Best Gay Erotica 2006, page 9
They embraced with growing passion. “I love how strong you are,” Moss gasped. “And I love it that I can use all my strength with you. What can we do? Can I touch you? Will you touch me?”
“Anything you want,” Carleton promised. “But if I take off my pants, I better get at least a hand job. My dick is so hard it hurts.”
“Sure,” Moss said bravely. “Let’s see your equipment.”
Unzipping his khaki pants, Carleton said, “You just have to promise me that you’re not going to think I’m a girl once you see me naked.”
“No,” Moss said, appalled at the very idea, then quietly freaked out at the idea that she—no, he—she? he?—was affirming someone’s manhood. “Carleton. You’re my big brother. I know you’re a man. You’re the best man I’ve ever met. The cutest one too.”
Carleton said, “Aw, shucks,” and tossed what remained of his clothes off the bed. It felt weird to be the only one who was naked, but he hoped to remedy that situation soon. In the meantime, he hadn’t been lying about his hard-on, which desperately wanted some of Moss’s attention. The younger guy was quick to kneel at his side, then lie down between his legs to get a better view.
“Wow!” Moss said. “Hormones did all that to you?” Carleton’s clit had become a ruddy appendage that looked like a small cock head. Moss experimentally put his fingers on either side of it and moved the hood/foreskin up and down. Carleton gasped. Without thinking, Moss reached down for some moisture to ease the jack-off. Carleton stiffened, then rolled over and retrieved a bottle of lubricant from the nightstand. “Use this,” he directed, and Moss silently cursed himself for an insensitive fool. Of course Carleton didn’t want anyone to touch his vagina.
“Oh! God!” Carleton gasped as lubricated fingers circled his sensitive dicklet. “That feels great.”
“What does this lube taste like?” Moss wondered, then answered his own question by putting his mouth over Carleton’s cock. The very shape and size of it warned him that he should not lick it the same way that he would lick a girl’s clit. Instead, he sucked, moving his head up and down, and put one of Carleton’s hands on the back of his head.
Carleton was reeling from the hot, wet, teasing mouth. “Oh, little brother!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“So you like the way I suck your dick?”
“I’ll give you about five years to stop.”
The next time Moss stroked Carleton below his dick, there was no negative response. It seemed to be okay to stroke the sensitive tissue as long as there was no penetration. “Stick your fingers up my ass,” Carleton gasped. “Fuck me in the ass while you suck my fuckin’ dick, man. I’m so close to coming. Please, I need it really bad.”
In a trice, Moss’s left hand was lubed up and working its way home. Index and middle finger found ample room for their invasion. How hard would Carleton want it? Moss settled for a slow, steady in-and-out beat that was not likely to make Carleton’s ass push him out. He was rewarded with an even bigger package in his mouth and two hands on his head, holding his tongue on its rigid and yearning target.
“Oh, yeah!” Carleton yelled, and bucked into Moss’s mouth, his ass contracting around his little brother’s probing digits. It was a good orgasm that left Carleton feeling sleepy and drained. Moss withdrew, and they cuddled on the bed together. Carleton pillowed Moss’s head on his shoulder. “You’re a treasure,” he said fondly. “Wish I could feel your dick up my ass.”
“Next time?” Moss asked.
Carleton answered him with a kiss. When a tongue went into Moss’s mouth, he decided to allow it. Normally this was where sex would end, and he would pull away to allow his overheated body to settle down. But Carleton seemed determined to keep him turned on. The kiss was so exceptional that he barely noticed Carleton unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down over his hips.
“Lie on your belly,” Carleton ordered. “I want to take you from behind.”
“Say what?” Moss protested.
“Come on, little brother, let me get some of my own back. I want you. There’s no stone butches in this bed, just hot dudes who need to get done.” His hand slid between Moss’s legs and his fingers played with the moisture and the inflamed flesh that they found there. “If you tell me you want to stop I’ll know you’re lying, man. Don’t you want to be my pussy boy?”
