Best Gay Erotica 2010, page 8
Time to hammer out the details, the when where what. We’re in county lockup. The front of the cell is all glass, and so are all of the surrounding cells. The guards make bi-hourly circuits to ensure they have the correct number of breathing bodies, which is a concern for us, but only a minor one. Also, the cells are open from nine in the morning to nine in the evening, and we can come and go to the showers, find a book, watch TV, phone someone, whatever. I may be totally gay, but I’m also totally closeted, which causes me to be extremely cautious when getting it on. So here’s what we decide: tonight, as soon as we lock up at nine P.M. and the guard does his final circuit before the changing of the watch, we’ll do it.
All day the tension rises, my cock as well, as I fantasize about this evening’s festivities. We hardly say two words to each other, but I catch him watching me watch him watch me. Whew!
Around eight-thirty, t-minus thirty, I see greedy boy preparing to shower. Oh, no! Can’t have that. I want him au naturale. I head him off, standing naked to the waist in cell 13. “Hey dude, you’re not going to fuckin’ believe this. No hot water. Fuck, typical bullshit,”
“What?” He looks stricken. “But what about tonight? I hafta shower or we can’t…” His distress is obvious.
“No, no, no, don’t trip, bud, we’re still on,” I explain. “You took one yesterday, no biggie.”
“Are you sure? I can smell my balls, man.” At that, my knees go weak and I collapse into our single chair, cock quivering, mind racing with thoughts of his smelly balls bouncing off my stubbly chin, resting on my tongue. Don’t you worry, my pretty little punk, I will leave them smelling fresh and clean! “No problem. I don’t mind,” I say.
He shrugs and gets dressed. Never does he question my statement concerning our hot water supply, nor does it seem to occur to him that in all of recorded history these showers have not had sizzling hot water. I wonder who’s fooling whom?
Showtime! The guard calls for us to “Lock it up, ladies.” We hustle to our cells. As I close the door to 13, my boy is lying on his back, book in hand, pretending to read, with a rather large, obvious tent under the covers. I turn off the light and hang my blanket off the top bunk, veiling his lower bunk. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
I look at him, eyes large, heart sinking. “I’m putting up a curtain so we don’t get caught,” I explain.
“Who said I was ready?” he challenges.
I lose it. “Fuck it then, I mean, you get a blow job dude, I have to pay for it, that’s a win-win for you, so, whatever, I’ll just go to bed.” I turn the light back on and begin to remake my bed as he says, “Only kidding, god! Don’t be so touchy. Let’s do it.”
“No, fuck, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. I want you to want it and enjoy it, not just do it for a reward,” I complain, falsely, hoping to the gods that I’m reading him right.
“So, I’m not going to get my drawing?” he whines.
“No, I’ll do your drawing.” I climb to my bunk.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
Ten minutes later, I hear, “Hey, um, what if I said I wanted to?” That was the longest ten minutes of my life. I was afraid I had overplayed my hand. “Well, what exactly do you want to do?”
He says, “What we talked about.” Still timid. How cute.
“You mean I can suck your cock?” I ask. I look over the edge of my bunk, down at him. He is uncovered to just below his waist, knees up, hands under the covers. “Let me see it.” He slowly, shyly pulls his long, thin, pink cock out. It’s beautiful. A little small, but who cares. He’s nineteen and adorable.
“Will you fuck me?” I ask.
“What? No way,” he blusters, and stashes his pretty cock back under the covers. I almost cry. “Sorry, okay, no big deal,” I say as I scramble off my bunk to kill the light. After I’m down, I notice the guard is gone. Perfect! I put up the curtain and grab his boxers without another word. He covers his eyes with his forearm, face expressionless. I pull the boxers down. They catch on his softly fuzzy asscheeks. He arches slightly to accommodate me as I slip them across his butt, down his thighs and calves and over his size-eleven feet. I sniff his toes, kiss the tip of each one softly, fearing a bad reaction. Nothing. My cock is fat, hard, throbbing, leaking precum. I spread his ankles, slide my hands up his calves, over his knees, over his thighs. I rub my face up his leg to his fat sac, nuzzle his balls, lick them, smell them. It’s almost too much, I cum some. I have to slow down. I want this to last. I take his shaft in my hand and he pees a little squirt. I lick it up, suck it dry. I lick his salty taint, tongue his hole, move to his cock. He’s bigger than I first thought. But I’m a deep-throat specialist. I slip his slender cock down my gullet with one thrust. I slobber on his meat till he whispers—much to my surprise and delight—“Do you still want me to fuck you?”
