blinded by the whites of his teeth. A wave of love washed over him. Mams, a nickname for Malcolm, was his very best friend in all the world and it seemed that since Mams lover Scotty had died of complications from AIDS last year, the older man had fully adopted Ricky. It felt good to be loved, if the truth be told. Ricky’s own family had turned their backs on him and thrown him out of the house, when he came out to them, at eighteen. Mams was the only family Ricky had in this life, and that was just fine with him.

“I don’t know Mams. I want so badly for Michael to have a good birthday this year. It’ll be the first birthday of his, which we’ve spent together.” Mams reached out and cupped Ricky’s soft cheek. The contrast between the dark hand and Ricky’s pale skin was stark.

“Honey child, I told you that Rudy and Mark just came back from that dude ranch. They said it was the most liberating experience of their lives.” Ricky couldn’t help but smile at the dreamy quality in Mams eyes. “Why just thinking about all those macho cowboys riding around in assless chaps and cowboy boots and Stetson’s is giving me wood.”


Persian New Year, 2012 Part Two… An Israeli, a trash bag, and half a goat…

Published March 5, 2012 by patricialogan

An Israeli, a trash bag and half of a goat

Welcome to installment two of The Persian New Year, 2012…

So, having started over, the Persian and I moved into our first apartment together. Until then, I’d been living at my folks and he’d been living 50 miles away, saving for the first and last month’s rent, required to move into our own little love nest. My parents took pity on us finally, (maybe it was the fact that they disliked me making out of the area code calls every night) and they gave us the $600 we needed to move into our own apartment. Mind you, this was a tiny upstairs studio apartment, about the size of a garage and a half but it did have a covered carport and the location, in Studio City was divine.

You know how things go in the early days of marriage. You are broke, you have a huge sex drive and you have a safe and secure outlet for it every night (um… every day, night, in the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living area, on the terrace) well, you get the picture. So, the guy I married, when I married him, spoke very little English. He’d been a transplant to the U.S. for over four years but all of his roomies and work mates until then had been Persian and he’d had little opportunity to develop his English language skills. I became his tutor and he was a bright student. He’d sit every night in front of the TV and write every word that was new to him, on a yellow pad and then ask me to be a dictionary. Of course talking to me improved his English as well. I learned a lot of Farsi at that point so (as I planned), I could talk to his parents when they visited. See, I figured by now, with what we’d been through to this point, you know, the clinic and all, this “marriage” deserved a go. The problem with the Farsi I was learning, was that it was all the sex words, and body parts, not something you normally converse with the in-laws about… but I digress…

We lived on a really busy 4 lane street (Laurel Canyon Blvd) near Ventura Blvd., which is the main drag through the San Fernando Valley (remember the song “Valley Girl”? Yeah) and once a week, there was a street sweeper (for those of you foreigners, that’s a truck with a giant brush that cleans next to the curb by driving past it). On those days, we had to park the one car under our carport and the other, on the opposite side of the street, or get a ticket for blocking the street sweeper. One Tuesday, I come home early and am making dinner, when the Persian walks through the front door carrying a little maroon colored wallet thingy. He’s grinning madly. Uh. Oh. I knew that look. He’d done or was planning to do, something bad.

See, I learned these few months into marriage, that we shared very different values. I had been raised by very ethical, Christian parents, I’d graduated school with great grades and my claims to bad girl status had been smoking a joint at 21 and marrying out of “necessity” and then of course… the clinic… but all in all, I was a really “Good” girl. So he comes into the house waving this little wallet and says, “look what I found in the street?” He had parked on the opposite side of the 4 lane highway due to the street sweeper, and then dodged cars all the way across. Meanwhile, he found this wallet thingy laying in the middle of Laurel Canyon.

“What is that?” I asked innocently…

“A wallet with a passport! And look, it’s Jewish!”

“It’s Jewish?” I asked as I opened it. It’s an Israeli passport and it’s in Hebrew. That’s what he’d meant.

I must clarify here, that I married a Persian man but not a Jewish one, though there is a large population of Persian Jewish people in Southern California. Most of the people that I’ve met in the past 26 years in the Persian community are either Jewish or Muslim with a few Baha’i and Christian’s sprinkled in. All in all, the Persian Jewish community is more affluent due to the fact that they anticipated the overthrow of the Shah prior to it happening and knew that the rise of the Mullah’s may result in another Holocaust of epic proportions once the new regime took hold. They were able to get their money out of Iran prior to the 1979 Revolution and get the hell out, before things got bad. The Muslim community that remained in Iran, eagerly waiting for the overthrow of the Shah by the Ayatollah Khomeini, just figured that their money would be safe. Boy, were they wrong.

