Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 12
Come on, come on, the singer above us belts out. And take another little piece of my heart now, baby….
When he’s naked, Angelo stretches out full on top of me, his flesh pressed against mine, his tongue thrust deep in my mouth. I raise his right arm and bury my face in his stinking pit, smelling the sharp, bitter stench, breathing it in, filling my lungs with it, as Angelo sticks his tongue in my ear. I drag my own tongue across Angelo’s torso, tasting the remains of the garlic paste mingled with the salt of his sweat. I break free and look at him.
“Sit on my chest,” I growl. “And drop your balls in my mouth.”
“Sure, Aaron,” Angelo grins. “Anything you say.”
Angelo straddles my chest and I suck on his red, fleshy sac, rolling my tongue around it, the scrotal hairs tickling my tongue as I breathe in the pungent ball stink. Angelo takes his hard dick and rubs it over my face, smearing my cheeks and nose with his pre-cum. I lock my eyes on his, my mouth stuffed with his balls, and slide my hands over his torso, kneading the flesh, pulling on it, flicking his nipples with my thumbs. Angelo isn’t smiling now. His eyes burn with the look of a man with a serious nut to bust, and his mouth is set grim with lust. He spits in his hand and reaches behind and starts jacking me, his spit-slicked fist sliding up and down my dick shaft.
“Fuuuuuck,” I groan, and Angelo keeps on stroking, his eyes burning into mine. After a few moments he pivots around and takes my dick in his mouth. I return the favor, and we fuck face and suck dick with serious intent, Angelo’s low hangers banging against my face with each thrust.
I feel Angelo’s fingers push into my asscrack and press against my bunghole. I thrust my hips up to give him easier access, and when he finally slides his finger up my chute, knuckle by slow, twisting knuckle, I give a long groan. Angelo’s lips slide up and down my shaft as his finger works my asshole, pushing hard against my prostate. The music from the stage above us crashes down around us, the air vibrates with it. The singer is crooning “Turtle Blues,” and the sound of her rasping voice penetrates me as much as Angelo’s thrusting finger. I suck on Angelo’s dick like my life depends on it, working it, cramming it hard down my throat, choking on it. Angelo pumps his hips, fucking my face with a burst of piston thrusts. Everything is reduced to raw sensation: Angelo’s dick stuffed in my mouth, his mouth sucking hard on my own dick, his finger skewering my asshole, his hard, sweaty flesh pressed against me, the music beating down, the heat pouring over us like thick, hot mud, and everywhere, the smell and taste of garlic….
Angelo’s body shudders. He takes my dick out of his mouth. “Oh, fuck, baby,” he gasps. “I’m going to shoot.” I quicken my pace, working my lips faster down his shaft, pulling on his balls. Angelo groans loudly, and I feel his load splatter against the roof of my mouth, one volley of spunk, and then another, and another after that. I suck hard, milking his dick of every drop of jizz. I don’t swallow, but just keep his spunk in my mouth, rolling my tongue over it, savoring it. Angelo’s come is pure liquid garlic, the taste of it sharp and pronounced. Angelo bends down and kisses me, and I share his load with him, my tongue thick with it as I french him.
“Do you taste it, baby?” I ask. “Do you taste the garlic?” “Fuck yeah,” Angelo sighs.
Angelo’s fist keeps sliding up and down my hard cock, and when I finally shoot, I arch my back up and squeeze my ass-cheeks tight. My spunk spurts out, splattering against my belly and chest, caking my torso. Angelo licks it up and then kisses me again. My spunk, like Angelo’s, is sharp with the flavor of garlic. Angelo collapses beside me, and we lie there on the hard-packed dirt, listening to the music, feeling the heat, soaked in garlic-scented sweat. I feel like I’m being marinated.
A week later, Angelo’s come still tastes of garlic, even though he swears he hasn’t had any since the festival. We order a pizza afterward. When the pizza man asks me what kind of topping I want, I tell him anchovies. I think it’s time for Angelo to come in a different flavor.
