Best Gay Erotica 2009

by Richard Labonté

To conceal our rude dowels,

  We were wrapped in white towels

  But the kid spread his out on his cot,

  Then reclined on his back,

  Plucked open his crack

  And inserted K-Y up his twat.

  Just a blond, bonny boy,

  Not in any way coy,

  Undulating gyrating crevasse,

  Legs divided and bent

  For to better present

  Frontally, cuntily, ass.

  The towel was to catch

  Any leaks from his snatch,

  All ejaculatory excess.

  The thought of those drops

  Seeping out of his chops

  Escalated the hall’s horniness.

  Then the kid closed his eyes,

  Elevated his thighs,

  And commanded all cocks in to cum.

  Elders bruited around,

  “There’s a butt wanting browned.

  Better get into line and get some.”

  Everybody had tongues.

  Everybody had bungs.

  Everybody bore seminal pods.

  But the catamite’s blunt

  Self-reduction to cunt

  Ratified ev’rybody as rods.

  So I felt myself swell

  And I said, “What the hell,”

  And got into the queue to give juice.

  I stood with my hand

  Underneath my towel, and

  Pulled my pud to be ready for use.

  Soon a long line had formed

  And we heard the kid stormed

  By the first fuck to enter his door.

  How he moaned as the first

  Of our company burst

  In his lubricious tube like a boar.

  Now the atmosphere was

  Brash and bawdy, a-buzz

  With the promise of pending release.

  We were boys in a frat

  Lucking out, looking at

  A communal, anonymous piece.

  We were sailors in port,

  Self-advancers at court,

  Soldiers eyeing a drunk in a bunk,

  Groaning drones servicing

  A great, glistening queen

  Amid sexual, insectual funk.

  The kid was reduced

  To a gap to get goosed

  By our prods with explosive intent.

  As our chargers got charged

  His behind was enlarged

  In our minds to a meat monument.

  Race, religion, and class

  Were dispelled by that ass

  With its massive and passive reproof

  That, divested of duds,

  We were all silly studs,

  Dumb containers for cum on the hoof.

  Men who hardly would greet

  If they passed on the street

  In divisive, diverse uniforms

  Here were stripped of disguise,

  Bound as bulls by the rise

  Of identical sensual storms.

  In the backs of our brains

  We discovered remains

  Of religions remote as we played

  In a crude, incondite

  Eleusinian rite

  That was once dignified and arrayed.

  We were in Babylon,

  Devotees duly drawn

  Toward rolling, controlling white buns

  Of a sexual slave

  Cleft to show his dark cave

  Where initiates got off their guns.

  Deep in wells dug in rocks,

  Persians cut off their cocks

  And their balls to become temple whores.

  So the boy in the room

  Had become a huge womb

  To seduce and reduce our gorged gores.

  When such rites were proscribed,

  Men were bullied and bribed

  To enact them, defying the state.

  In a dark alley-way,

  An asshole in Pompeii

  Scrawled the ritual Show hard, make date.

  This religion, repressed,

  Recrudesced and tumesced

  Any time that men gathered with men,

  And in barracks and ships

  The hot hole in the hips

  Was enjoyed as it always had been.

  In Athenian heights

  On particular nights

  Men would drink not to think as they sprawled,

  Then dishevel their robes

  To reveal hairy globes

  With a butthole that begged to be balled.

  In Catullus’s Rome

  With the Capitol’s dome

  Hanging, clanging that butt was a vice,

  Men ate asses in baths,

  Flouting all aftermaths

  Just to service each other’s sweet splice.

  After pagan defeats,

  In monastic retreats

  Any pretty young novice was told

  That he must grow a beard,

  For the Fatherhood feared

  That a fair face would get his ass poled.

  In my southwestern land

  Where the butthole was banned

  As a joke not to be spoken of,

  Cowboys wooed with the song,

  “Nights are long, oh, so long.

  Gotta get me somebody to love.”

  All of us in that line

  To defile the divine

  Waiting wound that we heard being had

  Had been taught we’d be burned

  In hot Hell if we yearned

  To deliver a load in a lad.

  But the fever of youth

  Told the tenderer truth

  That the cock had to cum in the crack,

  So despite gods and laws

  We were lined up because

  Gut was good and we wouldn’t turn back.

  As engorgement peeled husks

  Off the tips of our tusks,

  Our sarongs bulged with prongs like pale fruits.

  We all jerked uncontrolled

  Through the waistband or fold

  Of the towels that enshrouded our shoots.

