Show-Offs, page 7
He leaned his head back. I reached my hands around his waist, my thumbs strumming his solid abs, my face craned up to suck on his neck, a proffered earlobe. “Make me come, dude,” he soon rasped.
“No prob, dude,” I whispered back.
And then I let him have it with both guns, my cock plunging in, ramming against his granite-solid prostate, both of us panting now, sweat soaked, his hand working feverishly on his dick. “Fuck,” he moaned, the sound wrapping around my head as we shot in unison, both of us now staring at the screen, watching his cock explode, the come spewing forth, thick wads of it firing up and out, landing on the carpet, my foot, his thigh, his moans and groans mixing with mine in an ecstatic symphony.
“Fuck,” I echoed, my cock rocketing up his ass, filling the rubber up with ounce after creamy hot ounce of jizz, my arms locked around him, holding on for dear life, trying to catch my breath as he did the same, the word fuck repeated over and over again.
Eventually, he levered himself up, my dick popping out of his ass, the last drops of come dripping onto my crotch. He helped me to my feet, staring at me sheepishly, and followed with a tender kiss, a stroke of his palm against my cheek. “That was hot, dude,” he managed.
“Understatement,” I corrected.
Then we hopped into his bed and drifted off to sleep together, his arms wrapped around me in a snug embrace, the scene playing out once again in my dreams, waking me up long after the sun made its daily appearance. I was alone by then, his side of the bed now empty, a note atop his pillow. Went to get some breakfast, be back in a bit.
I smiled, absentmindedly stroking my morning woody, and spotted the camera and laptop still sitting on the floor, just as we’d left it. I hopped up, my cock swaying as I bounded over. I hit rewind, then play, the scene no longer in my head; it was on the screen. My dick pulsed at the sight, the moment of entry, his perfect ass impaled. I beat off as I watched, turning up the volume to listen to the sounds of our fucking.
Not loud enough, however, to drown out the noise of his crashing through the closet, nor of me squealing, as usual, like a little girl, jumping away as he bounded out, toy gun pointed my way, the bandana over his mouth, stark naked, hard as a friggin’ rock.
“Bang!” he shouted.
I let go of my cock and clutched at my chest. “Fucker!”
He stared from me to the screen. “Next time, dude, I will be.”
I grinned, my heart suddenly pumping even harder. “No time like the present.” I got on all fours, legs wide, my asshole winking up at him.
I felt his deft tongue glide down my crack. “Present and future, dude.” His tongue pushed in and up and back, replaced by a spit-slick index finger, then its neighbor. “And all captured on camera.”
I chuckled, stroking my cock, the come already rising from my balls. “Gotta love that posterity’s sake thing, dude.” His sheathed prick was inside of me in no time flat, filling up every inch of me, until I didn’t know where he ended and I began. “Gotta fucking love it.”
GOLDEN SHADOWS
David Holly
Bicycling along the island road while wearing only my tropical-print thong swimsuit, I did not encounter any harassment. I waved cheerily at the few passing cars. Most of the drivers waved back, some answering with friendly toots. After seeing my browning skin cycling along that same road every day for the past month, the locals had gotten used to me.
For the first week as I bicycled along the windbreaks of slash pine, royal palm, and sea grape, I was met with jeers and catcalls. Drivers would shout, “Put some clothes on, you freak,” or other endearments like “perverted show-off,” but the taunts had decreased as familiarity grew. As I pedaled along a narrow shoulder overhung with jacaranda blossoms, the farmer Joe Peters slowed beside me. His two children, Crissy and Bart, greeted me in between giggling at my bare butt.
“Hey, Shannon, our hens laid more eggs than we can eat this week,” Joe called. “Stop by later and Margie will give you a dozen.”
Thanking the farmer, I pedaled onward. The essence of new-mown hay mingled with the scents of fresh manure, coffee, allspice and papaya, but another smell overwhelmed the others. It was the scent of the sea, and thus I came through a woods of breadfruit and date palms, past brilliant oleanders, crotons, trumpet vines, and hibiscus to the wide sand beach. Even my knobby tires bogged down quickly. I dismounted and walked my bicycle down the golden sands. The waves were placid rollers, and the coconut palms swayed soothingly in the breeze.
