I grabbed his nipples and pinched, none too gently. His long, firm dick twitched up and down. I spit on my hand and rubbed his shaft from base to tip in a slow circular motion, twisting my palm over the head with each stroke. He milked my shaft faster with his talented butthole.

  I moaned loudly, raised my shoulders, and arched my back.

  “Come in me, Daddy, come in me,” he pleaded. “Make me your boy.”

  “I’m coming!” I screamed. I sat up and grabbed him tightly, biting his neck, thrusting wildly as his ass muscles tightened around my spurting dick.

  At the same time, he humped my belly with short, jerky motions, as much as our closeness would allow.

  “Come on, boy. Go for it! Squirt on Daddy’s belly. Cover me with boy-cum,” I shouted. I leaned back on my elbows, and Mark grabbed his dick. A few quick yanks and he erupted as only the young can, gobs and gobs of creamy liquid rising in a crescendo of arcs, landing on my belly, my chest, my chin.

  “Oh, God, Daddy,” he said. He leaned over me and rubbed his hands over my hairy torso, smoothing his cum into an even layer. He raised himself off my dick and lay beside me.

  I put my arms around his shoulders and whispered, “I’d like to leave this collar on you.”

  Mark breathed deeply, clutched me tightly, and said, “Daddy.”

  “My boy,” I sighed. Brad was right—I did need a boy. To hell with the high maintenance. It would be worth the effort.

  For Hire: A Date with John

  Sean Meriwether

  Shiloh: The Other Size Queen

  The door opens and he comes into your apartment. He is very tall and looks like a famous actor, though you can’t remember which one. You tell a joke because you’re nervous and you’ve never done this before, at least notwith him. He laughs, a deep rumbling that puts you at ease. He follows you to your bedroom and takes off his boots. His long feet are sculptures of flesh. You feel tiny next to him, but that’s what makes him erotic; this is why you requested him. He will posses you, molest you as if you were a teenager. The proportions are correct. He smiles patiently when you attempt to tell him your requirements. He removes his clothes and folds them over the chair next to the bed. You take off your clothes and join him. You lie next to him and run your hands over his long legs. They are soft and warm. He says, What do you want to do? You tell him you want to be bent over his knee and spanked as punishment. He complies. You get hard as his meaty hand slaps your ass. He asks if you want him to fuck you. You do, but you wish he had just done it. He slips on a condom as you bury your face in the pillows, like when you were 15 and your older friends took turns with you. He is gentle, but you want him to be harder. You moan when he speeds up and you bite the sheet beneath your head. You relive the erotic torments of those older boys from your youth and splash the sheets with semen. The tall man behind you grunts and fills his condom. He rolls off your sweaty back. You watch him get dressed and slip the money into the pocket of his jeans. You show him to the door, absorbed in the odor of memory.

  Aaron: The Suburban Hustler

  The door opens and he comes into your home. This is the third time this month the two of you have gotten together. You joke that you must be supporting him by yourself. He laughs like a boy, with a blush and a dimple. You can’t help but like him; he is someone who listens to you, who understands that you love your no-good boyfriend even if he doesn’t want to have sex anymore. This boy says men need sex, it is true to their nature. He follows you to the bedroom and you take each other’s clothes off. It is like the beginning of a relationship when the first thing you want to do is have sex, then talk. His hands are guided along your body as if he were reading your mind. He kisses you at all the right moments. You don’t have to think or worry about anything, just your pleasure and his. It is all so easy and you think, This is how it is supposed to be. He is hung and this time you attempt to take it all. It hurts, but you feel more complete with him inside. Afterward, you lie in his arms, your boy-man, your lover, but the void remains. You want to explain this emptiness inside but you can’t find the right words. You cuddle with him instead. He makes you feel like a horny teenager, that your desires are legitimate and should be addressed. You want your boyfriend to understand this, but you know he won’t listen. The boy in your arms understands; he cares about you and wants you to forget your problems. He is very sweet and intelligent and hung, and you can picture the two of you playing house together. You make an appointment for next week and miss him before he even leaves. You stand at the door and wave like a war bride as he drives away.

