Best Gay Romance 2011, page 12
“‘Keep pure your ideal, strive ever toward it, for mine is the secret door unto the land of youth, and mine is the cup of the wine of life, the grail of immortality.’”
“That’s the Wiccan Rede?” I asked.
“No,” he breathed, “that’s from the Charge of the Great Goddess.” Aeslin drew a deep breath. “The Rede is ‘an ye harm none, do as thou wilt.’”
“A Wiccan can do anything he wants? Anything?”
“Just so long as he does no harm.”
I was intrigued. Aeslin was sincere and charming, and his religion—if it could be called a religion—sounded innocuous. More than innocuous, his magical circle enticed me.
“I’d like to attend one of your circles.”
“Sooner than you think, Zef.”
“You also promised Julio. Let’s be careful. He’s sixteen, and remember, he was one of my students.”
“I understand, Zef. But Julio asked, and asking is the first step toward freedom.”
I didn’t know what to say to that comment. Aeslin seemed to be sincere about his less-than-traditional beliefs, and I then knew nothing about the Wiccan religion beyond the humbug strewn by mainstream religions that warred against other faiths or viewed them as competitors to be crushed.
Our lunch finished, I rode with Aeslin to his shop. The front windows of his storefront seemed small contrasted with the miraculously spacious interior. I could scarcely believe the amount of merchandise offered for sale: everything from hand-sewn kilts to harlequin tights, brilliant thongs to feathered trousers graced the bodies of mannequins.
An attractive blonde dressed as Pocahontas was standing behind the cash register. “This is Sal Dent.” Aeslin waved his hand toward the blonde. “My cousin.”
“Merry meet, Zef,” Sal said.
A guy in a skintight, anatomically detailed Cowardly Lion suit spun on his Rollerbladed feet. “And her brother Al.” Al waved with one hand as he wheeled and hung a collection of sparkling shirts on a rack.
Curling an arm around my waist, Aeslin led me up a flight of stairs to the studio. This designing, cutting and sewing room occupied the entire floor. Bolts of fabric by the hundreds leaned against the walls. Aeslin grabbed a tape measure. “Get undressed.”
I hastened to comply. No sooner had I dropped my shorts than he slipped the tape measure around my buttocks. He grabbed a bolt of nylon-Lycra with a tropical sunset print, measured briefly and cut pieces from the fabric.
I watched with fascination as he sewed the pieces together, inserting elastic for the waistband, leg openings and rear seam. I could scarcely believe how fast and accurately he worked. Within fifteen minutes, he had turned out a splashy swim garment.
Grinning proudly, he said, “Raise your leg.” I raised my right leg, and he slipped the swim briefs over my foot. I stepped into them with my left, and Aeslin pulled them up, adjusted my cock and balls in the front pouch, and aligned the rear seam. “Take a look, Zef,” he said, pulling me toward a full-length mirror.
The swim briefs held hints of red, orange, purple and even a flash of green, the colors of the sun setting off the West Indies. The pouch accentuated my maleness while the rear seam celebrated my anal cleft.
“You look good enough to fuck,” Aeslin joked. I wiped the grin off his face by touching my lips to his. Our mouths pressed and I snuggled closer. His heat warmed my body. My swimsuit tightened as I slid my tongue over his lips. I licked his teeth, and then I met his tongue. His hand slid down my back, exploring my bare skin. Revealed in all my hot lust, I felt naked beside him.
I gripped his solid butt through his trousers, kissing him harder. A low moan rumbled through him, and it seemed to originate not just with his mouth, but with his lungs and heart. His hand gripped my ass, and his fingers slid into my crack.
“Aeslin, did you order the ivory linen for the boatman’s shirts?” Sal Dent yelled, entering the studio. Then she emitted a gasp. “Whoops, blessed be, boys,” she said with a giggle.
“What’s going on?” Al inquired, completing our audience. “Hot shit, Aeslin. He’s gonna stretch that swimsuit all out of shape.”
My erection deflated then, and I stood rather abashed. “Don’t be embarrassed, Zef,” Aeslin said. “My cousins are pagans too. We all worship sex.”
