Best Gay Erotica 2009

by Richard Labonté

  “Stacy, Stacy, there, there. We’re gonna help out. Give me your head, baby doll, give me your head.” The kid let his voice go low, quiet. The mare stood back on four legs, twitching. He put one hand on her muzzle and bent to breathe into her nostrils. She snorted then stood still, her head lowered. Her sides were damp with sweat.

  He tugged off his tank top and looped it over her eyes. “Lead her out first,” he said to me. “I’ll carry the foal.”

  “I’m not a horse person. What should I do?”

  “Keep the shirt over her eyes, and put one hand on her neck. She’ll go with you if she can’t see the fire. Hold her mane, walk slowly, and she should stay with you.” His voice broke and he took a deep breath. “Her name is Stacy.”

  “You go first,” I ordered.

  He bent and picked up the shivering foal. Yes, breathing; yes, alive.

  I managed it—I don’t know how, but Stacy obediently walked next to me, and we followed the kid through smoke and ash and the animal roar of the fire. We burst out of the barn. At the first whiff of fresh air, the mare broke loose from me; she whinnied and kicked out. I stepped aside too slowly and took a hit on the leg. She galloped away into the darkness.

  On the safe side of the engine, the kid swooped to the ground. “Oxygen! Give us oxygen!” He set the foal down. One of the ambulance crew brought some blankets and slapped a mask on the tiny horse. Its slender legs stretched out and the kid smiled in relief.

  I bent and touched his shoulder. “Is he okay?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’ll know soon. Thanks, man.” His gaze held mine as I handed back his tank top. Firelight gleamed on his bare chest and sweaty shoulders.

  “Stay here with the baby.” I stood up. “Do not go back into that barn.”

  “I won’t.”

  I went back to work. Team One lay down flame retardant around the barn’s perimeter. Team Two concentrated on the roof, sucking up gallons of water from our pumper. I began to feel the smoke haze in the air, even through my respirator. Ignoring it, I focused on my job—and tried to forget the bare-chested kid and the foal.

  By four, the fire was out. The front half of the barn was concrete stalls and only the roof had burned partly off that section. The back of the barn was wood construction, and it was pretty much gone. A few low walls, stained with burn marks, jutted up from the ground. The trees around the barn dripped water; it almost sounded like rain. I walked around the perimeter, assessing. Probably a 65 percent loss on the building. And two horses dead of smoke inhalation. They lay in their stalls; someone had covered them up with blue tarps, huge blobs in the dimness.

  I supervised the crews packing up, giving some a verbal stroke, giving the new guy some pointers on handling the retardant hose. There are those who say firefighting is a thankless job, but I don’t think that’s true. Civvies, whose homes or asses we saved, were grateful enough. Sometimes, they clung to us on-site, crying, grabbing our hands, smacking us on the shoulders. And at least once a month, someone brought us homemade brownies or sent pizzas to the station.

  A good-sized crowd of horse people had showed up as the night wore on. Some were owners; others were from a local horse rescue group. They moved the surviving horses out into the pastures or loaded them into trucks to haul them off the property.

  I sent Jesse back to the station with the trucks. There was paperwork for me to fill out: the preliminary damage assessment, the man-hour estimate, and the county incident report. I grabbed my clipboard and slogged to the back barn, hoping to find a little quiet before the sun rose. I remembered seeing a picnic table next to a little corral on the west side, so I took my book light and a Coke and headed that way.

  A few steps beyond the barn, my boot knocked into something heavy: one of our smaller oxygen canisters, probably discarded by one of our guys in the middle of firefighting and forgotten. I looped it over one arm.

  It was dark behind the barn but a little glow from the security light back by the manure pile made the walk navigable. Passing the corral, I heard a grunt or groan or something. I stood still for a few seconds, wondering if it were an escaped horse. But it didn’t sound like a horse.

  There it was again: a throaty groan, definitely human. I peeked through the boards of the round corral. A figure crouched near the gate, hanging on to the sides, bent over.

  “Hey, are you okay in there?” I kept my voice quiet.

  No answer.

  I stepped around the boards and found the gate. The latch had some kind of weird clip on it; it took me a few seconds to open it. The figure rose and turned away from me.

