Hot Gay Erotica, page 7
I got Dwight with one daring move. I don’t know where I got the balls. It was one morning when I was passing him in the hall. He’s traipsing toward the downstairs bathroom with a towel around his waist. I’ve never seen a man like him before: so pale, yet so hairy. His nipples peek out through cotton-candy nests. Oh, they ache to be touched, and my fingertips ache for them.
Who’s to say, really, what’s a friendly gesture between men? I’ve seen enough grabassing in “straight” locker rooms to know what a fuzzy line there can be between improper and acceptable touch…. And so I talk myself, during this few seconds’ walk down the hallway, into reaching out with my right hand and tweaking Dwight’s left nipple as he passes. Without stopping he reaches to slap my hand, letting loose a good-natured chuckle as he misses it. I don’t stop, either, but look back over my shoulder to see him glancing at me. As I keep looking he swings around on his large bare feet and walks back a few steps, facing me full on as his towel suddenly slips from where his left hand was grasping it—slips all the way to the floor. How embarrassing! Yet there’s a pause—a significant pause—before he stoops to grab the towel. I see how the white fur continues down his belly to his groin, see the pink tip of his dick, which swings in the lazy arc peculiar to dicks in the process of lengthening, thickening…. As Dwight tucks his towel in place again, I catch his eye. Yes, there’s something there, in the half curve of his smile.
Dwight teaches me so much about tits: working them with slick fingertips, I can master his entire body, cause different parts to twitch uncontrollably—buttocks, thighs, feet. And he never fails to look at me with gratitude that I so quickly found his weakness, his obsession, his reason for living.
But what was his reason for leaving? Of course there’s only one reason to have: he had recovered. On the morning he told us, he made a speech about life and change, presenting his case with sincerity and skill. But why he chose that exact time to go…racking my brain gives me no answers, and if I were really honest I wouldn’t need one. Instead I’d admit the truth: he left because he didn’t need us anymore.
Davy gets seconds on orange juice. I warm up my coffee again. By the time we’ve sat down Brian and Kent return, single file, Kent ducking into the kitchen as Brian, behind him, asks, “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s pretty nice,” Kent says.
So young. He looks young enough to be in high school, and he speaks—shades of Todd!—like a kid talking to a teacher, saying the right words but really thinking You’re full of shit. Oh, he likes to get fucked, all right: it’s as clear as the smile beneath his untrimmed mustache. How about that mustache? Why doesn’t he keep it straight-edged? He must think that ragged fringe curling against his lip looks sexy, and damned if it doesn’t. I know you, Kent: you’re a little sex machine, working your sphincter around a lubricated shaft like you were born to do it; in mouth or ass you can take two cocks at once, sucking them up like a Dirt Devil.
I wonder what Brian has seen. Does he feel that Kent is a good candidate? Hard to tell from his expression. “Well,” he says, sticking to the script, “I’m going to leave you all for a bit, so you guys can, you know, talk amongst yourselves.” He takes his coat from the rack and edges through the kitchen door—making a show of leaving the house so that Kent won’t think he’s hiding somewhere, listening.
Taking his seat at the table again, Kent looks at each of us in turn, seeking eye contact. “So you guys aren’t…?”
We sit perfectly still, as if we’ve put our heads together and decided to let composure speak for itself. Even Davy manages not to fidget.
“Nobody likes to suck dick? You don’t even like to look at pictures of naked guys?”
Continued composure. Unruffled feathers.
“Jesus,” Kent says, “don’t you guys even beat off?”
My composure breaks, in the form of a short, sharp laugh that sounds and feels more like a sneeze.
Davy speaks up clearly and calmly. “You might not believe it now,” he says, “but it’s possible to lead a life where you’re not obsessed with sex all the time. It’s possible.”
Kent sticks his tongue in his cheek, rolls it around as if tasting something new.