Without a word, I jump up, grab the petroleum jelly, lube my throbbing, impatient hole, and spread more lube on his hard cock.
“How do we do it? I’ve never fucked a man before,” he whispers again. Wow. “However you want,” I say. “My favorite is doggie-style. But when you cum, please tell me so I can turn around and take your load in my mouth.”
I get into position, face in the pillow, arms out, knees drawn up to my chest, ass high in the air. He’s a first-timer, and he treats my ass like a pussy, slamming straight home. I gasp and squirt cum, lots of cum. “Want me to stop?” he asks. I can’t speak, so I shake my head no, wiping the tears off on his pillow, and push my ass toward him. He gets the idea and slides his cock out till just the tip rests against my hurt hole, then this time pushes in more slowly, more gently, inch by inch past my swollen prostate, in and then out again, slowly building speed till I’m having trouble breathing, till he suddenly shoves my ass hard with his hands. “Now, now, now, I’m going to cum!” He strokes his cock rapidly and I lunge for it and he explodes a fat hot sweet stream of cum into my hungry mouth. I suck and slurp all he’s willing to feed me, and then some. I finish by cleaning my own shit and blood from his cock and balls.
“Wow,” says my pretty little punk, smiling sheepishly. “Who would’ve guessed? It was way great.”
I simply smile, sweetly kiss his still-hard cock, and quietly go to bed.
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER
Rachel Kramer Bussel
After I got divorced, I resigned myself to a fairly lonely existence. Well, not entirely lonely, but sexless, certainly. Even before the breakup, Stella and I had become little more than roommates, and the truth was, though we had managed to get it on occasionally, I was never all that into it, so this seemed like the usual state of affairs for me, except now I was living alone. At thirty-seven, I wasn’t fresh meat, but I wasn’t totally over the hill. Friends, many of whom came out of the woodwork after the split, tried to set me up on blind dates, but I wasn’t interested. I liked having our Upper West Side apartment to myself; it had seemed to grow overnight, morphing into a more masculine environment without her delicate female touches dotting everything.
There was about a month where I walked around in a fog, missing her, missing her company. I’d come home after a long day selling jewelry, something I’d somehow found I had a knack for in college and had parlayed into a lucrative position at Tiffany’s, and settle into the silence. Friends invited me out for drinks or dinner, sometimes with their families, sometimes on our own, usually at bars crawling with people a good ten years younger than me. What was strange was that when women would catch my eye, or a friend would bring a single woman over, nothing happened. I’d smile and buy her a drink, listen to her lilting voice, but nothing was happening down there. I’d even walked one woman home and she’d leaned in to kiss me, smelling of peaches and vanilla, but I dodged her for a quick hug.
I figured that I just didn’t have a high sex drive, that my friends and my softball team and my job and occasional noodling on the guitar were all I needed to keep me occupied. And the truth is, they were. Unlike my buddies who’d been devastated by their divorces, or the ones who had the opposite reactions, becoming consummate playboys, I was pretty much neutral. I missed Stella’s presence, and her cooking, but that was about it. Our sex life had dwindled from its earlier passion to a half-hearted blow job from her here, a late-night quickie there, but we’d never really talked about it. I’d assumed sex was something you forgot about in a long-term marriage, and I truly hadn’t missed it much.
I was surrounded by women most of the day, wealthy customers wanting jewels draped around their necks and wrists or hanging from their ears. Often they flirted as they waved around tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds, telling me what the gifts were for, slipping double entendres into their rich laughs as they twinkled before the mirror. I liked helping them look more beautiful, but I didn’t want to fuck them.
