Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 5
“Well, yea—hh,” the younger man answered. Now he was the one who was nervous, adding, “Look, it’s OK if…”
Perversely enough, his uncertainty convinced Ray not to stop what he had started. Ray caressed the repairman’s bulge through the corduroy. It wasn’t large but it was hard and that seemed to validate anything that might happen. “I think we’ve got a winner here. Let’s go into the bedroom,” Ray said in what he hoped was a reassuring yet sultry voice. “It’s more comfortable.”
Refusing to relinquish his corduroy prize, he towed the young man along the corridor by degrees, gripping his belt to draw him along.
Once across the bedroom doorsill, Ray released the shorts and used both hands to lift the rugby shirt. When the repairman made a gesture of hesitation, Ray reassured him. “Don’t be nervous. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do. OK?”
The raised shirt disclosed the athletic chest and flat abdomen Ray had imagined. The repairman’s torso was by no means huge, thickly muscled, or perfectly “cut,” but it was without an inch of fat and hairless but for an inky penumbra circling each nipple, and a tuft rising above and below his navel fading into tanned skin.
“It’s not that,” the workman said. “It’s just that I don’t…you know, do this kind of thing.”
Ray wasn’t listening. He let instinct take over, taking hold of the man’s torso and nibbling one nipple, then kneading it between his fingertips as he moved his lips and teeth to the other. Back and forth, once, twice, thrice. When he perceived the repairman would not try to free himself, Ray let go and slowly kissed down the tummy, engrossed in delineating with the tip of his tongue the nearly invisible line of hair evanescing into the reinforced waistband of the promised land of underwear. Ray paused in his descent only to dally at—circumscribe with the tip of his tongue, teasingly explore—the vortex of belly button. He employed those few seconds of distraction to effortlessly unbuckle the belt, unbutton the shorts-front. The corduroy drifted down, settling gently around densely stockinged ankles. Ray knelt, never for a second ceasing to caress the young man’s briefs and, with hands and mouth, never pausing in his stroking of the cotton-enclosed bottom.
Ray was like a child receiving a long awaited present, so temptingly close, he so eager for it, yet willing to restrain himself from tearing off the wrapping to savor the prospect a few seconds longer. He was conscious of how unconditionally lust had been set free in him as well as by how thoroughly he intended to experience this fellow, and this fellow’s sex, when he heard a low moan: basso, guttural. Only with the greatest effort was Ray able to momentarily force his face away from the snowy field of Jockey cotton to glance up and discover from where those sounds emanated, what they were meant to express.
The young workman’s head was thrown back. When his face swung into view again, just beyond his flat pectorals with their erect nipples, the voluptuous green eyes appeared smudged, three-quarters shut, his lips a blur. Ray sat back on his knees to relish the sensual victory, then slowly nudged the repairman backward, step succeeding step, all the while taunting him by running his teeth back and forth across the Jockey-covered swelling—until the younger man turned muzzy and stumbling.
At that instant, Ray drew down the underpants, freeing a perfectly shaped penis, which sprung out, shuddering. He also released that specific and individual bouquet he had detected before, intensified tenfold. Essence of Man, they’d called it in the movie Barbarella. Ray nudged the guy one more time a bit harder so that he couldn’t help but lose his balance. He floundered, then dropped backward, landing athwart the edge of the bed’s mattress.
All but deranged by the sight and smell, Ray attacked the longed-for lower torso with face and hands, teeth and lips and tongue, in a barrage of kissing and sucking. Ray consolidated all effort, the entirety of his existence, toward a single end: producing in the sexy workman a thrashing, teeth-clenching, mattress-thumping, unsmotherable, earth-shattering, gut-born roar of orgasm.
When he began to come, the repairman rose off the bed as though intending to levitate, gasping and groaning, before softly subsiding, panting, deflating back onto the bed. Ray at last allowed the fellow’s hands to push his face from the still-vibrating body. Sated, relenting, Ray hunched on his heels, surveying the scene, then joined the repairman on the chenille.
The guy attempted to rise, fell back exhausted. “God. I needed that!”
Me too, Ray thought. He had come without touching himself.
