Everyone was avoiding looking at me where I sat in overalls on a hay bale. I felt pretty bad. I thought of Chester and the Asian servants. And my folks and schoolmates back home, who must be pretty excited about all of this. And I thought of the house, that great, sprawling, beautiful thing on the beach. I thought of sunlight, sunset light, night-light reflected from the sea and sky.

  And all of a sudden I saw something else. I shouted at the director, “Do you think we could try one more take?” and he sighed and signaled for silence, sound, speed, action.

  And I imitated Carter’s face rising between my legs, beaming from its first feast of asshole and cum and utter degradation and total fulfillment, and, well, just look where I am today.

  WE MESSED AROUND AT THE EL CAMINO MOTEL

  Shane Allison

  I was watching a rerun of “ER” when the phone rang.

  “Shane, telephone!” Ma yelled.

  I sat my dinner of soggy cornflakes and bananas next to the TV remote on the bedside table.

  “Hang it up!” I hollered. “Hello?”

  “Wa’sup?” asked the soft but brazen voice on the other end. It was Chris.

  “Hey, whatchoo doin’?”

  “I have two hours until Ciara comes back, if you want to come over.” His words made my gut tingle with excitement.

  “Mkay. U’m leavin’ now.”

  “How long will it take you t’ get here?”

  “Gimme ’bout fifteen minutes.”

  “Hurry up,” said Chris.

  I slipped on my shoes, poured the bowl of breakfast cereal into the toilet, grabbed my keys, and told Ma that someone had called from the library to tell me that I’d left my wallet.

  “Dey closed,” she said.

  “Not th’ campus library. Dey open ’til two,” I told her. I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

  Shit, this is it, I thought. I hauled ass out of the driveway. I was minutes away from having Chris’s dick in my mouth, from inhaling his musky scent. It had been months since we last messed around. Chris said we had to take shit easy after we came close to getting caught by Ciara. I haven’t made things easy by blowing up his cell every two minutes, and bombarding him with endless text messages. Things are complicated with him and Ciara. He keeps me around for the occasional fuckand-suck session.

  I drove as fast as Ma’s Taurus could take. My dick stretched and stiffened in my jeans as images of reaming Chris’s ass danced in my head. The sick sensation I often get right before I’m about to get fucked hit me. I rubbed my belly and the feeling subsided.

  I was three stoplights away from having my face fucked. I couldn’t believe that Ciara had gone out—she’s always under Chris, more than ever since he moved out of his crib on Chapel Drive.

  Chris had had enough of his deadbeat landlord’s bullshit about replacing the carpet in the apartment, soaked by a busted toilet. It turned out every shitter in the apartment complex had backed up. Chris refused to pay one red cent of rent until the toilet was fixed and the mildewed carpet was removed. The landlord threatened to sue. Chris moved out, and who the hell could blame him? I wouldn’t have paid their asses either if I had to walk around on shitty wet carpet.

  Chris relocated to the El Camino Motel, sandwiched between his old place and his job. Shit wasn’t the Hilton, but it was cheap. Chris was paying by the week. A few days after he moved in, Ciara quit her job at Hip-Hop Fish and Chicken, and couldn’t make the rent so she, too, had to get to steppin’. Now she and Chris are living out of this roach-infested dive until he can get up enough money for a down payment on a new crib. When I recommended that he get the money from his folks, he looked like he wanted to stab me in the heart with a rusty shrimp fork. I don’t see why not. They’re loaded, living way out there in Ox Bottom Manor. A few hundred bucks to them is bubble gum change. But I get that Chris wants to do shit on his own. He’s not one of these spoiled fucks who expect Daddy to bail him out of scrapes and jams.

  I pulled into the lot directly in front of the motel. I knocked on the door, but he didn’t answer. I peered through the verticals that hung over the window. The table and twin beds were strewn with blue Wal-Mart bags and a mixture of Southpole T-shirts and bras. The TV was on, along with a light in the bathroom. I knocked again, harder and louder. He walked shirtless out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his thirty-two-inch waist. Water trickled down his torso. He saw me at the window.

  “Wa’sup?” he said. “I was in th’ shower.”

  The motel smelled like toe-jam and pork dumplings. Everything he had decided not to put in storage was stacked on the floor, sitting on the beds, leaning in corners.

