Hot Gay Erotica, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
THE GUY IN THE HOUSE
THE COMPETITOR
WASABI
BATBOY
RUDE AWAKENING
THE SECOND DATE
FROM A PARDONER’S TALE
THE SHIFT
THE END
SLIPS
KNIVES AND ROSES
YOU’VE HEARD OF IT
ARGENTINA
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR
LONESOME FOR OCTOBER
BACK AND FORWARD
DELTA BOYS
RING TONES
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
For Asa, always Hot
INTRODUCTION
How many elements of Hot can one collection contain?
Quite a range.
Hot can be erotic and amusing—as in Nick Alexander’s comic narrative about a man’s quirky evening with a pair of leather queens with a penchant for peach; as in Jaime Cortez’s generation-gap pickup of a street-smart pussyboy; as in Vincent Kovar’s cocked-eye account of an encounter with a persistent porn star; as in Cat Tailor’s lusty tale recounting the one-for-all, all-for-one fucking of a quartet of military buddies; as in Steve Berman’s fantasy about a calendar boy who comes to life.
Hot can be erotic and unsettling—as in Wayne Courtois’s novel excerpt that puts the gay back into ex-gay; as in Richard Reitsma’s gripping story about a man reliving the exquisite horror of torture; as in Sean Meriwether’s horror-tinged story of the scars that blossom from a barroom assault; as in Doug Harrison’s perceptive remembrance of his first sexual experience.
Hot can be erotic and romantic—as in David May’s sweet story about the sixty-year-old who gets the sex and the affection he deserves for his birthday; as in Syd McGinley’s brawny story about a closeted rugby player accepting queer love.
Hot can be erotic and lyrical—as in Joe Birdsong’s spiritual memory piece about finding transcendence as a fill-in go-go dancer; as in Rob Stephenson’s precise exploration of the fetishes that imprint us; as in James Williams’s exquisite story about physical magnificence, and lust and love.
And hot can be just plain Hot—as in Jonathan Asche’s story about a second date that ends on a cruisy bathroom floor; as in C. B. Potts’s story about a Daddy who lets his phone ring while he’s servicing the Sir he needs; as in Scott Pomfret’s story about bringing a young hunk home from the gym; as in Kal Cobalt’s story about the sinister house on the block where all the boys go for sexual satiation.
Hot and Gay and Erotic: a sizzling combo.
Richard Labonté
Perth, Ontario
February 2006
THE GUY IN THE HOUSE
Kal Cobalt
Thomas, the guy in the house, lived toward the end of a sleepy street of two-stories, in the kind of tree-laden, perfectly paved neighborhood you’d expect to see kids biking through on their way home from school. Two blocks before his house, the heavy scent of the trees settled down like fog, thick from their drooping limbs studded with new buds. It was Sunday afternoon, and in this town, you could tell; half a dozen cars passed by me, slow as trains, in gunmetal gray and elderly white, Pontiacs and Bonnevilles. Newer, smaller cars stayed home on Sundays here.
Nobody I knew cared about his last name. Mike had told me about him; Mike said everybody knew about Thomas, the guy in the house, though Mike was the only one I’d ever heard talk about him. He gave me the address and told me to go there Sunday afternoon: “Tell him Mike sent you.” I went that Sunday, and every Sunday after, all through the spring. Summer threatened now, the air swelling with it, and still I made the pilgrimage down the rolled-up sidewalks of the main drag every Sunday without fail, down through the shade of the oaks.
The house didn’t look out of place on its street. It was a modest two-story like all the others, with four broad steps up to a little porch where Thomas kept a blue nylon folding camp chair I’d never seen him use and a stack of paperbacks beside it that never seemed to change. He kept all the windows uncurtained and they always seemed dark, a series of gaping mouths set in gray shingles.
He’d left the front door open, the screen door’s latch lax but just enough to keep it from swinging open in the breeze. I let myself in, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer surroundings of the foyer. “Thomas?” I called.
