What Polyamory Isn’t You’ve seen the headlines. Heard the jokes. The loaded sighs. The questions posed like accusations:“Isn’t that just cheating with extra steps?”“Isn’t it just about the sex?”“Isn’t it just… a phase?” The keyphrase “what polyamory isn’t” has trailed…
MMF Erotic Romance Meets Tender Voyeurism Elias Mercer isn’t the same man he was in His, Theirs, Enough. He’s been claimed. Worshipped. Undone. But becoming visible has a cost. After an evening of exquisite surrender—public, witnessed, and impossibly raw—one woman…
On Pseudonyms, Alter Egos, and Writing with More Than One Name Writing with Pseudonyms and Alter Egos. There is no one body I write from. There never was. Only shifting skins, cracked mirrors, and the sweet ache of truth made…
Body dysmorphia in men There are mirrors I won’t look at.Not because they lie—but because they don’t. There’s a silence in reflection that isn’t kind. It’s clinical. Honest in the way a scalpel is honest. And some days, that sharpness…
Not Needing to Be the Only One
The Erotic Language of Men’s Feet There are love letters hiding in a man’s feet. You just have to get low enough to read them. We talk about hands, yes. The way they grip, cradle, press.Jawlines, of course. The cut…
Writing a character with a small dick A love letter to the body that isn’t big—but is still enough Some characters arrive like storms.Loud. Demanding. All jawline and hunger.They don’t knock.They don’t wait.They just are—fully-formed—and dare you to catch up.…
The Chapter That Sat in my Throat There are chapters you write with your hands.And then there are chapters that write you. Chapter Three of Yours, Theirs, Still—“Dusted Paint and Come”—was the latter. It wasn’t the most explicit. It didn’t…
Desire as Revelation There’s a quiet ache that lives in all of us—some call it longing, some call it shame. I write toward that ache. When I’m writing sex that means something, I’m not chasing choreography. Not really. Where the…
The Depths He Commands Some beginnings come quietly—like water lapping against tile, like a man watching another without daring to touch. The prologue to His, Theirs, Enough invites you into a dream, one that belongs to Elias Mercer… but perhaps…
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