Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Wednesday Whine and Wine with Meg Amor

Aloha everyone!

Thanks to coffee and porn for having me here today. I love getting the gorgeous piccies every day and am so glad they’re still here on Blogger!  :)

I’ve written about this before and thought it was worth repeating. I write sexy, sensuous m/m gay romances. There’s something very special about writing these romances. Yes, the sex is hot and requires me to work with a fan blasting me as I write. But it’s more than that. There’s a deep sensuality to male/male romances. An innate honesty or straightforwardness that is sometimes hard to define. And we women LOVE these romances. We love watching, reading and writing about gay romance, sex and relationships.

Two things come up repeatedly. One is the moans and groans about women writers of gay romances. The other is the insta-love that sticks in some people’s craw—especially reviewers.

There’s a lot of "not realistic" stuff thrown about over "insta-love." And it only seems to apply to m/m romances. Why? People DO fall in love instantly all the time. If it hasn’t happened in your life, I’m not sure whether to say you’re lucky or not lucky. I’m going with NOT. Even Shakespeare knew about love at first sight. 

I think about descriptions from WWII, or from men I’ve met in this lifetime, or have read about. We often hear, “…the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one. I was going to marry that girl. It was love at first sight.”

Often people have a soul connection from another lifetime. When they meet again, they’re reconnecting from the past, recognizing each other again. Of course, they’d love instantly.

Also culturally things move differently in other countries. In New Zealand, we don’t "date" for years. We have a "couple of dates" and we’re either going out with them or not. We might not fall in love with them instantly, but we do know whether there’s a connection there.

I’ve fallen in love with someone kapow the first day I laid eyes on them and also grown in love with someone. I’d take the kapow kind any day. Neither produced a better relationship funnily enough. You’d think one would work better, but that hasn’t been my experience.

We fall in love instantly with lots of things. Why not a partner?

The moment I saw that car, I just fell in love with it…

The moment I laid eyes on that ginger kitten, I knew I had to take him home.

The moment I walked into that house, I knew I had to have it.

On my first bite, I fell in love with the dish. I had to get the recipe.

Is it really so odd? So unusual? I don’t think so.

I think we’re geared to love. On a heart and soul level, love is such a binding force in the Universe that we naturally gravitate toward it.

And when we recognize that connection to another kindred spirit—we take it.

Because love is love.

Which leads me to the women writers on gay romance thing.

Writers have always written about things they know nothing or little about, but are drawn to for some reason.

Q: “Why did you write about a past life set in WWII?”

A: “I’ve always been interested in that period of history.”

Q: “Why did you write about the Civil Rights Movement?”

A: “I’ve always hated prejudice. I wanted to say something about that particular incident and highlight what went on for people.”

We write about what interests us often as writers.

I write the characters that pop into my head, often unasked, uninvited. They just turn up, noisy, fervent, raiding my booze cabinet, clattering around in my kitchen, until I have no choice, but to sit down and listen to their story.

And once they start and I’m intrigued—I find myself reaching quietly for a pen and paper to take notes.

We women like male/male romances in the same way we like male/male sex.

Why? Because we like men too.

We’re gravitating more toward whole men. Men who show emotions, aren’t scared to cry or feel afraid. We want a more "feminized" man. I don’t mean an effeminate male. But an actualized man who shows he’s human. They’re very attractive to many women. For years too, we’ve often felt left on the outside on the seeming chasm that are men’s emotional states, thoughts, and feelings. We WANT to know men are human, feel, get hurt, get emotional—all the things that aren’t always deeply seen in m/f romances. I write my men that way because I’ve known real men and like them enormously.

Men that don’t cry or show emotions scare the shit out of me.

We women are doing our part in gay awareness, relationship equality, slowly fighting homophobia. We ripple out into layers and layers of society. We know what it's like to be an oppressed minority. 

In my Big Fat Greek Wedding, there’s a scene where the mother says something like, “The man, he is the head of the family, but the woman…she is the neck, she turn the head of the man.”

We have that influence across the board.

I see women authors and women in general supporting gay rights on fb more than the men sometimes. What we do ripples out from a single person to a group. The majority of women are still the larger percentage who bring up children. We have a great deal of influence in the world. We can teach our kids to hate or to love.

Throughout history, we’ve quietly influenced all sorts of things:

In 1848, a group of women started their fight for women’s right in Seneca, New York. Stanton, a chief organizer drafted a “Declaration of Sentiments, Grievances, and Resolutions,” that echoed the preamble of the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal.”