  “So wherejoo say Ciara at?” I asked, closing the door behind me.

  “At th’ movies,” said Chris. “Her an’ ’er sister goin’ out t’ eat afterward.”

  The last time Chris and I were alone was at his apartment. If it wasn’t for the sliding glass door in his bedroom leading out to the back, Ciara would have caught our asses for sure. My ass was stuffed with his butter-slathered dick when she came knocking. Ain’t no telling what she would have done had she caught us. Chris don’t know how crazy black women get over their men. Believe me, I know. I can’t count how many times I saw Ma pull a gun on Daddy when I was growing up.

  “I’ll beat th’ skin off ya if I eva catchchoo playin’ wit this gun,” I remember her telling me.

  It’s been hard to get Chris to even go out with me for ice cream without his ass worrying about getting caught by Ciara—who, in my opinion, ain’t worth the drama. I figured she wasn’t giving up no pussy if he was calling me, ’cause he never calls me for shit unless he needs money or his dick sucked. But I don’t really have a problem with it. Boy’s got his needs, you know?

  I noticed four six-packs of Heineken and two bottles of Crown Royal on the dresser. If there was one thing his ass wasn’t going to put in storage, it was his liquor.

  “Hey, can I have a beer?” I asked.

  Chris didn’t answer. He couldn’t hear me over the sizzle of the shower, so I helped myself to one. I grimaced when the lukewarm liquid flooded my mouth, but it was what I needed to soothe my nervous belly. I wondered if he had some weed. I walked to the bathroom doorway. His stark nakedness was barely visible behind the glazed shower curtain. I flashed on how funny it would be to reenact the shower scene from Psycho, so I snatched the tube of Aqua-Fresh from the sink and crept slowly toward Chris. The tile floor was slippery, and the bathroom mirror was fogged. I brushed back the curtain and stabbed down at Chris, screaming. He shrieked before grabbing the toothpaste.

  “Man, what th’ hell you doin’?”

  “I wanted t’ know if yo ass brought th’ weed.” I laughed.

  “Yeah, I put it in a cookie canister. Check under th’ bed over by th’ window.”

  I peeked at his wet dick. “Lookin’ good.”

  “Fuck you,” he said, grinning, and slid the shower curtain closed.

  I stepped over garbage bags to the bed and pulled out a canister that used to hold sugar and butter cookies. Chris had already rolled several doobies. I lit the blunt with a lighter sitting next to an ashtray full of cigarette butts. After three drags, I felt a buzz. The TV was showing some old episode of “A Different World.” Chris was into cheesy sitcoms. I stumbled back toward the bathroom and studied Chris’s burnished shape through the curtain.

  He treated me sometimes like I was just one of the guys in a locker room, or a lover he had been with for many years.

  “Can I join you?” I hollered.

  “What?” he asked, pulling at the shower curtain.

  “Can I step in there wit’choo?”

  “Come on.”

  Normally he would have said no, cutting short any attempt to get in his pants. I got that feeling in my gut again, as I sat on the toilet to untie my boots, kick them off, and fork off my socks. I pulled off my shirt and dropped it to the damp bathroom floor. I stepped out of my jeans and kicked them into a corner. I slid back the curtain, revealing Chris’s nude brawn. He was washing under his pits. Thick, white lather slipped off every beautiful part of his Catholic body and rolled into the deep ditch of his ass. I joined him under the steaming hot water, wrapping my fat arms around him as if I were his boyfriend. I played with his nipples before slipping my hand into his palm, taking the bar of soap. I lathered the waves of thick, black hair on his back. I traced along his spine with the soap, into the crack of his butt, then washed his chest and firm stomach. I adored how the lather highlighted his root beer-colored pubes. Soft, Chris was hung like a fucking donkey. Hard, his dick defied gravity. Pearls of water dripped from his pink dickhead. I got down on bended knee like I was about to propose and took his dick into my mouth. My lips slid slippery down his stuff as the water thrashed my face.

  I squeezed his nuts. I blew him, backed off, then sucked Chris’s balls, a mouthful of tender scrotal skin.

  The warm water was turning cold.

