Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 10
I showed him around. The roommates were still at the party. I took him into the West Wing last, and in the room at the end of the hall, which I used as an office, we realized the tour was over.
We stood for a moment in the dark room. A futon was on the right, a desk on the left, books stacked on the walls where bookshelves should be.
I understood something there in the dark: I realized he was waiting for me to take control. That there was someone each of us didn’t normally give ourselves permission to be. And that here was where they’d meet.
Take off your clothes, I said.
He blinked and began immediately in a way that was touching, for how quickly it happened.
Turn around, I said. He had a slim body, angular but athletic, almost completely hairless. His skin glowed blue in the sodium-vapor light from outside the room.
I fastened restraints to his wrists behind his back and raised his arms lightly, to make sure they were loose enough to allow him to move. I turned him back around to face me.
His dick was already hard. I tapped it with my finger and watched it bounce. His breathing was already rapid, from the calm of a moment before.
Close your eyes, I said.
He did. He stood there, chest moving, eyes closed.
I’m not going to fuck you down in my bedroom, I said. Just in case there’s shouting.
Okay, he said.
I turned and closed the door and went back to him. It was incredibly moving to see him like that. For all that the restraints were ridiculous, they did work. I stood close to him, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, and his breath. I leaned in and ran one fingernail across his nipple. He jumped and gave a huffing kind of cry and I slid the nail down along his skin to just above his pubic hairline, where I pressed in again. Hu-uh, he let out. And then I pulled him in against me, reaching around to hold on where his wrists were joined. I hadn’t taken off my clothes.
I’m not going to take off my clothes, I said. At least, I don’t think I’m going to. But I don’t think that’s what you get this time. This time, I’m not sure you even get to touch my dick. We’ll see.
Okay, he said.
I put my face near his, and ran the tip of my tongue gently along his lower lip. His mouth opened with another gasp. His tongue met mine and I pulled the cool wetness of it into my mouth, sucking for a moment. I pulled back slightly so that just our mouths touched. He lunged forward to keep the contact.
I pulled back again and his mouth fishmouthed open. I spat into his open mouth. It was halfway down his throat before he knew. He gasped and gulped on it and his dick banged up harder. He opened his eyes to catch his balance and I said, Eyes closed, and knocked him backward onto the futon couch.
I pushed his mouth open and leaned down and licked the lower lip again. The magenta pout of him. I bit on it, lightly. It was the only part of me touching him. He was breathing hard still. I let the lip go, sat back, and from above let the spit drizzle out of my mouth, like a fishing line seen by the light of the streetlamp coming in. He gasped again, hu-uh, opened his mouth wider, and I just let it fall for a moment in a straight line, him gulping on it. Drinking me.
He was now completely fascinating. I leaned down and kissed him and he reached back hungrily, noisy. Uhmmm, he hummed into my mouth. I sat back and opened a condom, pulled it over two of my fingers, lubed it. He opened his eyes. I’m sorry, he said.
What, I said.
I’m not usually this turned on, he said.
He was apparently embarrassed of his emotions and responses. It made it fun to play him, then. Can I have a drink of water, he asked.
Sure, I said.
I went to the kitchen and looked at the lubed condom on my fingers. I filled a glass in the fridge dispenser and went back to the dark room.
Stand up, I said, as I entered, and he struggled to his feet. He looked expectantly at the glass of water. I held it waist high, so it wasn’t too hard to stick his dick into it.
It was cold. He jumped in place. Fuck, he said. He almost lost his balance and I steadied him as I thrust his dick deeper into water. He was panting again. I held the glass to his mouth, letting him drink from it. When he was done I put it on the desk. I kissed him hard again and as I did reached underneath his balls and slid my finger back and forth gently across his hole, getting it slick. He was breathing as hard as a runner. I slid my wet hand over his dick, down the shaft and over the knob of it, running the rubber on my fingers across the crown in circles before going back down the underside of the shaft and then continuing, under his balls and back toward his hole. I did this a few more times, luxuriating in the way he shook and shuddered and yelped. I kept him close, my teeth on his underlip, his breath fast against my cheek, and when I had established the back-and-forth rhythm, as I went back under his balls one more time, this time I pushed in.
