Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 10
“But are you bisexual? No, Mick. If you fuck women, it’s just perverted.” He does sound angry. Then, as a guy in overalls approaches the stage and hands our stripper a five-dollar bill, Brady, thankfully, elbows me and laughs. “Kidding,” he says.
Before I can respond, the dancer, on a beat, flips—boom— onto his hands. Now the music makes sense. Upside down—flip—you’re turning me, you’re giving love. The boy is doing a handstand, triceps straining, ass clenched, and the neck of the bottle perfectly upright. He’s holding the opener between his teeth, poised in such a way that it’s clear to all of us he’s waiting for someone to step out of the crowd and pop his cap.
Collectively, we pause. In shock, excited at the prospect before me, I clutch at Brady’s arm as he, the bastard, rises from his chair. He’s beating me to it. Whether deliberately or not, Brady stands beside the boy so that the audience can still watch as he slips the bottle opener from his teeth. The dancer’s face is growing ruby with the effort, but somehow, he’s still wiggling in time with the music. His hips sway, the contents of the Coke jiggling at the neck. As Brady lifts his arm to clutch the glass neck, the bottle rises four inches out of the dancer’s ass, then, like a near-miracle of anatomy, it shrinks again, disappearing to the cap. He’s swallowed the damn thing. By sheer will, sucked it up again. My jaw drops. Brady’s hand remains where it was, hovering above the boy’s split legs. The man across the way has stopped tugging inside his pants. We’re stunned.
When Brady covers his mouth with his free hand, I know he’s got the giggles, which could be disastrous. Don’t ruin the show, I pray. I’m furious with jealousy, but he can’t stop now and spoil the momentum. The bottle slides back up, mechanically, as if it were a scene in a pornographic James Bond flick, and Brady pulls himself together. He’s risen to the occasion. As he sets the bottle opener to the cap, I’m wet in my pants. I think I hear metal touching metal. And then there’s a slow wet fizz hissing out as the cap drops to the ground and Coke sprays over Brady’s face, down the boy’s legs, and across the wall. A Coca-Cola ejaculation.
Brady dashes out of the way, lifting his shirt to wipe the spray from his face as he returns to our table. Coke still dapples his ear. “Clean yourself up, will you!” I snap.
“What’s that, Mick?” He’s all nonchalance.
“I hate you.”
“Now don’t be mean.” He nearly sounds hurt, except that he’s turned back to the stage. He’s a glutton. Being part of the show isn’t enough.
The boy has removed the bottle and righted himself. He’s sitting splay-legged on the edge of the stage, holding his drink up to the spotlight like a frisky child in a commercial. I’m sure he’s a hustler, though he’s got this not-quite-corrupt look, as though he’s taken the money but hasn’t yet done anything to merit it. I love him. I want to have a body that can do those sorts of dirty tricks. Not that I would. Only think of the confidence I’d have, knowing I could draw anything in and out of my ass without hands.
Snapping his neck back, he tips the bottle above his head and pours. Straight down his throat. We see the Adam’s apple bob. He swallows. As he’s drinking someone in the back shouts, “I coulda had a V8!” but we aren’t listening. We love this. This is real, the kind of real that takes you out of yourself for a while, that makes you special for having witnessed something others won’t ever get to see. That’s why you can’t repeat a show successfully. They’re only special once. If the audience knows what’s coming next, the moment’s killed.
When he drains the bottle, he tosses it to the big guy with the hand trapped in his pocket, and surprisingly, the bugger catches it. Everyone’s a showman tonight. I wonder if the glass feels greasy in his palm. I wonder if it smells.
Diana’s voice fades into the distance. Show’s over. The stripper picks up his clothes as the bartender’s voice comes over the crackling speakers. “Give a big hand for the original Coca-Cola kid, Mart-y.”
There’s a smattering of applause. We know the show was awesome, though nobody claps all that hard. They never do. I, for one, don’t want to seem overenthusiastic. The private moment happening in your head between you and the stripper is sacred. A public display of what it meant to you is not cool. Only drunks show pleasure.