  “Let’s get out. My hands are startin’ to prune,” said Chris. I didn’t want to stop. I could have held his dick in my mouth all night. He turned off the shower and we stepped out. I took the oversize beach towel that Chris had wrapped around himself earlier, and toweled us dry before we moved to his unmade bed, a tangle of ugly green orchid-printed sheets. Chris sat, his hefty dick hanging over the bed’s edge.

  “Slide back a li’l bit,” I told him. I positioned myself between his thighs and took up where I left off. He tasted of clean deodorant soap. I looked into his piercing hazels as I sucked him sensuously—and slowly so my jaw muscles wouldn’t tire out. I alternated from his dick to his balls and back to his dick, until he said, “I wanna fuck you.” I’m more of a top, but to Chris I’m a nelly bottom. First time he used my butt, it was hella painful, but he got his dick in. All of it. Loads of lube helped.

  “Where ya keep th’ lotion at?” I asked.

  “There should be some in the bathroom.”

  I searched under the bathroom sink.

  “Here go some,” I said. For extra-dry skin. I squeezed it on my fingers, reached between my asscheeks and slathered the cocoa butter-scented cream inside my hole. Chris toyed with his dick as he watched me work the lotion in. When I had applied enough, I handed the tube to Chris, and he rubbed a handful onto his dick. I assumed Chris’s preferred position for me, on my back. He likes to look into my eyes while he’s fucking me. I pulled back my legs as he stretched my asshole for his dick. He was so gentle.

  We didn’t bother with rubbers. Chris always pulled out before the money shot. I always used a condom with the Republican husbands, the nervous fiancés, and the kinky granddaddies, but I trusted Chris. He pushed inside me, inch after inch. I grasped the flowered bedspread through the discomfort. He gripped my ankles and pushed my feet against the wall behind us. My limbs ached. I watched him thrusting in the dresser mirror behind him.

  “Fuck me slow,” I said. I liked it when he took his time. I jacked off as he worked my butt. Chris stopped, pulled out, and applied more lotion when he dried up. Still hard, he was back inside me in seconds. I lay wondering, Is this how you fuck Ciara? Do you fuck her better than you fuck me? Is the bitch even into back door action? Chris took my butt on a mission. He fucked me like a porn star on cooked rock.

  His dick up my butt felt like a rocket. A day don’t go by that I don’t wish he would dump Ciara for me, but what are you going to do with a guy that loves coochie more than cock? I’ll never be nothing more than a booty call for him to fuck in seedy motels whenever Ciara’s out of town or at the movies. Thing is, I’ve fallen in love with his ass. And don’t think I haven’t told him how I feel. He shrugs it off like he don’t know what to say. I’ve said it again and again in letters and funny greeting cards, but he just smiles sweetly at my supplications. Guess that’s what I get for liking a guy I met in the dirty arcade of an adult video store.

  Chris was really going at me when we heard an angry knock at the door. He frantically pulled out, without warning, and leapt out of bed. My ass throbbed after his abrupt exit. He swiped a pair of boxers draped over the back of a chair and made himself decent.

  “Open th’ fuckin’ door, Chris! I can see ya’ll asses through th’ blinds, so ya might as well open th’ mothafuckin’ door.” It was Ciara.

  “I thoughtchoo said she wuz go’n be gone fuh two hours?” I squawked.

  She kept banging. I wrapped a towel around myself and hopped into the bathroom. There was no sliding glass door to escape through. I was trapped.

  “I see yo ass!” she yelled.

  Chris had no choice but to let her in. From behind the locked bathroom door, I heard her cursing like Richard Pryor.

  “I knew it would only be a matta o’ time befo’ I caughtchoo ass!”

  “We weren’t doin’ nothin’,” Chris said.

  “How you go’n say you wutton doin’ nothin’ when U’m watchin’ you fuck him?” She directed her fury at me. “Why you hidin’ huh?” she screamed, banging on the bathroom door. “Yo’ faggot ass!”

  She turned back to Chris. “Don’t touch me,” she hollered. “You fuckin’ nasty.”

  “Hol’ up,” he said.

  “Fuck you, Chris.”

  I heard the door slam. I crept out , sweating. Chris pulled on jeans and a shirt, then knotted the laces of his Air Jordans.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “U’m gonna go after her.”

  “An’ say what, an’ do what, man? She mad an’ ain’t no tellin’ what she might do. Won’tchoo jus’ call ’er in th’ mornin’?”

