Hot Gay Erotica, page 2
You take a quick look over your shoulder for witnesses. Then you slip into the shower stall next to him. The stall smells goatlike with hormones and young-man sweat. You run your hands down the kid’s smooth skin. Those well-worked shoulders and lats. You raise his arms above his head, and sidle in behind him. You lean against his backside, your cock now straight up, lodged between his meaty asscheeks, but not inside, nowhere near that.
You put your arms around him and pull him back against you. There’s strong resistance, and his muscles tense. You pass your hands over his chest, slide down over soap-greased abs. He jumps when your fingertips hit the treasure trail, faint as it is, and then slide down, following instinct. The shower water pours over your ears, making a disorienting seashell sound. You soap your own hand. You stroke him off. You are surprised by the size of the cock on such a slim man. It is hot to the touch, hotter than seems possible. You stroke once, twice, three times. He moans, grabs your forearms for dear life, forces his butt back against you.
Then suddenly he bucks, the penis head swells, and he spurts once, twice, more, white cascades that spatter the stall and are only slowly washed down by the shower. The jizz is slicked over your fingers. You bring your hand to your face. You smell the mix of soap and spunk, a heady, dirty mix that always reminds you of clean young hot men.
For a second the kid lolls against you like a rag doll, then he starts up. He hears again the voices of the big-belly men around the corner in the locker room who talk about their children. The kid jumps out of your embrace, jumps a clear five feet from you in one bound. He snatches his towel from the rack. He hurries toward the lockers like he is embarrassed. His pace is electric, his body is stiff and self-conscious, then becomes slinky, as if he’d like to disappear entirely.
You think: Shit, I’ve scared him off. You are disappointed and rock hard and have a handful of jizz not your own swiftly getting cold. Then, just as you are about to lose sight of him, just as he reaches the threshold where he’s going to turn the corner toward the lockers, he looks back over his shoulder. He stops for the briefest infinitesimal second, towel hanging by his side, chest puffed up with something like pride. And he smiles back at you, shyly. It’s a world of teeth and whiteness and great big puppy dog eyes. And there’s an edge to it, like only an athlete can have. A competitor.
As you expect, he waits for you. He sees you just before you see him, so he moves away from the door to the gym, down the sidewalk. He walks tough, but with a lilt, with grace; a little belligerent, a little shy, like he came from a tough neighborhood and doesn’t know how to fit in where the homes are nice. You walk fast. You’re close, but not too much; not breathless, cool or predatory.
“Yo,” you say.
He turns, not surprised. He flashes you that white-hot look, then looks away. He bites his lower lip. He slings his bag on his shoulder a little tighter though it has not slipped.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Where you headed? Dorm?”
He shrugs and nods.
“Got your own room?”
He looks pained. “No, man. My roommate, you know.”
“Why don’t you come hang with me? My place?”
“Now?”
You nod. For a moment, the kid’s torn. His eyes skitter this way and that like squirrels chasing each other around a park. He shifts weight from one foot to the other, you see his cock move in his gym shorts and realize he’s wearing no underwear. He looks off into a distance so full of promise and things to think about you can hardly imagine. Then he grins. He looks down, embarrassed.
He says, “Okay, man.”
You walk side by side to your place. Every once in a while your arms brush and he jumps away, and the hair rises on your forearm and the back of your neck, and the shock seems to make him talkative.
He says, “Back there…”
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking about you, when…you know. I touched myself.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
He grows visibly scared at being so obvious.
You say, “It was written all over your face.”
He looks abashed, shuts up. Then he’s curious, then he’s mean. He opens his mouth to say something. You push him into an alcove in the building you’re walking past. You kiss him hard, your tongue in his mouth. He’s too startled to fight back, then he joins in. You are looking at him eye to eye; for the longest time he looks at you, as you explore every bit of his mouth with your tongue and taste his sweet hot young breath that comes in gasps.
Then he shoves you away, backhands his mouth, looks up and down the street and says, “We got to be cool.”
