Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  It was the summer after eighth grade when Ron told me, “I was so fucking glad when I was conscious enough in that dumb hospital to look down and see my dick was there. It wasn’t burned off.”

  He sighed and looked truly relieved.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  I began to wonder about Ron’s dick. Short and fat; long and curved? Average length? Ethereal? Did hair grow around his balls? What did his balls smell like? Would his come taste like rice pudding?

  “There was a nurse that really turned me on there.”

  “What?” I’d been lost in a daydream.

  “A nurse,” Ron repeated. “A couple times I beat off in my hospital bed, under the sheets, thinking about her tits.”

  We were in Ron’s room. The window was open. A cool breeze drifted in and tickled my skin. From the cassette player Melissa Etheridge sang, I’m the only one to walk across a fire for you.

  “Really?” I’d beat off plenty of times thinking about Ron.

  “Guess you don’t think about chicks,” Ron said.

  “Umm, no…” I laughed. Dorky nervous laughter.

  “What do you think about then?”

  Another laugh. “I don’t know.”

  “Is it a particular guy or something?”

  “Why?” My heart had begun to beat faster. Maybe he wanted me to say I thought about him when I beat off.

  “Tell me,” Ron said.

  “Okay.” But then I didn’t say anything.

  “C’mon. What’s the matter?”

  I finally came up with something. “Circle jerks.”

  “What’s a circle jerk?” Ron laughed.

  “Guys jerking off in front of each other.” I started to laugh again, really nervous. Really hopeful.

  “No shit.” Ron seemed to think about it. “You ever do it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Never met any guys who wanted to?”

  “I guess.” I could feel my armpits sweating, my arms shaking, and my dick had started to move. I ran my hand through my hair, trying to think about something else—the rain in Spain, something.

  “Want to?” Ron asked.

  “What?” Had my voice changed an octave?

  “Jerk off.”

  I looked at him. “You want to jerk off in front of me?”

  He was quiet. Then he said, “Well yeah. I mean I’m not queer. We’re just friends, and I trust you.”

  Maybe he just didn’t think he was queer.

  I stared at him until my eyes watered. After a while Ron unzipped but didn’t pull his dick out. Mine was already hard. I couldn’t see his. Was he hard?

  I unzipped. I had a nice dick, average length and all. I wanted Ron to look at it, want it. He looked for a minute then pulled his dick out. It was hard and as sweet as I’d seen in my dreams, average length but thick; his pubes were dark, and his balls looked heavy. I wished I could inhale his balls, lick them. Oh god. I began to jerk off. We jerked in unison. I’d never done this with anyone. I felt exposed and wished we were closer together. If I moved a little…there, our knees touched. I leaned back, pulling on my dick, teasing the head with my thumb. I pressed my knee against his. Ron looked at me.

  “Oh god,” I said. “Shit.” I was going to come.

  “Go,” he said. “Shoot.”

  It was almost invisible to the naked eye, the eighth color of the rainbow, actually. Our come in the air together.

  “Curtis Winters,” I told him one afternoon that same summer. “Peewee baseball. I never saw a guy move like that. Looking at him gave me a stomachache.”

  Ron nodded. “April Reynolds. Before I got burned. She had long hair and this awesome smile. I wanted to feel her up.”

  He looked defeated, thinking about April Whoever, thinking about girls. I figured it was my duty to make him feel better since I was secretly madly in love with him. “Lie back,” I said.

  Ron lay back. I lay next to him, heart beating.

  “Close your eyes. I’ll close mine.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Think of April, what’s her name?”

  “Reynolds.”

  “Yeah, think of her.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s she doing?” The bitch.

  “Sitting in the desk across me in Ms. Morgan’s class.”

  “And you’re checking her out?”

  “Well, yeah. Always.”

  “Imagine she wants to kiss you.” Maybe I didn’t sound enthusiastic enough. “She wants to suck your face off.” I could smell Ron’s hair, his shampoo, the lotion his mother rubbed in his skin. “Imagine soft lips and a warm tongue,” I whispered.

  Ron turned his head toward me. We were close enough to share breath. When he blinked I could have sworn I felt the soft flap of his eyelashes. I heard when he unzipped his pants, and then he grabbed my head and pulled me toward him.

  I hesitated. “You really want to?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not queer,” he said, “I just want you to do it.”

  God, oh god, at last. I opened my mouth then my throat and then eased my mouth down his shaft and felt the ridges and veins against my tongue and tasted his salty skin.

  I sucked and licked and slobbered.

  Ron lifted his hips off the bed, fucking me in the mouth.

  I stopped and looked at him. “Ron?” I wiped the saliva off my chin.

  He leaned back on his elbows, breathing heavy. Pre-come bubbled on the head of his dick. “What, what is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said at last. I took hold of his cock again and then pushed my face to his balls and breathed him.

  He put his hand on my head. “It’s okay,” he said.

  I hadn’t realized I was crying a little.

  By high school, you could barely tell Ron had been burned. He had a few scars on his face, more on his back and arms, but they weren’t as red or angry looking anymore, not swollen. He stood taller in the hallways and met people’s eyes. Once in the lunchroom he slapped some guy a high five. “Who was that?” I asked.