“Hot gay man-to-man action pleases the goddess,” Al said helpfully.
“Is that what you do in your rituals?”
“Not at all,” Sal said. “The great rite is reserved for a special purpose.”
“The moon is full tonight,” Al said, giving Aeslin a suggestive look.
“He’s hinting that I should invite you to the ritual,” Aeslin said. “Will you attend with me?”
“Yes,” I said, uttering the word that would change my life.
The house stood to the north of the city where the backyards were larger and more private. A high wooden fence surrounded this yard, and the thick hedge outside ensured privacy. Eight fellows of various ages were talking quietly when we drove up. Aeslin introduced me around, explaining that I was his guest. Al arrived just then. He hugged me and his cousin, but said nothing beyond “Merry meet.”
We knocked on the wooden gate, and a man dressed in a light silvery cloak decorated with crimson symbols admitted us. Not surprisingly, the man who owned the house was also High Priest. He greeted each of us with a chaste kiss.
A shed had been converted to a comfortable changing room, including a bathroom with a large shower. We undressed and slipped crimson cloaks over our heads. The cloaks were light but the breeze was warm and the moon shone brightly upon the yard. As Aeslin led me to the sacred space, I felt a sense of wonder. Something that was neither a cold chill nor a hot flash rushed over me.
“It’s the magic,” Aeslin whispered. The priest anointed our foreheads with scented oil as we entered the circle. Once we were safely inside, he walked three times around with his wand, sealing our sacred ground. Then he invoked the watchtowers and banished any who would wish us harm.
A short ceremony, like a miracle play, followed, in which we learned of the deeds of the gay gods. Then we raised power to overcome the misfortunes that had befallen an absent member. The ceremony left me feeling as though I were walking with both feet in the air. When we sat to partake of ale, sweetened seed cakes and apple cider, I found that I was shaking. Aeslin placed his arm around me.
“I’ve never felt this way before.”
“The feeling grows stronger with each ritual,” Aeslin breathed.
“I want to be a part of this. To dwell in the magic always.”
Smiling gaily, Aeslin whispered, “‘And thou who thinkest to seek for me, know thy seeking and yearning shall avail thee not unless thou knowest the mystery; that if that which thou seekest thee findest not within thee, thou wilt never find it without thee. For behold, I have been with thee from the beginning; and I am that which is attained at the end of desire.’”
Two o’clock had slipped off the clock face before we returned to Aeslin’s apartment on the third floor of his building, just above his design studio. His cousins had rooms there too. However, Al had gone off with a guy from our circle, and Sal had not yet returned home from her own gathering.
When the door shut behind us, Aeslin pulled me close. “You are so beautiful, Zef,” he said. His hands played over my buttocks as we kissed. Right then I knew that he wanted my ass. Fortunately, my ass was one attribute that I was eager to give to him.
By morning we were largely satiated, both of us having come twice. I was stunned to see that we had slept until nearly eleven. Aeslin called down to the shop and spoke to Al. Assured that all was well, we played and groped each other as we fried apples with spices, baked a sweet corn bread, and whipped eggs with chives and grated parmesan cheese. We wrapped the omelets around the fried apples and sweetened our corn bread with melted butter and honey from a comb.
“Witchcraft!” Baxter shrieked into the phone. “FUBAR! FUBAR! FUBAR!”
Baxter was raised an evangelical Protestant, and he was still one at heart, no matter how many cocks he had sucked in his lifetime. I bit my tongue, regretful that I had told him about the magical ritual that changed my life. I finally pried myself off the phone and fled to the gym. Naturally, I ran into Julio in the weight room. Julio was turning heads in his liquid purple shorts and tapered shirt. My student promptly asked whether I “got lucky” with Aeslin.
I was in the middle of a squat when Julio called out, “Did you sit on his cock?” Heads turned.
“Julio, that’s not a proper question for a student to ask his teacher,” I admonished. I had sat on Aeslin’s cock, but it was none of Julio’s business.
