Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 21
Harold feared that Nancy might discover what was going on and accuse him of taking advantage of her mentally ill son. What was he doing? The question kept playing over in his head. He considered the possibility that the two celibate years of his suburban exile, on top of his lingering grief, had produced an insanity of his own. After Sean died, he sold their condo in Toronto and fled blindly to the suburbs, where he could enjoy an uncomplicated, single life, complete with in-ground pool and a garden of wildflowers. After two years, the suburbs were still a complex, alien world of uncertain appearances. Whenever he thought that a handsome shopper might be cruising him at Home Depot, the furtive glances turned into nothing more than masturbation fantasies.
Rayne was stunning, horny, and well endowed. Except for the schizophrenia, he was perfect. The closest Harold would come to heaven was when he was on his knees, worshipping Rayne’s body. A sweaty hint of old cheese beneath Rayne’s balls. The sharp curves of his hipbones. Like a rare, exotic moss, orange hair grew over Rayne’s chest, forming a path that divided his lean torso and disappeared into the overgrown bush at his crotch. Whenever Harold was giving him a blowjob, he liked to watch Rayne’s face: his placid, angelic expression, not a flicker of madness. There wasn’t a wrinkle anywhere, not like on Harold’s face, where wrinkles were encroaching and deepening by the year. When he looked into Rayne’s blue, wounded eyes, Harold felt a mix of paternal responsibility and pig desire. It was an unsettling combination.
After his swim, in Harold’s living room, Rayne was pacing in a circle, absently tapping his lips with his fingertips. The damp towel was draped around his waist, molding his cock with a thick, cotton skin. It wasn’t the first time that Harold was staring in awe. How Rayne’s cock could fit inside a little Speedo was a mystery to him. Rayne had been a promising freestyler at university until he received a warning about the murderous intentions of his coach, whom Rayne spat on twice in the face and threatened to drown.
Rayne stopped pacing for a moment to study the framed photos on the mantel. Harold was seated on the sofa in his bathrobe, pouring chamomile tea from a china teapot, the steam billowing. “After your swim and some chamomile tea, you should be able to sleep—no problem.” As soon as Harold said it, he knew it sounded ridiculous. Sometimes, Rayne would go days without sleeping. “If that doesn’t help, maybe a blowjob will.”
“Who’s this, Mr. Fix-It?” Rayne was pointing at the photo of Sean, the one Harold had taken at the beach in Province-town the summer before Sean died. Sean was lying on a chaise longue beneath an umbrella, fully clothed, a stiff, sweet smile across his face. “Your lover?” Rayne asked. Harold was about to take a sip from his cup, but he stopped. “Nancy said your lover had AIDS.”
Rayne returned Sean’s photo to the mantel and resumed pacing. Harold was cornered. He hadn’t realized that Nancy would be sharing their private discussions with her son. “His name was Sean,” Harold said after a moment. “And your mother was right.” He brought the cup to his lips again. “Why do you ask?”
Rayne looked up at the ceiling, his one hand wringing the other. “Do you have it?”
“No,” Harold said in a reassuring voice. “Fortunately, I’m fine. I’m totally clean, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He extended a cup of tea toward Rayne. “Here. I poured you some tea, if you’d like some.”
Rayne took the cup and smiled at Harold. His smile so spontaneous and pure. Without fail, it tempted Harold to fall in love with him. “That’s not what I’m concerned about,” Rayne said. He tipped back the cup and drained the steaming tea into his throat. “I’m already infected.”
Harold suspected that Rayne was testing him, but he wasn’t sure why. Or maybe he was trying to shock Harold, which Nancy said he liked to do to people. “What do you mean, infected?”
“With HIV. I’ve got the virus. It’s been inside me since Dr. Lovelips put me in that fucking hospital in Toronto. It’s what’s making me crazy.”
Harold wasn’t quite sure how far one should keep an open mind with a schizophrenic. He was doubtful about what Rayne was saying, but he was scaling an unfamiliar cliff. A wrong move might cause a landslide. “Why don’t you get rid of that wet towel and come over here,” Harold suggested.