  Bino: The Classic Eros

  The door opens and he comes into your apartment. You assume he is of legal age but he looks like a boy, a mature boy. His hair is golden and you run your fingers through his long curls. He looks like a Renaissance painting done in warm oils. You pull him to you and hug him. He has a slight accent and it bewitches you because you can’t place it. On impulse you pick him up in your arms and carry him to your bed. He laughs uncertainly. You put him down, strip off his clothes, and admire the androgynous beauty of his tight body. His chest is hard and developed, his ass is compact, each globe the right size for your hands. He falls onto your bed and rolls around, giving an occasional glimpse of his growing erection. His uncut cock makes you think of naked Greeks in the Olympics. He seems very comfortable in your sheets and you want to bind him up and keep him forever. You undress and lie in bed next to him. You roll him onto his stomach and massage his back. You wet your finger and slide it up into him. He moans in appreciation. When you screw him, he groans beneath you. He tells you to fuck him harder, but you are afraid of crushing him into the mattress. Too soon you are beyond worrying as you explode into him. You fall to the side, too exhausted to move. He stands next to the bed and looks like an angel with his tanned skin glowing, his halo of golden hair. He looks stronger than when he came in, more solid. When he leaves, with a handsome tip, you can’t help but think you’ve seen him before and then you remember Donatello’s statue of David. You agree that he too should be in a museum—your own.

  Iseha: The Video Fantasy

  The door opens and he comes into your living room. He is built and as graceful as a dancer. His lean body is carefully sculpted into curves and lines, a perfect specimen of man. You lick your lips and lead him to the couch. His voice is familiar and you remember him from that video you bought. You ask if that’s him and he smiles. You compliment him on his capabilities, the way he used his body in particular shots. You have been watching a lot of black and Hispanic boy movies and now you have your fantasy in the room next to you. You ask him to top you, to order you around. He laughs a moment and you think you’ve said something wrong. Then he strips out of his tight pants and shirt. He wears nothing but a jock. He shoves his crotch into your face and orders you to suck it. He is loud while being pleasured and you worry about the neighbors, but his comments make you so excited you’re afraid he’ll stop. He tells you to take off your clothes. He puts on a condom and works a long finger up into you before replacing it with something much larger. You think of gang-boy gangbangs as he plows you. He stops. He says he doesn’t normally do this, but would you like to have him? He says, How can I be a good top without being a good bottom? You are confused. He lies on his back and stretches his long, lean legs up into the air. You are distracted by what he offers you. You do him for a few minutes, but you don’t feel quite right. You ask him to switch places. He finishes the job quickly. When he leaves, you pop in Love for Sale and watch the scene he is in three times. You think, he was just here, and you can’t wait to tell your friends. They will be so jealous.

  Jonathan: The Tourist Trap

  The door opens and he comes into your hotel room. He is a little taller than you expected, but he is attractive in a bookish way. Even though you are horny, you can’t get it up. You are nervous that the man at the front desk knows why this boy is here and you double-check the hall to make sure it’s empty. He sits down on the bed, his long legs slanting away from his body. You ask him to do a striptease for you. He dances methodically, removing each article of clothing in timed display. He rolls his hips; your eyes scan the mobile mound in his shorts. Finally nude, he approaches and asks if you would like anything special. You tell him you want to suck him, but you mean to say you want to fuck him. He seems to know this, but it will not happen yet, not with forty-five minutes still on the clock. You bury yourself in a trimmed nest of pubic hair as he stands next to you, arms at his sides. Your ministrations wake his cock and it swells between your lips. When both of you are hard, you don’t know how to ask him for what you want. You thought he would do whatever you wanted; that was why you invited him over. You think, He must be familiar with the unspoken needs of middle-aged men like yourself. The idea of other men’s hands touching his young body excites you and you redouble your efforts to get him up to your level. You’d swear you are doing him better than anyone else who has come before because he tells you so. Maybe he will give you a discount. You finally penetrate him, with fifteen minutes left to the date. You blow your wad in five and it makes you feel sated and guilty. Keeping this secret from your wife makes you desperately hard again and you ask for another hour. He tells you he has another appointment, but can meet again tomorrow. You clear your schedule.

