Hot Gay Erotica, page 4
It was Ted, the original Ted who had once been Don’s lover and insisted they paint the house that too precious mauve. Always cute if a little chunky, and perhaps even a little chunkier now, Ted was still handsome and sporting a mustache again—just like in the old days when all the boys on the Hill were collectively known as clones. Just a year or two younger than Don, Ted still worked part-time as a nurse at Swedish Hospital.
“Ted! I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re not wearing orange anymore?”
“I never wore orange. It was tangerine. But tangerine is dead to me. Now it’s all about wasabi.”
Don laughed, delighted as always with Ted’s odd combination of seriousness and self-parody.
“Guess what, Ted? I’m sixty! Who would of thought we’d ever live this long?”
“It’s like I tell the kids at the hospital, ‘Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse’ only sounded like a good idea at the time. How wrong we were.”
Ted gave Don a kiss on the mouth.
“Happy birthday, handsome. Sixty is the new forty, you know.”
“Really? How so?”
“I read somewhere that fifty was the new thirty, so it just widow stands to reason.”
“Of course, Teddy Bear. On your way to work?”
“No, I’ve done my two shifts for the week. I’m just doing errands.”
“Then let me walk with you.”
He put his arm over Ted’s broad shoulder as they walked past Toys in Babeland, both glancing in the window at all the wares that still titillated them.
“By the way, I was wondering something, Teddy Bear.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me, why did we ever break up?”
BATBOY
Jaime Cortez
He’s a pussyboy and I can spot it from half a block away. The runway insinuations of his walk. The girly curves in the hips and ass. The big belt, the too-tight jeans flouting the baggy hip-hop style of the neighborhood. He’s one of those boys who really should just go ahead and cross-dress, but instead occupies that gender that most fags put in the “major turn-offs” section of their personal ads. I slow down as I pass him. He turns and stares. He smiles tentatively, and I tilt my head slightly. In the rearview mirror, he waves boldly with both arms and torso as I retreat. Ten points for enthusiasm. I flip a U-turn and wait for him in a red zone by a hydrant. As he approaches, I push the switch and lower the passenger window. The rico suavity of this action makes me forget my ride is of the genus “Speckled ’86 Bondo Honda.” He bends and sticks his head in.
“Hola.” He trails the final a of the word like the starlets in Mexican wrestling films.
“Hola. Where you going?”
“Ooh, just anywhere.”
“Oh yeah? Me too. Wanna ride?”
“Yesss.”
He throws his gym bag in the backseat, climbs in, and sits. Whew. CK1 fumigation. Code Blue. I roll down my window and then his for good measure. He would have been a sexy boy if he wanted to play that up, but he didn’t. Skin brown and pretty as a girl’s. Eyebrows plucked. Hair hennaed up the yin yang, bringing up the red tones in his skin, big lips but parched. As we pull out, he asks, “You live around here?”
“Yeah. Over by Seventeenth and Valencia.”
“I bet it’s nice, your apartment.”
“Wanna come up?”
“Yess.”
As I turn onto Valencia, he slides his hand over my crotch.
“Wow,” he says, “you’re ready to go.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You can do whatever you want with me.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
In my bedroom, he asks to use the bathroom. I gesture to the door. Before entering, he goes to his gym bag and rummages around, taking out a small travel bag. He fusses with the opening of the bag and leaves it strategically open before entering the bathroom. Between the teeth of the zipper, I see it. The dildo is impossibly large, big around as a Coke bottle at the middle, and garishly colored in a pink flesh tone that is not quite human. He re-emerges.
“You want some of this?” He holds out a tiny mirror with two lines on it.
“What is it?”
“Just a little crissy. Get you in the mood.” He laughs—a nervous, perfunctory burst.
“No thanks, you go ahead.”
There are beads of sweat on his forehead. He smells funny. He lowers his head and I see the V of perspiration between his shoulder blades. He snorts, rubs his nostrils, licks his lips. His eyes water. I can hear his cotton mouth working.
“Do you actually use that big toy?” I ask.
“Yes, I love it.”
“How?”
“What do you mean how? You just put it in.”
“No, I mean, how can it fit?”
