Best Gay Erotica 2007, page 1
BEST GAY EROTICA 2007
Series Editor
RICHARD LABONTÉ
Selected and Introduced by
TIMOTHY J. LAMBERT
Copyright © 2007 by Richard Labonté. Introduction copyright © 2007 by Timothy J. Lambert.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Published in the United States.
Cleis Press Inc., P.O. Box 14697,
San Francisco, California 94114
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Cover photograph: Celesta Danger
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
Cleis logo art: Juana Alicia
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
eISBN: 978-1-57344-579-5
“Remembered Men” © 2006 by Shane Allison. “Kurt” © 2006 by Jonathan Asche. “Coming to Grief” © 2006 by Dale Chase. “Saturday Punk” © 2006 by Bob Condron, reprinted with the author’s permission from Daddy’s Boyz (STARBooks, 2006). “Disaster Relief” © 2005 by Greg Herren, reprinted with the author’s permission from Suspect Thoughts, December 2005. “Welcome-Home Fuck” © 2006 by Dale Lazarov and Drub. “Williamsburg Swimming Pool” © 2006 by Blair Mastbaum. “Damaged” © 2006 by David May. “The Lighthouse Keep: A Gothic Tale” © 2006 by Jay Neal. “Sucksluts Anonymous” © 2006 by Scott D. Pomfret, reprinted with the author’s permission from Lust for Life: Tales of Sex and Love, edited by Claude Lalumière and Elise Mose (Vehicule Press, 2006). “Riverboat Queens” © 2006 by Dominic Santi, reprinted with the author’s permission from Red Hot Erotica, edited by Alison Tyler (Cleis Press, 2006). “I Was JT LeRoy’s Buttboy” © 2006 by Simon Sheppard. Excerpt from Bill in Exile by C. Scott Smith and William Meloyd Cullum © 2006 by C. Scott Smith. “Hot Sales Guy” © 2006 by Alex Strand. “There’s More to Kink Than Leather” © 2006 by Cat Tailor, first performed onstage in Red Hot Words at the Wet Spot, Seattle. “Benediction” © 2006 by Alana Noel Voth.
For Asa Dean Liles,
for our first fifteen years
for surviving his first Canadian winter
FOREWORD
Sex with an infamous and surprisingly butch “author,” the deep pain of a best friend turning his back on sex, sex in a roomful of cock-sucking addicts, the rediscovery of sex.
Rough sex in the wake of a lover’s death, hasty sex with a boy in a swimming pool, fragmented memories of sex with many, many men.
Sex sublimated into a drunken pillow fight, sex with a ruff ’n’ tuff ghost, crazy sex with an imaginary man, satisfying sex with a married man, a married man’s wistful memories of sex with his boyhood buddy.
Letters to and from prison about sex and life, sex with a government official that’s anything but disastrous, surprising sex with a bar full of drag queens, a graphic tale of fucking….
One thing Best Gay Erotica has never been: a cookie-cutter anthology of themed porn short stories. This isn’t a collection all about cowboys, though Dale Chase writes with wrenching emotion about one cowboy’s lament; the theme isn’t “my first time,” though Alana Noel Voth writes with sad compassion about one adolescent’s rebuffed longing; this isn’t a collection about S/M, though Cat Tailor writes with jolly insight about one dominant top’s humbling comeuppance; the theme isn’t “sex with straight men,” though… well, you get the idea. Something for everyone. That’s the aim of this series.
Since 1996, guest judges—this year, novelist and editor Timothy J. Lambert, one-quarter of one best-selling writing team and one-half of another—have aimed to select a collection with depth, flair, and a certain perspective: that compelling, arousing storytelling and well-crafted, literate writing are quite comfy together between the covers of the same book.
I’ll break with tradition here to single out—though every story is a Best, else why would it be here?—Simon Sheppard’s completely believable account of being boned by JT LeRoy; it’s a hilarious send-up of the queerest literary hoax ever, one of which we are, um, proud to have been a part. See Best Gay Erotica 2002 and Best of Best Gay Erotica 2….
