Hot Gay Erotica, page 13
He admitted defeat only when Mel came over and laid a liver-spotted hand on his arm. “You’re makin’ quite the mess, kid.” The sickly-sweet smell of cherries clung to his clothes. “If you lost somethin’, best file a report in the morning.” Mel nudged an apple core with his shoe and shook his head. “Make sure this lobby’s clean as you found it and then you can go.”
Scott made one sweep of the area immediately outside the dorm, even checking out the thick shrubbery along the building in case Grasky had tossed the calendar there. By the time he admitted defeat, the cracked glass of his watch revealed it was nearly midnight. Grime covered his hands, his arms, the front of his shirt, and his face where he had accidentally wiped sweat from his eyes.
The tightness in his chest, the sting at the corner of his vision promising that at any moment he really could just start sobbing, were not because he’d lost the best lay of his life. No, the calendar had been proof that magic existed; that reality could be bent, cheated, even seduced on occasion. His uncle’s gift had made him special, different from everyone else in the world.
Scott ignored Mel’s nod when he came back inside. He cursed the elevator doors when they failed to open at his command. He could feel the heat rise off his limbs as he climbed five flights.
His fingers smudged the doorknob as he returned to a dark suite. His skin cried out for a shower. But the bathroom door was shut, light inside slipping out from the cracks. He could hear the water running and more. A girl’s high-pitched giggles, then moans. Andre’s voice, slightly muffled.
Terrific, Scott thought, the one time I’m filthy. And like I need a reminder Andre’s hot and straight. He came close to banging on the door, but realized that his anger was misplaced. Instead, he collapsed against the wall, partially out of sight, and waited.
He guessed ten minutes or so passed—enough time for Andre to make the girl shriek twice as he probably used up all the hot water too—before the door opened.
Wearing only a towel around his waist, Andre stepped out first. Scott found it difficult to stay miserable, if only for the moment he eyed his suitemate. Boyish and sporty came to mind. The close-cropped dark hair and long sideburns were matched by a light dusting along his chest and stomach. The light from behind caught his grin as he turned and held out a hand to the girl behind him.
If the rest of the guys he roomed with weren’t so hooked on television, he might have never recognized the girl, who was also wrapped in a towel. What the hell was a celebrity doing with Andre? Not that he blamed her—but wasn’t there an unwritten rule that TV stars aren’t found in dorm rooms in the middle of nowhere?
The same light that revealed them both also caught Scott where he sat. He noticed that Andre had turned back, to look down at him. He felt awkward, suddenly concerned that the guy would yell at him for catching them in the midst of—well, after—a private moment.
But instead Andre greeted Scott with a chuckle, one that lasted briefly before Scott’s sorry state became apparent. He then knelt down, and the towel shifted. The girl disappeared into the darker recesses of the room. “Dude, what’s wrong?” Andre asked gently, as Scott stared at the tip of some very generous anatomy.
Drops of cool water fell from Andre’s damp hair onto Scott’s red face. The sensation triggered his emotions; he started rambling on about the calendar Grasky had trashed, hoping that the wet streaks on his face were more fallout from Andre’s wet hair and not his own tears.
His suitemate’s reaction was not what Scott expected. “You too? Shit, I thought it was just my calendar.”
“What do you mean?”
Andre motioned with his head to where the half-naked celebrity had vanished. “Do you really think I could score with her?” He smirked. “I’ve had her…I mean, I’ve had her calendar for months. Nothing happened until I moved in here, then she starts visiting me at night, like she just walked off the page.” He paused. “So, what, did we find the same brand or something?”
Okay, Scott thought, all insanity aside, one magic calendar made sense—but two? Unlikely. So it had to be the suite itself. “Not that. It’s this place. Our suite, I think. It brings them to life.”
“So then all you need to do is get yourself a new calendar.”
Scott frowned and lightly knocked his head back against the wall. “What good will that do? Grasky will just take it down again.”
“We’ll worry ’bout that asshole later, okay? Take a shower. Tomorrow we’ll get you a new calendar.”
