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AUTHOR'S NOTE: here is brand new tingler FOR FREE. this one is on your bud chuck. if you enjoy this tale and would like to support my trot as an artist please consider pre-ordering my upcoming horror novel CAMP DAMASCUS.

obviously CAMP DAMASCUS is different genre than this story, but the fuel of LOVE AND SINCERITY at the heart of both tales is the same. HORROR, ROMANCE, and COMEDY are interesting genres because they are often looked down on by outsiders as being a low-brow way. i think this is because they create bodily reactions: a jump in fright, a feeling of arousal, or a hearty laugh. 

instead of pushing these genres to the side as 'uncivilized' or schlocky, chuck believes we should revere them for tapping into something so HONEST, or even primal. they cut right to the core of human experience without a filter, and that is exactly where chuck likes to trot around. i reject idea that these genres are LESS THAN, or that we cant find deep, profound meaning in exploring these sincere, silly, and honest places.

a warning to buds who have just recently learned about chuck through world of horror: YES THIS IS EXPLICIT HARDCORE QUEER EROTICA. hope you enjoy, maybe you will discover a new genre to explore. what a dang treat that would be

LOVE IS REAL. oh dang and did i mention you can pre-order camp damascus here?

 - chuck

As the clock ticks down towards Porpin’s first traditionally published novel, he’d prefer to be brimming with excitement. Unfortunately, the only thing that builds within Porbin is tension and anxiety. He’s in uncharted waters now, and in desperate need of a mentor.

A friend suggests Porbin seek out Chuck Tingle, a mysterious author who’s rumored to live in the spooky old house at the end of Porbin’s street. It turns out Chuck is real, and his ability to see between timelines helps Porbin determine the one thing that will change his trajectory as an upcoming author: pre-orders.

Now Porbin is considering writing some erotica of his own, a story about the physical manifestation of the massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry. But is it really Porbin who’s hoping to drum up orders for his new novel, Lodge Damascus? Or is Chuck’s new book, Camp Damascus, the real star of the show?

All will be revealed in a hardcore encounter that proves the most important part of any creative process is so much more than clicking a button… it’s writing with love in your heart.

This erotic tale is 4,500 words of sizzling human on gay sentient pre-order button action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, and physical manifestation of supporting writers you enjoy love.

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POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF THE SHOCKINGLY MASSIVE IMPORTANCE OF PRE-ORDERS WHEN SUPPORTING AUTHORS YOU ENJOY IN THE TRADITIONAL PUBLISHING INDUSTRY

By Chuck Tingle

I take the long way down to Borson Booksellers, allowing some time to let my imagination run wild and dream about a mysterious, stirring future that waits just around the corner. When I was much younger, I loved picturing my own novel sitting on these exact wooden bookshelves, pondering what it might be like to take down a copy and carry it to the front counter.

“I’ll take the newest bestseller from Porpin Tooms” I’d imagine saying, to which the bookstore employee would just smile and offer me an understanding nod. They’d recognize me, but they’d still play it cool so as not to cause a scene.

What can I say? My bar was pretty high as a youngster.

These days, I’m happy to settle for the original portion of this dream, a decent sized stack of my own pages nestled somewhere within these shelves.

As it turns out, I don’t have to wait much longer to see this dream become a reality, but as the clock ticks down on what should be a celebratory time in my life, I’m growing nothing but more and more anxious.

I thought strolling through these stacks of books on the top floor of Borson Booksellers would calm my nerves, serving as some kind of meditative balm, but the reality of this situation couldn’t be farther from my wholesome fantasy.

Instead, I find myself feeling awkward and fidgety, my brain spinning off in every direction as I consider everything that could possibly go wrong along my publishing journey.

“Porpin! Hey!” comes a familiar voice, abruptly drawing my attention to a figure on my right.

They’re holding a stack of books so massive that the tower partially blocks their face, but I can tell who it is immediately.

“Hey Lanny,” I reply, offering my friend a modest attempt at a warm smile.

