Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 21
I turned off the shower and briskly rubbed my hair dry. Then I wrapped the towel carelessly around my waist, letting it slip down just a little, and walked over to the sauna. Just before I went in, I paused theatrically and glanced back. He looked away quickly, but he had been looking. After a while he followed me in. I casually touched myself, slung the towel around my neck, and smiled at him.
He adjusted his towel and sat down nervously, looking straight at the door. He was so heartbreakingly beautiful. The dark brown skin was still beaded with water from his shower. His black hair, glistening and tousled, and those full, perfect lips. Bee-stung, a friend of mine would call them. I preferred to think of them as ripe fruit, a plum perhaps, just waiting to be bitten gently. He had a plain gold chain around his neck. And that chest—firm and defined and naturally smooth, with the perkiest nipples you ever saw. I could just imagine my lips on those nipples, teasing them. I wondered how our bodies would look on each other—my brownness on his. My hairy legs entwined against his smooth, muscular ones. I smiled at him, trying to will him to drop the towel. He glanced at me. I smiled encouragingly. Did a flicker of a smile cross his face? It was hard to tell. His right hand casually brushed his left nipple. Then he leaned back and spread his legs a little more. A little more and the towel would slip off by itself. I wondered if I should say something. Something sexy and funny. A come-on line with a touch of flirtatiousness.
That was when the white guy came in. A thirtyish guy with blue eyes and bulging, gym-nurtured pecs. And the biggest dick I had ever seen. He was always parading around the locker room with a half-hard-on. He had shaved off all his pubic hair so that it looked like a big naked fleshy hosepipe dangling between his thighs. He usually did not even notice me. But that was OK. I much preferred this other boy with the nutmeg skin and slim, tight figure. And average-sized dick.
The white guy put his towel down and parked himself between us. We shrank into our corners and fell to examining our toes. I gave the white guy the “why don’t you leave us alone!” look. But he just glanced at us, leaned back, spread his legs, and started to stroke himself. I wondered what he would do if someone walked in. He wouldn’t be able to hide that thing under his little white towel. Maybe he’d make a quick tent with the sports page. I gave my lover boy the “let’s-ignore-this-monstrous-exhibition-and-do-our-boys-of-color-b onding” look. I wondered if it was polite to walk across this blatantly aroused man and make out with my man. It seemed kind of rude—and I just wasn’t brought up to be like that. I stretched and walked to the door, ostensibly to look at the clock. Then I said to no one in particular, “Damn, it’s hot in here,” and stepped outside and got myself a drink of water from the cooler. Now I felt I could go and sit next to my guy instead of returning to my old spot. It wouldn’t look so obvious. I opened the door and went back in and stopped short. He had moved closer to the white guy and was feeling his dick. I stopped, unsure of what to do. The object of my affection did not even glance at me. Forgetting all our telepathic messages in the shower, he started blowing the white guy with great gusto. His towel fell off his waist and puddled around his bare feet. I stood there, stranded, my towel in hand. I looked at his head bobbing up and down. At his smooth brown butt. His hand was pulling at his own dick as he sucked. I watched his dick grow hard. Then he put both hands on the white guy’s waist as he tried to get that monster dick inside his mouth. The white guy stood up so that he could fuck his mouth better. He put his hands on my lover boy’s head and slammed his cock into his mouth. The white guy closed his eyes and said in a throaty, bad-porn-star voice, “Yeah, baby, suck that big cock.” That was so cheesy. I felt bad for my lover boy. He deserved better. But he just made a muffled choking noise and tried to open his mouth wider. I should have left right then. If I had, the white guy wouldn’t have had the chance to open his eyes, look at me, and say, “Would you mind watching the door?”
But that was then. Today it will be different. My friends would say I’m pathetic. But I am willing to give him another chance. As one person of color to another. Also, I have checked—monster dick is not in today. And I’m horny. And determined. Afterward I will explain to him about racism in the gay community and why we boys of color must stick together.
I glance at the clock. 12:35—I start reading about college basketball. It’s not very interesting but it’s all I have. I glance around impatiently, get up, stretch, and walk up and down the sauna room before going back to my spot and sitting down.