  “Are you all right?” Now I could see his slender build and the tank top I’d given back to him hours earlier. The civvie.

  “I’m fine, man, I’m okay.” His voice was thick, teary.

  I let the gate close behind me. Crickets chirped and an owl hooted from the woods on the north side. His breathing was still harsh. He was shook up and showing it.

  “You ever been in an emergency before?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, still facing away from me. “Well, we had a horse break down at a show once. Does that count?” He gave a shaky laugh and turned to look at me.

  I could see his face in the dim glow. His eyes were wide and his face and neck were smudged with grime and ash and sweat. He raked a trembling hand through his gritty hair.

  “You did a stupid thing going back into that barn.”

  “But at least Stacy’s safe. And the baby.” He put one palm on his forehead, eyebrows crunched together. “God, we lost two horses! Fuck!”

  “But you saved most of them,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah, I guess we did.”

  “Do you have any idea how much worse it could have been? If your whole barn had been wood?”

  “You’re right.” He stuck out one hand. “And thanks to you.”

  I took his hand, gave it a manly shake. “What you’re feeling is just adrenaline wearing off. The shakes, that’s all. And tomorrow morning, you’ll probably feel like you got run over.”

  He moved closer to me, keeping hold of my hand. “Maybe not just adrenaline.”

  The eye contact is what tells you first. A full, direct gaze that says he’s interested. A smoky, come-hither look that say he’s horny. A heated stare that says come here and fuck me.

  In the dimness, his hand on my neck startled me at first. Then his fingers moved down my arm, my heavy coat protecting me from any real touch. I moved to slide it off but he shook his head. “Leave it on.”

  His jeans were loose over his hips. He leaned on the fence and planted his hands on the rough boards. I tugged his slender arms up over his head and pressed him closer to the fencing. His back arched as I stroked down his torso. I went from his fingertips to his neck then down to his waist. With each stroke I pressed harder and harder until I was scratching down him. He groaned. “More.”

  I tugged my coat open, grabbed his hips, and jerked him against me. I was hard and wired and dirty and sweaty and ready to go. I pulled his tank top up and over his head. “Should I blindfold you like I did that horse?”

  “Yeah.”

  In a fast move, I wrapped the shirt over his eyes, tying it tight around his head, covering his eyes. He went rigid for a second then pushed back against me again. I reached around front to rough up against his nipples.

  “You got anything?” I whispered against his ear, scrubbing my day’s growth of beard over his neck.

  Wanting to mark him.

  “Left back pocket,” he gasped. He faced the fence, arms trembling; I could feel their tremor as I stroked him.

  In a few seconds, I was wrapped and ready to go. The condom wad lubed, the cool wetness dribbling some on my balls. I glanced around. The corral area was still dark. I heard a few voices up toward the front of the barn but nothing back this way.

  Geez, this was stupid.

  But good. The kid writhed back against me, rubbing his ass on my cock, rubbing his face on my sleeves. My finge
rs found his nipples again and I pinched them—hard. His mouth opened and he bent backward, trying to kiss me.

  “None of that,” I said gruffly. “Just fucking.” I slipped his jeans down his lean hips and ran my hands over his cheeks.

  “More of this,” he whispered. He grabbed my coat, the rubberized vinyl slick in his fingers, and pushed back against it.

  I slipped my hand down, grabbed some of my coat front and fumbled toward his cock. It was awkward; the thick rubber didn’t let me grip with any sureness but the kid just pushed up against my hand, groaning. I jerked him off as best I could through the coat. It didn’t feel like much to me but he was loving it.

  He thrust his hips up and forward, fucking my rubbery fist, gripping the fence boards. His ass was rounded and muscled, a nice piece of work. I watched him move for a few seconds and then I couldn’t stand just watching anymore. “C’mere,” I growled. I tugged him back with one hand while still gripping his cock—sort of—in the other.

  He arched his back, practically begging me. I lined myself up and pulled his cheeks apart. The tan marks above his cheeks were visible: nice. And then I had an idea. I let go of his cock and stepped away.

  “What the hell, man?” he sputtered. His voice was thick with frustration.

