Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 15
I roll on top of you, my beloved. There where you wait, I find you. Soft belly pressed to soft belly, soft breast pressed to soft breast. And we are eye to eye now. Back and forth between our eyes, a dancing bridge is built of ropes flung over the rock walls of a canyon. Across this rope bridge, deer walk, snakes slither, bear pad, squirrels scamper—all of life going back and forth, back and forth between us.
Your hands on my back pull me down to you. Eye to eye, my tongue explores your face. In the wrinkles around your eyes flash rivers, rivers flowing thick with life. Fish swim in these rivers, frogs, turtles, fresh-water dolphins. I am lost in these rivers, my adored one. I am lost in the cry of whales screaming up from the sea of your breath.
I take your face in my hands, and run my fingers through your hair. Each silver hair is a story. I listen to them all. What richness of years are in your stories. Time. Wisdom. Love. Our bodies rock. Slowly. I press into your stories, tree-root of my body pressed to tree-root of your body, skin opening to skin.
We are so old, my beloved. Time itself stops in our embracing. Days, nights, morning—all become still in our bodies. Even the earth is still. Stopped. Only the sigh of you, breath of you, singing into my body-sighs. And birds fly out of your mouth, clouds, lightning, stars. Like a man who has danced all night, I stagger into your eyes, fall all the way down into your body. We are one. Oneness is happening in this bed of dreaming. Oneness only, on fire. Racing. Liquid fire. Screaming the bliss of creation. As your body explodes into opal liquid light. Together, we explode. Into darkness. And from that moment of darkness, the mother of all suns is born again out of our bodies. Floating on a sea of liquid pearls. Brilliant, giving birth to whole new worlds. Thundering. Hearts thundering. You and I again, heart to heart. Together. Containing everything.
Bear Basher
Thomas S. Roche
Marco and Paulie dragged the guy into my office with his hands cuffed behind him and his knees wrapped with duct tape. There was more duct tape across his hairy face. The guy was dressed like a biker—tight, faded blue jeans, leather vest, high boots, Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He wasn’t wearing a belt.
The two bruisers tossed the biker on the floor. He lay there, groaning.
“Quit whining!” I snapped, and kicked him in the ribs. “Marco and Paulie didn’t work you over half as much as they coulda. What’s the story?”
Marco sneered. “We caught us a fag-basher. Caught him in the alley behind the Darkside.”
“No fuckin’ shit! Right behind my fuckin’ club?”
“He had Long Tooth Eddie handcuffed to his Harley, and he was laying into him with a belt. Eddie had his pants around his ankles, ass all black and blue. Guy’d even shoved a fuckin’ eggplant up Eddie’s ass.”
“Eggplant?” I snarled.
“Yeah, boss. Literally. Guess it was the right shape. It was a small one.”
“Even a small eggplant’s still pretty fuckin’ big to be shoving up someone’s ass.”
“Well, yeah. Maybe that’s why Eddie was blubberin’ so bad.”
“Damn,” I said. “Eddie’s Mr. fuckin’ Vanilla.”
“Goddamn right. He was screamin’ something awful. The sonofabitch drew blood.”
“Damn,” I repeated. “Is Eddie OK?”
“Physically, yeah, but he can’t even speak. He’s just a gibbering fool. More than usual, I mean. Got him in the back of the car. He’s totally disoriented. This guy musta really fucked him up—emotionally, I mean. I mean, more than he was already fucked up. You know how Eddie is.”
“You know this sonofabitch’s name?”
“Checked his ID. His name’s Crosby. A couple of the guys said they’ve seen him hanging around outside the Darkside. Probably hunting for easy meat.”
“Izzat right?” I snarled, going down on one knee and grabbing the guy’s hair. I gripped the duct tape and yanked. The guy screamed as the tape came off holding a good quarter of his beard. “It ain’t enough that I gotta deal with the zoning motherfuckers and the city council busting my balls, I’ve gotta put up with fag-bashers like you going after my clientele with a belt, huh? You think the meat at the Darkside’s easy for a fag-basher, is that right?”
I forced the guy’s face close to mine and snarled at him: “I said, is that right?” I could smell liquor on his breath. The guy was a hell of a looker—hairy and handsome, thirtyish, built like a brick shithouse. No match for Marco and Paulie, though.