Enough hot water remained to wash the dirt off Scott, who could not stop thinking of Andre in the towel, or that the guy wanted to go shopping with him the next day.
In the center of the mall, not far from the food court, Scott and Andre looked over kiosks of calendars.
“What about this one?” Andre held up Island Heat. The Polynesian hunk on the cover with flowers in his hair looked ready to do more than hula. “I bet he’d be hot.”
Scott laughed while blushing. Andre seemed more excited about buying an all-male calendar than he was.
“You keep at this and your hetero-ness will be in jeopardy.”
Andre grinned. “Aww, I may be straight but I’m not narrow.” He punched Scott playfully on the arm.
Scott bent down to see what was on the bottom shelf, spotting a calendar that prompted a sinister thought. He held it up to show Andre.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not for me. Grasky.”
Andre’s eyes went wide. “Damn. That would be so perfect.”
Scott turned it over in his hands. Would serve that asshole right. “But too dangerous. I mean, what if I got in the way.”
“Not a problem. You can sleep in my room tonight. Chris went home for the weekend, so the other bed is free.”
“But what about you and Miss Celebrity?”
“What about it? You can watch.” Andre stepped closer. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to.”
Scott stood, stunned, not sure what to say or what he even could say. He looked into the other boy’s eyes.
“I’d want you to,” Andre said in lower tone. “Would be cool. A little kinky.”
Scott swallowed before nodding. “Okay.” He found himself instantly growing hard at the thought of watching oh-so-hot Andre thrusting away. Scott blushed, sure that Andre knew the effect he had on him. A bit unsteadily, he took both calendars to the tired woman working the register.
When Grasky came back from dinner, he found one of the calendars hanging on the wall over his bed. “What’s this?”
Scott looked up from his calculus textbook. “A peace offering.”
“Gargoyles of Notre Dame?” Grasky lifted up the October image and glanced at the photograph underneath.
“I thought you’d like it. I have the receipt so if you’d rather have something else…”
Grasky shrugged and walked away.
Scott looked at the clock, then at the stone beast’s image. Sharp teeth lined its canine snarl. He could well imagine how its bite would feel. He briefly considered tearing down the calendar, thinking that some punishments are too severe.
But then he overheard Grasky’s sour voice calling someone on television a “faggot,” and he remained seated. He kept one eye on the time, eager for Andre to arrive, and the other on the impending menace of the October gargoyle.
BACK AND FORWARD
Syd McGinley
I’m not a foot guy, but kneeling in front of him has its own supplicant feel. He has long thin feet with a few pale golden wires on each big toe. I tug one hair with my teeth. He twitches.
“Pampering, boy, not teasing.”
I tug again. “I may be on my knees but I’m not your boy,” I snap.
He grins.
His extra height makes him think he’s in charge no matter how often I prove he can be my bottom. It goes back and forth between us. He claims I only win when he’s already wiped from rugby. He is tired today, but I’ve let him win. He won’t be able to use that excuse again. Lose a battle to win the war, I remind myself. Besides, he deserves a reward today. It’s positive reinforcement.
We always wrestle for who gives it up. If we stick together, I’ll tell him about my college wrestling scholarship, but for now I say: Only Greco-Roman, Paul—not WWE flash. I long to suplex him and watch his surprise, but I play fair. Although he’s bigger and stronger, he has no technique. Good instincts, but once he’s pinned or caught in a roll-up he’s stuck for a counter and he’ll try to cheat—fishhooking’s his favorite desperation move—and I’ll sneak in a move a trained wrestler would recognize. So far I’ve got away with it.
I squeeze his little toe hard and he opens his eyes. He’s beat from his match, wrestling me, and getting his leg over. He rotates his wrist so I can see the play of first the extensors, then the flexors. Those muscles always cause the first pulse quicken, the first “I’m gonna have him” moment with any guy I fuck. And it was true with him: I saw his arm reach across for a pint, his wrist extending from a dirty rugby shirt….
