Best Gay Erotica 2003, page 5
Rand cut back on his weight training and spent more time on the aerobics machines. It was where the guys who were trying to lose weight hung out. It was where he could, while climbing to nowhere on a Stairmaster, gaze across the room at men whose bellies hung over their gym shorts. There they sat on the stationary bikes, their big, naked legs pumping away in circles, and some of them, when they noticed Rand’s stare, stared back in a friendly way.
Then Rand moved on from the stocky to the really overweight. Before, he’d focused on big young guys with largish dicks. But now he cruised them all as they stripped down or lathered up, all the extra-large ones, young or older, hairy or smooth, well-hung or with little dicks that half-disappeared beneath their bellies. The frankly fat. Anything but the truly obese or old men with big guts and spindly legs—he still had some standards. Oh, my God! What’s happened to me? he thought. But his dick kept getting hard. And, as Chris had said to him one Sunday afternoon in bed, “Hard dicks don’t lie.”
Still, except for Chris, whom he continued to fuck once or twice a week, Rand never got together with any of the big guys outside the Y. Things never went beyond a grope in the steam, or maybe letting somebody give him head for a few seconds when nobody else was around.
Until one evening in the spring. He went into the sauna and sat on a lower bench. Facing him on the other side, but sitting on the upper bench so that his crotch was at Rand’s eye-level, was a guy who was, frankly, huge. Not sloppy-obese, but easily in the high two-hundreds.
“Hey,” said the fat guy, “how you doing?”
“Fine,” said Rand. “Never seen you here before.”
“Just joined.” He spread his legs a little wider. Rand stared at his dick, which was medium-size, uncut, and shorn of hair, like a baby’s. The fat man smiled and played with his cock in the halfhearted way that guys in saunas do.
“Can I touch it?”
“My prick?” the big guy said.
“Your…your belly,” Rand replied.
The big guy nodded, and Rand sprang to his feet. Watching sidelong through the glass door for approaching intruders, he laid both hands on the man’s belly and stroked all that flesh, all that flesh. The guy leaned over, grabbed Rand’s head, and pushed it down toward his crotch. But I’m a top, dammit, Rand thought, and besides, this is risky as hell. Nevertheless, he took the guy’s hardening dick in his mouth and sucked, furtively, for all of five seconds until, of course, the sauna door creaked open. Rand jerked upward, hard-on jiggling in the hot, dry air.
It was the black guy with the great smile. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t see that,” he said, and his smile grew brighter still.
“Bob!” said the fat guy, unruffled. “How ya doing?”
“Oh fine, Vince. Just fine.”
Rand uneasily left the sauna and went to take a pee, but Vince followed him to the urinal and smiled. “Want to come home with me, guy?” And Rand did.
Rand had begun to feel like some damn ABC-TV after-school special about the pitfalls of prejudice—“Size Doesn’t Matter” or “The Bigger They Come.” He’d become an equal-opportunity lecher.
The thing with Vince had been kind of weird. Rand had let Vince fuck him, only the third guy who ever had, and the sight and feeling of all that weight above him bearing down and into him really got Rand off. But afterward it turned out that Vince truly wasn’t happy with the way he looked, with all that weight.
“Yeah, you wanted me to fuck you, sure. But most guys… most guys look at me like I’m some kind of freak.”
And Rand realized he sort of did, too. He was attracted to Vince not despite of his size, not regardless of his size, but because of his size. To him, Vince was just a big belly with a man attached. As if this guy, who had certainly suffered because he was so fat, were one of those weird-looking goldfish the Japanese prize for their physical grotesqueness. Rand had, in a way, become what he’d never been before: a size queen.
And things with Chris had become kind of strange, too.
“Jesus, Rand. I didn’t mind being objectified because of my weight,” Chris said one day. “After all, every guy wants to feel like a sex object, whatever the hell he might say out loud. But this obsession of yours—well, I feel like an aging wife whose husband goes chasing after younger and younger girls. Only you’re chasing after fatter and fatter. And short of binge eating,” he said, going into his best Bette Davis imitation, “I don’t know how to compete, my darling, I just don’t.” Chris was smiling, but clearly something serious was there. And what could Rand say? ”I don’t love you only for your fat”?
One afternoon at the gym, Rand remembered the way things used to be, before. He noticed a slim Latino guy on the back extension machine. The guy was wearing spandex bicycle shorts, and every time he leaned back into resistance the outline of his basket was clearly visible through the stretchy black fabric.