Leaving the gym after my workout, I biked to Aeslin’s shop. Sal Dent was stuffing a young man into a thong with a front chamois flap. She pointed toward the ceiling. “He’s in the studio.”
Aeslin was designing an exotic carnival costume. He was frowning at a handful of green feathers when I entered, but he threw them down and greeted me joyously. After a kiss that loosened my toenails, I told him about my conversation with Baxter.
Aeslin shook his head sadly. “Think about the burning times, Zef,” he said. “The cruel prejudice against us has come down since the vandals tried to wipe out all knowledge of our religion, along with all who practiced the old ways.”
Because I was on my summer break, my time was my own. However, the premier drag event, the Clandestine Ball, was fast approaching, and Aeslin was making clothes for the Colonial Court of the Queens of the Riding. I spent my afternoon assisting him in selecting feathers and sequins. I couldn’t sew a stitch, but I’ve always had an eye for fashion. I’d like to think that I was more help than nuisance.
That evening we drove to the gym for a swim. I pulled up my swim briefs and gasped at the way they gripped my flesh. When I had tried them on in Aeslin’s studio, my unruly cock had distorted their fit. The rear seam conformed to my ass so well that I felt both better dressed and less dressed, and more comfortable, in that swimsuit than any other. Sashaying along the edge of the pool, I did not become aroused, but I could sense the arousal of others.
Aeslin and I plowed the pool side by side. The water flowed off my body, and I vowed never again to wear a swimsuit without a rear seam. The added definition shot my ass through the fluid with little resistance.
Back in Aeslin’s suite, we cooked a light supper. We followed supper with an extended session of passionate kissing, followed by equally passionate lovemaking. We took a protracted shower after the sex. As Aeslin slid the bar of soap up my buttcrack and washed me with his hand, he whispered his love in my ear. “Yes, Aeslin, I believe that you do love me. And I love you.” I had found my soul’s mate, my other half.
In the late afternoon, I returned to my apartment to check my mail. Only then did I realize that my cell phone was sitting on the charger. I had been so preoccupied with Aeslin that I had forgotten it.
Fifteen voice mail messages awaited me. Half were from Baxter and the rest from phone numbers I did not recognize. I tried one of the unknown numbers and discovered that the call had come from the local newspaper. The next I tried was from a television news reporter. I hung up without stating my name.
When I got Baxter on the phone, he sounded contrite—quite unlike his usual demeanor. “SAPFU, Zef. I’m so sorry.”
My heart leaped into my throat. What could Baxter have done that surpassed all his previous fuck-ups? The possibilities boggled the mind.
“I’ve got messages from reporters,” I ventured. “What did you do?”
“Well, you saw the article.” Baxter’s voice sounded strangled.
A freezing sensation gripped my balls. “What fucking article?”
Baxter gulp sounded like he was swallowing a melon. “In today’s paper.”
The Northwest Bugle was sitting on my table, still in its orange wrapper. Setting down the phone—Baxter could hang fire for a few minutes—I began to leaf through it. The article was mercifully short, but I saw that it was barely the window dressing for the curtain of fire to follow.
Local Teacher Suspected of Witchcraft by Bryce Dickens
An English teacher at Millard Fillmore High School is suspected of being a secret member of an all-male witches’ coven.
Zephyr Wells, who teaches impressionable teenagers as young as fourteen, is an openly homosexual male.
Pastor John Tuttle of the Last Hope Baptist Church spoke with the Bugle after a troubled parishioner sought counseling upon learning of Mr. Wells’s affiliation with the secret cult.
“Naturally, we are concerned,” Pastor Tuttle said. “This man teaches minor children.”
Tuttle clarified his concerns when he said, “How could this man not present a danger to our children?”
A perusal of Wiccan websites revealed images of bizarre ceremonies conducted in the nude.
According to A. W. Pope of Christup. com, Wiccans claim to practice a nature-oriented religion, which raises speculation about fertility rituals, including orgiastic group sex.
“Allowing perverts like Wells to enter a classroom is a violation of our child protection laws,” Pastor Tuttle said.
