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Jay’s Covers by Design
Release Date: 10 July, 2015
Tyler Knoll was born one wild, stormy night in April 2013.
Of course, Tyler might tell you he was born twenty years earlier, but should we believe anything he says? That’s for you to decide.
In Tyler’s first adventure—like many a gay man before him—he was SNARED by gay porn, wallowing in tales of bigger, stronger, harder….
Then his fickle mind was seduced and SHREDDED by the prospect of BDSM and slavery.
When a Big Misunderstanding SLASHED at Tyler’s sanity, almost costing him his life, he turned to another genre for his salvation. But even this encounter proved potentially hazardous—not from freezing temperatures, but at the hands of irate fans.
Finally, tired and SCREWED by his all his trials and tribulations, he discovers—like many storybook heroes before him—that sometimes Mr. Right is closer than we think.
To view Book Trailer, click HERE
TYLER KNOLL’S JUST FOR FUN
This seminal work of the famous author has been rescued from the ether by A.B. Gayle and is reprinted here in its original format, unedited by us and unabridged.
Originally the three stories were published separately with each new release being eagerly anticipated by fans. In an effort to maximize affordability, Snared, Shredded and Slashed will be combined with a brand new episode: Screwed. Expected publication date June 2015.
In the meantime, to introduce you to Tyler Knoll and his unique style of writing, we are releasing his first book as a standalone. The suggestion this is to cash in on popular best-seller lists is vigorously denied.
To be strictly accurate there are lots of changes, so: Even though the author broke many writing rules, an executive decision was made to present the work as closely as possible to the original self-published edition. Any complaints about inconsistency in tone and voice should be directed to his original editor.
All we know is that Tyler Knoll was born one wild, stormy night in April 2013.
Of course he might tell you he’d been born twenty years earlier, but should we believe anything he says? Whatever the date of his conception, Tyler’s writing reflects the books that influenced his life.
First off, like more than one gay man, he was snared by gay porn, wallowing in tales of bigger, stronger, harder. But then his fickle mind was drawn to tales of bondage and beatings.
When a Big Misunderstanding nearly cost him his sanity, or even his life, he turned to another genre for his salvation. But that encounter also proved hazardous—not from the cold, but from irate fans.
Finally, he discovered—like many storybook heroes before him—that sometimes our Mr. Right is closer than we think.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
Resemblance to fictional characters? That’s another matter.
The title says it all.
“ARE YOU sure this is the place?” The towering monstrosity of concrete and glass didn’t scream Funtastic Friday to me.
Dilbert checked his cell and nodded. “This is where Rupert said he’d be having drinks with Robert, Rick, and Charles.”
Dilbert had only arrived from Australia a month ago, but he already knew all the other gay guys who worked for the firm. I was lucky to get a passing sneer from them.
He’d complained to Rupert about the drought both here and at home, so I’d assumed we were going to a gay bar. Get lucky. Get laid. Wasn’t that what gay guys do for fun on a Friday night? But this was Classe with a capital “C” and an “e” at the end just for effect. Dilbert might fit in here, but I’d have had more luck if it had been of the other variety. A dingy, poorly lit hellhole with traces of spilled drinks, blood, and semen lovingly impregnated into the bare concrete. This edifice of the capitalistic establishment was right in the heart of the business district. The patrons made more money in a week than I made in a year.
Now to see if Rupert was right. He’d often boasted of the classy fucks he and his friends scored every Friday night, and he thought this might be the answer to Dilbert’s problem. I was surprised when Dilbert insisted they wanted me to come, too.
I can see your raised eyebrows from here. Classy fucks? Hook-ups? That’s reducing men to sex objects instead of the other half of a loving, meaningful relationship!
Well, what do you expect? Unlike a lot of the gay population, I don’t hanker after the gold ring, picket fence, two-and-a-half dogs, and promises of undying devotion. I’m a twenty-year-old red-blooded American! I just want to get laid.
Preferably by a prick that reaches all the way to his stomach.
And halfway to mine.
You know the ones. They’re so long that the last little bit actually hurts as it straightens out some section of your bowel that isn’t too familiar with that kind of kink. TMI? Yeah, well, if that sort of thing bothers you, send the book back to Amazon NOW and demand a refund. Or were you going to wait until you finished reading it first? Typical!
I made a last-ditch effort to avoid a night of boredom. “Let’s go back to the sports bar we went to last Friday. The one with a different rugby match on every screen.” We’d watched reruns of what Dilbert called sevens or fourteens. Numbers that didn’t make a lot of sense and rules that made even less, but I didn’t care. Not with all that bare skin on display as players dived on top of each other, grabbing balls. In the process, we discovered we liked the same kind of guy. Big strong men with muscles on muscles. Holy cow, some of those players were hot. Massive shoulders and thighs, even without padding. The exact opposite of two desk jockeys like us. I couldn’t imagine I’d meet anything like that here.