“Did you like Sean’s cock as much as mine, Mr. Fix-It?” The fact that Rayne kept referring to him as Mr. Fix-It was making Harold a little nervous. Or maybe it was Rayne’s eyes, which were blinking at high speed. “Was it as big as this?” Rayne squeezed the fleshy mound behind the towel.
“Come over here and I’ll tell you.”
“You should have seen me. I was a big, fucking porn star in the hospital. A regular Hollywood celebrity. I like doing videos, man. Hot. Last time I was in the hospital, I was in the shower and who shows up but my buddy Tim. From the varsity team. Do you know Tim?”
Harold shook his head.
“Really hot guy. Scandinavian. Great ass. Anyways, Tim and me were taking a shower together. We were standing under the hot water, soaping up each other’s cock and balls, rinsing off and soaping up again until we were both ready to blow some mega-wad. You know that feeling? Staying right on the edge. Awesome. Anyways, I made a thick lather around Tim’s butthole and went digging with my fingers. It wasn’t long before little Timmy was begging me to give him the old skin pickle. So I did. Right there in the shower. I fucked him. I fucked him hard. And I’m glad I did because after I fucked him, Tim confessed. He was working for Dr. Lovelips. My fucking bastard shrink was watching me bang Tim behind a one-way mirror.” Rayne was pacing back and forth over the plush living room carpet, wearing a trail. “Any-ways, my buddy Tim, who was my closest buddy on the team, was working for Dr. Lovelips. Can you believe it? I didn’t know that, man, when I was giving it to him raw. Next day in the hospital, Dr. Lovelips tells me that I’m HIV positive. Tim infected me. As part of an experiment.” Harold had never heard anyone speak with so little sense and with so much conviction at the same time.
“An experiment?” Harold asked.
“They’re testing my intelligence. To see if I can figure out how to get rid of the virus.”
“You mean like a cure?”
“A cure for what? For schizophrenia, maybe.”
Rayne looked around the room before he sat on the couch. He just stared into space. He was close enough that Harold could smell the chlorine on his pale, freckled skin. Rayne’s bizarre moments could come and go like trains in a station. Harold hoped that the weirdness was now over and they could get on with their business. He was about to indulge Rayne’s nipples, which were begging to be nibbled, when Rayne stood up. Suddenly, the towel was on the floor, wrapped around his feet like an affectionate cat. At last, his beautiful cock was hanging in Harold’s face, just an inch outside his tongue’s long reach. “Come closer,” Harold said, running his hands over the large, powerful muscles in Rayne’s legs.
“Mr. Fix-It likes my skin pickle too.” A bead of pre-cum dangled off the pink slit of Rayne’s cock like the gooey nectar in Harold’s lilies.
“No, I love it,” Harold corrected. After carefully removing the drop of pre-cum with his tongue, Harold said, “Yum. Sweet pickles are my favorite.” Then he swallowed Rayne’s cock. He went down until the mushroom head was in his throat. He loved every inch of it. There was no other word for it. It was love.
The hungry intensity of Harold’s mouth was soon tingling throughout Rayne’s body. Getting blown was the only time Rayne could feel his whole body, all its parts at once. He was lying back on the couch, Harold crouched between his legs in a position he could have taken for a prayer. Harold’s mad slurping and the sound of a lone, persistent cricket. Other than that, there was silence. Rayne wasn’t much of a noisemaker when it came to fellatio. Some nights, Rayne would still be on Harold’s couch as the sun was rising, thirsty sparrows making a racket in the garden, Harold still slurping away, Rayne still hard, still silent.
“Stop for a minute,” Rayne said, pushing Harold’s head away from his crotch. “I need to piss.”
When Rayne returned from the washroom, he was holding one of the German steak knives that Harold’s mother had given her son for Christmas. He must have made a detour through the kitchen. Or did he even go to the washroom? He was glaring at Harold, a knife in one hand and a commanding erection in the other. He was sliding the smooth side of the blade along his inner thigh.
“Rayne, are you okay?” Harold’s words were delicate. He wanted to avoid anything that might spin this bizarre moment into something…what? Psychotic? Or worse, bloody? “Are you okay?” Harold asked again. Rayne wasn’t answering. Inside Harold’s throat, fear fluttered its small, trapped wings. “What’s the matter, Rayne?”