Sunday breakfast is followed by free time—a reminder that we’re “free” from the burdens of churchgoing and other religious rot. I head for the den, where I can stare at the book-lined walls and smoke one cigarette after another. The only other smoker here is Brian, who keeps trying to quit. He’ll duck into the room, light up and start pacing, biting drags off his fag, crushing it out when it’s half gone. I said to him once, “If you’re going to smoke, you might as well enjoy it,” then wished I hadn’t, for he looked even more ashamed. If you can forsake blow jobs, doesn’t it follow that you should be able to stop sucking on Marlboros?
I don’t see Brian during this Sunday morning smoke because he’s left to get supplies; Kent has already decided he’ll be moving in tonight. So I sit and smoke and listen to the winter complaints of the house and Davy’s noodling on the living room piano. Todd and Aaron are probably upstairs, reading or perhaps writing letters with the standard apologies: Sorry you can’t visit me here, sorry we can’t talk on the phone, sorry I can’t even give you the address. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Those are the rules….
The slamming of the kitchen door wakes me. Christ, have I been dozing with a lit cigarette in my hand? I check my hand, my lap, the chair, the floor, the ashtray. Nothing burning. The kitchen noise means that Brian is back from his shopping; I couldn’t have slept very long. Long enough, though, for a thousand tiny dreams, and I close my eyes to try to recapture some.
The doorknob rattles. When the door swings open I expect to see Brian, hunchbacked with guilt, fitting a cigarette to his lips. Instead I see a cigarette, but the man it’s attached to is Kent. He’s startled to see me, his eyebrows go up—or rather eyebrow, for it’s more like a single line hooding both eyes.
“Sorry,” he says.
It takes me a moment to respond. “That’s all right,” is what finally comes out, though the pause before it makes it sound like a lie. “I just came in,” I explain, “to look for a book.” Yet it must be obvious, from the pack of cigs beside me and the butts in the ashtray, that I came here to smoke and smoke and smoke. There is a book, though, on my lap—The Canterbury Tales.
No jazz musician ever handled his mouthpiece the way Kent handles a cigarette. He takes a drag, rolls the taste around, lets it go in a thin line like escaping steam. He takes another drag, tilts his head back and, blinking rapidly, exhales through his nose. Finally he looks at me again, takes a step in my direction. My back stiffens against the chair—What am I afraid of?—and I think I might actually cry out till I see he’s only heading for the ashtray by my right elbow.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” he says, mixing his ash with mine.
“Oh, no, not at all. I was just…” What? Haven’t I already told him I was looking for a book? I open The Canterbury Tales to the famous illustration of the Pardoner. This character’s corrupt as hell: by Chaucer’s time the selling of pardons had become a stinking rotten business. A critic named Kittredge even called the Pardoner “the one lost soul among the pilgrims.” So why do I find myself fascinated by him? Maybe it’s because a lost soul is the best friend a body can have.
“I’m moving in tonight,” Kent says. “Just thought I’d look around a bit more.”
I smile, or try to, as his bright blue eyes zero in on mine. “Sure. Fine. Welcome.” Did that sound friendly? Why is he still looking into my eyes, even as he takes another drag? Finally I have to look away, my face flushing again for no reason. We’re just a couple of guys having a conversation, no big deal. It happens all the time around here.
Except that it doesn’t. Not like this. Even when I first met Todd and Davy and Aaron and Dwight, there was nothing like what I’m feeling now—as if I’ve not only thought of doing wrong, but have already done it.
Kent can see all of this in my eyes, I know it. But he only smokes, and stares, and reads me like the book I’m feigning interest in. It’s time for another effort to make everything seem natural, but as seconds tick by the chance to redeem the moment moves at warp speed, out of sight. He crushes out his cigarette and says, “Okay, see you later…Paul? Is that right?” The door is about to close behind him when he pauses again. “Say, can I ask you something?”
To pose that question is already asking something, a pet peeve of mine. But I try to put on a bright smile. “Of course.”
“That guy who left recently? Dwight?”
I don’t know why, but his question disappoints me. I guess I expected something more personal. “Six inches, Kent. Versatile, yes, extremely so. I swallow, too. Always have. In for a penny, in for a pound.” “What about Dwight?”
“Did you know him? I mean, did you get to know him before he left?”