Dilbert’s eyes brightened for a second, and then his mouth firmed. “Not tonight, Tyler. I need to get to know my workmates better.”
Huh? I thought he was here to get laid.
TYLER KNOLL’S JUST FOR FUN
BOOK TWO: SHREDDED
Readers may detect a difference in style between Book 1 and Book 2. As the author explains, this was the result of no longer having an editor. A decision was made to present the book exactly as written.
Whereas the literary influences of the first book could clearly be traced back to vintage gay porn, this story reflects Tyler’s growing interest in the world of BDSM and slavery.
Several attempts have been made to determine which author is responsible for his questionable notions on the subjects, but as there were so many to choose from, the exact sources of inspiration cannot be isolated. Which is probably just as well.
Readers may be pleased to discover that his tendency to address them has been nipped in the bud. Whether the alternative is an improvement is a matter of opinion. Be warned.
Finally. Please consult a professional with actual ties (no pun intended!) to the scene/community before attempting any real BDSM practices or becoming a slave. Unless, of course, you’ve read all the Fifty Shades books and know better.
“G’DAY, MATE. I approve of people ‘pushing the envelope’, but isn’t that taking the concept a bit too literally?”
Dilbert’s Aussie drawl broke into my comfortable daydream where I’d been visualizing pushing a certain someone into an erupting volcano while using a ruler to gradually maneuver an official-looking letter over the edge of my desk. Maybe if it toppled into the trash, I could claim it had mysteriously disappeared. My breath caught every time I thought about the address:
PA to Gareth Harrison,
Dilbert picked up the envelope and perched on the edge of the desk in its place. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted the position?” His eyebrows rose so high they were covered by his blond bangs. He’d had dark streaks put in and didn’t look quite as nerdy.
“Why not?” I grabbed the offending envelope and placed it into the correct tray. “At least I would earn decent cash and not be stuck in the mail room all day.”
Dilbert’s normally happy-go-lucky expression disappeared as he commented bitterly, “But you’d be nothing more than his personal slave.”
“Slave?” I sprang to my feet and strode over to the window. Reaching it, I turned and leaned back against the glass. There wasn’t anything to see anyway: a parking garage and sunshine that I hadn’t felt on my face for ages. “What’s wrong with being a slave? Half the PAs in this building seem to fulfill that function in one form or the other. You always hear them complaining that they’re tied to a desk all day.”
At least I wasn’t an intern. They didn’t even get paid for the privilege!
Dilbert stared at me without speaking. Probably as astounded as I was by this atypical burst of emotion. “Anyway,” I continued. “What about the guy you work for? You’re always complaining that he fucks you around.”
Dilbert always maintained Toby Metcalfe had tickets on himself. As you could imagine, I’d been a bit confused as I’d never seen him walk around with little pieces of cardboard stuck to his suit. But Dilbert had explained that it was a figure of speech back where he came from. It meant his boss had an overinflated opinion of how great he was. As far as Dilbert was concerned, if Metcalfe did have tickets on himself, they’d read: Out-of-date stock. Must go.
Dilbert gave a snort of laughter. “Not literally. He wouldn’t dare. I’ll grant you that he’s an idiot, but so are most of the guys in middle management around here. Having to fuck someone should never be part of your job description.”
I wish I hadn’t told him now. But when I arrived at work on the Monday following that unforgettable Funtastic Friday, I’d told Dilbert about the role Gareth had “interviewed” me for. His subsequent outburst of fury had taken me by surprise. Then he started apologizing, saying it was his fault. He shouldn’t have left without me, but I’d taken so long in the bathroom, he’d figured I’d bailed because I was bored. It turned out that Rupert had told him I’d gone home.
Mind you, it took me ages to translate everything into English. There’d been lots of bloody this and bloody that, even though I’d stressed the fact that Gareth hadn’t actually drawn any blood. I’d even peeled down my trousers to show Dilbert. I’m not sure why he went bright pink. The red welts had faded by then. Shame.
TYLER KNOLL’S JUST FOR FUN
BOOK THREE: SLASHED
Much thought was taken before publishing this installment of Tyler Knoll’s saga. While this is not slash in the strictest form of the term, there was concern about the identity of one of the characters.
The name Tyler and its variants appear in a few popular stories. What we can say is that Tyler Knoll is unique. And we only have his account of who he meets. Astute readers will notice that he was cagey about his savior’s identity and never revealed his full name.
Does it matter?
Given Tyler’s state of mind when this tale took place, it’s quite possible the whole episode was a hallucination. A dream brought on by the cold and his near brush with death.
