Best Gay Romance 2011, page 11
When I flooded the condom with my seed I hollered like a lunatic while my heart thumped and my lungs heaved. I felt my orgasm in every part of my body, even in my scalp and the soles of my feet. How I’d missed this. How would I ever live without it?
Gordon worked his foreskin with a fist. He whispered, “Stay inside me, Beau-Beau; don’t leave,” and very soon his irises rolled up inside his head, then he spewed sticky pearls of semen onto his collarbone. Gordon’s pucker flexed against the shaft of my cock; he shouted my name at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling, his breath huffing as though the room lacked oxygen.
I didn’t withdraw for a while. Instead I held Gordon as tight as I could while our breathing relaxed and our pulses slowed. Outside the bedroom window a squirrel barked in a tree and the sound echoed through the woods.
Imagine, I thought, doing this every day. Waking to Gordon each morning. Falling asleep in his arms at night.
“Beau-Beau?”
“Yeah?”
Gordon ran his fingers through my hair. “That was wonderful.”
“It certainly was.”
“So, tell me about Florida. What’s it like?”
“Your nose is sunburned,” I tell Gordon.
“I can’t help it,” he says. “The beach is so beautiful I could walk it forever.”
I sit on our screened porch, grading students’ vocabulary tests on a Saturday morning. The sun ascends in a cloudless sky and the day is warming up. Gordon’s hair is damp and his skin smells of salt water as he approaches and kisses my cheek. He wears bathing trunks and rubber sandals and he’s shirtless, looking so sexy my cock stirs at the sight of his slender physique.
Our cottage isn’t much: a one bedroom with a galley kitchen, a bath with a shower stall, pedestal sink and john. But it’s one block from a beach with emerald water and sand white as table sugar. Every evening we stroll down there to watch the sunset. The sky boils with shades of pink, green and gold, and the sound of waves smacking the shore mixes with seabird cries.
It has been eight months since I met Gordon at First Roach Pond, and much has changed. Six months back, Gordon left Camden and the priesthood. When he told his parents about us, and how he planned to live with me in Florida, they became upset. Cruel things were said, threats made, and for many months Gordon did not speak with his family.
Then, one afternoon when I returned home from school, Gordon’s mom, Stephanie, called from Maine, and we spoke for almost an hour. I told her I loved Gordon and he loved me and I said things were fine. We were happy, I said.
Now, things seem okay between Gordon and his folks. He talks with them every Sunday evening, and they plan to visit Florida in June, once Gordon’s five siblings are released from school for the summer. We’ll meet them at Disney World for a couple of days, then they’ll rent a hotel room near our place and we’ll all get better acquainted.
When people truly love one another things have a way of working out, don’t they?
Gordon waits tables at a chain restaurant, five nights a week. The tips are good and the manager likes Gordon, and there’s talk of a promotion in the near future. Gordon has joined a chapter of Dignity, the church for gay and lesbian Catholics. It’s not sanctioned by Rome, of course, but Gordon says that doesn’t matter. He knows God loves him, he says. Once a month he’ll conduct mass and I’ll attend, to see Gordon in his vestments and hear his sermon. He’s a good speaker; people like him and they pay attention to what he says.
I’m so proud of Gordon.
Now, I slip a finger inside the waistband of his swim trunks; I look up and ask him, “Headed for the shower?”
He nods.
“Mind if I join you?”
A grin spreads across Gordon’s face and his eyes gleam like gemstones.
While warm water flows over us, I use soap for lubricant, and Gordon groans when I enter him from behind. I do a reach-around, gripping his rigid cock in my soapy fist and stroking while I thrust inside him. When I reach orgasm my cock throbs deep within Gordon, and he sprays the tiles before him with his seed.
“Feel good?” I say as our pulses slow.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yeah, Beau-Beau, I do.”
I ease my cock out of Gordon and it makes a popping sound, exiting his pucker. I seize his shoulders and turn him so he faces me. While water streams over us and gurgles in the drain, I kiss Gordon, then I say, “I want to know something.”
He looks at me, eyebrows gathered. “What?”
“That night I first met you wasn’t by chance, was it?”
