Homeboys

by Shane Allison

  I take the larger stall next to the punk. I watch myself in the mirror undoing the drawstring of my shorts and pushing them down past my coffee bean–brown ass to my ankles. There’s a small hole in the wall of the stall that’s no bigger than the tip of a pencil eraser. It’s nothing grand or glorious, but enough for a wandering eye to peer in. I start playing with my dick, scratching my balls with my right hand, as I reach under my fuchsia polo and began playing with my nips with the left. Fuck that feels good. The added stimulation drives me ape-shit crazy. My mouth waters at the thought of tightening my lips around that dirty punk’s appendage. I look to see if the punk is staring. It would be easier if the hole was larger, big enough to push a nice fat dick through. Suddenly, strange sounds begin to echo from the adjoining stall. What is he doing? Is he jacking his dick? I stoop over, laying my palms flat on the filthy bathroom floor, twisting myself so I can see the punk’s meaty goods.

  “Man, what the fuck are you doing?” I swiftly ease myself back up on the toilet. “Sorry. Sorry,” I keep saying. My excitement morphs into fear, scared shitless that the punk is going to fuck me up, but he goes silent. My apology is enough to soothe the boy. He stands up and yanks his shorts and tighty-whities up his legs and flushes his toilet. I don’t smell any shit. Maybe he’s too nervous to drop a log. I keep calm. My dick goes soft by this point. My palms are cold and clammy. When the punk exits his stall and knocks on mine, I’m not sure what to do. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything,” I repeat in hopes that the punk will fuck off.

  “Let me in,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Let me in before someone comes.”

  I take a chance and push back the metal latch of my stall door. I step aside as the scrappy punk infiltrates my space. Stranger things have happened. He latches us both into the roomy stall. I plop my naked ass back onto the porcelain throne. The punk stands in front of me, unzips his shorts, tugs out his dick that’s the length of a monkey wrench, and says, “Is this what you want?” He massages his dick with dirty fingers, grit beneath nubby nails. “Suck my dick,” he says. I don’t fuckin’ hesitate and take what has to be nine inches past my lips into my mouth. I drop to my knees as I suck this punk fast and easy. This boy has no idea I’m an all-day kind of dick sucker. I throat his piece to the balls, crotch musk filling my senses. “Fuck yeah, faggot. Suck that dick.” I try to suck the skin off the dick of this scrappy street twink.

  Slurp.

  Slurp.

  Dick soaked and spit-wet. Dapples of spit plummet to the rough bathroom floor. I gawk up at the boy, my mouth corked with juicy street meat. He holds my head from the back and presses until his pubes tickle my nose. “Yeah, stretching your throat, black boy.” My eyes start to water. I hold on to his firm ass for leverage. My finger slips into the ditch of his ass that constricted with every thrust.

  Slurp.

  Slurp.

  Slurp.

  “Make those big lips tight around that dick.”

  I do what he wants.

  “Fuck yeah, good, like that. You got a hot mouth, man. Wet like a pussy.”

  My dick is brick fucking hard.

  “Let me see that sweet black ass.”

  I assume the position over the sink. This punk starts to finger my asshole.

  “Yeah, you’ve been stretched.”

  I have been fucked more times than my dirty mind can remember.

  “You got a rubber?”

  “In my back pocket,” I tell him.

  He reaches down into one of the pockets of my shorts and pulls out a Trojan.

  “The sensitive ones. That’s good.”

  I hug the sink as he rolls the rubber on his dick. I whimper when I feel him pry open the cheeks of my ass. I hear him spit before he slathers my hole for entrance. I brace myself as the punk pushes until the plump plum of his dickhead penetrates my butt. I suck my teeth at the pain, holding strong.

  The punk sinks his fingers into my fleshy shoulders. “Tight black ass.”

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve been fucked so good.

  “Fuck my ass, use me.” I want this punk to fuck me all day with his hateful dick, but there’s no time.

  “You ready to take this load, black boy?”

  I’m pawing at the partition as he fucks my butt with fiery thrusts. I muster moans; he grunts as he comes in the rubber, up my ass, spurting thick seed. The punk slips out of me as I ease myself from over the sink. The condom makes a slapping reverberation against the punk’s force as he pulls it free from his spent dick, tossing it into yellow toilet water.

