Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  I can relate to boys like Tuesday, or rather I can remember what it was like to assume that position. I was nineteen. My lover was twenty-six. “Hey boy,” he said, “I want to teach you something.” He pushed my arms out past my head and jerked back on my ankles until they were next to his knees. The lube was cold when he stuck his finger into my ass but by the time he worked his dick in it was warm, almost burning. “Oh you like that you little slut,” he said and he reached for his belt, the one I’d taken off with my teeth earlier in the evening. He hit me twenty-five times across each shoulder. I imagined his hand holding the belt. No. I imagined my hand on the leather. When he had me count out loud I heard the numbers as though it were his voice speaking and I smiled between each word. He told me thank him and I did, though he had no idea what I was thanking him for.

  The next night he learned what I’d gathered from his lesson. He said I could tie him up if I wanted. I did, and I did it with the cuffs and joiners he’d used on me earlier. I whipped him lightly and he moaned, his mouth falling open with each flick of leather across his skin. I tightened the restraints and he looked up at me with surprise but delight. I put on a glove and pushed two fingers into him. His dick rose up. I could almost hear it humming. “Oh you like that you little slut,” I growled. He gave me a cocky sort of smile before I shoved the gag in his mouth. I put in more fingers and he rocked on my hand. “Now that you’re in a position to listen,” I said, “our relationship is going to be different and if you’re not up for that difference our relationship is going to be over.” I undid the gag so he could whisper, “Yes Sir.”

  I put the gag back in and told him that I’d been thinking about what I did and did not like in bed. I told him he was not going to be allowed to touch my cock. Well, not with his hands at least. Before this moment I endured the feel of my silk underpants shifting to sandpaper as clumsy hands rubbed me through denim. Once my pants were off, too many lovers groped me, tugging and pulling until I was hard but hurting. I put up with it because I liked what happened next, when they thought they had warmed me up enough to lick my dick lightly with the tips of their tongues. I like to be taken on the tongue like a thick wafer, one that does not dissolve but still induces someone to murmur Jesus. I like to spill down a throat. I slipped out the gag and thrust into him, showing him. He swallowed and when I pulled out he thanked me. I realized then other things I liked: downcast eyes, the strands of hair that fall across the forehead after someone has exerted himself.

  Tuesday had run down the hallway in an attempt to make it to class on time. His black bangs were wet. There was a damp curl twisting down the collar of his shirt. I watched him and took notes on Shakespeare’s women and my own soon-to-be boy both. I could imagine him on his knees while I, dressed in a gown, lifted up layer after layer of fabric until there was nothing between my cock and his mouth but silk. I would bind his hands first. I would write what I liked on notes that I would not let him read until class. I would have him sit in a different spot, to my left and ahead just a bit so I could watch him read but it would still be clear we were not equals, not in the bedroom, not in any room.

  The professor asked a question and Tuesday’s slim hand shot up. Eager, I remarked to myself, and when Tuesday spoke I liked the tones of his answer. His voice cracked a little on the name Titania, and I knew I wanted him to wear glitter and answer my questions, ending each sentence with a slight and cracking “Sir.” The professor looked pleased, which indicated to me that Tuesday is a good reader. I am a good writer. I know this is going to work out. He shifted in his chair a bit and turned around as though my gaze had weight. He looked at me then looked down. He knew from the beginning where this was going. Tuesday was a very bright boy.

  After class Tuesday wandered over to my desk. Although articulate with literature, he seemed shy about practical matters, so I told him to come over to my apartment on Wednesday. I took his hand and wrote my address on the back of it. I did not ask for his address. We did not exchange names or numbers. I was certain he’d show up and if he didn’t, well I knew where to find him, and I’ve noticed other boys in this class who I could entice over, boys whose bruises would make Tuesday sorry he did not accept what I offered. I am not stingy, but careful, with my kindnesses.