Moss giggled into his folded arms. His bare ass felt cool, and Carleton’s hands were practiced and delicious. His body wanted more. And for some weird reason, sucking Carleton off had not been like making love to a femme. “Just make me the same promise that I made you,” he told his tutor.
“I will,” Carleton said, and meant it. “I won’t think you’re a girl if you let me fuck you, Moss. But this is the only body you have, and it doesn’t deserve to be ignored. Sex can mean whatever you want it to mean.”
He was rubbing Moss’s clit and using his thumb to separate the folds that guarded the entrance to his wet hole. There was plenty of hip motion to urge him forward, and Moss uttered small cries of pleasure. “Get your hands down here,” Carleton urged him. “Stick your hands in your pants and jack off for your big brother. Jack off to show me how much you love to get fucked.”
There was something very sexy about rubbing his clit with his hand behind the packer. Moss could lose himself, if only for a few minutes, in the fantasy of jacking off his own cock. Then Carleton was inside of him, filling him up, and it felt absolutely right. “Give me more,” Moss snarled, and fucked himself on Carleton’s sure and steady hand. “Oh, God, you’re so good, it’s so hot, please don’t stop. Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
Carleton was happy to oblige. He fucked Moss until “little brother” came with his own frantic finger agitating his slit. “You’re doing good,” he encouraged, and kept on going. “Do it for me again. I know you’ve got more than one shot in you. Come again for your big brother. Let me see how much you want me inside of you. Oh, God, Moss, I love fucking you. I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to stop.”
But eventually he had to, because Moss begged for a break. By then Carleton’s cock was up again, and he quickly got Moss busy at his crotch. “See what you do to me?” Carleton hissed. “I’m going to come in your mouth, boy. Fill that sweet sexy mouth of yours up with my come. Do you want it? Do you want my come?”
When Moss made a garbled noise of assent, Carleton grabbed him by the ears and fucked his face. “Suck harder,” he ordered, and Moss’s obedient mouth gave him just the right amount of pressure to tip Carleton over the edge and into a hot rush of very satisfying pleasure.
Finished, they spooned one another, both needing to pee and reluctant to get up to do so. Carleton experienced the usual quiet melancholy he felt after sex. It was good to come, good to be touched by someone who understood that you could be a guy and still have girl parts, but this intimate act reminded him again that his body was not perfectly and entirely male.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and kissed the top of Moss’s head.
“Mmmm. Dreamy,” Moss replied. “I feel so amazing. I don’t want to stop.”
“You don’t have to,” Carleton told him. “You’re not a bad person. It’s okay to be a tranny.”
“Is that what I am?” Moss wondered. “Or am I just a butch dyke who likes to dress up and pretend to be a boy?”
“What’s the difference?” Carleton asked. “You could sum both of those identities up as forms of atypical gender expression. Oh, hell, why am I lecturing you, of all people?”
“I don’t think I want to take testosterone,” Moss said, and withdrew from him. He padded off to the bathroom.
Not yet, anyway, Carleton thought, putting on pajama pants and a light cotton robe. As he passed the bathroom, he heard the sound of Moss pulling off the tape, returning his chest to its usual configuration. Carleton put a TV dinner in the microwave and punched in the numbers to heat it up.
When Moss came into the kitchen, he was fully dressed. He had washed the faux-beard off his face. But he came up to Carleton and gave him a loving hug, a grin, and a smooch. “Thank you for going out on a limb for me,” Moss said.
“Are you hungry? I can nuke you another TV dinner,” Carleton offered.
“No. I have to get home.”
They said their good-byes as the microwave beeped for Carleton’s Hungry Man fried chicken, and he let Moss out the front door. Before he carried his food out to the TV tray so he could watch his favorite home decorating show, he checked out the bedroom.
Moss had tidied up, putting Carleton’s used clothing on the bedroom armchair. But the binder was gone.
“Good for you,” Carleton said to his vanished friend, and went back to his meal.