“That was cool,” you say. “Way cool. I couldn’t help myself. You’re hot.”
He blushes, but he knows he’s hot. Still, it gives him a boost to have you say it aloud. It makes him stand tall, his pride makes him even hotter. Cocky, the way you like them.
You’ve hardly shut the door to your apartment when his bag drops like a bowling ball. There’s nothing cool about him. He rushes at you, throws himself on to you like a koala in heat. He tugs your shirt up and off, capturing and pinning your arms; bites your nipple; struggles with your belt loop. He’s all over you, frantic as a motherfucker.
You force him back against the door. You put your head close to his, you jam your tongue down his throat. He is fumbling with his own shorts and shirt. They come off his slim body like sheets, no fat to catch on. His shorts snag on his right ankle. He’s still got the wool cap on and nothing else, gold chain around his neck, big studded cross stark metal against fleshy chest.
You push him over on the sofa. He seems to resist you as he sits down. You put your mouth in his crotch. Force aside his legs. Cup his nuts with your hand. It hasn’t been more than twenty minutes since he blew his load in the gym, but already he’s hot and hard and good to go. You flick your tongue at the tip of his cock. You run down one side of the shaft to the base and back, using just the tip of your tongue. You blow cool air, and every breath makes his cock jump.
You can’t resist a look. As you play his cock with your tongue you look up. He’s splayed back watching you suck him off. Like he can hardly believe it. His hands are gripped at each side as if he is going to start doing dips on your couch, or vault you toward the door.
You lift his feet from the ground and put his ankles over your shoulders. You duck your head under his nuts, and begin to eat the base of his shaft below the nuts. Forcing your teeth against it, where it runs under his pelvis toward the ass. You put your mouth around a nut, which makes him nervous; you feel the thrill run through his body. Then you work back up his cock from the base to the tip, nibbling, dragging your teeth lightly as you take the whole shaft into your mouth. The kid likes to feel it hard when he’s given head. He moans, and already his nuts rise up and his cock swells.
So you stop.
His eyes pop open.
“Why’re you stopping? I’m close.”
“Too close,” you say. You grin. You stand up. Tear off your pants. Throw your shirt over his face. He pulls it off, throws it to the side, annoyed. He starts to stand. You push him back on the sofa. Kick the ottoman out of the way.
“My turn,” you say. You plan to feed your cock to that fine wet mouth. Imagine tracing his lips with the head of your penis. Imagine him open wide, choking your manhood down, grateful and meek.
He bites his lip. He dodges and slips away. He circles you, bare naked, one foot forward, one back, thighs tensed. You turn to face him. He feints twice, and then strikes as suddenly as a snake. He seizes your wrists with those talon hands, calloused from his workout. You drop to your knees and try to get under his body and boost him off his legs. Lightning quick, he kicks his legs out behind himself where you can’t reach. He clasps your neck and you wriggle free, breaking his grip. You rush him. You knock heads. You toss each other this way and that. First on the sofa. Then on the ottoman, which rolls off to the other side of the room. Someone’s ankle gets trapped in a light cord; a lamp falls from the side table and flashes blue.
He’s a wiry, quick motherfucker, but eventually your greater strength and bulk win out. You get him facedown on the carpet, pert ass up, pinned. He won’t give up. You press his face to the floor. You hiss in his ear, bite at his lobes, press your stubbled cheek to his smooth face. He struggles, then realizes it’s futile with your weight on top of him. You lie against him. His skin is hot to the touch. You both catch your breath. You kiss the back of his neck, lick up the sweat that beads on his hairline.
You work down from his neck between his shoulder blades. His back is smooth and unblemished with two hard ropes of muscle down each side of the spine, guiding you toward his ass. He has now relaxed, given up the struggle. He stiffens when your mouth reaches his ass. You guess he has never had his ass eaten out.
You plunge in ferociously, pulling apart his cheeks, exposing the pink dark hole. You lap and fill your mouth, nose and throat with that clean, assy smell, that copper taste. There are just a couple of hairs you slick aside. You suck your fingers, wet them thoroughly, and slide one in, just a fingertip.