Aaa-aa-aah. I let his lip go as his head flew back and I thrust inside him, his arms tight against the restraints. I slid out and felt him croon a little, disappointed. I made like I was headed back to his dick and instead returned inside him. He was slick and wet there and it went easily.
He crooned again. It was like feeding him, sticking something in there.
I got him on his back on the futon couch, his legs in the air, arms behind his back, and as I kissed him I worked his hole open with those two fingers, gently, feeling it push back against me like his mouth did as I kissed him and gently fucked his mouth with my tongue.
His face was wet and his eyes drunk on just plain lust. His face was flushed, I could tell, even in just the blue lights from the street, and his skin had the sheen of his exertions on it. He was the most beautiful thing I’d seen right then, arms behind his back and yet also out of control. I tapped the crown of his dick lightly and he winced, his pouty mouth closing slightly and then hanging open again, his lips the larger from the bruising kisses. We’d been at it now for a while.
It would ruin it if he saw anything coming. I unzipped and his eyes focused. I drew out my dick I want to see it, he said.
No, I said. You don’t get to.
I drew the condom on and lubed it and covered his eyes with my hands, tipping his head back and up as I pushed inside him. The warmth of him slid over my dick and as I slid down into him I spat hard again into his open mouth and he gasped. He swallowed and made a kind of low hum as I slid in. I slapped his face with my other hand, his legs falling down around my thighs. Unnh, he said. Hunnnh. I slid my stubble down over his right nipple as I shoved even further, rubbing against it, and his head slammed back and down. Oh fuck, he said. I grabbed his dick, letting the crown circle freehand in my palm as I fucked him and ground on that nipple and he used his head to hold himself in place, pushing it into the couch. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he said. And then Hrnnnh, like he was in a hard cry, his arms thrashing underneath me, stuck under the weight of him and lashed together by the stupid Velcro and nylon, somehow still holding. Ah fuck, he said. Ahhh.
I sat back and pulled him onto the floor, onto me, turning him on my dick so that he lay full on top of me, unsnapped his arms into a new position and snapped them back again so they were over his head, arms straight. He lay naked and wet, me underneath him in my T-shirt and jeans still, my fly open, and I thrust up into him. He was groaning now, his hard dick bobbing on his stomach as I shook him. I bent my knees, forcing him into place so his legs fell out to the side in a V. His head tipped back beside mine and he reached for me to kiss him and I spat again, this time not caring if I hit his mouth, and it ran wet down our faces so he could slide his mouth over to mine as I ground into him and he ground back.
I made him cum with me inside him, which he hated once he was done. And so I pulled out and put him over my knee, his cum seeping down my jeans-leg. I spanked him and when I started to get bored I pushed him over onto the bed and stared down at him. He stared back.
It had to be ugly like this. I wondered if he’d ever let me do this again. Whenever I treated people like this they loved it but hated me for doing it and also for knowing it about them afterward, and it wasn’t always true there’d be a next time. There was the rich shame and defiance, and it wasn’t clear which would win.
I shucked off the rubber and beat off over him like that, letting it splash down his leg when I came. The spell was off after that. I bent down, gave him one last short kiss, but I could tell we both didn’t care by now. By now it was just a little more than boys done wrestling. I wondered if he’d mind sleeping in there.
Do you mind if I sleep in here, he said.
I was going to ask you to, I said.
Whatever we were to each other, it was mutual from start to finish, I saw then. We’d been at this for four hours. When I got to the kitchen, I was shaking my head with a smile, headed through the vast apartment to my own cool clean bed.
The next morning I went in to find him awake. I sat down on the bed. He seemed gently friendly. He’d been reading something.
