Best Gay Erotica 2007, page 13
“Bullshit! Kurt exists. I can fucking prove it. He’s made movies, hundreds of them. Take me to the nearest porno store and I’ll show you. You might even want to rent a few. I’ve read some dykes get off on guys fucking more than they do on lesbian porn.”
Pat ignores my outburst. “Yes, there is a Kurt Curtis, who has made a number of adult videos,” she says calmly. “Has quite a following, from what I understand. He’s so popular he sells a dildo cast from his own genitals.”
“So, you see!” I rest my case.
“No, don’t you see? You have never met the real Kurt Curtis. All you have is a plastic replica of his penis. You have no boyfriend, James. Just a fantasy that you allowed to consume your life.”
I’m silent so long that Pat says my name, concern in her voice. “James? Do you understand now? Do you understand why you were brought here?”
“Yes.”
She smiles, and says I’ve taken an important first step. With luck, I’ll be out of the hospital by the end of the month. “And ultimately, that’s what we all want. You out of here and living a healthy life as soon as possible.”
I nod and smile. Yes, ultimately, that’s what I want, too. The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner I’m back with Kurt. I’m getting a boner just thinking about him. What do these idiots know?
SATURDAY PUNK
Bob Condron
Larry stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and headed away from Dublin town center, toward Rathmines. He needed to clear his head. A brisk walk would do the trick. Eighteen years old and in a semipermanent state of arousal. All sexed up with nowhere to go on a damp Dublin day.
Rain started spitting and the wind was up. At first Larry found it bracing, but he quickly began to wish he had brought a hat of one sort or another. His head was shaved and his skull was beginning to ache with the damp and the cold. Still he kept walking. Singing to himself, the B-side of the Clash’s “White Riot.” “1977…I hope I go to heaven…” Every inch the Saturday punk in his torn school blazer and bondage pants.
He had had no intention of going into the Toban Street toilets. None. But there they were just up ahead, and set back from the road. The street deserted but for a van parked opposite. On impulse, he snuck in out of the rain. One man was standing stock-still at the stalls. Larry took up position alongside him, undid his fly and stared at the wall straight ahead. No sound of pissing, no movement from either party.
The other guy must have been in his midforties, thickset and chunky, with a full, thick beard and moustache. There was nothing manicured about him. A man’s man. A Garda? The bearded guy turned his head to the side almost imperceptibly and cast an eye over Larry. Larry paused, not knowing if he should risk making a move. After a moment’s hesitation, he bottled out, zipped up and made his escape.
He got no more than ten feet from the exit before looking back. The burly guy had followed him out. Another ten feet, another look. The elder’s eyes once again met the younger’s, so Larry turned around and waited. His pursuer was over like a shot.
“Hello. How are you doing?” The man’s eyes now checked Larry out from head to toe while his face split in a big, friendly grin.
“That’s not a Dublin accent now?” Larry asked him.
“No. I’m up from the country. You live around here though, do you?”
“Yeah…but not on my own,” Larry added quickly.
The man looked up into gray storm clouds. “I’ve a couple of hours to pass but the weather looks none too good.”
“You’re right there. Pity. I’ve a couple of hours to pass myself. Don’t fancy getting cold and wet.”
The man’s eyes danced down to Larry’s basket. “Would you like to go for a little drive in my van?”
“You mean now?”
Larry waited until the man looked him straight in the eye and nodded.
“Sure, why not.”
They drove toward the university accompanied only by the sound of the engine and, above this, the wipers sweeping drizzle from the windscreen. It gave Larry the opportunity to size up his companion. His hair was cut fairly short but tousled, curly and sandy blond. The hands that clutched the wheel were bigger than average, as were his feet. Big feet, big meat? thought Larry, and smiled to himself. The man wore heavy brown boots, brown corduroy trousers, a brown checked shirt and had big, brown eyes to match. He put Larry in mind of a woolly mammoth. Big and strong and tough, a throwback to some former time. Yeah, he would do; he would do very nicely.
The campus grounds were quiet on a weekend even at the best of times, but on this rain-gray afternoon they were totally deserted. The man parked near a quiet wooded spot and, fixing the hand brake with one swift hand movement, let go one knob and clutched another—Larry’s. Purposefully, he rubbed Larry’s fly. Larry sighed and as the air eased out of his lungs the blood rushed into his dick. Stiff and swollen in moments, his mickey throbbed as the stranger worked his fingers deep into the grooves of Larry’s bulge.
