Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 19
Two queens have dug out my Jaws DVD and put it on. They’re watching the scene where the shark attacks Richard Dreyfuss again and again. When the scene ends they skip right back to the start. The sound is turned off and a hard house-track blasts from my stereo. I’ve no idea who these guys are. This is my fucking house and I hardly know any of the people here.
The mechanical shark is tearing its way into the cage. “Jaws should eat him,” one queen says to the other. “Like in the book.”
“Isn’t the film better?”
“It’s different. In the book Jaws eats Hooper.”
“I wonder why they changed it.”
“Don’t know.”
I do. They hired a team of experts to film footage of real sharks in the wild. During the filming one of the real great whites got caught up in the moorings of the empty cage and went into a frenzied attack. The producers were so impressed with this footage that they rewrote the script to incorporate it into the film. Richard Dreyfuss gets away before Jaws goes to town on the empty cage. I can’t be bothered explaining this to the two strangers who are making themselves at home with my DVD collection. They’re so fucked on E that I doubt they’d understand, anyway. They’ve grown tired of watching Dreyfuss wrestle the mechanical monster and are arguing about what to put on next. One of them wants to see the water skier attack in Jaws 2 while the other wants to watch the lapdancing scene in Showgirls. I warn them to be careful with my discs and go to get another drink.
More than a dozen people sit round my dining room table; snorting and smoking. Colorful pills are passed around in neat plastic bags. No one cares a fuck about what they’re taking. I lean over and take a line that’s been chopped on top of a Shirley Bassey photo book. The girl whose coke it is smiles politely. If it wasn’t my flat she’d tell me to fuck off. I don’t know her name but I remember her from the club. She was dancing on a podium, bare to the waist, her pigeon tits hanging almost as far. Her skin is the color of sour milk. This girl could really do with some sun. “Kris is here!” she cries.
“Notorious DJ Kris.”
The coke works fast. Tiny sparks of static electricity dance behind my nose. In no time at all it’s tingling in my cock. My erection presses against my hip, inside my favorite white briefs. All my briefs are white. I have thirty-four pairs of the same style and color. These are damp now. I’ll change them when I get time. No one believes that a DJ sweats as much in his booth as all those dancers he is mixing into a frenzy.
Someone is playing with my CDs. They’ve exchanged hard house for disco. “Love to Love You Baby” is greeted with enthusiasm. The kitchen is full and the crowd spills out onto the fire escape. Fitz is doing tequila slammers off the washing machine. I slide over to him.
“Give me one of those.”
He giggles, sloshing the gold liquid into a shot glass, slopping a good measure over the side. He moves the glass and licks up the spillage like milk.
“Having fun, Fitz?”
“Yes, cheers, Chris. Thanks for lending me the space.”
His new girlfriend, can’t think of her name, is slicing limes. The blonde bit. Her name’s the same name as his wife, which is typical of Fitz and his distorted notions of loyalty. And handy in bed, he says, seeing as he only has to remember one name when he’s shouting it out. She passes me a huge handful of salt and a wedge of lime. The tequila is the best, sliding down my throat like a squirt of my own come.
“You got some dykes fucking in your bathroom,” Fitz says. He’s finding it difficult to speak. “Had to piss in the garden.” “As long as they stay out of my bedroom.” My bedroom is private. There’s no need for anyone to go there. In the spare room there’s a huge bed, equipped with all the toys, condoms,
and lube that any of these freaks could want.
Fitz knocks back another shot and refills my glass.
“How many of these have you had?”
He shrugs. “Twenty? Thirty? I don’t know,” he replies after a bit.
I knock back the second tequila but refuse a third, pouring a glass of Spanish red instead. I wander back through the flat, taking the bottle with me. In the living room Showgirls has won out. Elizabeth Berkley is thrusting her naked crotch in Kyle MacLachlan’s face. He has a terrible hairstyle in this film.
