Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 7
Brad didn’t so much suck my cock as open his mouth and let me pound his throat as deep and hard as I wanted. Previous reviewers mentioned Brad’s poor hygiene, and while he certainly wasn’t the cleanest escort I’ve ever been with, he smelled and tasted like a boy should. Rimming him seemed to drive both of us out of our minds. As soon as I started eating his hole, he had almost what seemed like a seizure. His whole body spasmed violently, and his mouth opened wide, and his eyes rolled back in his head. It sounds frightening, and it was, but it was also incredibly hot to see a boy that cute lose control. I knew from the earlier reviews that Brad could be barebacked, and that’s a huge fantasy of mine, so I fucked him condom-free and had two orgasms inside him before I felt too exhausted to continue. Still, I was dying to taste his come. He was still seizing and shaking all over, so I jerked him off and felched his hole until he shot, then licked up his delicious load.
As soon as Brad came, his seizure seemed to come to an end. He was drenched in sweat, and looked disoriented and exhausted. I suggested we get some sleep, as I was very spent by that point. That’s when things suddenly went bad very fast. Brad started yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs that I was a sicko who’d had unsafe sex with him against his will. He was out of control, and soon enough there was a loud knock at my door. It was the hotel’s manager and a couple of employees. He took one look at us and told me to either get the boy out of the hotel immediately or I would have to leave. I asked him to call Brad a taxi and that I would have the boy downstairs ready to leave in a minute, and he agreed and left. (God knows what would have happened if the manager hadn’t been gay!) Brad continued to scream at me, one minute saying he was sorry and to please let him stay, and the next minute telling me he was going to tell the police I raped and tried to kill him. I just kept begging him to get dressed and leave, and he finally did, but not before calling me every terrible name in the book.
The nightmare didn’t end there. About half an hour later he started calling my cell phone, begging me to come get him, and that he didn’t know where he was, and that he was scared. I tried to reason with him, but he got more and more upset, threatening to kill himself. He told me there was someone who wanted to kill him, and that if I didn’t come get him, he was going to go over to this person’s house and let himself be killed, and that he didn’t want to die, but he was afraid he would do that if I didn’t stop him. After about five calls from Brad, I turned my phone off. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, or if he was just trying to fuck with my head. I’ve never had anything like this happen to me in all my years of hiring escorts, and I thought I should warn others interested in Brad that, as cute as he is, he is definitely not worth it.
You: Asian-American man in my early 30s, like to try new things, into young guys, generally a top.
REVIEW #5
Escort’s name: Brad
Location: Los Angeles
Age: let’s just say 18
Month and year of your date: ongoing
Where did you find him: here
Internet address: bdax@hotmail.com
Escort’s email address: bridax@hotmail.com
Escort’s advertised phone number: 310-655-0033
Rates: Available on request
Did he live up to his physical description? if you hurry
Did he live up what he promised? and more
Height: 5’10 ½”
Weight: currently 150 lbs.
Facial hair: no
Body hair: no
Hair color: dishwater blond
Eye color: aquamarine
Dick size: 6 inches
Cut or uncut: cut
Thickness: medium
Does he smoke? not anymore
Top, bottom, versatile? bottom
In calls/out calls/not sure: in or out
Kisser: depends
Rating: highest
Hire again: ongoing
Handle: brian
Submissions: this is my first
URL for pics: no
Experience: I read with great interest the most recent review on Brad. I believe I’m the man Brad mentioned who “wants to kill him.” Let me explain something to you all. Both of my parents died of brain tumors. After reading the first three reviews of Brad, I was convinced that his physical and behavioral problems were the result of an undiagnosed brain tumor. I arranged a date with him, but instead of bringing him back to my place for sex, I took him to a hospital and paid for him to have a series of tests to see if I was right. It turns out that Brad does have an advanced, inoperable brain tumor and will die from complications resulting from the tumor within the next six months. That night I moved him into my house and he has been living here off and on for the past few weeks. I am paying for all of his medical bills, as well as his day-today expenses. He is on a medication that greatly reduces the severity and frequency of his seizures, although the side effects cause him to be very fatigued and irritable. For two days earlier this week, Brad went off his medication and disappeared, and this is when and how the previous reviewer had the date with Brad that he described. Brad is now home and on his medication again and doing as well as could be expected.