  We wankers in line,

  Feeling phallic and fine,

  Gaily joked as we stroked our taut tools.

  Buggers worshiping butt,

  Shuffling stallions in rut,

  We all broke one of Everard’s rules

  As we tugged off our towels

  Among manly avowals

  That the damned things were feeling too tight.

  Uncontained cocks and balls

  Sent their scents down the halls

  As we waited for nooky that night.

  All the bored employees.

  Police-force retirees,

  Saw us standing illicitly stripped

  And were moved to object,

  But retired from respect

  Of the god by whom all goads were gripped.

  A drunk coming in,

  Gaped to see naked men

  As he clawed with a key at his door,

  And a dick brushed my butt

  And my prick pushed a rut

  As we jostled toward our hot whore.

  For, oh, what a mass

  Of assailable ass

  Hung available there where we stood.

  And oh, what a stock

  Of respectable cock,

  And we wondered if maybe we should…

  So we played as we pleased

  With the asses we squeezed

  And the cocks that we teased in the gloom,

  But we all knew we must

  Hold our trophies in trust

  For the priestess oiled up in her room.

  The drunk stumbled out,

  Waving hard-on about,

  Looking funky and phallic and fine,

  Then staggered to stand

  Towel and tool in each hand

  At the end of the lumbering line.

  Like great droplets of dew

  Or thick globules of goo,

  Devotees shuffled fo
rward like slaves

  As the pricks who had spilled

  Came out limp and fulfilled

  Like the undead released from their graves.

  When a man entered in

  To that vaginal den,

  Every aching erection would pulse,

  Throbbing just on the verge

  Of a seminal purge

  As we heard each hot cocksman convulse.

  Every brain in the chain

  Fucked again and again

  That vicarious, visualized slit.

  Every act grew more quick

  As each man felt his prick

  Growing closer and closer to it.

  How I swallowed a laugh,

  Stimulating my staff

  While forbidding my seed to disperse

  In the glory and grief

  Of suspended relief

  Not unlike certain techniques of verse.

  Then a fucker came out

  Drooling cum from his spout,

  And the cock before mine climbed the kid.

  I ogled the mass

  Of his big apple-ass

  Slapping happily as he slip-slid.

  My genitals got

  So unbearably hot

  That I let my hand slide to the tip,

  For had I clutched the rod

  I’d have shot out my wad

  Watching that big behind grind and grip.

  I felt what he felt

  As he made his dick melt

  In the ass that already was soaked,

  And I wanted my stump

  In his high-riding rump

  Which made mean little mouths as he poked.

  I was wildly aroused

  By the thought of what housed

  His exploring and goring extreme,

  And I’d seen the huge knob

  On his fat little lob,

  Just the thing to give gut a good ream,

  And his heaving, hot hole

  Writhing out of control

  Made my schlong long to ruin his rear,

  And panting to pole

  Someone in the male role

  Had me feeling incredibly queer.

  I twiddled my glans

  And the next willing man’s,

  While I watched all I saw of the fun:

  Just my forefucker’s seat

  And a pair of pale feet

  On his shoulders as he got his gun.

  My pulse muttered, “I

  Could cram into that guy

  To fuck him as he bucks in that bung,

  And the next guy, you see,

  Could get on and in me—”

  But I just squeezed my meat where it hung.

  Never, ever before,

  As I eyed his back door,

  Had I so longed to stuff a butt’s yawn.

  I was me, I was him,

  We were us, we were them

  Who’d observe us in rut and climb on.

  Universally male,

  Universally hale,

  Universally under cock’s curse,

  Universally rapt,

  Universally trapped,

  Yawning yoni was our universe.

  So I watched my prior priest

  In the butt of the beast,

  The upreared reliquary he raunched,

  His desirable duff

  Undulating to stuff

  Where so many lewd loads had been launched.

  I was flexing my thighs.

  There were tears in my eyes

  And my lips were parched dry from hot breath.

  My pelvis was just

  An amalgam of lust

  As he labored for his little death.

  Then, when he’d gotten off,

  He got off with a cough

  And came out with a whispered, “Hot shit.”

  Then my shadow obscured

  The asshole that allured

  As I felt for, then fell into it.

  Oh, the state of that hole

  As I put in my pole!

  It was drippily, slippily wet,

  More a sluice than a slice,

  Or, to be more concise,

  As appealing as asshole can get.