  Johnny: The New New Yorker

  The door opens and he comes into your foyer. You have to look up to meet his gentle eyes. He is well over six feet tall and thin like a boy should be. His height excites you in a way you did not expect. His voice is gentle and soft and you have to ask him to repeat himself because you keep missing what he says. He has a beautiful smile with even, white teeth. You take his surprisingly small hand and lead him to your bed and lay him across it. He doesn’t fit; his long feet dangle over the edge. You remove his shoes and socks. Stripping away his clothes reveals that he wears no underwear, and you sniff the crotch of his jeans without a second thought. You blush. He reminds you of a Walton, innocent in a way that you have not seen in other men you have worked with. As he becomes erect, your attention is drawn to the massive column of flesh that stretches out across his tight stomach. Only a third of it fits in your mouth, but you give it your all. You want it to fill you up, but you are afraid it may break you in half. Take it slow, you tell him, as you lower yourself onto his shaft. Once it breaks the surface you absorb it inch by inch. It never stops. You can feel it in your throat. Your legs spread open as he burrows into you. The pain is exquisite and you see stars swim before your eyes. Then it draws back slowly. You thank god. As the pace increases you are equally full and empty and you can’t even beat off because all your attention is on your overstimulated posterior. The boy beneath you flushes red as he pulls out and covers his body in white spurts. He pants as he jerks you off onto his stomach. You shoot across the room. You stare at his massive erection as it subsides and you cannot believe it was ever inside of you. You feel madly proud that you were able to take it. You kiss him tenderly as if you shared something significant and spend the rest of the hour marveling at the enormity the thin boy holds between his legs.

  Niko: The New Economy

  The door opens and he comes into your apartment. When he speaks he sounds slightly breathless, as if he ran to meet you. It fits in with your fantasy. He is wearing a business suit as requested. You have conquered Wall Street all day at work; now it’s time to conquer it at home. You spend every waking moment in the testosterone swirl of the Financial District but are unable to act out your aggression with those co-suited men. Now you can bend down on your knees and bury your face in his wool-blend crotch. You tear open his zipper and pull his dick out and absorb it into your mouth. You picture the two of you doing this on the trading floor and all the other traders stopping to watch. You slip out of your pants and finger yourself. He tells you how good it feels, how hot you are. His sextalk makes you hotter. You bend over the back of your couch and tell him to fuck you with the suit on. He slips on a condom and fucks you with the frantic pace of the Dow. In your mind you are standing on the platform above the trading floor, ringing the closing bell for all it is worth. The men beneath you are naked, sucking and fucking in true bacchanalian fashion. You stop and change positions. On your back you can replace the sweaty face above you with those of the men who work side by side with you. Each one of them screwing you in succession. Oh, yeah, the man says, banging you with the dicks of a hundred men. You blow your wad and it splatters the coat of the man between your legs. You laugh gratefully and toss him a towel to wipe off. That was hot, he says. He tucks his jacket into his bag of toys and leaves you reeling from the ride. God bless the stock market.

  Gucci

  Michael V. Smith

  I’m not saying it bothers me. It’s not terrible, and it’s not the end of the world, but why women? Yes, I was bored with the usual line-up of jeans and fat cocks parading through the park, the back room, the dungeon party, the police station, or wherever, and I was bored with my movies, bored with my books, bored with the pictures I either conjure up or buy. Bored. I bore myself in bed. Except lately. There are women there, in my mind, undressed, or with their skirts raised, knees wide apart, and my mouth doing things it’s never done before. Women are suddenly getting me off. Is it purely the novelty? When I’m tired of pussy will I start fucking dogs?

