Best Gay Erotica 2010, page 4
They slept that night curled together on the floor, their bodies intertwined for the comfort of each other’s company as much as for warmth in the now chilly room. When they awoke, Bud prepared their breakfast, after which they spent an hour grooming each other before a short nap. When Big Bro stretched his body, he found Bud at the window keenly watching high-flying birds race past the apartment. He nuzzled Bud from behind, his cock poking at its new home.
“How old are you, Big Bro?”
“Don’t know. Why? Do you know how old you are?”
“No. I never bothered to count.”
“Not to worry, little bro, Big Bro will look after you now. Big Bro will protect you and keep you safe, and Big Bro will never put you on a leash.”
Bud leaned his torso forward and pushed his butt back to find and engulf Big Bro’s cock. That was all he needed to know.
When the Bills woke up the next morning and found Bud had vanished, they wondered where he had gone, but didn’t worry at first. As the hours passed, they became frantic, showing his picture to everyone and anyone. Finally, on the morning of their departure, someone recognized Bud from the fuzzy image on the mobile phone.
“Yeah, a couple nights ago he went off with this guy, big ol’ lion of a guy.”
“Where did they go?”
The man shrugged his shoulders and nodded to the front door of the hotel.
On the flight home, the Bills comforted themselves with the thought that strays sometimes disappear.
I WISH
Richard Hennebert
It is nine P.M. on a Saturday, and you are in the mood to go out, but your boyfriend is too tired. You insist. He refuses. Instead he suggests a Daniel Craig DVD and a tub of Strawberry Häagen-Dazs. You don’t even bother.
You go to the kitchen and grab a can of beer from the fridge. Alcohol is what you want and what you need. And a fag, but you gave them up since the ban. You plan to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights on your way to the bus stop; you have just made the decision to go out. You pick up the phone and dial your best friend. He is already with some mates in a Vauxhall bar. You can be there in less than thirty minutes.
You can smell your armpits. Your smell is sexy so you don’t wash. You drink another beer to calm your nerves after a tiff with the boyfriend. You head for the bathroom where you strip naked. You put on a cock ring, brush your teeth, and splash cold water on your face. No aftershave. You walk to the bedroom and open the sex drawer, where you find your rubber shorts. You put a pair of jeans over them and pull on a T-shirt. It is fairly mild for mid-September so you don’t need a jacket. You slip your keys, some cash and a bottle of poppers in your pockets and slam the front door to end the argument. You finish the can of beer and toss it in a bin before reaching the newsagent. On the way to the bus stop you light up a cigarette. You feel alive again, alive because you are about to do something bad. You feel drunk on ill-gotten freedom.
On the 185 bus to Vauxhall you watch lonely people waiting for a different bus, clutching Tesco bags. You see the inside of lit living rooms with families watching reality on TV. You hear sirens and people shouting. You notice a few lads with short hair like you, heading to the clubs, like you.
Your mates in the bar are pissed. You need to catch up and order a beer with a shot. The barman with only a pair of trunks on is hot: nipples pierced, a tattoo above his crotch. He notices you adjusting your erection. Your mates are on their way to another bar. You drink your beer in the street and have another cigarette. Your mates haven’t bothered hiding their outfits: leather chaps, chains, cop caps, harnesses. They sniff poppers and smoke cigars.
In the next bar, you head for the loo. The ladies’ is empty but you prefer queuing for the gents’. The music fades when the door is shut. Some men check their hair, others linger. You head for a urinal. You manage to piss despite your semierection, eyeing both sides for what’s on offer. The man on your right has a full erection. You step back and leave. Your fourth beer and a shot numb your inhibition.
It is past eleven-thirty, time for the Pig.
There is a queue. Your mates crack jokes. You laugh. Other strangers laugh, too. You suddenly remember that you belonged to this community. You have missed it. Your recent life in your cozy home with your doctor boyfriend isn’t for you. You offer cigarettes all around. You smoke your last one before you go in.