The U.S. instantly cut off all financial dealings and immigration dealings and every other kind of trade dealings with Iran, the minute they took our hostages. That left a bunch of impoverished Muslim college students behind. The Persian Jewish students at my university were well off because their families had either relocated their bodies and their bank accounts to Israel or the U.S. and the funds continued to flow. As these things go, a lot of the Persian Muslims were “tweaked” at the disparity and they “discarded” their Jewish counterparts, out of anger, jealousy or what have you. It’s very sad, but true. You can’t fight deep seated anger with placating words, even if you are a sexy new wife.

Needless to say, my Persian had plans for this passport. In the back of the wallet were numbers, a lot of them, most in Hebrew but some in English. The Persian asked me if I would call and find the owner of said passport and wallet, so that he could give it back. Well, of course, I thought. It’s the right thing to do. My upbringing screamed at me… you’re always a good girl Patti… but something in the glint of the Persian’s eyes told me this was not good. Anyway, I called every number that I could and finally reached the Israeli owner of the passport. He started to cry on the phone the minute he could figure out what my English words meant. He’d been looking everywhere for the wallet and passport and was so overwhelmed that he didn’t know what to do. I gave him our address and arranged to have him come over the following night and pick up the passport. He cried some more and we hung up. The glint in the Persian’s eyes brightened.

Right before the Israeli’s arrival the next evening, the Persian says, “Okay, let me do the talking. I will get money for this.” He holds up the passport and my jaw drops. He’s grinning and I’m furious. WHAT KIND OF MAN WOULD SO SUCH A THING??? I’m thinking, what a scummy scumbag from Scumland! An ugly fight ensues where he insists that all of the Israeli’s have money… etc. etc. and I fight but he has the thing in his possession and you know the nine tenths rule…

Well, the doorbell rings and I go to answer. Standing outside on the doorstep is a baby faced kid… He was younger than me at 25 and had no beard. He was dressed in a black suit and tie and white shirt and had braids on the side of his face and a black hat with a wide brim. I’d never seen a Hasidic Jew before, except in Yentl. He bowed, tears in his eyes and blinked at me. I let him in and noticed for the first time that he was dragging something very heavy, wrapped in a black Hefty garbage bag. WTF? The Persian steps up behind me and the comedy began.

Israeli bows to Persian and begins to cry. “I have present for you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Persian looks at me and I instantly see the guilt wash over him. I try not to smile but I know I looked smug. You rotten son-of-a-bitch, try to get money from this crying kid with his ‘present’ standing in our living room!!!

“What’s in the bag?” the Persian asks.

“It’s a goat, KOSHER GOAT!!!!” He beams as he wipes his eyes. Persian begins to laugh as Israeli opens the bag. Inside the bag is a goat! A WHOLE FRICKIN BUTCHERED GOAT!!! The innards, head, cloves and skin has been removed and the carcass is slightly warm. WTF? This man had gone out to a Kosher butcher and had them butcher a goat in thanks to us.

I turned to the Persian and said, “Now what are you going to do?” I added “asshole” with the daggers that shot out of my eyes, daring him to try to get money from this poor bastard.

The long and the short of it, since this is too long already, was that the Persian gave over the passport without asking for money, bowed back to the Israeli who was crying again (GEEZ) and closed the front door to the man’s profuse thanks. We were now the proud owners of a cooling goat carcass and an apartment sized refrigerator.

The next installment… on Thursday, “Goat Lubia Pollo, an annoying brother-in-law and a waterbed”…

Thanks for stopping by.

Persian New Year, 2012… Part One… A Green Card marriage… or… not…

Published March 3, 2012 by patricialogan

A green card marriage and what that means to me… lol

I’ve been married to a Persian dude since 1985. Yes folks, I’m old, as my dear friends will attest. Not really, though I do feel old some days, but don’t we all. I confess this only to show how stupid and silly we are in our youth… making all wrong choices, and justifying them by saying, “dad, I ran out of gas on the 405 for the fourth week in a row, just because I want to make the trek to a call box in my mini skirt (I was quite the babe, back then) at 2 a.m. just to call you and have you tell me, “You are the most irresponsible 21 year old I have ever met! I’m not bringing you gas! I’ll be there in 20 minutes. What damn exit are you between?!!!”

Okay, so, my misspent youth… Well, I was 21 before I ever smoked a joint… and that was only because my friends goaded me into it on my birthday and then we all took off our tops and ran around their pool for half an hour, before the police were called. Yeah… *laughs* that was fun… NOT!

