Hot Gay Erotica, page 14
“Fuck,” he whispered.
I squeezed. “Is that an invitation?”
He squirmed. “No: a request.”
“No.” I squeezed differently and we locked eyes again. Sometimes our dance is exquisite and sometimes it’s a pissing match. That day I could tell neither of us would fold. He was tired, and I’d win easily, but then he’d bitch about it being unfair. Christ, it’s complicated, and right then it was too much of price. Neither of us was in the mood to be gracious and we were both too aware of the issue that won’t go away. Paul’s brain was heading south. His gaze was already distant. I could have taken him. Instead I took the high road and stayed a gentleman.
“Show me how it feels too.”
He took the way out I was offering and, although we each wanted to fuck the other, we ended up on the kitchen floor smearing fruit onto each other’s dicks until we were a mess of drying sticky fluids. Paul held the last peach with the pit hollow nestled on my cockhead. He swirled and rotated it as he pumped my shaft. The peach flesh yielded and disintegrated as I thrust back. My head burst through the yellow flesh and, as it parted the fruit, I shot into his hand. In a second, he filled my palm with heat too. I offered him salty pulverized peach.
He frowned, all serious for a minute. “No, Dave, not even that. Nothing in my mouth.”
We lay stuck together for a few minutes, neither willing to admit how good nearly being in each other’s arms was.
“We should shower,” he murmured. The kitchen floor was uncomfortable, and a glaze of semen and syrup stuck my thigh to the tiles. It crackled as I peeled away. He let me shower first. I wouldn’t have minded showering together. I know he does it with his team. But with me it seems too intimate to him. He gave me a hard look the first time I suggested it. Shit, it’s a fine line with him. Intimate: a bad word in his world even though he’s not as badass as he thinks. Maybe a shower while we’re getting hot, but an affectionate cleanup afterward? Nope.
We ran into my ex, Marky, when we were out together that night.
“Picking on someone your own size for a change, Dave?”
Paul growled at him, but Marky was unperturbed. We were behind a table and he had the room to spin away in.
“Oh, hunting in packs is it?”
He was still sweet looking: Paul eyed him speculatively.
“Smart-mouthed,” I whispered to Paul while Marky said hi to a friend.
“Jealous?”
“Me? About him?”
“Of me….”
I shook my head. “Nope, he’s cute, but he’d complicate our life.”
“Didn’t know we rated a pronoun….”
Marky was smiling back at us by then. “Just warning Nino away from you, Dave.”
Paul laughed aloud. “No jealousy here, huh?”
Marky’s face shut down: a familiar sight. “I warn anyone I see giving Dave puppydog looks. He’s not a top. He’s a batterer.”
The little shit was off and away from our table before I could move. “Fuck…”
Paul put his hand on my arm in case I went after Marky. “Don’t give the bitch the satisfaction.”
“Paul…a town this size…I’m screwed…. Marky knows everyone…. Even those who take it with a grain of salt will… shit.”
“There’ll be some little idiot who thinks he’ll reform you.”
“God, no. Besides, I never hit him like that. I hate people thinking it.”
Paul’s hand was still there. “Hey, Dave, I don’t. And, well, there’s always that pronoun….” He winked.
Fuck. I’d seen that predatory look on his face before. I didn’t like being on the receiving end. I shook his hand off.
“Right, I suppose we’ll figure something.”
He took my bitterness well and laughed. “I’ll bring one home for a threesome. Run the poor boy ragged keeping us satisfied.”
But neither of us was happy. Paul’s known as my friend, and his chances were spiraling down the crapper with mine. Neither of us wanted only one-night stands. We wanted more. And we were both mad and insulted—we treat our boys right—at least Paul said he does. He hasn’t had anyone besides me since he moved here.
He’s asleep now. I take the chance to look up from his feet and examine his face without being accused of mushiness. His beautiful bruise is almost gone now. He’d had a black eye from Sunday’s scrum and I was shocked how fucking hot he looked. He looked dangerous. His arrogant Roman nose is made more imperious by an old break. The burst vein in his left eye wasn’t pretty, but the bruise got me hard. I should have felt guilty, but, hey, I didn’t hit him. He looked like a battered, victorious boxer.
