Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 7
This joke has gone far enough. You have to be at work in ten minutes, so you excuse yourself and go through the kitchen and the courtyard of the Happy Leprechaun to use the bathroom. (The bar you work at has the nastiest bathrooms in all of the French Quarter, so you always do your business at the Happy Leprechaun before you report for duty.) Your surprise is considerable, when, after taking a long piss, you open the door of the bathroom and find young Andrew standing in the courtyard, a confused look on his face.
You suppose that he, too, has to piss, so you say “Wassup?” and try to squeeze past him. Instead he leans over, right as you pass next to him, and, half-falling over you, tries to kiss you on the mouth. It’s a sloppy attempt, even for a straight boy, and you push him away. To put it simply, you can’t believe this shit.
Then, right there in the empty courtyard of the Happy Leprechaun, in front of the open bathroom door, Andrew kneels in front of your feet and looks up at you with a gorgeous, mischievous grin. With a svelte, too-experienced-for-a-straight-boy move, he turns his baseball cap around so that the visor faces backward, and starts licking the bulge in your pants. You look around. No one is watching, other than the security camera, but no one ever checks that anyway, so what the heck.
You’re already hard, so you push his face away from your crotch for just a second, and undo the button of your pants. With the same grin on his face, Andrew leans back toward you, undoes your zipper, and pulls out your cock. (It is a universal truth that no one ever wears underwear in New Orleans.)
Once again, with style that belies his claims of inexperience, he bends his neck to approach your dick from underneath and gives the shaft two long, playful licks. He pulls back for a second, looks up with an expectant smile, and puckers his parted lips in precisely the width of your cock. Then with one swift motion, he lunges forward and takes your entire shaft in his mouth, moaning with hunger. He pulls back and forth twice, never fully releasing your tip from his mouth, and then slips his mouth off you and slaps your mushroom head against his cheek. As if he’s been starving for this exact taste, he takes your cock and manically wipes it over his lips, his nose, and his eyes.
You take his baseball-capped head in your hands and force it back onto your cock. With a girlish squeal, he accedes to your demand and allows you to set the pace. He puts his hands on the back of your thighs and squeezes them with delight as you fuck his face with steadily increasing speed and furor. You bring his head down on your crotch again and again, forcing him to take in every inch of you, as he moans and slobbers with each deep swallow.
You remove yourself from his hungry lips for a second, then you turn your body and his head slightly so that his back and his head touch the tall walls of the courtyard. With him cornered like that, you push your pelvis back and forth on his face, fucking his mouth rhythmically, while he moans in accord with the pace you’re setting. You look down at his chiseled cheeks, his beautiful, half-opened eyes, his backward cap, his bronzed body accentuated by the bright-white tank top, and once again you say to yourself: I can’t believe this shit is happening. He reaches up and is now hanging onto your exposed butt cheeks, as you rape his supposedly virgin lips, closer to coming with each forceful thrust.
Recognizing the twitches of the muscles on the underside of your cock, he pulls you out of his mouth, looks up at you with begging lust, and whispers: “I want you to come on my face, dude!”
With his left hand he jerks off your shaft while he kisses and sucks on your tip with furious hunger, and you see that he has opened his own fly with his right, and is banging away at his own, large, handsome dick with equal earnestness.
Your tip feels as if it’s on fire, your shaft muscles contract with an explosion of joy, and you squirt a heavy load of thick, white jism all over his pretty, straight-boy lips. He moans with delight, and as you look down you see his own cock pop with white foam like a champagne bottle. But your own cum keeps flowing, too, for several seconds, wetting with milky spunk his forehead, those cheeks, his long, boyish eyelashes.
As he kisses and sucks the remaining jizz off your cock with yelps of incredulous lust, you see your slowly drying cum drip from his face and down his long, smooth neck to wet the top of his previously clean tank top, outlining his finely shaped pecs. His moans and kisses are dying down as exhaustion begins to hit him, and you push him away and zip yourself up. You are late for work.
