Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  A RETIREDWRITER IN THE SUN

  RUSHING TIDE OFSANITY

  BENEDICTION

  THEY CAN’T STOP US

  THE BOY IN THE MIDDLE

  UNDERGROUND OPERATOR

  MY BOY TUESDAY

  REMEMBERED MEN

  THE PANCAKE CIRCUS

  ORANGE

  FUCKING DOSEONE

  THE STRAY

  MASS ASS

  TROUBLE LOVES ME

  Bremerton, Washington—January 2001: Navy Stray Cat Blues

  San Diego, California—January 1996: Pornographer’s Apprentice

  Bremerton, Washington—January 1999: Stiffed

  Bremerton, Washington—Summer 1999: Trouble Loves Me

  Barracks Bad Boys: The Movie

  Bremerton, Washington—January 2003

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  For Asa

  …the best is now

  INTRODUCTION: VARIETY IS INDEEDTHE SPICE

  Erotica is subjective. What tweaks my nipples might not tickle your libido; what hot-throbs you could leave me cool—and soft. That’s both the challenge and the charm of assembling the annual Best Gay Erotica anthologies (BRINGING YOU THE BEST IN LITEROTICA SINCE 1996!): transcending stereotypes with lyrical writing, trumping clichés with solid plotting, accepting that variety is indeed the spice of an erotic life. You might find one hot jock, but you won’t find a book full of them; here a hustler, there a skater boy, here a Daddy, there a bear cub, here a trucker, there a fratboy, here muscle worship, there twink appreciation, here a whipping, there a fucking, here an anonymous tryst, there two lusty men in love…that range of turnons is what sets BGE apart from themed anthologies—as does the fact that more than just my sensibility decides each table of contents.

  How is that? BGE is a judged collection: I select about three dozen stories every year from several hundred that are submitted or that I read elsewhere, but the “bests” are filtered, after my choices, through the literary (and, I assume, lascivious) taste of others.

  So when it came time to assemble the third Best of Best Gay Erotica, culled from stories published in the 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, and 2010 collections, I polled each judge for a few favorites from his year.

  In his introduction to BGE 2010, Blair Mastbaum wrote: “This book is art, really. Sometimes, the sex is secondary. It’s the words that are primary.” For reprint here, he selected “The Boy in the Middle,” by Thom Wolf. “What can I say? English schoolboys do it for me, and Thom writes about sex like I like it—without any special tone to signify the erotic.” And he picked “The Stray,” by David May. “It’s just so great that you don’t know if Bud is a dog or a boy or what at the beginning, and the word ‘stray’ in general is very sexy. Also, I think the rainy, cloudy weather of the Northwest is a great setting for any story.”

  Blair also singled out “A Beautiful Face,” by Robert Patrick: “I like any story with a Greyhound bus in it, and I love the repression depicted of the 1950s”—but you’ll have to buy Best Gay Erotica 2010 to read his third selection, because…

  …James Lear (BGE 2009) selected “Mass Ass,” also by Robert Patrick. His take: “It’s sexy, of course, but it also captures all the other crazy things that go through a man’s mind when he’s having (or hoping for) sex—literary allusions, jokes, puns, et cetera. And, as erotic narrative verse, it’s almost unique.” In 2009, he summed up his approach to judging erotica this way: “All the stories I have selected…are rooted in reality. They all recognize and respect the fact that sex is most exciting when it arises from the everyday.”

  Emanuel Xavier (BGE 2008) focused in his introduction on how “even the most provocative erotica…reveals the need to connect on a deeper level” beyond the merely physical. For this volume, he selected “Rushing Tide of Sanity,” by Charlie Vázquez: “Proving that pain and piss-party perversion can be both profound and pleasurable”; “Orange,” by Lee Houck: “A refreshingly twisted sexual experience featuring provocative characters”; and “Underground Operator,” by Andrew McCarthy: “This story genuinely captures the wet dreams and raw sexual spirit of Gotham’s underground.”