So, in the early 80’s when my gay soul-mate, Clay, a kid I grew up with, was out, messing around, not using condoms, I’d chide, “You gotta play safe, babe. You have to!” Needless to say, my best friend died of complications from AIDS in May, 1993, years later. I’d gone into nursing school to become an AIDS nurse by that time, but it was too late for Clay. In the 80’s we, heterosexuals had nothing to fear of the AIDS… we didn’t need condoms, as long as we had birth control and abortion clinics… right? NOT! But what the hell did we know? Our government was telling us that this was the “gay cancer” that we, unless we were a hemophiliac, were not to fear it, but oh, what the hell, play it safe anyway.

Well, I didn’t. In 1985, I met this nice looking Persian man… (never call them an Iranian) and was immediately attracted to the pink dolphin shorts… and… well, leaving that unsaid, dolphin shorts and Angel Flights, didn’t leave much to the imagination… back in the day. Of course, he had “THE MUSTACHE”. They all did and I thought I was getting my own, personal, Tom Sellek. SCORE!!! Very handsome, very little English, very horny! We were a match made in heaven…

Well, one day… we’d been “dating”, mostly in the back of his 1970’s era VW bug, which we parked on PCH at lifeguard tower number 7 in Huntington Beach and screwed all night… after only 6 weeks, he “proposed”! Wow! I had just turned 25, I had a great “career” in the diamond business and I was an up and coming superstar in my company! I was gorgeous, single, had an awesome set of “assets” and I was going places… then MUSTACHE MAN steps in and pops the question. I’m like, “are you crazy dude? I’ve known you six weeks?” He replied, and I’ll give him credit to my grave… “I need a green card or they’re gonna ship me back.” Then a conversation ensued about torture, and hanging people by their balls and such… and I still refused…

Fast forward, 2.5 months later, our conversation… Me: “Um, Azizam, (my love) remember when I said I wouldn’t marry you for a green card? Well, I’m pregnant! We’re getting married! Welcome to Amrika!” The rest is history… on a Saturday night, we took off, after a grueling conversation with my best friend Mary (who I still love today) about how stupid this was, how greedy he was, there were abortion services available, etc… Next setting: sitting down in my folks, Orange County residence…

ME: “Mom, we’re headed to Vegas to get married.”

MOM: But, I don’t even know what your last name is gonna be…

ME: (deep breath) Nafisi-Moghadam-Tehrani

MOM: Huh?

Dad stood up at that moment and grabbed Ali’s hand. “Well, congratulations, son, I hope you’ll do right by my girl!”

Two months later, after a 4:10 PM scheduled ceremony at “The Little Church of the West” the same church where my parents had been married in 1951, I was in an abortion clinic, starting my life over. For those women who’ve not been through this, (bless you) I can only say, this was the darkest day of my life. I was second trimester when I made the decision… and that was only after my Christian mother told me… “It’s okay.” So, to say, we started this on a rocky road, is an understatement!

Well, next time, I will tell you, (I learned this from my baby, Kage… keep them guessing) what happened next….

All of these posts lead up to Persian New Year, which is… March 20! “Aideh shoma mobarak! Azizameh!”

“The Slave’s Mask” Blurb and Excerpt

Published March 2, 2012 by patricialogan

“The Slave’s Mask” Blurb:

American blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running guns and other contraband between England and the Confederate States in 1863. He craves a young submissive man. Francois, a young prostitute, might be just the man to satisfy all of Anthony’s taboo desires.

Infamous American blackguard and blockade runner, Captain Anthony Charles, has made a fortune in gold, running contraband between England and the Confederate States at the height of the Civil War in 1863. Anthony knows good brandy and fine cigars and his English clients appreciate him for it, but the captain also craves young submissive men. When he wins a young prostitute at an auction, Francois becomes his slave for seven days.

Francois has turned to prostitution to survive, but he is more than a whore. While most men who enjoy his favors treat him cruelly, he is stunned by this temporary owner’s kindness. Being a slave to this blue-eyed Master is no difficult task. Both men find that love may not be as elusive as they thought. Will the separation of oceans and time test their love or bring pain beyond bearing?



The Tempest made its way through the oily waters of the Thames, preparing to drop anchor in the busy harbor. At her wheel stood the formidable figure of Captain Anthony Charles. He barked out orders to his less than presentable crew made up of cutthroats and pirates, men that fit the captain’s specific needs perfectly. Anthony felt the excitement of the crew as they scrambled to finish his orders so that they could have their shore leave. The long trip from America had exhausted them all and the captain knew they were anxious to blow off steam, find themselves a whore, and drink themselves sick.