“We have a problem with witchcraft in our schools. Homosexual witches are indoctrinating our children into Satanic sexual perversions.”
Despite repeated phone calls from the Bugle, Mr. Wells could not be reached for comment.
Calmly, I folded the paper and picked up the phone.
“Holy fucking ape shit, Baxter,” I screamed. “I suppose that you were the asshole ‘troubled parishioner’ who sought counseling.”
“I didn’t realize that Pastor Tuttle would react so strongly,” Baxter admitted.
Before my horrified eyes swept a vision of my new lover reading the newspaper. “Aeslin!” I shouted and dropped the phone. Forgetting Baxter, I rushed out the door and biked to the studio. Sal Dent was locking up when I arrived.
“Back so soon?” she grinned lewdly. “The cum factory must be working overtime.”
“Did you read the newspaper?” I demanded, already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m over here,” Aeslin called from behind a rack of ornate capes.
Wheeling on the stairs, I waved the newspaper at him. “It’s a disaster,” I cried. Without warning, I burst into tears.
Aeslin laid the paper aside and took me into his arms. “Nothing is that bad, Zef,” he said. His smooth hands caressed my shoulders. He pulled me tighter against him.
Brokenly, I related what had happened. Sal picked up the paper and read the article aloud while Aeslin kissed away my tears. Our kisses grew more passionate as our bodies responded to each other. His hands wandered down my back until he gripped my buttocks.
“At a time like this,” I asked, heedless that Sal would discover that I loved deep anal penetration, “you still want my ass?”
Hot lust swept over me as I said it, a desire so fiery that I could scarcely believe it. My career might lie in ashes, my community might shun me, my students might be mocking me, and I was about to deal with the situation by getting screwed in the best way. “I want you inside, Aeslin. I want your cum.”
Preoccupied with the newspaper, Sal Dent yelped, “This is shit!” Then she chuckled, “But it’s kinda funny.”
Ignoring Sal, Aeslin and I slipped upstairs. As before, I started off taking the passive role, but as the night progressed we switched back and forth. Our lovemaking was richer than before, and our bond grew closer. Aeslin began to tell me about his life, his hippie parents who found his gayness “cool,” the taunts and bullying he had endured in school and the path that led him into sewing and design.
I told him some of my secrets as well, and by morning I knew him better than I knew Baxter. “Do you feel like you should have known me all your life?” Aeslin asked.
It was a funny question, but I knew what he meant. It was like being reunited with a lost love, even though we had never met before that week.
The next morning, Aeslin, Sal, Al and I met around the table and planned our media strategy. We composed my statement, edited it, proofread it, revised it some more and practiced reading it aloud until every word rang with the clarity of absolute truth.
Finished, we hired a messenger service to hand deliver copies to the reporter Bryce Dickens, his editors and publishers. We also sent copies to every other paper in the region, even the weeklies and the shopper rags. Then I rang up the television news channels and scheduled a press conference for that afternoon.
Standing on the steps with Millard Fillmore High as my backdrop, I addressed the cameras and reporters: “My name is Zef Wells. I have been slandered and slurred with false accusations, wild conclusions and cruel assumptions. Sadly, the source of this attack is John Tuttle of the Last Hope Baptist Church, who jumped to odious conjectures and leaped to libelous words based upon one troubled individual’s confusion. I am a gay man and I did attend one Wiccan service—clothed. In no way does either of these affect my performance as a classroom teacher. I maintain the highest standard of professionalism with my students. Now I will truthfully answer all questions.”
Two hundred questions followed, all of which I addressed honestly. I answered questions until the assembled reporters could think of nothing else to ask. Fortunately, no one asked my opinion of deep anal penetration. Either they didn’t think about asking it, or the subject was too hot for the news.
Aeslin and I were married in a Wiccan handfasting service two years after we met. Baxter gave me away, and Sal gave Aeslin to me. As the high priest tied the third cord around our wrists, binding us to each other, Al and Julio, the latter now safely eighteen and Al’s lover, showered us with flowers and sprinkled us with white wine.