He drops his gaze and a smile plays on his lips, then he looks at me again.
He says, “What do you think?”
“I think it was crazy, crossing First Roach Pond in that storm.”
He shrugs and says, “Aren’t you glad I did?”
Like I said, I don’t believe in serendipity.
Sometimes a guy wants something so badly he’ll do whatever is necessary to get it, like risking his life in a storm and maybe losing everything he’s worked for: his job and his family.
All things happen for a reason, don’t they?
BAXTER’S SAPFU
David Holly
How’d it go, Zef?” That was Baxter’s typical way of starting a telephone conversation. No “Hello”—just jump right to the shit.
“FUBB,” I said.
“FUBB? Not SUSFU or SNAFU?”
For the record, Baxter and I loved using the colorful acronyms of Army slang: SNAFU—situation normal, all fucked-up; FUBAR—fucked-up beyond all recognition; FUBB—fucked-up beyond belief; FUMTU—fucked-up more than usual; SAPFU—surpassing all previous fuck-ups; SUSFU—situation unchanged, still fucked-up; and TARFU—things are really fucked-up. To name a few.
“No, it was FUBB. I’m trying to decide between throwing myself off the tallest building in town or joining a monastery.”
“You might get lucky in the monastery,” Baxter said. “Those monks are horny buggers.”
“Screw the monks. You slammed me with another failure, Baxter.”
“Get the fuck out. You better tell me about it. Meet you at Ponce’s in thirty?”
“What the fuck.” It was a surprisingly warm April evening, and the next day was Sunday, so we could get soused without having to worry about sucking mints at the PTA meeting. Baxter was a social studies teacher at Millard Fillmore High School, where I taught English. Having discovered we were both gay but utterly incompatible as lovers, we became close confidantes.
I pulled on my bicycle shorts and jersey, checked the lights on my bicycle and mounted it. Twenty minutes later, I locked my bike to the rack outside Ponce’s. Baxter was already seated at a table, two Peppermint Patty cocktails in front of him. Ponce’s is the only bar in town swishy enough to serve Peppermint Patties.
Baxter pushed my drink toward me. His eyes twinkled with glee as he invited me to tell all. “Come on, Zef, how’d you manage to fuck up this date?”
I moaned. I took a sip from my Peppermint Patty, but it wasn’t enough to ease my aching soul. “Len was gorgeous, like you said. Only problem—he wasn’t thirty-two like you said. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty. I felt like I was dating one of my high school boys.”
“Not exactly a bad fantasy,” Baxter said, signaling the waiter and ordering two more cocktails. “Except they’d put you in prison just for thinking it, and the line of stud cons, swinging dicks and horny old lags waiting to gangbang your ass would stretch around the whole cell block.”
Ignoring Baxter’s fantasies, I continued: “Len picked me up at my place and took me to FishCats. Seafood, right. So we’re eating and all of a sudden, Len reaches out with his napkin and wipes my face. Seems I had tartar sauce running down my chin.”
Baxter giggled and tried to spin a joke about cum facials, but I interrupted him. “I felt like I was his old grandpa, drooling into my oatmeal.”
“Is that all? That’s what you call fucked-up beyond belief, Zef?”
“Oh, the tartar sauce was nothing but a SNAFU. You know how FishCats has that step up before you reach the host’s desk?”
“Sure.”
I emptied my glass before I spoke. “So I tripped.”
“Oh, that’s just FUMTU.”
“Baxter, I sprawled. I fell flat on my face, and when I hit there was a loud ripping sound.”
“You tore your pants?” Baxter gesticulated wildly to the waiter and held up four fingers. Four empty glasses sat in front of us, and Baxter was going for replacements wholesale.
“No, worse.”
“Huh.”
“For a second I didn’t realize what had happened. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at me. Then I knew. When I hit the floor, I farted. Really loud. The whole restaurant heard me. FUBB.”
Baxter could only gape in amazement. “How’d the date go after that?” he inquired at last.
I grabbed a glass from the waiter’s hand and gulped the contents. “Len dropped me off at my house. Not even a good-night kiss. He said ‘so long’ and had driven halfway down the block before I reached my front door.”