  Timothy J. Lambert (BGE 2007), best known as the coauthor of a number of smart gay romances in which scenes “fade to black” before the sex, said the judging experience motivated him—a self-described recluse—“to get out of my house and look for adventure” of the sorts recounted in the collection. His Best of Best picks: “I really liked Alana Noël Voth’s ‘Benediction,’ because it reminded me of classic erotica; there was literary merit as well as an ‘I shouldn’t be getting off on this, but I am’ element within the story. And Drub’s drawings, based on Dale Lazarov’s powerfully wordless plot! ‘The Welcome Back Fuck,’ I love that. Totally satisfies the voyeur within to see these two hot drawn dudes be so passionate.”

  And for Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore (BGE 2006), it’s all about the reader: “This book is dangerous and lovely, just like you.” His picks and pithy summations: “Fucking Doseone,” by Ralowe Trinitrotoluene Ampu: “Everything you want is everything you hate and everything you hate is everything you want and this may cause problems”; “The Pancake Circus,” by Trebor Healey: “You’ll never think about pancakes the same way again”; and “They Can’t Stop Us,” by Tim Doody: “Sirens call from the distance, but you were made for this city.”

  I had my favorites, too, more than I could shoehorn into Best of Best Gay Erotica 3: the only editing task harder than cramming thirty-five or so fine stories into each year’s anthology of fifteen to twenty selections was choosing the fifteen for this collection from ninety-one possibilities. But stories by Steven Zeeland, Shane Allison, Arden Hill and Simon Sheppard stood out for me—Zeeland’s for the intensity of his autobiographical experiences, Allison’s for its hallucinatory style, Hill’s for its intimacy, and Sheppard’s for its stylish take on the life of…a writer of erotica.

  If you’re a regular reader of the Best Gay Erotica series, this collection will reconnect you to companionable—dare I say hot?—reads from years past; if you’re new to the series, consider this an introduction to a tremendous erotic backlist.

  Richard Labonté

  Bowen Island, British Columbia

  A RETIREDWRITER IN THE SUN

  Simon Sheppard

  “Narrative coherence,” said the Witch of Capri. “They all want fucking narrative coherence.”

  Quilty scribbled furiously. He would have brought his laptop to take notes, but he’d been warned beforehand that computers were banned within the sacred precincts of the Witch’s cliff-top home. Not even a voice recorder passed muster. Perhaps it was some kind of obscure test, the Labors of Hercules for interviewers. Or maybe it was just the sadism of an old queen.

  “And if there’s one thing, my son, that life teaches one, it’s that narrative coherence—hell, coherence of any sort—is largely an illusion, the fretful workings of a mind struggling to superimpose order on this squalid mess we call life.”

  That was a nice turn of phrase: “squalid mess.” Quilty struggled to get it all down.

  “So you would say that you didn’t abandon erotic writing, that it abandoned you?”

  “A neat formulation, but no. I simply realized that I could write porn till the crack of doom, and I’d still never succeed in getting it right.”

  “Getting what right? Never succeed? But…” The Witch of Capri was, after all, perhaps the preeminent voice in the entire history of gay erotica. Under a variety of pen names—some brutish, like “Ramm Hardin,” others, like “Firbank
Fiore,” exuding more than a whiff of camp—he had churned out a remarkable seventy books, more or less, meanwhile maintaining a parallel, highly acclaimed career in Genuine Literature. All that was, of course, why Quilty was there to interview him.

  “The ineffability of desire, my lad. Let me tell you a story.” The Witch of Capri had, in fact, told a surfeit of stories over the preceding day and a half, but Quilty let him continue. His doctoral thesis, like it or not, depended on the garrulousness of an old man.