Sucking Dwight’s chest hair while he moans, polishing his off-center knob till he begs me to bring him off. “A little, I suppose.” Enough to know that Dwight had a problem. Not that half the world isn’t disturbed—no, three-quarters of the world, at least. With Dwight it was anger. “We’re all angry,” I tell him, though the anger that once motivated me was gone, leaving me hollow. I rock him in my arms as he cries.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I can’t, I can’t.”
“Baby, hush.” I hold his scrotum, warm his balls in the palm of my hand. A final pearl of cum leaks from his slit. “You can do anything you want, I don’t mind.”
He nearly chokes on tears. “That’s not what I mean!” Heaving himself up, he turns toward the door as if he might step out like this, naked and semi-erect, into the hallway. Instead he raises his pale fist and slams his knuckles into the wall. “Shit!”
“Baby, baby.” Arms encircling him from behind, my fingertips soothing his tits. “Let me sell you a pardon. I’m the only one who can, you know….”
His fist slams the wall again. The ancient plaster crumbles, but that’s not what I’m worried about. “Honey, don’t,” I tell him. “That’s your jack-off hand, you don’t want to…”
Kent’s voice intrudes. He’s still questioning me, but it’s hard to follow. “Excuse me?” I ask.
“I asked you if you saw him leave the house. Dwight.”
“I don’t see…”
“On the day he left. Did you actually see him go?”
“Well, no, I don’t think I did.” Actually I know I didn’t. No one did, we didn’t even know he was gone till Brian announced it at breakfast. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.”
As if such a question could fail to have a reason. I’d sneer at him if he wasn’t so cute, standing there with his little package pointed at me. “Mind if I ask you a question, Kent?” “Why, not at all. Eight inches. Get your trick towel ready, I blow a wad like you’ve never seen. But you have to fuck me for a good hour first.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, Paul. See you later.”
Kent’s officially moved in now, making five of us instead of four, and relieving me of the duty of being The New Guy. He hasn’t taken to wearing sweatpants yet; he showed up at breakfast in the tight jeans I first saw him in, walking like a guy who’s saddle-sore, picking delicately at his crotch when he thought we weren’t looking. He held his hand over his glass, refusing juice, and I was thinking, Drink, man, you must be dehydrated. Over the past few days he’s been practicing the ritual masturbation, the purging of seed that’s meant to mark our first days here. Kathwacka thwacka thwacka goes his headboard against my wall, and I’m thinking, Good Christ, he’s making enough noise for two rutting wildcats. But at least he’s doing it in bed instead of jizzing all over the room.
Now the two of us are in the den, and he’s easing himself into an armchair. If he were naked… I’m picturing a trim torso, with enough definition to make it memorable. Big, sensitive nipples—why not?—and a mischievous furrow of hair leading from his pecs down to his navel, picking up again in a beeline to his bush—a creeping Charlie. Yeah, they call it a treasure trail, too, or a nature trail, but creeping Charlie is the name I prefer, I don’t know why. Oh yes, he’s definitely sore, not quite daring to cross his legs, the tender rim of his German helmet probably chafed, and I’m sending him advice, telepathically. More lube, plenty of it. And look into some sweatpants. Please.
“So,” I ask him, “how are you settling in?”
He winces, shifting to get his cigarettes from his pocket. The one he shakes loose is curved like a half-erection. He lights it, takes a drag, lets it out. Picks a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “Did you feel funny,” he asks, “when you first came here?”
“I feel funny every day,” I tell him, trying to suppress a laugh. Just then I catch, even through the combined smoke of our cigarettes, the slightly brackish scent of male skin and seed. Maybe that house rule is wrong, the one about no cologne or scented aftershave. There are more seductive aromas by far. As my nostrils dilate I ask him, “How do you feel funny?”
He shivers, as from a sudden chill. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He hugs his upper arms, briefly buries his nose in the fuzz of his forearms. “I just wonder if everything here really is the way it seems.”
Okay, so he’s figured me out. He’s read my thoughts. He knows I’ve stripped him naked. Suddenly his eyes lock onto mine. “I can’t self-suck anymore,” he says.