  For the thought of the cocks

  That had shot molten rocks

  Up that gully that so fully gaped,

  And their bouncing behinds

  As they blew out their minds,

  Made it their poles and assholes I raped.

  My vagina on view

  As I fucked the foul flue,

  My buns billowing open and shut,

  I muscled him mean,

  For I envied that queen

  All the men who had been up his butt.

  I was wholly aware

  Of my hole in the air

  As I fucked in his slushy, hot mush,

  And my knowing the next

  Dick desired what I flexed

  Made me pop in that slop with a gush.

  Then I sighed and half-swooned

  And withdrew from the wound,

  Shoving by the next guy in the chain,

  Grunting, “Fucking great gash,”

  As I stalked off to splash

  In the shower and piss down the drain.

  As I strolled the cell-block,

  Looking now for rock cock,

  There were plenty of men still lined up

  With their towels on their necks,

  Salivating for sex

  Mad to add to the cum in the cup.

  It was just a dark cell,

  Not the heavenly hell

  Where I’d just been the man of all men.

  But the line, it would seem,

  Was still dreaming that dream,

  And the drunk guy was just going in.

  They were zombies in thrall

  To a mystical call

  Which no longer now beat in my bone,

  And their queen a mere pawn

  As I passed them by, drawn

  By a mystical call of my own.

  I located by smell

  A pitch-black orgy-cell,

  Where on hard cement platforms and shelves

  Men beyond or above

  Holding out for true love

  Polymorphously proffered themselves.

  There I felt lots of rungs

  And I smelt lots of bungs,

  Then I fell down ass-up on the floor

  To get fucked by a crew

  Of butt-fuckers whose goo

  I’d been fucking in minutes before.

  THE DOCTOR IS IN

  Daniel W. Kelly

  My specialty of medical practice isn’t the most glamorous, and it’s usually the butt of jokes. Like that one, for example. But my personal favorite is What’s it like working with a bunch of assholes every day?

  The thing is, once in a while, an asshole really stands out in a crowd—or should I say, a crack. And this particular time, the asshole belonged to a patient named Ron. The first time Ron came in, it was because his primary care physician had suggested he start going yearly for a thorough prostate exam and all that en-“tails,” since he was reaching the ripe young age of thirty-five.

  The instant I saw Ron, I had one of those fleeting moments where I felt like my profession was well worth all its downsides —or backsides, in this case.

  Sorry. Those bad puns start to rub off on me, so I try to beat others to the punch.

  Anyway, before I’d even stepped into the examination room, my assistant, Steve, a young, hunky nurse whom I hired as much for his appearance as for his resume, handed me the paperwork on a clipboard and whispered, “Something scrumptious waiting in room three for ya.”

  Steve really knew how to call them. He’d had my patient strip down to his underwear and socks—that’s procedure, honest. I was presented with a stocky, hairy man, sitting with legs apart, and doing a hell of a job of filling the crotch of his gray boxer-briefs. Occasionally, a guy really packs a bulge with what are obviously larger than avera
ge testicles and penis. Ron was one of those guys. He had muscular hairy thighs and calves, and his stomach was pretty flat, his chest full, and his arms, which were pushing down on each side of the examination table he was sitting on, revealed well-defined triceps.

  When he looked up at me, I could have melted. His head was shaven and showed a thin layer of stubble—his brazen way to combat a receding hairline. His chiseled features were sculpted by a few days’ worth of whiskers. He had a really sexy, slightly crooked and swollen boxer’s nose and gorgeous sky blue eyes. Of course, I couldn’t help but notice the wedding ring on his finger.

  I had him describe his overall health in what turned out to be a strong but subdued baritone. I asked how his digestive system was doing as a whole, and he said it was good, that he made sure to eat fiber and followed a nutritious diet and exercise regime. I told him in a very professional, doctor-to-patient tone that I could see that he stayed fit.

  Then it was time for the general exam. I plugged my stethoscope into my ears and placed the other end on his swollen pec. His soft chest hair tickled my hand as I listened to his heart, and I watched one of his ample nipples turn hard as a reaction to the cold metal instrument. I moved near the other nipple to even things out, and unable to control myself, allowed the tips of my fingers to accidentally brush over the nipple. It, too, turned hard.

  My heart was beating double the time of Ron’s, and I reminded myself that this was a patient. I finished the general exam, then explained how exactly the prostate exam was given. While turning to the supply cabinet, I asked him to drop his underwear and bend over on top of the exam table.