I’d never knowingly met a rugby player before, but I have the French team calendar in my bedroom. I was in my “just drinking” bar and it was full of the expat Brit team who’d stopped off after an away fixture. Several sweaty obnoxious Brits were destroying my illusions by the time I saw Paul’s arm stretch across the bar, and I decided to stay. It was a challenge picking up a post-match player surrounded by his mates, but if I didn’t act then, I knew I’d have to find their next match. I’d feel desperate, groupie-like, and I have better things to do on Sundays than watch men thunder around in muddy herds. I like my rugby players fresh from the shower and ready to do as they’re told. It was surprisingly easy to catch his eye and end up side by side in the head. We said a few inane things and Paul shook himself off more elaborately than necessary. Even for an uncut guy. He gave his foreskin a squeeze as if he were milking it, and bluntly said, “I expect service.”
I laughed. “SOL, buddy. That’s my line.”
We paused. Ready to acknowledge and move on. But we kept looking from each other’s faces to the dicks still out in our hands.
Paul tucked himself away first. “I need someone to show me around town. I’ve been here months and all I know are coworkers and these rugger-buggers. I need a proper fuck like nobody’s business.”
“But not from me….”
He looked nervously to the stalls before he replied: “From… no…”
I paused. “I could meet you tomorrow night and show you around.”
“That’d be great. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve had a few hand jobs, but I want more. I need a dirty boy to train….” He closed his eyes. I tried not to be disappointed when his eyes opened: I wasn’t who he envisioned.
“Don’t we all? Well, if he’s anywhere in this town he’ll be at Jake’s.”
I never sleep with very tall men. Or blonds. Or other tops. Or uncut guys. Or even guys with tans and tattoos. I find small, dark-haired bottoms with naked, exposed cocks and milky, undecorated skin so I can see my handiwork. But we’ve spent months evading the fact that we prefer each other’s company and bodies to those of any of the other men we’ve seen each other out with. We’ve settled into an unspoken routine: Jake’s after dinner together and, more often than not, home together after a quickie with someone forgettable. We’re known as “Paul-and-Dave” at Jake’s. Buzzed nights on the couch turned into sleepovers in the bed and relieving each other. He claimed he was just piss proud the first time he woke up next to me with a hard-on, but he came fast enough. We’re still negotiating BJs, and it took a while to get to fucking. We were both macho assholes about it, but we finally admitted it wouldn’t be the first time for either of us, and taking it was all right, but not for a regular thing. Soon enough, Paul turned up with Liquid Silk and claimed he had first dibs because he brought it over. I pulled condoms from my pocket, threw them on the coffee table between us and said, “But I’ve already got these.”
“You carry those anyway.”
Two seconds later, we were rolling on the floor—him trying for a headlock and me testing if ankle locks make someone scream and tap out. I was overconfident—his weight and strength took me unawares. It’d been years since I wrestled and these days I control my boys with words or a simple pin and slap. He didn’t crow about winning, but he was prompt in claiming his prize. I’d never been fucked by an uncut guy before and I watched in fascination as he prepped. The swollen red head emerged from his golden cock skin and I groaned. His dick was beautiful as the foreskin unfurled back away and then the condom parodied the moment and unrolled down over his shaft.
He grinned at me. “Position, boy.”
I considered reneging. Pride—I hate being called boy—and desire had me locked.
Paul frowned, and suddenly I was pinned at the wrist. His large tanned hand had my right arm immobile. I felt a deep tug in my balls and I oozed precum.
“If you need to be made…,” he whispered: a threat, a promise, an offer of help.
I shook my head and, hypnotized by the play of muscles under the skin of his forearms, I traced the blue of his wrist veins with my tongue and lifted my hips enough to show acquiescence. He wrenched my shorts down in one move and touched the back of my knee with a finger.
“Up!”
Magically my knees were by my ears. “Do this bit fast,” I said, trying hard not to order or beg.
“You’re not lubed enough….” He teased my ass with greasy fingers.
My hips betrayed me. “I mean: enter fast. I hate how the tip feels on my hole. Get your prick in so I can stop thinking about it.”