I look over to Brady, who’s throwing me his best shit-eating grin. “I did good, didn’t I?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“You have no idea what that was, do you? You have just participated in the ultimate consumer experience,” I say.
“It looked like a sex show to me.”
I say the words slowly. “Low-brow. Transgressive. Product. Placement.”
He blinks at me as if he has no idea what I’m talking about, then snaps himself lively, saying, “Hey, I got an idea. Can I buy you a Coke? Suddenly, I’m thirsty.” He stands.
“You’re not really getting a Coke, of all things, are you? You’ve got a full beer.”
“I can’t stand it any longer, I’ve got to ask him.” Brady’s looking round the room.
“Who? What?”
“Where’d he get that cigarette?” And with a quick pat on my back, he’s gone.
Now Brady loves to say he doesn’t pay for sex, he’s too good at it to need to, but still, I’m a wee bit jealous. What if he does go home with the stripper? It’s not unheard of. Strippers have feelings too.
I’m not saying I’m in love with Brady; I’m not. Let me make it clear, I am not in love with Brady. Hell, I dated Tori for years and still can’t say what love is, exactly. I’ve been a mite bit clueless. Two years of living together, and I didn’t even know Tori was a woman. Finding out after the fact that your ex-boyfriend is transgendered, your boyfriend was a girlfriend in his own mind—well, it puts a strain on an individual. It’s like finding out your husband was a Nazi, or a serial killer, without the bodies. What I’m saying is, it’s a shock to the system. Suffice it to say I have yet to absorb the full impact. So, love Brady?, no. But there’s a possibility, I’ll admit, that something more is going on. With me. It’s kind of puzzling on my part, which isn’t new. I’ve got a tired habit of getting curious about friends who are better left as friends.
It’s the same for all of us. We get to wondering what he looks like naked, then boom, next time you’re both watered to the gills, you’re grabbing his dink at the urinal. He usually likes it, or, let’s say, shows appreciation, until the next morning when he’s sobered up and either you have a big ugly talk about boundaries where he says he needs his space or he cooks you an amazing breakfast and later doesn’t return your calls. Which is fine, because you’ve followed the pattern so often it’s what you expect and, by now, it can’t hurt you.
Thankfully, that hasn’t happened to Brady and me, due to a new approach I’ve taken regarding friends and relationships: Don’t get your hopes up and you won’t get involved. So I’m cautiously not in love with Brady, and I’m not curious about him either.
He returns to the table, grinning. “You’ll never guess what I just saw.”
“His dink.”
He turns his chair toward me and leans forward for a complete confession. “More than that,” he says excitedly.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says, sounding offended. “I couldn’t find him, that’s all, so I go to the can to relieve my dingle and here are these two guys talking. And I don’t recognize him because he’s got his clothes on now.”
“You are so shallow.”
“No, he’s got his back to me, so, you know, there’s nothing to recognize. Anyway,” he flaps his hands in front of him, giggling and scrunching up his face, “you won’t believe this,” he says, his voice sounding both excited and horrified. “I thought he was just standing there talking, he’s with that guy who caught the bottle, they’re standing real close at the urinal. Well, when I got closer, I peeked. The stripper was pissing into the Coke bottle. The big guy had the bottle in one hand and a twenty in the other. No big deal, right? Who knows what he wants it for, but I’m a nurse, I see piss in cups all the time. Well, before I can finish up—OK, I haven’t even been able to start, I’m too distracted—the big guy hands the twenty to the kid and takes a sip.”
“Brady!”
“I’m telling you it was gorgeous. I’d have pissed my pants if I hadn’t had my dick out already.”
“So did they leave together?”
“No. The big guy left but the kid had filled the bottle and had to stop, right, so he’s still got more to pee. I guess that Coke goes right through you. He turns to the trough and I’m telling you, I couldn’t resist, I had to ask.” He pauses for dramatic effect.
“What?”
“Where he got the cigarette.”
“Oh. And?”
“He says to me, ‘A cop,’ and grins.”
“No way.”
“Well, it’s a joke, of course, so I laugh. And then I got one. A line. I look at him and ask, ‘Do you want to tell me the truth now, or are you gonna keep it all bottled up inside you?’”