You split from your mates and find a locker in a quiet corner. You take off your jeans and T-shirt. You keep the key in your boots, with some cash. You put the bottle of poppers inside your rubber shorts.
Your mates have bought you a beer. You explore the place under the arches with them. The last tube rumbles underfoot.
There’s barely any light. You see giant screens with sadomasochistic porn. Your mates carry on. You stay. This is when the other side of you truly comes to life. There is a grin on your face while watching the film. Yeah. You are no longer a punter having a beer in a seedy London club. You are the fucker on the screen. It is you out there on the giant porn screen. You are the porn star. Your darkest fantasies have been unleashed.
You finish your beer in sloppy gulps, drop the empty can and head for the stairs.
You feel the sweaty bodies against your skin. You feel extremely horny, but you resist. It is part of the fun. Your insides burn with such vivacity that it is almost painful. Your blood is pumping so violently that you can hear it in your head, but you resist. You kiss lips and bite nipples. You touch erect dicks in the semidarkness. You join orgies. You slap chests, bums, backs. Yet you resist. You push away those hands that try and enter your rubber pants, those fingers that stroke your dick. You resist because you are in control. You float on the surface of pure pleasure, that ocean of sensations and anticipation. You help men come. Their spunk trickles down your bare legs. They groan in your ear. They beg on their knees but you still resist.
You leave the space and go downstairs, to the basement. There is a maze in front of you. You assume there are areas with slings, baths, glory holes, and other instruments of torture/pleasure. You are right. There is no music, only the symphony of moans mingled with whispers.
You head for the maze. Your body exudes virility as your muscles are pumped up, your skin shines with sweat and semen and your erection is peaking the black rubber of your shorts. A guy asks you for some poppers. You sniff and share and then walk into the sexual inferno.
You touch and smell but push bodies away because you can’t find the fantasy trapped in your head. Let it fly out for you to see it better. From a distance you see it.
From a distance you see him.
He is not alone. He is surrounded by older men who piss on him. One has his dick shoved inside his mouth. The young lad is choking on it. You find that exciting. A fist is being inserted inside him. His face is contorted. You move closer. The older men move away. The young lad, give him eighteen, is choking on his leash. You pull your shorts down and grab him from behind, holding him by his leather collar. You tighten your grip. You thrust. The smell of poppers is intoxicating. You hold life in your hands; living flesh between your fingers.
His hands reach for a buckle he can’t unfasten. He inserts his fingers behind it. He has no desire to take it off. His head rolls; the dizziness is part of the game. You know at this point that climax could be murderous but you don’t care. You could ruin your entire life for a few seconds of pure ecstasy and yet you do not let go. It feels so good, so good that you come inside the young lad. He turns around and cleans the spunk off your hard dick with his tongue.
You are alive.
THE SUBURBAN BOY
Simon Sheppard
They were stopped at a traffic light, in front of a church with a sign out front urging ACCEPT JESUS!
“The exclamation point is a bit pushy, don’t you think?” Nathan said.
“Well, Christianity didn’t get where it is today by being Christian,” Rich replied. Central Florida, beyond the gates of the Magic Kingdom, was turning out to be rather old school, God-guts-and-gunwise, which was either refreshing or distressing, depending.
“Did you see that?” Rich asked, a couple of blocks later.
“The boy with the buckteeth?”
“Well, the rest of him was nice. Especially the legs.”
“The land that orthodontia forgot.”
“He looked like a hustler.”
“Here? In the middle of the middle of Florida? Don’t be silly.” Nathan swung the steering wheel to the right.
“Well, he was just standing there by the side of the road.”
“This isn’t Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“Obviously.” The single word fairly dripped with sarcasm; the visit to Nathan’s mother and brother had been pretty much a disaster, and nerves were frayed.
After a silence, Nathan asked, “Do you want to go back?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Back for him?”
“I don’t think so.”