“I bet you’ve got a right big cock on you. I bet you’ve got a big, fat mickey,” the man chuckled, lustily.
“Take it out and see for yourself,” Larry urged him.
“In the back.” He tipped back his head in the direction of the rear of the van. “More room to get comfortable.” The man already had the driver’s door halfway open.
Outside, the stranger threw wide the double doors at the back of the van to reveal a makeshift bed; foam cushions covered by a blanket. Larry put one foot up to climb in and the man cupped both his buttocks, hoisting him over the threshold. Larry landed facedown. Climbing in behind him, the man pulled the doors shut and fastened them securely. Pitch black. Then he flicked the switch on some kind of portable lamp. The stranger’s face was flushed and glistened in the yellowish glow.
Larry flipped over onto his back and relaxed, his hands behind his head, as the man knelt over him. The stranger’s fingers fumbled with Larry’s belt buckle and the button on the waist of his jeans, then trembled as they tugged the zip down over the pronounced curvature of Larry’s bulge. No underwear meant all obstacles had been removed and Larry’s cock burst forth.
The man chuckled, “I’d have won that bet! Fuck! Will you look at the size of that! What a beauty!” His thick fingers now encircled Larry‘s pulsing girth and retracted the heavy coverlet of foreskin. Helmet of Larry’s cock exposed, the stranger lowered his salivating mouth slowly down.
The man hesitated, eyes closed, wet tongue half hanging out, and then he dipped the pointed tip into Larry’s drooling piss slit. Lapping up the clear, sparkling juice, he savored it in much the same way a connoisseur of fine wine might test the first sip from a fresh bottle. Then, reverently, he kissed the lips of Larry’s knob, allowing his own to part and slide over it. Lips fixed around the rim, he sucked for a while, taking time to unbutton his own fly and yank free his distended organ. Clasping it in his fist, he began to jerk the foreskin back and forth, back and forth.
It was raining heavily now, pounding on the metal roof above their heads. Inside, the van smelt of the country, of straw and earth. The stranger’s mouth worked up and down the full length of Larry’s shaft, relaxing his throat to embrace him fully. Sensations of pleasure rippled through Larry’s entire body as the man’s beard tickled his balls. He clasped the back of the stranger’s head and let his hand rest there, moving in rhythm as the stranger’s eager mouth plunged forward and back.
This guy is desperate, thought Larry, but it was a desperation that delighted him. The man was cock hungry, and Larry’s dick was the sole focus of his ravenous and seemingly insatiable appetite. Something profound struck Larry as he looked down upon the rapturous expression on the man’s face. His need was primal. Sucking cock was as basic and fundamental to him as the need to breathe or eat or piss.
Now the stranger was whining through lips clamped tight around Larry’s member. Larry knew he couldn’t hold off much longer, even if he had wanted to.
“I’m close…close to coming.”
The man pulled back and gasped, “Can I swallow you?”
“Yeah…yeah…just don’t fuckin’ stop.”
Massaging Larry’s bollocks, the man redoubled his efforts— moaning with his mouth full, clobbering on his own dick, urging Larry to come. A searing white light flashed before Larry’s eyes as aching balls lifted to expel his payload. The stranger gulped and snaffled and squeezed the juice from Larry’s plums. Larry’s body convulsed and his cock continued to spasm. The man hungrily consumed every drop, and continued to suck on Larry’s softening tool as he pumped his own, whilst his other hand clutched his own balls and tugged. He was whimpering as his lips held on to Larry’s dick. Larry raised himself up on his elbows. He reached forward and unbuttoned the man’s shirt and let his fingers swirl over the man’s hairy chest before finding his nipples. The stranger let out a squeal as Larry tweaked on an erect node. A moment later, the first arch of boiling lava sprayed the blanket. Then a second spurt, a third, a fourth.
Cum was everywhere. Over his hand, over the blanket, and most of it over Larry, soaking into his clothes. He really didn’t care. Exhausted, the man collapsed down beside him and Larry hugged him.
