Hot Gay Erotica, page 5
As the year progresses, Robert teaches me a lot about counterpoint and preludes and fugues. By the end of the summer, he also teaches me about having sex with a man. Scares the hell out of me. I guess I’m a prime piece of jailbait, but I don’t turn him in. Not in our town—everyone would be embarrassed and mad and they’d all start talking about me, like I wanted it. Well, maybe I do.
Robert has spent the summer doing graduate work at some hoity-toity conservatory in Kentucky. I have my mother’s blessing, and indeed, encouragement, to take an overnight train from our small town in Connecticut to Kentucky to help Robert pack his car and drive back with him. Little does she know. Or me, for that matter.
I get there. Robert tells me he had a roommate for the summer, some guy who moves out just before I arrive. But he leaves his bikini swimsuit drying on the bathtub. Kinda strange, I think. The suit’s sheer and skimpy, almost transparent, and I sure wouldn’t wear it to the swimming pool. But it turns me on, sorta. Well, to be honest, I’d like to try it on, but it looks too small.
Robert has one double bed. So where did this roommate guy sleep? Uh-oh, I think. It’s night, and I’m real tired, and I undress and crawl in, bare-ass naked. I catch him sneaking glances at me, not at all relaxed like guys undressing in the gym. You know, no bantering. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, just quickly strips with jerky motions, like a marionette with tangled strings. Where’s Mr. Smooth Church Organist now?
Partway through his strip un-tease, he turns off the light. But I have time to notice that his thin, almost hairless torso echoes his bony fingers, and his chest, like his angular face, is pockmarked. He moves too quickly for me to see his crotch. I turn on my side, facing away from him. I try to fall asleep, but my hands are clammy, and I keep wiggling back and forth, trying to get closer to the edge of the bed without falling off. Robert slowly follows me, like a panther tracking a helpless deer trapped near the end of some dark canyon. He snuggles up against me, reaches over my shoulder, and rubs my chest. It feels good, even though his fingers tremble a little. I swallow hard so he can’t hear me beginning to moan with pleasure. It’s just a massage, I think. But we’re in bed, a little voice in my head adds. I’m scared, but I sorta want it, whatever it is gonna be.
Robert reaches for my crotch, and there it is—my big boner. I can’t help it; it won’t go away. “Ah,” he sighs. He strokes my shaft, more than a handful, and squeezes it, tight, loose, tight, loose, like pushing toothpaste along a half-empty tube. I feel his hard-on sliding between my legs. The odor of spit hangs in the air. He rubs the palm of his hand over the end of my dick; it’s almost too intense despite all the juice I’m leaking. I shudder, I let myself groan, my hips jerk, and I come right away. I mean, really come, like I’m dizzy. Then Robert squirts all over my butt. He must’ve been fucking me between my legs, but I didn’t even notice. Of course it’s sticky, but he doesn’t clean it up. Just falls asleep and starts snoring.
I’m trembling. Have I lost my virginity? Does this count? God, I have to go to confession in two weeks. I know Father Shaw will recognize my voice from the other side of the confessional screen. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was one month ago. I missed mass once, I sassed my mother three times, I played with myself lots, and I had sex with a man.” What’s he gonna think? He’s one of the local judges in the statewide “Let Freedom Ring” essay contest I entered. Shit! I wish I’d stayed home. I’m tossing and turning, motor-mind in full gear, but I finally tumble into an exhausted sleep.
In the morning Robert asks me what I want for breakfast, like nothing happened. I can’t look him in the eye. If we were back home, I could hide.
I might as well be his prisoner for the next three days and two nights as we drive eight hundred miles north. I survive, though. We trade off driving his big Pontiac. I look straight ahead a lot, and don’t say much. Neither does he.
We have sex one more time in some motel. It’s easier because Robert does exactly the same thing. But dammit, he acts like he’s entitled—I mean, he never discusses his intentions. And I still don’t discuss how I feel; I’m too shy and scared to talk about sex. I don’t know what to say anyway. But he’s the grown-up; shouldn’t he say something, anything?