I gasp, “You didn’t.”
He only laughs, squeaking, as he holds his chest from the effort.
“I can’t believe you. You’re shameless.”
“Oh, you’d do the same thing.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Well, that’s why I’m a lot of fun,” he says patronizingly, “and you’re the ugly-can’t-get-a-date-stepsister.” I sneer. He continues, “Now listen, I got a real close look at our friend Mart-y, and I’ve figured out what makes him look more virginal than he is.”
“What’s that?”
“Makeup. Maybe you could try some to help you with your little problem.”
“Very funny.”
Brady gets all serious again and says, “I should get his phone number.”
“Why?”
“So you can call him and get some Mary Kay tips, dearie.” Times like this, I have to remind myself that Brady really cares or he wouldn’t say such nasty things. Cruelty is a skill you acquire to protect a soft heart, and when shared with friends, being bitchy is no more than a skin-thickener. We’re dogs, play-fighting.
When the stage lights come on again, I’m glad for the distraction. Brady slaps his hands together and rubs them. “Here we go.”
“I don’t know if I’ve got it in me for another one,” I say. “Not to sound boring.”
“But you are, Blanche, you are,” he says, quoting Baby Jane, which I’ve never seen. That sort of camp shows your age. I’m about to tell Brady as much when the speakers crackle to life and “I Just Called to Say I Love You” fills the room. The next guy is a blonde, which I like. He has a phone, with a receiver in his hand. You don’t need to have someone draw you a diagram to know what’s coming. “Oh, no,” I say, not hiding my fear.
Brady’s got a similar pained expression. “Doesn’t look good. There’s only one thing to do.” He taps the corner of his mouth with his pinkie, a gesture that has somehow come to mean that he’s hungry for sex.
“You want to go to the park.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I could get some fresh air.”
“Oh, Brady,” I say. I’m not interested in following him there. I like it fast and dirty—just not tonight.
“Now, Mick, I’m not going alone.”
I point to my chest. “Tired.”
“I’ve got a doobie,” he whispers, leaning over the table, which only draws attention from the weirdoes beside us, “and I only smoke half a doobie and that means I need someone to help make sure I don’t smoke the whole doobie and you’re my friend so you’re going to smoke the other half.”
“No.”
He leans back, as if shocked. “Don’t make me slap you in front of all these nice people,” he says, maternally.
That’s enough to convince me. “OK, but I’m not staying late.” I say this every week, though my intentions are good.
He’s already standing, slipping his arms into his jeans jacket. He gulps back a couple more swigs and leaves some behind.
Onstage, the blonde has his balls twisted in the white spiraling phone cord. I sigh inside, dying a little with each tired act. I’m afraid the Coca-Cola kid isn’t even enough to save me from a night of unsuccessful masturbating. I’ll be re-creating my women-driven fantasies. I can’t help but suffer from a twinge of guilt, knowing I don’t do girls in real life. Maybe I could beat off thinking of Tori. Middle ground, though we haven’t had sex since she’s come out as trans. Although her body might not be any different, her technique may have changed. Can I picture that? Does a fantasy life answer to morals, or is my guilt simply fucked up? I’m telling you, sex isn’t easy, even in my head.
“Are you with me here?” Brady asks.
We’re on the street, moving at a good clip toward the park. There are two bright stars to my right, and the rest of the sky is cloud. I sniff. “Yeah, yeah, I’m thinking.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“I’m thinking about my marriage.”
“Why, honey, I didn’t know you cared,” he gushes, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
That’s not funny, and I realize, as fast as Brady popped the cap off that bottle, that he’s hurt me. I cover up by saying, “I mean my ex,” and slap him on the arm to behave.
“But, you know,” he says, “I don’t want to be married. I did that.” He’s more serious now, I can tell, because he has a hand in his pocket digging for matches. Brady’s most down-to-earth moments happen while he’s smoking a joint. The edge comes back as soon as he splits the last stub of the roach between his fingers and offers you half to eat.