As you straighten your pants and shirt, standing at the exact same spot where you fucked his face, he collapses to the ground with mock-ecstatic fatigue and lets out another girlish giggle. He looks up at you from the dirty courtyard floor with his big eyes full of expectation, all pretense of heterosexuality gone from his recently abused face.
“That was great!” he yawns, childishly stretching his body out on the ground. “Wow, dude!”
Afraid that he is going to ask to see you again, or meet you after work, or, even worse, admit that there is no girlfriend arriving the next day, you walk away without a word. You step into the kitchen, and from there into the dining room of the restaurant, as “To Sir with Love” dies down on the jukebox and Bianca finally concludes her story to Durrell.
“So Miss Derrick, she turns to him and she says: ‘No, you don’t know me, you understand? Cause I’m here incognegro!’ Incognegro!!! Can you believe that bitch?”
Durrell and the “ladies” burst out in deafening laughter as you pick up your backpack from the counter and wave good-bye to all present. They all wave back, and you hear behind you a customer nervously complain: “Ummm, I’m still waiting for my chocolate milkshake…”
As you close the door and step out onto Bourbon Street, you faintly make out one of the “ladies”—or perhaps Durrell—yelling in response something that sounds a lot like “Eat my ass on a shitty day!” to the poor, thirsty tourist. You look at your watch. You are officially five minutes late for work.
As you cross the street and think of an unnecessary apology, you tell yourself: Yup, just another night at the Happy Leprechaun.
Warm-up
Matt Bernstein Sycamore
It’s finally spring, so of course I walk all the way across town to Stuyvesant Park. I swear I’ve got a hundred pounds of shit in my backpack, not to mention a shopping bag full of file folders and computer disks, but listen, it’s warm outside and there’s no way I’m gonna miss the park. I get two blocks away and it starts to drizzle but who cares, I get to the entrance and suddenly I’m wired.
I walk right over to this couple in the middle, this guy in a blue warm-up suit or what do they call those stupid things. Jogging suits? Running suits? Whatever—he’s with someone else but he’s working me hardcore. I walk around but there’s no one else I’m in the mood for, so I sit down next to a guy by the entrance who’s not bad; I’d suck his dick. I say hi and he looks away, smokes a cigarette. After a few minutes he gets up and leaves. Bitch. I stay seated and the guy in blue walks over and I stare right at him and say hey. He says aren’t you cold, because I’ve only got a T-shirt on, but I’m warm. He walks past me and then back, then looks around and goes across the street to the other side of the park. Does he want me to follow?
I do one more go-around, but there’s no one I’m hot for. I pass this older guy who’s standing in the shadows, say hello, and he’s surprised—probably because no one’s said a word to him. People are so damn serious in these places. I cross the street and there’s the guy in blue right in the middle of the park getting blown by first one guy and then another. My heart’s literally racing, or maybe it’s not my heart, but whatever it is means I’ve got to get over there immediately or I might die.
I sit down right next to the guy in blue, he’s got this huge, beautiful dick, and one guy’s on his knees sucking it. The third guy is grabbing the other guy’s dick. The guy sucking takes a break so I lean over and take that beautiful dick in my mouth, then I get on my knees so that I can get a better angle. The guy who was sucking grabs my dick, but I’m not hard yet, then the guy I’m sucking pushes my head down and his dick thrusts into my throat. It’s too big and the force gets me hard and I’m gagging but wanting more and more, he’s pushing my head all the way down and it’s amazing I’m hard and the other guy’s sucking me.
Then I choke and some food comes up, I press up to breathe, and the guy just pushes my head down, oh that amazing feeling of him pressing down, finally I can’t take it any more, I push up hard and he releases. I swallow my vomit then go back down on the guy, put his hand on the back of my neck, but then the other guy wants some, I sit up and the fourth guy (what’s he been doing?) starts sucking my dick. Then the guy in blue says I’m gonna come and I put my hand on his chest, he comes in the guy’s mouth and damn I want that cum so bad.