Robert and I get it on a few more times after we’re back. The last time, we do it in his large house, while his mother’s in the other wing. God, I’m anxious. Will she interrupt us? Or, could be, she knows what’s going on. I know I’m cute, so maybe she’s figured out why I’m the only one Robert wants to listen to records with. It doesn’t matter. I’m having enough trouble with my own identity to worry about his. My Catholic guilt churns in me while we’re doing it. And afterward too. I don’t think Robert ever notices my nervousness, or cares, because he doesn’t look me in the eye. And his hands still tremble when he reaches for me, so I sure do look at him, straight on. Makes me feel a little better, like I’m learning, even if he isn’t.
Gosh, all this is too confusing. I like having sex with another person. And I know Robert and me can’t be open. But I want Robert to show he cares about me. I guess I feel like a girl must feel. Maybe this wining and dining stuff isn’t a bad idea after all.
THE SECOND DATE
Jonathan Asche
When Harris suggested going for a walk in the park after dinner I thought he was being romantic. I didn’t think he meant this park.
I knew it well, this scraggly patch of land separating a residential neighborhood from a dilapidated business district, occupied by pot-smoking teens during the day, men on the prowl at night. Already, in the early evening, I could see the men gathering. Some sat in their cars, waiting to see what happened by, while others wandered the grounds, trolling. Across the park, near the restrooms, a man in white shorts did a slow stroll within a circle of light cast from a lamppost in front of the squat cinder-block building. Another man, in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, leaned against the building, one foot hitched up against the wall, smoking a cigarette, ignoring the guy in white shorts and looking right at us.
I fought back the memory: me on the floor in a toilet stall, the coppery flavor of a stranger’s cum in my mouth, my own jizz soaking my T-shirt and matted in my pubic hair. When I opened my eyes—
“You look lost in thought,” Harris said.
My chest felt as if it were in a vise. Did he know about my past? “It’s this park. It’s a little, um, creepy.”
“Cruisy would be a better description.”
Could’ve told you that when you suggested coming here, I thought.
We first met at the grocery store, of all places. He caught my attention in produce. I saw him over by the prepackaged salads: around my age; dark hair buzzed down close to his scalp; cutting a nice figure, with an ass practically gift-wrapped in blue jeans. Our paths crossed again in dairy, and I got a closer view. I checked him out from the crotch up. By the time I completed my slow pan upward and reached his face he was smiling at me. I returned an embarrassed smile before hurrying past him.
He caught up with me in frozen foods, saying he thought he recognized me from somewhere. I said, “Probably from produce,” and he laughed. Awkward small talk—and for me all small talk is awkward—followed, ending with him asking me out.
The first date—your standard dinner-and-a-movie package—went well. I guess. Well enough for Harris to ask me out again, even though we didn’t have sex.
That’s right. No sex on the first date. My therapist’s idea, her thinking being that by abstaining I could concentrate on relating to Harris as a person, opening the door to greater intimacy, blah, blah, blah. Easy for her to say; I wanted to blow him in the grocery store parking lot the night we met. You can take the queen out of the tearoom…
But when Harris kissed me goodnight, I said: “I don’t have sex on the first date.” I even sounded halfway convincing. Still, if he pressed I would’ve reneged on my vow in a heartbeat.
“There’s always the second date,” he said, his voice a velvety purr, making my cock twitch. I was jacking off about five minutes after Harris left me at my apartment.
Now, in the park, he said, “I have an idea,” winking and grabbing my hand.
We were heading to the restrooms. “What did you have in mind?” I was trying to choke back my rising panic.
Harris disengaged his hand from mine, moving it to the small of my back. He leaned in and said, “Thought we could have some fun with these guys.”
The man in the white shorts ducked away into the shadows, behind a tree, as we neared the restrooms. The smoker remained at his spot against the buildings wall, staring at us brazenly. Thirty-ish, about average height, an okay body: attractive enough that he could go to any one of the city’s gay bars and get a man and not have to skulk about a public park on a Friday night. He shot me a lecherous grin and slid a hand down to the mound in his crotch and squeezed it lewdly.