  Ron shrugged. “Some guy in my geology class.”

  “The walls in the john have been newly decorated,” I said. “Have you seen it?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “Brent Johnson is a flaming fucking faggot.”

  Ron shook his head.

  “Careful, I might be contagious,” I said, nudging him in the side.

  He smiled. “Yeah, whatever. Just ignore that shit.”

  Girls looked at him. I saw them looking at him. They finally saw what I saw. Ron-beautiful-Ron with his thick dark hair and green eyes. His beauty gave me a stomachache sometimes. I’d call him on the phone just to hear his voice. I asked him all the time about college.

  One afternoon I said, “What about CU in Boulder?”

  Ron looked at me and then said, “Let’s get the hell out of here,” and I said, “All right,” and we walked out of the school building to a lone willow tree that grew past the parking lot. I had him all to myself now and stared at the sky and said, “It’s gorgeous.”

  The willow tree wept branches near a chain-link fence that encircled a field of cattails and wildflowers behind us. Ron shook two cigarettes from a pack of Marlboro Reds. “Here.” He offered me one.

  I sniffed the end, bittersweet.

  Ron held out a lighter, a little unsteady, the flame flickering, and we met eyes over the fire. I wanted to say, “I love you, man.” I love you. But I inhaled instead, and the butt of my cigarette gave way to ember, and I coughed.

  Ron looked away, lighting his smoke. He turned his eyes to the willow then leaned back, his hair falling into his eyes. With one hand, I touched his elbow. He crossed his arms over his chest, didn’t say anything, and didn’t look at me either.

  The sun has come up. But the air feels cold on my skin, biting, because I’m
naked and hurt and here alone. It hurts to shiver. It hurts to think and remember. I can’t move voluntarily. Just shiver. I stare through the tree at the sky and then stare at the leaves on the tree and try to focus and wish for the leaves to fall and coat me.

  The natural process of breathing is agony. Was he like that, really, Ron groping a girl? When I turn my head, I see my clothes lying on the grass beside me. Ten hours ago, I was driving. I drove Mom’s car off an interstate and onto this winding path of asphalt with road signs warning NARROW ROAD and NO PASSING. I had a map beside me, but the map had been handwritten and then photocopied, and things were scratched out and written over. I couldn’t exactly read it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to a party anyway. SENIOR BASH! GRADUATION! I surveyed the road ahead of me and thought how it was the sort of road where if I were trapped in a horror movie, I would happen upon a hitch-hiker with an axe, or someone possessed by a demon speeding up to run me over.

  A few miles later, I pulled over and sat at the wheel and took a deep breath. Was I ready to see him? What would I see? These past three months, we hadn’t talked much. He had excuses not to get together. I got out of the car and started walking. I stuffed my hands in my pockets. Was he going to break my heart?

  A white glow floated ahead and became a sign through the trees. TRESPASSERS WILL GET A FOOT UPYOUR ASS.The red letters were scrawled over white paint peeling away to reveal blond wood. I stopped, looking at it, and thought about turning back, getting in my car, going home. Mom and I could do something—get ice cream, watch a movie, play cards. Big deal, I was graduating high school.

  Maybe I should call Ryan and ask for advice. How to get over a man? No, better: How to make him love me.

  The no trespassing sign was hung on a barbed wire fence. I pulled the wire apart and then stuck one leg through, twisting my body beneath it then through it. I heard music and tracked the thump across the meadow to another border of trees. When I came out past the trees, I stared into the smoky heat from a bonfire and wondered if Ron was right there standing close to the flame?

  Jill rushed up and hugged me then gave me a beer. She was with another girl. I didn’t see Ron. Jill talked. “We thought we’d stay here awhile then head back to town and go to that bar, remember?”

  I nodded.

  “You drove, right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Where’s your car?”

  I jerked my head toward the orchard.

  “You came the back way?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Jill says they don’t card at this bar,” the other girl said.

  I saw him. Ron with a chick. He had his arm around her. She had one hand in his back pocket, squeezing his ass.

  Sometimes, I could still taste his come in my mouth.

  Jill nudged me. I pretended to focus on finishing my beer.

  “Brent,” she said. “Brenner?”

  “Think I could get another beer?” I asked.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” she said before heading off.

  I headed in Ron’s direction. “Hey,” I said when I reached him.

  Ron smiled and then looked at the girl and said, “This is Brent.”

  She smiled, a little.

  “Can I talk to you?” I asked him, ignoring her.

  “Yeah, what about?” He had a blank face, no expression.

  “Alone. Over there.” I nodded over my shoulder.

  The girl snaked her arm around his waist.

  “I’m kind of with Connie,” he said. “How about later?”

  “Well, I kind of need to talk to you now.”

  The girl glared at me.

  “Yeah, okay.” Ron walked a few feet away. I followed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  Ron looked over my shoulder. “Kind of on a date.” He smiled.

  I moved close and pushed my face in his neck and held him. “I miss you,” I said.

  “Ron?” The girl was back.

  He pushed me away, but I didn’t go too far. “I love you,” I said. “Okay? I want you to know that.”