There’s an athletic-looking guy sitting on the floor beside the armchair, staring at the television screen. His legs are folded under him and he nurses an empty glass. I reckon he’ll be a couple of years younger than I am, round about thirty. That’s a bit older than my usual type but this fella is worth making an exception for. He has black hair, cut into a neat, boyish style, and he’s chewing his fingernails. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and blue jeans, the body beneath is a result of work and dedication.
I pick my way through the outstretched legs and sit down beside him. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
I detect an accent. He’s American but I can’t place the region. “You here alone?”
He looks at me and smiles. He’s nervous. His eyes are as black as his hair. “I was at the club with a girl but I think I lost track of her somewhere.”
“She could be outside,” I suggest. “There’s a lot of people in the garden.”
“Actually she’s not really a friend. I only met her this past week. She and I are on a business trip together. I don’t know anyone in England, so she invited me out with her tonight.” I’m already wondering what this guy’s face will look like once it’s stuffed with my cock. His name is Alan and he sells swimming pools. “I don’t think there’s much demand for home pools here in the UK,” I joke.
His face remains stoic. “I’m here for a convention and meetings with your regional sales teams.”
Now would be a good time to shove my dick in his mouth and stop him talking. Instead I offer him a drink.
“No, thanks,” he says, clinging to his empty glass. “And then in the club your—friend is he, Fitz?—invited me to this party.”
“You have to try this,” I say, pouring the wine. “It’s good stuff.”
I can tell he doesn’t care for the taste but he drinks it anyway. “This apartment is awesome,” he says.
Alan looks impressed. “Fitz was in a pop group, wasn’t he?” For a moment I freeze. He can’t have recognized me. I’ve changed so much. Besides, we barely broke the band in Britain and Europe, we didn’t get near the States.
I laugh. “Yes, he was. Don’t tell me you were a fan.”
He too laughs, looking at his feet. “No. I’ve never heard of them before tonight. I heard a couple of guys talking on the line to the bathroom. What were you called?”
“Making Waves.”
“Must have been pretty cool. Being in a band.”
“We were anything but cool.”
“Tell me.” He seems genuine.
“Rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“What happened?” Alan asks. “To the group? Why’d you split up? I’d love to hear some of your records.”
“You won’t be hearing them from me.”
“Is Simon Seymour still alive?”
The two queens have skipped further into the film. They shriek loudly and applaud when Elizabeth Berkley shoves Gina Gershon down a flight of stairs. After a lot of clapping and hollering they move the scene straight back to the beginning.
When I turn to Alan I see that he’s looking at me. He reacts like he’s been caught and moves his eyes back to the television. He’s finished his wine. I top it up for him again.
“This is a terrible movie.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I love the way his nose wrinkles when he laughs. I imagine shooting my load all over his face, smearing it around his nose and lips with my cock, rubbing my juicy head against his closed eyelids.
He asks me if I have any pets…says he has to go to the bathroom. “I’m not used to drinking wine.” He gets awkwardly to his feet and stumbles his way over to the stairs. He appears very self-conscious, as though aware that I’m watching him. I am watching him. His arse is a piece of perfection, so high and tight. I want to get my mouth in there and lick his crack until he pleads with me to put my cock in him. Until he gets on his hands and knees and shoves his arse at me, begging me to take it. I imagine he’ll be a frisky and giving bottom.
Sitting on the floor makes my legs ache. I stand up and head back to the kitchen. It’s cooler in here. More of the guests have moved down the fire escape to the garden that looks onto the river. Kylie Minogue is drinking a martini and eating a piece of pizza. She thanks me for the remix I recently completed for her. Fitz is still hammering back shots, though they’ve run out of limes. It’s almost five and things don’t look like they’re going to wind down anytime soon.
My cock feels wet against my hip. It’s not sweat this time but pre-cum. I really need to get out of these pants and into a clean pair. I reckon it’s about time I checked on things upstairs, anyway. I take the bottle with me. I decide I’ll look for Alan while I’m up there. I’ve got a gram of coke in my pocket and wonder if he wants to share it with me. Probably not. He doesn’t even look like he drinks much, can’t imagine him going for the party powder, then.
