Chuck Tingle
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Eaten Right By The Physical Manifestation Of My Pride And Excitement That The Lead Character Of My First Traditionally Published Horror Novel Is On The Autism Spectrum Just Like Me
🕑 Added 2023-01-17 18:04:13 +0000 UTC
It’s Carly Tingle’s big day, the release of her first traditionally published horror novel, Camp Damascus. Unfortunately, Carly’s having trouble enjoying this moment as fear and chaos begin to swirl around her. She wants the book to do well, of course, but it slowly becomes apparent there’s more to Carly’s ambition than meets the eye.
Things get clearer when Carly revisits an old erotica short she’d written, titled Eaten Right By The Physical Manifestation Of My Pride And Excitement That The Lead Character Of My First Traditionally Published Horror Novel Is On The Autism Spectrum Just Like Me. This sets off a chain of fourth-wall breaking events that will send Carly on an adventure unlike any other.
Now at the book shop, Carly will come face-to-face with the beautiful physical manifestation of her pride and excitement as an autistic artist, culminating in an erotic lesbian encounter that could inspire generations to come.
This erotic tale is 4,300 words of sizzling human on sentient physically manifested excitement in the form of a punctuation mark action and lesbian autistic pride love.
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A NOTE FROM CHUCK:
this book is FREE you can access it with or without patreon however if you are not subscriber i would like to ask that you make $3 donation to the AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK, or more if you would like. this way all of donation profits go to them instead of just chucks cut from amazon.
also you can preorder CAMP DAMASCUS here
i will have some more notes at the end but lets get to the story buckaroos
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EATEN RIGHT BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF MY PRIDE AND EXCITEMENT THAT THE LEAD CHARACTER OF MY FIRST TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED HORROR NOVEL IS ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM JUST LIKE ME
By Chuck Tingle
Creeping down the hallway of my apartment has never been so frightening, a routine journey suddenly transformed into some treacherous adventure. I move slowly, my back pressed against the wall as I slowly push onward. When I reach the edge of the doorframe I pause briefly, focusing my attention and then deliberately peering out into the dining area.
My roommate, Greg, sits casually at the table, chewing on a hearty bite of spaghetti as he gazes peacefully out the window to his right. His body language is relaxed, leaning back in his chair as the golden morning sunlight washes across his face.
Slowly, Greg’s head turns to face me, our gaze locking for what seems like forever.
My roommate’s expression gradually transforms into a bemused smile. “Uh, what are you doing Carly?”
“I’m avoiding disaster,” I reply.
Greg just stares at me a little longer, struggling to understand whether or not I’m serious. To be fair, I’m wondering the same thing.
I’m being silly, but my goofy behavior stems from a very real fear. In the back of my mind, I can’t seem to shake the nagging belief that something will go wrong today.
Around some unknown future bend, disaster looms.
I finally step into the doorway, relaxing as much as possible and strolling over to my friend. I take a seat across from him in our little breakfast nook, staring out the window and discovering the whole world is not, in fact, crashing down around us. The sun is up and a gentle breeze washes through the garden. Just beyond, our neighbor can be seen walking her dog.
She stops to wave. Greg and me wave back.
“You know, most folks would be excited for today,” my roommate suggests. “You’re a published author now. You’ve been working so hard on this book and it’s finally out. Time to celebrate.”
“It should be out today,” I counter, “but have you actually seen it?”
Greg takes another bite of spaghetti and shakes his head. He chews, then swallows.
“No,” my friend replies. “I thought you wanted to go to the bookstore and pick up a copy together.”
“I do,” I retort, then take a moment to refine my chaotic thoughts and feelings.
I glance down at the table and notice my fingers have been drumming against the wood in a soft familiar pattern. This is my stim, a way for me to calm down when the world starts feeling a little too overwhelming.
I start by tapping all five fingers, then four, three, two, one. Next, I repeat this pattern, but I start from the fourth finger. I do this until I reach a single finger — which point I begin again.
Interestingly enough, this little habit of mine is shared with the main character of the aforementioned new book,an expression of our places on the autism spectrum.
I’m deeply, profoundly proud of this feature of my identity.
“Today is a really big day,” I announce.
Greg nods.
“I’ve worked so hard, and for so long, to get here,” I continue. “I know I should be excited, but I’ve learned to not celebrate until after I’ve crossed the finish line. Until a copy of Camp Damascus is in my hands, I won’t be able to relax.”
