What follows is another installment of the "Dear Henry" letters published in reFRESH Magazine. Once again, I'm struggling to break away from Henry.

SPANX FOR THE MEMORY

Dear Henry,

Once again, I’m stymied.

I was shocked but happy to hear that you were released from prison early, due to good behavior and for having found religion. Scientology? They practice that in jail? I know you have to be gay to join but I thought the invitation into the cult was exclusively by knowing a certain A-list closeted Hollywood actor.

When I told my best friend of your release he encouraged me to forgive and forget and get back together with you. He said, “Yes Arthur, you are a homofessional gaylebrity but no one else is scratching at your door. All the guy did was get caught in the park naked and hog tied from his genitals to his neck and was under the influence of illegal drugs. Lighten up.”

Oh hell, I forgive you and I’m proud that you’ve kicked your crystal meth habit. The least I could do was meet you at the outside gate as you left that nightmarish hellhole. But upon your exit, we turned around and saw hundreds of white handkerchiefs waving to you from cellblocks. And you shouted back, “I’ll miss you Golof, I love you Jail Pussy and think of me One Eye!” I guess you made some new friends.

I had to ask you if Jail Pussy was what I thought it was but you charmingly informed me that in the big house that’s what you call men who have goatees. When I assumed that One Eye was another euphemism you corrected me and said that One Eye was Luther, your first cellmate.

“Arthur, one night while he was sleeping I gave him a prison eye patch.”

“A what?” I asked cautiously.

“I teabagged his left eye. All the guys do it and unfortunately he got an infection and they had to remove it. His eye that is. Feeling terribly guilty, the only thing I could offer him was my mind, body and soul for the rest of my stay.”

That’s awfully generous of you but Henry you’ve gained an enormous amount of weight. Standing 5’ 8” tall you now weigh a whopping 15 stone! You gained 3 in jail? I mean everyone comes out leaner. Robert Downey, Jr. is so hot at his prison weight and look how great Martha Stewart appeared after doing time. She was prison buff. What happened to you? I admit I’m a size queen, but this is ridiculous.

Henry, I thought I hit a nerve with the weight issue because you kept putting off us making love but when you confessed that you needed a little more time for an STD to clear up I thought that was very considerate. A little going away present from the inmates?

I was also surprised to see you wearing make-up. That was never your scene before being incarcerated. Nor is it mine. But I’m pushing myself to be more open-minded so if you want to paint the town and your face like Eddie Izzard, I support you 100 percent.

And to celebrate your newfound freedom I accepted your invitation to meet you and a few of your friends at what you described as one of London’s hottest clubs. Trannyshack? There were posters plastered all over the place that screamed Hot New Tranny Revue but you were nowhere to be found. So, I took a deep breath, entered Trannyshack and I don’t think I exhaled until the show was over. I thought you were going to be with me watching the show, not starring in it.

Actually, you were quite entertaining as Chick Pee. You lost an amazing amount of weight in a very short period of time. And I had no idea you could lip synch. And to Azad’s hip-hop theme song for the American television show Prison Break. You did it in German no less. Maybe you learned that in the slammer? Either way, I was impressed. And I liked your sidekicks, too. Hedda Romaine the tranny from Transylvania and the Japanese menopausal drag queen Rose Asia. Are they ex-convicts too?

So after your sold out and rocking opening show I was excited but nervous when you suggested we head back to my place to finally have sex. Nervous because I had now seen you as a woman. In truth, you looked just like my Aunt Loretta and I was desperately trying to erase that image from my mind. I watched you remove your humongous red wig, tear off your false eyelashes and then scrub your face clean.

Lying in my bed, I felt beads of sweat forming on my upper lip as you came to me still wearing your red sequined fishtail dress. Unfortunately, I was feeling more anxiety than lust. You turned your back, unzipped the gown and let it drop to the floor and that’s when I gasped.

“What the hell is that?” I asked as I pointed to something you were wearing that made you look like a giant bratwurst.

You proudly shouted, “Spanx.”

I shook my head. “You know I’m not into spanking.”

“No Arthur, this is a Spanx. A body girdle. This style is called the Power Panty.”

You had not lost a single dram! That human condom was so tight it was making your excess body fat roll up and over the top of the…Power Panty…making you look like you were wearing a huge muffin top just underneath your breasts.

Dear Henry, I patiently waiting for you to get out of jail, bided my time as you got rid of your VD, had my corneas irreparably scorched witnessing you as a drag queen and now I’ve seen your body revoltingly held together with the help of a woman’s flesh squishing undergarment. I know prison is designed to change people but this is too much for me.

It’s over. We’re finished. Done. Finito. Auf Wiedersehen. I do forgive you but I can’t forget. Goodbye, good luck and Spanx for the memory.

All the best,
Arthur

What follows is the fourth installment of the "Dear Henry" letters published in reFRESH Magazine. Once again, I'm struggling to break away from Henry.

SOUND ADVICE

Dear Henry,

In my last correspondence I said good-bye to you in as many different languages as I possibly could. And any normal person would have just told me to bugger off and gone on with their lives, but not you. Your response was, "My friends Todd and Glenn, who are a 'power gay' couple, have invited me to spend the weekend with them at their house by the sea. Walks on the beach. Fresh air. Warm fireplaces. Watching the stars from their terrace. Gourmet food. My advice is; rethink our relationship and please join me?"

I wasn't sure what 'power gay" meant, but it sounded like they had a lot money so I had to say yes. (Sometimes my own shallowness frightens me.)

Instantly I had visions of us driving up to a Victorian architectural jewel of a mansion. We'd scamper from one stunning room to the next till we discovered our honeymoon suite. With gorgeous views of the ocean and crackling logs burning in the fireplace, we'd jump up into our four-poster bed and make mad passionate love. Then, as the sun is setting we'd stroll down the beach hand-in-hand and run back to the house and make love again. Too tired to cook from all the mind-blowing sex, we'd go out to a five star restaurant offering us sinfully delicious taste treats and we'd drink their most expensive wine only to rush back to our love nest and go at it again.

Hey, I'm a romantic.

But when we arrived at the house by the sea instead of a Victorian jewel we found a rundown 1980's timeshare condo, ten blocks from the ocean and ten thousand light years away from being romantic.

And I wouldn't say we scampered from room to room. Instead, we tripped, since there were only three; a living room and two bedrooms and all were horribly cluttered. And visions of hopping up into our honeymoon bed decked out in 1500 thread count sumptuous Egyptian sheets were squashed when we were put up in the children's bedroom with two twin beds fitted with broken-in rubber sheets.

A warm fire? They had no fireplace. But you advised me not to criticize too quickly when you noticed on our way to the gourmet restaurant, TGI Friday, that someone had set ablaze a trashcan on the street. How dreamy.

Walks on the beach? Sure, but we had to dodge in and out the pilings supporting the smoking oil refinery burping out sludge onto the sand.

And 'power gays'? I found out they are the most talented, successful and financially rewarded A- list gay men. Being a housecleaner and a dog groomer, I think Todd and Glenn are more like 'power poofs'. And their stories of being addicted to heroin and then finding Jesus and now adopting children horrified me. I haven't a maternal bone in my body but I was extremely concerned, after we polished off their box of wine, when Todd confessed to me that the Russian kid was missing a finger and he was going to send it back. The kid, that is.

Well, I took your advice and went out onto their tiny cement balcony to get some fresh air and enjoy the parking lot but failed to find a single star in the night sky due to massive amounts of pollution. It was then that you joined me and I immediately fell to my knees. No, I wasn't feeling amorous. Actually I thought you had stabbed me in the back.

Thank you Henry for rushing me back to the city and waiting patiently in the emergency room while they did a cat scan of my pelvic floor. Who knew nine giant kidney stones growing in my two little kidneys could be such a blessing?

The doctors wanted to flush the stones out with IV fluids but it was a teaching hospital and I was awarded the one student who had never inserted a shunt into a "human" arm before. I was so grateful when you took over and showed him a thing or two. What are you, a closeted phlebotomist or a junkie? Don't answer that.