Anthony’s taste in whores was quite different from his men and in the year 1863, they were quite taboo, not only here in England but in America as well. He was fortunate to know a purveyor or two of the boys he liked to use and he made certain to bring some of the finest rums from the Bahamas, Cuba, and Bermuda for his connections. He paid them handsomely and was rewarded with the highest quality in submissive young men. His cock hardened as he thought of the coming weeks, tasting the youth that he craved while loading his strong box with more gold and silver than he could carry.

Anthony was called a gentleman here in England and a Blockade Runner and blackguard by the Union troops. Trading arms and other luxuries with the Confederacy and in turn, highly priced cotton and tobacco with the English, had made Anthony Charles a very wealthy man in the two years since the beginning of the War Between the States. Though the Union had more than five hundred ships patrolling the waters around the southern states, waiting to catch just such a ship as the Tempest, Anthony had been able to avoid capture to date. Weighted down with cargo, it would have been difficult to outrun the Union fleet had he been spotted, and once within blockaded waters, he traveled by night with blackened sails, like his pirate ancestors. He knew that the Union was making progress and that the Confederacy could only hold out for so long under such an onslaught. As such, he always insisted on taking his payment in gold, knowing that the Confederate notes would someday soon be worthless.

Easing his ship into its prearranged berth, he called out to the crew to drop anchor. The sound of the anchor hitting the filthy water was like music to his ears. Within a few hours, his men would be whoring and Anthony would be visiting a very discreet brothel not far from the Tempest. Anthony Charles was a handsome man and he knew it. His coal black hair and light blue eyes were his very best features. He stood several inches above six feet and his shoulders were broad. The years of work on board various ships had shaped his body into a rock hard, solid mass of muscle. At thirty years of age, he enticed every woman that locked eyes with him. Alas, womanly company was not on the menu with Anthony Charles. He danced with them and dined with them to keep up appearances and was known as a rogue. But sleep with them, never. When they fluttered their pretty lashes at him and coyly smiled an invitation, he explained that he was engaged to be married and they sighed their disappointment, hating the one who’d captured his heart.

“Mr Baker,” Anthony called out. The smaller man swung his head around at the sound and hurried to his captain’s side. Anthony nearly smiled as his bosun jumped to obey his orders.

“Aye, Captain? Is there something you need, sir?” Anthony was pleased that his crew showed him instant respect. His dominant personality would have it no other way. He demanded a lot of his crew and they respected him for it. Of course, he also paid well for their loyalty.

“Set the watch, Mr Baker. Tell the men on the watch that they will be more than handsomely rewarded for their service. Ask for volunteers first but if need be, mete out their assignments.”

“Aye, Captain,” Mr Baker replied. “Was there anything else, sir?” Mr Baker waited patiently to hear his captain’s orders.

“I will be staying onshore this evening. I trust that you will enjoy yourself as well.” He landed a large palm on the bosun’s shoulder as the man’s face flushed with color.

“Aye, Captain,” he muttered, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “Have a good time, Captain.” Anthony managed a smile for his second in command as he prepared to return to his cabin.

“I intend to, Mr Baker.” At the thought of it, Anthony’s cock throbbed within the confines of his tightly cut britches. He hurried to turn his back on Mr Baker, so as not to show his excitement. Anthony was not a small man and he knew as his cock swelled, he would become obvious within moments. He brushed past more than one excited sailor on his way back to his large and well-appointed cabin. By the time he got to the large oak portal, he was nearly bursting from his arousal. The thought of having a young thing at his feet, blindfolded and wrists bound while Anthony fucked his willing mouth, had him ready to come.

Excerpt from “Gypsy Knight”

Published March 2, 2012 by patricialogan

Merry sounds of music drifted upward to Bree’s ears.

She sat at her dressing table, looking into the polished

oval mirror hanging above it. Reflected back to her was

a young woman in her prime, an extraordinary beauty

with gentle grace. She studied her face for a long

moment. Not bad, she thought, though too skinny. She



“Why do ya look at yerself that way, milady?”

Honoria, her maid, asked. “Yer such a lovely wee lass.

And see how that fine handsome Sir Gavin has noticed

ya.” At Bree’s gasp, Honoria continued. “Why, he

could’nae take his eyes from ya today in the hall.”


“No, Honoria, don’t say such things,” Bree chided. “I

never did anything to gain his notice. The Holy Sisters

would have had me scrubbing stone floors for a month if

ever a man thought to look at me.”