ELECTRICAL TYPE OF THING
Sam D’Allesandro
“There’s more to relationships than acquisition.” Scott was trying to talk me out of something. I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about the different ways a relationship can turn out. A lover can be a best friend, a piece of furniture, or an eternity. My Chris treated people like furniture—jumping from one to the next, rearranging the pieces, tossing out and retrieving. Chris says that he’s “a very visual person.” That means he doesn’t like the way a lot of people look right off the bat and quickly tires of the looks of those he does like. Visual fickleness. He moves from face to face, body to body, from inside of one asshole to inside of another. The whole process takes as little getting to know someone as it sounds.
Chris is beautiful, handsome, sexy. That means person after person is willing to let him put his cock inside of them, or lick the sweat from his belly, or do whatever Chris decides he wants. He knows just how to do everything so that you’re always ready for more. His eyes are brown and steady. Unavoidable. In a bar they look straight into yours from across the room—he’s interested in getting your interest going, no matter what he plans or doesn’t plan to do about it. But it’s the hands you should be watching. He might slip one of them down your pants and tease your ass-hole while giving you a kiss. Then when your resistance is zero he might give you a nice pat and be on his way. He might. He might do anything. With Chris even a pat and a quick kiss are worth something. That’s the way it is with him. And the way he does whatever he’s decided to do will always seem okay. Almost respectable. He’s never rude. His tone is always friendly. There’s nothing you could pin down as deceptive, yet the effect is the same: left alone with your buns in the oven, or your iron in the fire, or your head up your ass. That’s how I used to think of Chris. I hated him and I would stay with him whenever he’d have me.
I’ve known Chris for four years now. I’m the only one that he has continued to see and who has continued to see him for that length of time. We have sex about twenty times a year. Sometimes we do it four times in a month and then don’t see each other for four months. And we live in the same city. It’s not so big. Usually a chance meeting gets us started. It’s always up to him, he knows I’m ready. He knows I’m hooked on him. I know that if we’re at the same party we’ll end up together. We both know that I’m different than most of the guys he sees. We’re on to each other. He wants me in a different way, but almost as much as I want him. We are drawn to each other. We are each the free electron the other’s unbalanced nucleus needs. It’s an electrical type of thing. A charge.
Once when I was on the other side of the country and thought we’d never be in the same city again I sent him a card telling him he was an asshole and that I loved him. When I came back he told me he loved me too. If that was true, I wondered, then why did I get to see him so seldom? He said that I was the one who never called—then I couldn’t get hold of him for a month. Still, he does want me. Just not all the time. He does want me but that doesn’t mean he can be around me too much. He’s just the kind of guy he is. And I’m the kind I am. Everyone that can’t have him wants him. I want everyone I can’t have.
Over coffee I told Scott and Jeff about the way Chris and I are together. I wanted to hear someone else accept the relationship just as it is, the way I have. Instead they gently tried to tell me about the way loving relationships are supposed to be, always sharing and sensitive, etc. Chris and I are sensitive, only in a different way. Chris and I share some needs and the means to satisfy them. Together we’re basically self-contained. Scott and Jeff tell me that there are other needs to consider, that a relationship can’t be based on sexual intensity alone. I say if sexual intensity’s there, the relationship has already been based.
I don’t think we can always be sure what it is we need; that seems to be different for me than it is for Scott and Jeff. Or is it? Maybe Scott and Jeff have forgotten how good pure intensity can feel. Maybe they’ve never experienced the vulnerability of being spanked during sex by someone they really want. Or known the relief you can feel when someone gets you to forget yourself totally. Someone who helps you to find a subhuman state—no language, no questions, no problems—just a pulsing, quivering slab of sensation. People would pay a guru or a Rolfer to do that. Or Werner Erhard. It’s not an unusual desire. It’s not an unusual need, letting someone else take the reins once in a while. I’d rather be physically fucked by Chris than verbally fucked by Werner Erhard. I never wanted my parents to spank me but when I can pick who’s doing it I can enjoy a good spanking. Skin craves sensation. It’s those nerve endings. It’s the way we’re made.
I wonder if protozoa ever get into a little S/M. They seem to think about sex less and do it more. They do it all the time. One-celled nymphomaniacs constantly going at it in a big way, without the aid of cock rings, lubricants, vibrators, or pornography. That can’t be totally unfamiliar to us. It’s basic, after all.