“That was fucking beautiful,” the stranger said, rubbing his beard over Larry’s cheek. “Fuckin’ beautiful!”
Larry took the man’s hand and licked up the sperm from gnarled skin, tough as leather. “Are you a laborer?” he asked. “Farmer,” the man replied.
The stranger had sucked Larry’s cock and Larry didn’t even know his name. Now, in the comfort of Larry’s arms, he let loose his intimacy.
“Are you married then?” the man asked.
“Nah. Why?”
“Only you said you didn’t live alone.”
“Oh, that.” Larry thought quickly. “I share with a mate.” It was a lie born out of necessity. He could hardly tell this big bruiser that he still lived at home with his mammy.
“A mate you fuck with?”
“And then some!” One lie begetting another.
“Lucky young bastard! Thought you were too young to be married. How old are you?”
“Not so young. Twenty-one.” He was getting good at this. The man sighed. “It’s a good age.”
“And are you married?”
“With ten kids.”
“Ten!”
“Had the first three by the time I was twenty-one.”
Silence. “And how long have you been…having sex with men?”
“Long before. But we didn’t talk about such things back then. Didn’t give it a name. No one knows about this…side of me.”
“You must feel pretty isolated?”
“You’re not wrong there.”
The man held tight on to Larry. For the longest while, or so it seemed, they kissed and cuddled like a courting couple. Eventually, the stranger said it was time to make a move.
On impulse, Larry reached into his blazer pocket, producing a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbled his name and address and handed it over. “In case you want to keep in touch.”
The stranger looked at the scrap of paper for a long moment. “My name’s Liam, by the way.” He folded the scrap, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and said, with a melancholy air, “Seeing you again would be grand but it just might make things a wee bit too complicated.”
The clinic was down a back street. Hidden away from prying eyes. Larry had made an appointment but still had to take a seat and sweat.
“The doctor will see you shortly,” said a starched nurse with all the warmth and understanding of a fridge-freezer.
Larry felt sick.
First, the irritating itch began under the foreskin, then the rash had appeared shortly after. A rash of tiny red pimples across his cockhead. Where did he get them from? The possibilities seemed endless—he had been putting it about a bit. Had he got it from the farmer or given it to him? Shit! Shit! Shit!
“The doctor will see you now,” grunted Nurse Face-Ache. “Go down the hall, first room on your right.”
“Thanks,” Larry replied, with no conviction.
He entered the room to find a woman doctor, hair pulled back in a severe bun, black plastic half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was seated behind a desk. As he approached she looked up from a chart and smiled. At least her face was kindly. She must be used to abject terror in her line of work, Larry thought.
“Take a seat,” she said. “Now, what’s the problem?”
He explained the symptoms and she said, “We had better have a little look.”
Usually, he would have had no problem presenting his pride and joy for inspection—but in these circumstances? It was excruciating! He pulled back the foreskin and waited to be told the worst. She examined it, then, raising her eyebrows, she looked directly into his eyes.
“Nothing to worry about, Mr.—” She checked her register. “—er…Smith. It’s just a little touch of beard rash.”
FROM BILL IN EXILE
C. Scott Smith and William Meloyd Cullum
The following correspondence is excerpted from a collection of letters exchanged between Bill (my best friend) and me (Scott) while Bill is locked up in prison for selling methamphet-amine to upper-middle-class gay white boys in New York City. I wrote the Bill in Exile entries, Bill wrote the Posts from the Joint; they were posted on the blog Bill in Exile beginning in January 2005. The letters, and by extension the blog, are nothing more than a continuation of the conversation that Bill and I have been having with each other for almost twenty-five years.
Feb. 3, 2005: Bill in Exile #13—Fucking Private Ryan
Dear Bill,
Ski, my buddy from the Marines, was a real piece of work… how is it, with you having AIDS on the brain since like 1983 and being a low-life degenerate drug addict for even longer, that you can remember shit like that? It’s a wonderment!
But you reminding me of Ski in turn reminded me of a time in the Marines when he decided he was going to get me laid with this absolutely drop-dead boy named Private First Class Johnny Ryan (not his real name, for reasons that will be clear to you later). We were at Camp Fuji on the slopes of Mt. Fuji on mainland Japan, and my infantry company was going to do a thirty-mile night forced march around part of the mountain, and at the end of the march we were going to bivouac (that’s military talk for camp out).