Honoria chuckled but rushed to reassure her young



“Oh, I’m not saying ya had’nae done anything to

make him take notice of ya. Yer only too pretty a lass ta

ignore,” Honoria stated flatly in her lilting brogue.

“Now, up with ya.” She pinched both of Bree’s cheeks,

bringing color to them. “Go join in the party to celebrate

yer safe return home to yer clan.”


Bree loved the older woman like a mother. She rose

from the dressing table and ran small hands down her

long sleeved, yellow woolen gunna overdress. Under it

was a buck colored kirtle softly outlining her petite form

and over it, an intricate golden girdle set with pearls

completed her wardrobe. She wore an intricate necklace

of the finest woven gold with pearls around her narrow

shoulders. Her hair hung in gentle scented waves around



Honoria padded up to her. “Here ya are, milady.” She

reached up and placed a wreath of violets and yellow

wild flowers on Bree’s head. Tears glistened in the

maid’s doe-like eyes. “Oh, milady, yer blessed mama

would be so proud of ya today.” She sniffed and wiped

her nose on her sleeve.


Bree, a smile touching her lips, leaned in and

squeezed the maid in a hug. As she left the chamber, the

smell of roasting quail, pheasant, and boar rose to her

nostrils. As she descended the stairs, she felt the eyes of

the hall on her. She looked up as she reached the bottom

landing, and Thomas rushed to her side. Bree hugged



“Bree, listen to the minstrel. We’ve never had one

before.” The boy’s happy face gazed at her. The hall was

filled with people of every persuasion. Not only the

traveling minstrel troupe, but it seemed as though the

whole of the shire of Sheffield had turned out to

celebrate their lady’s return. In addition to the minstrels

filling the hall with music and merriment, there were

peasants, young and old, side by side with the bravest of

knights, tradesmen, shopkeepers and serving wenches

joining in the gaiety. Casks of ale were broken open and

skins of wine were freely dispersed amongst the crowd.

Bree hugged her brother again and laughed. She

couldn’t help but feel that a great weight had lifted from

her shoulders now that she was home.


As she made her way through the hall, she noticed

Gavin standing beside Malik near one of the long tables

in the hall. She took a moment to admire the man from

the curly top of his dark head to the twinkling golden

eyes as they traced her movements from the shadows

cast by the firelight. He was taller than she remembered,

with amazingly broad shoulders that tapered down to a

lean waist. He was clothed in a brown tunic which

tightly fit his muscled torso, closed with cross strings of

soft leather. Beneath the tunic were buck colored

chausses, the stockings snugly fitting along his hard

thighs. The fit that stretched across the hard maleness of

him was exquisite.


His sculpted face and his square jaw were closely

shaven, and his nose tapered perfectly between thick

black slashing eyebrows. She noticed that his eyelashes

were so long, that they curled at the ends. He was a

magnificent looking man.


Sir Robert swaggered up to her and, grasping her

around the waist, spun her into a drunken dance. She

gasped in surprise as she was passed down a row of

knights, each in turn spinning her into a short merry

dance in time with the music. She laughed heartily and

tried to keep up with their revelry. Finally, panting, she

bent and, placing her hands on her stomach, she

attempted to quit laughing long enough to catch her

breath. Thomas appeared before Bree and, taking up her

hand, spun her into another disjointed dance. She

laughed merrily at her brother’s antics.


Before long, more serving wenches appeared, bearing

trenchers laden with every kind of delicious food. There

were platters of roasted meats, eels, and fish in rich

sauces. In addition, trays of ripe fruits and steaming

loaves of newly-baked bread topped with freshly

churned butter joined the crocks of honey and filled the

long table. Everyone ate heartily.



Malik sat down at the long table and beckoned Gavin

with a wave of his hand and a broad grin.” Come, Gavin.

You drool as though you are a starving man; come and

feed on this.” Malik held out a small fruit to Gavin.

Breaking his own private reverie, Gavin tore his gaze

away from Bree’s pretty form. He stepped forward,

taking the fruit from Malik, and frowned at him.


“I should have left you where I found you, my painted

friend.” Gavin’s eyes twinkled as he chewed. He

referred to Malik’s smiling face, which was covered

with an intricate pattern of permanent marks in the

tradition of his ancestors.


“In my homeland, all men coming of age in my

village are tattooed with these marks. It is a tradition that

goes back to my father’s father.”


Gavin understood that this meant many, many more

generations, probably thousands of years.


“It gives a man vigor and potency with a woman,”

Malik boasted. He winked and grinned again, popping a

plump fruit into his mouth. “I have thirteen children,”

the giant said.


Gavin could well attest to Malik’s vigor. He laughed

out loud this time, a hearty rumble.