Could a hero who has taken on an almost godlike status have come to his rescue?
But perhaps it was not so much exposure to the elements that is at fault, but the author’s exposure to books that provided the fertile soil from whence this tale sprang. Both paranormal elements and the mystery/thriller genre merge into a tale of misunderstandings, love, and loyalty. Facets that seem to be universal.
Once again, the quality of writing has improved, reflecting Tyler’s growing confidence as an author. While some may miss his goofy asides, others appreciate his growing talent, which hints at the major figure of literature he was to become.
No matter how or why this evolved, like all Tyler Knoll’s stories, it is special and worth sharing with you, his loyal fans.
A GLEAM of light split the darkness as the big double doors of the old church banged open. “If the wee lad is taking a slash and a dump, he must be around here somewhere.” The guy with the broad Welsh accent was a friend of Gareth Evans, the man responsible for me being in such a dire predicament.
Heeled boots clattered down wooden steps, accompanied by raucous laughter and rude remarks about the delectability of my ass as the searchers fanned out in an effort to find me.
I froze as footsteps approached my hiding place.
“Maybe he meant it literally and he’s in here!” After a metallic squeak of the rusty hinge, a hollow laugh rang out. “Nah, just trash.” The lid of the dumpster clanged down again.
The loud clunk reverberated through the metal next to my head. Ouch! I covered my ears. They were still ringing from hours of abuse and didn’t need more aggravation.
As if I would hide inside! I did have some standards. Curling up in a small ball on the ground behind the two metal waste bins was another matter. Thank goodness I’d managed to conceal my hiding place by pulling the almost-empty one around to create a gap at the back that wasn’t obvious unless you jumped on top.
That had been over an hour ago. In my current weakened state, I’d have been lucky to move it. Now, the night air was adding dampness to my despair, with the cold earth, cold bricks at my back, and even colder metal supplying the icing with a cherry on top.
“We should have checked sooner.” The soft voice belonged to the “groomer”. The one responsible for appearances. When I’d arrived, he’d taken one look at me and sighed, saying that I’d need a lot of work before I was ready. Time they didn’t have.
Time I wasn’t prepared to give.
Unfortunately, they weren’t prepared to accept my decision, saying it was just nerves.
A familiar voice sounded, closer than before.
“I didn’t take the kid for a quitter. I just figured he must be constipated. It’s miles to the nearest town, and he’ll freeze his naked butt off if he tries to walk all that way.” Gareth Evans sounded concerned. As well he might. But knowing him, he was only worried about my health as far as it would affect him. Not because of any concern for me. To him, I was simply a commodity. Something to be used. And abused. My throat was still aching from its strenuous workout.
Damn. Even if I could muster up enough energy to call for help, from the sound of things there wasn’t anyone nearby.
The trouble was that I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, let alone how to get to anywhere else from here. All through the journey from my workplace, I’d been crouching down on the floor of his truck’s cabin. He’d hustled me inside as soon as I arrived, and all I’d managed to see was that our final destination was an abandoned church surrounded by open fields and the ubiquitous cemetery.
Following the road would be the obvious choice, but I didn’t know which way to turn and dense clouds covered the moon. The only break in the darkness was coming from the light shining through the open doorway. There weren’t even any windows to betray what the building was being used for. The stained glass had long since been replaced by planks nailed across the narrow openings. Those inside didn’t need to see out, and the solid walls helped magnify the sound, making it an ideal location for their purpose.
“He can’t have gone far.” That was Gareth again. “Nathan, see if you can find him.”
I didn’t know which one Nathan was. There’d been more people than I expected. Some of them may have been my predecessors at Whoosit & Whatsit, but no one told me their real names. Once I figured out what they were involved in, I didn’t blame them.
Everything had been a blur of confusion when Gareth led me into the abandoned church. The fact that I wasn’t wearing pants sapped my confidence, and then realizing how stupid I’d been just made it worse. How could I ever have read a situation so wrongly?
TYLER KNOLL’S JUST FOR FUN
BOOK FOUR: SCREWED
At the end of the last book, Tyler Knoll was worried he might be turning into a werewolf. The ending definitely wasn’t a HEA or even a HFN. You can imagine the angst that inspired when published as a serial! Thankfully, now fans don’t have to chew their nails for three months waiting to discover what happened.
Readers will have noted that even his best friend, Dilbert, sensed a change in Tyler. His focus in life has shifted, reflecting his growing maturity.
He’s definitely not the snarky young guy with not a care in the world whom we met in Book 1.
Although some may miss his snappy humor, there is no doubt his writing skills have improved.
Or perhaps he just had a different editor.
Is this the end?
But what is the end?
Only time will tell.
FINALLY! A chance to WRITE!
If I didn’t get the words down on paper, I’d explode from the pressure inside. FYI, being an author is like that. If you’re not careful, the scenes and characters in your head burst out like a shaken bottle of bubbly. I don’t recommend it. Cleaning the sticky stuff off the ceiling is no fun.
Why are you talking to your readers again? Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?
Shit! My pen took on a life of its own, flipped out of my grasp, and scurried for shelter under the nearby lockers. Knowing my luck, it had probably already been devoured by the dust bunnies. Nervously, I glanced around, but, just as I feared, I was totally alone. I rubbed my fingers through my overlong hair. It had been months since my last encounter with the virtual representative from The Universal Reading Department. “I thought I’d finally gotten rid of you.” I winced as I uttered the words out loud, forgetting that the V.R. from T.U.R.D. could hear my thoughts.
I’ve been waiting for you to open that fourth wall again.
Damn, I forgot rule number one. Never address the reader. It keeps them from being drawn into the story. When would I learn?
At the back of the bottom drawer was a pencil that looked like a beaver had chewed it. I shuddered at the unwelcome reminder of my predecessor. It was a shame a computer wasn’t deemed necessary in my current job. It sure would have made writing easier. Ignoring my unwelcome guest, I scribbled down the words before I forgot them:
‘Sebastian Hindsmith stared at the mutilated body on the slab before him. The autopsy had unearthed a few clues but, more importantly, he now had a replacement that would be a perfect fit for Hardacre.’
What the heck are you writing?
I sighed. From bitter experience I knew that once he’d been stirred into being, the voice in my head would stick around like a freshly chewed piece of gum. Seeing as he’d saved my life once, I couldn’t get too cross. “It’s a new story about a zombie private investigator.”
You met a zombie private investigator?
“Of course not! Get real! Zombies don’t exist! This is fiction.”
“Zombie. Singular. The twist is that he’s the good guy but, as far as he knows, he’s the only person in the world affected. I haven’t worked out all the details yet. A medical experiment gone wrong, maybe. Or a fungus.”
Not a virus?
“No. That’s been done to death! I want my book to be in a class of its own.”
So you can claim to have a best seller in the genre on Amazon?
“No! Yes! Maybe. At least my book will be ‘fresh’.”
How can a book about a person with bits dropping off be labeled as fresh? It’s probably the result of dirty shower floors!
“Stop interrupting. Do you want to know what the plot is or not?” The lack of a snarky retort suggested he did, so I continued. “Anyway, he lost his memory and the mortician secretly loved him and when he died he kept him alive. So this PI….”
Hard acher! Couldn’t you have thought of something better? He sounds like he’s in permanent pain, and his name is probably the only thing about him that gets hard!
“No, it isn’t! They have lots of sex!”
So it’s porn, then?
“Wrong again. It’s MM romance.”
MM romance? You don’t believe in romance, so how can you write about it?
You’ve researched romance?
“Yeah. You just have to follow a formula. Two jocks meet. They’re enemies or just buddies who gradually get closer but will never admit the attraction. Some big misunderstanding drives them apart, and then they realize how much they love each other. A cute or helpful secondary character helps them get back together again, so they can have incredible sex and wham, bam, it’s the gold ring, picket fence, and two-and-a-half dogs, statistically speaking.”
You sound pretty bitter about the whole thing. Are you envious?
“Who? Me? Not likely. I haven’t even had sex with anyone for ages.”
Maybe that’s the problem.
I pushed the unwelcome reminder of my recent drought to one side and continued writing.
‘The corpse’s hand would be a perfect fit. Already he could feel the callused fingers rubbing over—’
Hate to tell you this, but that reads as if the mortician was actually going to be caressed by the dead hand.
“He is. That’s the twist that will make my book stand out from the crowd. The zombie is the good guy, but bits of him are rotting away as the fungus, or whatever it is, takes hold. His best friend, the mortician, is saving up good bits to replace them.”
Ow, yuck! Sounds more like Frankenstein to me.
“No! Nothing like that. This guy isn’t a monster. With the help of the mortician, he gets better looking as the series continues.”
Convenient. What are you calling it?
“He Completes Me.”
I think that’s been done.
“Oh. Damn. Well, that can be the working title for now.”
I continued writing. ‘The legs he’d replaced last month had been a complete success….’
That works. Seeing as private investigators have to do a lot of legwork, he must wear them out pretty quickly.
“Shut up!” In a way I was glad the V.R. from T.U.R.D. was back. Now I’d be able to ask him if he was the reason so many people seemed to know what I was thinking lately. “Have you been talking to anyone else in the building?”
Why would I do that? You’re enough to keep me amused. But I’ve missed you. Why haven’t you been writing?
To view Book Trailer, click HERE