“Not to sound shallow,” he says, “but after my ex, Ronnie, died, I started having sex again, and I’ll tell ya’,” he chuckles, making his voice rise and pitch, “it feels might-y good.” He flicks open the lid on his lighter. The butane tickles the hairs in my nose.
“Did you and Ronnie break up before he died?”
“Yeah, the day before,” he says dryly.
“No, really, Brady, were you not together when it happened?”
“I was in the can taking a dump,” he says. He’s so damn hard to pin down, sometimes I could choke him.
His voice gets an apologetic softness to it. “No, we were still living together and everything, though he was bedridden a long time. I just call him my ex ’cuz it’s easier than explaining every time what happened. Nobody wants to hear your husband died of AIDS. It puts a real damper on the date.”
He passes the joint. “I don’t want to do that again. Ronnie was great, mind you, but you can’t trust fags. They’re always running around and lying, telling you they love you when they don’t, and telling you they hate you when they do. There’s no figuring them out. I’ve given up. That’s why I have family. Right, my ugly-can’t-get-a-date stepsister?”
“Honestly,” I say before I can catch myself, “is that how you feel?”
“Honestly?” He makes his head wobble as if he were spinning from the neck up.
“Come on.”
“Sure. Sure, that’s how I honestly feel.”
Strolling into the cruisy part of the park, he offers me a stub of the joint. “Give you a bit of a body-high later.” This is the part of our routine where we chew the last bit of paper and pot and make plans for morning brunch. Tonight, everything’s dark from the cloud cover. The trees are solid black, like paper cutouts. And the men moving ahead of us, strolling the laneway, are solid masses. There won’t be much scrutinizing going on. Brady calls this a “Veronica Dumont night,” meaning VD. You can’t see what you’re getting.
“Well,” he says, “time for the meet ’n’ greet. It was nice knowing ya’.” He extends a hand as if he wants to shake. Not our usual thing.
I clutch my heart. “Are you leaving me for good?” I say, all melodrama.
“You couldn’t get so lucky.” He squeezes my shoulder, since I haven’t taken his hand, and then he’s off, into the bushes, leaving me to wander alone. I’m no more in the mood now, even with a buzz coming on, than I was when I started out tonight, but for argument’s sake I head for my usual spot, behind the big tree trunk encroaching on the walkway. There’s a narrow path into a clearing where it’s very dark. The less I can see, the easier it is to fantasize, and the quicker I get off. Job done, “Buddy, can you drive me home?”
I’m there only ten minutes, getting colder, when I decide to warm my hands up by masturbating. I hate the way men jump as if they’ve been cattle-prodded if you touch them with frozen fingers. My cock, your cock, it’s all the same temperature, so I think, What better way to keep ’em toasty? Unfortunately, I have more hands than dick, so my pecker grows colder than my hands warm up. I’m ready to go home, be miserable, and fall asleep when a dark outline pushes through the pine branches. Three feet away from me, I see who it is and whisper, “Gucci,” to warn him it’s me. I’m shy down here, I don’t talk loud enough. He’s unbuttoning the fly to his jeans. “Gucci,” I say a little louder, but whether he hears me or not, he opens his palm toward me. I step forward, knowing that tomorrow morning will surely hurt, hoping that this time, tonight will be enough.
Gymnasty
Jesse Grant
Real jocks don’t watch gymnastics.
But there was something about the pommel horse. It turned me on. I had no idea why. I didn’t even know how to use it. In fact, I didn’t even know what using it was called. Did you pommel it? Did you ride it? Did you play on it? What?
Not that I’d ever seen a pommel horse up close and in person. My tiny Midwestern farm community high school didn’t have a gymnastics team, not even for the girls, so my experience with the accoutrements of the sport was limited to clandestine television viewings of the Olympics and other major competitions.
I remember being left home alone one Saturday afternoon in the summer of my twelfth year. The Olympics were on television, and I tuned in, hoping to watch more of the swimming. My parents and I had been watching the games religiously since the opening ceremonies, and one of the backstrokers had caught my developing eye. Now that no one else was home, I planned to tune inand turn on, and jack off while my shaved, muscled, scantily clad hero raced to glory.