Each man in an infantry platoon (thirty-six, approximately) is issued what’s known as a shelter half, which is one half of a pup tent; you’re supposed to buddy up with another Jarhead in order to combine the two halves and make a tent that two can sleep in. Before the march kicked off my platoon got temporarily assigned a new guy—Johnny Ryan. He was an antitank gunner and his assignment as a temp meant he didn’t have anyone to “hooch” with. I was the platoon sergeant, having just been bumped up to that job from squad leader after our old platoon sergeant, Sgt. Head (real name, I swear to god!) got caught giving a little of the same, head that is, to another grunt, and got his butt slung in the brig.
Anyway, I was the senior enlisted man in the platoon, so it fell to me to hooch with new guy, Johnny—just about the most smokin’ hot beautiful blond boy from the woods of South Carolina. Over six feet tall, with big wide shoulders from slinging hay on some sharecropper’s farm no doubt, pouty lips, and these insane sapphire blue eyes with gold streaks. Plus, he was underage when he went to enlist, and had to have his parents sign over his guardianship to the Marines. He was all of seventeen years old on the day he reported to my platoon, and I’m pretty sure it was right about then that I developed my taste for chicken. I was a grizzled veteran of twenty-two. Ryan reports for duty and Ski recognizes immediately that he is a potential target of opportunity for me, but he knows that I am way too shy to do anything about it on my own. Also, just recently having Sgt. Head locked up for buggery would probably keep me from moving on Ryan, and Ski knew this. So Ski announces to Ryan and the rest of the platoon before we step off that since Ryan has drawn the lot to hooch with me, and since it’s his first time with first platoon, he has to comply with the first platoon tradition: that every Marine who hooches with the platoon sergeant for the first time has to put out.
Needless to say, everyone in the platoon thought this was hysterical, even Ryan at first, but First Platoon Kilo Company 3rd Battalion 2nd Marines had been together for over a year and a half at that point and we all knew each other’s moves by heart, and at this instigation by Ski the platoon became like a bunch of sharks that had just been chummed. They saw what Ski had in mind and they went for poor Ryan like he was a baitfish. For the entire forced march they were saying shit like, “Oh Johnny, you better limber up that hole.” “Johnny gonna give some poop chute tonight.” “Hey Ryan, you love me long time GI?” They actually started calling him “Johnny-poo.” You know, the usual kind of harassment that barely postado-lescent boys perpetrate upon one another when they spend too much time together in close proximity, while simultaneously possessed of raging hormones and encouraged by their superiors to display extreme aggression at all times—and carry automatic weapons when they go to work. By the end of the forced march, Johnny was acting a bit frazzled and squirrelly and I’m sure that I was starting to look to the poor boy like a big dangerous spider just waiting for the next meal—and he just knew that he and his stellar ass had been cast by Ski in the role of the fly.
So we finish the hump around sunrise and it’s getting ready to rain its ass off and we put up our tents and everyone is just fucking dog-assed tired. I get in the tent and Ryan climbs in after me and I’m on my side with my head propped up in my hand facing him and Ryan gets all settled to go to sleep and just as he closes his eyes I say, “So how ’bout it, junior?” You could just about hear that poor boy’s eyelids snap open. He goes, “How ’bout what?” in that lovely South Carolina drawl. I said, “You know the platoon rule. First time you hooch with me you gotta put out.”
“Oh man,” he said, “I thought you guys was jes’ fuckin’ with me.” I said: “Oh no, we were dead serious. You gotta put out.” At this point you could hear something like terror in his voice when he said again, “But I thought y’all was jes’ fuckin’ with me. ’Sides, I never done nuthin’ like that before.” By now it was getting really blowy outside and the rain was just starting and I said, “Look Ryan, I’m gonna give you ten seconds to think about it. If by the time I count down from ten you haven’t decided to put out then you can get the fuck out and sleep in the rain.” So I start counting from ten and don’t you know that somewhere around six or seven I just fell flat asleep? Next thing I know I’m being shaken awake, and as I’m doing the old wha? who’s there? Ryan says to me, in what is a much huskier sounding voice, with just a bit of very sexy tremolo to it, “Okay sir, I’ll put out.”