Her expression immediately falters, easily reading between the lines of my futile mask. Either that, or my poker face was fine and my dread has simply manifested itself across the full frame of my body.

It appears to be the latter.

“Are you… okay?” my friend questions, gently setting down her stack of books and eyeing me cautiously.

I can’t help but erupt in a fit of laughter. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m just a little stressed.”

My friend nods along, then something clicks within her as a stark realization punctuates her thoughts. She furrows her brow in confusion.

“Wait, didn’t you get a book deal?” Lanny suddenly questions, breaking out in a smile. “Like a big five, real-deal book contract?”

“Yeah,” I admit with a nod.

“That’s amazing!” my friend blurts, hugging me. “Is that why you’re so nervous?”

I nod again. “I know it’s silly, and I should probably be celebrating right now, but I’m stuck in the worried gear.”

“Worried about what exactly?” Lanny questions, immediately going into problem solving mode. She’s always like this, constantly breaking things down and working to untangle the needless bullshit. It’s something I appreciate very much.

I consider her question for a moment, but every time I try reaching for a concrete answer I find myself coming back empty handed. The truth of the matter is: I really don’t know.

I have a great publisher, and I’m so thrilled with the book I’ve written, but there’s also something about this process that feels absolutely terrifying. This is my first traditionally published book, and when the next one comes along — fingers crossed — I’ll probably feel better about it.

Your first time out of the gate is a lot to reckon with.

“It’s the great unknown,” I finally admit. “I can’t really quantify why I’m worried, but I guess that’s the point. I’m all alone in the middle of an ocean right now, and I trust the wind is gonna carry me to shore, but who knows?”

“All alone,” Lanny repeats, nodding along as though she’s uncovered some deep understanding within my words. “You’ve got nobody to talk to about this, do you?”

“I’m talking to you right now,” I reply, genuinely thankful for my friend.

Lanny shakes her head. “No, I mean someone who’s drifted across the same ocean,” she explains. “You should talk to another author who’s done this before. They can tell you where to focus your energy… explain what matters, what doesn’t.”

Just hearing this casual explanation is enough to prompt a wave of relaxation across the tense muscles of my body.

“That’s exactly what I need,” I gush, then hesitate as disappointment and frustration comes roaring back. “Where am I gonna find a traditionally published author to talk to? It’s not like Billings is swarming with them.”

Lanny considers this. “I can think of one,” she offers. “In fact, he lives at the end of your street.”

Not sure if she’s kidding, I lift my eyebrows and wait for a reveal.

“Chuck Tingle,” Lanny finally continues. “He’s in that spooky old place, the one with the overgrown weeds and the squeaky iron fence.”

I know the house alright, but there’s no way the world’s greatest author, Chuck Tingle, lives there. I’ve been on that block for years and not once have I seen a light in the window or noticed anyone coming or going, especially not someone wearing a pink bag over their head.

I scoff. “The Chuck Tingle lives there?” I question.

“Sure does,” Lanny continues. “You should go talk to him. The house looks creepy as hell, but I’ve heard he’s a very sweet guy.”

I start to respond, but before I get the chance my friend turns away and lifts her enormous stack of books that are desperately in need of a home.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta get back to work,” Lanny offers. “Seriously, go see if you can talk to Chuck.”

The next thing I know, Lanny has disappeared around a nearby shelf and fading into the ethereal din of the bookstore.

I stand awkwardly, still not entirely sure if I’m being fucked with or not. Part of me considers just perusing these shelves a little more, but the second these thoughts enter my mind I start feeling nervous again.

Maybe heading up to that old house and giving the door a knock isn’t such a bad idea. If this is just a prank then it won’t really matter, and if it’s not a prank then, well, maybe I’ll start feeling excited again.

I head downstairs and out the front door of Borson Books, immediately hooking right and making my way down the sidewalk. It’s a beautiful day in Billings, but it’s getting late and the cool wind has already started stirring.

Night is starting to fall.