12:45—the sauna is getting really hot. I rub the sweat across my chest. I casually arrange my towel over my lap and sit back and try to think sexy thoughts. Just to be ready.
12:47—my throat is parched. I should have brought some water. I walk toward the door and peer out. An old man in sagging blue trunks is taking a shower. He carefully wrings his trunks out. I can hear another shower going but cannot see who is in it.
12:52—I guess I could hop into the shower and come back. But what if he poked his head in right then and, seeing no one, left? But I am not sure how much longer I can last in here. After all, the sign outside does warn that prolonged exposure may cause dizziness.
12:55—getting hungry now. The old man comes in with his wet swimming trunks. I glare at him, trying to will him to leave. He stretches and hangs his wet swimming trunks over the coals to dry. I want to point out the sign that expressly forbids such activity but restrain myself. He sits down, coughing, and cracks his knuckles.
1:02—I am thinking about this Thai restaurant nearby that serves the best tom ka gai. And iced tea with sweet condensed milk—rich, tasty brown.
1:05—I am thinking basil and lemongrass and iced tea refills. My stomach grumbles. The old man coughs and picks his trunks up and leaves. Images of chicken pieces floating in lemony coconut-milk broth are clouding my vision.
1:10—I am starting to get dizzy from hunger and thirst. I try to will my dick to remain alert and playful but it is undoubtedly wilting. I am almost about to go when the door opens. I freeze. It is he. He pokes his head in. And seems startled to see me. I uncross my legs and look him in the eyes. He hangs his towel over the coals and hesitates. Then he quickly steps back out, shutting the door behind him. I wait, thinking maybe he was taking a quick shower before coming back. I wipe my brow and take a deep breath to try and calm my heart rate down.
1:15—he comes back, in his jeans and T-shirt, and picks up his towel. This time he does not look at me as he briskly walks out of the sauna. Now I feel like I can’t even leave the sauna till he is gone from the gym. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing I was waiting for him and him alone. I watch him outside, drying his hair.
I close my eyes and think of Thai food. I think of combination lunch Number 5. I wonder whether I’ll get it with tofu, chicken, beef, or pork. Tofu would probably be healthiest. Fuck that. I am getting pork. And maybe some of that creamy coconut ice cream for dessert. And definitely fried rice instead of steamed rice.
He’s still in the lobby when I leave. He’s standing there, gym bag slung over his shoulder, talking to a blond man doing crunches. But I don’t care. I walk past with my head held high. I smile. I can almost taste Combination Number 5.
Woof. Yea. Uhuh. Yea, that’s it. Uhuh. Yeaaa.
Eddie Moreno
I’d like to believe that it’s more than just sex, my life’s work, but really—it’s just sex. Yup.
What I wanted was to be a singer, songwriter, musician—a voice for generations, putting words and music to the twists and turns in the roller-coaster ride of our entwined, individual lives. I dreamed of performing my best-loved, most heartfelt numbers in front of screaming, beaming crowds, every single one of us moved and teary as my song reveals itself, as if fresh, brand-newly-born, never been sung beforefresh and simple. I wanted to make of our deepest dilemmas bracelets of rhyme and rhythm, riffs, jingles revealing profoundest happiest tears, songs of joy flying out of my melancholy wisdom, while I breathe and sparkle, pushing my life out into the life around me: sweet smart song, so fine, I’m a bird, I’m Joni Mitchell, I’m the first singer or a brand-new baby just googling breath.
But instead I’m a Gay Porn Star. What will I leave for future generations? What do I create with my movements, my breath? Does my personal expression, like that of the songwriter, speak to each of us in our twisted sweet lives, of love and laughter, grunts of happiness—yeah fuck my ass!, the not-so-tender power piston, my male flesh naked warm wet with sweat, rosy, sweet slap of skin on skin…representing what? in our daily lives?—love, death, and separation, happiness, your dad’s green eyes, revelation, childhood joy, epiphany? I’d like to believe that it’s more than just sex, my life’s work, but really—it’s just sex. Yup.