I don’t think Scott and Jeff quite understood. I needed more of something. Self-awareness alone had become pretty vapid. Everything seemed too neat. I didn’t want to be dirty exactly but I didn’t want to shave every day either. I didn’t want to get hurt exactly but I liked sex rough. I needed someone who could satisfy urges I couldn’t even name. Someone complicated enough to be exciting, primal enough to be effective. For me that was Chris. He hadn’t chosen his shape and I hadn’t chosen mine, yet all the right barriers were there to create the charge.
I met Jack in L.A. He drove a little red truck with four-wheel drive and a Dolby stereo. At first I didn’t want him but his shyness interested me. He was very young and clean. He had hairy legs and arms and a totally smooth chest with large, sensitive nipples. His body seemed so vulnerable, so beyond his control—I could make him tremble in a second just by teasing his tits. Soon he wanted to live in my asshole. If I was standing naked anywhere, like brushing my teeth or shaving, he’d come out of nowhere and have his face between my legs, kissing my cheeks and licking my asshole. He was obsessed. I never stopped him. It seemed like his right. It was so easy to give him so much pleasure.
Sometimes he wanted me to spank him and then fuck him once his ass was red. He’d whimper all the way through it. I could tell it hurt him to be fucked, but he wanted it anyway. I respected his willingness to be hurt a little. He’d dumped his conditioning of not being able to want anything that hurts. It was a spiritualness with him, not a sickness. A respect for his own desires without questioning their right to exist. He was perfect, because he had no guilt.
Some people would have called him a whore. I love the whore he is. For him whore means beautiful, means uncalculated, means guiltless and basic—like the angels or the protozoa. When I left L.A. I made him promise to use rubbers. I wanted him to stay healthy. The rubbers won’t change things for him, this way he can think he’s doing it for me. And he’ll like that.
Now I am my Chris for Jack. I am his Chris. Now I understand Chris better. I do love Jack, I just can’t be with him all the time. He is different from the others. He’s not furniture, although sometimes our actions make each of us seem so. I’m only as mean as he wants me to be. Chris is the same way with me. It’s the way we are. None of us knew exactly what we needed, but we each knew we needed something. That’s what we got. I’m not embarrassed about it now. Maybe I know something Scott and Jeff don’t know. There’s more than one way to get and give affection, and to me, at the right time, they are all acceptable. If Jack and Chris and I are furniture than we are very well appreciated furniture. We love our periods of use.
One day Chris and I went to the beach. We thought we should try going on an outing together. We didn’t have much to talk about. All I could think about was wanting to have sex with him. Later we did. And then we were happy.
Jack came to visit me and brought his new boyfriend. He wanted me to watch him fuck his boyfriend, so I did. Afterwards he smiled and I could tell he was proud for me to see him take the role I usually took in our relationship. His boyfriend loved him and was proud for me to see Jack wanting him. Jack loved his boyfriend and was proud for me to see Jack want him and have him. Then the boyfriend went out for a while and Jack wanted me to fuck him. So I did. And all of this made him happy.
THE PANCAKE CIRCUS
Trebor Healey
Clown Daddy bused dishes at the Pancake Circus, a tacky breakfast joint on Broadway in Sacramento. I only went there when I was depressed and, in my half-baked noncommittal self-destruction, craving food that would kill me if I ingested enough of it. I wanted a steamy stack of buttermilk pancakes with that whipped butter they use that melts slowly and thoroughly, sort of like my psyche does when it’s heading south. (It does not have the same effect on your arteries, however, which slowly harden like dog shit in the sun.) And I wanted that diabetes-inducing syrup, of course. Two or three shots of it—lethal as sour mash—surreptitious, sticky and sweet as it vanishes into the spongy cake, absorbed like a criminal into the social fabric.
Clown Daddy began as a tattoo of a tiger jumping through a ring of fire—a tiger with a pacifier in his mouth. A tiger caged in a mess of plump blue veins—veins like the roots that buckle sidewalks. Straining as they held the pot poised over my cup; straining like my throat suddenly was; like my cock caged in my drawers.
“Coffee?” It was Josh Hartnett’s voice.