  Tuesday put on his backpack and promised to arrive at my place on time. I wrote seven on his wrist. Black ink over the blue of his veins. He smiled, and since I am careful with my compliments I did not tell him that his mouth is perfect. As he walked out I noticed that his ass matches it beautifully. I’d like to fill his ass and his mouth at the same time. I have the evening to decide what will go in each hole. I briefly wonder if Tuesday has a preference and suspect that I will learn. What I will do with that knowledge, I haven’t decided. I imagine him grateful. I imagine him suffering. In both circumstances, Tuesday’s cheeks are wet with tears and his naked chest is crossed with claw marks.

  I like my nails long. Sometimes I paint them with slightly black-tinged gloss so that they shine like talons. Once, when I was at the counter of the grocery store preparing to pay for a package of strawberries, the scruffy man looked at my hands and not my face. He said, “That will be three dollars, Miss.” Slightly amused, I responded, “Here you go,” as I handed him the bills. “Oh,” he gasped looking up, “I thought you were a woman.” I pulled the berries from his hands and hissed, “If you were paying attention you would have realized I’m a goddess.” I strode out before he could respond.

  Everyone has his kink. Mine has a feminine bent. “Don’t even think of calling me anything other than Sir,” I tell the boys as I take off my panties. Anyone who looks skeptical earns an hour in my drag closet with the instruction not to come out until he is beautiful. Then I take him out for a night on the town. I put on the corresponding clothes, a three-piece suit with my father’s favorite tie. We look like a het couple so I buy the girl/boy dinner. I have her/him eat out my ass for dessert.

  I think about Tuesday while I am making myself dinner. I am hungry and hungry makes me horny. Something about satiation causes the wires in my brain to cross so that after I fuck a boy, after I come inside him emptying a cock full of cream into his body, I myself feel full. I no longer crave anything but, perhaps, to watch the boy clean himself off with a warm wet rag. With the jocks I’ve fucked there is no ritual. I send them home immediately after and I do not care how they brush their teeth or scrub their asses raw in the shower. I’ve been called a bitch on more than one occasion. “Frigid bitch,” was the phrase used by the last quarterback after he told me that he loved me and I told him that I wasn’t interested in fucking him anymore. He called me frigid and I watched my come cool on his chest.

  My thoughts about Tuesday are more tender. I make three portions of tomato sauce, one for me to eat tonight and the other two for us to share on Wednesday. I want him to watch me eat and feel hungry before it is his turn. I want to hand-feed this one. I want to play sweet master, for a while. A mediocre top once told me, “You can’t top someone if you’re serving them food.” I liked neither his phrasing nor his twitchy eyes. I assured him it could be done and pointed out that he didn’t deserve for me to prove it to him. Instead, I invited his favorite submissive play partner over and tied him up in my shower. I washed him outside and in. He wept when the water ran cold. I commanded him not to tremble while I patted him dry so gently that he ached to press his hard cock into the towel and hump it until he came but I never let him come. I dressed him up and set him at the dinner table. With one hand, I grasped his throat. With the other, I fed him small bites of vegetable lasagna. I chewed each bite first and, when he looked thirsty, I put water in my mouth and spat it into his. He didn’t play with that top again, a decision I’m sure was influenced by his encounter with me. Everyone has his kink and I have a talent for turning people on to mine.

  I don’t think about Tuesday again until I am bathing. I’ve poured in a small amount of bubble bath and the white sides of the tub are as smooth and slick as I imagine t
he head of his cock will be. The water gradually warms the enamel and I push my back down against the bottom. My cock swells and breaks the surface of the water. It bursts bubbles and I fixate on Tuesday’s ass, how I want to ease in while he pants at the difficulty of having me there. I haven’t seen him around, which means that he is a freshman and, although he has a pink triangle on his bag, the button is new enough that it may have just been put on. He is pretty, but then so are boy bands. I suppose it would not have been difficult for him to be read as straight in high school. Even if people suspected he was gay, he is the kind of pretty that rivals a girl’s good looks. Most guys are too scared to ask a boy like that out on a date much less get their dicks into him.

  While it is highly likely that young Tuesday is a virgin, I find it impossible to believe that he hasn’t stuck anything up his own ass. I decide that I will make him catalogue those objects between bites of dinner. Eventually I will put the spider gag on him. I want to enjoy the sight of his mouth open. Maybe the second time he comes over I will start there and work my way down. For our first time, I am exclusively interested in his ass.