While I’m certainly not frightenedby the prospect of knocking on Chuck Tingle’s door in the dark, the house is genuinely spooky and I’d prefer taking care of this during the light of day.

I walk for a long while, watching as the sun crests upon the distant mountains and then finally dips behind. Sunset hasn’t arrived just yet, but an ominous shadow now covers the land and casts everything in a strange haze of doom.

Soon enough, the supposed home of Chuck Tingle looms before me, casting its watchful eye over the rest of the neighborhood. The structure is old and shambling, seeming to tilt in one direction and missing more than its share of shingles and boards. The window of the upstairs bedroom is shattered, nothing but darkness lurking within.

“This is stupid” I think to myself, a little shocked to find these words murmuring softly across my lips.

I consider turning around and heading home — actually swiveling my body for a moment — but after a long hesitation I finally turn back towards the spooky building and pull open its rusty iron gate.

I march up the front walk, stepping over various cracks that reach across the cement like long, creeping hands, then ascend the front steps. I give the front door three loud raps.

No response.

She got me, I suddenly realize. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe all I needed to feel better about this was a simple practical joke — a little levity.

I’m about to turn away when suddenly an unexpected noise drifts across my ears. I lean towards the door, listening harder and wondering if I’ve disturbed some kind of mammalian scavenger who’s taken up residence within.

Could be a racoon, or a possum.

The answer comes abruptly, however, as the door swings open and I find a man in a long tattered robe standing before me. A bright pink bag is settled over his head with the words “love is real” scrawled across the front.

The one and only, Chuck Tingle.

We stare awkwardly at one another for a moment.

“Dang!” Chuck finally blurts, breaking the silence and prompting me to jump in shock.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, struggling to collect myself. “I just… I live down the street and I was wondering — I mean, if it’s okay with you — I was kinda wondering if you could help me because I just signed a traditional publishing deal and it’s a little overwhelming and maybe you could give me some advice.”

The man’s eyes are covered by dark sunglasses, and combined with the pink mask he’s nearly impossible to read. I have no idea what’s going to happen next, but after a long beat Chuck abruptly nods then turns to head back inside.

“Yes bud! Sounds like a good dang time!” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll get the chocolate milk. Let’s have a buckaroo chat!”

I follow Chuck inside, finding a decrepit old living room that looks as though it was furnished in the nineteen sixties and never updated, despite the wear and tear of the couch cushions.

“Take a dang seat,” Chuck offers before disappearing into another room.

I follow his instructions, settling on an old green armchair that sits across from the couch. There’s an ancient tube-television right next to me, antennas and all. The screen is dancing with static, but the sound remains on mute.

Moments later, Chuck Tingle returns with two tall glasses of chocolate milk, handing one of them over and then keeping the other for himself. The man in the pink bag sits down on his couch, motioning towards the television set.

“You like Snow Channel?” he questions.

I shake my head, to which Chuck just nods along.

“I understand, bud, it can be hard to watch. Gazing into other timelines is not for everyone. Just gotta have gratitude for what you’ve got,” he offers. “Did you know there’s another timeline where I am Alaskan fisherman? Also, there is timeline where I am big time author?”

“You’re a big time author here,” I reply.

Chuck shakes his head. “No bud. Big time author,” he repeats, this time with a little more emphasis. “Guess that’s why I’m here, gotta help keep you from making the same mistakes I did with my first big timer publishing deal.”

My heart skips a beat as he says this. “Oh, thank you,” I reply.

The surge of adrenaline is a strangely pleasant one, more in line with a bold shot of endorphins to kickstart my otherwise sour mood. I now realize just how powerful this plan of mine really is, how comforting it is to speak with someone who’s been through all this before.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” I offer. “I’m all ears.”

“My advice is pretty dang simple,” Chuck starts. “You ready?”

I nod.

“Did you write with love in your heart?” Chuck questions. “Is love your fuel and your fire when creating this piece of art?”

The answer is simple and obvious. “Absolutely,” I reply without hesitation.

Chuck leans in. “That’s the most important part, bud. Now, let’s talk business. In traditional publishing, pre-orders are very, very critical. Focus on that and you’ll trot just fine.”

