Best Gay Erotica 2002, page 10
He went around to the other side of the table again, picked up his jeans, and pulled his wallet out. He pulled out a condom, ripped it open with his teeth, and slicked it on himself quickly. He grabbed my ankles, pushing them back in one move, and sank his mouth onto my ass, and I felt his tongue plumb through and then him spit inside me. He stood up again and, letting my heels meet behind his neck, he drilled into me, his hands running up and down my thighs as he eased himself inside me, his thick dick sliding in slow and steady. My eyes closed and he pulled me back, my back sliding along the table, and then he climbed up on the table. My knees on my shoulders, he pushed down on the backs of my knees with both hands, lifting my ass into the air, and he shoved again, and then pulled back, and then went on, finding a rhythm. I don’t know how long it went like that, but he fucked me on that table, riding into me hard, and then finally he leaned down and that tongue found my mouth. As his tongue slid all the way into my throat, I came, across my stomach, his chest, and then he pulled out and whipping the condom off sprayed my stomach also, spreading his come with his hand on me, shining me up. He slapped his dick on my thigh three times. “Get up,” he said. “You little fuck.” I stood, somewhat unsteadily, and then he picked up the hose and hit me with it again.
“Ouch! Fuck!” He threw my suit at me. “Put this stupid shit on and clean this up.” He slid on his wet jeans. “We got to work, for Chrissakes.” I pulled the suit on, shivering, amazed, picked up the hose and sprayed down the table, picking the condom up and rolling inside it with my fingers.
I went into the kitchen afterwards, to get a hot coffee, where I found Dave, one of my motorhead heavy-metal-dude kitchen crew members. Lanky, seventeen, long hair, thin mustache. Long lashes around big brown eyes. He stared as I came in. I knew who was going to clean the picnic house next. “Yeah,” I said, telling him about it. “This is what you’ve got to wear.”
Saint Valentine Was a Martyr, You Know
Simon Sheppard
“I want to kill you and fuck you and eat you,” I said, and I meant it, sort of, because it was true, sort of, and he looked up at me with that smile of his and I put my hands around his throat and squeezed and he closed his eyes, opening his mouth, his beautiful mouth, for a kiss, which I gave him, my tongue going as far down his throat as it could, my knee pressing into his crotch, where his dick stood stiff as a soldier, and when he sighed I squeezed his thin throat harder, stopping the kiss so that I could watch his face, which got pink but not alarmingly red, so I squeezed still a bit harder and then backed off, and that’s when he threw his arms around me, pulling himself up against me, his nakedness against mine, his chest against mine, two heartbeats, his ear near my mouth, my mouth that whispered, “Kill you and fuck you and eat you...in that order,” which made him shiver with pleasure, hearing what nobody had ever said to him before in his short life, and when he replied that he figured being dead would mean he wouldn’t enjoy the fucking very much, it was with a tone of bemusement and peace, not irony or fear, so I answered back in the same tone, quiet, confident, the tone of a man, I hoped, very much in control, “Maybe not, but I’ll enjoy it,” and hauled off and slapped him across the chest, a slap that landed with a resounding whap, a dick-hardening noise that made me want to do it again, so I did, I slapped him again, and then a third time and a fourth, each time a little harder, at each blow his face expressing, not astonishment, since neither of us was the least bit surprised, but a genuine pain, that look of pain that made my heart race like a truck driver on bennies heading home, like a dog smelling his own piss on a tree, like a desperate man who’d finally spotted what he was after, and I would have dry-humped his crotch, his hard-on, which was always glossier than mine, more insistent, but he was already straining that shiny, purplish, hard thing against my belly, leaving generous trails of pre-cum on my flesh, and I slapped him a few more times, on one naked place, then another, till I saw it in his face, that look that says, “You’re reaching my limits, you son of a bitch,” a look that I’d gotten used to seeing on his improbably lovely face, an expression that sent affection up my spine, so I stroked his cheek, softly, softly, with one hand, while my other hand squeezed his little nipple hard, really hard, and that face I was stroking just beamed, a child on its birthday, just beamed, what a happy kid he was, which made me want to make him even happier, go even deeper, so I grabbed hold of his pec, a handful of flesh that I twisted, my grip refusing all compromise, his face reflecting something