Best Gay Erotica 2009

by Richard Labonté

  “An’ yo’ ass’ll be goin’ down wit me.” I laughed.

  “Since ya up here, ya might as well gimme a han’.”

  I wasn’t much for that kind of work. As a teen, I spent summers helping Daddy build utility buildings. Hauling lumber and catching splinters in my hands wasn’t my idea of a summer vacation.

  “Grab some of dis felt paper.” I held the roll of black covering while he pulled a tongue of the tough stuff across the roof. My shirt was already drenched. Sweat trickled down the ditch of my ass. My glasses slid off my face, I pushed them back to the bridge of my nose, they slid down again.

  “Grab that hammer right there and some of them nails, and nail yo’ en’ down fuh me,” said Sammie.

  “Where th’ nails at?” I asked.

  “Them right dere.”

  I took a nail and held it to one corner of the black paper, steadied it, drew back my hammer, and…“Ow, fuck!” I hollered as I smashed my finger. I swear all of Woodville must have heard me. My bruised toe twitched in sympathy.

  “You all right?”

  As I attempted to suck the pain away, blood started to pool under the bed of my fingernail.

  “Lemme see.”

  “Fuck, it hurt,” I said.

  Sammie took my hand into his.

  “Ya go’n haff t’ get dat blood drained from unda dere,” he said.

  “Uh-uh, that shit go’n hurt.”

  “It ain’t go’n hurt. I think I hava safety pin in my toolbox.”

  I suckled my finger to cool the pain.

  “Don’t be sucha baby, man.” I looked away squeamishly just as he was about to press the needle end of the pin under my nail bed.

  It hurt like hell as he made the prick.

  “Ya done yet?” I asked, not quite whimpering.

  “Yeah, le’ me ge’choo some t’ wrap it in.” My finger felt like the devil’s asshole. Sammie wrapped my wound in a ripped piece of drop cloth. “Jus’ make sure ya let all th’ blood drain out.”

  This is why we always call somebody to do the handy work, ’cause between me and Rashaan, neither one of us knows a band saw from a chainsaw. But I wasn’t about to let a damn hammer get the best of me.

  “Wha’choo doin?”

  “What it look like?” I was starting to swing the hammer again.

  “Here, lemme show ya,” he said, taking the hammer. He squatted down next to me, leaning in close. Our skin kissed. Droplets of sweat plummeted from his brow.

  “Hol’ it like this at th’ en’ of th’ handle keepin’ all th’ weight on th’ steel en’. Tap th’ nail t’ get it started an’…” Sammie tapped in the nail with one stroke. The grease from his hair cooked in the July heat.

  “Want me t’ start anotha one fuh ya?”

  “I thank I got it.” He watched me nonetheless, standing over me, shirtless, glazed with sweat. I wanted to lick the tips of his steel toe kickers, kiss the boot strings, run my tongue up his steel calves and sturdy thighs, past his dick and up the ridge of his abs, onto his thick pecs. Instead, I hammered, and after I’d proven that I had the hang of things, he attended to his own work. Sammie’s tool belt hung low, tugging down his cutoffs so a sliver of ass crack was exposed. My dick fattened to every dirty thought that formed while every other muscle in me ached. Here I was talking about Rashaan, and I needed to lay off the cookies and chips my damn self.

  “How ya doin’ down here?” Sammie asked.

  “You tell me.” He studied my work.

  “Pretty good,” he said. Sammie helped me to nail the rest of the felt paper and start the shingles. As we worked, he asked, “Where Rashaan at?”

  “He went to th’ store t’ get some groceries. He been gone since dis mornin’.”

  “You ain’ haff t’ work t’day?” Sammie asked.

  “U’m off till Thursday. U’m tryin’ t’ use up all my sick leave.”

  “Hey, if I ask ya some, ya promise not t’ get mad?”

  “Wa’sup?”

  “Who play th’ man an’ who play th’ woman?” asked Sammie.

  “Who play th’ man?” I laughed.

  “Wi’choo an’ Rashaan.”

  If I had a dime for every time somebody asked me that, I’d be featured on “MTV Cribs.”

  “Who ya think?” I grinned.

  “’On’ know. I guess you be on th’ bottom,” he said.

  “Why ya say dat?”

  “’Cause you mo’ feminine an’ Rashaan act mo’ like…th’ nigga.”