Holding the well-muscled arm, he looked at the left hand, the one he had not bandaged. A gold ring on the scarred third finger. “Married,” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” a little laugh, “but that don’t mean I get treated like this at home. And lately,” he added more darkly, “I don’t get much at all.” Then, lest he seem disloyal, he went on, “It’s all since the last kid was born. You know, she’s had woman illness, that kind of thing.”
“You have kids?”
“Two boys and a girl—8, 6, and 2. Want to see their picture?”
“When did you start? When you were 12?”
“You think I’m a kid?” Half-sitting up. “I’ll be 31.”
“I’d never have guessed it.”
“You’re, what?” green eyes scrutinizing, “35?”
“Close,” Ray said.
“But never married, right?”
“Never married,” Ray admitted.
“Which is why you sent me to the ceiling a few minutes ago.”
Ray was flattered. Jesse had never complimented him like that. “You liked it?”
“I think I already expressed my appreciation,” the repairman laughed, rolled closer to Ray. “Everyone says: for good head, you gotta go gay.”
“And now you know which gay to go to,” Ray said, feeling esteemed, giddily so. Which was why he was emboldened to add, “Maybe when you’re in the area…?” He touched a hot shoulder, “You around a lot, fixing automatic doors?”
“I haven’t been. This other guy, older guy, who works there too, he asked for Brooklyn and Manhattan jobs. But he’s ticked off a few customers. I could ask for the route…drop by. I couldn’t say when, exactly. That OK?”
“I’m here all day. You’ve got my card. Give a call.”
Their faces were inches away from each other. Those eyes!
“You like it, right? Being gay? Doing stuff to guys?”
Ray wasn’t sure exactly what he was being asked. “I like doing stuff to you.” Then he added. “Why?”
The workman turned away, looked up at the ceiling. “She was my high school sweetheart. We went to the prom in May, graduated in June, got married in September. Everyone thought she was knocked up. But she wasn’t. We knew each other since we were, like, in second grade. I hung with her brothers. I like her folks and all. We do things together with her family all the time. The beach. Deep-sea fishing. Barbecues. The whole nine yards.”
It came out affectionately, yet rueful. Ray didn’t know how to answer. “Sounds comfortable.”
“It’s comfortable.” Again the workman’s tone was mixed. “Unlike my friggin’ job.” He sat up, stretched. “Which can be a bitch. Now I gotta fight traffic all the way back to Massapequa. When instead I could sleep all afternoon. You ever do that—you know, working so close to bed?”
“Not often,” Ray admitted. “The phone rings. Orders to be filled.”
“The john’s that way?” Pointing. Then the repairman was up, winking at Ray as he pulled on his Jockeys, his shorts, and buckled up. All Ray could think was: Look at that body! Look at that face!
He could have stayed in bed and waited and watched the guy come out again, but it might have embarrassed him. So Ray got up and was straightening his clothing when the repairman entered, checking his watch, all business.
“I’m gonna be right in rush-hour traffic.”
Ray led him back through the hall to the office and street door. As he stepped out, Ray said, “By the way, you know my name. From the card and all. You are…?”
“Oh, right. Mike. Mike Tedesco.” His handshake was butch; one of the Band-Aids flapped off.
“Mike from Massapequa,” Ray mused. “See ya around.”
“Sure.” Hearty. Then, in a different tone, “You know, maybe sometime, you can show me some other stuff. Other gay stuff,” he added conspiratorially. “You know what I mean?”
Ray didn’t have a clue. “Sure,” he said as though he did.
Mike hopped into the van and it dashed into a break in the Joralemon Street traffic, moving so fast that he was gone before Ray remembered the parking decal was still in the truck. Maybe Mike would see it and come back. If not today, then another time.
Ray closed and locked the office, then drifted through the lower floor, stroking the cat, meandering into the bedroom— so unexpectedly redolent with Mike’s fragrance. Jesus, it’s strong, Ray thought. I’ve got to spray in here before Jesse comes home.