FROM SEXILE
Jaime Cortez
BEST FRIENDSTER DATE EVER
Alexander Chee
In his profile pictures, he looks like a dirty-minded angel, blond hair sticking up, electric blue eyes, and a pink mouth that pouted beautifully. He was biting his finger, teeth bared, in one. It reminded me of an incident a long time ago, a day when I ran into an old boyfriend’s old trick with said boyfriend, and while we were talking the boyfriend turned his back on us. The trick smiled at me and slid a finger up the leg of the boyfriend’s very short shorts, pushing in visibly past his ring. I could see the finger slow and then slip forward. When he pulled it out, he looked at me and ran it under his nose with a grin.
The old boyfriend whipped his head around, uncertain which of us had just defiled him there on the street. I was upset for a moment, but also completely turned on. It was, after all, a championship piece of ass.
This boy, he reminded me of both of them that day.
I found him on Friendster, the giant electronic yearbook for the never-ending high school that is life in the United States. On the outside chance you’ve no idea what I’m talking about, you join the site, link your page to your friends’ pages, and soon you can follow a network out to, in my case, 156,550 people.
I was living in Los Angeles in a sublet with friends in a four-thousand-square-foot, four-bedroom apartment, where we could be home and never see each other, in a building that looked so much like a New York building it was constantly used for location shots. In L.A., people took the Internet really seriously, and my first summer there was the first time I was ever getting hit on over the Net. I decided to hit back. It hadn’t been a very romantic summer. The best I’d done live and in person was get blind drunk on vodka and Red Bull at a West Hollywood bar, like a sorority girl, and I bought someone a rose off one of those people who wander through bars with buckets of roses. Said recipient was said to be charmed, a friend of friends, and represented as such on Friendster, with some fairly amazing naked pictures of himself on his Friendster page. My birthday was coming up, I was single again, and while it was too gruesome to contemplate writing to the man from my blackout, I began paging through the pages and pages of strangers with their brightly colored snapshots and their witty or not so witty profile one-liners, until I saw this one. I sent a very casual note and said something stupid and low-key, like, This is just a fan letter to say, You’re hot.
A friend of mine has a theory about corny lines from guys. You see it in movies all the time, guys saying, Hey baby, show me your tits, or something really beautiful like that. And the girl gets all mad, etc. But we figured out the reason it doesn’t work on girls is because guys like it. It works on guys.
Sure enough, the guy with the pout, the guy this story is about, wrote back. He was completely inappropriate: twelve years younger than me, just out of college in New York, but he was smart. A California Rimbaud, skinny and perhaps tall in the photos.
He ended up agreeing to meet me while I was celebrating my birthday at the Silverlake summer street fair. Sounds like my kind of tragedy, he said.
Fair enough, I thought.
We exchanged numbers for meeting up that weekend, but he became a little hard to find. We kept missing each other. By the time I met him I was annoyed by the seven calls exchanged, and no longer particularly interested. I found him across from an enormous inflatable ride, the kind kids get inside of and bounce around, a Moonwalk.
In person, he looked like another kind of boy altogether. He was a little taller than me, probably about 6’1”, and had glasses, and was dressed like the sort of boys I used to meet back in New York. From his appearance I was fairly sure there was an ex he wasn’t over, that he read the Economist, and had intimacy issues, especially after I saw the rock-climbing shorts. I was about to give him the brush-off, but a flash of something in his eye caught me—a fishhook notion. And his skin was a miracle of smoothness. He had the kind of perfect, slightly golden skin of some blonds. It was a bit Nordic, but he looked like a child of Great Britain, the bastard of a Viking and the one the Viking found when he got off his Viking ship.
I had friends with me, he had friends with him. It was my birthday, after all. Let’s get a beer, I said, and we walked. The street fair had seemed like a good idea in theory, but now that I was there I found the bands dull, the people uninteresting, and the goods for sale unappealing. It was like the ugly stepchild of a really cool street fair somewhere else in time and place, just not here. His friend group vanished, at which point he admitted one of them was an ex-boyfriend who wasn’t over him (check, I thought). My friend group said they were going off to look for a present for me.
We were alone. The beer was almost good enough to stay. We ran out of things to talk about fairly quickly. He mentioned a pilot show he was writing. I listened, the idea was pretty good. He seemed nervous and a bit abrupt.