Before you decide that I’m a saint, I should explain that my all-time fantasy is to murder a boy during the sex act. I’ve had sex with a number of boys who were perfectly willing to be killed, but something always stopped me from going all the way. Brad provides me with the ideal situation, and, except for our disagreement earlier this week, he is also sexually aroused by what we both have agreed will happen. If all of this seems hard to believe, maybe it would help to know that in addition to his fatal condition, Brad suffers from severe bipolar disorder. He grew up in foster homes and has been emotionally, physically, and sexually abused his entire life. He will tell you himself that since he moved in with me, he has felt security and contentment for the first time.
When the day comes that he is so disabled that sex with him is no longer exciting to either one of us, I am going to end his suffering. In the meantime, I will allow him to do escort work on a limited basis. Anyone interested in seeing Brad can email or phone me, and arrangements will be made.
You: none of your business Webmaster’s comments: On July 16, reviewer JoseR72 was found severely beaten in his apartment. He remains in a coma. While there is no evidence to suggest that Brad is responsible, I nonetheless urge you to stay away from Brad. However, due to your overwhelming interest in the Brad saga, I will continue to post any reviews and updates that come in. Let me also say that because “Brian” has never posted on this site before, and because a new review of Brad that I will post in the morning throws the veracity of “Brian’s” post into question, his claims should be taken with a grain of salt.
REVIEW #6
Escort’s name: Brad aka Steve
Location: Long Beach
Age: 20?
Months and year of your date: July, 2001
Where did you find him? Pumpers
Rates: $400
Did he live up to his physical description?
Did he live up to what he promised? yes
Height: roughly 6 feet
Weight: maybe 165 lbs.
Facial hair: no
Body hair: pubes, ass crack
Hair color: brown
Eye color: blue
Dick size: 7 inches
Cut or uncut: cut
Thickness: medium thick
Does he smoke? like a chimney
Top, bottom, versatile: top for rimming only
In calls/out calls/not sure: out
Kisser: no
Rating: overpriced
Hire again: maybe
Handle: baglover
Submissions: This is my third review
Experience: Not that the Brad story needs another wrinkle, but here’s mine. I hired “Brad” about three weeks ago. I question how much of what the two previous reviewers wrote is true. I suspect the reviews were written by Brad/ Steve himself. I went looking for Brad at Pumpers in Long Beach after reading the first review. It turns out that I’d seen him there a number of times drinking and sometimes playing pool or pinball. I had been told by the bartender that his name was Steve. He stood out because of how young he looks, but apart from being cuter than your usual street trade, I wouldn’t say there was anything supernatural about his appearance. He had a reputation among the regulars at the bar as an arrogant creep who charged a ridiculously large fee ($350) to sit on men’s faces and masturbate. That was the extent of his services, and even getting him to agree to that meant buying him many drinks and waiting until he was in the mood, which could take hours. Need I say that this “Brad” is a very different character from the boy described in the recent reviews? The only things that match are his young appearance and the facial tics and body twitching that everyone describes.