Greg chuckles. “You think the delivery truck is gonna get overturned in the middle of the road or something?” he questions. “Or, at the last minute, your publisher is gonna round up every copy for a bonfire?”
I shake my head, laughing to myself. “It’s ridiculous, I know, it’s just…”
I trail off now, taking note of the feelings the swirl within me.
Greg is watching closely now, his eyes locked on mine. It’s times like this that I truly appreciate what a good friend he is.
“Someone’s first traditionally published horror novel is a big deal. I get that, but it feels like this is something more,” I explain. “This is extra special.”
My roommate nods. “I hear that.”
I stop tapping my fingers, this conversation already starting to call me down slightly. The world is beginning to straighten out and fall into a nice clean order once again.
Greg smiles. “Everything’s gonna be fine,” he assures me. “You wrote an amazing book, and when we drive to the store, it’s gonna be there on the shelf waiting for us. You’re gonna sell so many copies that you won’t even need a roommate anymore.”
We both start laughing at this.
Greg finishes his bowl of spaghetti and stands up, strolling over to the sink and washing it off. He places it in the dishwasher and turns back to me, standing tall and ready to face the day.
“You ready to go pick up a copy of Camp Damascus?” he questions.
A surge of courage and excitement pulses through me. “Let’s go,” I retort.
I quickly find a jacket and pull it on, then head out into the warm light of the morning. My car is parked on the nearby curb, but as I approach the vehicle, that sinking feeling quickly comes rushing back over me. I can feel the seeds of worry sprouting up from between every doubtful crack that lurks within my mind, spreading across my psyche like weeds.
I slow down, then gradually come to a full stop. I’m standing here awkwardly, staring down at the vehicle.
Greg strolls up behind me. “Everything alright?” my friend questions.
I nod, but everything’s not alright. In the back of my mind, I can feel the anxiety overtaking everything, the festering worry that this day is simply too good to be true.
What if I get in a car wreck? What if the book’s not there? What if the book is there and nobody buys it?
As this cascade of questions drifts through my head, my eyes gradually settle on something in the passenger seat, a little paperback I’d forgotten was sitting there. My gaze holds on the title as a smile works its way across my lips.
This is one of my own manuscripts, a rare story I’d decided to make physical copies of and sell as a self-published short. The contract I’ve signed with my publisher allows this, fortunately, so I’m welcome to continue writing my erotica as long as I leave the horror publishing up to them.
It’s a fantastic arrangement, and it’s allowed for strange moments of never before seen synergy. Unlike most authors, I’m free to write self-published erotica as an artistic reflection and commentary on my journey through traditionally published horror.
I suppose the publicity that might generate doesn’t hurt either.
The paperback on my passenger seat is one such story, a quaint little tale of lesbian erotica titled Eaten Right By The Physical Manifestation Of My Pride And Excitement That The Lead Character Of My First Traditionally Published Horror Novel Is On The Autism Spectrum Just Like Me.
I remember writing this story; remember how the main character was so anxious about the upcoming release of her first traditionally published book. Everything works out in the end, of course, but it takes a little forth wall breaking magic to get her there.
The details of this story remain a little fuzzy, however.
“Carly,” my roommate calls, struggling to break me from my trance.
“Oh,” I blurt, pulled back into reality. I turn to my friend and toss him the keys. “You drive.”
Greg just shrugs, then makes his way around to the driver’s side and climbs in.
I open my door and slip into the passenger seat, carefully picking up my own book and holding it with great reverence.
It’s been a while since I wrote this one, releasing it months ago. Back then Camp Damascus was up for pre-order, and I was simply imagining what this day would feel like.
I gaze down at the cover, taking note of the beautiful woman who stands proudly on one side, offering a joyful thumbs up, and the sentient explanation point who hovers on the other. At the bottom is my traditional proclamation, a sentence that’s graced the cover of all my tomes for years: From two-time Hugo Award finalist Carly Tingle.
Greg starts my car and pulls out onto the road, glancing over just once to make sure I’m doing okay, then turning his attention back to the short drive ahead of us.
I settle into my seat and open the book, struggling to recall the details of this story.
Flipping to a random page, I begin to read. “Greg starts my car and pulls out onto the road, glancing over just once to make sure I’m doing okay, then turning his attention back to the short drive ahead of us.”
I stop abruptly, glancing over at my friend to see if he’s wearing the grin of someone who’s playing a ridiculous practical joke. He’s not.