Two clones are getting a blow job on the staircase from a third. I wink as I step around and warn them not to get come on my carpets. They all have very small cocks. Why is that? I’ve never met a clone with more than an average-size piece, at best. It completely contradicts the tough, skinhead image. I’ll take a well-hung chicken anytime.
They are still queuing up to get in the bathroom. There’s a second bathroom in my bedroom but I don’t tell anyone they can use it. It’s strictly private.
My bedroom is the largest on this level. I chose it specifically for the size of the room and the massive window that looks out over the River Wear and the city beyond. You can see everything from there: the three towers of the cathedral, the castle, the peninsula. It’s spectacular. But as I enter the room I’m confronted by an entirely different kind of view.
Alan is sitting on the corner of the bed. He’s got his jeans around his ankles and a pair of my underpants over his face. The lid from my washing basket is lying on the floor along with a couple of dirty T-shirts that have been discarded in haste. He’s sniffing my used pants.
A spit-lubed fist moves over a modest-sized hard-on. A tight pair of balls hugs the root and bounce against his hand with each tug. From my position in the doorway I can see that his scrotum and the passage beneath, leading to his arsehole, are exquisitely shaved. It reminds me of a boy, not yet developed. But his cock is definitely the organ of a man. It’s not that big —I’m guessing just over six inches—but it’s got a decent girth and a fat head.
He hasn’t realized I’m here. He’s too caught up in masturbating with my underwear. The anger I initially felt at the liberty he has taken has all but gone. But he’s not going to get away with this intrusion. I’m going to have him. I step inside the room and close the door.
Alan bounds off the edge of the bed, dropping my pants. Panicked, he tries to stand up, reaching for his jeans. He stumbles and sprawls across the bed, face down, arse high. He still tries to pull up his jeans but they are caught around his meaty thighs.
“Stay down,” I say. I’m over him, one foot rammed in the middle of his back, forcing him into the carpet. He turns his head, wide eyes looking frightened over his shoulder. The reverence in his face excites me. I apply more pressure. “What you doing in here?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammers. His face is flushed, bright red around the brow and temples.
“This is my fucking room. It’s private, you bastard.” He tries to rise but I’ve got too much weight on top of him.
“I didn’t know. Not until I was in.”
“And thought you’d have a party of your own with my dirty laundry. What were you going to do, wipe your spunk up on my T-shirts and shove them back in the basket? Hope I wouldn’t notice?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think. I couldn’t stop myself.” I’m looking at his arse, which is just as ripe and perfect as I had imagined it. He has a nest of downy hair in the hollow of his spine that trails into the crack. I’m surprised he hasn’t shaved this, considering how clean and smooth his balls are. His cheeks are meaty and round. I want to take a bite. Yeah, quite possibly I will.
I reach down for the pants he’s been sniffing and take a hit on them myself. They’re funky smelling, stained with yellow smears of sweat and piss. It looks like I’ve worn them for a gig. He couldn’t have found a more unsavory pair if he tried. I grab his hair, releasing my foot from his back, and haul him onto his knees. He looks frightened. I shove his face against my crotch, letting him feel what I’ve got there. He tries to pull away but he can’t. “Breathe in deep,” I tell him. “Get it right from the source.” My dick twitches and I know he can feel that.
I push him away. There’s a wild, frightened look in his eyes. He’s flat on his arse and his prick is jutting up toward his round navel. He doesn’t try to get away. Now I know where we stand. I unfasten my jeans and ease my big cock out. His eyes widen. They always do. “Suck me,” I tell him.
His mouth moves but it’s a second or two before any sound comes out. “I can’t…I never….”