Perhaps fifty people occupied the beach, fifty people of all races, all persuasions, all genders. Taking my gay pride beach towel, sunscreen, hat, and bottle of lemonade from my panniers, I looked for the most conspicuous spot. As I scanned the beach, I could not see any serious competition. Being tourists from the United States or Canada, most of the males were wearing knee-length swim shorts that looked like they had been purchased in bulk from a canvas factory. One German was wearing a tight, square-cut boxer and two Russian tourist men were wearing colorful swim briefs. I was the only male decked out in a thong. Another triumph. Now all the beachgoers must ogle my shape while they anguish over their own sad physiques.
Of course, I was the only guy wearing a thong—not the only human in a thong. Females were present, and the braver wore revealing swimwear. I could do nothing about them, and though some filled, or spilled out of, their swimsuits with slutty neglect, my ass was the most eye-catching lure on the beach. The way my cock and balls filled the pouch of my thong, and the way my gym-hardened butt protruded beyond the cloth that ran deep into my anal cleft were attributes no mere female could match. I had worked for years at the gym, squatting and thrusting upward with ever increasing weights, to turn my natural boy ass into alluring buns of stainless steel.
Yet, not once—not once—in the past month had I met any guy who fully appreciated my body. I had displayed my attributes, but not a single decent-looking man with more than two functioning brain cells had approached me. I stood on the beach as a stranger. Friend to island farmers—yes. Friend to horny gay men who would worship my cock and ass—dream on. The only way any man would touch me, apparently, was if I drowned myself in the blood-warm surf, and they examined my sullied flesh after I was dead.
Entire families and political parties were having better sexual adventures than I was having on that Eden-spun island. Standing on my towel, I completed an impressive series of calisthenics, followed by a routine of gymnastics. Without a doubt, jumping jacks and cartwheels drew eyes to me, but not a single man that I would have.
Sweating with exertion, I sprawled facedown upon my beach towel for an hour. Then I rolled over and toasted the front. I had taken a lot of sun during the past month, and my skin was looking like toast. But it was golden toast, not burnt toast. I kept my body sunscreened against the blistering and peeling, and thus I hoped to let the rays of old Sol tan but not burn. There was the risk of skin cancer, but I was still relatively young and gorgeous. As Horace was fond of saying, “carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero,” or as John Dryden wrote, “tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.”
With that dismissal of the future, I arose to make my customary strut down the beach. The sun was hot on my skin, and the sand was even hotter under my calloused feet, but hottest of all were the eyes upon me. A group of fifty-year-old American women called out lewd comments to me as I strutted, casting a golden shadow in my wake.
“Nice buns.”
“Check out his banana hammock.”
“Hey, sweetie, come over here.”
“He’s completely gay, girls. He’s not interested in your old asses.” That last comment brought an answering smile to my lips. I waved cheerily to the four dames, wiggling my bare buttocks for their benefit.
Pressing on past these admirers, I passed an elderly gentleman who gave me a come-hither look. Had he not been so obese, his white hairs would not have bothered me. I tossed him a grin and a good view of my browning butt as I walked toward the warm waves.
For whatever reason, I noticed the sailor in the sharpie with two dark-red sails. Several sailboats dotted the bay, but this one stood out because I could feel the sailor’s hot eyes surveying my body. He tacked toward shore, pulling up his daggerboard as he reached the shallows. The shadow of a gray ray slid under his boat as he drew closer to me, but he appeared not to notice. His eyes were fixed upon the protrusive curvature of my ass.
As the sailboat neared the sandbar, the sailor jumped up to lower the sail. At the sight, my heart leaped into my throat, and my thong tightened in my buttcrack. The sailor was wearing a white sailor’s hat, an open blue vest that displayed his tanned and muscled chest, and the tightest white pants I had ever seen on any man. They looked more like paint than fabric.