He’s focused on driving.
My eyes return to the page, reading a brief description of the events that just unfolded. The accuracy and details are stunning, every passage feeling as though it’s ripped from my brain in the present moment.
“Aw fuck,” I blurt, noticing these exact words occurring on the next line. “I knew today was gonna get weird.”
Greg laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I forgot this book is one of my meta books,” I explain, reading these words directly from the page in my hands “It was supposed to be a discussion of my autism and how proud I am to feature an autistic lead character in Camp Damascus, but then it goes on this wild fourth-wall breaking tangent and, honestly, it’s very me but it’s also very unusual. I don’t… I don’t know if it’s any good.”
I glance back up and gasp about when I see that Greg has started multiplying. The inside of our vehicle remains the same, but a repetition of my view cascades on and on behind him. There are multiple Gregs stretching off into the infinite, as though the whole world has been held up to a series of well-placed mirrors. I’ve seen this effect before, these endless trails created when you point a video camera at a display of its own live feed.
“What?” Greg continues, confused by the expression on my face. Every Greg behind him asks the same thing, their inquiry just the slightest bit delayed.
“Pull over,” I shout, suddenly feeling deeply overwhelmed and struggling to hold myself together. “I just need a minute.”
Greg is no less perplexed, but he does as he’s told. The second we roll to a stop I’m barreling out of the car, struggling to focus as the meta layers of reality continue blooming in every direction.
Soon enough, the world has transformed into a churning orb of endless fractals, the patterns of reality repeating themselves over and over again.
This should be a moment of overwhelming terror and complete chaos, but strangely the more bountiful these patterns, then more I find myself calming down.
I take a minute to catch my breath, turning slowly and taking in the bizarre cosmic order that’s somehow fallen into place. Everything is quiet now, peaceful even.
“Hey!” comes a familiar voice.
I turn to find a mirror image of myself, this woman clad in an all-white suit with a huge pink bandana pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail. As bold as her outfit is, there’s something strangely recognizable about it, and it’s not long before I realize it’s a fashionable approximation of the white robe and pink mask I wear during public appearances.
“Whoa,” I stammer. “Hi.”
“I’m Carly,” the other me offers, extending a hand. “You can call me Dopple, though. It’s gonna get a little confusing otherwise.”
I nod, accepting her handshake, then I step back to gaze around this bizarre, otherworldly plane. “Where am I?” I question.
“The center of a meta reality loop,” Carly offers. “It happened when you read our book.”
“It’s actually kinda peaceful here,” I reply, taking note of a particularly gorgeous fractal pattern as it drifts past us.
“We wrote it that way,” Dopple replies. “Patterns feel particularly good to us, you know? It’s soothing. Sometimes a big day can start feeling really chaotic, but if we find a pattern in the chaos, it can turn into something really beautiful.”
I nod along. “I was wondering when this book would start honing in on my autism.”
My mirror image raises an eyebrow curiously. “So you know this is a book?”
“It’s hard to tell,” I offer with a laugh. “All I know is: now that I’ve found this pattern, I feel pretty good. It wasn’t really making sense — like I didn’t know where this story was headed — but now it’s all falling into place.”
I lift my hand and start tapping out my fingers in the air, repeating this stimming method and watching as my digits echo off into swirling meta realities of shimmering light.
“We all have big days in our lives, moments that bring us a lot of stress and tension,” Dopple offers. “That’s totally normal, and today is particularly big for you. You’ve been working towards this for a very long time.”
“I guess,” I offer with a shrug. “It was never really my goal to release a traditionally published novel, I just like making my art. I’d write erotica stories whether or not people read them, and the fact people do read them is already a huge accomplishment. I already have so much gratitude, I don’t understand why my brain is so focused on today.”
The mirror image of myself just stares at me, a knowing expression on her face. “You sure about that?” she questions. “If I know why, then you know why. You just need to think a little harder. What’s the title of this book?”
“Eaten Right By The Physical Manifestation Of My Pride And Excitement That The Lead Character Of My First Traditionally Published Horror Novel Is On The Autism Spectrum Just Like Me,” I reply.
Suddenly, a potent flood of memories erupt through my mind, images and sounds and feelings all wrapped up in a mighty cascade.
I remember the first time I realized my thought process was different than everyone else’s. I remember feeling disconnected from certain emotions and completely obliterated by others. I remember watching other people to study the social interactions that appeared to be so natural when they performed them, but felt clunky and awkward every time I made an attempt.
