“This is fucking better than cool. It’s fucking ice-hard cock,” I answered, grabbing his crotch. In no time we were all naked and playing a sort of random, accidental twister—flexed flanks and free-swinging balls, male energy roiling like cock stew with a cum stock. Victor had Karl’s asscheeks spread with his hands while his cock bobbed at the back of the stud’s knobby brown knees. Standing there, Karl was a god with his big prick in his hand and José and I on our knees, kissing wildly with Karl’s cock floating on our tongues between us as he pistol-whipped our cheeks a ruddy red. It was beyond hot. I’d never been in a group scene where everyone was so hot for everyone else. There was cock hunger all around, enthusiastic assholes and wanton tongues.

  But most of all, it was the friendliness of it that touched me and aroused me beyond anything else. We ended up all four of us on our knees in a huge four-way jackoff, with everyone’s hands on different cocks and our tongues wrapped together and slithering around like anxious snakes in a soaked cage. And then we all got free. Like fireworks, one, two, three, four. The “ah—, ah—, ah—, ah—” as we each exploded, all uniquely. José, head back—“Fuck!”; Karl, watching his direct hit on my belly—“Damn!”; Victor, grinning—“Yeaaaa” and shooting an X on my flank. I yanked my waist in a half-circle as I shot, muttering, “Cock-fucking-love,” splashing it across them all.

  Victor started, and then we all laughed. Fell back onto the bed and laughed; tangled; played; rolled. And eventually reminisced, telling each other stories of our old neighborhoods when we were just boys.

  “There were no cute boys in my neighborhood,” Victor lamented.

  “There were too many cute boys in mine—with guns!” Karl remembered. “It sucked.”

  I offered a description of my exhibitionist cousin’s enormous schlong.

  José’s was best: Every Christmas, a piñata and all the boys swinging ragingly at it, until one little guy busted it wide open and they all went “ah!”

  “Right on,” Karl said, nodding his head. “Right on.”

  And we smiled at each other. Then giggled. And then laughed again. Neighbors.

  Trophy

  Barry Alexander

  Dressed only in black leather boots, cap, and chaps, I mounted the Harley. After a session with Gordy’s Vacu- Jac, my eleven-inch cock was rock hard, thrusting red and swollen from my groin. I rubbed my hand through the thick black pelt on my chest and thumped my bloated dick against the gleaming gas tank.

  “Come and get it, cocksucker.”

  His skinny body stark naked, Dr. Gordon McGuire, Jr., knelt before me. Precum puddled on the garage floor like an oil leak. When he lunged, I grabbed a fistful of his thinning brown hair and held him back. “You didn’t say ‘please’,” I snarled. “Cocksucker.”

  He whimpered. “Please, Sir. Please let me suck your cock.” “Boots first,” I growled.

  Gordy flapped his tongue over my boots like a thirsty dog. The boot worship and verbal abuse were for his benefit. I’d endured several of his S/M videos to get the act down right. I just wanted a hot, hungry mouth on my cock. At that moment, I didn’t really care whose. Still, I have to admit I love size queens. There’s something about a toy-dicked queen drooling over my meat that gets to me.

  Three months ago, I’d moved back to Dubuque, Iowa, after two years in California. My rent was due, I didn’t have a job, and I was getting desperate. When Gordy saw my dick at a men’s room, I thought he’d have a seizure. He offered me room, board, and a regular paycheck in exchange for my participation in the studies of some new skin cream he’d invented as well as for various unspecified “services.” I’m not a hustler, but I couldn’t say no.

  I’d never met anyone so crazy about dick. Lots of guys compare; Gordy kept measurements—right down to the last millimeter. He’d concocted a cream that increased the skin elasticity. He swore that a combination of vitamin injections, sessions with his Vacu-Jac, and massages with his secret formula would make my cock even bigger.

  I was skeptical; Gordy’s dick was only five inches, but he said that he was too old when he discovered the formula. He’s a dermatologist, so I figured he knew what he was doing. I don’t know if it really helped, but my cock had never felt so silky, and he gave great massages, so I humored the weird little guy.

  It was biker and slave night. Sometimes, it was cop and punk night, or pirate and cabin boy. Gordy had costumes for all his fantasies. The Harley was just another prop. He never rode the bike himself, and he sure wouldn’t let me. He kept it locked in the garage. I couldn’t complain; he let me drive his Trans Am.