  “We ’on’ do nonna dat role playin’ shit. Sometimes I get fucked, sometimes he do.”

  “Dat’s wa’sup,” Sammie said.

  We went back to our work laying shingles, nailing down roofing paper.

  “Do it hurt?” Sammie asked.

  “What hurt?”

  “Gettin’ fucked.”

  He was getting personal, but I was never one to skate around hot sex talk.

  “In th’ beginnin’, yeah. Ya jus’ gotta relax. After a few times, it jus’ slips in.” When he asked about my dick size, he proved that he had brass balls, but so did I.

  “How big are you?”

  “Probably ’bout seven inches,” said Sammie, after a pause. “I ain’ measured since high school.” We had half the roof covered. “Le’s take a break. I gotta pee.”

  He walked to the brink of the roof. Sammie slid his tool belt around his waist. “Dat tea runnin’ clean through me,” he said. I studied his stream of gold plummeting off the house my parents had left me.

  “Ya better go’n head an’ go, ‘cause I wanna get most of th’ shingles down befo’ th’ day ova wit.”

  “U’m scareda heights,” I told him.

  “I hear dat lie,” he laughed. “C’mon, don’t be a pussy.” I took my place next to him. I forked it out of my plaid slit, and our pee rained from the roof. We looked to the trees, squirrels scurrying along the trunks of great oaks. I peeked at his stuff peripherally. He was modest about his size. Sammie moved in closer. His boots touched my flip-flops, our arms kissed again. It shocked me when he reached over to grab my dick.

  “Uh-uh, for boyfriends only,” I teased. We shook the remaining drops from our slits.

  “What about all dem guys dat be in an’ outta here?”

  “Wha’choo go’n do, tell Rashaan?”

  “I see how ya be lookin’ at me when ya drive by.”

  “Don’t nobody be lookin’ a’choo,” I laughed.

  “Watchin’ me work out.”

  It was true. I would practically slow to a crawl just to get a look at his fine ass. I mean shit, just because I’m with somebody, don’t mean I can’t look.

  “But it’s all good. Ain’ got no problem wi’chall watchin’.”

  “Ya’ll?” I said.

  “I catch Rashaan starin’ sometimes.”

  I wasn’t surprised. He’s always had a wandering eye.

  “U’m done up here. I wanna get down,” I told him.

  “You ain’ go’n help me wit th’ rest of th’ shingles?”

  “U’m payin’ you t’ do all dis rememba? Plus u’m tied an’ I wanna put somethin’ on my finga.”

  “Did I make ya uncomfortable askin’ ya dat about Rashaan?”

  “It ain’t dat. I’s jus’ hot up here.”

  Sammie went for my dick again.

  “Stop playin’,” I laughed, shielding my privates. I stank and was sweaty, and all I wanted to do was take a bath.

  “I saw ya watchin’ me in th’ bathroom.”

  My heart fluttered with embarrassment.

  “I tol’ joo it’s cool,” he said. Sammie ran his fingers along the impression of his dick, back in his cutoffs.

  “I wanna get down,” I said.

  “If ya’ suck my dick I’ll get us from up here.”

  “You shittin’ me, right?”

  “Ya’ll can suck a mean dick.”

  That sounded like he had dipped his toes in these waters before.

  “I don’t want Rasha
an t’ catch us,” I said.

  “You said he go’n be gone fuh hours.” Sammie pulled his shirt up, exposing his torso. My dick was hard and hot.

  “Somebody might see us up here,” I said.

  “Nothin’ but th’ birds.”

  I let my dick pop from the slit of my loose boxers. Sammie studied my excitement. He fished his out and roped his fingers around its girth.

  “U’ma push ya off dis shit myself if yo’on get me down,” I said, playing hard to get. Sammie sat against the piping that led down to the wood stove in the house. The summer was cooking us. Sweat rolled into the crease of my mouth. Sammie pulled at his dick. There was a fine brunet bush at the base. Musky. Just as I was about to go for his dick, Sammie stopped me. “Get in between my legs.” He flung off his filthy tee and took down his Dickies, leaving nothing but those tar-spotted boots. I worshipped and licked them.

  “Look up at me,” he said. Sammie smelled dirty, tasted salty. He started to pivot.

  “Breathe through your nose.” Sammie pushed me down on it. The aggressive type. I gagged. My body wanted to purge this roofer’s dick from my mouth.

  “Use ya hand,” he demanded. I pushed down and pulled up on his sheath.

  “Dis how Charlynn do it?” I asked.

  “She ’on’ suck. Talkin’ ’bout i’s a sin. Now that she sanctified, she ’on’ wanna fuck.”

  I wasn’t surprised. She didn’t look like the dick-sucking type.

  “Lick my balls.” I lapped at scrotum skin but Sammie objected when I tried to work a finger up his ass.

  “’On’ get down like dat.” Typical. He was a nice guy, but he was one of these breeders who thinks if he doesn’t take it up the ass or throw his lips to a dick, he’s not a punk. I worked at his cock and balls, hoping to keep his mind off my wandering finger. Sammie protested again. “I tol’ joo ’on’ get fucked. U’ma real man.”

  “I’ll put it in jus’ a lil’ bit.” I lubed my finger with spit and went for him a third, charmed time. I started slow. Sweat blurred and burned. He didn’t object this time. I studied his face as I went in steady, deep. He wasn’t as tight as I thought, which made me wonder if he really was a stranger to getting nailed. Sammie worked his dick as I finger-fucked him. I hoped that Rashaan was taking his time at the grocery store pondering fresh vegetables versus frozen.

  “Stop,” said Sammie. “Ain’ ready t’ come yet. My turn.”

  I told him that I had some rubbers in the house.

  “I’ll pull out befo’ I come,” he said.

  “’On’ know,” I objected.

  “Ain’ got no diseases or nothin’,” Sammie said. “Get on ya back. I wanna look a’choo.” He hooked fingers in my boxers, tugging them down from my ass. He pulled me to him with strong, scarred hands. He spat into his right one and then slathered it on his dick. He pried me wide, ass already wet with the heat of the day.

  I thought I was ready for anything till he shoved it in. It hurt. He was bigger than what I was used to. He was heavy and filthy on top of me, thrusting his love up my butt under a sky of cotton candy clouds, a butterscotch sun. Sammie was a beast as he took me.

  “Yeah, Charley!” he yelled. I figured this was his nickname for Charlynn. I swiped at my eyes to keep the sweat out. Sammie was giving Rashaan a run for his money. I was getting close as I worked my dick. Sammie’s thrusts began to slow.

  “U’mma come!”

  I felt him pull out. His dick sputtered semen across my belly. He reached under and finished me off until I came on myself. Sammie’s fingers were stained with my stuff. The two of us sprawled, spent. We made ourselves decent, pushing arms back into filthy T-shirts, legs into shorts and boxers; he adjusted his tool belt, I tucked away my tool.

  “How we go’n get down?” I asked.

  “I’ll jump fuh it.”

  “An’ you go’n break ya neck,” I said.

  Sammie leaped, landing in a pile of leaves below. He leaned the ladder against the house for my rescue.

  “Hol’ it while I climb down.”

  I felt for each rung with my feet.

  “You got it?”

  “Jus’ come on off th’ ladda,” Sammie said.

  I was relieved when both feet hit solid ground. “I’ll live,” I laughed.

  “Of course you will…I’ll jus’ leave my tools an’ stuff up dere fuh tomorrow,” said Sammie.

  “How long iz it go’n take ya t’ fix?” I asked.

  “No reason why I shouldn’t be done by Sunday. Ya wanna help me out again tomorrow?”

  “Rashaan’ll be at work, so I should be able t’ give ya a han’.”

  Rashaan was barreling around the corner as Sammie backed out.

  “Hey, baby,” he said, pulling bags of groceries out of the trunk after Sammie cleared the driveway and he drove in.

  “Wha’ joo get?” I asked, taking the groceries out of his arms.

  HEATED

  Vincent Diamond

  When the station siren blared, I was right in the middle of adding the five-pound can of tomatoes to the chili; a tricky maneuver, trying not to splash too much. The new cooktop gleamed and we were all trying—not very successfully—to keep it in good shape. It had taken years for the county to spring for a new one.

  As the siren faded away, I tabbed the cooktop to OFF and ran down to my gear. Eight guys jumping onto two engines make for a lot of noise so I barely heard the address as Jesse and I clambered into my Lieutenant’s truck. It was dark already, seven o’clock on a December night in Florida. Cool and clear and dry. Prime fire weather.

  Jesse tapped his cell phone, paging through the county appraiser’s website. “Let’s see, Pine Tree Lane? Oh, here we go. Hidden Pines Equestrian Center. Two mobile homes on the property, a concrete block storage unit and a barn.” His thumbs tapped the little keyboard. We teased Jesse about his gadget jones but there were times it came in handy. “Last tax roll says eighteen stalls.”

  Which could mean eighteen—or more—panicked horses. And their owners.

  Fuck.

  Four minutes later, we could see the smoke. Two minutes after that, we pulled onto the gravel road that led to the horse farm and saw the flames. Low-hanging branches scraped the top of the truck but even over that noise, we heard the horses.

  Screaming.

  Shadowed figures ran through the darkness, some four-legged, some two-legged. The engine in front of us braked hard when a horse ran in front of it, maybe not fast enough; there was a thump but that could have been a tire on a tree branch. We couldn’t tell if it glanced off the horse or not.

  Once we parked, we all had a job to do, getting the hoses out, hooking up the water, scoping out the power lines, skimming the fire retardant, double-checking one another’s gear. We don’t do much yelling; it’s not like on TV with a bunch of screaming and hollering. We talk when we have to but once our respirators are on, it’s hard to understand someone, especially over the roar of a big fire.

  The barn was laid out in a T. The stalls at the top of the T were already empty, their doors swinging open. But it was the hallway toward the back that had all the action: people yelling, horses whinnying and screaming, and fire eating up the back end of the barn like a kid chomping on cotton candy.

  There were five civvies on-site when we got there. All of them scrambled around, leading horses, waving their arms, covering the horses’ eyes, trying to get them loaded into trailers.

  It was a fucking nightmare.

  I know dick-all about horses but I do know if they’re panicked, the last place they’re gonna want to go is into a dark trailer. Especially in the middle of the night, with wind blowing heat and smoke and ash and flame at them. I saw one of them kick out—damn, it was fast—and knock a guy sideways, smack into the metal trailer door. Probably got the wind knocked out of him. Once I saw the medic get to him, I turned back to my crew.

  My nose twitched, even through my gear. More than wood was burning; I could smell flesh and fur, that awful bar
beque-y odor that means something has died. Gray smoke billowed in the night air, and an orange glow filled the northern sky. One of the civvies, a college-age kid in a torn tank top and shorts, aimed a garden hose at the wood. It spit uselessly at the barn’s sides, no good against the raging flames.

  A horrid, whinnying scream came from the barn. Everyone stopped moving for a dreadful second, then pressed on with more urgency than before. Even in the orange glow, I could see the civvie with the hose go white. “Oh, shit, that’s Stacy. She just foaled tonight….” He dropped the hose and ran.

  Into the barn hallway, into the flames.

  Shit.

  I locked down my mask and went in after him.

  Fire is like a gibbering boogeyman. It’ll slip away behind a wall, teasing you, letting you think it’s gone, then jump out like a horror movie monster, mouth open, ready to eat you. Flames lick up a wall, roaring, loud; a growling, thick sound like no other. For folks who don’t know fire, it can stop them dead in their tracks with terror.

  The kid didn’t stop; he wavered in the smoke and heat, but he kept moving. He stopped at a stall three doors down from the active flames. “Hey, Mamacita, hey, hey, it’s all right,” he crooned to whatever was inside.

  He rolled the stall door open just as I stepped up to him. “Sir, you’ve got to get out of here. Right now.” Most civvies follow my orders, fire or no. I’ve got some size to me, and the authority to bark a little when necessary. This kid didn’t even look at me. Ballsy. Or stupid.

  The frantic mare rocked over a tiny foal inside her stall, tail snapping, eyes ugly wide. Her back legs were covered with blood, her tail was wet with fluids. The hay beneath them was still damp. The baby was unable to walk yet, curled at her feet. They could make it, with help.

  A gust of flames blew in and latched on to the kid’s shirt. I slapped it dead. The kid looked up at me, his eyes wide and desperate and blue. So blue. “Please help me. Please.”

  The mare screamed again. She bared her teeth, ears back as we moved, her eyes rolling with terror. She looked huge to me, her head big and flailing. The foal, curled in one corner, was still. Unconscious?

  The kid went to the mare. She rose up on her hind legs, sharp hooves ready to defend.