There’s something deeply lonely about this recollection, like I’m floating out in some wooden dingy while everyone else is on the shore partying.
Then one day I saw David Born on television, a T-Rex musician from the band Talking Hands. He was so cool and artistically powerful and his uniqueness wasn’t a hinderance, it was the rocket fuel that sent him off into the stratosphere.
He also seemed a lot like me, with a very specific set of mannerisms and philosophies. When I learned he was on the autism spectrum, everything fell into place.
I wasn’t just autistic, I was proud to be autistic, and it’s all because an artist I admired had the courage to be themselves no matter how unusual that might be.
“Whoa,” I stammer. “I get it now.”
“This story is unique,” Dopple states, “because you’re unique.”
“Wait, the story we’re currently in, or Camp Damascus?” I clarify.
“Both,” she retorts with a smile. “Now let’s get out there and be proud to make the best queer erotica featuring the sentient physical manifestation of your own autistic pride there is!”
“Honestly, this might be the only erotica featuring the sentient physical manifestation of autistic pride,” I counter, but before I can finish this sentence the fractals unfurl and disappear.
Dopple is gone, replaced instead by the looming front doors of my local bookstore. I glance to the left and discover that Greg is standing next to me, an expression of utter confusion plastered across his face.
“How did we… get here?” my friend stammers.
“The story had to jump ahead a bit,” I reply. “We’re running out of time, and this needs to be one of the best tales of lesbian erotica between a human and their physically manifested excitement over an autistic lead character in their upcoming traditionally published novel that there’s ever been.”
I hesitate, then correct myself.
“Actually, It just has to be uniquely me,”I offer.
Greg looks more confused than ever.
I step forward and give my friend a hug, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him close. “You did such a good job giving me someone to bounce dialog off of in the first act,” I tell him, deeply sincere. “I which you could’ve been more involved in the other stuff, but as the protagonist I need to have the most agency here, so I decided to write it as a conversation with myself.”
“What?” Greg questions.
I let out a long sigh. “You’re a good friend, but I’ve got it from here.”
I release Greg and step back, then turn and head into the bookstore.
I’m immediately hit with a wave of good vibes and the glorious scent of fresh pages. There’s something magical about book shops, and the fact I get to be a part of this world in such a concrete way is astonishing.
“Can I help you?” a massive, hovering exclamation point questions from behind the counter.
“Sure,” I reply, approaching the desk and struggling to find my confidence. “I’m looking for Camp Damascus by Carly Tingle.”
The second this request leaves my lips I can feel my heart skip a beat, my muscles clenching tight as I brace for impact. This exclamation point’s about to tell me she’s never heard of that one, and when she checks her computer they won’t have a single copy in stock.
Instead, however, the punctuation mark lights up and points to her left.
I follow the clerk’s gesture to discover a whole stack of Camp Damascus hardcovers arranged on the table before me. It’s a glorious display, one that immediately pulls the breath from my lungs and causes a powerful wave of emotion to surge through my body.
I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.
I glance back at the bookstore employee. “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’m just really proud and excited, you know?”
The exclamation point smiles. “I doknow, actually. I’m the physical manifestation of your pride and excitement that the lead character of your first traditionally published horror novel is on the autism spectrum just like you. You can call me Elisa, though.”
Suddenly, everything falls into place. I know exactly why I’m here, my special spot in this torrent of timelines that overlap one another in a spiraling fractal of realities.
I’m here to be me, not just as a character in this story, but also as the writer. I know the things I make are unique and — to some people — deeply strange, but who cares?
These are precisely the distinctive things I’m proud of.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get here,” Elisa offers. “The sex scenes usually start about a thousand words earlier.”
“Nothing wrong with something hot and quick between the shelves of a fictional bookstore,” I offer playfully. “What do you think?”
“Hell yeah,” Elisa retorts.
The physical manifestation of my pride and excitement that the lead character of my first traditionally published horror novel is on the autism spectrum just like me rounds the counter. She floats over to the front door of the shop and locks it, then turns back to face me.
Soon enough, the two of us are kissing passionately, embracing one another in a moment of raw, carnal lust. The physical manifestation pushes me back, away from the window and between the stacks of books that rise up on either side of us.