“He—he asked for it!” sputtered the biker.
“Fuck that shit!” I snarled, slapping the guy across the face and slamming the duct tape back across his mouth. It didn’t hold so well with all that hair on it, but it shut him up just the same. “That’s the oldest excuse I ever heard. Didn’t nobody tell you the Darkside’s under my protection, asshole?”
The guy tried to say something, and I cuffed him.
“That’s right—Big Daddy Jackson watches over his flock, prickwad. Next time, check with your fag-bashing friends, ask ’em if it’s safe to fuck with the Darkside! Only it’s too late for you, motherfucker! We’re gonna show you what we do to fag-bashers on my turf! Marco, you got the stuff ready?”
“Ready and waiting,” said Marco gleefully, holding up a ball gag and a set of restraints.
“Set him up,” I chortled. “This is gonna be a pleasure, boys. We’re gonna show this fag-basher what it’s like to be a fag. I think that’ll greatly increase his social sensitivity…if you know what I mean.”
Marco and Paulie started laughing hysterically. I joined them, and the two bruisers hauled Crosby off the floor and dragged him over to the’48 Indian set up in my office.
Goddamn nice to have a vintage bike to work guys over on. Too fuckin’ expensive to get parts for a bike like that, so I had the forks welded together, the center-stand bolted to the floor, the front and rear wheels secured by cables, and wooden stocks fastened to the floor on either side of the saddlebags. Hey, I love a good road trip as much as the next biker, but there are plenty more exciting uses for a motorcycle than riding it.
It was too much trouble to get knee-high motorcycle boots off of an unwilling victim, so Marco and Paulie just slapped the guy into the ankle stocks and padlocked them shut. That meant his legs were sticking forward a little, while his belly rested on the back of the bike; his ass stuck out right where I wanted it. Like he was “asking for it,” just like the sonofabitch had said Long Tooth Eddie had been doing. I loved to see an ass in that position—just waiting for my dick, or my belt. Only this time we were gonna use the guy’s own belt on that ass.
Marco and Paulie pulled Crosby’s arms outstretched and cuffed ’em to the bars of the Indian. Just enough space in there for one of us to climb onto the bike and give that guy the cock he needed. But not until we’d had a little fun with him first, and I don’t like to disturb the neighbors.
Paulie yanked the tape off Crosby’s face and shoved the ball gag into his protesting mouth. He cinched it behind Crosby’s head while Marco came at the guy with a buck knife.
Marco made short work of Crosby’s blue jeans—Marco loves that part. Soon they hung in tatters from his hairy legs, and it wasn’t much trouble to slice away the ribbons and leave the guy’s legs fully exposed but for the high boots. Then Marco ripped off the part around his ass and crotch and I caught my breath—this guy was fuckin’ built. Massive fuckin’ cock, nuts like fuckin’ softballs, practically hanging out of his tighty-whities. Marco disposed of those, and I saw Crosby wasn’t just big, but uncut too—his foreskin hung down close to the back wheel of the Indian. His balls and the upper half of his dick had the same coarse fur that covered his ass, his legs, his arms. But when Marco had sliced away the T-shirt under Crosby’s leather vest, I realized what a fuckin’ bruiser he really was—and what a looker. Guy must have worked out religiously—his body rippled with muscle under his dense mat of black hair.
“Fuck, yeah,” I grunted, lifting the guy’s belt. “This is really gonna be a pleasure.”
