Book Details

A marionette under someone else's skin.

"A funny, peverse, and strange book." -- Writer's Digest

''Engaging style, humorous, and descriptive.'' - L. Hippolyte

''This is bloody good... it's definitely got balls.'' - Maria Del Medico

''I sense an author in control of his material... and find the prose style highly effective.'' - Stephen Longden

''Very funny, bordering on hysterical in some places.'' - Barb Henning

In the main vein of Thomas Ripley, Holden Caulfield, and Patrick Bateman, Dennison Rey's anti-hero Terry Taft may very well be one-part narcissistic and one-part misanthropic, but he remains all parts in between. Taft's candid foray toward the brink of self-discovery is littered with questions and concerns, and sure, maybe even a corpse or two. Along the way he contemplates his sanity, morality, and sexuality, while wondering whether he's ''normal.'' He fuels his perversions through meaningless relationships with women and unfulfilling connections with men, and eventually discovers that as he plays with himself, someone else might be playing with him.


Book Excerpt

Sam lies motionless on the rug at my feet, speckled with blood. He's looked better. An angry, pained expression adorns his otherwise handsome face and the unruly nature of his blonde hair illustrates the end of a particularly strenuous struggle. It is the first time I have seen him without a shirt in over fifteen years and his upper body exhibits the flaws and frailties of a thirty-eight year old man.

We had a falling out. I refuse to talk about it, but basically I was a big prick. There, I said it. It really sucks though, because he was my best friend. I mean, I think I loved the guy. You know, in a manly sort of way. Nothing gay. Sure, I've jacked-off in front of guys before, but that hardly counts.

My friend Jamie showed me how when we were eleven or twelve. Jamie was a big masturbator and together we must have jacked-off like a million times or more when we were growing up. He was religious as hell, too, always going to church every damn Sunday. Sometimes during the summer we'd have a sleep-over on Saturday night and then we'd go to church the next morning. We ate wafers and drank grape juice and pretended it was the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ. Purely creepsville.

I'm not a big religious nut. I've only been to church about ten times, and most of those times were with Jamie. Sometimes we'd horse around after church while the adults were blowing smoke up the preacher's ass. We'd start wrestling on the grass, giving each other wedgies and shit. One time I successfully got him into a headlock, but while he was performing a summersault to free himself his father wrenched us apart and told us in this really stern voice to stop fighting. Completely out of the blue.

Sure, it may have looked like we were fighting, but adults never give kids the benefit of the doubt. As far as they're concerned, children have two modes of behavior � behaving and misbehaving. There aren't any shades of gray. What he didn't realize was that wrestling around with Jamie on the grass was the childhood equivalent to him blowing smoke up the preacher's ass. It was just a shade of gray.

I attended church a few times with women, too. It's better to go places with women than with men � churches, movie theaters, strip clubs. Seriously, I'd rather go to a strip club with a woman any day of the week. In fact, most of the times I've gone to strip clubs have been with women. I've only gone with a guy once. Well, twice. Okay, three times. But two of them were with Sam. We went to the same club two nights in a row during our freshman year of college.

We got a late start the first night because it was snowing so hard. Blaring music and warmth greeted us the minute we opened the door to step in from the storm. Lights flashed across the throng of people's heads and throughout the smoke-filled din. A woman near the door told us the cover charge was ten bucks. That kind of annoyed me but I got over it when I saw the half-naked chicks gyrating in front of mirrors on every stage. The place smelled liked cigarettes since everyone was smoking-- the spectators, the bartenders, even the damn dancers. I suppose that's how they stayed so skinny. Smokers don't eat. I've always wanted to date a stripper but I refuse to date a smoker. It's been a serious social problem.


About the Author

Dennison Rey

Dennison Rey dances where others fear to tread. He explores the psyche sane folks dread. With education galore, he is very well-read. He lives like a hermit on the edge of a cliff near the cusp of reality, reading with resonance and writing with wrath. Aware of My Hide is his first novel.

Also by Dennison Rey



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