I had a couple of drinks and decided to ask this character if he was Brad. He looked shocked but he said he used that name sometimes. I explained that I’d seen a review of him on this site. He said he knew nothing about the site, and had never even used a computer much less surfed the Web. I used his curiosity to get him to agree to go home with me, telling him I’d show him the review on my computer. Maybe I caught him off guard because he seemed like a nice enough boy at the time and even agreed to let me top him. But after a few more drinks, he started acting in what I would call a bizarre and aggressive manner. He changed his mind about coming to my place and insisted we go back to his place instead, which I agreed to. It was hardly a homeless shelter. It was quite a pricey, upscale apartment an hour north in Los Angeles. Let me say for the record that there was no sign that anyone else lived there, so it wasn’t the home of the self-styled murderer Brian. (He also had a very expensive G4 computer in full view, but he didn’t seem to care that I’d caught him in a lie.) As soon as we arrived, he became very cold and matter of fact. He told me to sit on the couch then pulled his pants down and sat on my face. I rimmed him for a few minutes until he came. I hadn’t come yet, since I was expecting to top him, but he refused to continue, although for an additional $50 he did agree to sit on my face for another couple of minutes. I will say that if your fantasy is to rim a decent looking piece of jail-bait, he’s quite satisfactory. He has a delicious, baby soft ass with a talented hole that he genuinely seems to enjoy having eaten, but whether it’s worth the money is up to you. Clearly what the previous reviewers wrote about Brad is a bunch of lies and nonsense. BTW, he still hangs out at Pumpers. I saw him there two nights ago.
You: Good looking, early 30s, keep myself in shape. I’m a top who loves to rim young guys.
Brian responds: While Brad is in no condition to respond personally at the moment, I’m almost sure I know this lying asshole. First of all, if I’m right, it was my condo. I was there in the room watching the entire encounter. Brad had just moved in with me the day before, and he was at Pumpers only to tell some old friends there about his diagnosis and say good-bye. Brad says this guy badgered him for sex the whole time he was there. He finally agreed and brought the guy back to the condo. Brad has always been a bottom who will accommodate any scene for a price. This guy offered Brad $300 dollars to rim him. That was his request. Brad accommodated him. During the scene, he decided that he wanted to eat shit out of Brad’s ass, which cost him an additional $100. He also drank Brad’s piss for no extra charge. Since that night he has hounded me, asking to come over and eat Brad’s shit, and on three occasions we accommodated him. He’s obsessed with Brad, and ultimately I found his constant phone calls and emails tiresome and stopped accommodating him. This is undoubtedly the reason that he has chosen to lie about Brad. Even his physical description of Brad has no resemblance to the reality. This guy is just an ugly, fat pedophile and scat queen who got his heart broken. End of story. Let me add that Brad is available as a WS, scat, body fluid top, or bottom if you’re interested….
ALL THE CREATURES WERE STIRRING
Andrew Spieldenner
For F. D.
I was never one of those kids who rattled the box for a clue or tried to peer through loose wrapping paper corners. The gift was the same, whether uncovered a day early or not. I’d like it or not, would have begged for it or not, would appreciate my refugee mother’s and working-class father’s ersatz interpretations of Christmas wish-lists or not. Even celebrating the birth of Christ grows stale, year after year: putting up the same decorations and lights in the same places, wearing the same seasonally outrageous clothes, making the same recipes from the same combination of homemade touches and the contents of tin cans, singing the same songs, and watching the same repeated television specials and church services. The droning gets so loud, it drowns out the lessons of the winter solstice; the buzz of commerce so pervasive, mall after mall, that the only way to remember what it is to be human, connected, a community, is to break yourself open like overripe fruit and begin anew with someone else’s hand in yours.
2003 was a lean year both for me and for many of my friends, and the holidays held no promise of relief. It meant that we had to—yet again—defy the basic tenets of the American Dream: We would not stand apart and pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, but we would huddle together for warmth and food; we could not gauge happiness by a mountain of things, instead we forgave each other our glaring lack of purchases. Poverty altered the appearances of the holidays so completely that I didn’t realize Christmas Eve was upon us. 2003 would become known for me, not for the opening of presents, but for the first time I fisted someone I actually liked.
When I was a teenager, a few men paid me to slam my fist in their ass. Each provided long surgical gloves, and I’d lube up and start punching. I didn’t know what to do; they didn’t think to instruct the street hustler. The johns were always on a random and somewhat obscene assortment of liquor, powders, and pills, screaming Harder! Faster! with their asses up in the air. This violence was their fantasy; I looked away to the clocks or the porcelain foreign princess doll collections or the ice melting in the Scotch or the straight porn. It was all blood and shit and over in ten minutes. Generally, they’d give me a bonus bag of coke. I would have to puke and scrub my arm in hot water three or four times before I could go anywhere.