Of course, women were staring at the sailor, and not a few other men, but his eyes were hot on me. I turned so he had a side view of my bubble butt and my gym-hardened physique. He knew that I was showing off, presenting my assets to all of the beachgoers but particularly to him.
After he threw out his anchor, he bent and rolled the bottoms of his pants. Though his white sailor pants fit his ass and thighs like a second skin, they ended in the traditional sailor’s bell-bottoms. I swear that his eyes never left me—he feasted upon my ass as I stood in profile, watching him peripherally. Slipping over the side of his sailboat, he waded to shore. I turned back to him, giving him a good look at my chest and arms. His eyes flickered over my chest, rose to my eyes and drank in my features. I turned on my high-wattage smile. His answering grin was accompanied with a slow eyeballing as he traveled down my body to take in the bulge in my thong. I turned again to give him a bit of profile, and his eyes traveled along my hip with laser-like intent. His eyes smoldered as he stared with palpable lust at my butt curves.
There was nothing of shyness in him. His bare feet left perfect prints in the wet sand as he approached. He was a little swishier in his walk than I first imagined, but I assumed that the tightness of his pants forced out that wiggle. Besides, I am both a looking glass and a window, and the two-sided spirit calls out to the same.
Nevertheless, I have always indulged in a secret fantasy. I’ve wondered what it would be like to seduce a totally straight man—to attract some guy who believed that he was straight arrow heterosexual all the way—and make him my bitch! I’d like to attract all of the self-doubters and self-loathers, those praying to be straight, those denying their secret lusts, those willing to persecute others for displaying those desires that the persecuted hide within their soul. I would like to attract all of those with my gorgeous gay body, make them service me, and turn them and twist them until they hardly know Shakespeare from a theater seat.
The sailor was not one of those. He radiated gayness in the way a white diamond casts forth the light. “You look great in that thong,” he said. “Not every male can wear one, but you carry it off wonderfully.”
A heat rushed through me as he admired my body. Great genetics combined with years of training every muscle into the most pleasing curves were paying off for me.
“Do you like looking at me?” I asked coyly.
“I’d like touching you better,” he said.
“You would like to stroke me all over?” We were still standing two feet apart, but the sexual tension between us felt like a wave of heat lightning.
“Stroke you. Kiss you. Lick you.” The bulge in the crotch of his sailor pants was moving under the white fabric. His tight pants left his cock nowhere to go, but it was trying desperately to rise.
Rising for me, I thought. Rising because my body drew him. Rising from what he perceived only with his eyes, the feast of the sunlit image of my toasted body beaming into his pupils and transmitted as neural impulses back to his brain. I, the feast, stood sprung-hipped in my thong that was pulling tighter into my anal crevice as my cock tightened the stuffed front pouch.
The sailor’s hands were moving toward me, appearing to slip in slow motion through the hot scented air. “Did Mae make it for you?” he murmured. He was talking about my thong again. “Those brilliant tropical colors. That bougainvillea design in the fabric. Not something any straight man would ever wear.”
That was the truth. I had gone to Mae’s shop and asked for the gayest-looking thong she carried. Mae cut and sewed the fabric on the spot, fitting it to my naked body.
“Make it reflect the flamboyant gaiety of my spirit.”
“Are you a top or a bottom?” Mae asked nosily as she threaded the fabric between my bare buttocks.
“I’ll bet you ask that of all the boys.”
“I do. So which are you? Do you pitch or catch? Do you ride or drive?”
“Both—and neither,” I said. “I like to show off my body. I am an actor.”
The sailor’s fingers were still moving toward my taut pouch when a sudden commotion arrested the moment. Caught in that magical moment, neither the sailor nor I had detected the whine of the vintage 1930s DC3 float plane. We did notice the shower of paper raining down upon us, the millions of pieces of greenish rectangular paper that filled the air and covered the beach. And, of course, we noticed the terrific explosion at the far end of the island as the plane crashed into the dunes, scattering debris and sending a fireball skyward.