We went to Starbuck’s, had coffee, talked a bit. He was meeting friends to continue drinking, asked me to maybe come along. No, I said.
I get so crazy, he said. The first time I did that I went home with some guy who had me in a sling.
Do you like it, I said.
I do, he said. But I don’t let myself, most of the time. None of my friends know me like this. I freak out. I can’t admit it, or something. I run away.
It was my second time tying someone up, I said, and I want to do it again.
The Starbuck’s we were at was in a corporate center in Korea-town. We sat outside, the traffic on Wilshire on our right, the corporate park in front of us. It was like we’d wandered into the set of Office Space or something and made what he was saying more surreal, like the sunlight hitting his blue eyes.
I knew we would probably try to have sex again, as it had been that good, and that we also probably wouldn’t. When someone says I freak out and run away, what they are saying is I am freaking out and about to run away. Life is easier when you take people at their word.
Also, it’s good to be wary of people who are afraid of what they desire.
See you later, I said.
I went in to do the sheets. He had left his pot pipe and an empty cigarette box. As I took the sheets off the futon I noticed the stains from the lube and cum. I saw broken wood strings hanging down from under the couch’s front edge.
We’d broken the two-by-four that ran the length of the frame.
The memories and images of that night strobed through my days for a week. I’d be somewhere and see the blue silk image of him, bound and heaving, hard, sobbing. I sent him an email, he sent one back, we ran into each other at the gym. It was hard to speak. We were listless now, like prisoners who’d used each other to break out, and now that we were in the wide world, there was nothing more to say to each other. I knew who I was now, or what I was. I suspected he did too. At the party that night, after he pulled his face off a plate of blow, I remember how he said to me This is the best Friendster date ever. I’d grinned at him then and thought, Well, maybe for you. But, yeah. It was.
MARCOS Y CHE
Simon Sheppard
“Like Spock and Captain Kirk?”
“Yeah, like the slash stuff. Fantasies of famous guys fucking each other.” Neva smiled.
“You straight girls.” Bruno smiled back.
“What a bunch of perverts.”
Neva took one last sip of her dirty martini. “The greatest Cuban revolutionary gets it on with the leader of the Mexican peasant revolt? Sounds hot to me. But then, once a radical, always a radical.” Now it was her turn to smile.
Bruno looked around the bar. It was near closing. They were both sloshed, it was time to go home.
“Yeah, you managed to go to Cuba, I’ll grant you that. But honey, nobody even knows what Subcomandante Marcos looks like. He’s always wearing a ski mask.” They were getting up now, heading toward the door.
“But Bruno, that’s part of what makes it hot, that unknown…er, stuff.” Outside the bar, the late fall air hit them like a mild slap in the face. They strolled unsteadily down a street filled with old shingled houses, student housing now. They were just a few blocks from the college where Neva taught gender studies, where Bruno hung out and cruised the sophomore boys when he wasn’t trying to write his first “serious” novel, instead of the pornographic stuff that had been paying his bills the last few years.
Down two blocks and a turn to the left, and they were in front of the house where Bruno rented a room. “So you’ll write me something?” Neva asked.
“What it is with straight women loving gay porno?”
“Haven’t you heard, cupcake? Sexual orientation is all just a social construct.” Neva gave his hand a good-bye squeeze. “Yeah? Then why don’t I hear straight girls talking about how much they want to eat their boyfriends’ asses?”
“Go on, write me something about Che Guevara and Marcos doing each other. You know you want to.”
“What I wanted was for Che and that other guy in The Motorcycle Diaries to suck each other’s cocks onscreen.”
“See? Just remember, el pueblo unido jamás será vencido. G’night, sweetie. ”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bruno said, and staggered up the stairs.