  I sleep well after my bath. I dream about an old building with many rooms. It looks unmistakably like my college though instead of classrooms there are cells. I walk down the halls and hear the sounds of boys fucking. The doors are oak and each has a window that is placed exactly at my eye level. I look into the first door that I come to and see Tuesday inside, hog-tied on top of Professor Alice Adams’ desk. The room is populated by the men’s lacrosse team. They stare at Tuesday because he is naked and beautiful. They want him but they are only students who will, at most, witness the lesson. A door next to the chalkboard opens and Alice Adams walks in. No, she struts in. She struts toward her desk in a black latex suit that forms the curves of her body into straight lines. A huge pink strap-on protrudes from her fly and Tuesday’s eyes widen as she pulls a condom out of a mysterious and previously unnoticed back pocket. Alice Adams walks past the desk and Tuesday follows her with his eyes. They are the only parts of his body that can move and he stares as Alice Adams hands the condom to a redheaded boy in the front row. The boy blushes brighter than his freckles as she orders him to put his hands behind his back and put the condom on her cock using only his mouth. Once he completes the task to her satisfaction, she rewards him with a piece of chocolate to take away the taste of latex on his tongue.

  Alice Adams’ cock is wet with this boy’s spit when she shoves it between Tuesday’s lips. He grunts and gulps until he deep-throats her. The door I am peeping through opens and I find my cock in my hand ready to fuck. I spread Tuesday’s ass and spit on the trembling red opening that reveals itself to me. Alice Adams and I fuck him until the three of us come, me first, Alice second, and Tuesday third. I wake up gripping the sheets. There are hours to fill until my doorbell rings.

  I get some work done on my thesis: The Erotics of the Sonnet. I’ve been working on this project all summer and although it is only the first week of classes, I can think of no bigger turnoff than a fourteen-line poem. Maybe a haiku formed from a magnetic poetry set. The only set I’ve ever appreciated was the set of “dirty” magnetic poetry that I got from my dyke cousin Jodie. There are no less than ten rectangles that read cock. The adjectives are impressive, from the functional, hard, to the more metaphorical, effervescent. I would like to have Tuesday compose poems with the set while sitting on a sterling silver butt plug. He’d look darling in just a white button-down shirt and a tie. He’d be pantless so I could see the plug penetrate him and run my fingers along the crevice between perineum and metal when I wanted to distract him from his task. I know this would be unfair of me but I am not attempting to be fair. I would rather dish out what a bottom needs than indulge him in what he thinks he wants. I am insidiously benevolent. My gifts are gifts. My punishments are also gifts, when viewed with the right interpretation. This is not Orwellian doublespeak, but a truth I’m sure a bright boy like Tuesday will be able to grasp.

  In my house, the pleasures of the bedroom extend beyond its walls, so in preparation for Tuesday’s arrival, I clean every room. I like the possibility of taking him anyplace. Every space in the house is ready. The tables and counters are clear. The floors are clean enough to eat off of. I pull a large wooden box out from under my bed and lay the gear out on a towel. I unwrap each cock, each plug, each chain, each strap, and each clip. I polish the leather with saddle soap, shine the steel, and wipe down the rest with alcohol swabs and a hint of lavender. I put everything away but a blindfold before the doorbell rings. Wanting has grown in me like a horse pounding its hooves, steam rolling out of its nostrils like the blackest aspect of fire. I conjure spurs and a whip. I tighten myself till I am calm, then I open the door and lead Tuesday in. He trembles as he kneels before me and I brush his black bangs aside to tie the blindfold. His breath is measured and I feel him sinking into where I want him, but before he goes down too deeply, I give him his safeword. I inhale. I begin.