  I pulled my spit-polished boot away from Gordy, leaned back, and planted it on the highway peg. “Do my balls.”

  Gordy was good at orders. He washed my balls happily, pushing them around in their silky bag with his eager tongue. I rubbed my cock over his shiny pink bald spot and left a glistening snail’s trail of precum. “Take it. Eat my fucking meat.”

  Gordy lurched forward and almost knocked the bike over. I pulled my cock away and whacked it across his face. “Watch it, asshole!”

  I teased him, slapping my rod across his drooling tongue, then pulling back. When I relented, he slugged it down, gagging himself with his own greed. His smacks and slurps reminded me of feeding hogs. A soft belly and flabby white shoulders reflected his sedentary life. Except when his face was buried in my crotch, thick glasses hid his watery eyes. He looked up at me with his myopic gaze, my cock clamped between his lips. I shuddered. My cock softened.

  I closed my eyes and thought about hot men—rippling with muscle, golden-skinned, deep-voiced. Yeah! Then the images morphed into one: tall and lean, curly white-blond hair, blue-green eyes, and a big, crook-toothed smile—Wade, the man I’d tried to forget for two years.

  I’d slept with lots of handsome men, but none like Wade. I’d been a fool to leave him, but what Iowa boy doesn’t think there’s something better in golden California?

  I tried to imagine Wade begging for my cock, but I couldn’t picture him kneeling to me. The man had a body made to be worshipped: golden bronze skin stretched tightly over work-honed muscles, fine blond hairs silvering his powerful chest and darkening to spun-gold fluff in his pits, and eight inches of perfect cock—straight and thick, flaring ruby crown, silky shaft trellised with veins, and a pair of fat, rosy balls as sweet and fuzzy as peaches. I could spend days licking every inch of Wade’s body.

  I pictured Wade in his cop uniform, his rampant cock thrusting through the open fly, flanked by his .38 on one hip and his nightstick on the other. I’d kneel before him and slowly lick the twisting veins along his rod. Oh, yeah! This was working. I could taste his meat and smell the warm musk of his crotch. His cock would swell my throat as he slowly pumped inside me, his fingers stroking my hair. His hands locked over my ears, holding me in place, as his hips bucked uncontrollably. Blood roared in my head as I raced to join him. My load sizzled up my shaft like a fuse set to explode.

  Then I opened my eyes and saw Gordy’s piggy face mindlessly devouring me. I shoved him away, shut my eyes, and blasted my load all over the gas tank. When I opened my eyes, he was still there, his little organ flushed red and poking futilely at empty air in its desperation to be touched. He stared at the glistening white drops spattered across the Harley’s gas tank and whimpered. Drool dripped down his chin.

  “Lick it up,” I said coldly.

  Gordy groaned and squealed like the little pig he was. I think he would have really done it. I stopped him just before his fat pink tongue slurped up the first drop. “You don’t deserve it.”

  He whimpered in frustration. “Please, Master, may I jerk off?”

  God, the guy was pathetic. What the hell did I care?—my cock was satisfied. I pretended to consider. “Yes,” I said at last. “You were a pretty good slave tonight.”

  He beamed at me, practically wagging his tail. “Oh, thank you, Sir!” He mangled his cock for a few minutes, then dribbled his juice across my chaps. I made him clean them. He loved it. I strode back to my room, thankful that he didn’t expect me to sleep with him. Gordy seemed content with our weekly costume dramas. Our arrangement was a little peculiar, but we both benefited. I got money, expensive clothes, jewelry, and a hot car to drive. Gordy got me.

  The next night, I took advantage of Gordy’s twice-weekly visit to his mother and went barhopping. I wasn’t looking for romance, just someone hot and hunky, someone as hungry for good old-fashioned, ordinary, sleazy, wham-bam-thank-you- Sam sex as I was.

  I sure didn’t expect to run into Wade at the Steamboat; he never was much for bars. That’d been one of our problems. He’d taken everything so seriously, and I’d just wanted fun. We drove each other nuts.