“It does, you just gotta practice and relax. I’ll show you.”
He peels off his pants and somehow gets them past his feet. He drops the aqua bikini brief. I have never before seen a Hitlerian pubic mustache in person, but I do not linger on it because something higher is unfolding. With his arms at his sides, he becomes lovely in his rounded stillness. My eyes survey him as he removes his socks. In the play of flesh across the sparrow-delicate bones of his rib cage, I see how god loves details. The bones of his pelvic crest push up and form a gently arching cup that holds his torso. His knees and rump are of a kind, dimpled and toothsome. He is like those Russian nesting dolls. A man with a lot of boy in him. A boy with a lot of girl in him.
By way of announcing the afternoon’s agenda, he drops to his knees with his face in my pillow. His crack is shaved and lubed and I can see he’s been fucked recently.
“Put it in, gordito.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Put it in.”
I grab for the piece, obedient and awkward. My fingers don’t quite meet around it so I hold it with two hands. I put it up to his hole. It doesn’t look right: Tom trying to enter Jerry’s little mouse door. Couldn’t possibly work.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“Seems like this will hurt you.”
“Put it in.” he says. “It’s fine, okay?”
“All right.”
“And call me a bitch. You can call me a whore, okay? I like that.”
“Okay,” I say, pressing the toy to his hole and summoning my porno growl. “Yeeeah. You fuckin’ bitch. You like it, don’t you?”
“Yes, fuck me like a bitch.”
“You’re a little whore, aren’t you?”
“Yes, put it in now. I want it now.” I push and the great crowned head pops in. He backs up and several inches disappear. I’m in shock and try to pull it back out.
“Put it in, all the way in.” I push forward, and feel the resistance increase.
“Yeah, all the way, gordo. Tell me what I am.”
“You’re a whore—and you like it. A dirty fucking whore.” I begin pumping it in and out, and he gasps. I am enthralled and confused, wondering if he is totally in or completely out of his body. A line of blood trickles down the dildo.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s okay, it does that, keep going.”
I am frightened by his surrender. His open hunger. The bloody thread that creeps toward the base of the dildo, my tender hangnails, and my clean sheets.
“Hold on, okay? I’ll get that blood.”
I leave the toy halfway up his ass and run to the bathroom for a tissue.
“Here, lemme wipe that.” I wipe and gingerly toss the tissue in the garbage. I run to the bathroom to wash. When I return, he speaks softly.
“You’re really nice, gordo.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“No, really. You are.”
“You want me to take that dildo out?”
“Yeah, please,” he says, suddenly self-conscious. I withdraw it slowly. He shudders. His hole is a raw crater. The elasticity is shot for now, and he doesn’t quite close up. I can see the darkness inside, imagine the quiver of nerve endings. He fishes a towel out of his gym bag and swaddles the beast tightly, a filmy pink baby.
“You wanna fuck me, gordo?”
“I don’t think it would be very satisfying after that monster. What could I do in there?”
“C’mon. Do it.”
“I don’t have condoms.”
“Just do it anyways.” He puts his face back in the pillow and spreads himself open. His thighs and glutes go taut. The muscles running up his back rear up, forming a sinewy valley around his spinal column. This guy parties like it’s 1979. He is not afraid for himself. He is not afraid for me. My cock is throbbing. I curl my toes around the edge of the cliff.
“No,” I exhale. “I don’t think this is going to wo—”
“I can see you want to,” he says, eyeing my crotch.
“Yeah, I do, but it’s not going to happen today.”
He pauses a beat and then replies, “I wanna suck your dick”
“Okay,” I say. I pull it out and he begins sucking.
He yanks my pants down and I step out of them. He rubs my thighs and disengages. “Wow. You’re not as fat as you look. Lookit your legs, they’re like rocks. You could be a Terminator if you ate more begetables and less carbohydras.”
“Thanks.”
“So do you wanna fuck me?”
“No. This is just fine.”
“I want you to fuck me. I like toys. You got like a wine bottle or a baseball bat?”
“Baseball bat? Maybe. Lemme look.”