  REMEMBERED MEN

  Shane Allison

  He was younger than me. He lived in a housing project. He had strawberry-blond hair with pubes to match. His ass was firm in dark blue shorts. He had kissable lips. He was an asshole all grown up. He had more foreskin than you could shake a stick at. He had a pretty big dick for someone his size. He had buck teeth. He was poor white trash who gave great head. He had an ass like a football player. He was such a nerd. He asked me to take a photo of my dick and bring it to school. He worked as an usher at a movie theatre. He liked to get fist-fucked. He sucked me off at a urinal. His brother was also gay. He wanted me to prove that I loved him by swallowing it. He fucked me senseless. His name was Tony. He was my first. He had the worst case of dandruff. He was too damn skinny for my tastes. He had man-breasts. He had a short, fat, pretty prick. He nibbled my earlobes. He taught Spanish at the local university. His cat licked the hair grease from my head as its master rode me like a bull. His cat licked his balls from behind as his master sucked me. He came on my stomach. He parted my asscheeks. He fingered my ass with his married finger. It hurt a little, but after the initial pain, it felt pretty damn good. His dick came up to his belly button. His last name was Cocke. He answered the door wearing nothing but green shorts and a durag. He slapped me around and I liked it. He swallowed my cum. He made me suck his balls. He made me suck his nipples. He called me a whore. He’s right. He called me a whore and I loved him even more. He stood me up. He shoved a sex toy up in me. His dick was pierced. He had a British accent. He said, “Get down there and suck it.” He wore latex underwear. He never did call the next day like he said he would. He wouldn’t stop calling. He started to freak me out when he came by unexpectedly. He asked, “Are you ready for the rim chair?” He was old and balding. He was fat and just right. He was a tad too sissyish for my blood. He had blushing balls in a leather cock ring. He told me I could move in if I drank his piss. He asked, “You want to be my pig boy?” He kept saying, “Let me in you.” He spoke with the thickest New York accent. He lived in Jersey. He was a rough punk with tattoos. He was blond and bearded. He had three dogs. He and I drank coconut rum and talked about “Queer as Folk.” His breath smelled of fish and cigarettes. He said, “I hope you’re not getting drunk just to have sex with me.” He was Italian and talked too much. He had hard thighs. He had filthy fingernails. He was Jewish, you know. He picked fights with me. He took the piercing out of his dick. He was much cuter with the Afro. He was HIV positive. His family had no idea. He talked dirty to me. He was called a fag by bullies and high school football players. He was happily married. He swore to me he was disease free. His wife hadn’t a clue. His milk-white skin. He was moving to Europe. He told me why, but I forgot. He handcuffed me. He used the whip to take his frustrations out on my flesh. He asked, “Are you a homosexual?” He told me to take off my pants. He held me at knife-point. He busted us both for lewdness down by the tracks. He was a cop undercover. He was Greek and new to the city. He was old-fashioned. He had a whi
te girlfriend. He was Puerto Rican. He claimed he liked the flowers. He had soft, red fur around his asshole. He walked me home out of the rain. His cigarette breath on my neck. He asked as I began to finger-fuck his ass, “Can I go to the bathroom before you do that?” He snored and belched. He farted in my face as we sixty-nined each other. He said, “For ten dollars I’ll suck it right off the bone.” He said he wasn’t a hustler, but just wanted money for something to eat. He sucked me off for two bucks. He told me he wasn’t homeless or a drug addict. He blew me right there on the hood of his car. He worked at a gas station. His face and back was burned. He drove an old Jaguar. He fucked me like I had a pussy. He said, “I appreciate the cards and love letters.” He said I came on too strong. He accused me of keying his car. He was so heavy on top of me, I couldn’t breathe. His apartment had hardwood floors. His bed with the pale-blue sheets. His roommate was asleep in the next room, but he didn’t care. He told me to keep quiet. He asked, “Do you think your roommates would like to join in?” He drove naked through the dirt roads. He had come three times already. He was such a pig. He asked, “Would you like me to drink your piss now?” He called me Shawn. He wore black shoes with buckles. His jeans and underwear pulled down around his ankles. He left his