“Beg pardon?”
“I used to be able to self-suck.”
“I’ve seen pictures of that. It looks awkward.”
“No, man, it’s a trip, sucking yourself off! You ever try it?”
“Well, this is probably the kind of thing where size matters, and since I can barely find my dick with both hands….”
“I’m just not that limber anymore. It ain’t fair.” He gets out of his chair, pulls up his T-shirt with one hand and shoves the other down the front of his pants. I was right, gratifyingly so, about the creeping Charlie. “Shit, I’m getting hard again, just thinking about it.”
Okay, it would be hot to suck yourself off. Never mind how you’d look, curled up like a caterpillar that’s been poked with a stick. And not to be able to do it anymore… I slide forward in my chair. “Bring it over here.”
The quickest decisions men make have to do with sex; you can measure them in nanoseconds. He pulls out his double handful of dick, and I see how chafed he is, poor thing. This calls for great delicacy, and a mouth that’s less dry than mine at the moment. I raise my coffee cup and take a mouthful—a funky rinse if ever there was one, but it’s not like I’m trying to kill germs. Kent walks over, his engorging dick reaching me l-o-o-o-n-g before the rest of him does. I take a firm grip on his asscheeks, guide him in. This is what he needs, a wet (who cares if it’s coffee) mouth that knows how to suck. His knees buckle, he damn near falls on top of me but I’m with him, sliding down so he can brace his hands against the back of the overstuffed chair. Now I’m the one who’s nearly curled up like a caterpillar, but who gives a fuck, I’ve got dick in my mouth, a real lip-stretcher, and the smell of his bush up my nose. My left hand encircles his balls as my right grips the length of shaft that won’t fit in my mouth. He tastes, not surprisingly, like the sea—the brine and mucus of that life-giving stew. I expect a small, dry load, the kind you get in the morning from a guy who’s been coming all night. But whoosh, he’s gushing, my mouth brimming with incoming tide.
“Holy fuck,” he says. “That was great.”
Wiping my chin, I look up at him. “Okay, so now you know. I’ll never be an ex-queer.”
He puts himself back together, handling his privates as if they’re made of glass. “So fucking what?” Unsmiling, he winks at me. “There’s no such thing as an ex-queer.”
THE SHIFT
Joe Birdsong
Thursday, November 29, 2001 (Thanksgiving)
I’m in a dive bar in New York City. It’s called The Hole, and it’s located next to what used to be a funeral home in the East Village. The city is still reeling from the disaster of two-and-a-half months ago. As I walk down the street, the twin towers reflect back out of every set of eyes. Giuliani is finally leaving office. Residents are starved for distraction, exhausted from the trauma that now seems to be synonymous with New Yorker. We are hungry for a return to the days of grit, for our concrete jungle to be returned to us as the uninhibited playground that is now legend. Each week Dean and Jonny throw a party that serves this end. It is for the dirty, hungry, horny men and boys of New York. These two empress-arios transform this dump, The Hole, into the sleaziest, sexiest, most delectably decadent den of iniquity, and call it XXX Thursdays. It is a weekly revolt against the atrocities that have been hurled at us, with venom, from Gracie Mansion.
I’ve been working at this bar each week for the past month. The job is extremely precise in its intent: maintain the go-go! Maintain? Indeed. An enviable position, in which I get paid to do the following: fetch the boys their drinks, so they do not parch; feed them their little blue diamond-shaped Viagra pills, so they are confident; if they are new to the party, introduce them to the principals, and give them the tour; most importantly, watch over the boys, protect them from disorderly patrons. The incident that bore out the need for this newly created job involved a drunken, or perhaps sadistic, guest who attempted to set fire to an entertainer’s ass. My tasks are a delight. I enthusiastically understand that satisfied entertainers equal satisfied customers. This squadron of XXX dancers will evolve over the next year into what will come to be known as Mr. Joe’s XXX Go-Go Patrol. Tonight, however, we are featuring a different crew, a special holiday treat provided to us by Rentboy.com.