like love, something wordlessly real, or at least something that seemed real, and that made me want to kiss him again, made me want to sink my teeth into him, into the meat of his chest, his viral flesh, into his heart, like some Hannibal Lecter of desire, and I remembered when we first met, he and I, on Easter Sunday, late the night before really, at some tired sex club, when he looked at me and figured out that, of all the guys there, I was the one, the only one who could take him all the way down, as deep as he needed to go, though then he really had no idea, neither of us did, how long and how low that would be, and we left the club, with its masses of gayboys fucking as blindly as those fish who live in caves and, never seeing the light, have no need for the eyes that they’ll never in any case possess, and we went off together past good people headed for midnight mass, we headed off toward some hunger that would terrify those good, pious folks, would terrify most people, sometimes even terrifies me, and now I looked at him, into his eyes, and punched his chest, not hard enough to crack a rib, not nearly, but hard enough to make him wince, probably hard enough to leave the bruises he craved, and he just nodded, and I said, “Yes?” and he said what he always says at times like that, two words, “Church bells,” just that because no more was needed, and I punched him right in his gut, not hard enough to bust something, and when he turned his happy-kid face upward, I kissed him again, mouths locked together as if in some apocalypse, the two of us drinking each other’s spit for a long, long time, me still flailing away at him half-ineffectually, until at last I grabbed his head in both hands and pushed it down, further down over my body till his lips reached my cock and I said, “Eat this, motherfucker,” as he, not really needing encouragement, gulped me down, and while he sucked me, my straining hardness, down his throat, I asked him, “So what if you knew that my cock was the last thing you’d ever taste in this world?” and as I said that, I slid my hands around his throat again, which made him moan and suck even harder, his face starting to turn red again, red as meat, as blood, a valentine, a simile for God knows what, the cape before the bull of life, whatever, and his dick, when I let up on his neck and reached downward, was slug-slippery with his juices, and I gave it a hard yank, as if I was going to tear it from his body, something I never would really do, I don’t think, but it made him suck all the more hungrily, muscles in the back of his throat working my dickhead, so I had no choice but to hit him again, slapping his pale shoulders with a satisfying collision sound of flesh against flesh, which is, after all, what life on earth is all about, flesh against flesh against flesh against flesh, church bells indeed, and I wondered if I actually could kill him, kill anyone, and really there was no answer to that, hypothetical oblivion, except to grab him by his wrists and drag him to the floor, and he had that look then, that look he gets when he’s so far out, so far into himself, that there’s fuck-all he can say, not that he’s ever very verbally adroit, but he has compensatory virtues, as I’m sure you know by now, he really does, so I have him pinned by his breakable wrists, which if they snapped would make a sound like church bells, I guess, and he’s into this fucking absolute zero state where nothing but lust is in motion, the fucking silence of the fucking Lamb of God, and I did, at that moment, a big chunk of me wanted to kill him and fuck him and eat him, in that order, the procession of desire, the urge to own, to destroy, to incorporate, and to be destroyed in turn, as though Shiva ruled the world and not some watery naked blond on a cross, which is when he broke the silence and asked, “Fuck me?” two words like “church bells” is two words, and I said, “Fuck you,” and I reached over to the lube and got my hand as slippery as his cock, which, smaller than mine, was also almost always even harder, purple as bad prose and twice as overreaching, and then two of my fingers were inside him, three, four working around his yielding guts as if I was kneading bread dough, and his ass, which is amazing, opened up for me like Heaven is supposed to open up at the End of Days, and after twisting and prodding for a while, I slid my hand out, and his hole, remarkable fuckhole that it is, stayed all the way open, so that I could see into him, actually into him, and I thought, “Red, that’s what red really is,” and I wanted, with all my soul, to fuck that bread dough, and if I did put on a condom, it was to save myself, not him, and if I did slap his face when I slid my cock inside him, it was because he wanted it, and if I did pump my desire into that soft red meat, it was because that was what was