Best Gay Erotica 2005

by Richard Labonté

  Dum-dum stood up and pressed something wet and fleshy against his quivering hole. Immediately Yang-Qi knew it was the engorged head of his cock, and was overcome with desire. He bore down. An explosion of lights and fireworks shot through him, his nerve endings crackling. He winced, held his breath, and waited for the stinging and burning to sputter out. Dum-dum ran his rough but gentle hands all over his body, soothing him, easing him down. Gradually, Yang-Qi felt himself rearing back, the widening cock stretching him, filling him. Dum-dum spat where they were now joined and Yang-Qi felt it slide down his crack and drip off his nuts. Before he knew it, he was rubbing deep into Dum-dum’s groin, the friction of pubic hair against his buttocks delicious. Dum-dum stepped forward, prodding Yang-Qi into an upright position. Yang-Qi hugged the bamboo, pressing his face and chest against the soothing coolness.

  Dum-dum got onto his toes and began rolling his hips, his tapered cock sliding easily out and in. Yang-Qi moaned with each thrust, lost in the new sensations both outside and in. Becoming aware of the aching need to release his boiling juice, he grabbed his cock, now harder and more swollen than he had ever felt it, and pumped away frantically. Dum-dum pinched his nipples and began pulling his cock out and slamming it in with all his muscular heft.

  The ache inside Yang-Qi radiated to a pulsing white. His muscles and joints locked in a massive convulsion as he sprayed his load, lashing the bamboo with fiery streaks. Just as the last gush of cum trickled over his fist, Dum-dum shoved up hard against him and yelped. He grabbed hold of the bamboo, pulled himself up deeply into Yang-Qi, and convulsed, his cock fluttering, throbbing, spurting inside him.

  They remained joined for some time, clinging to the bamboo like a cicada emerging from its former skin. Then, gingerly, Dum-dum eased himself off. Yang-Qi turned and studied his friend, his sweat-glistening body and his flaccid but still swollen cock twitching sorely between his thighs.

  Dum-dum looked down at Yang-Qi’s own spent cock and said, “You are a donkey, you know,” and Yang-Qi blushed.

  They began getting dressed.

  “I saw you at the rock that day,” Dum-dum started, reminding Yang-Qi of the view from halfway up the hill. “You should be careful no one catches you.”

  Yang-Qi pulled his pants off the bamboo branch in silence, thinking of the shame he’d have felt if he had been caught by anyone else.

  “You should come here, where it’s private,” Dum-dum continued.

  “I don’t think I could find this place by myself,” Yang-Qi answered truthfully.

  “I’ll bring you,” Dum-dum offered. They smiled at each other and then laughed.

  They made their way out of the thicket and back down the trail. Yang-Qi left his friend at his house and began the hike toward home.

  “Come tomorrow,” Dum-dum called after him. “You can help me pull bamboo shoots.”

  Along the way, Yang-Qi thought about the work that needed to be done the following day, and the day after that. For once he looked forward to the days and weeks ahead, rather than just floating along, season to season. And he’d see Dum-dum again, as invited. But now, strolling through the orange glow of the tiring sun, he savored the traces of Dum-dum on his tongue, on his hands, all over his body. He brought home a fresh crop of experiences that day, memories that he would enjoy all by himself later that night.

  Pink Triangle-Shaped Pubes

  Alexander Rowlson

  It’s forty minutes into geography class and you’ve glanced at my chest five times. As soon as you realize that I’m looking at you, you avert your gaze. You try to make me think that you weren’t looking at me, but I know the truth. I can see it in your eyes. Every time you look at me, you turn into a deer caught in the headlights. A blank expression falls across your face as you think about all the dirty things that you want to do to me, like taste my cum or tongue my hole. Whatever it is that you fags do to each other.

  You make me sick and I think that you know that. I think that’s part of the reason that you like me. It turns you on, doesn’t it? Oh! Caught you looking again, naughty little boy. This time you’re a bit bolder: I spy your little eye looking straight at my crotch. I’m half hard, so I decide to flex my dick so it bulges in my pants. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?