  “You should take off. I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Chris.

  “C’mon, man.”

  “Just close th’ door when you leave.”

  The headlights of his PT Cruiser burned my eyes as he backed out of the lot.

  Chris didn’t call the next day. I phoned him again and again, but his cell kept going to voice mail. I checked by the motel, but there was no sign of him. I went to Lane 7, where he worked, and sure enough, there he was. I was hesitant to walk in, thinking he would blame me for what happened, but I had to know if he had talked to her. The bowling alley wasn’t busy. Chris didn’t look happy to see me.

  “Hey, what happened? Didjoo talk t’ ’er?”

  “I went to ’er cousin’s house. She said Ciara wasn’t there, didn’t know where she spent the night. I been callin’ ’er cell all day, but she won’t pick up.”

  “Man, U’m sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t really. This the kinda shit that happens when you on the D.L. I thought that maybe, with her out of the picture, there was a chance for me.

  “We just need to take it easy for a while until I can get ’er calmed down,” he said.

  I told Chris that I would give him as much time as he needed.

  “Well, let me go. I gotta do inventory,” said Chris.

  “Gimme a call. Lemme know how things work out, an’ if ya need anything, ya know what t’ do.”

  I drove home. Life was as shitty for me as before our short-lived fuck. Who knows how long it’ll be before we can get together again. More weeks and months of my ass waiting in the wings, no doubt.

  CELL 13

  Tommy Lee “Doc” Boggs

  Eight-by-ten, light-aquamarine walls of concrete block, two metal bunks with three-inch-thick cotton mats. One tattooed, shaved-headed convict: me. And one pretty-assed nineteen-year-old boy.

  The boy thinks he’s bi. I know I’m gay. He lightly flirts, I flat-out describe in detail all I want to do to him. He resists, saying he has never been with a man, only a TG girl. I sniff his dirty socks and lick his shit-stained boxers, watching him sleep while I masturbate.

  When he’s awake, I try every angle to get at his cock. He claims to be a top. I’m definitely a bottom. He teases me with shows of his meat. “Hey, celly, do you think I should trim this?” he asks, one hand playing with his pubes, the other hand holding his half-hard cock, precum glistening sweetly at his pee hole.

  “No, it’s fine. But you seem to be leaking,” I tell him. “May I please clean it up?” He looks at his fully hard rod, looks back at me, shrugs, steps toward me. I lean down from where I’m sitting and gingerly lap up his precious juice. I so want to taste his whole cock, but as I begin to slide it into my trembling mouth he steps back. “No, no, no, I never said you could have it all,” he says.

  Damn, is he fucking with me? Angry, hurt, hungry, I cry, “What? Not fair! I want it.”

  “What’s in it for me?” says the greedy little fuck.

  “How about I draw whatever you want?” I offer. I’m an accomplished artist. Well, accomplished for a convict who has spent twenty years in state prisons, currently San Quentin. And the greedy boy has been after me for a drawing as much as I’ve been after his meat. But being the shrewd barterer that I am, I continued to refuse monetary payment for my craft, knowing, hoping, that someday this scenario would arise. Now’s my chance.

  “Ooookay,” says greedy. “Let’s talk turkey. One of your drawings for what, exactly? Be specific.”

  Finally! “For one of my bestest drawings ever, I want…” Suddenly, I can’t decide: I want to smell, taste, lick, kiss his pretty boy meat, I want to swish his juice in my mouth, but…I also want to feel every inch of his cock in my hungry ass, I want his balls slapping against mine, his hot breath tickling the back of my bald head, and most of all, I want to feel him shoot his load deep into my hole. I would also love—am in fact driven quite senseless with the thought of doing so—to tongue-fuck his pink hole; lick his sweaty, slightly calloused toes; bury my nose in his soft downy armpit and inhale his young, musky scent. But I must negotiate cautiously lest he become aware of my barely controlled desire. I decide: “I want to suck your dick till you cum in my mouth.”

  He pretends to agonize, though we both know it’s just an act to allow him to feel like he’s won, like it was all really my idea and he is not gay. Right. In the end, he says, “Deal. You draw me a picture of Supergirl and I will cum in your mouth.” Silly kid. I own his punk ass now.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18