I’d also like to single out the comix included this year by Dale Lazarov, with illustrations by Drub. It’s no simple thing to use words to craft a story that is involving, entertaining, and stimulating all at the same time. Year after year, the quality of the writers selected for this series energizes me. And when one of the finest tales is told without words—well, that’s indeed a delight.
Thanks are always due: to Timothy J., of course, and to everyone who submitted work, whether chosen or not; to Cleis publishers Frédérique Delacoste and Felice Newman, and publicity director extraordinaire Diane Levinson; to the regulars in my life, Justin Chin and Kirk Read and Lawrence Schimel and Eddie Moreno; to newer friends: David Rimmer of After Stonewall Bookstore in Ottawa; Frank Kajfes and Bryan Wan-nop, the embodiment of hospitality, and honest men at last, after thirty years; and Jules Chamberlain, a fairy brother lover of good writing.
Richard Labonté
Perth/Calabogie, Ontario
August 2006
INTRODUCTION:
GET OUT OF MY HOUSE
I was a natural on skis, or so my instructor proudly told me. I could easily turn, snowplow, and maneuver gracefully down the trail, eventually leaving the class behind and exploring the mountain on my own with the instructor’s blessing. I hopped on a lift, which carried me to greater heights, delighting at the view of the valley behind me as it dropped farther away. I hesitated briefly at the top of a steep intermediate trail, but then pushed off, flying swiftly on packed powder and instantly forgetting everything I’d previously learned. I tucked in to protect myself, anticipating slamming into a tree, another skier, or the lodge at the bottom of the slope, which was rapidly approaching as I gained momentum. I knew I should snowplow, turn, fall, do whatever I could to stop myself or slow down, but I was too frightened to do anything but steel myself for whatever and watch the world rush by in a maddening blur.
I must not have been in mortal peril, because my life didn’t flash before my eyes. Which is unfortunate, because if it had, I would have seen that there would be many more instances where I’d impulsively jump off of metaphorical mountains without thinking of the consequences: not going to college and moving to New York City instead; experimenting with drugs; jumping from one horrible job to another; having bad relationships. I’ve always had two mottos: I can do anything and then later, when flying out of control down a metaphorical mountain: Everything is going to be okay in the end.
The first time I made love with a man was no different. He was almost too pretty to look at directly, so I’d furtively glance at his alabaster skin, full lips, and crystalline blue eyes while wondering why he allowed a know-nothing like me to fuck him. I plunged in, holding his feet over my head, and my thrusting escalated as we moved into a clumsy rhythm. It was over too quickly, but his kisses and appreciative murmuring seemed to indicate that I’d done something right. Just like on that first run down the ski slopes, I’d coasted to a safe stop, none the worse for wear and frightened for no apparent reason. Everything was okay in the end.
I could have been seriously injured during that first run on the mountain. I could have broken a leg, or worse, slammed into somebody else and broken someone else’s leg, but I didn’t let that fear stop me once I was at the bottom of the mountain and safely standing still. Instead, I went back up the lift and did it again, this time turning correctly and moving at a leisurely pace, enjoying the scenery.
Sex was a lot like skiing. Practice made perfect. It was better to slow down and enjoy the landscape of men that Manhattan had to offer. However, I still appreciated a dangerous quickie every now and then. It was exciting to fuck a total stranger in the open air of Central Park, knowing that the longer you took to come the greater the chance of being caught. Sometimes being caught was a good thing, like when another guy wanted to join in the fun. One of my favorite places to have sex was on the roof of my apartment building at night, surrounded by the lights of the city and thousands of windows of neighboring buildings. The thought that somebody could be watching always intensified my performance.