  You look at me, hopeful and nervous and timid. I look you straight in the eye and mouth the word fag and watch the pain and embarrassment wash over your face. You quickly turn your head toward your paper and try as hard as you can to ignore me. I just stare at you from across the room.

  Your hair is bright pink and the dye is coming off on the collar of your shirt. I imagine you in the shower for the first time after dying your hair. Half the dye washes out, staining all the hairs on your body. You even have pink triangle-shaped pubes. Thinking about this makes me laugh out loud. The girl in front of me turns around and smiles. She looks like a slut. I could fuck her. That makes me laugh too. I try to picture my cock pushing through her cherry-painted lips. I imagine grabbing hold of her ears and ramming my pole into the back of her throat, causing her to gag. She hasn’t sucked as much cock as you have, so she doesn’t know how to take it all in like a good bitch.

  And then you start looking at me again. I know because I’ve been watching your eyes as they turned away from your paper and slowly made their way toward my leg. I try to catch the eye of my man Stan, and Stan’s thinking the same. We look at each other and I point at you and mouth, Watch. I let out a whistle like a beer-bellied construction worker, causing you to look up. When you catch my eye I smooch my lips together and make kissing noises. Stan the man laughs, as do most of the kids around him. Half of them don’t even know why they’re laughing, but do so out of boredom.

  The ruckus causes the teacher to stop writing out some tired passage on the blackboard and turn to the class in a half-assed attempt to make us be quiet.

  You are mortified, and your public humiliation gives me a full hard-on. Your face turns bright crimson (just like your candy-ass hair) and your bottom lip starts to quiver. I know you won’t cry, though. You haven’t cried yet, and I’ve seen you get a lot closer than this. Like that time in gym, when me and Stan pantsed you in front of the whole class and you weren’t wearing any underwear (’cause gay boys are such skanks) so the whole class saw your flaccid friend. But the best part was when the coach gave you trouble for being a perv and you had to run laps. I thought I’d see you cry then, but you didn’t. And you’re not going to now.

  Your face is pretty when you look like this. You’re pretty like a girl. I can’t stop staring at you, and you can sense it. It embarrasses you even more and you squirm in your seat. I think about you sucking on my cock. You’d do it well. You’ve had a lot of practice. And, you’ve got those cocksucker lips. I can see your lips around my dick when I close my eyes. I start to flex my PC muscle, causing my cock to push against my pants and send shivers up my spine.

  I remember the first time I saw your lips around a cock. It was at Queen’s Park. Talk about the right place at the right time. I like going down there to watch; you never know what you’re going to see, or who. I was leaning against a tree and watching some queers suck each other off in the shadows. I tried to match their rhythm with my hand as I jacked off. Some old geezer tried to swoop in for the kill, coming toward me and grabbing at my cock. I pushed his hand away, but he was relentless. Soon he had whipped himself out of his pants. I looked up at him and said, “You dirty fucking faggot!” and I spit in his face as I pushed him away. It was a good one too, lots of mucus. As he scrambled away, I made my way to another tree and watched the scene more closely.

  I didn’t know it was you at first because you had a hat on. The other guy had just come and you were standing up to get your turn. The hat hid your face, but as soon as your pants were around your ankles, I knew. Pink triangle-shaped pubes in the glow of the streetlight. I watched as you were getting your cock sucked, and kept on jacking off.

  I shot into my hand, wiped it on the tree, and started walki
ng up to the subway. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Suddenly the bell rings. I gather my things and make my way out of class. As I pass you, I cuff you on the back of the head. You look up at me as I walk out the door and I wink at you.

  Face Value

  Scott Pomfret

  I don’t usually pay. But sometimes when the urge is on me and my cock is hard and I’ve been pacing my apartment like a panther and fingering my own ass raw—at those times I am not afraid to pay. It makes me feel virtuous that I don’t make a habit of it.