“I need you to take it,” he said, in a voice that Harold was sure he’d never heard before. “If you don’t take it, I’ll die and Dr. Lovelips will take all the credit. That’s what the asshole wants.”
Harold wasn’t about to ask for clarification or how the knife fit in with Rayne’s plans. “Well, Rayne, I don’t think it would be even possible to do that,” Harold said gingerly, after a moment. “You know, chances are you’re probably not even HIV-positive and even if you were, you can’t get rid of the virus. You wouldn’t be able to give it away to me or anything like that.” Harold stopped. He could see by the empty screen in Rayne’s eyes that attempting to reason with him would be like trying to pin down the meaning of a surreal painting. “Do you want some more tea?”
“No, I’ll just have to piss again.”
“Do you want to just call it a night, then?” Harold asked, trying not to sound hopeful. “And get some sleep? How does that sound?”
“I want to fuck you, Mr. Fix-It.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s the only way I can get rid of the virus.”
Harold looked at him. Ironically, he’d been fantasizing all summer about getting fucked by Rayne, except that in his fantasy it was happening in the pool one night after Rayne’s swim, and there was definitely no knife. He wasn’t sure what Rayne was intending to do with the knife, if anything. He was schizophrenic. Maybe its presence was no more relevant than the crystal bowl on the coffee table or the framed photo of Sean on the mantel. Or maybe Harold was kidding himself. There was a phone in his bedroom. That was the nearest one. “I’ve got some condoms in my bedroom,” he said.
“It won’t work that way.”
Harold had taken several unsafe risks over the years, and still he was negative. He could pray that his luck would continue. In all likelihood, Rayne was not infected. He had told Harold during their first encounter that he was a bisexual virgin. “Never been with a guy before,” he said. And that first night, he seemed sane. More sane. Tonight, he was looming over Harold, twisting a steak knife in his hand and wanting to fuck him without a condom.
“I have some lube right in here,” Harold said, opening the cabinet beside the couch. “I keep it handy for watching porn.” Harold thought maybe he could divert Rayne’s attention. “Have you ever seen gay porn?”
“Take off your bathrobe.”
Harold reached into the cabinet and grabbed the KY. “This stuff’s magic,” he said, handing the bottle to Rayne, who studied the label for a moment before tossing it on the couch. “Ever used it before?”
“Take off the bathrobe, Mr. Fix-It.”
Harold stood there, mesmerized. It was all too unreal. “Rayne, can you put the knife down, please.”
“Take it off.”
“Okay, but I’d like you to put the knife on the coffee table, please.”
“No. It’s a trick.”
“It’s not a trick, Rayne. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Take off your bathrobe.”
Harold tossed the bathrobe on the couch. For a man of his age, his body was strong and quick. Still, he would be no match for Rayne. Even with the added strength of adrenaline, it was unlikely that he could successfully wrestle Rayne for the knife or outrun him.
“Now your underwear.” When Harold was completely naked, Rayne said, “Get down on all fours.”
Rayne didn’t bother with the KY. He was kneeling on the floor behind Harold, the knife in one hand, the other clenching the base of his cock, which he was using to club Harold’s ass. After a minute, he dribbled a long string of saliva into Harold’s crack. In one thrust, with the full force of his pelvis, he pushed in. Harold gasped, a bolt of jagged pain shooting from his sphincter, burning the length of his spine.
“Nice and easy,” Harold said through his teeth.
Like when he was getting a blowjob, Rayne was completely silent. Not even a blissful grunt or one labored breath. Just the sound of flesh slapping flesh. Harold was silent too, Rayne’s cock pounding inside him on a life-or-death mission. Harold’s fear was charged now with the unstoppable, hot rush of blood in his veins, his hole giving in, stretching wider to accommodate the full force of Rayne’s cock.
“That’s good,” Harold said. “Nice and easy.”
Finally Rayne stopped pounding, his cock still buried inside Harold’s ass. Harold looked back over his shoulder. “Now, fix me,” Rayne muttered, his body seized, gripped by the power of an urgent orgasm. The knife falling to the floor. His cock exploding, filling Harold’s hole with the stuff of his madness.
