You got a little bit of an attitude, Mr. English, if you don't mind my saying so. I don't mind. Josh Lanyon More Quotes by Josh Lanyon More Quotes From Josh Lanyon I know that asshole you were with in college --” “Can we leave that asshole out of it?” Please, gentlemen, one asshole at a time. Josh Lanyon pleasegentlemancollege We were locked onto each other as though we had just discovered this incredible thing you could do with two mouths pressing close and moist against each other. And the taste of him... Horrifyingly, unbearably sweet -- sweet in the way crack must feel hitting the bloodstream of an addict after years of staying clean. Josh Lanyon sweettwoyears I'm not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided he doesn't kill me, its foolproof. Josh Lanyon kill-meinsanesimple I want people to react to my work, to think, to question, to challenge, to cry and laugh and feel. Josh Lanyon laughingpeoplethinking He needed fresh air and sunshine. A walk in the woods and afterward a good book to read by the fire. Yeah, that was the life. Josh Lanyon sunshinefirebook Cops before breakfast.Before coffee even. As if Mondays weren't bad enough. Josh Lanyon coffeemondaybreakfast 'What about stress? Are you using your stress-management techniques when things seem to be getting on top of you?' 'Nothing is getting on top of me.' As I said it, a totally inappropriate picture popped into my mind. 'What are you feeling?' Jake's breath warm against my face, my bruised lips tingling from his kisses. 'Tell me what it feels like with me inside you.' Josh Lanyon kissingstressfeelings Everything a gay man does makes a political statement. Everything matters: where you bank, where you shop, where you eat. When you hold your lover’s hand in public Josh Lanyon gaymenhands You're kind of a smart ass when you're not flat on your face. Josh Lanyon smartkindfaces I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. "If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I. Josh Lanyon renaissancevalentines-dayvalentines-day I think it was Mark Twain who said, “Get your facts straight, and then you can distort them as much as you like. Josh Lanyon saidfactsthinking The battle rages eternal, though the race, religion, gender or sexual orientation of those discriminated against changes regularly. Maybe man’s need for a scapegoat is genetically programmed into him. Josh Lanyon battleracemen How did people get over this? They obviously did. Every day someone fell in love with the wrong person and had to pack up all their fragile, misguided hopes and unwanted affection, and move on to the next picnic table. Josh Lanyon tablespeoplemoving Hearts got broken every day. Nobody died from that. But it did kind of fade the sunlight and drain the color from the days. Josh Lanyon colorbrokenheart I know you've all heard the advice, "Show, don't tell." The best writers don't tell you, and quite frankly they don't just show you -- they make you feel it, live it, taste it, touch it. Storytelling is about being in the moment with the characters. Josh Lanyon tasteadvicecharacter Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips; I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor. Josh Lanyon jakehotsweet Do you still do the clubs?” Jake shakes his head. “You do the clubs because you can’t find what you need at home. I’ve got everything I need. I’ve got the answer to needs I didn’t even know I had. Josh Lanyon jakehomeneeds Kit, you're forty. You look thirty. You act...well, never mind. You're carrying on like you think you're seventy Josh Lanyon mindlooksthinking He scooped up Victoria practically before she hit the ground, well within the five-second rule. If she'd been a potato chip, he could have still eaten her. Not something I particularly wanted to contemplate. Josh Lanyon potato-chipspotatoeswanted He was breathing, which is always a good sign. As gently as I could I picked him up, placed him on the towel, wrapped it around him, and put him in my car. I drove to the emergency clinic, the cat purring on the seat beside me. “What’s his name?” the young man at the front desk asked as my towel and cat were whisked to a back room. “Uh…John Tomkins,” I said. “That’s different,” the receptionist said, writing it down. “He was a pirate,” I said. “I mean Tomkins. I don’t know about the cat. (...) Josh Lanyon catwritingmean