  Tonight, though, Brady and I are at the bar, in the basement, watching a stripper. We like this new guy; he’s got tricks we haven’t seen before. After that kid with the ornamental gourd some months ago, everyone’s been putting a grocery list of products up their butts, from vegetables to canned goods to frozen fish. And lately it’s “lubes with tubes” (our favorite being the neon-orange traffic cone two weeks back), but how interesting can that be after the first time? OK, the second or third. Once is a freak show, twice is an experiment. Three times, I say, is pure indulgence. The best you can get out of a crowd on the third strike is a weary “ho-hum.”

  But this guy—dimples as big in his face as those denting his ass—this guy’s got a real talent. He’s a showman. For one thing, he can dance; he’s got moves I can’t stop watching. The slick hair is in and out of his eyes, half-closed in a delirium I prefer to think is more erotic than narcotic. And his thighs, his naked thighs bump the wall behind him as if he were hip-checking the bar. The song is “Upside Down,” which I have to admit is campy but not that hot, only I don’t care, he’s tasty. He’s dangerously sweet.

  “Who gets the front?” Brady whispers in my ear. He’s grinning at me through his freckles. Manly freckles. Brady’s got a thick neck, which makes him look more masculine than he is.

  “You do,” I say.

  He chuckles. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if he can handle me.” He’s leaning against my arm. I think I smell the joint in the front pocket of his jacket. “But you’re right. We wouldn’t want him to see your luggage…” Meaning my foreskin. Brady likes to say I got enough skin to make a set of Gucci luggage. “He might think you’re moving in.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” I say and push him away. “You’ve got no idea what I look like.”

  He crosses himself. “Thank God.”

  I don’t know where he found it, but the stripper has one of those old bottles of Coke. Glass bottle with the cap still on. Full of pop. He stuffs it inside him, bottom first.

  “You’re just jealous that I, who is, am, who are, ten years your junior, am also unmutilated,” I blather.

  Brady’s laughing at me. “Got a little bit flustered there, did we?”

  I can only point. The boy on stage has successfully buried the Coke bottle completely up his ass, so that only the small round bottle cap is exposed, looking like a tin asshole. I think, Industrial Chastity Belt. No rear entry. Unless you have a bottle opener, which, casually, the stripper materializes from his mouth. Wish granted. I’m telling you, the honey’s got a flair for fantasy. He’s got magic.

  I look around the crowd to see if others are getting him too, if they’re noticing what he can do. Brady sees it; he’s interested again. The guy to my left, with a belly the exact diameter of the cocktail table in front of him, has a hand in his pocket. He’s focused, big-time. It’s the guessing game of what will happen next.

  Diana Ross sings her second chorus, and the stripper feigns boredom with the music. He shrugs and jumps off the stage. The Coke bottle doesn’t budge. Naked, with a weak spotlight following him, he twirls his way to the emergency exit, light flaring off the bottle cap as he spins. He walks out into the street. He’s naked, on a downtown sidewalk, with a bottle up his ass, as the bar door closes behind him. We’re left alone with the music and the spotlight trained on a red Do Not Exit sign.

  I smile at Brady and he returns the grin, which, I’m sure, means he too is wondering if the guy’s coming back. And in how many pieces. His attention turns back to the door.

  “You know,” I say, taking advantage of the surprise element of this moment, “I’m gonna have sex with women.”

  Still watching the exit, Brady cocks his head. He might not have heard me. He could still be puzzling the fate of the stripper, but something in his demeanor says not. Then the door opens and our five-minutes-of-famer saunters back in—with a cigarette, lit, hanging low off his bottom lip. A couple of men clap. The stripper shakes his magic ass, which has, yes, still got its pop.

  “You’re just perverted,” Brady hisses. When I notice his cheeks are red, burying some of the color from his freckles, I wonder if he’s kidding and flushed from the alcohol, or genuinely pissed off.

  “There are lots of bisexual people in the world, Brady.”

 

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