My friends returned. With wicked smiles they tossed a paper bag onto the table.
The friends in question were my three roommates, and the subject of how I’d not gotten laid that summer had come up a few times. As had the last, most inappropriate relationship I’d just gotten out of. In a kind of emergency conference, we’d decided Appropriate would have meant twenty-eight or older, and this date didn’t qualify on that score. Wouldn’t for about three years. I pulled out the contents.
Lube, single-portion size. Rubbers. Restraints, made of nylon, clasps from a backpack, and Velcro. A few porno mags. Absurd enough to make it sexy. I laughed. It was a fairly direct editorial comment.
Thanks, I said.
The roommates laughed and removed themselves to another table.
The date reached over for the restraints. He tentatively put one on his wrist. Hunh, he said. He seemed blankly quizzical, and I wondered what was going through his mind. I didn’t know him well enough to know if he was hard to read.
All I was thinking was, The real bottoms, you don’t actually have to tie them up.
I looked at the Velcro snaps and plastic hooks. Perfect for hiking and tying up vegetarians. Waterproof.
The night dragged after that. The fair mercifully came to an end, a nearby party was suggested, and we went. There was a liquor store stop, where it seemed one of my roommates was about to make a move on my date. I let it go, wanting to see how it would play out in the gray-white light of the store. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t hit on if it was young and smooth, and he could likely sense I was almost abject about the state of the conversation. It wasn’t that my date was stupid; we just were interested in very different things. And there were the climbing shorts.
When I really think about it, several things were in play. I was on a date I knew had no future. I had just gotten out of a relationship with a closeted man so frustratingly asexual in its nature, and so tortured, I was a bit like a man on a fast, who didn’t know how to start eating again. I was uncertain, but the terms of things around me were not. At the party I watched the boy come in and out of view. I drank a bit, he got more interesting, but noticing this, and remembering the earlier disaster of the summer, I watched myself. He eventually vanished into a crowd of men doing blow in the other room, which wasn’t even as interesting to me as a pizza. People were boring on drugs. At least in L.A.
And then when I least expected it, in the light of the garden,
he sat down near me and we each smoked a cigarette, he offering that he didn’t normally smoke. Check, I thought. Economist, climbing shorts, ex-boyfriend, in denial about smoking.
If this wasn’t boring enough, he was nervous again, or perhaps it was the blow. I had thought him indifferent to me by now, as I was to him. I think we both knew enough to know it wasn’t a love match. He was sexy and I was thinking right at that moment how in order to have sex with him I was probably going to have to endure weeks of dull conversations. I was probably going to have to know everything I didn’t want to know about him before we got there. I dreaded the ex-boyfriend story.
I really wanted you to have a good impression of me, he said.
What are you talking about, I said.
Well, he said. I just. I just did a bump.
Hunh, I said. I shrugged.
I just… he said. I do this. And he made some kind of sound, like a child makes, and shrugged into himself. It was sweetly awkward.
What, I said. Don’t worry about it, I said. Whatever it is, just say it.
You just got restraints for your birthday. Do you want to just go home and have a lot of sex?
I laughed. Let’s go, I said.
As I said, only guys like lines like that.
The first person I ever tied up was my old boyfriend from the beginning of this story, who asked for it. He was wanting me to be someone dirtier and more aggressive than I was then. He wanted me to be the person I felt myself to be in relationship now to my birthday date, who was about to be the second person I was going to tie up.
Twelve years had passed since that first time. The exact age difference between him and me.
My hideously large apartment’s layout matters to the story. For this to really work you have to understand that my three roommates and I had taken rooms all on one side of our four-bedroom apartment, while on the other side off the kitchen were former servants’ quarters: two smaller bedrooms that doubled as offices. We had a library, a dining room, a living room, a butler kitchen, and pantry. Each bedroom had walk-in closets, and the West Wing, as we jokingly called it, had its own bathroom. We could easily have had a guest there and not known. We usually never heard each other, even with our rooms, which were technically suites, I guess, right next to each other. It was an incredible apartment, and I don’t know if I’ll ever live in another as odd and amazing in sheer spectacle.