  The girl stood next to Ron. “What? Are you some kind of faggot?”

  Ron looked nervous. “We’ll talk some other time, okay?”

  I stepped forward again and grabbed him by the head and stared in his eyes and wouldn’t let go. “It’s me,” I said. “Brent.”

  Ron held me back by the collar. “Stop it, okay? Just stop.”

  “Let’s go,” the girl said.

  Other people stood around gawking. “Hey McDermott, Connie! You in or not?” Some guys a few yards away were waving to them, waiting. They looked at me, and the look said, You’re not invited.

  For one second, we locked eyes, Ron and me.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  He leaned over and whispered, “I didn’t choose to be a freak, Brent. You did.”

  I stood there unable to move or speak. The girl wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He disappeared in a smudge of smoke and heat. People walked by, gawking and smiling. I didn’t care. I hated them. Then I noticed a guy sitting on the back of a truck by himself. Blond as sunshine, alone. He looked me over then looked away. What the hell? I walked over and stared at him.

  “What are you looking at?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I could have walked away. He grabbed my arm at the wrist. “Lover’s spat?”

  “What? Fuck no.” I felt mean now, spiteful. There was something dangerous about this guy; I knew it and got a chill but then followed him anyway.

  I love it when men kiss. Eye contact first. Then shared breath. Gentle lips. A little tongue. More lips. More tongue. They suck each other’s lips. Whirl their tongues around. Moaning. They hold each other’s heads. They get rough. Or they’re gentle.

  I was shoved into a car from behind. Two hands on the back of my head. My forehead hit the roof as I went. Then I was shoved into a seated position on the backseat. The car began moving. Two guys sat on either side of me. Up front, the guy I’d been kissing was driving. Another guy in the front looked over the seat at me.

  “What the fuck you looking at?”

  I looked away.

  They started talking.

  “Let’s dump him in the faggot park.”

  “Yeah, the dumb fuck.”

  I started crying.

  The guys in back began slugging me with their fists.

  I had a pet rat once. Daxter. He got sick. His pale-yellow sides heaved as he struggled for breath, and red stuff leaked from his eyeballs. I touched his fur with my fingertip, and he squeaked. I touched him again, and he squeaked. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, except when I touched him, he squeaked. Then he began trying to drag himself away from me. So I wouldn’t touch him.

  I tried to drag myself away from them. They kept kicking and slugging me. I begged them to leave me alone.

  Sunlight. I feel it on my face and imagine a perfect circle around me, like a circle they draw in voodoo to protect or keep evil spirits away. How long will I last? Where am I bleeding? Mom? I see her patching a hole in the knee of my jeans, which is weird, because I haven’t worn those jeans since I was ten. I watch her work the needle into the denim, pull the thread out, work the needle into the denim, pull the thread out. Mom, I can’t wear those jeans anymore. I hear voices. I try to say something. Over here, the naked beaten boy.

  Someone is above me like a streak of white light before becoming a face. I don’t know him. Should I fight? Is it over?

  I feel a hand cupping my forehead, a warm touch. “We’ve got you now,” he says. “You’re all right. Can you hear me?”

  There’s this song by Madonna. One of the lines goes We only hurt the ones we love. I want to ask this person above me, Do you think Ron loves me? But I can’t spit the words out, only a little blood.

  THEY CAN’T STOP US

  Tom Doody

  I’m waiting for the sun to set, for my shift to end, so I can pedal into my
favorite part of Manhattan, an emerald oasis right in the center of all the concrete canyons. But I’m so not there yet. On Broadway, I steer my road bike between columns of men (and some women) doing the black-suit-shuffle, cut west to pick up my thirty-fourth package of the day at the World Financial Center, turn east to drop off at 120 Wall Street, and then north to an alley in Chinatown where I climb the stairs to the second floor and hand over a manila envelope to a man who kneads his hands behind a counter. As I wait for his signature, I inhale the incense from a candle-lit Buddhist shrine. Behind him, several rows of women move fabric through the stabbing needles of sewing machines.

  I plummet back down the stairs, skipping over every other step, and ponder the sheer number of daily encounters in this city, their anonymity and intimacy, how cultures clash, cavort, merge. Then I’m back in the streets jostling with vendors and taxis and tourists, everybody staking out a claim to space. Sirens scream. New sweat drips down the old sweat that’s caked to my face from the last seven hours of exertion and summer heat.

  Sometimes, I hate that I get CEOs what they need, when they need it, in death-defying time, for semiadequate wages. Maybe that’s why I scream a war cry as I near a crosswalk filled with commuters moving against the light. My voice and my barreling bike part the commuters so fast that one guy’s knees jerk up high enough to almost touch the tip of his nose. It takes me ten minutes to stop laughing.

  Once I get through Midtown, weaving between cars that stop and go and shift lanes, I drop off my last parcels, radio in to say see you tomorrow. I turn my bike from the four lanes of 59th Street into Central Park, where the noise of the city subsides to a hum. A dozen blocks later, on a footpath, I unhitch the Kryptonite chain from my waist and wrap it around the bike frame and a bench. Finally.