stall door open for all to see. He told me to clean up my cum. He asked me if I was black. He thought I was West Indian. His shirt with yellow armpit stains. He had low-hanging balls. His dimpled bubble-butt. His moustache pricked my lip. He left me sore for days. His flat feet, the bony toes. His braids all in rows. His yellow bandana. His filthy asscrack. His hairy ass in the denim chaps. His hot, Hispanic accent. His Mohawk haircut. His polished fingernails. His pierced lips around my dick. He asked me what I was into. His mouth filled with all that cum and spit. He stood me up. He avoided me in the hall. He ignored my calls. He said he didn’t care about looks. His toes were pretty and pedicured. He lived in Soho. He was a geology major. He loved Steven Spielberg. He was eight years older than me. He freaked me out with his obsession for teenage boys. He worked at a bowling alley. He looked like Madonna from the Papa Don’t Preach video. He wore a fake carnation in his hair. His head was shaved. His crotch was shaved. He was on the down low. His parents didn’t know. He tinted the windows of his car so he could make out with guys in parking lots. His dirty socks thrown in the corner of the room. He had a mole on his dick. He drank too much. He was a filthy, sexist bastard. He warned me about the cops in this place. His dick with all those veins. He had all that built-up dickcheese. He liked to wear makeup. He won a glow-in-the-dark rubber in a bingo game. He was a motivational speaker who lived in the Bronx. He performed as a drag queen at a club I forget the name of. He was a pretty-eyed tranny. He dressed better than most of the women I know. He stepped out wearing a black miniskirt. He had a mullet and smelled of cheap perfume. He was bisexual. He was a drunken old queen wearing a fake fur. He was a heathen. He was a born-again Christian. He was a gay Republican. He was torn between his religion and his love for men. He was such a club kid. He was such a pretty boy. He couldn’t come for doing so much coke. He paid top dollar for my soiled undies. He wanted to fuck right there in the hallway. He lived with his ailing mother. He said, “Damn you’re huge.” He took long whiffs of my socks. He held the poppers to my nose. He was butt-naked in the park. He fought with the drunken guy whose wallet was stolen at the Unicorn. He said, “Easy with the teeth, dude.” He said, “C’mon, I’m trying to suck a dick here.” He had muscles like you would not believe. He liked getting spanked. He looked like a young Jeff Daniels. He had untrustworthy eyes. He made the best vodka breezes in the West Village. His shimmering torso. He just stood there jacking off. He threw up on my dick. He gave me a soapy rag for the mess. He liked the poem I wrote. He slapped my ass with his dick. He was a Brooklyn thug. He asked if I had any weed on me. He was an Irish chef. He had to leave the club early. He said he had to go to church the next day. He had popsicle-red lips. His pink piss slit. He gave me herpes. He said, “Maybe you should start dating girls.” He sucked the scat right off my dick. He cheated on his wife with me and from the looks of her, who could blame him? His name was Melvin. His dick was the first I ever sucked. He looked like Jerry Springer, but better looking. He had a dog named Byron. He was too drunk to fuck. He told me my dick was beautiful. He turned me into a size queen. He scared the hell out of us. He asked if he could join in when he caught us fucking. He said I smelled like good weed. He was this cute, Middle Eastern boy. He offered me some Jack Daniels. He left me chafed and scabbed, but I liked it. He cruised truck stops for dick. He had a baby dick. His dick was cold, but it warmed up quite nicely in my mouth. He lived for the tearooms. He liked to bite and pinch. He reminded me of all that great sex I used to have in the park. He pissed in the booths. He kicked me out and yelled, “Faggot ass!” He had hepatitis C. His cum tasted kind of Cloroxy. He said it wouldn’t hurt if I just relaxed. He said, “You gotta come, man, my legs are giving out.” He turned his hat backward before he started to suck me. His dick smelled bad. His name was Jonathan. He jerked off in the mayonnaise at Burger King. He wore a black shirt that said SECURITY on the back. He broke up the sex orgy. He was a rugged trucker. He said if he didn’t suck a dick soon, he’d explode. He squirted and came. He wore snakeskin boots that night. He was free on Mondays and Wednesday evenings. He wanted to come on my face. He almost came in my eye. He made me come without even touching me. He asked me what I was into. He was so naïve. He said he