My movement, the sounds I make, coyote howling, proud show-pony rearing my hoofs in black boots steel-toes, throwing my head back and chucking out a smile, or fanning out a frown, the scrape of my toothy scowl, black hair lost in shadow. Pubes? Or head-hair? My boots stay on for sex but I feel like a boy, these movements, the sweat under the heavy lights burning my balls, all feels like the same kid stuff, the same movement in my parents’ house, in the front yard, barreling into the rock garden my first time on a bike alone, and sliding into home, through the cactus garden, getting plowed by the barrel cactus we’d tended, jumping up, my yeow arching out like my back on the set under the lights showing off my proud faggot ass; or I’m a kid running into the house ripping my clothes off screaming yeow, my bike my boy-song says yolanda I fell in the cactus, helppp and she picks out the pricks, touches those sore spots, my sister makes me feel right, times like this we touch closer than usual, she laughs, we laugh, it’s like my movie it’s like my film my work speaks eloquently, my glowing butt rises over the cactus patch in my Texas childhood garden home, my distant sister holds my hand. My film work speaks to the both of us.
Only she’ll never see it. Or maybe she will—she’ll watch me open my asshole around a burly man’s hands and think of the moments we shared in our lives, Grandma’s blankie, driving across the Mojave, how we were so close and separated by miles of water, a Lake Mead of blue misunderstanding swimming up around us, she’ll open up a tear, let it fall gently upon our childhood days like cum splattering on my steel-toe boots in the film and in my daily life, she knows my boots mean as much to me as stretched canvas to the painter, her own red Safeway uniform to her and her job her daily life and our sweet connection, I push back and open up, she understands it—this is the closest we’ve ever been, and she sees it, she’ll lick her lips, I’ll lick mine. She’s watching my first video, she understands my song.
And here comes the chorus—everyone loves the chorus. I reckon it sums up a lot about my mates and peers and colleagues, my family. It rings out loud and resoundingly during the International Mister Leather Conference in the lobby of the Congress Hotel, I hear it on the street, read it online, and of course it totally reigns supreme in the audio-sensational world of Gay Porn overdubs. It goes like this:
Woof!
Yea. Uhuh. Yea, that’s it. Uhuh. Yeaaa.
My men and I meet like guys always do: on the dance floor, bumping in the street, getting real steamy in the sauna, pawing each other with our eyes, talking ’bout the tatts we’re getting soon, wings on, and soon we’re tattooed twins, inseparable, our names always spoken together, together—head to head, face on, hand-in-hand, real sweet, all of a sudden just like that, then just like that, just like the boys mating dirty on our VCRs, like me mating for life in front of the video camera until the scene ends, we spooge ourselves and each other, then fade out. During that real good together time when it’s inseparably sweet, we’re great mates and best mates all in one, curling up at night, hairy man-spoon pressing tongues together, sweating double on the tool, tongues tied.
Woof!
Yea. Uhuh. Yea, that’s it. Uhuh. Yeaaa.
When our scenes end, in our lives, with the men we find ourselves marrying, it’s not as clean an edit as I’ve expressed in my porn creations, but still it fades out, just like that. All of a sudden I find myself in bed with Pete in the morning and the sheets appear untouched, unruffled, still crisp, I’m sitting on the edge of the crisp-sheet Montreal bed in January and I ask him to walk on the new snow with me down cruisy Visitacion to Sainte Catherine but our scene was done and over—just then we’d come clean apart, tongues fallen flat, great mates and best mates gone, clean apart on that snow-warmed bed, tongue-tied now, at a loss for words, no more the man-spoon, we fade out, onto the street, clean apart, alone, the new year’s snowflakes balancing on edge one atop the other. Tongues fall flat—what do you say when there’s no more lapping on your best-boy’s hairy features? In the porn world that I create for ourselves and our boy children, it’s smart and light, on the set it’s like that, my vision is like that—the way we men separate, autumn leaves on the wind, at sheer velocity we peel apart cleanly: I slap my bottom’s hairy ass, and it’s over! Easy, just like that—a real beauty thing balancing snow falls in sheet flakes we peel apart completely and smile, our pounding and pumping, our pistoning power-pole positioning was musky, sweet and vacant, real fucking hot. In my hot and vacant man-musky creative filmwork endeavors, I think my rhythmic repetitive thrusting movements speak to everyone, to young and old—whether alone or in the company of friends and lovers, or distant and intimate family. For students and for teachers alike, feeling an urge to go somewhere new, I plow his hole from as many sides as possible, hoeing and plowing, raking and ramrodding to please the farm-boy’s best places, on his hands and tough-boy knees. Who can deny that these visually stimulating gay films capture the best moments in men’s relationships with men?—the spooging and the pumping and the coming apart cleanly, the speaking in tongues:
Woof!