meant to happen, easy to tell because, though some guys’ dicks don’t stay hard when you fuck them, his did, riding tight against his damp belly, and if I didn’t kill him before I fucked him, it’s because most gods whom people worship are merciful gods, and I was a merciful god, too, and if I wouldn’t eat him that night, it was no guarantee I never would, and what most people don’t know is that there are supposedly not one but two Saint Valentines, good Christians I guess who got martyred in Rome, two people, like he and I are two people, though they might, we’re told, have just been one single martyr after all, and I wished at that moment, as I sometimes do wish but not all that often, that I could just have stupid sex, like almost everybody else does, mindless and untouched by the knowledge of God or hell or whatever, smug and happy as salvation by faith, but hey, you play the hand you’re dealt, and I guess I hit him across the face hard enough to split his lip because now there was a new shade of red, and then I pumped and pumped and pumped while he grimaced, till I came, hard, gasping, like a fish out of holy water, and when I looked down he’d come, too, wet on his belly, and when I kissed him, I tasted his blood and figured I’d probably get away with it, though there are some things you can’t get away with, but he wasn’t one of them, and then we wiped up and went to bed, to dreams, to be devoured, him in the dark, in my arms, like two dead saints.
what i want to do
pansy bradshaw
1. about that night
about that night...before the morning when you woke up in my bed...of course nothing happened...but it wasn’t for lack of trying...on your part...
are we feeling lucky tonight you asked giggling & touching me with your hands & body in ways you never had before... i wasn’t shocked...just surprised & delighted...but you fell asleep on my living room floor...
i tried to wake you...but it was not a success...managing to lift you to your feet i propped you on my shoulder & guided you to my bed...unlacing your shoes i removed them & placed my pillow under your head & covered you with my favorite comforter...then i fell asleep...on the floor...
2. something ordinary
the first night i stayed with you...after the afternoon on the hill...& the hike we took...eating cantaloupe halves with silver spoons that you had chosen...you led & i followed slowly... glad to be with you outdoors.. .admiring your legs as we climbed the ridge...hollering from hilltop to hilltop...across the dry creek bed...across the divide...across light years...waiting long seconds for our voices to return...we flew kites & behaved like boys for hours...exalted elated & ecstatic...because of the wind...because of the changing light...because of friendship...
i awakened much later from deep sleep...to the night sounds of a strange place...& lay there wondering where i was & how i came to be there...& then a sound...something ordinary... snoring from the couch.. .& i knew it was you & i passed again into familiar sleep...
3. what i want to do
this morning...that’s what i remember now...lying on the living room floor in a patch of sunlight...i slipped away to the sight of you...standing half naked in the potato field...hair up & sunburned from your morning walk with the dog & the deer... sweat flowing freely from your face neck & shoulders... streaming down your chest & abdomen collecting @the waistband of your boxers...stylishly worn about four inches above your belt...i reach out & place my hand against your chest... feeling your heartbeat move through me & back to you again...
i admire that thick line of golden brown hair reaching toward your navel...i want to lie with you on that sunbaked earth... feeling your warmth...& fall asleep...
4. your hands
driving fast on the old highway...with you @the wheel...& both of us drunk...past the boundaries of good taste...or no taste at all...i make a joke about frottage...you laugh spreading your legs...to be more comfortable...we have always been mostly honest with each other...but once i lied to you about my lucky underwear...not willing to admit anything quite so childish...finally i confessed that yes...mine are red & black tartan flannel...are you wearing them now you ask...yes i say...& then you ask...are you feeling lucky...
what is lucky i wonder.. .never having been good at interpreting hints...like a radical lesbian feminist...i must communicate... if you were a stranger things would be different...with you i need to be sure...but now your language skills are strangely silent...
gently i touch your thigh...& you move your arm...to afford me a clearer view...as you steer us into the parking lot...& we stagger in for breakfast...while looking at your coffee then at me...you tell me i talk too fucking much...you say don’t you think i would have stopped you if i didn’t want this too...