Plan B, I took your advice and tried your home remedy for dissolving kidney stones; six cans of cola consumed in two hours followed by one pound of raw asparagus juice then holding my bladder for as long as I could while doing a headstand. I did and promptly threw up, upside down while wetting my pants.

Plan C was shock wave therapy; bombarding my stones with 3000 zaps of acoustical sound. But of course my rocks were made of kryptonite and the shock didn't shake a thing so on to plan D.

The doctor explained to us that he would slide a scope into my penis and travel through my bladder, on up to my ureter and then carefully lazar the stones, all while I was awake. Barely able to breath at the thought of this medieval torture device, you mortified me with what you said next.

"Hey Doc, I know people who enjoy the sensation of metal objects slipping into their wieners."

"Yes," the doctor said expressionless. "Those are sounds, hence we call it sounding."

"Some guys shove pens and plastic chopsticks in there," you added eagerly, "but I prefer spit and a thermometer. I like to see how hot I can get."

Hot? Personally, I found the subject so revolting that I started retching violently. And low and behold, due to the extreme spasms and contortions of my body, I dislodged and birthed my nine little babies all on my own.

Henry I'm not judging you, but you're a freak. Don't contact me, again. And if you insist on stuffing yourself with inanimate objects, please use the mercury filled glassed thermometer for taking temperature IN YOUR MOUTH ONLY and go to the local sex shop and buy yourself a tub of lube and a safe stainless steel rod.

That's just sound advice.

All the best,
Arthur

What follows is my third letter to Henry in the London based gay magazine reFRESH. Appearing in each publication, tackling relationship issues and written in a "Dear John" format, Henry - like a bad rash - just won't go away.

AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY…

Dear Henry,

You never cease to amaze me.

After I expressed to you in my previous letter the pain and fear I endured when applying your anal bleaching cream to a certain private part of my body, to show your apologies and concern you went out and did the most romantic thing. You got a tattoo. But not just any tattoo you'd find on an arm, chest or a leg. No, you chose the image of an extremely large bull's-eye with multi-colors and had it excruciatingly tattooed onto your exceptionally small bum with the epicenter guiding me right to your point of entry. (I guess in case I got lost?) And above that you had my name written as a tramp stamp. I'm never going to judge a gay man by his cover, again.

I was moved to tears as I'm sure you were too while they were soldering the indelible ink into your body. But Henry, you spelled my name wrong. AUTHUR. You must have found a copy of my latest novel. My "former" publishing house charmingly misspelled it that way, too. But I'm not a complainer; I'm a problem solver. So I was thinking you could try to turn the first "u" into an "r" but maybe it would be easier to change the second "u" into an "o". AUTHOR. If you do that, it's probably best you keep having sex with writers from now on.

But what you did next totally baffled me. I know that body piercings are common even among children. We see it all the time. Ears, eyebrows, navels and noses. But why did you go out and get a Prince Albert? And then adorn it with the world's biggest and heaviest titanium circular barbell? I find it amusing that you have to sit down to pee because you're spraying all over the place and I understand you did it for me but dear Henry, I'll never go down on that thing. I'm not chipping a tooth.

Still, it is important in relationships to push one's limits and step outside of your comfort zone to keep things fresh and alive. So, when you suggested that I go out on the town with you and your so called A-list friends to help you forget about the fact that you've recently lost your job and run out of money, of course I said yes.

The hippest, hottest, most happening bar you dragged me to is one that I was at when it opened almost 15 years ago. But when we walked in, there were only five people there. Us. So you scurried me downstairs to the lounge. There we found a gaggle of boys barely of age all dressed in floss like g-strings ogling three men in jock straps who were being interviewed on a stage. I still say it makes sense that I thought they were playing the "Dating Game". How was I to know they were porno stars? And why were they so short?

I admit I was a bit uptight so I took you up on your offer to swallow a little something that you said would take the edge off of things but darling, that was not a sedative. Why are you and your friends taking mixed amphetamine salts? A drug prescribed for children with attention deficit disorder? It kept me up for 14 hours in a state of euphoria and I still haven't gotten my appetite back! Hmm, I should send some to my Mother.