I’ve never hit one of my boys in the face, but I’ve fantasized about it. My mistake was telling Marky. He freaked, and we didn’t last much longer. I’d seen a photo of a bantamweight looking up into the camera from his corner stool after a lost fight. The look of meek defiance and tender violence on his face, the sweet marks on him pleaded to me: Be mine. I wanted Marky to look at me that way. He has a brittle beauty in his face and I imagined it, aloud, enhanced by a black eye. He’d squirmed in my embrace. Annoyed, I continued. “You have no appreciation of the aesthetics of a bruise. You’ll look most elegant with a black eye. Its shades’ll change so subtly. It’ll give your face a perfect fragility.”
Marky shook his head. He couldn’t answer: shorts in his mouth and wrists tied. I was on the brink of falling for the boy so I said: “A bruised ass is a fine memory of what was done, but a bruised face will make you look so vulnerable—not like a beaten back—there I know you took a punishment. A smudged cheekbone shows you were surprised by pain. And your mouth—it’ll split like a segment of orange pulled apart—the juice is so dear and pure. The tender appeal of the blood from your lip—nothing sweeter.”
He’d looked scared beyond the usual delicious trepidation he showed when I reached for a riding crop, and my gut twisted. There was a timid edge to his service that evening, and I knew he’d back at Jake’s soon. I used my belt hard as a farewell and a punishment for revealing a chink in my heart.
Paul had looked tough with his bruise, then, for one distracted moment, fragile and vulnerable. His face should have provoked compassion in me, but instead I got harder. I saw his distraction and flipped him. I love wrestlers in a roll up—their legs held firmly, and taut gear covering their waiting holes—the biggest of them squirm and kick and thrash and can’t kip out once their knees are by their ears. Paul swore for a minute, but he’s a good sport and, having conceded, he played fair. He got on all fours, and looked over his shoulder. All I could see was his black eye and Caligula nose and I nearly came against his thighs as if I were a quick-firing fourteen again. I backed off. I’d also promised myself that the next time I won I’d torture him with what he finds hardest to take: affection.
“Lie down, boy. Take it slow tonight.”
He obediently slid his knees back down the bed and lay flat. He’s a much better bottom than I am. Once he’s lost a fight he yields into the role without my balky attitude. As soon as the scene’s over, though, he’ll snap back into his swagger. His muscles seemed to yearn for my touch as I rubbed his lats. He’s always hot, but tonight he was hotter with his bruised face and willed obedience. Was I looking for small things that relate to my usual desire? A hint of fragility in his hard ripped body? Deep down, I knew he was the one—if we could only get this figured.
I worked down his spine—my massage almost cruel on his scrum-battered body. My thumb pressed between his cheeks and he lifted promptly. I touched his puckered hole lightly, and his hips bucked.
“Roll over…you’re enjoying the mattress too much.”
His cock strained into the air and there was a damp spot left on the sheet. I slapped his knees apart so I could see his hole again. Christ, I love seeing each bottom’s hole for the first time: each starry ass is new—as different as snowflakes. I tickled his hole for a moment and watched him fight to stay disciplined. I teased him by rimming his belly button, its contracted puckers of skin a sealed similitude to his ass. His cock bobbed close to my face, and I held it down out of the way.
He moaned, and I got off the bed.
“Stay,” I said in my dog-trainer voice. I’d pay for this next time I lost, but what the fuck. He looked disappointed as I headed to the kitchen, as if he suspected I’d stoop to ice. I rummaged in my junk drawer for a needle and grabbed rubbing alcohol from the bathroom.
He nearly broke role, but altered his tone midsentence. It came out a plea instead of a command: “Dave! No piercings…”
Surprised by the panic in his voice, I filed that tidbit away. I put my palm flat on his belly, and pushed him back down.
“Give me your left hand.”
He hesitated.
I couldn’t let it pass; I slapped his balls hard. “Left hand, boy.”