Rand had just finished his bicep curls, but he decided to skip his triceps and stand beside the back extension machine as though he were waiting to work in. Each time the Latino leaned back, his crotch jutted upward and his lean torso flexed beneath his thin tank top. And each time he sat upward, his eyes met Rand’s. After his final rep, he removed his Walkman’s headphones and smiled at Rand, a dazzling grin.
“You waiting to work in?”
“Yeah.”
Rand adjusted the footpad and began to strap himself in. The Latino was still standing there. “Or are you waiting for something else?” he asked.
Miguel (“Call me Mike”) had damn near zero-percent body fat. A nice uncut dick. And hardly any attitude, for such a gorgeous guy. Three days after they met at the gym, they had dinner at a place on Upper Market Street, Mike leaving over half of his curried-tofu and sundried-tomato wrap. Then they went back to Mike’s apartment, which was, like its owner, spare, tasteful, and carefully arranged.
The sex wasn’t bad. Where Chris’s belly had been soft and yielding, Mike’s six-pack abs were hard as a rock, his pretty brown butt taut as a drum. Rand knew he wasn’t on a par with him, but he guessed he must be in the same league. After all, he was in bed with him, right? So all those hours in the weight room, all those squats and curls and presses, hadn’t been a total waste of time, after all.
Each had assumed he was going to top the other, so they never did get around to fucking. But they sucked each other’s dicks and came and wiped up. And while they were lying there, Miguel on his stomach, Rand softly stroking those perfectly developed lats, the firm Latino said, “I like you. Let’s see each other again, huh? Sometime.”
Rand had made it: He’d had sex with one of the hunkiest Y guys, and now they were talking about a second time. So Rand said what gay men often say in similar situations: “Yeah, sounds great. But I’m real, real busy with work for the next week or two. So why don’t I call you?”
Mike’s folded-up number went into his wallet, then to his bedside table, but Rand didn’t use it. Instead, day after day, he found himself thinking about Chris, his yielding flesh, his relaxed smile, the way his big old ass moved when he walked. “Chris,” he said, finally, over the phone, “you’re more than just ‘some bear cub’ to me.”
“I know I am, Rand. But you had to realize it, as well.”
Aww, thought Rand, just like in the movies. But within ninety minutes, they were together, naked, in Chris’s king-sized bed.
“I thought you were going to call me,” Miguel said the next time that Rand saw him at the gym.
“Well, I…yeah, but I’ve sorta gotten involved with someone.” I must be crazy, Rand thought. “So thanks anyway, but….”
And indeed, Rand and Chris had become an item. Rand introduced the big guy to his friends, who tended to use the words cute and sweet rather than big when they talked about him afterward.
And within six months, Rand actually did it, moving out of his overpriced studio apartment and into Chris’s overpriced one-bedroom instead. They’d decided early on it was going to be an open relationship, so when Chris wasn’t around, Rand would take other guys back to the king-size bed, some of them big men, others lean. But the intensity with which he sought out the heaviest of the heavyweights was a thing of the past. Skinny, fat, or in-between, buff or flabby, Rand either wanted to play with a guy or not. But most of all he wanted to crawl into bed each night and find Chris there and throw his arm around his boyfriend’s reassuring bulk, the two of them sleeping spoons all through the night.
He even thought seriously about letting his gym membership lapse and just forgetting about ever pumping iron again. Just let his body do whatever it was going to do. But Oh, fuck it! he decided. And so he continued to work out at the Y, sweating and straining and grunting, and, as a matter of absolute fact, can be found working out there still.
from D.O.C.: Lust Letters
Paul Deckford and Kevin Dax
From: Paul
Date: Sun, Apr 7
Kevin,
It’s after 3:30 a.m. and I’m beat. Quick rundown of the evening: Went to Silverlake with friends. Met Cecile’s tearoom-cruising buddy, Eric, and we all went out for cheap seafood. After dinner we went to a piano bar and watched elderly fags take turns singing show tunes and torch songs. Max asked me if I would go to the bathroom with him, and at first I didn’t understand why, but then I realized that since he didn’t have a penis, he wouldn’t be able to stand at a urinal, and he wanted someone to be with him if he needed to be guarded at a stall with no door. The stall did indeed have a door, though, so there was no problem. I never knew Max as Alice, and have to constantly remind myself that he is not—or has not always been—just another cute, queeny guy.