He kept my ass open with his finger and held the condom tip down as he traded his finger for his cock. I’ve been out of practice for years, but he settled to a rhythm fast and got in deep. The stretched feeling I hate was lost in his motion. I grabbed the headboard to stop myself from putting my arms around him. I kept my eyes open. He’s worth watching. A pink mottle grew under the honey-fuzz on his fifty-inch chest. His eyes were closed. They’re vodka blue. Having them fixed on me as I came would’ve been unbearable. For a fraction of a second I slipped into being his boy, but even as my load shot I thought: No. Under the control of that arrogant profile and yielding to this cock all the time: No. He was still pounding. I was done and wanted to shove him off, but fair’s fair so I lifted myself just right to trigger him. He roared as he came, and fell across me, heavy. My face was in his armpit. His fresh sweat smelled grapefruit-ginger and stung my eyes. I snorted, but he didn’t move.
“Move,” I said, muffled.
When he still didn’t, I licked his armpit, and he reared up scowling.
“You SOB, you know I’m ticklish….”
“I didn’t, but I do now.”
My smirk was wiped off as he bit the inside of my knee hard while he moved to ease his cock out.
“Fuck! That hurt….”
He flicked my hip with a fingernail. “But you didn’t feel this coming out.” He tossed the used rubber into the trashcan. “Figured you’d hate that too.” Abashed at being considerate, he looked away. Then he sent me to the fridge for beer.
Since then we’ve wrestled once or twice a week. I lose enough to keep the game alive and, once I refreshed my moves, to stop him suspecting I can beat him when I want. We still go to Jake’s several times a week. We part ways there for a few hours, but we always share a cab home. I never thought I’d fall for a foreigner. I’m too practical to get sucked into immigration worries or the risk of loving someone who’d have to leave, but Paul’s got his green card, so it’s not an issue. Assuming he wants to stay…assuming this is love we’re avoiding talking about. He’s dozing under my foot massage; I sneak a careful kiss on his toe. He hates open affection: it always has to be disguised.
We were at his place a few weeks ago getting ready to go out for dinner. It’s an anonymous temporary apartment—he’s on a yearlong contract at an engineering firm. He usually consults in the Detroit area and is used to bigger scenes than a choice between Jake’s and a sports bar. He writes computer models to show just-in-time processes on plant floors. It makes me yawn. He’s smart, but gets engineer-nerd-dull when he talks work. I’m not used to pretending interest: my boys listen to how my day was. He drank with his team after his afternoon match, but now he was sober and ravenous. He’d already inhaled the omelet I’d whipped up as a snack. He’s always amazed I can cook without a barbeque. Another reason, he claims, he’s the real top. Prick. He opens cans and eats the contents cold. Fried eggs as a Sunday treat is all he manages. Dinner was an hour away, but he had an opened can of peach halves from the fridge and was eating them dripping from the can. The juice glistened in his stubble, and some ran to his chest—he’d peeled his dirty kit off and was just in his boxers. He looked hot in the tree-filtered evening light, but I shuddered. There’s something wrong about canned peaches: so yellow, so smooth, so round, so slippery, so heavy for their volume. He hooked another out with his fingers and slid it all in his mouth, juice running down his chin. He gave a sloppy little-kid grin at my shocked face.
“Yum.”
“Gross. Worse than raw eggs.”
“They’re good too.”
“At least use a fork.” I held one out to him.
He rolled his eyes but humored me. “You’re so prissy, Dave. Thought you said you’re a top?”
“A neat top.”
He speared a peach half and held it out: “Eat!” He pushed it against my resolutely shut mouth. It smushed into my chin before I put up my hand and pulled it from the prongs.
“I hate canned peaches.”
“Foodie yank…,” muttered Paul, amiably enough, but I still lunged at him. He yowled as my hand drove into his shorts and smeared the still cold fruit across his balls. He grabbed my wrist and held it still. We stared for a moment then Paul cautiously put the open can down on the counter without releasing my wrist. I cupped his balls and massaged the sweet juice. I moved my fingers up and grasped his shaft. Peach spurted between my fingers as I pulled back his foreskin.