  Ever since I’d moved back, I’d wanted to see him, but I’d never had the nerve. I was afraid he’d be pissed at me for running out on him. I was still pissed at me. When I saw him again, every red-blood cell in my body stood straight up. I wanted to run over and throw myself into his arms.

  “Wade!” I shouted.

  His blue-green eyes assessed me coolly. “Dallas. I’d heard you’d moved back. It’s good to see you.” He smiled politely and held out his hand like I was a causal acquaintance whose absence he’d never really noticed.

  Crushed, I took his hand and tried to return his smile, hoping he didn’t feel my fingers trembling. “So what are you doing in a bar?”

  “Moonlighting. Making sure no one gets too wild.” He nodded at the stage. I hadn’t even noticed the muscleboy strutting in hard hat and tool belt. He wasn’t bad, but Wade was even better looking than he was two years ago.

  His open shirt exposed a deep V of dark-gold skin. I remembered the taste and scent of that skin too well. I wanted to rip his shirt open, nuzzling under it until I found the hard copper points rising from his muscular chest. I wanted to bury my nose in the moist golden down in his pits and get drunk on the sweet, sweaty smell of him. I wanted….

  I swallowed hard and came back to reality. Wade was asking me something. “Oh…yeah…draft’s fine, thanks.”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Dallas.”

  “Yeah?” I asked cautiously, hoping he hadn’t heard about Gordy.

  “Pete, here,” he said, nodding toward the bartender who was delivering our beers, “tells me you and your rich boyfriend are quite an item—art exhibits, theater, the symphony. I didn’t know you liked that kind of thing.”

  I gulped the cold beer. “They’re not so bad,” I said, wiping the foam off my mustache and popping it in my mouth.

  Wade laughed. “Yeah, I can see you’d fit right in,” he said with a pointed look at my strategically ripped jeans and tight black muscle shirt. He leaned close and brushed his thumb over my lip. My tongue darted out before I thought. “You missed some,” he said softly.

  Our eyes locked. Then I said the first dumb thing that popped into my head. “You should see my closet: Armani, Yves Saint Laurent….”

  “Yeah,” Wade said without enthusiasm. The distance was back. “I’ve seen you a couple of times. He dresses you like a damned Ken doll.”

  I flushed, thankful he hadn’t seen the costumes. “The man’s got bucks. He likes to show me off. What’s wrong with that?” “If you don’t know…. I was glad you’d moved back. I thought maybe you’d settled down. I thought maybe….” Wade looked away. “Then I heard you’d moved in with that little creep.”

  “Dr. Gordon McGuire, Jr.”

  “Whatever. How do you stand letting him touch you?”

  “I close my eyes and think of England.”

  Wade looked at me in disgust. “If you want to be some geek’s boytoy, I guess it’s your business, but there’s a lot you don’t know about your doctor daddy dearest.”

  My face flamed with anger. “Yeah? What makes you the expert?”

  “I investigated his father’s death.”

  “So? The old guy fell in the tub. Happens all the time.”

  “So the papers said, but we never let the details leak out. Famous heart surgeon. Pillar of the community. The whole thing was kept quiet.”

  Wade glanced around nervously. Everyone was watching a lanky cowstud onstage peel down to boots and Stetson. He twirled his cock like a lasso while he pumped his hips at the crowd. Damn! I was missing some good stuff. Wade nudged me to get my attention.

  He lowered his voice. “I think you need to know the truth.” “I’m missing the show. Why should I care how he died?”

  “He was castrated.”

  My thighs clanged shut. I felt ill. “Did they find out who did it?”

  “No. They blamed it on a biker who disappeared right about then.”

  “So why are you telling me?”

  “Because I think Junior had something to do with it.”

  I laughed. The idea of Gordy committing a vicious murder was ridiculous. The guy got queasy when he cut his finger. He was so in awe of his macho dad he never redecorated. He even kept the master bedroom locked as a sort of shrine. “Whatever gave you such a crazy idea?”

  “I’m glad you think it’s funny. You didn’t see the body all neatly stitched, and nothing lying around—if you know what I mean.”

  “Gordy’s no surgeon.”

  “He went to med school. I couldn’t prove anything, but I knew.”

  “Yeah?” I said with a grin. “Like the time you knew the guy next door was making dope, only it turned out to be herbal teas?”