“Okay, that was FUBB.”
“No shit.”
“Len was the wrong guy for you, Zef,” Baxter pronounced. “I can see that now.”
“But you’re the asshole who set me up for this failure,” I protested. “You should have told me the truth to begin with.” I drank another cocktail, vaguely wondering whether it was my fourth or fifth. I was feeling rather less inhibited.
Baxter shrugged. “No big deal, Zef. I met a guy last night who’s perfect for you. I’ll set it up.”
“Don’t bother, Baxter. Based upon past experience, he’d turn out to be seventy and weigh four hundred pounds.”
A look of doubt flickered across Baxter’s face. “Well, perhaps Ralph is a tad older. And I guess he could shed a pound or two.” He shrugged and ordered several more rounds.
“Look, Baxter. I know you mean well. But as a matchmaker, you’re FUBAR personified. I have to find my own boyfriends.” I was feeling quite drunk. I leaned toward Baxter and spoke confidentially: “Another problem was that Len kept talking like he was into oral action exclusively. Blow jobs are okay, but they’re not my first love. So even if I had hit it off with Len, he would not have delivered what I want.”
So we left any future dates hanging, and I set about trying to find my own boyfriends. Three months passed without a single guy sharing my bed. Then, out of the blue, as I was preparing to swim laps in the gym pool, my world changed.
I had bought my new turquoise swim briefs online. Checking out my assets in the mirror, I decided that the garment fit a bit too tight to be truly attractive. Mother Nature had gifted me with a bountiful bubble butt, so finding a bikini that covered my ass comfortably was a challenge.
“Looking tight, Mr. Wells,” a voice hailed.
A chill gripped my groin. The compliment had come from one of my high school students. Stung by the suggestive sarcasm, I muttered, “Tend to your studies, Julio.”
“We’re on vacation,” Julio called as I padded toward the swimming pool. Running into a student, especially a wiseass like Julio, inhibited my strut and left me self-conscious.
Sometimes a fellow can be plodding along completely self-absorbed when something happens that is so startling it tosses him for a loop. Miracles happen when we least expect them. Walking along the edge of the pool, I spied a gorgeous man gliding through the blue water of the second lane. Practicing a dolphin kick, he humped his ass down the lane. I could not tear my eyes from him. Wearing sexy swim briefs with a rear seam that streamlined his butt, he slithered through the water with an enticing swish.
I was so engrossed that I tripped over some damned fool’s discarded flip-flops, toppled sideways, and kerplopped into the hot tub with an almighty splash. For a second I must have been disoriented because I came to myself on the edge of the tub with the gorgeous swimmer pressing his lips to mine. He pumped my chest and blew air into my mouth with such tenderness that I wanted to die just so he could resurrect me.
“Hi,” I breathed, staring into his liquid eyes.
“Welcome back,” he said. “I was afraid that you’d passed into Summerland.”
I didn’t know what he meant about passing into Summerland , but I was glad that I hadn’t passed gas. “What is Summerland?” I asked.
“The afterlife,” he said smiling, “where you dwell in eternal youth with those people, pets and things you cherished.”
“Maybe you should give me more mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” I suggested. A titter of juvenile laughter met that remark. Rising to a seated position, I saw that Julio was sitting in the hot tub.
My savior gave Julio a firm look. “It’s not funny. Your boyfriend nearly drowned.” That comment nearly caused Julio to drown.
“I wish he was my boyfriend,” Julio gasped.
“Julio was one of my high school students,” I informed my savior. “In my British literature class this past school year.” His eyes widened at that. “Not what you’re thinking. I didn’t even know he was a member of this club until I ran into him in the locker room a few minutes ago.”
Julio grinned obscenely at me and climbed out of the hot tub. My former student was radiantly attired in a tropical floral-patterned thong swimsuit. His tanned derrière stuck out provocatively, and the front pouch was well filled.
My eyes must have bugged out as I stared at Julio’s enticing rump. For his part, my student wiggled his ass as he sauntered toward the sauna. My savior took me gently by the arm. “I’m Aeslin. Aeslin Blackthorne.”
“Zef Wells.”
“Zef?”
I colored. “Short for Zephyr.”