“That’s it?” I question.

Chuck shakes his head. “You aren’t pickin’ up on my trot,” he explains, trying again. “Pre-orders are a very, very, very, very big deal. When Camp Damascus came out on this timeline I didn’t really think about it, didn’t tell the buckaroos how much publishers use pre-orders to focus their energy and how bookstores use them to know what should be in stock. Didn’t realize how it all comes down to tellin’ your buds this important way. I mean, I’m doin’ okay because I understand love is real, and that’s the most important power across any universe, but…”

Chuck sits back and motions around his dilapidated home.

“I am living in this spooky house at the end of the street,” he explains. “The other timeline is much more fun because I’m still writing horror novels that prove love is real in my own unique way, and all it took was a little extra effort to let my buds know pre-orders make a big difference in traditional publishing industry.”

I consider this, taking his words to heart. Despite the gravity of the situation laid out for me, all anxiety has drained from my body. I have work to do, but at least I’ve found a vague direction to head in.

And I’ve got someone to help me along.

“So… what should I do?” I question, hoping to find a little more clarity. “If you could go back and do it all over again, how would you promote your pre-order.”

I catch a glimpse of Chuck’s playful smile through the slim mouth hole of his mask.

“I’d do what I always do,” he replies. “I’d write a dang short story about the importance of pre-order’s pounding someone in the butt.”

Now that’s an idea.

Chuck is known for writing “tinglers”, short stories about current events that typically have a distinctly erotic nature. In fact, most of them are downright explicit.

They’re also deeply heartfelt and often shockingly creative, especially when they start breaking the fourth wall.

“You wouldn’t feel bad if I took your move?” I question.

Chuck shakes his head. “You’d be helping me out more than you know,” he replies.

I don’t quite understand this, but I nod along just the same.

“I’ll need some erotic inspiration,” I continue. “I put a lot into my novel, and I don’t think I’ve got another short story inside this brain without a little boost.”

Chuck nods. “Then get out there and explore this dang timeline. See what happens!”

I understand most folks like taking their search for romantic partners to the local chocolate milk bar, but that’s just not me. Even in these moments of great importance, I just can’t enjoy the dim lighting and annoyingly loud music.

What I do enjoy, however, is the quiet café attached to Borson Bookshop, which is precisely where I sit on this breezy afternoon. I sip from my warm cup, gazing out the window and wondering if someone special just might walk through that door at any minute.

Lanny already told me this was a terrible idea, claiming that the café here is rarely used and would probably go out of business before I found myself a date, but I’m holding onto hope.

It’s a good thing I didn’t listen to her.

Catching movement in the corner of my eye, I glance up to see a massive oblong shape floating through the door. This living concept is vaguely rectangular, with rounded edges and a simple phrase printed across the length of his body. It reads: pre-order now.

We lock eyes, then glance away, then lock eyes again.

I quickly realize this is the moment I was looking for, then spring into action. I erupt from my seat and hurry over to the floating manifestation.

“Hey!” I blurt. “Can I get you that chocolate milk?”

The pre-order button smiles, then nods. “Sure. I’m Jake.”

“Porpin Tooms,” I reply.

The pre-order button’s eyes immediately light up. “Oh, the author! I’ve read some of your short stories. Huge fan.”

I can’t help the surge of heat that flushes across my cheeks, slightly embarrassed to be complimented like this. “Thank you,” I reply.

“I’m the physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry, so I know a little something about books,” Jake continues. “You’ve got a pre-order coming up for your new novel, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s called Lodge Damascus. I was actually just sitting over there thinking up ways to promote the pre-order.”

“Oh yeah, that’s Camp Damascus on the timeline next to this one. Any good ideas?” Jake continues. “I’m always looking for creative angles.”
 I hesitate. “I was thinking about writing some erotica about it,” I admit. “Is that… weird?”

A smile creeps its way across the handsome physical manifestation’s face. “Erotica, huh?” he questions. “I didn’t know you wrote that stuff.”