HALF-EATEN LOLLIPOP
blake nemec
My head is so focused on yours that I bang into a cement block, the kind that lines 24th Street, and I ricochet off it. I crash into a dirt pit, my face hitting hard on the cement edge. Good—something is busting open. I don’t care that it’s my head instead of yours. I need sound and motion.
You don’t laugh at my fall, and that additional silence stirs me because why are you so damn appropriate?
The whiskey and selexa mixture in my bloodstream makes my body vault back up and continue. To once again grab your hand and reach for your face. There are Lego blocks in there, crammed in your joints, and I’m trying to hear the noise they make if I bust them up.
We make it to your doorstop. “Let me pee.” You agree, then a stolen kiss breaks the fight tension and we’re in your apartment. In the bathroom.
I’m now into your ass that’s exposed as you’re bent over the porcelain tub. The door is open and you’re demanding I close it. I want your roommates to walk in, I want to blush and cut through the San Francisco fog that rolls over our backs every day, turning our words to spit-bubbles pasted on our lips, going nowhere. I want frayed emotion while our flesh turns inside out.
I close the door, spit on my dick, spit hard on your hole, then slide back into your ass-gut. If only acid could come spewing out of your mouth.
I pull your torso off the tub edge and turn you on your back so I can stick my hand down your throat. Your gag reflex isn’t working but I’ve still got your hole full and I am fine waiting to open more. Now I’m thrusting into your asshole: your legs are up acting as springs for my chest and shoulders. We’re going, and your face is smashed against the wall, pushed and shoved.
Hand back into your throat: you still don’t give me a big vomit, but instead hack and turn red. You’re gorgeous blotches of fever: a fucked-up kid flown off his bike, unwilling to admit defeat. Then physical bantering takes us all the way to your bed.
“Jack off,” I demand, but you knee me in the face real good. I knee your shoulders to the bed and reach for anything— where is there anything to tie? Nothing but the bed and you lying under me. Beneath you is the fitted sheet. I pull half of it off and wrap it around your face ridiculously. You chuckle and stroke the back of your neck—you’re not engaged or engorged—and the room turns into a cooler while my mind scatters. I’m eight years old, leaning my body against a water pump watching Lee fill my brother’s El Camino with gas. His wavy hair is slick with sweat and the waves fold with the arch in the back of his neck.
Your hair is thicker, but has the same sweat sheen.
“Dennis, you can’t pump gas naked.”
You swat the sheet off and tell me to shut up while you throw a big burp. You’re getting your briefs.
You respond whenever I shove you up against bathroom walls, whenever I pull you into me, but I’m tired of always moving first. Where are your balls? Mine are so loosely formed most people don’t consider them balls. They say they are buns, the way they sit around my dick instead of underneath. Whichever, they’re brave.
There must be something I could say to make you stay. I’ve got the time it takes you to get dressed.
“You wanted Chevron secrets. I got you that placement pumping gas at the D.C. facility, so you could learn blue-collar information of their infrastructure.” You respond with a smile, almost dressed, then stand looking at me, scratching your wrists.
I sense I’ve got a chance. But play with me damn it.
“That site blew up in flames the day after you got me in there.” You play.
“Oh, yes. Yes. I recall.” I kneel in front of you. “It happened the day after the news broke about Abu Ghraib, and me and Cheney decided some black-hooded terrorist just went crazy.” I grab your shin submissively. You shove your leg forward, throwing me off balance, then your sneaker goes down on my neck, my head smacks the floor.
“Wolfowitz, I need the Arctic Wildlife account!” you shout, and jam a dirty sneaker traction into my face.
From floor to closet to pantry I hustle into a suit, douse you with oil, then work your thighs with a spatula. I have somehow ended up with a half-eaten lollipop dangling from my hair. It’s fun, and now I really need to cum.
My dick’s hard. I think with it and pull you into me, yanking us off balance and running into the bicycle mobiles. Then onto the sweepable carpet. I pull off my pants as fast as I can while our mouths are locked sloppy.
“I know what you want,” you say.
“No, I’m just ass sweating and it’s annoying.”
Your forearm goes up against my throat and my chin falls, my forehead falling against your mouth, and you slide your other elbow down my torso grating my breath and displacing my dick train into my belly, which you’re now biting.
