ink stains

The package arrived in the mail yesterday, and I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or elated.
It's now official. I'm a published porn writer.
What happened was this: Two years ago, JP and I were working at the Loaf. His friend Chris mentioned a call for short stories dealing with gay men and tattoos. The stories, so said the editor of the anthology, were to be "erotically charged," but not necessarily pornographic. The collection was to be titled "Men & Ink," which sounded at least borderline literary. We all bit.
As a sort of competition, JP, Chris and I took to the keyboard and came up with three (somewhat) twisted tales of illustrated men. I'll have to say Chris beat us both with his story of a trick from the Eagle. He claims it's complete fiction, ahem. JP came up with a fascinating vignette of life as an army brat, which he's since reworked into an even more pointed insight into early teen longing. And then there was my weird little story, inspired by a conversation I'd had with a long-lost college aquaintance. I wrote it in one night, then sent it in the next afternoon.
Oddly enough, JP's story, which was much better than mine, didn't make the cut. Maybe mine got in because there's anal sex hinted at.
And so now, many months later, the book arrives. Only it's now called "Skin & Ink," which sounds a lot kinkier. And the whole affair looks about as literary as a glory hole and a bottle of poppers.
Still, it's cool to see my name listed in the TOC. Just please, don't tell my mother.