I laugh. “I usually don’t. I’m here looking for some inspiration.”

The second this phrase comes erupting from my mouth I realize what I’ve said, wishing I could take it back. I want to be forward, but maybe not that forward. It sounds like the world’s worst pick-up line.

Jake, however, doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, there’s a flicker of mischievous excitement in his eye.

The barista approaches us suddenly, offering a quick and familiar greeting. “What can I get for you?”

The physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing for now, I’ve gotta go show my friend something.”

Jake turns back to me, then nods his head towards a distant corner of the bookstore.

“I think I know something that might help,” Jake offers. “Have you checked out the erotica section?”

I shake my head, slightly confused. “I didn’t realize they had an erotica section.”

Jake takes me by the hand and leads me through the towering shelves of books, down a long aisle and then making a sharp turn into the secluded corner he motioned for.

“Here we are,” the physical manifestation offers.

I reach up and pull a thick hardcover off the shelf, looking it over. “This is a gardening book,” I observe. “Are you sure this is the erotica section?”

“Not yet,” Jake replies playfully. “That’s up to us.”

I freeze, then gently place this book back on its shelf as my eyes rise to meet Jake’s. The tension between us has built to a breaking point, threatening to snap at any moment.

Suddenly, we come together in a barrage of passionate kisses, our hands frantically exploring the topography of one another’s bodies. I lose myself in the moment, submitting completely to the chaotic energy of this lustful encounter.

Jake begins to strip me down, tearing away my clothing and tossing it to the side as I sneak glances from behind the bookshelf. I realize now that this corner is the safest place we could possibly find, any potential shoppers remaining far, far away in the store’s central area.

Now completely exposed, my hands begin to drift lower and lower across the sentient concept’s form, playfully dancing over his muscular chest and abs. When I reach Jake’s waist I hesitate for a moment, teasing him playfully as his cock begins to swell just inches below.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, finally witnessing his enormity in all its glory.

“They don’t call me the physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry for nothing,” Jake offers with a wink, then repeats the important part. “Shockingly massive.”

I reach down and wrap my fingers around the living concept’s rod, gripping him tight and then slowly pumping my fist up and down across his length. I take note of the way Jake pushes back against me, gradually falling into a rhythm with my lover.

The moment is incredible, but I crave even more.

I drop to my knees before Jake, gazing up at the floating pre-order now button with cock hungry eyes. I stroke him off just a bit longer, teasing him with the prospect of my wet and waiting mouth, then open wide to take the living concept's cock between my lips.

I immediately get to work pumping my head up and down across the physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry’s shaft, cradling his balls in one hand while I keep the pace with my mouth.

I can feel him getting worked up, his stomach clenching tight as the two of us fall into a rhythm together. Eventually, I’m forced to pull back and release his rod from my lips, gazing up at him with a playful stare.

“Patience,” I coo. “The release dateis a ways off, you should know that.”

Jake smiles and laughs as I return my focus to his massive rod. I open wide and take him yet again, only this time I find a different approach. Instead of bobbing my head across the physical manifestation’s shaft, I push myself deeper and deeper onto his cock. Somehow, I manage to relax my gag reflex, allowing the handsome pre-order now button to slip into my absolute depths and come to rest at the hilt.

I hold like this for as long as I possibly can, showing off my oral skills in this stunning deep throat maneuver. When I finally run out of air I’m forced to pull back in a sputtering mess, but in this moment my desires are clear.

“Fuck me,” I command, then turn around and drop to my hands and knees. I pop my ass out towards the sentient concept, wiggling my rump from side to side a bit and slapping one cheek.

The physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry doesn’t need to be told twice, floating down into position behind me and aligning his cock with my tightly puckered backdoor.

I can feel him teasing me for a moment, letting the tension simmer like I’d done to him just moments earlier. Finally, he has mercy and thrusts into me with a powerful swoop.

“Oh fuck,” I blurt, not entirely prepared for his size despite every prior warning, including the fact that he’d been down my throat just moments earlier.