I went to work on the guy’s bare, hairy ass while Marco and Paulie shucked their clothes. Most of my attention was centered on my unwilling, well-deserving prisoner as he twisted and fought against his restraints, bent over the back of the Indian. But then, I couldn’t resist casting an eye toward Marco and Paulie as they stripped—talk about a lucky man, that’s me. Those two dumb apes would die for me, but I don’t ever intend to let it come to that—they’re much more use to me alive. Marco’s a five-foot-eight Spaniard, an ex–Mexican wrestler—he was known as “Maricon Loco” on stage, and took a lot of shit for it. Maybe he’s short, but he’s got muscles that could crack your head like a casaba melon—I don’t care who you are. See him naked and you’d think on first glance, as I did all those years ago, that the sonofabitch was wearing mohair pajamas. The only thing that’d tip you off is this eight-inch-thick piece of meat sticking out hard—and it’s practically always hard, I can testify to that—and dripping pre-cum. Naked, Marco strikes one hell of a pose. In fact, the guy looks best when that thick mat of hair is soaked in sweat, the way it gets when I’m fuckin’ him real hard up the ass or making him eat Paulie’s spunk—and Paulie can shoot, believe me. I’ve seen that sonofabitch shoot five feet, and I’m not exaggerating. Not only is he the biggest Sicilian I ever laid eyes on—six-foot-four in his socks—but he’s gotta be the hairiest muscle-guy that ever worked in this town. Let’s not even talk about his fuckin’ prick—it’s a goddamn Gatling gun, and a high-caliber mother. I’d seen him stick that ten-inch monster into fourteen guys in a row without losing interest, and shoot eight or nine times in an evening, and we’re talking in the days before Viagra, capische? Like the rest of Paulie, that dick is as hairy as a wombat—Paulie is the only guy I know who walks into the barbershop and unzips his pants. Well, maybe not the only guy, but you get the point.
Neither of those Mediterranean brutes seemed to have a problem working for a six-foot-tall black gangster like me—and before you get smart-assed about it, it’s not just ’cause I outclass even Paulie by two full inches and a fair bit of girth in the schlong department. Relationships in the criminal underworld just ain’t that simple nowadays. Sure, bein’ Big Daddy Jackson’s musclemen means Paulie and Marco get to take my Johnson up their holes whenever I’m horny, but it ain’t like I don’t reciprocate. You’re telling me you’d be able to see a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Sicilian with a Louisville Slugger sticking out of his pants and not want to drop to your knees and worship it? Then you’re more man than I, amigo, but I think you’d change your mind if you saw that hairy, olive-drab dingus in the flesh. Believe you me, I’ve seen it happen stranger times than this, and as far as I’m concerned, there’s no shame whatsoever with losing your cool when Paulie Piccolo hauls out his hard meat.
“You boys ready for a workout?” I snarled, swiping the fag-basher’s belt through the air experimentally while he squirmed on the Indian. “I think this hairy fuck is about to learn what it means to be a faggot.”
“You got that right,” said Marco, standing ready at attention, jacking Paulie off with one hand, the other arm around Paulie’s back. Paulie was already half-hard, but Marco was all the way there. Paulie played with Marco’s dick absently, getting it ready for the job before it.
“You ready, basher—what was the sonofabitch’s name again, Paulie?”
“Crosby,” gurgled Paulie, dropping to his knees and gulping Marco’s prick down his throat in one easy thrust.
“Hey! Save that for the prisoner,” I said, and brought my hand down as hard as I could.
No point in warming Crosby up—I just tore into him like there was no tomorrow. He jerked and spasmed as my belt landed on his hairy ass. His asshole winked at me, closing up every time the shudders of pain went through his hirsute body. I heard him screaming behind that ball gag, and it was like music to my ears. Still, I wasn’t getting the kind of complaints out of him I wanted.
I edged up closer to his swaying, squirming ass. “What, this guy’s got balls of brass?” I asked.
“Sure seems that way,” chuckled Marco.
“Let’s find out,” I said, and punched him in the nuts.
Yeah, that did the trick. His whole body was wracked with spasms, twisting so hard that the Indian shook like it was gonna come up from its bolts and cables. I knew it would stay put, though; it’d had bigger, tougher motherfuckers than Crosby strapped to it—sometimes two and three at a time, if you can believe that.
I smacked his balls again, hearing the strangled sounds in his throat. Yeah, now my dick was getting hard. Hearing him gulp and squeal was what did it to me. Soon my prick was throbbing against my leather pants—so hard that it felt like it was gonna fuckin’ explode if I didn’t get it inside this guy’s asshole and ream him out the way he deserved. But now wasn’t the time—there was a lot of pain this guy was gonna feel before I shot my load up his shitter. So I punched the guy’s nuts three or four more times, feeling my prick surge with each muffled cry of agony from behind the ball gag. He even let out a fart when I whacked him just so, bringing a chuckle from my throat.
“Now that’s just rude,” I snapped. “Marco, I think the fucker needs something up his ass to make sure he don’t embarrass himself again.”