The other guy gets up and starts spitting out the cum, I wouldn’t mind him spitting it into my mouth. Then the guy in blue gets up and I take his place, now my dick’s looking large too, he looks back and I look him right in the eyes with heat. The fourth guy’s still sucking my dick and the other guy’s sitting next to me, I bend over and take his dick in my mouth, he pushes my head all the way down. His dick starts out medium but pretty soon he’s huge too and I’m rock-hard in the other guy’s mouth though he’s sort of hurting me.
I ask the guy whose dick I’m sucking to stand up and put his dick in my mouth. He hesitates, but then he’s fucking my face, I pull his hand down to my neck and oh I’m so hard in the other guy’s mouth, but I pull his head away so that I don’t come. I want the other guy to come in my mouth and I say so, but he already came—probably better that way for me anyway. I pull his head down and we start making out.
The guy who used to be the fourth guy—but now he’s the third guy, I guess—he’s jerking my dick and I could come but I hold his hand to stop. I pull up my shirt and the third guy rubs my chest—yes—and I’m sucking the other guy’s dick. Then he takes out his dick and starts smacking my face, he’s grabbing my chest and holding my neck and the other guy’s got a finger pumping at the edge of my asshole and his other hand jerking my dick. And I don’t even know where I am any more or what I’m doing and then I feel myself coming but I can’t even tell if I’ve come yet, no there I’m coming no I’ve already come but my orgasm just goes on.
When I open my eyes, there’s just me and the guy standing up and he grabs my head to make out but I’m coughing, A dryness in my throat like all this stuff is stuck there. I start laughing, it’s spring yes it’s spring and then I’m kissing the guy again and pulling up my pants, what’s your name, his name’s —now I can’t remember—and I get up and there are guys wandering all over and good, my bags are still there. I start walking and I’m coughing and laughing, I’m so high from coming, I’m walking down the street with my eyes sometimes rolling back and sometimes I’m just laughing, thinking how amazing sex can be, the insane high, how I need some throat lozenges.
“You Need a Boy”
Doug Harrison
Thursday
Brad and I had sex tonight. Great sex. No whips and chains this time, just good old-fashioned vanilla sex. He didn’t feel like being fucked, but that was OK.
Lying next to him got me hard, as usual. I love to run my hands through his long black chest hair and suck on his hard nipples, erect as new pencil erasers. Almost the same color, too. We sixty-nined, him on his back, me hovering over him.
His reputation as the best cocksucker in San Francisco is well deserved. And he’s my lover! He comes home to my bed. Well, usually, but that’s what open relationships are all about.
I knew from his throaty moans that he was on the edge, so I turned around, buried my head in his crotch, and sucked on his smooth, shaved balls. He gasped, wiggled his cute, hairy ass, and put his legs over my shoulders with his feet under my armpits, pinning me tightly to him while he jerked off.
I pinched his engorged nipples until he came in his lush belly hair, a larger-than-usual thick white load. I lapped most of it up and cleaned the end of his dick with my tongue. I used the rest of his cum for lube as I jerked off, leaning against him, his arms around me, while he reciprocated, torturing my nipples. He coaxed a glorious orgasm from me. I usually don’t shoot like he does, and the thin, almost transparent liquid dribbled down my dickhead. We basked in the afterglow for a few moments. And then he announced: “You need a boy!”
I didn’t know whether to be perplexed, get angry, or laugh. “What prompts you to come up with something like that at a time like this?” I asked.
“I can’t fill all your needs.”
“You’re doing fine,” I said, wondering which of us I was trying to convince.
“You need someone who’s more into anal sex than I am. And all those toys of yours—the shackles, the collars, the floggers. You need someone who gets off on all that. I don’t want you to be frustrated.”