  “Several years ago, I met this young man—and I mean young, he was nineteen at the time, or so he said—on the phone sex lines.” The renowned Witch of Capri jacking off to phone sex? Now that was an image. “He was, he told me, tall, skinny, and a redhead, still living with his parents. And he had the softest, shyest, horniest voice. The first time we spoke, he came so quickly that I hadn’t time to unzip myself. Subsequently, he’d phone me at odd times when his family was gone, and every time I heard his voice on the phone, I became instantly erect.

  “He, for his part, became rather adept at phone sex. He would tell me what he was, or wasn’t, wearing, and follow my lead, or at least say he was doing so. I would command him to get some spit on his hand and slide a finger up his ass, and in short order, he’d be making the most delightful moans. He didn’t come as quickly as he had at first, either, though he still outpaced me every time. And he did have an annoying habit of hanging up as soon as he’d come, though a ‘Good-bye’ or ‘Thank you’ certainly wouldn’t have been out of place.

  “But that’s not really the point, is it? If the redheaded boy had been a character in a story I was writing, I would have been expected to add some narrative aspect, some conclusion, some—no pun intended—climax. His parents would have walked in on him while he had his young dick in his hand. We would have arranged to meet, and would have had fabulous sex. Or he would have turned out to be fifty, bald, and fat. Or something. But none of that happened. He phoned me perhaps a dozen times, got off, hung up, and eventually ceased calling. That was all.”

  He sipped his gin and tonic and looked off to the horizon, where an improbably lovely sunset, freighted with metaphor, colored the late afternoon. “But the truth is that, more than a decade later, that unseen redheaded boy remains one of my erotic touchstones. After god-knows-how-many tricks in my life—I was quite a looker in my youth, but you already know that—I still desire that voice on the phone more than I’ve ever wanted just about anyone. And thinking about it still gets me hard.” Quilty, unable to restrain himself, looked down. Sure enough, the Witch’s rather awful caftan was tenting up.

  The Witch of Capri finished off his G&T. “And nothing I could possibly write…well, let’s just say that I retired for good reason. Shall we go in for dinner?” He rose shamelessly and, preceded by his famous erection, left the terrace.

  The von Gloedenesque serving boy—he reeked of Mediterranean rough trade, and Quilty could only hope he was of age—cleared away dishes that had been licked clean of panna cotta, and poured fussy little glasses of port.

  “I came, as you’re aware, from a good deal of money, so I’ve been able to afford all this.” With a grand sweep of his arm, the Witch indicated his surroundings, including the handsome young man. “And, really, at this stage of my life, there are only two major causes for discomfort. First, there’s the inexorable passage of time, which is, you know, or at least can surmise, a bitch. And, perhaps more acutely, there’s my utter inadequacy when confronted by the beauty of men…well, let’s be honest, young men. Of course, I can easily afford to hire company. The financial aspect of such transactions might well be viewed as somehow demeaning, it’s true. But when a smooth, slim twenty-year-old strips down, lies back, his lovely cock standing straight up against a jet black thicket of pubic hair, and, at my command, opens his ass to me till I can see the pink corona, glimpse the darkness within…” He sipped the port and stared into middle space.

  At last Quilty, concerned the rest of the evening might be a waste, coughed gently. The Witch was brought back. “You know,” he continued, “I’d bet that many of us who write dirty stories do it, at least in part, in an attempt to master lust. Not to overcome it, but to make it, through thought and word, our servant. To capture desire, quintessential desire. And in this we are damn well bound to lose.

  “Ah, but what’s a poor old fag with a penchant for words to do? Become a writer like all the rest, it seems. I knew them all, of course. Tennessee, Truman, Bill Burroughs. They were not happy people. Understatement.”

  Quilty had been imagining the Witch staring quizzically at some young hustler with his finger up his butt. Now he was afraid that the interview had slid to an end. He had more than enough material, most likely, to use for the thesis, but…

  “It all just makes me sad,” the Witch concluded. “Melancholy. Sad.”

  Long, silent moments passed. At last, Quilty spoke up. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for your hospitality, and your time, and your…mind.”