In 1941, Eleanor Roosevelt helped open doors and endorse the first black airmen to serve in the US military as pilots—The Tuskegee Airmen. She was immensely interested in their cause and insisted on flying with their leader.

Although the Secret Service was anxious about the ride, Chief Civilian Flight Instructor Charles Alfred Anderson—“The Father of Black Aviation,” piloted Mrs. Roosevelt over the skies of Alabama for over an hour.

Flying with Anderson demonstrated the depth of Eleanor Roosevelt’s support for black pilots. Press coverage of her adventure in flight helped advocate for the competency of these pilots and boosted the Institute's visibility. Roosevelt established long-term correspondence with some of the airmen.

Back in 1955 on an Alabama bus, one woman 
sparked the Montgomery bus boycott that lasted for 381 days and brought about massive reforms when she said NO.

In her autobiography, My Story Rosa Parks said: People always say that I didn't give up my seat because I was tired, but that isn't true. I was not tired physically, or no more tired than I usually was at the end of a working day…… No, the only tired I was, was tired of giving in.

On the day she went to trial:
— December 5, 1955 — the WPC distributed the 35,000 leaflets. The handbill read,
"We are...asking every Negro to stay off the buses Monday in protest of the arrest and trial ... You can afford to stay out of school for one day. If you work, take a cab, or walk. But please, children and grown-ups, don't ride the bus at all on Monday……"

It rained that day, but the black community persevered in their boycott. Some rode in carpools, while others traveled in black-operated cabs that charged the same fare as the bus, 10 cents. Most of the remainder of the 40,000 black commuters walked, some as far as 20 miles (32 km).

Can you imagine walking in the rain and oppressive sweltering humidity of Alabama for 381 days—that's over a year? Getting to work exhausted, already foot sore, hot and sweating like a pig, then doing a full day’s work for awful wages and walking home again?

It changed things though.
One woman…started a spark…

We forget that once:
Women were not allowed to vote and had few rights.
It was legal to have signs in windows of businesses saying "No blacks, negroes, colored allowed."
It was illegal for gay people to marry like any other human being.

Despite being hetero and a woman to boot, I’m still happy to be counted as one woman who cares. I hope that possibly something I write will bring about a small change somewhere for someone regarding gay relationships, rights and equality. I hope I research well and am sensitive to the gay men I write about and love. 

Because love is love, no matter what form it comes in or how quickly it happens. 

And I am tired of people saying otherwise.

Aloha everyone! Meg :-)

Two stunning Polynesian men, each experiencing existential crisis, meet and fall in love. They find healing against the beautiful backdrop of the mystical Hawaiian Islands.

* * * *

Beau Toyama, a 'mixed plate' Hawaiian/Japanese/Tahitian man is a flight instructor on the Big Island of Hawai’i. He’s a lovely, gentle, shy soul from a dysfunctional island family and was married for a long time. One day his wife Mikey said, “I love you, babe, but this isn’t working. I need a really good man…” she’d paused, “And so do you.”​

Matt Quintal, a New Zealand painter with a Norfolk Island and Maori background has been living the ‘gay scene’ in LA for a year and knows it’s a crock. Feeling the need to escape the scene, his Polynesian soul is drawn back to the Pacific. He visits his sister Rach in Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii, where his spirit is always more connected.

When Matt’s heart is drawn to the sound of the radial engines of a Stearman bi-plane overhead, his life is about to change. There’s an instant soul connection between Beau and Matt. Unbeknown to them, Beau’s mom Tehani, who has passed on, has guided Matt home to her son Beau.

They both bring things to the relationship which get triggered. Family dysfunction, abuse, redemption, healing, trust and love come to light, as Beau and Matt work together. They need to reveal their deep emotional vulnerabilities to heal. What they want is a loving relationship, allowing their hearts and souls to open and trust.

All my stories are ultimately about soul deep relationships, the intense love and connection we all crave with another human being. The core need to be accepted just as we are.