  A streetlight shines on the boys for sale. They’re the ones who are too old for Social Services to care about. The state owes you nothing once you turn eighteen, so the boys cluster on the sidewalk, a bunch of pistons at different ranges of the stroke: some on the curb, some butts astride their backpacks. Most leaning on the wall for display. You can take your time picking among them, whatever you might want for the night.

  The first time I saw Chevy, he stuck out from a hundred paces. He wears two thin silver earrings. His hair collects streetlight. His cheeks keep the last rose of his teens, and his eyes capture something liquid and sullen. His ass is a perfect grab.

  “I’m very bad,” he drawls, and raises his arched eyebrows. “And I’m very, very good.” He licks his lips, so they shine. He quotes a price that’s too high. When I object, he says simply, “It’s all about value, you get what you pay for. You got to pony up the coin.” He turns sideways and exhibits his profile. Shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit whether you buy him or not. Sweat gathers in the depression between his collarbones, trembles, and falls, drawing a neat wet line between his nipples. The other kids step aside to let him go first, bowing to the inevitable, and the fact that, once Chevy is out of the way, competition will be more favorable.

  In my apartment, I can’t take my eyes off the muscled belly, the smooth chest, the lean, angled hip to which my hand automatically strays. My own breath frightens me. My mouth dries and it is hard to breathe.

  “I want you.”

  “I know.”

  He is wary at first, trying to sense what I’m looking for. Then, increasingly playful, he binds my wrists with my shirt as he pulls it over my head. He twists a nipple. He kneels at my belt, in a sudden hurry as he drags down my pants.

  “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he says and pulls my cock from my trousers. “Oh, very nice.” He turns it over, sights down the shaft as if it were the barrel of a gun. “Very nice. You have to keep this thing registered?” He asks playfully. “As a dangerous weapon?”

  He breathes hot fire until my cock is taut as a bowstring. He mimes a hand job, barely touching my skin. I reach down to force him, but he swats my hands away. He gargles my balls, and works his way backward, under me, away from my dick along the shaft to my ass. Where he bites me hard enough to make me jump.

  He propels me to the bed. The base of his hand forces my lower back. His thumb-ring pings my spinal column. He lies on me with his cock in my crack.

  “Is this what you want?”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I gasp, “fuck me.”

  “I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked,” he breathes in my ear. His mouth sounds full. It is. A slow drool of saliva, like a long slow finger, drips between my shoulder blades. He spreads it with his lips. Then slides down my back until the same thick drool is froth in my ass. His finger rides up in me. He props my hips, reaches in under my sac. His wet hands make a mess of me.

  “Do you like that?” Over and over he repeats the question, until I groan and twist and snap: “Of course I like it! Now wouldja fuck me, please!”

  He turns me over as if he is ready. But when I face him, on my back, receptive, knees bent, he sits up. He lets me stare at him, a bemused smile on his face. He runs his hand over his body, like a shy, flushed girl—first at his neck, then touching his nipple and belly. He licks a finger and inserts it in his belly button. He lets the hand play at the fringe of his crotch. He brings the finger to his nose and sniffs. His cock is beautiful, a rocket twitching on the pad before takeoff, worn red in contrast to the golden rose of the rest of him.

  “Do you want me still?” he asks.

  I loop my ankles behind his thin hips and yank him down on top of me.

  He becomes another person. He wields a condom the way a magician works a magic handkerchief: It just appears in his palm. He spreads my cheeks and begins to fuck me, angling his penis around to give himself some more space, gripping my knees hard to leverage himself inside. He butts me like a ram until my neck is crooked against the headboard. He climbs up on me until he is a long flat firm board, his hands gripping the headboard, anchoring his lower half. He fucks me like that, as if he were a bridge across my bed, his muscles taut, touching me with only his cock and the occasional wet kiss of slapped hips. When I can stand it no longer—and it goes on for days and nights; kingdoms are born, rise, and fall; stars burn and shoot off into the night; gods age and are forgotten—I tug myself off in a rhythmic hand-chatter to his deep grunts.

  “I want you! I want you! I want you!” he says over and over, until I explode semen into my own chest hair. He thrusts three more times, hard, and then pulls out, and there’s a barnyard stench of ass in the air. He studies me with a look so hot I twitch and shudder.

  He spoons me with an embrace as light as a feather. His cock is a red-hot brand. I reach for it, but he knocks my hand away. “This is your night,” he says. And I know he means: It isn’t the point for him to get off, and besides he can save it for another trick.

  Or for me, if I want to pay again.

  We kill time talking. Chevy says he’s from a little town in northern New Hampshire, where his mother is the town skank. She fucks the police chief for her yearly get-out-of-jail-free card. She fucks the mayor. “I hear she gives head almost as good as me,” he says.

  Chevy loves her. She’s fierce on his behalf and proud. But he knows she isn’t going to help him get anywhere. “She doesn’t have the juice,” he says. “It’s too late for her. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is.”

  Normally, I don’t listen to a street kid’s lies. My skepticism is a powerful prophylactic. But Chevy’s so open in talking about love, and so good a talker, that his tale of sorrow infects me with sympathy. By the time he’s done, I don’t really want to fuck him. But I do. Can’t give up this chance, ’cause I might not see him again, what with the turnover on the street being so high, and me not usually needing to pay for what I do.

  I grab his ankles as if he were a baby and lift him up as if to diaper him. His asshole is a perfect flower. I smell him and taste him, and then flicker my tongue. He obliges with a few tender groans, a pant like a coal train, then I push my tongue as far into his ass as I can. When I fuck him, I take it slow.

  “Must be a hard life,” I say.

  “Not really. One way or another, everyone sells themselves to get by.”

  I find it endearing the way Chevy likes to say hard things and call them the truth, as if to demonstrate that he does not blink in the face of life. As he assembles his clothes a little after midnight, I’m satiated, full of tenderness and mercy. And sorry about his skanky mother and tough rural childhood and his rabid ambition that’s not matched to where he started in life. It’s amazing how sympathetic an orgasm will make you.

  Impulsively, I invite him to spend the night. Wave a hand at my apartment. “Not a bad place. Penthouse. Jacuzzi.”

  He glances at his watch, which never came off while we fucked. He mentions a fair figure for cuddling, and I agree to half that. At dawn, he resumes dressing.

  “Don’t go,” I say. “I’ll call into work, tell them I’m late.”

  “Can’t,” he says. “I only work nights. I have class.”

  “Class?”

  He looks up, insulted. But that look dies away from practice; he has learned not to antagonize the johns. He explains he’s in college, he pays for it with tricks, he’s got to get ahead.

  Yeah, yeah, ye
ah, I think. Whatever. And I invite him back for another night of fun. That night becomes another, and another after that.

  By the third day, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m half in love. I get hard at the sound of his voice. I had forgotten it’s possible to fall in love like this, and scold myself for acting like a schoolboy with the captain of the wrestling team. Lord have mercy, I say to myself, you’re forty-five years old.

  With a forced, casual air—as if his answer did not matter one way or another—I ask at the end of the third date, “Chevy, why don’t you come live with me? Seriously. Bring all your stuff.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say and we both know it; play with it; tongue over, taste, test, sniff it.

  I might as well have dropped an anvil on his toes. He looks at me a long, long time. Then he says, “I’m still going to work. I don’t want to be dependent. Got it?”

  I nod.

  It’s against his better judgment, and certainly against mine. But if he robs me, he robs me, I say to myself and I know I am lying and should run from this thing with my hands over my head and no look back.

  “Someday,” he promises as he moves in, “I’ll pay you back. I’ll give you the fuck of your life.”

  “You already did.”

  “The first night? That was nothing.”

  I am astonished. That first night has become everything to me. I think of it all the time. It seems impossible that he doesn’t have the same sense that we were brought together by forces bigger than ourselves. It makes me horny just to think about it.

  For weeks afterward, I have no clue what Chevy’s thinking. I can’t tell if he enjoys making it with me, or if it’s just a series of mercy fucks. One night before he goes out, I suggest he quit his work. “I’ll take care of the bills. What have you got to worry about?”