  We start to get dressed. He doesn’t look at me as we fasten shorts and jeans, buttoning shirts. I can read the shame in his face. Yeah; he’s one of those types. The punk pulls back the latch on the stall door and exits. He can’t get away from me fast enough, but in a small town like this, I know I’ll see him again.

  London Nights

  Bobby Starr

  Cottages. That’s what they call them in London. In the States they’re known as tearooms by those that have been around pre–Jake Gyllenhaal. To say that I needed a vacation would be an understatement. I had to get out, had to get out from under the gritty, cutthroat claws of being a stockbroker, not to mention my boyfriend, hereafter known as Cheating Piece of Shit, who is now very much my ex. He and my job were the reasons I had to leave. I was celebrating because I was finally free of both of them. After catching Deshawn in bed with the neighbor’s son, something was unleashed, the ghetto, hood side of me was cut loose. All the things that I had ever thought of doing, but didn’t have the balls to, I did. First I kicked Deshawn’s cheating ass out of my loft, along with every Timberland boot and Southpole shirt I ever bought him, then I finished my last day at work by telling my boss he could stick the job up his racist, homophobic, bald ass. Packed the last of my Post-its and staples, and hit the road. It’d been a week, and I still had no regrets. ’Course I never regret the shit that I do.

  There I was in London where no one knew my name, and I liked it that way. Did whatever I wanted and whomever. I wanted to do the study abroad thing, but my folks never had the money, so I had to forego that plan. After several years of dreaming about coming here, I finally got the chance two years ago. First trip was with Deshawn, a gift for his twenty-sixth birthday. He loved it. Two fabulous weeks of touring infamous museums, historical sites, you name it. Had the time of our lives, we did. This was my fourth trip. But I wasn’t in the mood much for touring. Had spent the last two weeks exploring the seedier side of the U.K., sucking dick through glory holes. The cops are a hell of a lot stricter from what I’d read on websites, so I had to be careful. There had been a rash of bashings and the most action they took in response consisted of sitting around with their batons up their asses. London’s really no different than the shit that goes down here in the States. Poofters. That’s the British word for “fag.” Poofter or poof I’ve heard. Sounds less threatening than faggot I suppose.

  Glad Deshawn wasn’t there. It was a nasty breakup. Eight years together, and what does he do as soon as my back is turned? Pisses it all away. I mean, I gave that boy the world; he didn’t want for anything. Before he met me, he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Was smoking meth in some bottomless pit of a dive when we met. He wanted to act like it was my fault he fucked around, like I caused his dick to land in the ass of the next-door neighbor’s son.

  “You’re never around,” he argued.

  I told him that was because I was busy working so we could go on trips to Aruba; fancy, fifty-bucks-a-plate restaurants where the food looks more like a painting than a real meal; and all those New York uptown clubs his ass liked to go to just because people like Ben Affleck and Matt Damon have been known to hang out there. As I threw his clothes out the window, twenty stories down onto the streets of the city, I said, “Now you can fuck whomever you want. You’re not my problem anymore.” Came home one day to find that the little shit had cleaned me o
ut. Took everything. My diamond-studded Rolex, all of my Boateng suits and twenty-five thousand in cash I had in a safe behind the Van Gogh print. Don’t ask me how he knew the combination ’cause till this day, I don’t have a clue. That’s what I get for taking in strays. I thought of calling the cops, but they would only write the shit up as some lover’s spat. Besides, he ain’t worth it. I’m just happy he’s out of my life.

  I wasn’t about to mope around feeling sorry for myself. At first I stayed held up in my hotel mostly getting my brains buggered out by big-dick Brit boys. Nothing like hearing a horny Englishmen whisper dirty, sweet nothings in my ear. Can say whatever they want to me and before you know it, my ass is in the air. It was my last week before heading back to New York. Bought one of those guidebooks that lets you in on all the hot spots in the U.K. as well as some of the seedier underbellies where all the blokes go to get off. Ventured off to a few places: alleys, baths that reeked of poppers and ass, the pissy cottages in Gloucestershire to take in an occasional glory-hole show. Places aren’t any different than those here in New York. Lots of street weirdos, old, ugly tarts lusting for dick.