I pad down the hallway. The apartment air is cold on my bare ass. I look in the storage pantry, remembering vaguely that my roommates had an aluminum bat on one of the shelves. As I climb on the stepladder I hear the key in the downstairs door. Fuck, my roommates Berto and Davey are home! I jump from the ladder and race through the kitchen, hoping to duck into my room before they get to the top of the landing and see me bare-assed. Behind me, I hear them lugging their groceries up the stairs. In the shotgun hallway, I pour on the speed, but halfway down the hall I step on a tiny area rug, and it goes out from under me. I fall movie style, in slow motion, feet in the air, arms flapping crazily, as if I could arrest the fall. My bare ass slaps against the hardwood, and the pain coruscates up my back. I roll over, and push through the pain in my tailbone, crawling the final yard to my door and kicking it closed with my foot as my roommates clear the landing.
I lie on the bedroom floor, curled up and rubbing my ass.
“Are you okay?”
“I fell. My back hurts.”
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“No. I just need to lie down.” I crawl to my bed, sucking air as my heart races. This is bad.
“Was that your family coming in?”
“No. Just friends. Roommates.”
“Do you have sex with them?”
“No. They’re just friends.”
“Are they cute?”
“Not since I started living with them. Listen, this is not a good time to have this talk. Can you get your things together?”
“Okay. But if you won’t have sex now, can you call me? We can have coffee or something. Maybe a movie.” On a scrap of newspaper from his gym bag, he writes the name Raul.
“Call me, okay?”
“Okay. No problem.”
I never again see him outside of my fantasies. For months to come, he will pop in to costar in my masturbatory epics. The scene is always a mirrored inversion of our true encounter. I am now the bossy one, the reckless one, the shameless one.
“What are you doing, gordo?” he asks me, and his face is all alarm and arousal.
“I’m fucking you the way you want it, bitch.” He half protests but we both know he doesn’t mean it. The fantasy climaxes with a skin-to-skin communion of animal simplicity. I perform magnificently, knowing that our sweat has transmuted the bed into a magic quadrant, where we finally grapple beyond disease and on the far side of dread. I almost don’t want to release, and when I finally do, the smell of my cum is sharp and suffused with the grief of all the pleasures denied me. I lie there and pant as the cum cools on my belly. My breathing slows, and I fall asleep with my receding cock cradled in my hand.
RUDE AWAKENING
Doug Harrison
So I have a dick. A big dick, I think. And it squirts when I yank on it. So what? Don’t all the guys do this? Big fuckin’ deal. Well, not really—I haven’t used it for fucking yet. Wonder when that will happen? Girls are confusing. I mean, you have to wine and dine them, pretend you don’t crave their pussies and just want to know the “real” them, snuggle closer, warm them up, and slowly seduce them. It’s their fault. They start this stupid game when they act like they don’t want it. Yeah, sure.
Sam tells me his girlfriend gets wet fast. She locks her legs around his waist and rides him like he’s a bucking bronco. He shoots fast. Then he has to finish her off with his finger, sometimes his fist, jabbing her gushing twat and twisting his hand like he was mixing some cruddy pie dough. I guess it’s called fist fucking. Don’t these prim and proper girls ever get enough? Like, how many times can they come? Well, look who’s talking—sometimes I jerk off five times a day. I can’t help myself—it feels so good. I wonder if I’d be more satisfied if I had a girlfriend?
Everybody seems to be getting laid except me. At least that’s what they say. All these guys acting like studs. And they look like studs. Me, I’m the skinny one.
Joe, star quarterback, yelled at me the other day. In front of everybody, while I was rushing to my job at the shoe store. “Look at the pads in his jacket,” he taunted. “No shoulders. I’ll bet the sissy doesn’t have any hair on his chest, either.”
Yeah, he’s right. No hair there, a little in my crotch and armpits. Everybody smirks when I undress for gym. Unless they look at my big dick. But I try to keep it covered. I wrap a towel around my thin, white hips when I rush to and from the shower, and face the wall while I quickly soap down. That’s ’cause Dad says I shouldn’t expose myself. And Mom says I shouldn’t bend backward when I sway in time to the accordion music I’m playing at our high school talent reviews. Says I show my shape.