He decided he should change the bedcover, too, just in case. Chuck the cat out the door, open the windows, and totally sanitize the place. But just glancing at the bed turned Ray on so much that all he could do was lie back in the midst of that fragrance—Essence of Mike Tedesco—and replay it in his mind. He became aroused again, and ended up masturbating.
The Show Palaces
Marc Almond
where do the lovely lovers of the dark go now, the worshippers in the temple of flesh, the shadow people—now the show palace has closed down, the david, the adonis lounge?
1. 1993
23:00, the show palace, eighth ave., new york
a room shadowy in the muted red light, occasionally a reflection caught in the mirror tiles, a muffled, distorted disco tape and an unintelligible announcement tells us to appreciate carlos or jesus (where else would you find jesus but in a temple?). jesus is sexy. jesus and the gods of flesh. the room is heavy with sex scent and musky dark sweat and scented lube oil. the effect is heady, surreal and serious. four of the five enormous black and latino guys dance lazily and zombie-like in a semi-state of crack trance on the small strewn stage rubbing oil into their lithe bodies and stretching their large semi-erect and oiled penises into forever, like a snake dance in the temple to the great god erotica. occasionally they leave the stage and straddle members of the audience, drawing out dollars from the spectators’ pockets with their magical hustler powers—money stuffed into socks and boots for one more minute of close attention. in the dark recesses and deep corners, they linger for longer, straddling and thrusting, larger amounts of money getting more exotic attentions.
24:00, the gaiety theatre, times square, new york
it’s the final show of the day, the air is twice as thick with dare, anticipation and sex. fourteen boys of mostly straight origin and toned, white-american apple-pie stock take turns performing and selling their wares to an audience of mostly older gentlemen. against a cheap sparkling curtain of the purest tantalizing glamour, they dance, crouch, spin and flex to classic and current disco and house tunes. beautifully fleshed and marbled, perfect-looking bodies, bruise- and needle-mark-free, thrust- and pose-defining buttocks and pecs, living pages from the athletic model guild. sweet homeboy faces, freckles, eager-puppy eyes, hustler grins, sometimes a tuft or two of hair in all the right places, sometimes tear-shaped and teen-like backward baseball caps, white socks and short fuck-me cowboy boots for the tips and added sleaze “erotic erotic put your hands all over my body” moans a familiar diva as eyes meet eyes and dollar touches torso. after removing their few clothes, plain shirt/black jeans, they strut their stuff before leaving the stage for a few moments. one imagines backstage a quick bump of coke, a girlfriend doing her stuff and limp members jolt into brief action. they return stiffly, perky, proud, and erect; some aren’t successful in rising to the occasion—nerves, too much coke, too much business, but most meet the demand. they take a bow to the enthusiastic applause, and seats clatter [RL: I think this is awk and it works better w/o it] as gentlemen beat a nasty path to the side-stage lounge to negotiate with the young dancers and a booming, distorted voice bids us to put our hands together for the very talented joey. later, back at the dancer’s hotel, maybe the president hotel, off times square, a further performance, more private, maybe a little more awkward, takes place, costs approximately $200—don’t suck, get sucked, or only fuck. if it’s the last show, maybe come, only maybe. girlfriend? back home in connecticut. “yeah, she knows.”
2. 1994
midnight, the savoy, new york
it’s friday night and it must be buddha’s big-dick contest at the savoy bar, situated by the port authority bus terminal. the bar is stuffed to capacity with banjee boys and their girlfriends, young black and latin hustlers, a couple of transvestites taking a break from sally’s hideaway (a sister transvestite bar up the street), dealers, dopers, and strays, village queens out for a dash of low-rent sleaze, and tattooed white boys out for the thrill. buddha, a fat toothless black man with gray curly hair, a diamanté earring and a long gold mandarin’s fingernail, is at one end of the bar. he is with a coterie of underage banjee boys to whom he has promised the world, or the half-world that he inhabits after dark. some wear the blue and yellow beads of the latin kings—i have made friends with members of the latin kings’ new york gang, so my safety is assured in the bar and on the street out front, which can get quite scary on forty-ninth street and ninth avenue. the gang members stand guard at the door with ever-watchful eyes. the girls, their hair in bangs and plaits, hang dopily around their hustler boyfriends, who ignore them—playing pool, passing joints and snorting coke in the bathroom. their woolen hats pulled down over their ears (giving them a cute goofiness), their teeth encased in gold, their pants hanging off their hips (one leg rolled up), their necks ringed with gold chains. they swagger around the pool table, shoulders slung low, hands curved inward. at 01:30 buddha takes the stage and welcomes the crowd on a microphone with too much reverb.