  This one place, a park I read up on, was everything it was described as in the guide. Punks and bikers mostly, dressed from head to toenail in leather and denim. Some of them walked around wearing nothing but jeans turned into homemade chaps. Men strolled the trails with asses bare in the night. I sauntered about armed with a tough exterior when I was really just a weak-kneed lush. Gave the men one of my don’t-fuck-with-me expressions when I really had goose feathers for guts. Stood around in the fog and merciless cold as men snatched off my clothes with lustful intentions in their eyes and hard dicks behind chapped, black hide. I cock teased and taunted all night until I spotted a guy I liked. A slit of alabaster flesh was exposed, glistening under his cycle jacket. A lit cigarette that burned orange, hung between his lips. My heart tickled with nerves as he made his way toward me. Looked like a real badass, this guy. He blew a thick body of smoke in my mug and he didn’t seem to give a shit. Felt like such a boy in his presence. Down right uncanny how he resembled Harvey Keitel. His greasy black hair shined under the streetlamps of the park.

  “How’s it going, mate?” he asked. I wanted to walk away, or run like hell, really, but my feet would not move; it was like the feeling in my legs shut down from fear. I had encountered a few leathermen during a trip to San Fran, but they’ve never been my thing. I’m more into skater boys, skinny little clubbers.

  “Hey,” I said in my Southern-fried accent. After graduating from college, I blew my hometown of Tallahassee for the city life. Wanted to see how the other half lived. Tally was just way too college town for me. I’ll admit that I’m the worst green-eyed monster when it comes to not being a born and bred New Yorker.

  He pinned me against a tree without even laying a hand on me. I clawed at its bark for leverage.

  “You a top or a bottom, mate?” he asked without a hint of hesitancy. I lied and told him I was a top. He smiled like he was on to me, like he knew I was lying.

  “You got a place?” he asked.

  I could have told him of my hotel, which was only a few blocks from where we were, but I didn’t know him from a hole in the ground. I get him back to my room and before I know it, I’m a fucking chalk line with coroners hovering over me.

  “Sorry, no,” I replied.

  “Follow me. I know a spot,” he said. We walked out of the sight of cruising married men and into a clearing. Thought he meant something along the lines of a place with walls and doors, not some filthy spot in the woods. Wasn’t too interested in doing anything outside. Was way too dangerous. I should know. When I was in my twenties, I was only busted three times for having sex in parks and in the bathrooms of mall food-courts. I was so stupid back then. A lewd and lascivious act they called it. I was still living with my folks. Ma was too embarrassed to speak to me and Daddy just labeled me a sissy, a freak.

  This was his turf, and I didn’t want to object. There was no turning back now. The clearing was strewn with used rubbers. He was quite the gent when he peeled off his jacket and laid it on the ground for us. He had pecs like apples, a bulky body. His torso was caked with tats of all sorts: burning hearts, skulls and crossbones, spiderwebs inked around his nipples, Jesus on a crucifix. The sweat on my brow had cooled. I was a bundle of nerves with only a semihard dick in my pants.

  “Is this safe?” I asked.

  He flicked his cigarette off into the night, blew the last breath of smoke from his mouth and said, “Don’t worry, mate.”

  He pulled me into him, kissing me hard like he was trying to suck my tongue out of my mouth. Tried to keep up with his kisses, rolling my tongue around with his, pulling him to me just as forcefully. Reached under and fingered a nipple, ran my hand across his hot bulge encased in leather. I unzipped and reached in. He was warm and sweaty down there as I fished his dick out. Thing was a beer can in my hand. Rolled back his tender, sensitive sheath. I felt him fighting with my own pants, tugging at the zipper. His hands felt rough on my dick and it grew harder as he played with it, as we played with each other’s.

  The horns from bustling cars startled me. I rustled about in a need to get between his knees. I nuzzled the head, licked his hairless balls before I took him into my mouth.