But I digress. After swallowing that bitter pill I was shocked to find out that you and your A-list gang of steroidal looking bodybuilders were all diabetics. I'm sorry that I walked in on you in the men's room with each of you injecting each other in the butt. My bad.

After I made my way back to the stripper lounge and ordered another drink suddenly things got a little fuzzy. The stainless steel bar felt just like your Prince Albert and as I stroked it lovingly, I slipped and fell knocking down one metal stool after another, just like dominoes. Everyone looked over including the vertically challenged porno stars and then they all promptly ignored me. Stuck to something on the floor, it was the bartender who eventually came around to my rescue and asked, "Are you OK, Pops?" Pops!

Finally when it was time to leave and you asked if I'd engage in a "spit-roast" I felt like a pig heaven. Who doesn't like a nice juicy slice of pork loin? You know I'm a huge foodie. What I didn't know is that it was going to be a threesome with you, your ex and me in the middle. Sorry, I'm not interested in that kind of sandwich.

Exhausted, I left the hippest, hottest, most happening bar alone and was horribly concerned when I couldn't reach you for days. You didn't answer your phone. You didn't answer your door. I was about to call the police when I realized they had called upon you. In today's paper there you were in all your glory. They had found you in the park hogtied from your genitals to your neck and buck-naked. They didn't name names but there was reference to a bulls-eye and the assumption that you were a writer who couldn't spell.

I may look a little conservative on the outside, but I'm just as piggy as the next guy on the inside. I'm sorry the authorities found certain illegal drugs stuffed into your clothes strewn about the bushes but now that you are incarcerated, I must think of my career and reputation. I can't date a convicted felon and I must turn down your offer for conjugal visits.

And it's imperative that we not see each other again.

Look at it this way Henry, jail is not a bad thing, especially for you. It's free rent, free food and I'm sure a lot free sex – whether you want it or not.

All the best,
Arthur

The 50th issue! What follows is my second letter to Henry in the London based gay magazine reFRESH. Appearing in each publication, tackling relationship issues and written in a "Dear John" format, Henry - like a bad rash - just won't go away.

DON'T IT MAKE MY BROWN EYE, BLUE

Dear Henry,

I'm intrigued, if not confused, that we are still together. But I understand that relationships on any level take an element of give and take. On that note, I feel like I've been taking a lot more than giving. In fact, every time we have sex now, you're the pitcher and I'm the catcher. Not that I'm counting, but I would like to be on top of my game, once in a while.

And I was so impressed that you listened to what I had to say in my last letter,

"…in life, we constantly have to switch gears. Just remember to use the clutch."

But I meant it figuratively, not literally. So when the rusted out 1998 Allegro convertible with the tear in the roof that is patched with electrician's tape appeared in front of my house with a big bow on it and a note saying, "To Arthur, Enjoy my stick shift, Henry", I was quite overwhelmed to say the least. Especially since I don't drive. I thought Allegro was an opera. Or maybe an antihistamine? I hope you didn't actually pay money for that car. You have your self-esteem to think of. And could you please remove it? The car, that is. It's illegally parked, piled high with violation tickets and there's a large but pretty yellow device attached to the back wheel.

However Henry, I must confess I have enjoyed your "joy stick". There's something very comfortable about small penises. But I know you're frustrated with my inability to understand how to work with your hood – and I'm not referring to the Allegro. You blame it on the fact that I'm cut. I wish I wasn't. Or at the very least, I should have had a say in the decision process. I want it back.

So I girded my loins, took a deep breath and allowed you to attach that non-surgical foreskin restoration device to my talliwacker. The metal clamp was a bit tight and little cold but that was fine. What you didn't do was read the instructions carefully. It says it takes about 1 year to restore a man's foreskin, not 1 hour. Hence, it only makes sense that the extraordinary amount of weight that you attached to my shaft would have forced any man's skin that was left, to be violently torn off.

I'm sure you meant well so I'm not holding that against you. Besides, they say the stitches will dissolve on their own if infection doesn't set in. But it would be considerate if you helped out with the price - insurance isn't covering it. Oh, and when the weight hit my foot, the doctor said they just let broken toes heal on their own.

