He nodded and put the top back on his thermos. Scorpio is the one who's supposed to deal with the Dead, not me.” Otter's grandfather is a medicine man, so I didn't have to worry about explaining anything. “It's not that-I found if I try to drink, dead people start talking to me and that always creeps me out.
His eyes squinted from the sensation and the sharp stink of cheap liquor hit my nose. “Wussie-pussy,” he laughed, opening it up and taking a mouthful. “It's what we Kiowas call vodka, 'cause it's traditionally made from potatoes.” “What's potato juice?” I took the battered thing and shook it. “Have some potato juice,” Otter said, handing me an old silver thermos. This tale is part of The Real Story Safe Sex Project dedicated to using entertainment and popular culture to spread the word about HIV/AIDS and safe sex to gay and bi male teens and twentysomethings. But it also might tell you a few things you didn't know. Warning: this story uses explicit language and is sexually graphic. He’s enjoying the experience-until Coyote himself walks into the workshop. They’ll have a chance to hear new legends-like the Dancing Deer Woman and more about Coyote than our Reluctant Shaman would ever want to know-from the workshop leader, Professor Comesflying. Otter has discovered attending a monthly safe-sex workshop is the best place to find a date who is already interested in “love with a glove.”
He’s in the Big City to visit his old friend Otter as they continue to explore sexuality.
The first chapter was a finalist in National Public Radio’s Short Fiction Contest under “Dolls.” Now discover the full story of a most remarkable family.The uniquely sexy Native American Two-Spirit hero from Memoir of a Reluctant Shaman is back in a standalone tale. Thus begins a coming of age story of Native American Magical Realism. How do I explain to my vegetarian significant other that he can buy a t-shirt in the tribal store that reads, "Vegetarian is an Indian word for poor hunter." How do those for whom meat is something wrapped in plastic you use plastic to buy, make sense of my siblings hacking meat off a still-warm carcass? Do they really understand that the smooth hardness of the drums of mine they touch and admire is the flesh of the animal scraped clean?” Living in cities that are so bright they blot out the stars at night, my lovers have had skin washed pale as fish bellies back home, and I have never quite figured out how to explain to them what happens on our reservation, where stars look new and are strong enough to burn our bodies brown. Perhaps my song is not strong enough, or perhaps I would be better off with stiffer relationships than the blood and bone-based lovers I've chosen-or that have chosen me. “My grandmother's song would make her wooden dolls dance without strings, something I have sought to do in my own relationships without much success. From the NY Times and USA Today Best Selling Author Ty Nolan (
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