Like he was on to me.
I looked away, my stomach tightening. Harris’s mischievous smile had hardened into something more sinister as he pulled me forward to the battered men’s room door.
My heart was in my throat by the time we stepped into the restroom’s dim interior. Only one of the light fixture’s three fluorescent rods was functioning; one was dead and another was dying, flickering intermittently like a slow-motion strobe. The walls were covered in cracked, mud-colored tile, beige enamel and obscene graffiti. The humid air smelled of mildew and stale piss.
Harris pushed me up against the wall opposite the sinks. He kissed me so hard I thought he might draw blood. My hands clamped onto his ass, my fingers tingling in anticipation of feeling the flesh beneath his pants.
A cough startled us. At the end of the room, standing against the wall just outside the last toilet stall, a man watched us. He was older than either of us, at least forty, his face hidden behind a full beard and a blue T-shirt hugging his barrel chest. Even in the weak light, the outline of his stiff cock in his jeans was plain, and he fondled it incessantly.
“Maybe we should go someplace else,” I pleaded, my voice quavering.
Harris’s hand went to my crotch. “Feels like you want to stay.”
Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled and we were on the move again, me stumbling behind him, heading toward the man standing at the end of the restroom. He greeted us with an impassive stare, waiting to see, as was I, what Harris had in mind.
“Show us your cock,” Harris said in a low voice.
The man’s eyes went from Harris to me. “Okay,” he nodded. “Your boyfriend can do the honors.”
“I think we should—”
But Harris pushed me forward. “You heard the man. Take his cock out of his pants.”
With shaky fingers I unfastened the man’s pants, trying not to look at him as I did so. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. His rigid cock sprang forward the moment I opened his fly. Its girth was more impressive than its length; it was topped with a snub-nosed head. I gave it only the briefest glance, embarrassed to admire it too blatantly in front of Harris.
“Go ahead and touch it.” The man’s voice was like smoke.
“He’ll do better than that,” Harris said conspiratorially, pushing open the stall door. “C’mon, baby. Get in there, like when we first met.”
Not in the grocery store. Two months ago:
I was there, on the floor in a toilet stall, a stranger’s cum covering my face, my own jizz soaking my T-shirt and matted in my pubic hair. When I opened my eyes I discovered I wasn’t alone. The door to the stall was open. Someone was standing there, watching me. I saw brown shoes, khaki pants, and a nice bulge in the crotch. By the time my eyes reached the intruder’s face, he’d turned to flee. All I got was an intriguing glimpse, and he was gone. And then I was alone.
“It was you.” My voice was dry and hoarse.
I was propelled forward into the stall. On my left, framed by scrawled messages promising good times and nine-inch dicks, a glory hole had been crudely cut into the plywood of the dividing wall. I spun around to face Harris, and saw him directing the stranger to the neighboring stall. My eyes were more questioning than angry, and when Harris saw me, he answered with an encouraging smile.
I knelt on the gritty cement floor. Seconds later, the stranger’s cock appeared through the glory hole. Harris stood at the stall’s entrance, holding the door open, his smile gone now. He nodded, and I turned my attention to the cock poking into my stall, leaning forward and closing my mouth around it. A deep sigh sounded from the other side of the wall as I took the dick deep into my throat, my lips traveling down the thick shaft.
The air was filled with heavy breathing, sudden gasps, constant wet slurping—me sucking a stranger’s cock. The stall divider shook as the man on the other side thrust his bulk forward. I forgot about renouncing my past and I forgot about Harris watching me. I sucked the mystery man’s cock harder, eager for its creamy reward. My dick ached, and I massaged it through my pants. I didn’t unzip yet, not trusting myself to control my strokes.
The squeak of the door opening sent a chill through me—what if it’s the cops?—but my fear was quickly eased by the stranger’s loud grunts. “Oh, fuck yeah!” he groaned between strangled breaths.