Lightheaded from the painkillers, I limped to a friend's house who reminded me that when it comes to relationships, compromise is imperative. So again, I let you have your way. I know you like a smooth hairless chest but why couldn't I have just shaved it off? Yes, when it grows back it becomes very stubbly, but exfoliation, especially for your face Henry, would be a good thing.

But I acquiesced and allowed you to use the home wax method. Before you came over that night I was really excited. Knowing my man was going to groom my body the way he wanted it and then ravage me seemed so erotic. I understand that hot wax removal dates back to the ancient Egyptians and even Alexander The Great had his body parts done to keep looking youthful and sexy. Now that's hot! And so was the paraffin wax you boiled up. But burns heal and you did yank the cloth strips at the proper 40-degree angle and yes it did remove my hair but unfortunately part of my areola came off with it, too. Not to worry. They grafted skin from the inside of my cheek onto my nipple and although the left side is obviously larger now then the right, it is smooth. You got your wish. They said hair will never grow there again.

I thought it only fair at this stage of the game to bring up a point of contention. Several rather sharp points. I'm not criticizing your dental hygiene or lack of but those canines of yours are lethal. I've heard that lots of orally challenged men wear mouth guards when going down on their partners. It's rather like being gummed to death. But is it my fault that your lower guard popped loose and lodged in your throat? Lucky for you I know the Heimlich maneuver.

I give you "A" for effort. And speaking of "A's" I appreciate the article you shared with me from that New York magazine that exclaimed - "Anal Bleaching! It's All The Rage!" The cream you sent over was very effective but I don't think the added sun block was necessary. I read the instructions and applied it just as they told me to and then it said I should see gradual results quickly. That should have been the tip off for me. Gradual results quickly? While imitating Michael Jackson singing "A, B, C, easy as 1, 2, 3,..." the bleaching cream morphed into battery acid and I couldn't wipe it off fast enough. With tears of pain streaming down my face I was able to make out on the back of the jar the word "CAUTION" in tiny little print. "This product contains 20% hydroquinone, a suspected carcinogen banned by several countries including the UK."

"Anal Bleaching! It's All The Rage!" Yeah, it's a real scream. Henry, I've given and taken as much as I can handle. It's over. I wish you well but I must insist that we not see each other again.

I've worked hard for my brown eye and I intend on keeping it. And if I get bum cancer, it's your ass that's on the line!

All the best,
Arthur

What follows is my first letter to Henry in the London based gay magazine reFRESH. Appearing each issue, tackling relationship issues and written in a "Dear John" format, Henry - like a bad rash - just won't go away.

LET'S CALL IT SPLITS

Dear Henry,

It pains me to have to write this letter but you've given me no choice. It hurts so much because I bent over backwards…and forwards for that matter…and yet you never gave me an inch. I'm sorry, that's not true. You almost gave me 5.5 inches but I didn't penalize you for that.

You have to admit, our initial meeting was like a fairy tale. If you recall, we romantically met in a chat room online. I told you that I was a former gymnast, kind of average looking, a successful writer and somewhere between 31 and death. And you told me how tall, dark and handsome you were and that you were 38 and then we exchanged pictures.

But I didn't hold it against you when we met in person at that charming café and you ordered a coke and vodka and discovered you were short, light and a bit quirky looking. And the fact that you were older than you said didn't faze me at all. With Internet age, you always add on an extra five years. But I was a bit surprised when I realized the photo you sent me was not your picture. Heck, I've only seen one Colin Farrell movie so I thought it could have been you. Call me madcap, but I think that was bit deceitful.

One must admit though we both felt a lot of chemistry right away and at the end of that first date I'm glad we didn't jump right into bed. It felt mature that we took our time getting to know one another and held off on having sex. To give in to lust and temptation would have felt cheap and easy. I'm glad we waited till the second date.

Some may have thought that your food eccentricities might be a turn off but not me. I have never met anyone before who would only eat white food. But as long as you're getting all your nutrients, why not? White rice, white cheese, white milk, white cauliflower, white beans, white bread, boiled chicken. (But the chicken did look a bit more gray than white.) That's a hard food group to work with. I'm proud of the surprise dinner I came up with but am sorry that some parsley landed on your plate and ruined the meal for you.