“Hey.” He came down the ancient creaking stairs toward me; inside, no amount of maintenance could hide the fact that the house was aged and failing. Thomas was bottle-blond, with a constant ironic smile and dangerous eyes. I always tried not to look too hard at the tattoos that covered half his skin. Looking too hard made them move.
“Hey,” I replied. I’d never figured out how he could keep the windows wide open and still end up with so much darkness. Entering the house was like being swallowed.
“You wanna come up?” he asked, stopping on the last stair before the floor.
“Yeah.” I stepped close, but he didn’t move, didn’t turn to move back up the stairs and give me space to follow. I edged to the close side of the stairs, stepping up, and he pressed me gently up against the wall.
“Let’s start here,” he murmured, tugging the tongue of my belt free of the buckle.
“Okay,” I replied, holding my hands out to my sides. I’d learned the first time not to help him. Thomas always knew exactly what he was doing.
He tugged my jeans and briefs down to my knees, immediately fitting one hand around my cock and cupping the other under my balls. I heard my breathing deepen, returned to my ears by the house’s acoustics. Everything sounded amplified within the house’s aging walls.
He slipped his hands around my cock and balls without rhythm, just feeling me, squeezing me, until my cock stood out hard and tight. He’d learned the third time I came here that he could milk precum out of me, and as he rested his hand firmly against the base of my cock, getting to his knees, I let out a sharp moan of anticipation. He squeezed the base of my cock, just shy of hard enough to hurt, then moved his hand up toward the head an inch and squeezed again. An inch, another squeeze, an inch, another squeeze, and then he squeezed the head of my cock with thumb and forefinger, pressing a drop of clear fluid from my slit. He watched the fluid slide down the head, waited till it reached the bottom edge of the ridge and was nearly ready to drop to the floor before he licked it up, drawing his tongue wide and flat up over my slit, massaging it firmly.
“Fuck,” I whispered, shuddering. Last week he’d made me come just from the slow repetition of milking me and licking me afterward a dozen times.
His hand fitted around the base of my shaft again. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, and then the knowing press of his fingers. There was more this time, and he waited longer, letting the drip hang off my cock for nearly an inch before he licked it up, spreading it around the head of my cock with his tongue. I pressed my hands against the wall behind me, my sweaty palms flat against the cool wallpaper, and tried to breathe.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He waited, watching the head of my cock carefully, and when he pressed I had to close my eyes. His tongue was quick this time, light, barely stroking my skin.
He cradled my balls then, already tucked up tight against my shaft, and worked his thumb between them in a slow rub. I opened my eyes, watching him watch my cock, and felt my balls slowly relax under his touch. He took his time, waiting until I could breathe again, and got to his feet. “C’mon,” he said simply, and I tugged my jeans up far enough to navigate the stairs properly as I followed.
We went into the only bedroom of the house I’d ever been in. I wondered sometimes if it was the bedroom he used for everyone who came here. It was quaint, like the rest of the house, with a full bed and not much else. He sat me down on the foot of the bed and pulled my jeans down again, this time all the way to my ankles, and took the head of my cock in his mouth and my balls in his hand.
It was always Thomas’s hands and mouth, nothing more. Sometimes I thought he might consider his hands and his mouth his most useful tools; sometimes I thought he saved the rest for others, people who didn’t call him the guy in the house.
He suckled the head of my cock with rhythmic little pulls, his lips firmly sealed just past the ridge, his tongue cupped up against the underside. He could have made me come in moments—but putting that off was the point of using his hands; his fingers rubbed and massaged and lightly pulled in perfect counter-rhythm, forcing my balls down too far for orgasm to tickle them. I planted my hands on the bed and tried hard not to press my thighs against him, tried to let him do what he wanted. My balls were starting to ache from the play. My cock jumped in his mouth.
He let go of my sack and wrapped his hand around my cock, high up, almost touching his lips. He rested the pad of his thumb against the underside, just before the ridge, and kept up the tiny wet nursing motion of his mouth. I let out a hoarse groan, close, so close, the heat of his hand around my shaft and his mouth and tongue perfect-wet-tight, and he pressed his thumb in firmly. I gave a sharp, startled cry as something like orgasm shuddered through me, strong enough to leave my fingers and toes numb but different enough for me to know I still hadn’t come.