 I wake up to the gorgeous smell of freshly brewed, pure Kona. Thank you, there is a God. I wrap a sarong around my waist and join Rach on the lanai. My time clock is still on LA time; otherwise I’d never make it up this early. I’m a night owl and usually paint all night, sleeping in the day. But being here on the island means beach and water days. The best action is in the morning, before the off-shore breeze comes up in the afternoon. 
“You ready to go in half an hour?” she asks. 
I nod. Speech isn’t one of my just-waking-up skills. 
* * * * 
We’re paddling back from the Kealakekua and have had a fantastic morning out there. The snorkeling is some of the best in the Hawaiian Islands. Twenty-five odd feet of clear aqua-blue water, teeming with multicolored tropical fish and the odd honu, or turtle. We pay our respects to Captain James Cook. His white obelisk monument is out there on a wee patch of British soil. The Hawaiians killed him approximately where the monument stands. He made a slight miscalculation and found himself on the arse end of things. A wee bit embarrassing. 
We Kiwis know about Captain Cook because his ship the Endeavour is on our fifty-cent coin. He was the first European to circumnavigate New Zealand and map its coastline. They don’t usually mention we Maori were there well before him, but I don’t care today. I feel sun-bronzed and tired but good. We’re on a slow, easy paddle back. Rach is getting tired, and I’m doing most of the arm work. 
I look around; what’s that noise? 
Rach stops paddling and looks too. She points up, and I see the blue of the body fabric, with the distinctive bright-yellow double wings. 
“That looks like a Stearman,” she says. 
“That’s what I was thinking. I didn’t think anyone here had a biplane. I wonder if that’s Bruce from Oahu?” 
“Could be, but I heard a rumor there was a guy here with one too. I wonder if he’s at Keahole or Hilo. He might be on the other side of the island.” 
Suddenly I’m seized with an overwhelming urge to find out where this plane is landing and who’s flying it. My heart squeezes in my chest when I think about it. 
Rach turns and looks at me. “What?” she asks. Christ, she’s tuned in. 
“I need to know who’s flying that plane.” 
We grin at each other, and she says, “Let’s paddle.” 
She digs her oar in, and we set a good pace for the kayak landing at Napoopoo Road. By the time we arrive, we’re both sweating heavily. Thank God the guys are here to haul the boat out of water and tie her to the truck. I’m almost hopping up and down with impatience to be off. Rach grabs my arm and points. The Stearman is still flying around, back and forth along the shoreline. I chuck a tip at the guys loading, and we race off up the hill. We nearly throw the kayak off when we get to Kona Boys and step on it down the hill into Kona. 
It’s still flying, and I pray she doesn’t suddenly keep going south over to Hilo. I’m driving as Rach checks with the binoculars out the sunroof. 
“She’s turning again…” 
We’re through Keauhou, past the turnoff for Kona itself and heading for the airport. 
“She’s coming this way, starting her descent, I think. Yeah, she’s flying the pattern. She’s going to land at Keahole. Bet you.” 
My heart is pounding. What the hell is this? I guess we’re about to find out. 
I turn left into Airport Road and cut through to the private tie-down area in Ulu Street. We stand at the fence and watch her land on runway one seven then weave back and forth on the taxiway so the pilot can see. A woman’s flying, long hair in a thick braid down her back. The face under the goggles and helmet looks Hawaiian. Rach will love this. There are so few women pilots, and both of us love open-cockpit biplanes to fly in. 
Nothing beats the run along a grass strip, a gentle pull back on the stick, and she’ll waft into the air. Light as a feather, it’s a completely freeing moment for me. 
We stand listening to the clack-clack as the big wooden propeller comes to a stop. The pilot flips off the switches and pulls off her gloves. Big hands for a woman. She gets out and walks down the wing, dropping onto the ground. Tall too. The pilot bends down to push chocks under the front wheels of the beautiful plane. All dope and fabric, gleaming sky blue, standing out amongst the private heavies and small private planes like Cessnas and Piper Cubs. 
She’s checking the plane. Damn, if I were into women, she’d do something for me. She’s got a very graceful way of moving, tall and lithe. I have to laugh. She’s wearing slippahs. I point at her feet, and Rach grins. She hates flying in shoes and would fly in jandals any day. Flip-flops to the Americans. 
She finally unwinds her white silk flying scarf and chucks it into the cockpit. Her back to us, the helmet and goggles go next. When she turns around, I’m in for the shock of my life. I literally feel like my heart stops beating. It’s not a woman pilot. It’s a guy, and he stares straight at me. My hand tightens on the hurricane wire fencing we’ve been leaning on. Shit, what the fuck is this? 