Ten years later, I meet a formidable man, F. D., who gets me hard just thinking about touching him. His muscles writhe under a covering of tattoos. He’s bald, and black, with a closely shaved beard and moustache. Pierced through his nipples, his dick, and the skin between his balls and ass. He demands that I fist him on our first encounter. The decade between That Me and This Me doesn’t seem to stretch quite so far. I’m still at a loss. He isn’t; he knows how to teach.
We smoke some crystal first. A friend is over too—K. T., another impressively built black man—and the three of us talk, dealing out the obligatory introductions between puffs on the glass pipe. We talk about the tattoos marking us. K. T. sneaks his interest in body piercing into the conversation. Soon, K. T. exits to the other room and I am left with my newfound friend and the daunting face of his desire between us.
We smoke some more. We start talking about things we wanted to do in our lives. We strip, licking at lips, nipples, and groin. He mentions bondage; I find a rope. He secures it to the bed; I wrap it around his wrists. He lies there, pulling to make sure I’ve gotten the knot right.
He wants me to put his piercing in. I’d met some Prince Alberts before, but this was new—finding the hole in his flesh, unscrewing the metal piercing, and pushing it in, pulling it out the other side, watching his skin work against the silver, feeling the drag of his dick as I push the heavy ring through. I get erect.
It’s easier to put on his cock ring, wrapping it twice around his balls. Familiar territory, and the action lets me play with his dick and balls, getting lost in the licking and slurping. Luckily, he likes it that way.
Both of us look mischievously at the door. We know K. T. is too shy to take part with me around, but my new friend looks at me and says with perfect practicality, “Don’t you think your friend wants to see my Prince Albert?” I smile and open the door. K. T. sits in the other room, trying to focus on the computer screen. He barely resists jumping up when he hears, “You want to see the ring?” All too eager to see the Prince Albert, sliding the ring around and full of “does this hurt?,” “what’s this feel like?,” “how long did it take to heal?” while holding onto F. D.’s dick and ballsac.
F. D. wants to smoke more, but the ropes prevent simple access. Between the three of us, we manage. K. T. holds the glass pipe to the bound F. D.’s mouth. I suck on F. D.’s nipples, his six-pack, his nuts, his thighs, his long smooth feet and toes. K. T. leaves when he sees that we are proceeding to sex, but his curiosity is piqued.
I mess around with my newfound friend and prisoner, for a while, getting comfortable with our positions. I fuck him, force him to suck my dick, pull on his piercings, worship his balls, lick him all over, use a dildo in his ass. I lose track of time until I need a pee break. We smoke more, and I go next door to ask K. T. to fill in for a bit. This is new ground, and K. T.’s painful shyness prevents him from releasing the Hallelujah that crosses his face. This is what he wants and did not know to ask, had no idea that the rules of please and thank you could apply. I find other things to do for twenty minutes.
When I come back, K. T. glows in sweat. He towers over F. D.’s still-restrained body, trembling with the power he feels. I was ready for more; K. T. excuses himself. F. D. and I play until day comes up and we’re still wired, and talking, kissing, fucking, sucking, licking. I hit him when I fuck him, my fist resounding loudly against his muscular chest. He asks for more, and I stand to let a dribble of piss land on him. He smiles.
K. T. comes in and out a few times to get more crystal and watch us. Eventually, he leaves on his own adventure. Then F. D. and I are alone. My prisoner/new friend looks at me, and asks, “So, you ever fist anyone?” My embarrassment makes the silence stretch until I’m sure all my insecurities show. “Don’t worry, I can talk you through it.” I want him to see me as a wicked man of experience, not a fumbling and unsure kid. “Just do exactly what I say.” I untie the rope. “We’ll go slow.” I find more lube and a towel. “I want you so bad.” We smoke some more; his cock ring snaps off and I remove his Prince Albert. We begin.