Elisa is tearing away my clothing as we go, tossing this fabric to the side until I find myself standing completely nude before her. Her hands immediately begin to explore the topography of my exposed body, starting at my neck and shoulders then working their way down across my breasts. Eventually, she traces her fingers over my stomach and then stops at my waistline, hovering for a moment as she teases me with the prospect of something more.
“Please,” I whimper.
The hovering exclamation point grins excitedly, pleased with my begging and then finally having mercy as she slips her hand between my legs.
A long, satisfied groan escapes my throat as Elisa begins to rub me, starting slowly at first and then gaining speed as my body falls into a pleasant groove. The two of us are rocking against one another now, grinding hard as a potent warmth builds within.
Mirroring the physical manifestation’s technique, I reach down and begin to tease her in turn. I take my time, then finally slide a single finger across the sentient exclamation point’s wet pussy.
“Oh fuck,” the physical manifestation of my pride and excitement that the lead character of my first traditionally published horror novel is on the autism spectrum just like me groans, pushing her hips back against me.
The pleasure moves between us now, escalating in a never ending feedback loop. The warmth that blooms at the pit of my stomach has started making its way down my arms and legs, filling me up with a quiet tremble as my muscles expand and contract with excitement.
The exclamation point is clearly enjoying herself, a little farther ahead than I am as her panting becomes louder and louder and her soft whimpers evolve into bellowing moans of lust. She’s pushing harder and harder against me, the sensations building until, finally, they break in a powerful orgasm.
The beautiful physical manifestation throws her head back and lets out a frantic scream, toppling over the cliff of a mind-bending climax. Elisa shudders and quakes as I keep the pace with my finger, carrying her from beginning to end.
Finally, the punctuation mark collapses against me, deeply satisfied.
“Now it’s your turn,” she sighs. “Don’t forget the title of this book. Eaten right.”
With that, the sentient concept takes my hand and pulls me down, lowering us to the floor and climbing on top of me. She kisses me again, first on my lips and then making her way across my neck and shoulder blades. The physical manifestation of my pride and excitement that the lead character of my first traditionally published horror novel is on the autism spectrum just like me drifts lower and lower, until finally arriving at my pussy.
She glances up, offering a playful wink, then dives in.
The second her tongue hits my clit I feel a charge of erotic energy shoot throw my body. I arch my back, struggling to maintain my composure as the beautiful explanation point gets to work. Elisa’s technique is perfect, starting slowly as she drags her tongue across me and then finally getting down to business with a series of rapid movements. She’s tickling my clit with the tip of her tongue, finding a pace and then sticking to it as I squirm against the book store carpet.
I reach down and place my hands against the back of Elisa’s head, pulling her tighter against my body as the erotic pressure grows.
“I’m so close,” I groan, my eyes shut tight and the words escaping my clenched teeth in a frantic hiss. “I’m so fucking close.”
When Elisa finally slips two fingers deep within me, the tension has no choice but to erupt. I let out and unbridled shriek, completely losing myself in the moment as this gorgeous physical manifestation carries me across the finish line.
The orgasm pulses through my body for what seems like forever, then finally washes away. I collapse back against the ground. I lay here for a moment, struggling to catch my breath as the physical manifestation floats down and cuddles up next to me.
“That was amazing,” I offer.
“It was,” Elisa agrees. “To think you were worried about how today was gonna turn out.”
“Well, I still haven’t bought my book,” I retort, “but the sex was incredible.”
Elisa laughs. We sit up and I start pulling back on my clothes, basking in the afterglow of this wonderful erotic encounter.
It’s good to care about your art, and it’s great to care about inspiring the next generation of artists. Still, these things aren’t worth panicking over.
Just give it your best shot.
“Hey,” I start, now fully dressed. “We should do that again sometime.”
“You mean star in an erotic meta reality loop that serves as an important commentary on your own neuro-atypical identity as well as a reference to your upcoming novel that features representation of that particular identity?” she questions, then laughs playfully. “Sure, maybe when your next traditionally published horror novel comes out.”
Elisa can tell I’m a little disappointed by this.
“Just kidding,” she blurts. “I’m off at seven.”
The two of us head back to the front of the store.
“Still want that book?” the exclamation point questions.
I’m about to respond when I notice some movement outside. The exclamation point notices too, stopping in her tracks and following my gaze.
Since the door to this book store was locked, a line has started to form.
“Oh shit,” Elisa blurts, hurrying over and opening up. “Sorry about that.”
“Do you have any copies of Camp Damascus?” blurts the first person in line.