  He gripped the back of my head and rammed his dick relentlessly into me. I don’t have a gag reflex. When I was with Deshawn, he convinced me to have my tonsils removed for this very reason. He liked the idea of my looking up into his eyes. I used to gag and choke something awful before I had the procedure done. This guy lacked the length of Deshawn’s dick, but made up for it in thickness. Shawn liked grabbing me by the hair when we were together. I had long, thick Rastafarian-type dreds then. Soon after I kicked him out, they went the way of his clothes, out the window.

  I reached around and caressed his ass. His face was maniacal as I stared up into it like a victim, a fire of stars behind him shining against velvet black. We paused whenever we heard feet approaching. I prayed they didn’t belong to park bashers. They were only nosey voyeurs desiring to watch. Scary, the thought of getting busted in this country.

  The close call was too much. This guy clad in leather was not worth getting arrested over. I stood up from the ground and started to get dressed, fastening the three buttons of my shirt.

  “I’m sorry, but this is just too risky.” He stood there with a look of unpleasantness on his face, his dick hanging low out of the gate of his chaps.

  “Fuck you think you’re going?” he said. He was full of piss and vinegar.

  “It’s too fuckin’ dangerous, man,” I said.

  As I reached down to pick up his jacket, he shoved me hard, causing me to lose my balance and tumble into the muddy earth.

  “Fuck is your problem?” I said with startled surprise. I don’t know what it was, but I cut myself on something. The burn from it was immediate. My hand was on fire.

  “Didn’t say you could go anywhere, boy.”

  Who the hell was he calling a boy? My mama doesn’t even call me that. He tugged me by my belted waist, dragging me along the filthy earth. I fought and clawed his face, but he was stronger than me.

  “Fuckin’ tease,” he said.

  I backhanded him, only pissing him off even more. He punched me about the face. The glasses of wine I’d had earlier were starting to kick in. He pulled himself up on top of me. I don’t know what was worse: the pain from the cut on my hand or the metallic taste of blood that ran from my busted lip. The English brute pulled at my clothes, tearing the buttons from my shirt.

  “You’re gonna bloody like this,” he said. Deshawn was never into the rough shit. Would freak out every time I came near him with a set of cuffs or a paddle. I was only trying to spice things up. In our last year, we had a one-way sex life that consisted of me sucking his dick and him falling right to sleep afterward, leaving me hard and horny with only a bottle of lube to keep me company. Hell, there were nights when he woul
d fall asleep with his dick still in my mouth. Talk about romantic.

  I could smell the rain. He yanked at my jeans until they were down around my ass. Flipped me over like I was nothing. Lights and people were but a blurred haze as the smell of blood and wet dirt took me over. I couldn’t spend a quiet night at the hotel. I had to whore myself out, had to give myself away under the defaced stalls of Manchester.

  His dick felt hot across my cold, numb ass as he mashed the side of my face into the mud. He stuck his finger up in me. It hurt like a motherfucker. Hard and stinging. It’d been a while, over a year at least. Before I met Deshawn, I was an anal virgin, lived my life as a top. Fucking was the only thing he was good at really. He showed me how to relax my muscles, how to breathe through that initial pain. We used to experiment with different sorts of lubricants. Butter, cooking oil, hell, even pancake syrup, which can get messy, but Deshawn was freaky like that. He liked it sloppy. Probably was ’bout the only thing I liked about him. He used to like seeing the expression on my face as he fucked me, as I came.

  Now here I was with the taste of blood on my tongue and this leather boy’s biting cigarette breath on my neck. This was what I got for looking for trouble, for not staying put, for sucking dicks under London bridges instead of taking pics of the attractions like a normal American tourist. Served my ass right for not noticing the signs. I kept quiet as he took his dick out on my flesh. Just lay there under him as his dick churned in and out of my ass. I stared at the inked swastika on his wrist. With each thrust he let loose animalistic grunts. My asshole tightened around his dick as he pulled out of me. His come was hot on the backs of my thighs. I didn’t make a move as he lifted himself off of me. All I heard was the rustle of leather, the tone of a zipper and leaves breaking under the weight of his boots. Once I felt that the coast was clear, I pulled on what was left of my clothes and made my way back to the hotel praying that I wasn’t bleeding from the penetration of that punk’s dick. The hotel patrons gawked as I made my way to the elevator.