And then about two months after Stella was gone, my libido came back to life. Except it was like one of those movies where bodies get swapped, because all of a sudden, it wasn’t women who were reviving my dick from its long dormant stage. In some ways, I was a teenager again: I started having wet dreams. I’d be asleep and I’d wake up remembering someone sucking my cock. The face and body would be anonymous, fuzzy, but the lips, and occasional stubble, and my own intuition, told me that these lips were not female. A man was sucking me off in those dreams, a man with a cock as hard as mine that he was either stroking or waiting for me to stroke. These unconscious blow jobs were always the best head I’d ever received. The dreams only came to me occasionally, and I’d wake up either having jerked off in my sleep, or needing to when I awoke, but they were so realistic, I felt almost like I’d gotten laid.
The dreams were starting to consume me, making me take after-work catnaps, hoping they’d return. I decided to see what would happen if I chose a more conscious route to accessing this brave new fantasy world. I picked a guy I worked with, one who I knew was gay, even though he never talked about it. You’d have to pick up some very subtle clues to know, but I’ve always had excellent gaydar—except about myself, I soon came to realize. He wasn’t what I’d have guessed would be my type, but who knew anymore? He had shaggy dyed black hair that fell into his eyes, extra-pale skin, overly full lips, and thick black hipster glasses. He wore funky skinny ties and spoke softly, so you often had to lean in to hear him.
I spoke his name out loud: “Kevin.” I felt myself open up, felt the fantasy step up a notch into something that could actually be possible. “Kevin, I want you to…” I paused because I honestly wasn’t sure what I wanted him to do. But I knew if he’d been in the room, I’d probably be tongue-tied. I pressed on, though, determined to see what might happen when there was more than a nameless face in my big gay dream. I had never thought about what Kevin was into sexually. I tried to dredge up a story from our chats, but he was too circumspect for that. I decided, maybe because he was tall and skinny and probably weighed less than me, that he might like to be held down, maybe have his wrists tied together. Then his dick would be mine. I pictured it tall and skinny, like him, just perfect for my first time.
Sucking someone else’s cock was totally different, even in my head, than getting my dick sucked. It was better, in a way, because I was in control; with my fantasy man’s lips around my hardness, I couldn’t control when I’d come, could only wait in perfect agony for him to work his magic. I shut my eyes and pushed two fingers into my mouth, trying to suck them in a sexy way, rather than just gulp. I whimpered, tears coming to my eyes. This was nothing like going down on Stella. Sucking Kevin’s imaginary cock made goose bumps form all over my skin. My nipples hardened, my senses coming alive. I started moving my fingers slightly back and forth; even if Kevin were tied up, he could still raise his dick if he wanted. It was over pretty soon, because while I may have been in control of my mouth, my cock had other plans, and soon spurted a giant load of come.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I sucked my first real cock.
Seeing Kevin at work was a little awkward over the next few days. How do you come out as…newly horny for guys, probably gay, when you’ve been known for years as the married, straight, rather boring colleague? I couldn’t pin on a rainbow flag at work, and in every other way, I was still me. It wasn’t like people could tell just by looking, and I had a feeling if I confessed my fantasy to Kevin, he’d shoot me a look of great horror and scamper away. We weren’t destined to become lovers, and I wouldn’t have wanted to mix business and pleasure, anyway. Still, I observed him on the sly, wanting to be more like him, so at ease with his carefully coiffed hair and bee-stung lips, not caring who knew he was into boys, not girls. I felt in limbo, with my new desires loud and clear, while the rest of my life stayed stuck in the past.
One day, coming home on the train, reality caught up with my fantasies. My dick stood to attention when a sweaty young man rushed between the subway doors, fresh from a round of basketball. His brown curls clung to his head, his muscular calves topped by thighs that made me ache. I lifted my gaze and tried to read a subway ad for chewing gum, but my eyes kept darting over to him.