His cock erupted in my mouth. I pulled away, letting his load splash onto my face. I rubbed the throbbing head against my smooth cheek. Grabbing the shaft, I squeezed the last drop of splooge onto my tongue.
The stranger’s cock retreated through the hole. Grunts, sighs, zipping, the shuffling of feet, and he was gone.
Did Harris have his cock out now? I wondered. Was he jacking off? Did he want me to suck his cock? I was about to turn and see, but then another anonymous dick was offered to me, bigger than the last: at least eight inches, only partially erect. This cock also had the distinction of being uncut, its head still tucked within its sleeve of pink flesh.
Harris would have to wait his turn.
Gripping the semihard rod, I gently chewed the tip, the salty taste of precum leaking out from the wrinkled folds of foreskin. Slowly, I pulled back the prick’s collar, revealing a fat, purplish head. My tongue prodded the fleshy folds, allowing the foreskin to roll back up, trapping my tongue against the head. I wiggled my tongue back and forth, enjoying the extra skin I had to play with. The uncut cock’s owner trembled, making the wall between us shake.
The cock stiffened in my mouth, taking my own arousal to an excruciating level. My dick hurt, I was so horny. I’d be freeing it soon, but not yet. It was a challenge I often made myself endure back when: how many cocks could I suck before I gave in to the urge to get myself off. To date, I’d managed four before caving. My self-made dare was partly for the agonizing thrill it gave me, my cock aching in my pants, neglected. But on a more practical level, I delayed touching myself because I knew once I came the spell would be broken.
A shadow fell over me as someone joined me in the stall. I turned to my left, expecting to see Harris but finding another stranger instead. He was young—early-twenties, I guessed—with a slender frame. A curtain of long brown hair fell forward as he looked at me, shadowing his face. Tight, faded blue jeans hugged his narrow hips, the worn denim stretching over a pronounced bulge. Wordlessly, the young man unfastened his pants quickly and presented me with his beautiful cock. It was a decent length, well formed and, like most dicks I saw, cut.
But I made this new guy wait, turning back to the uncut member poking through the hole, now fully hard and throbbing, the foreskin stretched back to reveal the purplish head. I sucked on it a minute, reminding the man I hadn’t forgotten him, simultaneously reaching for the young guy standing next to me, stroking his cock while I swallowed another.
The young man stepped closer, and my mouth jumped from the uncut guy to this less anonymous cock. The young guy’s dick disappeared deep into my gullet. I could feel him shudder, and he let out an involuntary “Oh!” He didn’t trim his pubes—my nose sank into a cushion of coarse, curly hairs as I deep-throated him.
Abruptly, I returned to the uncut cock, sucking it in swift, long gulps. The stranger hissed and there was a hard thunk as he rammed his hips forward against the plywood wall. Next came the flood of semen, washing over my tongue. I pulled my head back and held the cockhead against my lips, letting its spurts land on my face, the jism slowly sliding down either side of my mouth.
I gave the uncut cock’s sticky head a kiss before it retreated. Through the hole I saw a glimpse of white fabric and wondered if I’d just sucked off the guy in white shorts Harris and I had seen outside earlier.
Back to the young guy. His cock was drooling now, a long gossamer string of precum suspended from its head. Leaning forward, I stretched my tongue to catch the salty juices oozing from his dick. He pressed the engorged crown onto my tongue, squeezing out another trickle of precum. My lips came down, tightening around the shaft, trapping the young stranger’s cock inside my mouth.
As I sucked him, I tugged at the front of his pants, pulling them down to reveal his balls. His ball sac was drawn up tight, the wiry hairs covering the scrotum standing on end, as if filled with static electricity. I nuzzled the fuzzy nut sac with my chin as I nibbled at the base of his cock. My tongue prodded the cum-engorged orbs, making the young stranger hiss and grab a fistful of my hair.
I returned my mouth to his dick, relishing the feel of it sliding against my tongue and pushing against the walls of my throat. I swallowed every inch of him, and I wanted more.