Thomas pulled off, blowing cool air over the head of my cock, which was a deep purple-red now, and went back to massaging my balls down. I couldn’t form words, and wouldn’t have known what to say if I could; it was a terrifying, painful, perfect torment.
He fit his lips around my cock again, hand around the shaft, thumb at the spot on the underside, and this time I couldn’t hold back. I grabbed his shoulder and squeezed tight, my fingers digging into bone as he nursed me up into that same dry shudder again, so close but not there, so good but not good enough. Again he pulled off, again he massaged me down from the edge, and I felt like begging and thanking him all at once.
It felt like a long time that he massaged me. It went from painful to almost pleasant; my cock lost its rock-hard discomfort. The ache was bearable. He angled my cock up a little, enough that I could see the slit, and squeezed the base. Then up a little further.
Oh, God.
Squeeze. Squeeze. Then the press, slow and careful and deliberate, and this time it wasn’t just a drop. He let up for a moment and pressed the head again, angling my cock up just a little farther, and precum dribbled back over the top of the head, dripping warm and slow down to my pubic hair. I realized I was making small, desperate groans with every exhale.
Back to the base. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, each one slower than the last, tighter. A series of three slow presses with thumb and forefinger. I could barely keep my eyes open. There was precum all over his fingers, glistening over the purple head of my cock, slick and clear all over my shaft.
Back to the base. I cried out at the thought of going through the process again. I couldn’t breathe. Sweat stuck the front of my T-shirt to my sternum. Thomas’s chest was warm between my knees.
Squeeze. I let out a sharp bark, my hands clenching into fists in the bedcovers.
Squeeze. A sob this time, my head falling back.
Squeeze: slower, tighter. I sucked in a breath and held it.
Squeeze and hold, hold, hold. My entire body felt tight as a wire, trembling.
Pad of thumb and forefinger at the head and a series of short, fast presses, and Thomas’s mouth fitted around the very tip of my cock, sucking the precum out as he milked it from me, small quick presses, small quick sucks.
I came.
My feet lifted up off the floor and my head came forward, both my hands buried in Thomas’s short hair and holding him there, my hips jerking upward uncontrollably as my cock jerked and rocked, cum spilling past Thomas’s lips and dripping back over my cock in milky rivulets mixed with his spit. His tongue still flicked at my slit, sucked at it, drawing out jet after jet as I shuddered and shouted.
I came back to myself curled around him, both arms tight around the back of his head, knees digging into his arms. Panting, I let him go, leaning back against the bed, and he slowly began to lick me clean. Dazed, I tipped my head down to watch, unsure I could handle any more. He held my thick, softening cock gently in one hand, moving it this way and that as he began at the base and licked me thoroughly clean with broad, flat strokes not quite sharp enough to make me shudder. When he only had the head left to do, he held my shaft firmly and sank his mouth down on it, forcing a single sharp jerk from me before he pulled away, letting go of me.
“Jesus,” I whispered, reaching down to squeeze my cock myself, just to remember what it felt like to touch it, to be in control of it.
Thomas smiled, wiping his mouth and sitting back on his heels. It took me a few minutes to be sure I could take the stairs without falling over.
I retreated to my neighborhood café to recover. The same boy always waited on me: five-ten, brown-haired, tight jeans hidden by his barista apron. He always looked at me more often than he had to, and looked longer than he should. He nodded to me as I came in, and I took my customary seat. A few minutes later, as he brought my trademark caramel macchiato, easy on the ice, I beckoned him closer. “Hey. What’s your name?”
“Tim.”
“Tim. You ever heard of Thomas, the guy in the house?”
THE COMPETITOR
Scott Pomfret
This is the kid at the gym: He wears baggy basketball shorts that go beyond his knees. Tight, plain white T-shirt. A ratty wool cap half over his eyes like he was dressing as Eminem for Halloween.
