Did Oscar Wilde ever mention a baby-shit sofa, as fetishized by Tom of Finland, and crusted with salty, sweet sticky?  Cliche to throw out Wilde when reviewing a piece of m4m fic?  About as cliche as including a reference to Sex in the City in said fic.

Really, I josh.  Because apart from a (for me) slightly delayed pick-up—and the more obvious fact that yours truly is of the vaginal realm—I had fun with, and eventually became engrossed by, M. Christian’s Finger’s Breadth.

Boilermakers, mambo-fuck you gay bars, scenarios seemingly inspired by a homoerotic Misery, and of course the ever prevalent “asses flexing into handful-sized tightened cheeks” (is that your technology chirping, or is throbbing a better adjective?), Christian flaunts a downright capacity for electric lyric as well as (sorry mum, must include this in such a review) all the “hard cocks, strong cocks, long cocks, thick cocks – bobbing up and down, swinging right and left, even swirling in a sweaty circle,” that you could empty.

Not to mention a devilishly intricate plotline, which goes as follows: Fanning is a freelance cop on a most perplexing case.  He kicks himself for not having caught whoever is terrorizing the tequila sunrises of Boyz Bay (did I just coin that?) by luring men for nonconsensual finger lobotomies.

“Je vois que vous êtes l’un de nous?”
I see you’re one of us.
“Quand cela vousest-il arrivé?”
When did it happen to you?
“Oui, ça le rend plus facile.”
Yes, It does make it easier.

Incidentally, do you have all your fingers?  Cause if you’ve only got nine-and-a-bit, I may have just cum in my jeans—where no underoos shield my tumescent genitals from the course blue interior of said pant.  Just rubbing, lots of rubbing.  Looooooooots of involuntary spasm threatening netherweather…

Anyway.

More story (*SPOILER ALERT*):  Taylor is convinced that he almost lost his finger to Fanning’s culprit.  He’s not sure but all the earmarks are there and he’s lost his wallet.  Which means the baddie’s got it, which means Taylor is scared.  So Taylor goes full solipsist save for that he polishes a fallback booty’s dingus for rent and asylum from baddie/ultimately all-that-lies-beyond-the-curtains.  When their (Taylor and dingus owner Frost) episodes devolve into some paranoid Stepford realness, I devolved with them.

I must admit, I feel odd saying ‘cock’ as often as Christian, even in reviewing cock fiction.  Dinglehopper.  Peckilenis.  Willy.  Of course, my mother had us using “hinybows,” which is kinda fucked up…  Also fucked up is Varney — Christian’s fictional SFTimes staff writer whose incident with a blender and subsequent lie foments the substratum for our horror story, as well as vast, new horizons for what is sexy on Castro street.

Indeed, the ever-crafty Christian lerves a clever chapter dawning, from spurious police records to online blurbs (courtesy of gayrut and gaytravelplanner.com), to conversations overheard on J Church Streetcars or private chats amongst sketchy user profiles.  Trust, our author unfurls with expert patience a back alley world of seduction, intrigue, and nine and two thirds fingers — all while saving room for instinctual blasts of intricate character development, fresh (subtle) poetry and raw (not subtle) fucking.

To use his words, I might argue that the blank page for Christian is akin to a playground, “a bedroom full of nothing but what could happen” — made all the more tantalizing by a darn good secret: “everyone has one…hidden in the dusty corner of a closet of ‘God-this-turns-me-on-so-damned-much’”.   In only referring to TV as ‘system’, computers as ‘machines’, and phones as ‘technology’, the reader is legit trajected to an insulated interverse where hearts beat in 2/2 rhythm despite the civility of traffic lights, but where it’s still a chore to piss through an erection.

Unclean, unclean, he mouthed to his reflection, for a dramatic second pretending to be either a character stepping from Seinfeld, to be common, or Shakespeare, to be pompous.

Never pompous, but consistently provocative, Christian campaigns not just in defense of freedom in lust, but for love and the envied halcyon attained by a clear conscience—not forgetting to delve into demented herd mentalities or rationales of the truly unhinged.

A scream tried to claw its way out of his throat, the sharp
edges of its shame and pain like trying to throw up
a breakfast of razors. 

Tingles purty good, don’t it?  Well you don’t know the half of it.  But if you’re still considering “coming with a shivering, shuddering orgasm in the mouth of a man [you’d like] to take out a very sharp knife and hurt,” may I invite you to get off on Finger’s Breadth, or study this instead.