  “Ah, but surely you’re not leaving now?” the Witch said. “It’s likely too late to take a train to the airport.”

  And Quilty had, in fact, planned to spend a second night in the Witch’s guest room. “No, I just thought that our interviews were at an end.”

  “Well, I suppose they are. I’ve already nattered on far too long. Who knew, when I was churning out pulp paperbacks to be read by closeted, masturbating fags, that I would someday be the subject of something called Queer Studies?”

  “Well, you’re a great writer.”

  “No.”

  “Well, a good writer. An important writer.”

  “That’s closer to the mark, I suppose.” A wry smile. “You’re rather an attractive young man. But you already know that.”

  Quilty was blindsided by the shift in conversation. But the Witch was right: he did know that.

  “So you have, no doubt, been expecting I’d come on to you. More port?”

  Quilty shook his head.

  The Witch turned to the serving boy, who had been hovering in a corner of the whitewashed room. “You can go now,” he said, “and shut the door behind you.”

  Quilty thought of an old, crass bumper sticker: GAS, GRASS, OR ASS—NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. This was apparently a more literate version of the sentiment.

  “Well, you know, I’m certainly more interested in my immortal reputation, however risible that notion may be, than in yet one more penis. I’ll bid you goodnight.”

  Quilty didn’t surprise himself too often, but at that moment, he did. “It doesn’t have to be goodnight,” he said. He tried to sound as insinuating as possible.

  “I appreciate that. I can even get over my qualms over being a mercy fuck; after all, it’s rather late in the game for me to stand upon my pride. But…”

  “Narrative coherence, right? This is what I’m expected to do?” Quilty reached down for his crotch. “What some theoretical reader expects.” He sounded, to his own surprise, a bit angry. He did not dare bring up, though, the story an assistant professor had told him of fucking Allen Ginsberg. “He was,” the assistant prof had said, “getting old, was surely not very attractive, at least not to me. But that didn’t matter, not really. Hell, I was having sex with Allen Ginsberg.”

  The Witch of Capri was staring intently at him. “I have no idea,” he said, “what you think you’re up to. If you suppose that this is what I expected, a quid pro quo for the interview, then you might think again. I’m an egomaniac, yes, but I would so like to think I’m not that sleazy.” He paused, as if for dramatic effect. “On the other hand, you are, as I previously made clear, a remarkably handsome young man. Worthy of a story, really, if I were still writing stories.”

  Quilty hadn’t planned on standing up, but he rose. He hadn’t planned on getting hard, either, but something about being the object of laserlike desire went straight to his cock. “I want to do this,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve come to the conclusion, I’m afraid to say, that sex is the o
ne wild, true thing. Pray don’t let me stop you.”

  Quilty grabbed at his hard cock through his khaki pants. The shape of the engorged shaft was clearly visible. The Witch of Capri shifted in his chair. “Perhaps I should move to a chaise longue for this?”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “To the terrace, then?”

  “It’s private enough out there?”

  “Relatively.”

  “And if someone should see us?”

  “Fuck them,” said the Witch of Capri.

  The evening was warm, and, conveniently, the moon was full. From far below came a gentle sound of waves.

  “Ah, time,” said the Witch of Capri, his caftan hiked up high on one naked thigh. “You don’t mind if I reminisce?”

  That’s nearly all you’ve been doing, Quilty thought. That and complaining. Which brought up, perhaps, the question of just why his hand was shoved down the front of his pants, stirring his cock back into full erection.

  “The things people do with their dicks for no particular reason,” said the Witch, quite as though he could read Quilty’s mind. “Or for some reason that they’d rather not face. So are you going to entertain me or not?”

  Quilty unbuttoned his trousers, letting them gap open, revealing well-filled, snowy white briefs.

  “I remember when I was in school,” the Witch said. “There was this Jewish boy, Chaim. He came from a family of refugees. Nice kid, smart. Beautiful boy, with dark, deep eyes and a Semitic nose. And I was so in love with him.”