He meekly put his wrist into my waiting grasp. I rubbed my thumb on his tendons and enjoyed the trapped fear on his face. I ran my thumb up his palm and along his ring finger, then squeezed the pad of his fingertip until it whitened. The sliver I’d noticed earlier when he tried to fishhook me was suddenly evident to him.
“My poor boy has a boo-boo….”
He snarled as I drenched his finger and the needle with alcohol, but when I wriggled the needle tip under his skin he stayed very still. I kept my face impassive, but I was elated. I’d inadvertently turned Paul into a scared little boy. The fragment came out easily, but I kept moving the needle around his fingertip. He watched closely. I traced the whorls of his fingertip with the point. His eyes unfocused and his breath slowed.
“Fingerprints, snowflakes, and assholes…all unique.”
“And ears…,” murmured Paul.
“Ears?” I repeated.
“Yes. INS made me show mine on my green card.”
I kissed his inner wrist; he opened his eyes in shock. I smiled lazily, and then pricked his thumb deep. He yelped, and sucked the welling blood. While his thumb was still nestled on his tongue, I rammed my greased finger deep in his ass, and triggered his prostate. His untouched cock leapt and shot onto his belly. I rubbed his chest with his own cum and smeared it onto the trickle of blood on his lips. I enjoyed his refusal to lick. I knew he wanted the scene over, but I sat astride his hips and began jerking myself off.
“Tell me about your rugby team.”
“What about it?”
I slapped his hip. “Tone, boy. Tell me about the game. I don’t know what position you play…on the field.” I leered and pumped a little harder.
“I’m a forward.” He looked sullen, but his voice was neutral so I did nothing except maintain my stroke.
“What do they do?”
“We’re the big guys. We get the ball from the other side, and pass it to the backs. They’re meant to run it.”
“Huh…,” I said, and imagined Paul tackling an unlucky opponent. “So backs are the fast little ones?”
“Yeah, but a fast forward can take both positions….”
“So you switch on the field too?” Nearly too far: Paul half sat up, then flopped back. I wasn’t paying attention: I was thinking about Paul tackling Marky, ramming his face into the mud. I came hard, and slid off Paul. I snapped my fingers.
“Not over yet.”
He sighed, but knelt down in front of me. We end scenes with a foot rub, and Paul knows my turn isn’t over until he’s finished my massage, but he gets away with freely conversing as he works. He was still talking about rugby; I made myself listen. He was shocked-intrigued-worried because a gay team had joined their league, and had beaten his team. Twice. He was brooding about it. He made a snide comment about how they should have a pink kit for their away fixtures.
“You are a wanker,” I said.
“Fuck off you PC yank.” He gave a rueful squeeze to my toes. “I’m working on it, okay? I’m not out at home. I thought over here…but it’s just as complicated….”
I flexed my big toe—he was neglecting it—and stroked his thigh with my free foot. “Limey bastard,” I said affectionately.
He popped my toe. “I am working on it. Let me do it my way.”
He’s not out to his team. Two weeks ago, after they played the gay team for the first time, the winners tried to poach him after the match. Apparently, he really is a good back and forward. He finished my foot massage and sat next to me on the couch. Scene over, he cautiously revealed he was uneasy about his teammates. And guilty about the other team. He was rude to them because they asked him publicly. “Bloody nerve,” he muttered. “Gay or not, you don’t poach a bloke in front of his team.” The return match last Sunday was how he got his black eye. He tried to avoid answering when I asked if the other team had done it deliberately, but he admitted a gay hooker had punched him in a scrum.
I smothered a laugh. I’d steered clear of jokes when I overheard rucks and hookers being discussed, and I couldn’t spoil it now. Paul’s a lovely man, but hasn’t much of a sense of humor. Not when he’s the object anyway. I’ve stayed away from his matches and the drinks afterward. We’ve given it a try, but I don’t like his friends and he hates that I won’t agree to hide I’m gay. I wouldn’t out him—it’s his dilemma—but I won’t closet myself for some hairy Brit homophobes. It pissed me off: he’s scared of being seen with a gay friend. I take his point: he’s in a foreign country and has few friends here, but still… I avoid him on Sunday afternoons until he’s returned from hetero-land, readjusted his brain, come to his senses, and switched back to the man I’m starting to love. We go out to Jake’s together as usual in the evenings.