Then the dykes went off to a serious butch/femme affair, so the boys and I went to explore Cuffs—Silverlake’s notorious grope bar. It was fun, but still early for any serious action, so we stood around looking at the leather/Levi’s men and drank beer until it was time to meet the gals. Later we played Trivial Pursuit—Cecile and I kicked ass, but Max was apparently upset and sulked for a while afterward.
All the way home I told Maria stories of my missionary experiences in Argentina. I actually imagined that I was telling them to you, and I began to dream of taking you to my favorite little coastal fishing town, where we would watch the ominous fog roll in at nights, listen to the superstitious townsfolk tell us of their daughters’ being possessed by evil spirits, and eat fresh abalone with homemade mayonnaise. Two miles down the coast we would watch the seals sunbathe on the monolithic rocks that form a gateway to the ocean, and we would explore the severe cliffs and crevices where prehistoric-looking fish stare up at us while affixed somehow to the craggy rock walls.
Sueña conmigo esta noche.
Paul
From: Kevin
Date: Monday, April 8, 1:00 a.m.
Paul
How happy it made me to talk to you today. I am bursting with curiosity about your new buzzed incarnation. Maybe I’ll get down to see you before it grows back in. How I’d love to stroke that velvety-bristly head, in sweet chaste moments, to send you to sleep in the inviting shade of a hot spring day, or in moments less innocent: to rub your beautiful cranium while you work a nice big joint.
Speaking thereof, nothing to report but some reluctant (on my part) phone sex with a certain Charles. Reluctant because I had already jacked off, thinking of you, and because I haven’t met him face to face yet. Don’t know if he’s really worth talking dirty to. He sounds interesting though, half Japanese, half German, twenty-six, fucks girls, loves to eat big black cock. Go figure.
Thank you for taking me, in fantasy, to your fishing village. How wonderful it would be to go with you there (or to go with you anywhere). Argentina is really, literally, at the antipodes, and must be strange and beautiful.
About my precocious queer lit studies: I don’t think I understood what I was reading, at least not on first reading. Intimations of sex and homosex were enough. I’d read an entire fat difficult book and miss most of it, happy as long as I got characters to identify with, have crushes on, fantasize about. It did make me a reader, though, and a fantasist. Much of it was luck. A relative heard I liked the Greek myths, so she got me all the Mary Renaults. Jackpot. Other family members knew I liked Renaissance art, so they gave me Bomarzo, a modern novel by the Argentinean Mujica- Lainez, about a fictional sixteenth-century Count Orsini, a handsome bisexual hunchback. Found E. M. Forster’s Maurice in a paperback edition in a supermarket rack, was able to buy it without attracting too much attention. Again and again, the best literary luck. When I read Maurice I was convinced that Forster had hopelessly distorted the central situation of his novel, because I couldn’t believe that a person of twenty or so couldn’t know what he wanted sexually. In other words, I thought Forster was avoiding age-of-consent issues by making his characters come to terms with themselves in adulthood. At fourteen, I couldn’t believe that someone twenty or twenty-two might not know whether or not he loved men.
Well, my beautiful bristle head. I did manage to get a lot of good revision done tonight. Tomorrow, before and after housecleaning on the eve of the arrival of another houseguest, and hopefully sucking off a very handsome prematurely gray married man, yum, for the second time (but that was quite a while ago), must get much more done.
Kevin
From: Paul
Date: Mon, Apr 8
Kevin,
Thanks so much for calling me yesterday to tell me about Mormons on Parade on 60 Minutes. It was touching to think you might be interested in knowing more about my background and culture—in short, where I’m from. Or maybe you’ve always been interested in Mormonism….
After I spoke to you, I called a buddy and we went for burritos and margaritas, and then to her house for scotch and Scrabble. I won, but not by much. Afterward I went to the park, where cruising was sparse. I got out of my car and walked near the pond, and met a long-haired Native American fellow who wanted to 69. I thought, what the hell?, so we got mostly naked and sucked one another in the grass beneath a large tree. He spurted his third load of the evening into my mouth, and, as per his instructions, I came over his chest and licked it off. Went home and talked to my roommate until nearly three a.m.