“I can’t play with someone that intensely without having a close connection,” I said. “Particularly a Daddy-boy connection. I can’t love someone besides you.”
“You can. I’ve been thinking about this. Try it.”
“You’re tired of me pestering you.”
“If you want to look at it that way, sure. But I think it will strengthen our relationship.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m not going to run out and get a boy. They’re high maintenance.” Brad smiled.
I rolled over on my side. Brad spooned me, and just before falling asleep I felt his dick getting hard between my thighs, as usual.
What would it be like to have my own boy? I wondered dreamily. My very own boy?
Saturday
Today was the first day of the Leather Conference. I met Mark during the morning coffee break. He’s articulate, a writer, and an activist. About 5’9”, solidly built, with a captivating smile and penetrating dark eyes. I wanted to run my hands through his unruly, dark hair. We looked each other over closely and arranged to have lunch.
We went to a small burger joint. The food was acceptable. The place was crowded with leather folks, both queer and het. Several guys were in full drag: chaps, boots, and jacket. I was conscious of Mark and some other patrons staring at my chest and biceps. Imagine, being a gym bunny at my age. Mark was cruised by young and old alike. We were a quintessential Daddy-boy pair, like it or not.
Eventually I mentioned Brad.
Mark raised his eyebrows while he interlocked his hands and twirled his thumbs in small circles. “So you and Brad have an open relationship?”
“Yeah, we work things out. We can’t be all things to each other. He has a girlfriend.”
Mark grimaced. “I’ve never been with a woman. I don’t know if I could do it. I’d giggle.”
“You’d be surprised at what you’re capable of.”
We discussed the usual S/M scenes: spanking, bondage, clothespins. He had both a reporter’s curiosity and a beginner’s interest. He gazed wistfully past me when I mentioned flogging, plus the fact that I was writing a book on the subject.
Sometimes I’m too effusive, and this was only our first lunch date, so I stopped talking and held back momentarily. Just as I was considering the possibility of asking if he would like to be flogged, he said, very slowly, “I’d like it if you’d flog me,” followed by, “I’ve never been flogged, and I’d like to see what it’s like.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “There’s a play party next Saturday, South of Market. You can come as my guest.”
“All right,” he said, “but promise you won’t leave me alone during the party.”
“It’s a deal.” I leaned across the table, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.
Sunday
Mark called tonight. He’s nervous about our scene. “I’m scared I won’t be able to take it,” he said.
“It’s not about taking it,” I said. “You’ll go where you need to go. Trust me.”
“I do. But I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You can’t possibly.”
“OK.”
Monday
I told Brad I have a date on Saturday. He thinks it’s great, even though we usually have dinner together Saturday evening.
I coyly said I was getting a boy, if only for the evening, and he shouldn’t ask for something if he wasn’t prepared for it to happen. He laughed.
Tuesday
I called Mark and invited him to dinner before the play party on Saturday. He was delighted.
I’m determined he’ll have a good flogging experience. It’s his initiation, after all, and it’s my obligation as a top. It’s his reward for what he’s brought to the community with his writing and activism. Plus, it could be the beginning of a relationship.
There’s a millennia-old tradition of older men mentoring younger men. The Leather Daddy-boy interaction is an obvious contemporary extension. For the first time I’m acutely aware that I could be part of an archetypal tradition. I want to pass on my knowledge, love, and skills.
Thursday
Mark called. His voice was quivering. He’s getting more and more agitated about our scene. He talked about his father who died when he was 18, ten years ago. They were very close, and Mark misses him. Mark is mature enough to realize that his search for a Daddy relationship is to balance this emptiness in his soul.
I hope I can be a stable masculine influence for Mark. The question is: Do I want a boy? The answer could be yes. I enjoy our interaction. It’s hard not to call him every day. I think of him more and more often, and am looking forward to Saturday. I sit in meetings at work and my mind wanders to our scene, thinking of what toys I’ll use, how he will react, what he will look like, and holding him afterward.