And did I judge you when we visited my friend Jon's house in the country for the weekend and you brought along your formal wear? If you find standing in the middle of his pool, soaking wet in an Armani suit hot and sexy, I say, "Go for it." Although, you might want to be a bit more practical and invest in less expensive suits. One dunk and it's ruined. We all know that you telemarketers don't make a lot of money.

And didn't you say when we first met you were versatile? If you are, you're doing it with someone other than me. You're not a top. You're not a bottom. You're a side. I was willing to meet you half way but instead you made me do all the work. I can see your face right now. You're making that combination condescending smirk slash frown. I'm not being critical, just honest.

But I worked through all of that and I know that relationships take time and patience and sometimes compromise. So when you asked me if I was into leather, something that's never been on my sexual "to do" list, I thought to myself, "Be open. Why not give it a try? Especially if it will make him happy." I actually started having visions of leather harnesses, biker jackets and even hooded masks. Just the thought of the smell of leather was beginning to turn me on.

Hence, the night we planned our fetish adventure I was completely psyched and ready to explore new worlds and facets of my sexual being. And to experience it for the first time with you meant so much to me. But I was at a total loss when you showed up at my place empty handed and then went rummaging through my closet. And what did you pull out? A pair of dusty leather tassel loafers.

The devilish look on your face when you discovered them, the glimmer in your eye, the heavy breathing was all quite confusing not to mention disturbing. I remember, you brought the shoes over to me and asked, "Are you passionate about slip-ons?" And I thought to myself, "A slip-on dildo, maybe but an old shoe?" You were practically drooling over that pigskin and honestly it was uncomfortable for me to watch you sodomize them. I had to leave the bedroom so you and the pair could finish your business. I've heard of threesomes but this was ridiculous. And I'll never forget what you screamed at me from the bedroom. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

I may be guilty of being jealous of other people's money, careers or even looks but I'm not jealous of my own pair of shoes. By the way, you ruined the leather. I think it's only fair that you financially compensate me for it.

Henry, I think it's best if we part ways. When in relationships, whether they be with family, friends or loved ones, we all must be adaptable. How can you ask me to be free as the wind and go with the flow when you yourself are so stiff and rigid? Actually, it would have been nice if you did get stiff and rigid. But I'm not one to hold grudges.

And in life, we constantly have to switch gears. Just remember to use the clutch. And stay flexible. Hell, I can still do my splits. Can you?

All the best,
Arthur

Arthur Wooten has just published Fruit Cocktail, the follow-up to his 2005 novel On Picking Fruit. Arch, witty and also romantic, both books follow the travails of Curtis Jenkins as he navigates the path to true love.

Arthur Wooten was once an actor, then a Shiatsu practitioner and now he’s a bestselling author. You may have seen earlier incarnations of his work anthologised, or you may have seen one of his plays. One thing’s for sure, the man is highly adaptable and multi-talented. Having self-published his first novel, Wooten caught the eye of the people at Alyson who offered him a book deal, of which Fruit Cocktail is the final component.

Wooten describes these books as "autobiofictional," that is, names and identifying details have been blurred to protect those involved. But one of the qualities of this style of writing is that although it’s full of drama and pathos, the author is presenting scenarios to which many of us can relate, they have an undeniably broad appeal that, Wooten boasts, even straight people get.

So Fruit Cocktail follows yet more dating misadventures of our ill-fated hero Curtis Jenkins. Curtis has had so many dodgy dates with men that he’s written a book about them entitled, catchily, 101 Ways to Collide into Your Gay Soul Mate. Whilst on a book tour to promote this fine piece of high-minded literature, Curtis finds that men across the US are, well, perhaps not what he hoped they would be.

What works so well in this book, and the series, is Wooten’s choice of protagonist. Curtis is no youngster, not only is he middle-aged, he’s sexy with it. Given gay culture’s unfortunate obsession with youth, often to the detriment of older people, it is great to encounter somebody who busts open ageist stereotypes. That’s not all, Curtis is HIV+, a fact that does not define him but is just part of life.