The beachgoers were numbed at first, awestruck at the obviously fatal catastrophe and staggered by the rain of hundred-dollar bills that covered the beach like so much trash. The sailor and I stood in the midst of the breeze-borne cash dropped from the so-recently-dead drug dealers’ crashing aircraft. Neither of us commented on the money. We hardly glanced at it, except to note that the litter was besmirching the natural beauty. However, the beachgoers were eager to clean up the trash. Within a few minutes an insane free-for-all developed. Half-clothed people were madly dashing to and fro, gathering up more cash than they could hold in their hands. Some were wrapping money up in blankets and beach towels, while others stripped naked to convert their swimsuits into purses.
A naked woman slammed into me in her deranged dash to clutch the bills swirling around my feet. I fell forward and the sailor caught me.
“Perhaps we’ll be safer on my boat,” he suggested.
Would anyone see me there? For a flash of a moment, I almost refused. However, no one was seeing me then anyway, so rapt were the beachgoers in scooping up the cash. I let the sailor take my hand and pull me toward the warm salt.
“The warm salt,” I murmured to myself, enjoying his attention while lamenting that I was no longer the cynosure of all eyes on the beach.
“Warm salt is a strange metonymy,” the sailor said as we waded in to our knees.
“Are you an English professor?”
“How did you guess?”
“You’re too literate to be anything else.” I told him my name and where I taught. His name, I learned, was Craig Warren, a professor of classical studies at Elmwood College.
“Shannon Wright,” I said as we climbed into his sharpie sailboat. “I specialize in sixteenth-century drama, and I am head of the theater department at Multnomah State University.”
Craig looked me up and down with some amazement. I had advanced to my position young, and though a few years had passed, I still looked younger than my actual years. Self-discipline at table and bar had helped, as had countless hours building muscle, increasing endurance, and improving agility and balance. I could still perform a prattfall that would have an audience rolling in the aisles.
“I had you tagged as being totally into yourself,” Craig observed, mimicking his students’ speech.
“Oh, I am. I like to show myself. I am a college professor, a theater director and an actor. I show off my body, my sexuality, my talent. Hence the thong.” I stuck out my ass in demonstration. “Else why the stance? Who wouldn’t expect an actor to have a narcissistic personality?” I grinned to show that I possessed the humility to appreciate and mock my egoistic desire for attention. “I still teach classes, and I put on quite a show for my students. I enjoy the attention, but I teach a coherent, instructive and meaningful lesson every time.”
“Do your students know that you’re gay?”
I could not help but laugh. “From what you have seen of my behavior so far, do you imagine that any of my students are left in doubt? I’m an actor. A director. A drama coach. I sing, I dance, I perform gymnastics and I am equally comfortable in Oscar Wilde’s suit with the green carnation, or Robin Hood’s tights, or James Dean’s jeans, or Randolph Scott’s shirt.”
“And whose thong is that?” Craig asked, his hands sliding down my back until his probing fingers slid over the rising mounds of my ass and his hot palms cupped my buttocks.
“It’s a Shannon Wright thong.” His touch sent thrills through me. My asshole tightened, as did my cock. I shuddered. Turning slightly I saw my fellow beachgoers still scrambling for dough. Nevertheless, even if they did not see, if they did not observe, if they did not care, I resolved to put on the best possible show. They would see this sailor pleasure me. They would see—if not with their faces’ eyes, then with their minds’ eyes—they would see him worship my ass, worship my muscles, worship my cock. They would see it all enacted in this sharpie sailboat, even though their eyes were fixed upon the false promise of cash from an exploded drug plane.
A younger guy who had pulled off his flowery board shorts bumped against the side of our vessel. He was most desperately plucking bills from the water around us and making his former swimsuit into a money bag. Laughing at the naked greed, Craig slid his hands over my ass again.
“Worship my cock,” I suggested.
He stiffened. He wanted to worship my ass instead, but he would settle for my cock. “Do you want to pour your cum into me?”
“Oh, yes. Make me part of you. Suck my cock. Suck me until I come. Swallow my essence.”