Bruno had been just a little kid when the ’60s happened, though he remembered, or seemed to, the tang of danger in the air. He definitely remembered the fights that had ensued when his much older brother Erik had come home on visits from college. He knew how much easier it had become since then for men—men like him—to be openly queer. He despised what he’d heard about the machismo of New Left guys, though he couldn’t help but regret what he imagined was a loss of the feelings of infinite possibility. Back then, the stability of the known world must have seemed to hang by a thread. Now the only people who expected the universe to be transformed were the Christers waiting for the Rapture.
“Subcomandante Marcos stepped into the peasant’s hut deep in the fastnesses of the Sierra Maestra,” he began to write. It wasn’t simply that he wanted to humor Neva, darling Neva with her postmodern jargon and her endless screwball ideas. It was more that he had an idea, an inkling of an idea. Of a story that might work. Call it “romantic idealism.” Or just an urge to make a sale.
Subcomandante Marcos stepped into the peasant’s hut deep in the fastnesses of the Sierra Maestra. Guevara was already there, his rifle slung over a rickety chair. A withered woman, perhaps seventy years old, was serving him rice and beans on a chipped plate.
“Buenas tardes, señora,” Marcos said, courteously, from behind his knit mask. “You’re taking care of our Che?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her eyes bright among her wrinkles. “As he takes care of the people.”
Che smiled. “Would you excuse us for a while, señora? The subcomandante and I have things to discuss.”
When the old woman had made her belabored way out of the hut, shutting the door behind her, Marcos walked over to the seated Guevara, putting his hand on the guerilla’s muscular shoulder. And Ernesto “Che” Guevara thought back, back to the cold night in the mountains when he and Marcos had discussed Marx, had shared a bottle of rum, and had, at last, crawled into a sleeping bag together. Their lips, still slippery from alcohol, had met for the first time. Che had slid his hand down to the front of Marcos’s fatigue pants, where his dick stood at attention….
The story wasn’t going quite as well as Bruno had hoped. He’d planned on somehow fusing art and politics and dick, having it all come together in a revolutionary fuck on a peasant woman’s worn linoleum floor. But now that he was writing it, he was wondering precisely who would publish a story like that, anyway, in this conservative day and age, when even fags were veering toward the right. Who would want to read such a thing, except Neva?
Well, he would. Bruno’s dick didn’t often get hard while he was writing, but now it was. Just the thought of two sweaty, hard men dropping their machismo in the Cuban afternoon was enough to make him want to quit the writing for a while and jack off. So he did, fetching a bottle of poppers from the freezer, grabbing a handful of paper towels from the roll, and getting into bed. Usually his wanks were kind of perfunctory; he saved his most elaborate eroticism for his boyfriends, the current one being Yusuf, a rangy Palestinian with a perfect ass. But now he took his time, cupping his balls in one hand, squeezing them gently, then not-so-gently, as he stroked his hard cock with his other. He let go long enough to take a few good-sized snorts of poppers, just managing to screw the cap back on before the rush began.
He didn’t use poppers all that often, either—the bottle in question had been left behind by the boyfriend before Yusuf. But now they got him way out there, totally focused on the pleasure he was giving himself. He spit in his right hand and slid it slowly, slowly up the underside of his shaft, tugging on his balls again with his left. When his head had cleared a little, he thought of Che, of Subcomandante Marcos, of them curled together in a revolutionary 69, sucking one another’s uncut cocks. For one giddy moment, pre-cum already oozing out his piss slit, he imagined writing an essay on “The Artistic Responsibilities of the Horny Leftist Fag in Times of Resurgent Bourgeois Authoritarianism.” And then he came.
Night had come to the Zapatista rebels’ camp in the hills above San Cristóbal de las Casas. Subcomandante Marcos stood looking up at the millions of stars above, thinking about freedom. An aide came over to him and whispered in his ear. “Ah,” Marcos said, just that, but his demeanor changed immediately, becoming excited, even agitated, as he walked with the soldier to the edge of the camp. A shadowy figure was standing amidst the trees: Che.
