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Twenty-six year old Derek Helton accepts the challenge of a lifetime.
The challenge involves sex. The challenge requires thirty-one women. The challenge will take thirty-one days.
And so it begins. Social media spreads the legend of Derek Helton across the United States.
Can one manís life get any better?*
Somewhere along his incredible journey, Derek breaks badly. He falls so far off the path he cannot find his way back. And in the dark, gay underground world, he begins a life and death struggle against a formidable foe.
Highly erotic, extremely twisted, Thirty-one Days is a cover to cover jackhammer that will pound your safe, comfortable little world into oblivion. You will never look at men or women the same way again.
"I am in such a rock and hard place. I love the book Thirty-One Days. I get it. It is raw and honest. It is brilliant. Actually, it is one of the most interesting books I have read. My problem is our most open-minded editor is truly uncomfortable. The book is great, but can it pass our censors? No. It can't. So I have something I think is fantastic, but I can't print it as written." - Anonymous editor.
This is certainly not the best part of the big city. Sitting in the parking lot across the street from my destination, I see nothing but dull, worn, dirty brick. The street level windows are covered in metal caging. Graffiti is sprayed here and there. The building I am interested in is two stories high and at least a hundred years old. The ground level started life as a small manufacturer, with offices and living quarters on the floor above.
The entire neighborhood is made up of similar structures, interspersed with garbage strewn, potholed, parking lots. At one time, serious retailing in mom and pop stores occurred here. Butcher shops. Small engine repair. Leather goods. Shoe repair. Convenience goods and dry goods. At one time, serious alcohol production and bootlegging occurred here. On this exact block. Little Al Cabrezzi and Johnny Polenta. Today, it is pawn shops, massage parlors, payday loans and seedy bars. This neighborhood is stuck in no manís land. It is both years away from rejuvenation, and decades past its prime.
The date is January the first, the beginning of the New Year, and the time on my dashboard clock says ten p.m. Everything is closed tonight, except for the place across the street. Apparently, this place never closes. I am into my second can of beer since arriving. I feel apprehensive about the next few hours of my life, but a little buzzed at the same time. New things have always made me anxious. This thing, what I am doing here tonight, is really, really new. Life altering new.
Curiosity will probably be the death of me.
I have ventured nearly three hours from my small town. I sure as hell donít want to stumble upon anybody I know. Not where I am going. How would I explain? I couldnít. So it wasnít going to happen. Three hours driving distance should be a safe buffer zone.
I look around. Vehicular traffic is almost non-existent. I have seen only a dozen cars in the past hour. The first car was a cop, and the next eleven were lone men cruising for hookers. The men were searching for the shivering ladies of the night who had been moved away from the near street corner. I did a hooker once. Actually, twice. Nasty business, but way in the past.
Everything I was seems to be in the past.
The pedestrian traffic is also pretty thin. A few folks have entered the building I am watching, though I donít imagine this place will be busy tonight. There is no reason to be out and about. The temperature is five degrees below the freezing mark, and after all, it is New Yearís Day. Last nightís parties and consumption will have laid most of the citizenry to waste. They will be taking advantage of this annual day of recovery. For me, this makes it a good night to begin the big experiment. If I can call it an experiment.
I shake my head.
I donít want to dwell on it.
Because this is crazy.
I finish the second beer and pinch myself on the cheek. Yes, there is a tiny bit of numbness. I havenít consumed a drop of alcohol in six months. At least I will be a cheap date. As I mull over what I think goes on in the place across the street, I donít yet feel ready to venture forth. I figured two beers would be enough to get me going. I have finished two Buds, and I am still firmly planted in the driverís seat. With no intention of moving.
When I took this new challenge on, I didnít think it would be such a big deal. I now understand my miscalculation. Two cans of beer, and not ready to budge. This should tell me one thing. My internal sensors are correct. My internal sensors should be obeyed. I donít need to do this. This is not right for me. Put the last four beers in the trunk and drive this car home.
For god sakes, go.
What would change though?
I would still be in the same boat as I was yesterday, and last week and last month and six months ago. Even eight months ago, and a year ago. Yes. One full year. One full year of frustration. Of confusion. Of second guessing. Of depression. Of self-loathing.
One full year of nothing.