He continues to stare. It feels like he’s assessing me on some level, probing around in my soul, whipping through the chambers of my heart, checking out the lay of the land. 
He’s beautiful. There isn’t another word to describe him. Exotic looking. His features are fine, almost Tahitian but not quite. He’s mixed with something else, a touch of the East in his eyes. Long, braided, jet-black hair reaches to his waist. He unzips his flight overalls and ties them around his stomach. Broad brown shoulders stick out from a red tank, Polynesian tattoos in a lei across his chest area, arm band ink just above his elbows. Two earrings in one ear. I’m getting a hard-on. 
Now he’s finished the inspection of the plane, he takes a tow hook and connects it to the front of the aircraft. Another guy comes over, and they pull the plane into a hangar. I wonder if we’re going to have to track him down, but he comes out a few minutes later, walking toward us, unbraiding his hair. He combs it out with his fingers and flips his head down, then back up, letting it stream out behind him in the wind. 
“Fu…ck…” whispers Rach beside me. 
I’d agree with that assessment. Thank God I decided to wear togs under my shorts. The Kiwi swimsuit might contain my erection slightly. And if I could find some breath for my lungs, it would help. 
“Aloha,” he says as he approaches the gate. 
“Aloha. We love your plane. Are you giving rides?” asks Rach. 
“Not today. Wind’s getting up a bit for a biplane, but tomorrow, if the wind’s good, sure.” He has soft, gentle energy. 
“Can we book in with you?” 
Thank God Rach is talking. I’m struck dumb. I feel like a complete idiot. He comes through the gate and sticks his hand out to me. I shake it automatically. Then he turns to Rach and shakes her hand too. 
“Where are you guys from?” 
He has a melodic voice, but that’s not what has me mesmerized. The handshake went straight to my balls. Then he’d smiled, and his eyes lit up. A deep brown abyss I fell right into. Hook, line, and sinker. 
“We’re Kiwis, but I live here. I’m Rach, and this is my brother Matt. He’s visiting. We were out paddling at Kealakekua, heard the lovely sound of the radial engines, and followed you in.” She grins. 
“Are you a pilot?” he asks her. 
Rach points at me. “We both are.” 
“Hey, that’s cool. You ever flown in one of these before?” he asks quietly. 
We both nod. I can’t even speak. Every time I open my mouth to say something, no words come out. I feel completely gormless. 
“I’ve flown in a couple of Wacos, Stearman, and Tiger Moth. Matt’s flown in a Gruman too, haven’t you?” 
I croak out a yes. 
Then he does something which floors me. He bites his lip and smiles shyly. His long eyelashes flick down onto his cheeks. That makes him even more attractive. It’s a very feminine gesture. Not something I’m expecting from a biplane pilot. 
He turns back to Rach, and I hope the muggy heat out here by the tarmac will account for my labored breathing. I wave my hand in front of my face. “Hot,” I manage to say. 
“She’s a hot one today, yeah. A lot of bugs too.” 
I nod again. He’s got the slight island lilt you hear in native Hawaiians who have grown up here. 
He glistens; tiny rivulets of sweat run down his chest, disappearing into the tank and soaking the front. His chest is smooth, like a lot of Polynesian men. 
“What time do you want to go up tomorrow—the earlier, the better for the wind factor?” 
Rach nods. “We’ll work in with you.” 
“You both going to fly?” he asks. 
I nod. 
“Well…good.” That shy smile again. 
“What time works?” asks Rach. 
“You want to come out early. Let’s say an eight and nine o’clock flight? I can put the stick back in the front too, if you like. Then you can get some stick time.” 
I finally find my voice. “I’d love that.” 
“Me too,” he says softly again, and my breath is caught in my throat. “See you tomorrow. I’ll meet you here.” 
“Okay, groovy, sounds good,” says Rach. 
“Oh hang on; let me give you a card in case you need to call for any reason.” 
He rummages around in his flight bag, pulls out his wallet, and gives us a card each. 
Beau Toyama—his phone number and a picture of the plane.

Please visit Meg's Website and  Blog.


  1. Sounds great. Bought it. And oh, that cover is nice. Got to visit your piece of the world in 2013. I want to go back.


  2. Aloha SAMK. :-) Thanks so much. I hope you enjoy the book. The cover has captured all of us. I love it.

    Where did you go in Hawai'i? I'm glad you want to go back. :-)

    Aloha Meg :-)

  3. Thanks Evaine and Shawny for having me on here today. :-) I love this page!! Aloha Meg :-)

  4. Thanks Suzi :-) I appreciate you reading this. Aloha Meg :-)

  5. Fantastic, informative post. Thanks!

    1. Thanks Jen. :-). I'm glad it grabbed you. Thanks for reading an commenting. Aloha Meg :-)