He’s on the decline bench, working with dumbbells. He’s got smooth white arms. Perfect chest with just enough meat on the pecs. He’s cross-eyed from the effort, his lips in a little pout. Every time he lowers the weights, his shirt pulls away from his shorts. You get a glimpse of flat, hard belly, a band of underwear stretched on two hard pelvic bones that point at the prize beneath his shorts.
His eyes are hooded, vulnerable. He looks away, he won’t catch your eye. But every once in a while, you feel a hot sun burning down on you. You see him in the mirror, checking you out. Not so much checking you out as eating you up. Every last bit. Every drop. Never knew a person could make you feel so naked without your taking off a stitch of clothes. Your heart jumps. Your crotch stirs.
This game goes on for a week. Maybe he’s new at the college up on the hill. Maybe he works at one of the kiosks downtown and this is where he comes after dark. The shirts he wears are all a little worn in the back. You can see a hint of pale white skin—sexy vulnerability. You think: This guy should be easy, he wants it so bad.
You time your workouts to catch him. You learn his schedule: chest and arms Mondays and Thursdays, shoulders and back Tuesdays and Fridays. You wonder: When does he work that fine ass? That pert little shelf that his b-ball shorts hang on?
Most times you think he’s not conscious of you. He goes through his whole workout head down and sullen. You’re about to give up hope for the day when suddenly, he catches your eye. He’s one of those boys who seems unconscious of you, then suddenly turns and flashes a warm penetrating look and holds it, like the two of you were in on some private joke, even though you’ve never met him before.
Usually he comes and goes without doing much more than hanging a jacket in the locker room. But then about two weeks after you’ve set eyes on him, he has a full bag slung over his shoulder when he saunters into the gym. You time it right: after the workout, when he goes toward the locker room, you give him exactly two minutes by the wall clock, then follow him in.
The locker room is almost deserted. One or two big-belly guys are straightening their ties or blowing dry what’s left of their hair. The shower is running. You flick off your gym shorts like they were a distraction. You grab a towel. Cinch it over your waist.
He’s the only one in there. He hasn’t bothered to pull shut the curtain of his stall. His dark hair is plastered against his skull. His eyes are closed. The water streams over his face. His back is firm, not too soft, not an inch of extra skin at his waist, which is narrow as a boy’s. He’s pale, almost blue-veined, and thinner than you thought, which only makes the pertness of that rounded mound of ass all the more adorable.
The water splashes off his shoulders. You wish you could catch it on your tongue, and lap that kid up. His crotch hair is also plastered to his skin. His cock is rigid, up-angled in that won’t-quit, young-guy way. As you watch, he soaps his hand and grabs himself, squeezing his buttcheeks. He presses his cock into the little tube he has made from his palm. His jaw hangs open like he’s made himself stupid with pleasure. The water gushes in and out. He makes a little snorting noise, and puts his other hand against the wall like he needs to catch his balance.
He strokes his soap-slicked dick, and now it’s you that feels like you’re getting dizzy. His nipples are hard despite the heat. The muscles of his belly alternately clench and release, a perfect little six-pack. His thighs tense, and the water runs down into his crotch and disappears just where you would like to put your face. You are struck dumb and staring.
You suddenly feel a warmth on your face, on your bare skin. His lazy brown eyes are on you, all over you, passing from pecs to hips, lifting your towel. His eyes gleam. His lashes are long and caught with dewdrops. You wait for scorn to pass over his face now that he’s caught you looking, but the look you see is more relief, ecstasy, relaxation. You realize that you are the object of the kid’s masturbatory fantasies. He’s been jerking off to you for the last two weeks.
With a snap of your finger, you loosen the towel. There’s a moment before it slides loose when it catches on your cock, which is large, engorged. Your cock twitches and the towel drops. The kid’s eyes go wide, he stumbles a little in the shower cubicle and his strokes get faster. His eyes are fixed below your waistline.