A seat opened up behind me and I sat, almost stunned at the visions swirling through my head. I reached for a copy of Time Out New York and placed it over my lap to try to hide my erection. When I looked up at the basketball player again, his eyes locked on mine, and he casually made his way over to stand right in my line of vision. His crotch was right before me, the outline of his cock visible when I took a quick peek. I flipped a page in the magazine, and he shifted so his leg was brushing mine. I probably looked a little bit crazy, a middle-aged man in a black designer suit, smooth shaven, surely blushing as I sat there with an aching dick hidden by a magazine as a young man, probably a college student, made me hard by brushing his knee against mine. Finally, my stop arrived and I stood, inevitably brushing against him. In a flash, he took my hand and let it trail over his cock. The whole thing took maybe two seconds, and I’d say I imagined it but I know I didn’t because my dick shifted in my pants, responding instantly. You’d have to have been staring intensely to think it anything other than two passengers shifting to make room for one of them to exit, but my face burned with the truth as I rushed home.
I stood before the full-length mirror in my closet and jerked off, holding my cock and wishing it were the sweaty subway guy’s, wishing I could’ve taken him in my hand, wrapped my fingers around his firmness for more than a single moment. I reached behind me and started to gently stroke my anus, which heretofore had been a sexual no-strike zone. I had so little experience with anyone’s back door, but my finger there felt good. I pressed harder, knowing I’d need lube to get the job done right, but being too caught up in the sensations to pause for even a moment. I kept stroking myself, moving my fist up and down, thinking of the sweaty basketball player’s face back there, licking me, opening me up with his tongue. “Yes, harder,” I cried out and then opened my eyes and watched my dick shoot a veritable waterfall of jizz.
Then I met Felix. I can’t honestly say I was looking for him; we were both on line at a Starbucks on the Upper West Side at eight in the morning on a Saturday, surrounded by strollers and families in what could have been Middle America. I was behind him, thinking about what I should do with myself that day. I still wasn’t used to planning entire weekends. Then he turned around, just for a second, and I gasped. I just knew, the same way I had just known, in my earlier life, with Stella: God was speaking to me, telling me He had hand-delivered this fine specimen for my pleasure. And for all I knew, maybe he had. Felix turned and gave me a killer smile, perfect white teeth gleaming from a tan face with sexy stubble I suddenly wanted to rub my face against. “Hey there,” he said in a sensual Southern drawl, and I returned his smile. There were a few people ahead of us so we had some time for chitchat. He was friendlier than most folks you meet randomly in New York, perhaps because, as I soon learned, he’d just moved here from Atlanta three weeks earlier.
He was a fresh-faced twenty-five, but that didn’t stop him from flirting with me, standing closer than necessary, and giving me this smile that, while blindingly white and seemingly wholesome, felt like it was speaking straight to my dick. Whereas I felt like a tongue-tied teenager at first, Felix was all confidence.
We walked outside and found a bench to sip our respective coffee and tea. I teased him about his English Breakfast with milk and sugar (“Do real men drink tea?”) while he teased my decidedly nonmacho option of a caramel macchiato. I found out that he was looking for work, doing anything; he had two months until law school started and wanted to have fun and make some cash, but nothing too high pressured. I told him the briefest of details about my job, and finally, after a pause, he asked the big question: “So, are you single?”
He wasn’t asking if I was gay, and I realized that by my having coffee with him, it was simply understood. I liked that; just by being me and talking to a stranger, I could be taken for gay. It gave passing a new meaning. “Yes, at the moment. I was with someone for a long time.” I wasn’t ready yet to give him the whole story. I did, however, give him my card, and he leaned over my shoulder, resting his chin on it as he dictated his number. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Perry,” he said, all mock formality as he extended his hand. I gripped it and had the overwhelming urge to hug him, to smell his hair and hold him close. It was a different impulse than my cocksucking fantasy.
He emailed me the next day, a casual, Want-to-have-lunch? missive.
Let’s make it dinner. Tomorrow night. I’ll cook. The words were on my screen and then whizzing their way to his before I could rethink them—or overthink them. This wasn’t the time to beat around the bush, not when my future depended on it. I needed to know whether I was really gay, whether this was just a rebound fantasy or something real.