He was unsettled after the first match because “his” team gave him a hard time about being cruised by fags and asked him if he was gonna switch sides.
“These are your friends?”
“Shit, Dave, they’re just being guys. Rugby players are like that. Besides the gay team won so they’re hopping mad.”
But all week he had a lost, lonely look. And the next week he’d hardly talk at all about the return match. I pieced that together: not only did the gay team give him a black eye, but his team cut him out of plays. We just jerked off together that night. As he slept, he moved closer. Next day, I watched him shave. I was still stretched out on the bed and I could see his reflection through the open door. Even with the remains of foam under his ears, he looked domineering and hot. He didn’t know I was awake. I watched him trace the bottom rim of his bruise remnant. His shoulders sagged for a moment, and I quickly shut my eyes and faked sleep.
Looking up at his blissed-out dozing profile, I feel calm here at his feet. I can see the ghost of his bruise under his tan. I’m not kidding myself: he had to be outed by his new team and rejected by his old one before he faced reality. I’m not harsher on others than I am on myself: I took a long look in the mirror too after he’d left last week and realized if I didn’t do something to keep him, I’d be left with the reputation of Dave the Abuser while he truly got poached by Simon the Hooker. I’d squashed the notion that we’d both been making do and decided taking a dive in today’s wrestling match was the reinforcement he needed. I knew he was still vulnerable and I could have him for keeps if I played it right and took one for the proverbial team. He was tired but exhilarated when he came by: his new team had won. I saw him coming in my peripheral vision but I let him flip me. He was rough as we screwed—if he thinks I’ve switched because he had the balls to apologize to the scout and trade teams then he’s very wrong—I get my revenge by kissing him on the mouth as he finishes. He was grumpy until halfway through the foot massage, and I worried my burst of affection/payback had ruined my plan. He’s mellowed since then.
I work on his left arch a little harder so he resurfaces from sleep.
“Team invited me over for a cookout,” he mumbles after a while. “You coming?”
I frown. “As your straight friend?”
He opens his eyes and glares. “As ‘Paul-and-Dave.’ Asshole.”
“Wanker,” I say fondly. I guess that makes us a couple.
DELTA BOYS
Cat Tailor
We’re Delta boys, and we’re totally fucked. There are only four left of our squad, and we’re stuck in some godforsaken asshole of the third world. Hostile locals are coming at us with machine guns, grenades, rocks if they don’t have anything else. The Delta boys are “pinned down,” which is military for “can’t do a fucking thing about getting out of the fuckhole where people are shooting at you.”
We have about two-and-a-half walls left of the hut we’re squatting in. It wasn’t much of a defensible position when we ducked inside it, and it has gotten significantly worse.
Unexpectedly, there’s a lull in the activity. Silence appears, for long golden moments. Brick laughs, quietly. “Fuck me, boys. Think they got tired and went home for cookies and milk?”
“Yeah, and naptime, right?” says Springer.
The nice thing about being Delta boys is that we don’t have to wear those fucking drone soldier haircuts, we hardly ever wear uniforms, we don’t have to run around saying “Hoo-yah” all the fucking time, and we get called out on a regular basis to go kick the living shit out of some people the good old American government can’t actually admit they want the living shit kicked out of. The bad thing about being Delta boys is that when we’re fucked, mostly no one knows or can do a damn thing about it.
Like now.
“Shit, boys, I don’t wanna die here today. Tomorrow maybe, but not today,” says Blue. He’d gotten the name from the time we were skulking around the peaceful Irish countryside, trying to be inconspicuous. Somehow the crazy fucker had managed to get a hold of some woad and had painted his entire body blue. Then he’d run yelling, naked, through the streets, with the rest of the squad trying to catch him before he woke up the nice people of Belfast. We never could get him to tell whether the naked streaking idea had occurred to him before he covered himself in a mild hallucinogen or after. Fucking crazy bastard.