I smack his face with my cock. The expression of shock is priceless. His mouth is hanging open so I grab the back of his head and shove my dick inside. Surprise is on my side and I get to the back of his throat before he tenses up. Good, oh, damned good. He hasn’t got a clue how to move his lips or tongue around such a big piece but that doesn’t matter. His warm, moist opening is all I need. I grip his head and shove deeper into the socket of his throat. His face is scarlet now and his cheeks are wet. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears.
I move back a little, getting a rhythm going. I can tell how hard he’s concentrating. I wonder how much experience he’s had with men.
I’m big but most boys get used to me after a while. I fuck his face. He hasn’t tried to bite my cock off so he must be enjoying it in some way. I know I am.
But there’s only so much cocksucking I can stand. It gets boring after a while. He gasps as I withdraw, open mouthed and panting. His eyes are wordlessly asking What next.
“Let me see your arse,” I say.
Alan hesitates, just for a moment, before turning round and lifting his arse for inspection. He pulls his T-shirt up to his shoulders, exposing a broad, flawless back. I notice for the first time a small mole, just above his right arsecheek. My eyes move lower, into the crack, toward his arsehole. It resembles the mole in many ways, the color is almost identical, only it’s much bigger. Its color reminds me of dark honey. I tell him to spread his cheeks a little and he does, stretching the opening. I can see something of the pink interior.
“Where’s the girl?” I grunt. “The one you brought to the club.”
“There was no girl,” he moans. “I lied.”
I get down and bury my face in his arse. His whole body jerks when my tongue caresses his hole. I’m certain this is a first for him, he’s acting like a virgin. It occurs to me that he might have a wife and family back in the States. Maybe he considers himself to be straight. He wouldn’t be the first straight man to drop his pants in my bedroom.
My tongue squirms around his hot opening. His has got a rich, manly taste. His arsehole quivers around my lips.
“Oh my god,” he groans, his voice full of wonder. I’m pretty sure now that he’s new to this. It seems strange, most men with any kind of interest in dick would have at least experienced something by his age. I fucked my first man when I was fourteen. He was a student, in his early twenties. He dropped his pants in the underbrush down by the river and let me poke him against a tree. I remember barely getting two thrusts in before I squirted a load in his arse. I was scared afterward that he would expect me to return the favor, but he settled for a wank instead.
And Simon Seymour, sitting with him on his Hollywood poolside, him asking if I wanted to be a star, pointing at his tiny dick inside obscenely tight Speedos, me nodding, and then a half hour later, me choking in the perfect blue water, head in the shallow end, my arse up in the air with Simon Seymour sticking something in me bigger than that tiny little piece of meat, me choking, sputtering, from way above I hear, “That’s the, huff, price of stardom, puff.” Can still hear it in my ears today.
I’ve come a long way since then and I intend to take more than a couple of strokes at Alan’s arse. He is on his knees, shoving his butt in my face, knowing what is coming. I feel between his legs, stroking the smooth path between his balls and his hole. That really gets him going so I back off, not wanting him to shoot before I’m inside. His bud is well soaked with spit so I stick a finger into him. He takes it easily enough. Nothing to worry about.
I think about offering him a line of coke but figure he’ll panic. “Get on the bed,” I say instead. “Face down.”
He kicks off his shoes and wriggles out of jeans, climbs onto the bed in his socks and T-shirt. He lies on his front, spreading his legs. The guy’s a natural.
I put on a condom and a handful of lube—then I fuck him. I climb on his back and slide my cock inside him, slowly to begin with. His body tenses with the introduction of my big head. I put my cheek against the back of his neck, pushing his face into the pillows. I tell him to relax, it’ll soon get better. His arsehole is hungry, I know it can take me.
I fuck him hard and passionately, grunting with each stroke. His fists grip the pillows. My thighs slap loudly against the back of his legs. I love the squash of his buttocks against my pelvis when I drive it deep. In and out, in and out, I fuck him thoroughly, feeling his arse with every inch of my dick. I dig my knees into the bed, getting more leverage, holding his arse in my hands so he can’t get away. Harder. The bedsprings are screaming.