Wooten has a great grasp of the dynamic between friends, and Curtis’ best friend Quinn is another one of the series’ highlights. They are a classic pairing, "like Lucy and Ethel," says Wooten in a recent interview, referring to the friends in the classic American sitcom I Love Lucy.

If you’re the kind of person who reaches for the remote control whenever a re-run of Sex and The City comes on, Wooten’s fiction is unlikely to be the kind of thing that you might want to read. At its worst, Fruit Cocktail slips into a hackneyed "Men! You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them!" line, and it’s hard to imagine how the author might sustain this entertainingly through the next book, or more if the series continues.

But despite its flaws, the book is unpredictable and madcap, Wooten’s prose cranks up the energy and then, whilst you’re laughing, brings you back down to earth with a poignant jab. As well as the laughs, Fruit Cocktail contains some unexpectedly moving passages, it’s campy but the book has heart.

By the way, the author is still single and looking for love.

Read our interview with Arthur Wooten Click here

Charlotte Cooper of Gaydarnation in the UK sat down with me for a little chat. (Note: The interview took place before the writer’s strike in Hollywood ended.)

Fruit Cocktail is the second of Arthur Wooten’s Curtis Jenkins series and the follow up to his 2005 novel On Picking Fruit. Witty and romantic, the books follow a loveable protagonist who also happens to be older than your usual literary heroes and HIV+ to boot. Based partly on real life and partly on the author’s considerable imagination, these are books that will make you laugh as hard as you cry.

Wooten stepped up to tell us more.

What do you mean by autobiofiction?
So many people have asked me if ’I am Curtis’ the lead character in my novels and my honest response is my work, all my work, is autobiofictional. There’s a little bit of Curtis in me - there would have to be. The type of writing that really touches a reader or makes them laugh is honest writing and that honesty has to come from within. That being said, I’m also just as much Curtis’ mother Mrs. J., Quinn, his best friend - all of the characters, including Emily-Mae the dog!

Some of the dates Curtis goes on are bits and pieces of experiences I’ve had - blended with friend’s stories. But so much of both On Picking Fruit and Fruit Cocktail is just pure fiction.

Why is Curtis an older protagonist?
It’s very rare to read a novel with a gay protagonist, one who is 40 or older. It’s a voice I wanted people to hear. Many of the books centre around teenage angst or confused people struggling with their sexuality. There are thousands of us gays out there that are perfectly happy being out and out for years and we have stories to tell. Also, writing for an older character gave me a much richer canvas to draw upon.

Can you tell us a secret about the next book in the series?
The big secret is that there won’t be one - at least not with my current publisher. I wish them well but I’m on to bigger and better things. The writers strike in Hollywood should be over soon and prior to the shutdown a premium cable network approached me about On Picking Fruit and Fruit Cocktail being a TV series. Since then directors, producers and other networks have been scratching at my door. So the next incarnation will be On Picking Fruit the TV series.

I’m actually taking a meeting this month brainstorming about ideas for new programming and I just completed a screenplay based upon an award winning play I wrote - Birthday Pie. It’s a busy time.

Who are the writers you admire the most?
Although I’m known for my comedy - playwrights who have inspired me are Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams. More contemporary, Beth Henley. They all taught me that comedy is not only based upon truth, but to make it transcend time and location it must be written and acted as seriously a possible. Most people in life, hence most characters in plays, novels, TV or screenplays are at their funniest when the are put into an hysterical situation but take it totally seriously. You’ll see that concept played out beautiful in any I Love Lucy rerun.

What advice do you have for others thinking about self-publishing?
Go for it! In 2005 I internet/self-published On Picking Fruit. Within a few months Alyson Books discovered it on their own and offered me the multiple book deal. And now Hollywood. If you have a dream, own it. If my dream can come true, so can yours.

"There are thousands of us gays out there that are perfectly happy being out and out for years and we have stories to tell."

You seem to have lived many lives, not only are you an author but you’re also a trained Shiatsu practitioner, and you’ve been an actor. What’s next for you?
With all the interest in On Picking Fruit and Fruit Cocktail being a TV series, I’m staying on board as producer/writer. This is my baby. But doing press for Fruit Cocktail, I’ve had a taste of radio - even chiming in on BBC Radio with my good friend Clayton Littlewood, the Soho Blogger and David Benson the actor. I’m threatening friends now that I want to do more radio.

I’ve also just joined reFRESH Magazine based in London. Each issue I’ll be writing a humorous and irreverent advice column about love, sex and dating written in a ’Dear John’ format. They’re terribly funny and the first one debuted in the February issue.

What else would you like to say?
So many talented people who want to be where I’m at in my career ask me what should / can I do to make it happen. I believe in The Four Ps. First you need a good Product - whether it’s a novel, play, screenplay, or whatever - maybe it’s the next best vacuum cleaner. And then you must have Passion. You’re going to have to work hard and think outside of the box and be Persistent. But even more importantly, be Professional. And learn to be lucky. We all know that in order to be struck by lightening you must stand out in the rain. But you must be willing to stand out in the rain longer than anyone else. My good fortune didn’t happen over night. I’ve been poured on and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Find out more at www.onpickingfruit.com and www.myspace.com/arthurwooten and look out for our review of Fruit Cocktail next week!

I want to thank everyone who showed up in San Francisco for Fruit Cocktail's book signing. Standing room only - it was a complete joy to share it all with you. The store was full of friends and strangers but it felt more like a party than a reading. I appreciated the plethora of questions from everyone during the Q & A. Dream big but be careful of what you ask for. If you truly feel it in your heart, in every fiber of your body - it will come true. If it can happen to me, it can happen for you.

And so much more exciting news that I will share with all of you in the very near future. Meanwhile - here's a cute book trailer for Fruit Cocktail. Trailers for books...who would have thunk?

Kisses - Arthur

AUTHOR IS RIPE FOR PICKING –
Arthur Wooten’s tales of dating life amuse both gay and straight audiences.

The Examiner – San Francisco 02/09/2008

If Armistead Maupin and David Sedaris had a love child, it would be Arthur Wooten.

It might take a certain amount of creativity to really absorb that concept, especially since Wooten, like Maupin and Sedaris, is middle-aged, but when you’re dealing with apt wordsmiths capable of provoking thought, anything is possible.

And that is precisely what Wooten continues to do.

Several years ago, he sat down to pen his first novel, "On Picking Fruit," which chronicled the dating exploits of Curtis Jenkins, a 40-something gay New Yorker whose appetite for real love continually leaves him forever hungry. When publishing titans didn’t bite, Wooten opted to publish his book online. He went on to produce other material, all the while fiercely self-promoting his work until one day, he received a surprise call from Alyson Books – the publishing house offered him a two-book deal.

Flash forward to the present day and you’ll find Wooten’s work nominated for a 2007 Lambda Literary Award and under consideration at a major cable network to be developed into a series.

"I have learned you can learn to be lucky in life," Wooten admits.

Perseverance may be one of the secrets to Wooten’s success, but the former gymnast and actor says he always envisioned something good coming of his creative offspring.

"It was a flame in my heart and I fanned it," he says of his first book. "So many times, people like to put out our fires. We sometimes lose that flame and I am proof that you can find it again."

He believes both straight and gay audiences have embraced both books because, quite simply, they can relate to it.

"I think we all are looking for connection, whether it is within ourselves or our family or our jobs or intimate relationships," he says. "We are looking for validation, for something that reminds us that there is more to life than just getting through the day."

The entire experience ushered in a bevy of lessons, too, many pertaining to the ever-changing face of today’s publishing industry. Even with the book deal, he still remains his own best publicist.

"For me, this whole thing is a forum, it’s above and beyond the writing of the book," he says. "Listen, life is too short. Go out there and do it. If I can, anybody can."

Check out my new humorous and irreverent column about sex, love and dating called "Dear Henry" in each issue of reFRESH.

The March/April edition (out Feb 28th) includes articles by my friends Steve Gdula, Tim Parks and Carey Parrish.

And of course the gorgeous and talented Clint Nicholas graces the cover.

reFRESH Magazine: The international gay lifestyle title perfect for your coffee table. Next publication date: February 28, 2008

Click here to view reFRESH