“With pleasure,” said Marco, who was enjoying Paulie’s attentions, pumping his hips forward to shove his cock down Paulie’s throat. Without needing to be asked, Paulie eased Marco’s glistening prick from his mouth and hawked obscenely, depositing a thick glob of mucus and spit on the tip of Marco’s sausage. Marco walked over to the motorcycle; I stepped aside to allow him access to the guy’s furry, exposed butt.
“Nice,” cooed Marco, guiding the gleaming head of his prick to the guy’s hole.
Marco took hold of the guy’s hips, flashing a grin as he got ready to violate the sonofabitch. Then, with one easy thrust, he buried his schlong in the guy’s hole, breaching a previously impassable barrier. Knowing that sent a surge through my cock.
There was a bellow from behind the ball gag, as Marco’s hardness violated the sanctity of the fag-basher’s sphincter. He choked back a sob, and Marco let him savor the feeling of being ass-fucked for a minute before pulling back and pumping back into the guy. Then the screams really started in earnest.
Paulie was standing watching the whole scene, jacking off his cock. A thick drop of pre-cum oozed from his pisshole and glistened to the floor.
“Paulie,” I told him, “I think this fuck is making too much noise. See if you can’t shut him up.”
“With pleasure, boss,” growled Paulie, and, with surprising nimbleness for a horny-ass, cocksure mountain gorilla, he climbed onto the Indian right in front of Crosby’s face.
He unbuckled the ball gag and yanked it out of Crosby’s mouth. “Wish I could ram this in your pisshole,” snarled Paulie, “but I think you’d fuckin’ get off on that too much.” He tossed the rubber ball, glistening with spit, to the ground. Crosby coughed and sputtered as Marco pumped his asshole.
“You got me all wrong,” choked Crosby, and Paulie grabbed his long hair, yanking his head up.
“No, now you got me all wrong,” snapped Paulie. “I didn’t take your gag out so’s you could flap your gums, motherfucker, I took it out so you could eat my fuckin’ cock. And go ahead and bite down, if you think you can hurt me that way—just remember, your dick’s gonna be the next one to feel some teeth.”
Then he fitted his cockhead between the guy’s lips and pried his mouth open with his thumbs. He rammed the guy’s head down onto his cock, and my own cock gave a swell as I watched the guy’s throat bulging with the thickness of Paulie’s organ.
“Fuckin’ A,” I cried, “the guy’s tougher than I thought—didn’t even cough or gag when Paulie just fucked his fuckin’ throat. Maybe his fuckin’ sorority bitch girlfriend owns a big fuckin’ strap-on she makes the guy suck.”
Paulie and Marco laughed hysterically while they pumped Crosby from both ends. They picked up speed but kept it even, knowing I would be more than disappointed if they came before giving Crosby a proper double-hole reaming. Goddamn it, those two beasts looked good using this motherfucker—two hairy, muscle-bound tough guys showing a third just how easy it was to reduce someone like him to a squirming pair of fuckholes panting for hard biker cock.
Man, I was getting so fuckin’ hard I was gonna shoot my load before much longer if I didn’t get a piece of this. I unzipped my leather pants, reached in, and took my big hard cock out, walking around to the side so Crosby could catch sight of me even around Paulie’s bulk.
His eyes went wide and a visible shudder of terror went through him. That made my cockhead swell even more.
“Yeah,” I said. “You know what’s next, motherfucker. You’re gonna take this badboy up both of your fuckin’ holes. Only question is, which one’s first?”
As if in answer, Marco let out a groan and pumped the guy’s ass harder, gripping his hips as he pistoned in and out of Crosby’s hole. Paulie yanked his dick out and started jacking off, and you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe the thick streams of jizz that shot onto Crosby’s face, soaking that mat of hair on his face and head, dribbling down onto the Indian. I didn’t flinch—that bike seat had seen plenty worse in its fifty-plus years in the universe.
I walked out of Crosby’s field of vision, going around back to see which end looked good to me. Both of them looked pretty goddamn fine—it would be a bigger challenge deciding where to stick my meat than I’d expected. Marco had finally finished shooting his load. He pulled out of Crosby’s asshole, and a thick stream of jizz ran out, coating the wiry hair on his balls.