“Yes!” Elisa replies, stepping back so the customers can filter inside. She glances back at me, a look of astonishment on her face.
The fans don’t recognize me, as I’m not wearing my usual pink and white outfit, but this gives me a unique perspective. I listen as they talk excitedly about the book, one random voice carrying out over the chatter and drifting across my ears.
“I’m so excited,” the reader says. “I heard there’s a character in this book who’s just like me.”
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SECOND NOTE FROM CHUCK:
thank you for reading buckaroos i am going to add here on the bottom what was posted on social media to accompany link to this book so you can learn even more about my trot:
hey there buckaroos i would like to use today to talk on something that is very important to me. i have talked a lot about my journey as a bud on the autism spectrum, and about how I LOVE BEING AUTISTIC.
my story on the spectrum is not a struggle. my way was diagnosed in early twenties, but because of way of masking VERY FEW BUCKAROOS WOULD EVEN NOTICE. it has given me ability to hyper focus and get large amounts of writing done, to find creative ideas neurotypical buds might miss, and to have a unique perspective on life on this timeline.
HOWEVER as man name of chuck my pride in this way used to make me uncomfortable, thinkin i should not share my story. there are many buds on this spectrum who have a MUCH harder time than chuck, and i want to respect the VERY IMPORTANT AND VERY REAL struggles of my fellow autistic buckaroos. for long time i did not feel like it was my place to share and say ‘personally, i wouldnt change my autistic trot for anything. i think being autistic is very cool’
but as tingleverse got more fans and buckaroos started listening to my words more i started thinking: THIS is an opportunity to prove love. part of the reason i am PROUD of my spectrum way is because FIRST INTERACTION with idea of this trot (was called aspergers way back then) was to realize that ALL MY HEROS were on this spectrum: david byrne of band TALKING HEADS being number one.
my FIRST INTERACTION with this idea was not ‘whoa this is tragic’ it was ‘whoa the coolest buckaroo on the PLANET is the same as me’
POINT IS i have been on this timeline a while now and now i am in this position myself. i can be the one buckaroos see when they learn this about themselves and think: WOW LOOK AT THIS WILD ARTIST I ADMIRE BREAKING THE NORMS AND CHARTING A NEW TROT THROUGH THIS TIMELINE WE ARE BOTH AUTISTIC THIS IS THE HECKIN COOLEST
most of the characters i write are probably a little on the spectrum because they are comin from inside chucks head. i look back and notice this and laugh, but other than a single tingler i rare actually OUTRIGHT SAY this character is autistic. i decided that FIRST BIG HORROR NOVEL WITH A TRADITIONAL PUBLISHER was a good time to change this. while i write erotica most of the time which means NO YOUNG BUCKAROOS ALLOWED, horror is a little different. buckaroos young and old can read CAMP DAMASCUS and think ‘i see myself in this autistic hero and I FEEL COOL’
EVEN WRITING THIS NOW makes me get teary eyed and emotional, because these feelings of belonging and positive representation were SO IMPORTANT to me. i would not be trotting here without these autistic heroes, and now i have been given the chance to create one of my own with CAMP DAMASCUS and WITH MYSELF just by being chuck and talking openly about my joyful, exciting, artistic trot on the spectrum.
WITH ALL OF THIS IN MIND i am releasing a brand new tingler called EATEN RIGHT BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF MY PRIDE AND EXCITEMENT THAT THE LEAD CHARACTER OF MY FIRST TRADITIONALLY PUBLISHED HORROR NOVEL IS ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM JUST LIKE ME for free. HOWEVER i am requesting that if you choose to read you send your three dollars (or whatever donation you would like) to the AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK. this way 100 percent of all profits will go to them. (WARNING this is actual erotica so no young buckaroos allowed for this one).
all ages (who are old enough to read horror) can preorder CAMP DAMASCUS at any bookstore. i also have a tingler name of NOT POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF SOMEONE ELSE'S DOUBT IN MY PLACE ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM BECAUSE DENYING SOMEONE'S PERSONAL JOURNEY AND IDENTITY LIKE THAT IS INCREDIBLY RUDE SO NO THANKS that is pound free so all ages can read so check that out if you would like.
thank you for blessing me with a space to explore these ideas. i am so thankful to be here with you and you have treated me so well. i am eternally grateful for our tort together and look forward to the future we craft on this timeline.
LOVE IS REAL - chuck