he berates the transvestites and dares anyone to enter the contest for the $50 prize—the crack dealers wait. there are two contestants tonight, they are waiting in the beer-storage room, being blown by their girlfriends, trying by whatever means to get some life into their flaccid members (suffering from the effects of too much coke). the first to take the stage is a tall, gangly black guy in a woolen hat. he provides a half-hard monster—the crowd yells its approval. buddha produces his ruler and measures the snake-like appendage. “ten inches,” shouts buddha and bends to kiss the snake with a gummy mouth. the sheepish contestant, looking a little peaky and sweaty, as his last pipe wore off some hours ago, slopes off into the back room to work up another inch, and so his place is taken by rico, a latin boy with half his teeth missing. he runs out, quickly followed by his girl, before his proud erection flops and it’s obvious he is not going to measure up—nevertheless the crowd cheer him on. “nine inches,” proclaims buddha.
the crowd surges nearer to the stage in wonderment and awe, as if they have never seen such meat before.
rico runs off, pulling his girlfriend with him to work a little harder. the first contestant, the gangly black guy, runs up again, nearly falling over his own trousers, which are round his ankles. grasping his piece, he has raised another half an inch. it’s official. “ten and a half inches,” declares buddha, and the crowd is almost at frenzy point. buddha once more gums the guy’s extra limb, causing acute humiliation, though of course the contestants can’t complain—this is buddha’s place and buddha’s show, and beside rico needs that pipe.
suddenly there is commotion as the door swings open. a tall mulatto boy with a huge mouth and a shock of curly hair strides in, wearing an overcoat. pushing through the crowd, he makes his way to the little platform. “it’s big bird,” gasps one of the transvestites.
silence.
“he’s gonna win it again,” another shouts resignedly, and sure enough, when big bird opens his overcoat he reveals the clear winner by a couple of inches.
“you bitches, i’m the biggest and the prettiest and it tastes good too,” drawls the effeminate big bird, and he claims his $50 prize, much to the chagrin of the gangly black guy, who has to make do with second place ($20). he’s not disappointed for long though because the village queens are soon in discussion with him about making a donation of their own. the crowd disperses, boys leave with their girls, some with older gentlemen, and down on ninth avenue the crack dealer is waiting. some of the boys will take their elderly friends to the elk hotel round the corner on forty-second street for a short stay.
it is now a year later and buddha is no longer at the savoy. he was fired for letting too many of the latin kings into the bar to do drug deals. some say he’s managing a bar downtown. the owners have moved in plastic tables with umbrellas that look truly surreal in the dark, pokey little bar, and have removed the pool table. needless to say, the place is empty. no more big-dick show on a friday night either—never mind, i’m sure they’ll soon see sense.
3. 1996
20:00, chi chi la rue’s night at the eros,
eighth ave., new york
the eros is the only male palace of porn left on eighth avenue, the rest were swallowed up by the great god disney. it’s a plucky little cinema, its brave blue neon eros sign a beacon to lovers of male erotic dancing and blurred celluloid encounters of male-on-male flesh. the eros sign, in 1950s fashion, promises something camp and kitsch and almost cheesecake. i think of the photos in physique magazines from the 1950s and 1960s—men dressed as gladiators, men spread-eagled on tiger-skin rugs, men with oily quiffs, men with sculpted muscles and fixed dimpled grins with eyes full of fun against glitter backdrops, men in posing pouches with anchor tattoos, biker boys in leopard skin tussling each other like playful puppies in heat, sexy and innocent. the word eros in blue neon makes me dream of these things—it makes me dream of bobby kendal in pink narcissus—that strange, erotic movie from a lost decade.