My favorite outdoor experience was on the very same mountain where I’d learned to ski. I was dating a wonderful man and had brought him to the homeland. The pressure of his meeting the family was intense, as was my yearning, which was due to complying with my parents’ rather Victorian notion that the two of us should sleep in separate bedrooms. However, I got around that the next day when we took to the mountains to ski. I managed to get my guy alone by steering us to a lift that took us to a part of the mountain with new and partially developed trails, where I knew nobody liked to ski because of the icy terrain. As I’d predicted, there was no one there. At the top of the peak on the farthest side of the mountain, with the wind whipping around us, I pulled him to me and made my demands.
He laughed nervously, but I could tell he was intrigued with the idea. Before he could change his mind, my gloves were off and my hands were unzipping my pants, then his. The air was bracing, which worked to my advantage because it caused us to press our bodies against each other for warmth, for desire, for more.
As he sucked me off, I looked around at the beauty of our surroundings, a
I haven’t been to that mountain in quite some time. I haven’t been much of anywhere, lately. Another writer sent me an email recently and part of his message said, “I just have to ask, how come you don’t leave your house much? I’ve seen you make comments from time to time, but I always thought you were kidding.”
My writing partner, Becky Cochrane, often jokes that I’m turning into “the gay J.D. Salinger” because I rarely leave the house. This isn’t true for many reasons, among them: you know of J.D. Salinger. I’m not that famous a recluse. If W. Somerset Maugham was “in the very first row of the second-raters,” then I’m in Standing Room Only. Although I don’t have any statistics, I’m quite certain I’m not the only gay recluse, either. I’m willing to bet there are thousands of homosexuals wary of walking out their front door, lest they be severely beaten or called upon to smarten up their heterosexual neighbor’s husband’s attire.
I moved to Houston shortly before the Supreme Court agreed to hear the case of Lawrence v. Texas, which was an eye-opening experience. Perhaps because I was raised a Yankee, or because of my ignorance, it never occurred to me that two men could be arrested for having sex in the safety of their own home. Being a connoisseur of the ups and downs of sex out of doors, arrests such as George Michael’s in 1993—entrapment or not—made perfect sense to me. The fact that sex out of doors is illegal is half the fun, I say.
However, being arrested inside your own home seemed barbaric to me, definitely not in keeping with a new century, and I was quite thrilled when the Supreme Court struck down the law. But what did it mean to me? It’s not like I was having sex, indoors or out. I was hardly leaving my own yard. And why was that?
I could blame it on writing. As a writer of contemporary literature and romance, I can live vicariously through different characters and write about the sort of world in which I’d like to live, rather than reality, where people want to amend our Constitution to add discrimination, or look the other way while people are beaten senseless.
Reality is frightening sometimes, and often boring. Recently, at a party—which was at a neighbor’s house, across the street, so I barely left the house, if you’re wondering—I was talking with a man about why I don’t date any longer. I lamented that people have changed; social niceties are no longer in style and everybody’s only out for himself, it seems. The man with whom I was speaking—I’ll refer to him as Bob, since that’s his name—agreed with me then laughed when I said it had been years since I’d met anyone worth blowing, let alone carrying on a conversation with.
“I’ll try not to take that personally,” he said.
“You shouldn’t,” I agreed. “I was only trying out that line aloud to see if it would work for something I’m writing. You laughed, so it’s in.”
“Good,” he said. “But if you don’t mind my asking, how do you expect to meet anyone, much less blow him, if you don’t leave the house?”
As clever as I like to believe that I am, I had no witty rejoinder for Bob. I thought about the stories I’d recently read for this anthology. I thought about skiing. I thought about my years in New York City. I thought about sex on a rooftop. Dorothy left Oz then promptly summed up everything into a lovely moral. Everything she needed was in her own backyard. Bully for her, but the bitch had too many morals. If it were me, I would’ve grabbed a ranch hand or two and headed directly for the hayloft.
“It’s official,” I stated. “I’m tired of fading to black.”