Taking Jake into my ass is something else entirely.

Fortunately, this handsome physical manifestation is a skilled and patient lover, allowing my body a moment to adjust to his incredible size. He holds for a long while, until eventually I can feel his hips starting their grind against me. By this time, any discomfort has faded away into a pleasant and powerful ache.

This warmth starts at the pit of my stomach, and as the physical manifestation and I fall into a steady pulse the feeling begins to spread out across my body. I can sense it moving across my arms and legs, filling up completely.

“Click that button, click that fucking pre-order button,” I begin to mumble under my breath, the words spilling out of me in a frantic cascade that steadily grows in volume. “Click that fucking pre-order button deep in this tight asshole!”

By now Jake is hammering away at me with everything he’s got, pounding me with reckless abandon as the surges of pleasure move between us in an ever-escalating feedback loop.

I reach down and grab ahold of my hanging cock, beating myself off in time with the hammering against my backside. These two sources of pleasure melt into one another like some carnal science experiment, mutating into something so much more than the sum of its parts.

The tension builds and builds until, finally, there’s no room left within my physical form. I throw my head back and let out an unbridled howl, completely losing myself in the moment as a mighty climax sweeps through my frame. Every muscle expands and contracts in spastic union, heaving in several waves as hot white cum erupts from the head of my shaft.

My jizz splatters everywhere, painting the floor in pearly streaks.

All the while Jake continues hammering into me, the physical manifestation of the shockingly massive importance of pre-orders when supporting authors you enjoy in the traditional publishing industry carrying me through my entire orgasm. When I’m finally finished, the living concept pushes deep and unleashes a payload of his own, filling me to the brim.

The two of us collapse in a fucked-silly pile, exhausted and satisfied. We exchange glances, smiles erupting across our faces as we bask in the carnal ridiculousness of this moment.

I lean over and kiss him deeply on the lips. “Thank you,” I offer. “Five stars on Goodreads.”

“You think you can write some hot erotica now?” the physical manifestation questions.

I nod.

We sit in this dark corner of the bookstore a bit longer, just enjoying the warmth of one another’s bodies as my mind drifts off.

“Will all this really help my book get pre-orders?” I suddenly question.

Jake chuckles to himself. “I’m afraid not. Your book’s not real.”

I glance over at him, confused. At first I think he’s joking, but the deathly serious look on his face immediately tells me otherwise. “What do you mean?”

“Lodge Damascus is real on this timeline, but our whole reality is just a short story written by Chuck Tingle,” the physical manifestation reveals. “The real question is: will this help Camp Damascus get some pre-orders?”

“Oh,” I blurt, struggling to understand the cosmic implications of this. You’d think I’d be more upset, but it appears an understanding demeanor has been written into me.

“It’s a lot to take in all at once,” Jake continues. “Here’s the cool part, though, you are part of something really special. Making a big artistic piece, like your first traditionally published novel, isn’t just about the author, it’s about the readers, too. Honestly, it’s probably more about the readers than anything else.”

I nod along, listening closely as a strange sense of accomplishment blooms within me.

“Once a piece of art heads out onto this timeline, the timeline’s gonna carry it where it pleases,” Jake explains. “Every second of that journey is important. Every moment is part of the art, whether someone pre-orders a book or burns it. Personally, I’d rather avoid the burning side of things, but there’s plenty of space in between. All we can do is create and experience and fight against the endless nothing by raising our voices to say ‘this is something I care about’ and other times to say ‘this is something I made.’”

“And then?” I reply, hanging on every word.

“Then we start over again,” Jake continues with a smile. “We create another beautiful, chaotic something.”

The living concept reaches up and runs his hand along one of the bookshelves behind us, his fingers drifting across tome after tome.

“Because telling stories is an act of love,” Jake offers, “and so is enjoying them.”

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CLICK HERE TO PRE-ORDER CHUCK TINGLE'S UPCOMING TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED HORROR NOVEL CAMP DAMASCUS