now that our food has arrived i cannot eat...though you devour everything on your plate...plus three cups of bad coffee & a fistful of cigarettes...whoever said straight guys aren’t oral has never watched your mouth in action...you pick up the check...
back on the old highway cruising at high speed toward town...perhaps a bit slower than before...though no less inebriated...you are posed for action...i place my hand on your crotch...is this ok i ask...yes you say...but then...as i begin unzipping your pants...you look me in the eye & ask if this will change our friendship...
the gospel says no greater love exists than that a man lay down his life for a friend...so why...i wonder to myself...do we quibble over a blowjob...
i’m surprised to find you already hard...i pump your shaft smoothly...you whisper yes as i place my mouth on the head...realizing with some embarrassment that i have the worst case of cottonmouth in the history of frontseat sex... i need something to drink...you suggest the beer resting in the cup holder over the stereo...where did this come from i ask before tossing back a mouthful...laughing you say it’s left over from yesterday...i take another gulp before returning to my labor...i swallow you to the base...you taste sweet... & salty...
funny...i have never thought how large your hands are until i feel the warmth of your palm against the nape of my neck... & your long fingers stroking the back of my skull...urging me on with whispered words...gently holding me where you want & giving me release when you sense i must have it...
i now imagine those fine fingers...& how i have admired them...watching you gesticulate when making a point...or holding a pint of beer...or gripping the steering wheel...one handed...as we drive through the morning dark....
Frantic Romantic
Alistair McCartney
1. When I’m Dissolving
I’m a very hot jock-boy. I live in a jock-house. With a red roof. Woof-woof! All fours. I need my butt-hole worked on: Finger it suck it lick it or just fuck me until I shoot my huge load. All over the favorite part of your dog-eared copy of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. The part that makes you cry, feel alive.
This is why I do it: Sex is the only thing that makes me feel alive. I have my needs. The structure of my day is as follows: Wake crave dream. When I’m bored I lick books, I like the taste of ink: A boy who licks books all day long is naturally called a book-licker. I love lockers, aging coaches, moldy jockstraps, boys who date cheerleaders. I don’t brush my teeth. I don’t have to. I have dentures. Dentures set you free. I take them out at night. If you sleep with me, you’ll see. If you stay with me, you’ll see how I take them out and place them in a clear glass of water. Will you stay the night? If you stay with me, let’s cuddle like real lovers. Let’s snore. I want to hear you grind your teeth as you grind your hips into me. Let’s hold each other as if we’re conjoined twins, fused at the hip. Let’s love each other as if we share the same spine. Either we’ll both die, which will be romantic in a Wuthering Heigbts-y, AIDS-y sort of way, or one of us will have to die to let the other one live a relatively normal life.
If you’re kind enough to stay over, I won’t be able to sleep, your presence will distract me, you’re a distraction to me, but I’ll guard your dreams. I’ll wash the sheets as soon as you leave. I’ll shoot anyone who tries to stop me from dreaming. Steps a foot on my property. Please, when you finger-fuck me: Please keep your wedding ring on. Put your wedding ring in me. Please. I like the feel of diamonds up there. Cutting into me. I sparkle. You make me sparkle. With your fingers in me, I’ll think of crabs, the rapidly disappearing art of ventriloquism, and a sideways movement: Crab’s shells are bright orange. My ass tastes like the rind of an orange. Sex is a rapid disappearing. I’ll resent you if you don’t make me dissolve. I want a veil. I want a wedding cake. I want a knife to cut the cake. Will you take me to the hospital if you burst me? If you split me? If you rupture me? Will you order an ambulance for me? Will you ride with me in the ambulance? Will you make sure they have the siren wailing? Will you flirt with the hospital orderlies, who are always hot and sexy? That’s my ideal man: a hospital orderly. Will you hold my hand while they stitch me up like a dress? I won’t mind if you cut off your tongue and place it in me. I won’t get angry. Will it feel rough or slippery?