Aeslin gave me a bright look. “That’s quite the pagan name. Are you a pagan?”
“Uh, not to speak of. I’m not sure I’m anything. Religiously, that is.”
“I belong to a gay Wiccan circle. The Coven of the Magical Men. Would you like to attend a meeting with me?”
“Is that allowed? Bringing in outsiders, I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to come, too.” Instead of going into the sauna, Julio had been eavesdropping. “I’m gay. And Mr. Wells is my hero.”
For the first time, I realized that Julio had not been mocking me. This sixteen-year-old high school boy had a crush on me. A revolting sense of responsibility descended. I wanted to encourage him to accept his sexuality while discouraging him from forming an attachment to me. Furthermore, I had to be the gay role model, and no way did I feel like being any boy’s hero, much less the hero of a swishy Latino teenager with solid buttocks cut by his sexy swim thong.
“I doubt they’d allow underage lads, Julio,” I began, but Aeslin interrupted me.
“Of course you can participate in a circle, Julio,” he said. Aeslin smiled at me. “Wicca isn’t a sex club,” he said. “A circle isn’t a gay bathhouse. Attending a pagan ritual with a student present is no different from attending the same church, synagogue, temple or mosque.”
Not in the eyes of the school board, I thought, but I withheld my doubts.
Aeslin, Julio and I swam laps down the fitness club’s pool until we were gasping. Watching Julio’s butt slide above the surface of the pool was disturbing, but seeing Aeslin’s gorgeous derrière break surface was a delicacy to behold.
“Zef, would you have lunch with me?” Aeslin asked as we lounged in the hot tub to warm our muscles after the cool, salty pool water.
“I’m hungry,” Julio offered before I could respond.
Aeslin gave me a querying look. I winked at him, showing more assurance than I felt. “Julio,” I said, trying to broach the subject gently. “Aeslin is asking me on a date. Yes, I want you to be proud and out, but…”
“You don’t want me horning in on your date,” Julio interrupted with a snort. “Sure as shit, you want his cock, and three makes a crowd. I’d rather make it a threesome, Mr. Wells, but I get it. The principal would crucify you during ninth period assembly if you let me slide my cock up your sweet ass. I’m jail-bait on the hoof, fuck it all.”
“Shit, Julio,” I swore, aghast that he had divined my proclivities. “You’re just sixteen, and a high school student.”
“No problemo, mi hermano,” Julio said. “But just you wait two years, Mr. Wells. Just you wait and see.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, hell. I’m grown enough, and I want your body. My dick gets hard. I jerk off. And whatever the principal and school board think, when I stroke my cock I think about your cute ass. How about that, Mr. Wells!”
I don’t know what I would have done had Aeslin not begun laughing. “You’re right, Julio,” he gasped amid sidesplitting gales. “Zef does have a cute ass.”
“I know a great little seafood place,” Aeslin said after we had changed into our street clothes and he had programmed Julio’s phone number and promised to call about the circle gathering.
Aeslin had a green Honda Element. I had bicycled to the gym, so we pushed my bike into the back of his car. We chatted as we drove along, and I asked him what he did for a living.
“I make costumes.”
“You sew?”
“Oh, yes. I own a costume shop. I sell my creations at renaissance fairs, festivals, science fiction and fantasy conventions, and the like. I even make my own clothes. Someday I hope to switch from costumes to fashion. Maybe compete on ‘Project Runway.’”
I had noticed that his clothing fit him exquisitely. “Did you make your swimsuit?”
Aeslin grinned knowingly. “Want me to make you one like it?”
I’d known him for less than two hours, and he was ready to measure my ass for swim briefs. “Yeah, sure,” I gasped.
“Okay,” he said. “After lunch, I’ll run a tape measure over your butt.”
The town must have boasted fifty seafood restaurants, but I was not surprised when we parked at FishCats. My crowd always ended up at FishCats. Surprisingly enough, I made it through the meal with Aeslin without dribbling tartar sauce, falling down or ripping out a fart. Our conversation was interesting, if offbeat. Aeslin explained the Wiccan way to me. Gripping my hand, he fastened his glistering eyes on me and intoned:
