First Pages: Twin Sinners by Douglas Dean

First Pages: Twin Sinners by Douglas Dean First Pages: Twin Sinners by Douglas Dean

Welcome to First Pages on Fridays! On Fridays, we share the first pages from a book (usually vintage), along with a bit of information about the author and the book’s history.

This week, it’s the gay pulp novel Twin Sinners by Douglad Dean.”Douglas Dean” is a pseudonym used by the actor Dean Goodman. Goodman was a radio actor, as well as a theatre actor and director. He managed several well-known theatre companies and even helped form a union for community college professors. His work as “Douglas Dean” includes 12 paperback novels and short story collections, as well as a travel guide to Mexico.

Twin Sinners was published by Phenix Publishers (San Diego) in 1970, under the “A Pleasure Reader” series. There were at least 65 titles in the series, including others by Douglas Dean: His Own Thing, Sidewalk Salesman, and A Stud for All Seasons. (You can see many of the original covers on the LibraryThing website.)

The premise of the novel is pretty simple, as summed up on the back cover: “Skip had been in love with his twin brother since they were ten. He’d always thought of sex as something beautiful, something you saved for a very special person. But he had to admit he’d enjoyed the session with Andy, and the episode with that sailor had really blown his mind. These guys had meant nothing to him, but the hot, raw sex they’d shared had been great!” The dramatic possibilities are endless!

Without further ado, here are the first pages from Twin Sinners:

Chapter 1

It was worse this time than it had ever been before. It was stranger. He was falling, as if from a great height, but the point from which he had fallen was invisible to him. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t know where he had come from. He didn’t know what he was falling into, land or water or anything else. At the same time, some monster–a creature with long flowing hair and pendulous swaying breasts and a blank face–was cutting off his cock.

“Stop! Stop!”

He awakened to the sound of his own screams, drenched in sweat. His hand clutched his prick, still stiff, protecting it. His semen had shot onto his belly and covered the bedsheets.

His heart was pounding. He tried to lie without moving, to quiet himself, but the tremors continued to run through his body. Occasionally a spasm still convulsed him.

Christ! Was he to be plagued with this kind of thing forever, throughout his whole life? It would be better to put an end to it, even if he had to kill himself.

Yet he knew he would never do it. He was not the sort who could commit suicide. The horrors might stalk him in his dreams, but awake he was too optimistic, too life-loving, too filled with hope for his future.

He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. With toilet paper and a damp rag he cleaned the sex milk, rich and thick, from his abdomen. He wiped the drippings from the end of his cock. Only a brief time before, with a boy beside him in his bed, he had shot a wad to choke an elephant; he marveled that so much juice had remained inside him, waiting for the release triggered by the nightmare. Was there a factory working overtime in his balls?


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