  “Just a sec, let me try this.” I bent to the ground and picked up the oxygen tank, twisting the knob. It hissed, steady enough for me to know there were still a few hits left. My spare mask was in my coat and I attached it to the nozzle.

  “Hold this,” I said, and handed him the tank.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “You’ll see. Just hold it up.” I clasped the mask over my face, took some deep breaths, and felt the cool, oxygenated air open my lungs. My head cleared and I felt my senses get sharper. Now I saw strands of the kid’s hair were white blond interspersed with light brown. Nail heads on the fencing stood out. Something small rustled in the hay on the other side of the corral.

  Nothing like the big O to get you revved up.

  I thumbed his ass open, lined up again, and thrust inside him. He grunted, moving forward with my thrust until his face was pressed against the fence boards. “Oh, ungh,” he coughed. “Oh, yeah, right there.” His voice was strained, husky with arousal.

  I bent my knees and pushed up. The kid’s mouth twisted, his moan was guttural and incoherent. He was tensed and hard, his entire body rigid with desire and passion. He was tight and warm against my cock. In a few strokes we got that rhythm going: in, out, up and twist, our breathing getting deeper and harder. I stopped thrusting and held the mask up to his face. “Suck it.”

  Blindly, he bumped his nose on the side, then got his nose in the mask just right. I felt his chest expand as he took some deep breaths. I let him have a few, then pulled it away. “Oh, man,” he said. “Oh, wow.”

  The fence boards creaked as I worked at him. The kid’s fingers tightened on the rough wood, grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing. My rubber coat squeaked a little as I rubbed against him. I was sweating like mad, the vinyl not letting any breeze through except a little I felt on my face and neck as I fucked.

  I slapped the mask on myself for a few hits. Oh, yeah, that buzz was growing in my head, bigger and louder. My cock went fiery hot; I could almost see it turning wine red with blood and arousal. The kid grabbed the mask back from me and slammed it on his face. “Now!” he cried out. His voice was fuzzy, wet through the plastic. “Oh, fuck, man, right now!” He moved back and I felt him clamp down on me, knew he was coming, felt my own come start in my spine and move down. My balls clenched upward, tightening; my cock pulsed rigid and I gushed into him, gripping his hips.

  His head eased back and he dropped the tank. It rolled against my boot, heavy and cold. But I was light and warm and fiery.

  Heated.

  WHERE STEAM MEETS FLESH

  Gerard Wozek

  As unbelievable as it sounds, there isn’t a single Starbucks here in Tallinn, Estonia. Despite the proliferation of luxe hotels and chandeliered dining rooms interspersed among the crumbling medieval walls and needling spires that loom above the refurbished streets of the Old Town, I can’t find that iconic green and white symbol of caffeinated pleasure anywhere. The ubiquitous green mermaid, that winsome, two-tailed siren singing between the familiar circular logo on nearly every street corner back home in Chicago, is notably missing from Baltic culture.

  I need that costly jolt of java to jumpstart my submerged libido today. I ache for the familiar tingle running from my belly to the base of my scrotum. I crave the prickly lift I get from either my dark-brewed espresso shots or the approach of a stout and stocky Baltic man. There are plenty of the latter here in the city of Tallinn, but I don’t get much play for all the gawking and loitering I manage to do in the crowded Town Hall Square.

  I linger for a while at the Café Tristan and Isolde near the entrance of the Town Hall and ponder the diluted taste of black coffee. I snack on a stale brioche and ponder my tour book’s explication of the executions and floggings that frequently took place right here in this square hundreds of years ago. I catch the eye of a good-looking chap in a black overcoat and decide to trust that my experience here will be more gentle than what the medieval peasants may have endured.

  Estonia, situated in Northern Europe between the Nordic countries and Russia, is the first excursion on a group package tour that will include two more Baltic stopovers in Finland and Denmark. I’ve come to this glacier-flattened country to do some typical sightseeing, gather snapshots of the churchsteepled town skyline, and glean more about this upper region of Europe. I’ve got a couple of days to roam the medieval center of Tallinn’s Old Town on my own, meandering about the narrow gated passages and bright pink, yellow, and sea green houses topped with terra-cotta roofs. So despite its lack of a trendy Starbucks coffee bar, I’m anxious to see what else this buzzing little tourist town has in store for me.