I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
A yellow taxi stops in front of the building, breaking my thought pattern. An old guy climbs out; he is probably fifty years of age. The old guy pays his fare and walks toward the entrance door. My signal to rip open beer can number three.
The music is playing on my stereo, a Ďnumber one hitsí station. My carís engine is idling and the heater is set on low. I drive a fuel efficient Toyota Camry. I am not worried about burning a little gas to stay warm.
I am not aware when a car pulls in beside me. The driver gets out and looks around. I slide down in my seat, not wanting to make eye contact. The guy is five years older than me, maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. He looks to be strong and athletic, about ten pounds past his prime. He is looking down at the ground as he scurries across the street.
I laugh to myself.
Father of small children?
Well known in town?
A pillar of society?
Which one buddy?
This guy clearly does not want to be seen going in. I donít blame him. He quickly enters the building I have been watching.
Whew. He made it.
I am still here.
In my car.
I am not even close to being ready.
I tip the third beer can to my mouth and guzzle the contents down my throat. I turn the music up louder.
Four young guys, they appear to be college kids, are sauntering down the street. They pause in front of the building. They are hoofing on marijuana joints. Four joints, four guys. They toss the roaches in unison and enter the building. These guys arenít hiding or scurrying. They are out and open. They are a different breed than I, a different breed than the guy who parked beside me. These college boys have bought into the program. I have not. I hoped I never would. I will definitely be a scurrier. In fact, I am seriously entertaining the thought of leaving.
Beer number four is in my hand, the tab is ripped open, and I drink. I slap at my face. Quickly, my face has gone from tiny numbness to nearly full out numbness. I crack my face once more, hard enough to leave a red mark. With the interior lights switched on, I see the red mark when I look in the rear view mirror. My face is beginning to feel stupid, similar to the aftermath of my one and only dental visit. I am not feeling drunk, but I do feel buzzed. Finally.
The music is cranked again and the bass beat is thumping. I chuckle to myself. Starting to feel a little better about all of this. I check the dashboard clock. Eleven twenty-four p.m. Where did the hour and a half go?
I look at the last two beer cans, lonely in their plastic rings. I am thinking of taking the two cans in for backup. I feel okay to go, but I donít know what is lurking behind the entrance door. I down the last half of beer can number four.
It is now or never time.
I take forty bucks out of my wallet and tuck the cash in my front jeans pocket. The wallet goes under the driverís seat. I turn off the radio and pull the keys from the ignition. What the hell. I grab the last two beers and tear them from their plastic holders. I gather up the empty cans, take a deep breath and get out. Shut the car door; take a quick look both ways and behind me.
I step to the back of the car, fob the trunk and dump the empty cans in. I tuck one full can down the front of my pants and the other goes in my jacket pocket. My jacket is long enough to provide cover for the two can bulges. I close the trunk and look around again. No cars and no pedestrians. I tug my baseball cap down low over my eyes and move quickly across the street. I am scurrying, similar in movement to the guy who parked beside me. Scurrying as a rat would. Guilty. Embarrassed. Ashamed.
This was the second warning regarding the great experiment. If you have to scurry to get where you are going, you must be doing something wrong.
I already knew this, didnít I?
I sure did.
Desperation makes you do desperate things.
I am less than thirty feet from the entrance to the brick building, moving smartly. A guy comes out of nowhere, perhaps from between the buildings, sort of cutting in front of me. What the hell?
He is taller than me, at least six foot four, slim to scrawny, and young with shaggy cut blonde hair. He is wearing tight black leather pants and black stomping boots. A white baggy tee shirt completes his look. He must be freezing.
Good timing, idiot. I veer off and head down the street, a little discomfited. The young guy heads into my building as I pretend to window shop. I am looking at grimy, wire covered windows with nothing on display. I must look the fool.
Okay fool. Turn around, go back, and go inside.
I peek back. It is all clear.
I turn around.
Approaching the front door I look up and see a small sign.
The sign says, ĎHouse of Godí.
House of God? Seriously? A little bit of blasphemy, no?
Yes, I would say, a lot of blasphemy.
Below the ĎHouse of Godí is another sign.
Not good. This may be all for naught.
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Watch the video on YouTube, ĎTRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYSí.
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