I was recently asked—along with Becky—to speak on a panel at a gay literary festival about my experiences writing romance. (Okay, yes. I do leave the house on occasion. I told you I’m not the gay Salinger.) Somebody asked about writing sex scenes. Were they necessary? Did our readers expect them? Do sex scenes add to the story, or do they detract from the literary element of a gay romance novel?
I can’t remember, word for word, our brilliant reply. But our fellow panelists, our moderator included, turned in shock as we confessed to our penchant for “fading to black.” Fading to black is a term for building up to a sex scene, showing your characters undoing buttons, kissing, groping, and then cutting to them basking in the afterglow in the next chapter or paragraph. Fading to black gives readers an opportunity to get creative and decide for themselves what happened, to make up their own sex scene.
While this is fine and dandy for our books, I’m tired of living my life like a Timothy James Beck or a Cochrane Lambert character. I’m tired of imagining my own sex life. As George Michael said, “Let’s go outside.”
The majority of the stories in Best Gay Erotica 2007 are about people who walk out the front door and have an adventure. I responded immediately to Blair Mastbaum’s story, “Williamsburg Swimming Pool,” which reminded me of my New York days, when a sexual invitation could arise in the most extraordinary of circumstances or locations. Or, sometimes, even the ordinary ones. Having grown up on the rocky and jagged coastline of Maine, I could intimately imagine myself in the role of the protagonist of Jay Neal’s gothic tale. Next time I’m visiting the homeland, I’ll make it a point to have my car break down near the closest lighthouse I can find.
My first foray into publishing centered on a female impersonator named Daniel, so I felt a certain fondness for the drag queens in “There’s More to Kink Than Leather.” I couldn’t help but cheer them on as they turned the tables on poor Jason. He had it coming. So to speak. “Saturday Punk” made me want to fly to Dublin, find Larry, and offer myself to him posthaste. Or somebody like him. I suppose I could save money and drive around Houston picking up hitchhikers. At least I’d be out of the house.
But sometimes sex comes to your home when you least expect it, as I’ve learned in the past. Maybe someday I’ll write a story about how I got my UPS cap. Until then, by all means skip ahead and read Greg Herren’s “Disaster Relief,” where sex is soothing, voracious, and timely.
While you’re reading that, and the other deliciously sizzling stories in this tome, I’m going to get out of my house and look for adventure. There’s no snow here, so maybe I’ll go water-skiing. Or maybe I’ll go to the park and try to lure some hot joggers off the beaten path. Better yet, maybe I’ll hit the bookstore and pick up some of the previous volumes in this series, as well as a hot stud to read them to in bed.
Timothy J. Lambert
Houston
July 2006
I WAS JT LEROY’S BUTTBOY
Simon Sheppard
The voice on the phone was soft, almost feminine. “Simon?”
I knew who it was immediately. “Yeah,” I said. “Hi, JT.”
I’d first heard from JT LeRoy via email; he’d gotten in touch with me when our stories had been published next to each other— cheek by jowl, as t’were—in Best of the Best Gay Erotica 2. That had been something of a thrill for me, actually, seeing as how JT was the Hot New Thing on the San Francisco al-ternalit scene, a rising star who was hitting it big—Danielle Steel for the thinking queer. For half a decade, he’d blazed a trail across the Bay Area’s literary firmament; his “preternaturally mature” (Kirkus Reviews) work had attracted the attention of such queer superstars as Gus Van Sant, and his book The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things had already been turned into a movie.
And now JT LeRoy was emailing me—me!—to tell me how much he liked my silly little tale about tricking with a dia-perboy on meth, a piece that faded into insignificance, really, compared to his clearly autobiographical, “savagely authentic” (John Waters) story of a teenage hustler hired by a sadistic john. I was being honored by the attentions of an avant-garde legend-in-the-making, a wunderkind who wore a necklace of raccoon penis bones and wrote with the skill and daring of someone twice his age. A-fucking-mazing!