In an effort to compose myself, I drew a breath and followed those veins up that forearm, down through the dimple of its elbow and up across the creamy white bicep, firm and round as a young athlete’s buttcheek, before the blood-swollen tubes vanished into his white polyester shirt, reappearing at the neck and passing the Adam’s apple, which was nothing less than a mushroom head pushing boy-boisterously out of his neck-skin like a go-go dancer in Tommies. God have mercy, my soul muttered, as my eyes, having lost his veins somewhere under his chin (and damn, what a beautiful charcoal-shadowed chin), proceeded with anticipation up his clean-shaven cheek, savoring the pheromonal (and I mean “moan”-al) beauty of him, dead set for his eyes like a junkie tightening the belt. And bingo, like apples and oranges lining up in a slot—oh my god, I won!
I’m a homo and you know where I’d look for the coins. I felt my sphincter dilate, and my buttcheeks were suddenly like open-cupped palms, holding themselves out to him.
I came in my pants. And then, a bit unnerved to say the least, cleared my throat. I’m not sure I would have been able to even answer him if I hadn’t relieved the pressure somewhere. Fortunately, God had mercy after all.
I whimpered, “Yes, please.” I couldn’t even look at him, so I watched the cup as he filled it to the top, and then some. It crested the brim and ran down onto the saucer—and then I watched the pot move away, off to the next table.
Jesus H. go-go-dancing Christ. My drawers were soaked and cooling. I felt like a kid who’d wet his pants. This had happened to me only once before, in junior high, when Greg Vandersee had stretched, lifting up his arms and revealing a divine cunt of underarm hair that made me lurch forward as my cock emptied its boy-fresh copious fluids into my little BVDs.
Fortunately, Clown Daddy was a busboy and not my waiter. I could handle yes and no, but the buttermilk stack, with sausage and one egg over easy wouldn’t have been pretty—or perhaps even possible.
“Hi, I’m Edna. What’ll you have?” She smiled.
A bed, some lube, and an hour with your busboy would have been the honest answer. Or a fresh pair of undergarments. But this wasn’t about honesty, this was about self-destruction. Wasn’t it? I ordered the low-cholesterol eggbeaters in a vegetable omelet with whole wheat toast. Say what you will—lust leads to healthy choices. Doesn’t it?
What I hadn’t realized as I sat back gloating, my penis clammy in my damp, semen-soaked briefs, was that when I’d looked in Clown Daddy’s eyes my days as a law-abiding citizen had abruptly ended. Choices? Choices had nothing to do with it.
But ignorance is bliss. While it lasts. And while it lasted, my head wobbled like one of those big-headed spring-loaded dolls that resemble Nancy Reagan, swinging this way and that, watching for him, rolling up and down and around like an amusement park ride, taking in the Pancake Circus as I did so, its paint-by-number clowns adorning the walls, its circus tent decor, its uncanny ambience of a sick crime waiting to happen.
I watched him move about while my fly tightened like a glove over a fist. A wet fist, sticky and greedy for whatever it had just crushed to sticky pulp. My mind played the sideshow song as I imagined Clown Daddy behind the curtain, Edna up front barking for him: “Step right up, see the man who makes you cum in your drawers!”
I gulped the coffee down, which drew him back to my table like a shark to wet, red, bleeding bait.
He didn’t look at me until I thanked him, and then it was just a shy, straightboy grin. God, but his features were sharp, angled, and clean. His dark, deep-set eyes, the long lashes, the wide mouth with its full lips, the arresting pale blue-white of his skin and the night-black hair—that goddamn shadowed chin. And his eyes: dark as crude oil, raw out of the ground. He was undeniably, painfully handsome. Prozac handsome because he cheered me up. Wellbutrin handsome because one saw one’s sadness disappear like a wisp of smoke—and those pesky sexual side effects? Gone. Every woman in the place blushed when he cleared their plates. I probably wasn’t the only one stuck to the vinyl seat in my booth. Thank God my cock has no voice or it would have been barking like a dog.
But I felt the letdown all the same. He’s probably straight. Though he ignored the blushing dames. He seemed even a little annoyed by their attention. But we knew who each other were, the girls and I. I eyed them and they me. Did I look as greedy as them? Like there was one cabbage patch doll left and they’d kill to wrest it from whatever fellow shopper had his or her eye on it. Fact was, we all had holes we wanted his cock in. Simple as that. It was like there was one tree left in the world and the ditches yelped like graves to be the chosen one.