  Yesterday I took a tour of the Tallinn Botanical Gardens on the banks of the Pirita River, and followed a slender, leather-jacketed native down a four-kilometer hiking path wending through craggy groves of oddly bent trees. A strong gust of Gulf Stream air seemed to be pushing me, urging me to follow this mesmeric stranger. I kept thinking we’d veer into the primeval Pirita valley and get a look at each other’s native, zippered-up flora, but my hopes were dashed when he embraced what appeared to be his wife and a bundled baby in a stroller halfway past the shriveling cactus plants.

  I had a similar experience during a saunter through the Saint Bridget convent, when I felt a young clergyman eyeing me near the stoic, late-Gothic style nunnery building next to the ruins of the ancient church’s carcass. I’d steal a furtive glance at his dark pronounced features then duck behind a narrow tree trunk. But what started off as heavy eye contact in the old cemetery dissipated into mere scrutiny from this overtly curious priest. Sensing my heady pheromones, the cleric quickly genuflected in front of a crooked tomb marker and fled the scene.

  Today, I’m still entirely jet-lagged. I’m referring to the dislocation of my mind after being in overseas transit for three days. I always experience a short-circuiting of ordinary cerebral functioning as a result of passing through a myriad of time zones and terminal changes. I teeter down the narrow sidewalks of Tallinn today, my legs and neck still cramped from the ten-hour insomniac’s flight from the States. My joints are vaguely achy and I seem to fall forward as I walk.

  Tallinn in November is damp and bitter. As I grope my way through the open market this morning, I’m thinking that besides a char-roasted, extra-strength sugared brew of coffee, what I could really use is a good soak in an old-fashioned steam bath. What better way to cross over borders than to strip off your jeans and head for the local sauna? The public steam room always seems to be the great equalizer when traveling. Being in the buff, drenched in sweat and natural salt next to other steaming men, is the perfect antidote to feeling like an outsider. Not knowing the language doesn’t prevent me from ma
king an essential contact with another man.

  Sauna culture is quite popular in Tallinn. There is so much written about family sauna parties and unusual places within the Tallinn area to get a sweat, including a working sauna built right into a fire engine, several old fashioned smoke saunas made from chimneys in the nearby countryside, and even a floating sauna on a boat over a lake in the Sooma National Park. There is even a “Sauna” street and a touristy medieval “Sauna Tower” located right here in the Old Town.

  While I’m vaguely curious about the slickly advertised gay sauna in the center of town called Club 69, I am choosing a more run-of-the-mill steam joint located in a dilapidated hotel on the edge of the Old Town, thinking I’ll get a better gander at local customs. This monastic hamam is highlighted by a small painted sign above the entrance with the word SAUN displayed on the street. The building is located in an area that seems a shade grayer than the rest of town, as if thick, black soot has solidly encased the cement edifice.

  I enter a narrow passage off the avenue, and then go down a flight of stairs to a dank, mildew-smelling entryway. The pasty-faced female attendant is more or less nonchalant as I hand over my three hundred kroons. I’m handed a thin towel, more of a bedsheet actually, and a key for my storage. I’m motioned into a walled-off, dimly lit locker room where the clientele, mostly gentlemen in their fifties, rotund, hairy-chested, and oblivious to my gawking presence, chew on unlit cigar stubs and walk with their moistened towels tucked loosely around their bulging hips. I disrobe quickly, stow my street clothes and money belt in a metal bin, and head toward the dry sauna.

  I’ve read that Estonians are great fans of the Finnish-style sauna and typically heat their sweat lodges to ninety to one hundred Celsius. By the looks of the tiny thermometer hung at the entrance of this small wood-paneled ten-seater, the temperature looks to be nearing its maximum. Reckoning that I’m clearly a novice with sauna society, I start my first Baltic sweat by loosening my towel and hunching over on the lower bench. I’ve been in Finnish-style saunas before, and universally throughout Europe, the code for behavior here is quiet reverence. The sweating that takes place within these dry heat rooms always appears to be a sacred act with conversations seldom taking place.