But once they got to the motel they’d moved into when bunking at Nathan’s boyhood home had gotten too dispiriting, Rich said, “Yes, let’s do it. Let’s go back.”
“He’ll be gone.”
“Let’s see,” Rich replied. “It’s just a few minutes away.”
They walked out of their only moderately depressing room, got in the rented Kia, and drove back the way that they’d come.
The boy was still there, standing pointlessly on the sidewalk, at an intersection a couple of blocks from the 441. Rich was right: The young man did have excellent legs.
“Let’s see what, if anything, happens,” Rich said. Nathan turned the corner, pulled onto the shoulder, and sat there idling. The boy noticed them, but still stood there, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Finally Rich thought, This is stupid, and raised his hand in ambiguous greeting. The boy smiled slightly, his teeth even more prominent, then walked over to the car.
“How y’all doing?” he said. His voice was surprisingly high and melodious; if he had been working Santa Monica, the Southern drawl would most likely have been an affectation.
“Good. Want to go for a ride?” Even to himself, Rich sounded pathetically clichéd. But the boy reached for the handle of the back door; he was either aimlessly bored, or, indeed, on the game.
Rich glanced over his shoulder; there was some semivaluable stuff on the backseat. “Let me get back there with you,” he said. If the boy thought that was the least bit unusual, he didn’t show it.
Once Nathan pulled out, Rich stared at the stranger sitting next to him. Maybe the first thing Nathan had noticed about him was his misaligned teeth, but the rest of his face was perfectly lovely, in an attractive-but-ordinary way. And his legs were nice—big calves, thighs muscular but not too bulky, all covered with a pelt of dark blond hair. Rich took a deep breath: a blend of sunshine and sweat. “So…” he began, then didn’t know what to say next. They were back at the ACCEPT JESUS! church.
“So what are y’all’s names?” the boy finally drawled. “I’m Bobby.”
“I’m Jonathan,” Rich said, “and my friend there is David.” He figured that Bobby wasn’t the kid’s real name, either.
“Pleased to meet ya.” The boy leaned back, put his hands behind his head, sighed, and spread his legs. His shiny basketball shorts were bulging at the crotch; in any case, Bobby (or whoever) was pretty clearly no dewy-eyed innocent.
“So how old are you?” Nathan asked from the front seat. He was afraid of the answer, but hell, nothing had happened yet, and he could always pull over and let the boy out.
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen?” Nathan sounded, Rich thought, a bit too skeptical for his own good. But the boy was already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, showing his ID to Rich. He was, in fact, four months past nineteen, and his name really was Bobby. Rich was sorry the boy had shifted from his seductive former position, but he was glad he wasn’t jailbait.
“So were you standing in front of your house?” Rich asked.
“Nah. I just go over to that corner to…hang out. Y’know?”
Nathan and Rich thought they did.
They’d just driven past a Publix when Bobby, surprisingly, reached over and grabbed Rich’s jeans-clad knee. “So what do you fellas want to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rich said, aiming for a tone somewhere between “nonchalant” and “client.” The boy’s hand moved up his leg. “Go back to our motel and get to know each other?” Rich had gotten a hard-on; he couldn’t help himself.
Bobby’s touch moved a few more inches crotchward. “You guys generous?”
“You a cop?” Nathan asked.
That seemed to amuse Bobby no end. “Oh, Jesus fuck, no,” he laughed. “I’m not. Two hundred?”
“One?”
Bobby took his hand off Rich’s leg, leaned back again, and started kneading his own impressive crotch. “One-fifty.”
“One twenty-five,” Nathan haggled.
“One-fifty. Firm.” Bobby moved his hand away from his crotch. Rich could see it was firm indeed.
“Okay, one-fifty,” Rich said. Why quibble?
Bobby smiled. “So let’s go have some fun.”
And there it was. Settled.
Daddy was drunk again. When Mama came home from working her half shift at Wal-Mart, there he was, passed out on a kitchen chair, kind of propped up. Right in the middle of the afternoon. At least he hadn’t pissed himself.