Yea. Uhuh. Yea, that’s it. Uhuh. Yeaaa.
As a boy I liked the snow, keeping us from our school daze, but now I prefer the heat to winter’s freeze-dried, stacked-up cold. So I tripped on down under, Oz. One day, at Pete’s place, we screwed the videocam onto a tripod in the corner, and worked ourselves up good and troppo between two sexy palms and underneath the languid summer-sway of a back-and-forth fern, swaying and rooting, chests drenched, humping and wet, we slurped away an entire equatorial day, dipping into sweat-puddles and churning out cum-volcanoes for the videocam as if this were our only chance at creation, the living end. On that tape of my life—me a brown Texan kid smiling for the camera and both of us riding mountains and rising waves—I can actually watch him lay himself down inside me, his stinking passion-flower sweat inking across my summer skin like a Polynesian tattoo, his satyr’s cock throwing ropes of seed across my fool head.
I traveled some with Pete, though the tour we took together generally took us nowhere in particular. I reckon traveling absolutely broadens the horizons. I’ve lived in London, loved in Miami, but I figure the sun sweats out its days in São Paulo, Sydney, or Paris for one great reason alone—so that I can savor whatever big-hung man may cross my path on any given traveling, traveling day. I know Mum would approve, if she could only see the sloppy smile rip-snorting across my face as I chew on the piss-stunk underwear of the booted cop who’s stopped me for nothing but butt in Prague. Sounds like porn, huh? It’s truth; it’s just my life. This cold and turreted medieval town built on two sides of a river turns slowly in its stone graces, the sun setting too early, the old cold rising steadily, steadily, rising up from the river’s eddy, the cobblestone’s coal-black whorls. Mum would absolutely blow a fuse to see me so pleased with my dog’s life, big bone in my teeth, grrrr, blow a nut to see me on my knees in front of the stinking Czech pig.
So, though some might object to my objectified life, still, still, I’m meat for hire. It’s all sex, my time well spent, yup. Yesterday, down in L.A., I worked with a redheaded muscle butt from Calgary’s prime Canadian prairies, big-boy’s muscle butt. There wasn’t enough sex to be had on the set, so we continued, like guys do, in the toilet at the Burbank Airport—our plane waiting on the tarmac. I plowed his sweet prairie-dog hole till he shot a creamy load all over his backpack there on the floor—kids and their dads coming and going while we rooted quiet and sexy in our somewhat private stall. Then the blond Canadian kid got on his knees real quick, facing me, and begged for my load, running his rough rural hands over his chest and saying, “Yea, come on, right here, cum on me, yeaaaaa,” pounding his palms on the valley of the pecs, the Canadian Rockies rising high and mighty, please, he said with his cowboy eyes, beating his chest, please, cum on, so I blew for the blue-eyed pig, and we boarded our plane and flew home. Woof.
Is that all there is? Yea, uhuh, yea, that’s it, I reckon. I reckon I rise and fall like the cum-waves, mom and dad’s brown-eyed smiley-boy looking up at the moon, my faggot ass arching out like august stars above my Texas childhood home, my cock swinging out like a beam you could hang a house from, raise the boys on, heavy as the setting sun, dribbling sweet on the prairie’s lips like a cream cherry you could suck the darkest dreams right out of.
Woof!