wasn’t that big. He unzipped his pants and took it out. He was right. He wasn’t that big. He was really going to town on his dick. He said, “I love the color of your skin.” He adored the taste of unclean foreskin. He said, “Now suck it, slut!” He didn’t like to be watched. He said, “Go away, nigger,” when I stuck my dick under his stall. He lay in white sand sunbathing in the nude. He used a dirty sock to wipe up the mess. He said, “C’mon on, man. Glide me in.” He said, “You wanna butt-fuck me?” He didn’t want to meet at his place due to the nosey neighbors. He fucked me in a cemetery. He bent over the bed of the truck and spread his asscheeks for me. His web name is Sexy Bear Butt. He wore a platinum blonde beehive wig. He’d only experimented with guys a few times. He and I had phone sex. He hung up as soon as I came. He said he loved me and I believed it. His name was Chris. His girlfriend found out about us. He was so big, he made me gag. He got pissed when I refused to swallow it. He laughed when I told him I had a crush on him. He shook his ass harder when I waved a dollar in his face. He drove a beat-up old Chevy. He came all over my maroon sweater. He drove a green Camaro. He threw my love letters away. He patted me on the head when I swallowed his cum. His breath was a mixture of peppermint and fish. He used to be a woman. He took me to Woodstock for the weekend. He had one ball, but a big, thick dick. He was my sugar daddy. He loved to get gangbanged. He tied me up. He gagged me with his stinking underwear. He was all the rage at the bathhouses. He believed in monogamy. He was a nelly bottom. He liked it rough. He sucked us both off. He said it felt good when his wife used a dildo. He found the Polaroids of my dick in a folder. He was such a sissy slut. He was a teddy bear bottom. He told me that my dick was a perfect fit. He’d always fantasized about what sex would be like with a black guy. He tugged my balls too hard. He liked how gentle I was. He wasn’t into white guys. He cheated on his wife. His greasy anal plugs. He wore panties under his jeans. His girlfriend had no idea. He cock blocked me from the other boys. He said, “I keep my ass clean and love to get eaten.” He preferred to rim a dirty asshole. He sucked me off on a stack of corn in the storage room where we used to be movie ushers. He had that one gold tooth in the front. He said, “You shot a big load.” He confessed that his accent was fake and that he was really from Georgia. He struggled to stuff his dick in me all night long, but never got it in. He said I was tight. He got fucked by some guy he didn’t know. He liked it bareback. He wanted me to come in his ass. He said, “Don’t nut in my mouth.” He drank my cum like it was beer. He kept saying, “Fuck me like I fuck my wife.” He couldn�
�t give head for shit to be such a slut. His ass smelled like Irish Spring. He ate me out for countless hours. He was able to fit two dicks up his ass at once. He said, “Let me see those titties.” He wanted to sniff my feet while he jacked off. He left an imprint of his asscheeks on the dashboard of my truck. He said, “Too sweaty, dude, too sweaty.” (Meaning my butt.) He was a famous poet. He said my underwear wasn’t ripe enough. He yelled, “Fuck my white ass!” He bled a bit. His dick was wet and nasty, but I sucked him anyway. He shot a load on my painter pants. He didn’t want his wife to know. He asked me if I had a place. He wore black boxers with red Playboy bunnies on them. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. He said, “I’ll cut your fucking throat.” He was a fine piece of Mexican ass. He was such a cock tease. He wore a Silence=Death T-shirt. His wife seemed nice. He smelled like baby powder down there. He said, “Hold on to me while I come.” He said to me, as I blew him, “I knew I would get some action tonight if I came here.” He doesn’t have the time for me now that his girlfriend has moved in. He likes to call me a nigger while I suck him off. He wants white, young dick only. His shaved balls. He has a black mouth for a white cock. He took a rubber out of the glove compartment. He was a hot, white male seeking same. He took his clothes off. His bare ass behind the bar. He stuck his dick under my stall. His wife wasn’t home so my timing was perfect. He asked, “You didn’t come in my ass did you?” He said that Jason Bartlett is a flaming faggot. (Whoever the hell Jason Bartlett is.) He drank too much. His name was Ronny. He loved to wear diapers and blue bonnets. He could fit a Ping-Pong ball up that ass. He put his shirt back on when I walked into the office. His big, Cuban dick. He videotaped us having sex. He was a virgin.