She poked him, hard, he came to, and then the screaming started. I hid out in my room for a while, then decided it was time to go make some cash. If they ever knew, they’d kill me, but fuck it. I want to get out. I need to get out. And in this economy, what kind of a shit-ass job could a high-school dropout like me get? Nothing. Nothing. Fuck-all.
I’d felt like jacking off when I got up, but I’d never gotten around to it, so I was pretty damn horny. I changed into a pair of b-ball shorts, no underwear, and a fairly new wifebeater, and headed out. Mama saw me leaving.
“Where you going, Bobby?” she asked, sounding like she really couldn’t care less.
“Just out,” I called back from the doorway. “Be back pretty soon.”
And I walked down to where I usually do, liking the feeling of my dick slapping against my thigh as I walked. Only I started getting hard, so I had to stop for a minute until it went down.
The day was still hot, and I started to sweat. When I got to the street I just stood there, not doing nothing noticeable, in case the cops passed by. After all, it still ain’t illegal to just stand by the side of the road.
There were a few false alarms—guys who slowed down or stopped for a second and then drove off, like their conscience was getting the better of them. Like they had been driving home to their wives.
But then this black Korean car pulls up and stops right around the corner. I thought maybe I’d seen it before, going the other way, and now it’s back. There are two guys in it; the passenger, the one toward me, rolls down his window and kind of looks me over. Bingo.
After a second I walk over. “Hey,” I say, “you guys looking for some fun?”
The one on my side damn near is drooling all over himself. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “Fuck yeah.” They’re pretty damn old, but they’re not bad looking, neither of them.
“Then stop farting around and let me in your damn car.”
Well, that does it. The driver—he’s a redhead, the other one has black hair—unlocks the doors. But as I’m getting in, the dark-haired one gets out of his door and jumps into the backseat, which has some shit sitting on it that he shoves aside.
“How much?” the guy who’s now beside me asks. He already has his hand up my shorts.
“Hundred fifty.”
The guy nods and says, “Okay.” Makes me think I should have asked for more.
“Hey,” I say, since the guy already has his hand on my dick and is kneading away, “let’s go somewhere, okay?”
“You a cop?” the driver says.
I laugh. “Fuck no.” If he only knew how far from a cop I am. But I guess he thought he had to ask. By this time—I’ll admit it—my cock’s nice and hard. “Let’s go,” I say again.
“You sure you want to?” the driver asks. He’s asking his friend, not me.
“I’m sure,” the guy next to me says. He sure knows how to jack a dude off.
The driver doesn’t say nothing else, just pulls away from the curb.
The motel was one of those old-fashioned jobbies where all the rooms could be accessed by outside stairs and walkways, so, fortunately, Rich and Nathan didn’t have to smuggle their charge past the basilisk gaze of the day clerk, an unfriendly old woman with dyed-orange hair and a rhinestone American flag pin on her plus-sized floral-print dress.
Rich led the way into the room, followed by Bobby. Nathan brought up the rear; after the three of them were inside, he locked the door. The lock made a clunk. The room hadn’t been cleaned yet and they hadn’t made the bed that morning, though the second bed stood untouched. Now he’s going to know that we sleep together, Nathan thought. Like it mattered. Like it mattered at all.
The boy looked from one man to the other for a few seconds, then flopped on the bed, his crotch thrust upward. Rich walked over and stood between his legs.
“Money first,” Bobby said.
Rich reached down and touched the boy’s furry leg, right above the knee.
“I mean it. Show me the money first.” The toothy smile vanished from Bobby’s face.
Rich backed off and reached for his wallet. He’d just gone to the ATM that morning, but he still didn’t have enough. “You got fifty bucks, David?” He wasn’t sure, come to think of it, whether Nathan was supposed to be “David” or “Jonathan.” Whatever; the boy sure as hell hadn’t kept track either.
“Forty.”
“Hey…” Bobby sounded like he was suddenly angry.