He looks at you for reassurance. “You’ll let me do that to you, too?”
“Sure,” you say. You’d say anything. But your words relax him and he draws your finger in with the muscles of his rectum. He is tight and strong and firm, as if he worked out with these muscles as well.
“Mmmm,” he says, like he’s smelled home cooking.
You boost him up to the sofa and roll him on his side. You locate a stash of lube and condoms in the drawer on the side table. You lift his leg a little, lube his ass. Your finger slides easy now, and there is no resistance; he is watching you insert your finger in him, he winces and then gasps open. You slide the condom over your cock, he watches, he looks like he wants to help; you put lube in his hand and he slicks your covered cock with his palm. You lift his leg and fuck him sideways. Slowly. The muscles of his chest tremble, shiver with apprehension. Then you can look at nothing but where your cock enters his firm gym-body, peach-fuzz ass. In and out, the first electric thrills starting deep down in your body, along your spinal cord, and rising up until you lose control of your hips and thrust so deeply into his slim body you think he might burst. He tightens his sphincter slightly, a little wink, and you explode and convulse, pouring into him all your soul and knowledge and experience.
He gets himself off with his hand while you are still inside him, flecking white cum all over the sofa. He’s staring back at you, not for a second letting go of your gaze, like he’s got just a little time to commit you to memory. He’s a defiant little fuck, his wool hat slightly askew, necklace shining bright, brown eyes hard and dark like he’s just figured out the rules but for sure is going to become quite the little player.
WASABI
David May
Love is a thing that’s too serious to be joked about, and too absurd to be taken seriously….
—Lytton Strachey
Don still lived in the house he had inherited from his grand-parents some thirty years ago. For twenty of those years, it had been the site of countless drugged parties and all-night orgies, parties that came to a sudden stop in the 1980s. The house was on Capital Hill, large, barn shaped, and pleasant, but needing refurbishment when fate designated that Don be among the first of the tribe to settle and rebuild in the neighborhood. On learning later that his homesteading had made him an example to other men loving men and a role model to the next generation, he felt obligated to settle down to a series of long-term, nonmonogamous relationships that each ended in friendship.
With every spouse he painted the house a different color: First there was Alex and the safe neutral taupe that succumbed to the bright buttercup yellow that Doug had wanted. Then with Ted (who was known to purge half his wardrobe each time the color of the moment shifted) it shifted to a too precious mauve, which in its turn was altered by Don to that soft shade of green, somewhere between moss and sage, peculiar to the Pacific Northwest. By pure good fortune, Don and the house had been spared teal.
As he approached his sixtieth birthday (which he had been preparing for by never referring to his actual age but rather to what his age would be come October), Don basked in the knowledge that his life was a good one. He socialized often with his numerous friends (so many former lovers), taught English at the community college (where each autumn brought some new beautiful boy, sweet and sincere and growing his first beard, oblivious to his own beauty or how much pain it caused Don), entertained whenever he pleased (which was at least weekly), and delighted in his favorite niece’s family gossip on her frequent visits. His neighbors thought him something of an eccentric as he puttered about in his garden wearing a wide-brimmed hat (purchased in the Cotswolds because it looked like something Lytton Strachey might’ve worn while gardening). The neighbors smiled to each other knowingly, feeling liberal and tolerant (and unnecessarily proud of being both), never imagining that Don routinely received some of the most sordid bareback pornography in his mailbox.
Pornography, in fact, was his primary release. Occasionally there was a meeting of eyes on Broadway that led to a quick tumble that was never repeated; or the rare trip to Basic Plumbing when he absolutely had to have a warm, wet mouth wrapped around his fat dick. Most often, though, he jerked off to images of leather-clad, hairy, bearded men fucking like banshees. He made a weekly date with himself, taking his hard-on pill first to ensure the hardest possible cock, and thus the intensity of the orgasm—for he could still, if the moon and stars were right, shoot over his shoulder, though now with only a single shot that left Don and his balls satisfied, if drained, for days.