So, they’re uptight. What else is new? She’s Catholic and he’s Congregational. Anyone who can find their way out of a paper bag knows I had to be raised Catholic. We’re all dreadfully prim and proper in our little house in our small New England factory town.
And they never argue. Never even raise their voices. Pride themselves on “keeping things on an even keel.” Sure wish I was being raised in an Italian family. Rather have too much emotion than none at all. No wonder they never discuss sex with me.
Thirteen years old, I’m already a freshman, and I wake up with a puddle in the bed. “Why the hell did I wet the bed?” I silently scream. “This never happened before—at least I don’t remember it from when I was a baby. Why now?” I get up and try to clean the mess. It’s sticky. Piss isn’t sticky. I go back to sleep sobbing, “What’s wrong with me?” I wake up and search the sheet; I find a Shmoo-shaped spot that’s hard and crinkly. I hope Mom doesn’t see it when she does the laundry. I think about it all day at school. At dinner that night Mom says Dad and her are taking me to the doctor the next day, right after school. I don’t ask why.
So, I’m facing the doctor in his dimly lit office, tapping my fingers on the cracked Naugahyde chair, shuffling my feet, wondering why we aren’t in the examination room. He seems far away; we’re separated by a large desk covered with messy piles of papers, rumpled prescription pads, and a stethoscope coiled like two angry snakes. He leans back in his creaky swivel chair, folds his arms, thinks for a few seconds, and asks, “Doug, do you ever notice what’s different about women?”
Well, right away I think about their big boobs, but I’m too embarrassed to say anything. I just sit there, head bowed, feeling as stupid as I probably look. So he explains to me about breasts, and vaginas, and penises, and how babies are made. I’m dumbfounded. I mean, like, I wasn’t raised on a farm, and I don’t have any rutting pets. And I can’t imagine Dad and Mom doing that.
I shuffle out of the doctor’s office, mind awhirl. Mom and Dad are waiting for me in the car. Nothing’s said about my appointment. We go shopping. We’re walking along the sidewalk, and I wait for a spot where there aren’t many people, and I look over at Mom and ask, “Mom, how do the sperm know when to come out?” Her lips, lightly covered with crimson lipstick, make a real tight grin. She bites her tongue, but can’t stop a smirk, which crescendos into laughter. She sashays to a parking meter, grabs it, and holds on as if buffeted by a hurricane. Her shoulders shake as she roars. Tears stream down her cheeks, leaving snail trails in her rouge. My father glowers at her, frozen and mute; he doesn’t blink for a very long minute. Finally, his entire body shudders, like he’s trying to breathe composure into our little scene, and he pleads in a whisper, “Please, dear, people are staring.”
So, that’s the beginning of my sex education. Not from my father. Not from my best buddy. But from a freakin’ doctor! And I figure out how the sperm know when to come out. They have to be yanked out, cajoled by a clenched fist or a tight pussy. At least I hope they’re tight, and not just smelly like I hear from Sam. Or maybe coaxed by a welcoming asshole. But that sounds yucky. I read about it in a sex book I thumbed through in the back of a bookstore. Well, I gotta admit, I went to that chapter first after glancing at the table of contents. Cripes, butt fucking is the one thing the doctor didn’t mention.
It’s my sophomore year. I’m tired of playing the accordion and I start organ lessons. My teacher, Robert, is the organist at the Congregational Church, and a Bach expert. He plays for me now and then, particularly when he’s tightening up a difficult piece for performance. It’s always just the two of us in the large church. His fingers glide effortlessly over the keys, and his hands jump among the four keyboards, sometimes crossing, and never missing a beat. He sits upright on the hard oak bench, but his upper body moves sensuously with the music. His black hair flaps to the beat if it’s a vigorous piece. During a slow section, I can sense the cocoon of serenity surrounding the organ pit as the music expands from the distant ranks of pipes, filling the church and caressing the walls. Regardless of the pace or difficulty of the music, I’m amazed at how his feet slide over the curved pedal board, like a tap dancer’s feet, seemingly unconnected to his body, but nonetheless contributing to the overall performance. Is the music a reflection of his body, or his body a reflection of the music he’s producing?