  “I’m not wrong this time,” Wade said angrily. “My gut tells me that geek is trouble. I just thought you should know.” He slammed his beer down so hard, foam slopped over the sides. “I’m a big boy, Mother. I can take care of myself,” I said sweetly.

  Wade was still treating me like a kid.

  “It’s none of my business who you fuck around with.”

  “Damn right it isn’t.”

  “If you want to be his paid whoreboy, go ahead. I thought you were better than that. Guess I was wrong.”

  I stormed out of the bar so pissed off I couldn’t see straight. Whoreboy. Boytoy. What the hell did he know? It wasn’t like I liked doing it.

  Damn, damn, damn! I drove along the winding river road trying to cool off. Cold autumn air washed over my bare arm. Things weren’t supposed to work out this way. Was it my fault I couldn’t find a job?

  Maybe, a little voice said. When was the last time I’d gone out on an interview? Enough was enough. I’d move into a hotel and take the first job offered, even if it meant bagging groceries. I felt better immediately. I’d blown it with Wade, but I wouldn’t have to put up with Gordy anymore. Wade was right—I was better than that.

  I slowed the car as the road snaked. Limestone bluffs towered above me, spilling shadows across the blacktop. The full moon dazzled the ripples of the Mississippi. I turned up the steep drive to Gordy’s house.

  River View was a product of another age, when men built mansions on the bluffs and looked down on the world. I parked in the garage and walked across the night-shrouded yard to the house. The distant glitter of lights across the wide black waters of the Mississippi made me feel as if I was standing at the end of the world. A gust of wind sent a scatter of leaves scraping and tumbling across the stones. I shivered. I fumbled with the lock, eager to get inside. I hit the hall light switch and blinked under the glassy stare of an elk head. The house was stuffed with game trophies, testament to the unrelenting manhood of Dr. Gordon, Sr.

  Every room was a cliché of masculinity. The library was done in Ancient Mariner: model ships, anchors, and a stuffed marlin. The study was early Ponderosa: Navaho rugs, wagon wheels, and a stuffed bison head. The living room was Lord of the Manor: hunting prints, dueling pistols, and a stuffed stag. I almost felt sorry for Gordy. It must have been hell trying to live up to his father’s legend. Gordon, Sr., had been a big bull of a man who collected guns and women and hunting trophies; Gordy collected stamps. His father was the top cardiologist in the Midwest; Gordy was a dermatologist.

  As I climbed the stairs, I heard the rhythmic squeal of bedsprings. The thick carpeting muffled my steps as I crept closer, but judging from the frenzied thumping, Gordy wouldn’t have noticed if I’d roared up on the Harley. I peered through the keyhole and almost fell on my ass laughing.

  The guy Wade had tried to convince me was some kind of dangerous maniac lay on his back, skinny legs waving in the air, pumping his hole with a big flesh-colored dildo. The old queen had never been man enough to admit he liked taking it up the butt, but he sure must. Scattered over the bed was a whole collection of realistic dongs.

  I didn’t wait for the finish; I had packing to do. I stifled a giggle as I turned away. Gordy’s toys should keep him happy when I was gone.

  I felt a little guilty packing all the clothes and jewelry he had bought me, but not much. They were gifts, after all, and I’d damned well earned them. As I called to arrange a morning cab, I heard Gordy pause outside my door. I didn’t care; he couldn’t stop me.

  I didn’t sleep well. I woke shaking from a weird dream about a vampire sucking the life out of my cock, then baring his fangs before he bit it off and devoured it. Groggily, I opened my eyes. Daylight blinded me. I shook my head to clear the dregs of nightmare that left me strangely disoriented. I tried to roll to my feet. I couldn’t; my arms and legs were bound. I panicked, even though I was sure I must still be dreaming. Then my eyes focused and I knew I wasn’t asleep.

  Gordy sat on the bed beside me, his hand on my naked chest. “Good, you’re awake. I was afraid I’d given you too much of the drug.”

  “What are you doing? Where am I?”

  “This was Father’s room, but I redecorated. Do you like it?”

  I looked around, and for the first time in my life felt real terror. All over the walls hung Gordy’s trophies—mounted phalluses of every size and shape. Even before I saw the surgical instruments on the bedstand, I knew they were real. I was in Gordy’s trophy room.

 

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