Monday, back to school. At noon I headed over to the PE building men’s room and sat on the toilet reading until someone came into the stall next to mine. The boy was only twenty-three, Chicano and very uncut. His glans was always hidden in the wrinkled, wet mass of brown skin that extended beyond the tip of his hard cock. We took turns sucking on one another, and I enjoyed tasting his plentiful pre-cum—creating strings of it that joined my lips to his cockhead. He whispered dirty nothings to me—how he wanted to watch me suck off all his friends, that he wanted to piss all over me in a public place, that he wanted to hold me down and watch a series of men gang rape me. He asked to sniff my underwear, and wanted me to give him the pair I was wearing, but I refused. I simply don’t own enough to go around making presents of it to my tricks.
Soon we had company—the librarian guy—and I got on my knees, pulled my T-shirt over my head to avoid soiling it with jizz, and started to suck on his much meatier cock while the kid watched. I was quite proud of the way I was able to keep his thick, lengthy cock in my throat as he grabbed the sides of my stall and pumped his groin into my face, pubic hair grazing my nose and chin with every thrust. I took turns on the two of them until the librarian pulled his cock from my mouth and began to stroke a load out of it. His first spurt created a beautiful and impressive arc in the air before splattering over my eager, open-mouthed face, and I received the remainder of his cum over my face and lips. The kid frantically whispered that he was also about to shoot, so I quickly positioned my head near his cock and received a second shower of jism over my cheeks, my ears, my neck, and mouth. While the cum dripped from my nose and chin and lips, I shot my own load, wishing I had your beautiful face to gaze into as I experienced the sheer ecstasy of cum that only you and I are able to understand.
I headed home and read over two hundred pages, watched Jeopardy and The Simpsons (a nightly ritual of mine), made dinner for myself (rosemary chicken with rice and a green salad), and have been working on this damned busywork for the last couple of hours.
All my lovin,
Paul
From: Kevin
Date: Monday night, April 8
Lord Buddha's birthday
Paul,
Well, my adored fellow, how happy I am to set aside my work to write to you. I’ve made a lot of progress today, a surprising amount, but my publisher is pressing me to finish on time—next Monday, or earlier.
Happily, I was able to squeeze in a pleasurable blow job this afternoon. Had seen him once before, a long time ago, and was pleased when he took the bait to come again. Thirty-four,very married, very handsome. Tall, prematurely gray, intelligent face, kind expression, a little sheepish about being involved in something so depraved. He came today from a business meeting, so was dressed in a very sexy conservative suit and tie. As I got most of his clothes off him and sat him down, he said: You must really love this. I said: Hard dick on a handsome guy, what could be better? Broad-shouldered, big nicely hairy chest, pretty nipples. A little while later he asked: Why do you like this so much? I could only answer with the usual bemused-butch shake of the head, saying: Who knows? Just love sucking dick, love to be on my knees for a handsome guy. He was fully hard tout de suite, and appreciative of my ministrations. I loved his cock, only medium-large, but nicely formed, well-furnished with dark big balls, dark pubic hair in a discrete mass, against smooth fair skin. Tried to give every possible pleasurable sensation with my mouth and throat. He stroked my head, my back, my nipples under my T-shirt, so I felt emboldened to take off first my pants and then my shirt. He pulled on my dick quite a bit, which was hard the whole time, so hungry was I for his dick. Was he this demonstrative last time? Can’t remember, but think he was decidedly more reciprocal this time. His questions and comments, too, suggested a curiosity about me, hardened cocksucker, just as I feel about him, suburban bisexual (or closet case, or some combination?). For a moment I stood as he stood, let him pull on my dick while I leaned over to suck him. Sucked his nipples, moved into something that was almost an embrace. But soon we were back in our respective positions, I very happy to look up at this sexy suburbanite, he obviously pleased to have me chowing down on his hard-on. He made some moves to hold my head and ears down on his dick, but was too sweet and middle class to be as sexually insistent as I would have liked. Not to complain: I liked his tentativeness, his instinctual reticence, his habit of being gentle, learned no doubt from fucking his wife and girlfriends. With time, perhaps, he’ll find that there are times when it’s appropriate to hold someone’s ears in a vise grip and whale away like a teenager fucking a hole in a watermelon. He let me know he was getting close, and I only escalated, until I felt his hot chloroxy jism at the back of my mouth. Tried to suck every drop out of him, and then jammed my face all the way down to his bush, and let both of us breath and recover. His cock was beautiful afterward, half hard, wet, leaning; a pearl of cum in his pubes that I tried to teeth out. He was just as friendly afterward, laughing a bit on shaking hands at the door.