Having had the body type fashionable during his youth—lean and sinewy rather than beefy and buff, as was the current fashion—he had had more than his share of lovers. His dark lush mustache and wavy black hair made his otherwise plain, if overlarge, features almost handsome, even causing tricks to compare him to a popular TV detective. Now the thinning hair was cut short, and, like the mustache, more salt than pepper. Having hiked, run or jogged, done aerobics, or lifted weights for most of the last four decades, he managed to maintain a solidness of build unusual in his peers, but then he had never been heavy a day in his life, nor able to achieve the massive muscularity he had admired in each of his husbands.
In addition to a firm body, Don had also been blessed with an enormous cock, something that caused him to be continually cast as a top, even back when the sexual politics of the day demanded an egalitarian exchange of positions. Bottoms, of which there were always more, never demanded he roll over for them, but rather that he rest until ready for another round. Content with the pleasure he brought to so many, Don rarely attempted to reverse the roles, and even more rarely met with success if he tried.
His friends assured him that he looked at least five, if not ten years younger than his fifty-nine years, but Don was acutely aware of being past his prime, perhaps even past being a Hot Daddy. The truth of it was that he was actually handsome now, having finally grown into his features. He was also single, and being single, he was sometimes lonely and horny, and so unsure of himself.
On his fifty-fifth birthday, Don’s friends had arranged a party for him at a local bathhouse, half filling it with friends and wellwishers. Don scored brilliantly that night, time after time, with one handsome man after another. He never went back to the baths after that birthday celebration because he knew that the night could never be repeated. Rather than return to the baths and face his fear of feeling foolish and unwanted, he preferred to live with the memory of that one perfect steamy night, to jerk off thinking of it whenever he woke up alone at some odd hour with nothing but his hard dick to ease his loneliness. To go back to the baths might allow the young and beautiful to corral him with the ubiquitous losers that had peopled every bathhouse for as long as could he remember: the soft elderly men wearing flip-flops, the unkempt hippies stinking of patchouli, the morbidly obese cock-suckers, the too skinny sissies, the pimply-faced bag whores, the homely middle-aged men sitting in darkened rooms chain-smoking, the sagging old men wanting to get fucked, the ugly men with big dicks who followed pretty boys down the halls tormenting their prey with the sound of smacking lips. If his memory was cruel to this clan, fear made him cruel. He had once been among the young and beautiful that had decried these same men as erotically useless. Now his former dismissal of them came back to haunt him as he contemplated the unavoidable reality that some who would once have found him attractive would now discard him to that rubble of men known as: He Used to Be Hot.
Deciding that he wanted something, or at least someone, special for his sixtieth birthday, and certain that he would have to pay for it, he decided to treat himself. He would hire a professional, but not just any local rent boy, of which there were many. He wanted someone to whose image he had masturbated, someone he had imagined (as they used to say) fucking into oblivion: Don wanted one of the gods to descend from Olympus and into his bed. He went online and scanned the appropriate websites looking for the right one, tentatively contacting a few he thought especially attractive. Each man he emailed responded within a day or two, some immediately. When he explained that he was celebrating his sixtieth birthday, most asked to see his picture before committing themselves. Don thought this very unprofessional and dismissed them out of hand, even if he might (as his friends continually assured him) have nothing to hide.
It was only when watching one of his favorite DVDs that it occurred to him to contact his favorite furry butch bottom, a handsome tattooed young man who deserved his sexy nom de porn: Tommy Tusker. Here was a man who seemed to thoroughly enjoy his work, who could kiss for hours (even if professionals were said to do everything but kiss when working), and who appeared in every interview to be bright and personable. Best of all, in all his latest photos he had a becoming new beard. Finding Tommy Tusker was easy enough, the Internet providing the trail in seconds. Even more important, he quickly learned from others online that Tommy Tusker had a reputation for being both friendly and reliable. Don sent him a carefully composed email:Dear Tommy Tusker:
