Best Gay Erotica 2005

by Richard Labonté

  “I can’t let you hold me back,” he whispers. “I’m going places.”

  “Hold you back? Me? Hold you back? I’m legal counsel to three-billion-dollar corporations! I advise the governor! I’m in a position to help you. I know people in this town!”

  “I don’t need help. I can do it on my own. Besides,” he adds gently, “you’re old. Me, I’m just beginning.”

  Old? Old? I look in the mirror, and a forty-five-year-old stares back at me, a complete stranger. I’ve never known anyone, let alone a goddamn prostitute, who was so capable of making me feel so suddenly like shit.

  “Do you like me, Chevy?”

  “Of course I like you.”

  “What do you like about me? What exactly?”

  He nuzzles my neck, murmuring sweet nothings, joking about who else could pay the rent. I shove him away.

  “I’m serious.”

  He stares at me for a moment and then says firmly, “I like you because I don’t have to lie to you. Don’t spoil that.”

  Sometimes, when I come home in the afternoon, the apartment reeks of lust and jizz and sweat and I know he’s been bringing the businessmen home at lunchtime, which is against the rules of our arrangement.

  “It’s not businessmen,” he says, modestly. “It’s my professors.” His wicked smile takes away the sting, as if it were all a big joke between us, we two men of the world. I force a smile, because I can’t jeopardize the fuck of my life, which looms bigger and bigger.

  Chevy is the only person in my life whose attention is worth getting. I beg him to tell me about his johns down to the very last detail, and I listen to these stories with the awed fascination with which one watches a train wreck.

  At dinner parties, I watch Chevy work my friends. He listens long enough to be able to spout their opinions back to their face. He laughs at their terrible jokes. On the way home, Chevy admits that he gave head to the host in the back room for $250. “It was too good a deal to pass up,” he apologizes. “Your friends have a lot of money,” he adds admiringly.

  “Fags always have money,” I snap.

  “I know.”

  “Of course you do. You’re a goddamn prostitute!”

  He says nothing.

  “I want to watch you fuck someone,” I propose.

  His eyes shift toward me in the dark. “I don’t know,” he says warily.

  “I’ll pay.”

  “Let me think about it.” He rearranges himself in the passenger seat, so his back is half-turned to me and his head is against the door. But in his reflection in the window, I see his eyes are restless. After ten minutes of pure silence, he advises, “Don’t fall in love with the help.”

  “You’re more than ‘help’ to me, Chevy.”

  “I know. That’s the problem.” He turns his face to me. The crease in his brow makes him more gorgeous than I’ve ever seen him. He offers a hopeless shrug. Chevy seems to have known long before me everything that I feel—even that I have fallen in love. He seems to have known these things so far in advance of me that it is utterly necessary to prove him wrong.

  “Hey, Chevy, I’m not in love with you.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  “Get over yourself, Chevy. You’re not that hot.”

  He flashes a wicked grin. “Get over myself? Would you get over yourself if you looked like this?”

  One night, Chevy says, “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I’ve got to do an in-call tonight. Do you mind making yourself…you know…scarce?”

  I fiercely hope the john’s some homicidal monster from whose clutches I can save him. I listen through the bedroom door to Chevy’s champagne laugh. Bitterly, I remember him telling me, “The trick is to tell the johns what they want to hear—if they want to hear I’m with women, too, I tell them that. If they want to hear ‘I love you,’ I tell them that. If they just want to fuck, all the better.”

  I push the door. The hinge is perfectly oiled. They are on the bed together, sweating like a cold glass of lemonade in the summer sun. Chevy’s gripping the headboard. His feet are on the john’s chest. The john is staring down at where his cock enters Chevy as if he’s sure he’ll lose his way, or can’t quite believe his good fortune at fucking such a perfect ass.

  Chevy flashes me a quick, sharp look over the john’s shoulder. Then he relaxes. He lets his mouth fall half open. He doesn’t care if I respect him. This is what I do, his posture seems to say, it should come as no surprise to you.

  I spank it as I watch, and don’t clean up the jizz on the floor. I retreat from the room and pace the apartment, skinned and raw. The slightest city noise is an assault, a breath of fresh air is a screaming abrasive, the least murmur is a condemnation. Chevy does not love me. He will never love me.

  After the john has left, I climb into bed beside Chevy. I smell the john’s sweat. I see the crinkled foils on the floor next to the bed, a tube of uncapped KY next to it, with a lick of lube dangling from its opening.

  “Give me the fuck of my life, Chevy,” I demand. And then I begin to cry, surprising even myself. I don’t usually pay for what I do.

  He cradles my head, then pushes it down, down his perfect chest, down his chiseled abs, to the line of pubic hair. He presses his cock to the back of my throat. I am as hungry for him as I was on that first night. I would trade my soul for a fuck with him that does not end.

  I lie on my back. He straddles my chest. His cock is in my face. His crotch has been buzz cut. At first, I suck him, but then he’s fucking my mouth. His quaking hips explode into a one, two, three, as he rams his cock into the back of my mouth, performing a sudden inadvertent tonsillectomy. He takes his cock out of my mouth and beats my lips with it.

  Then he straddles my face. His balls rest on my cheekbones. His shaft is like the bar of a jail cell and I follow it down to his ass and try to lick my way out. He sits on me, hard, and I think I’m going to be smothered in pure ass. The panic excites me. I bite and chew and my tongue finds its familiar way inside him.

  He rolls me onto my belly. His hands lend an electric hum to my skin. The tip of his cock makes a home in me, slowly, insistently, a little more each time, until the whole of it is in me.

  I am paralyzed. I know it’s a mercy fuck, and I know he means for me to know. He’s giving me this one last chance to win back my pride. To throw him out on the street where he belongs.

  But pride loses to this one last chance to pretend.

  “Tell me you love me,” I choke out.

  “What?”

  “Tell me you love me.” It seems a necessary ingredient of the fuck of your life.

  He nibbles my ear. His breath is all fire. I am listening to seashells telling me dirty, ancient songs. I am listening to gibberish and magic spells. Obediently, he tells me he loves me. For a moment, I take those sweet words at face value. They are the worn, velvet soreness of a fucked rectum, the trembling animal heat caged in strong arms. They are what it means to make love.

  I reach for myself. He is pounding hard now and my insides are soft and then he catches himself. He slows to a point so excruciating, I gasp. I push back against him, to get him in me again, where he belongs. My ass is suddenly empty and anguished. And I feel him, just at the door again, on the threshold of my ass. And his swelling makes me swell, and a fiery rush ignites there, spreads quickly up my shaft, in a heated circle from this one source, and I gush all over the sheets.

  He pulls from me immediately, tears off the condom, and beats himself off. He sprays jizz all over me, like a champion athlete in a locker room shaking the champagne with a thumb on the mouth of the bottle, an outrageous celebration of his body over mine.

  Gamblers

  Bob Vickery

  There’s an empty seat at the blackjack table where Sam’s dealing, and I quickly slide into it. I push two five-dollar chips in front of me as he deals out the cards. Sam nods at me, and smiles. “Hello, Al,” he says, in his friendly baritone. “Nice to see you again.”

 
“Hi, Sam,” I say. “Thanks. It’s good to be back.” This is the casino that feels most like home for me on my frequent trips to Reno, and by now I’ve got a nodding acquaintance with just about all of the staff. Sam’s my favorite dealer, big-boned and easygoing, with a handy smile that flashes white in his tanned face.

  I glance around quickly at my table mates: a middle-aged couple with matching aloha shirts, a leather-faced cowboy, an old woman with gimlet eyes and a permanently bitter mouth, and a kid with a Grateful Dead T-shirt and torn, faded Levis.

  Sam’s done dealing, and my face card is the queen of diamonds. I sneak a look at my down card. Two of clubs. Damn.

  “Hit me,” I say, and Sam hits me with a nine of hearts. Things are looking up. “I’ll stick,” I say. Sam goes around the table, ending with the kid, who stays with what he has. Sam flips over his cards. Two jacks.

  “Fuck!” the kid mutters.

  “Hey, watch the language,” Sam says, fixing him with a look as he takes the kid’s chips.

  The kid just shrugs in disgust. I give him a closer look. He’s young, barely out of his teens, and he looks like a punk: black hair greased and combed back, a surly baby face, eyes dark and contemptuous. The torso under his tight shirt is lean and muscled, and his bicep curls to a nice pump when he raises his cigarette to his mouth. I catch Sam’s eye, nod toward the kid and raise an eyebrow. Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. The kid’s bad news is his silent message.

  The kid takes what’s left of his chips and pushes them in front of him. “Okay,” he says. “Enough dicking around. I’m going for broke.” I put out my standard ten-dollar bet.

  Sam deals the cards again. He deals himself an ace and a queen. “Blackjack,” he says. The kid slaps his hand on the table. “Motherfuck!” he snarls.

  “I warned you about the language,” Sam says. “Keep it up, and you’re going to have to leave the table.”

  The kid gives a bitter laugh. “Big fuckin’ deal. I’m broke anyway.” He stands up, and his chair tips over and crashes to the floor. He stalks away from the table and gets lost among the slots.

  The old woman shakes her head. “Loser,” she mutters. The others at the table nod in agreement. Still, I can’t help feeling a little sorry for the kid. Some folks just don’t know when to quit.

  Later that night, out in the parking lot, I notice an old, beat-up Pinto parked next to my car, badly dinged and mottled with primer paint. I glance inside it as I unlock my door. The kid’s curled up in the back, asleep. Jesus Christ, I think, shaking my head. I climb into my car and drive off.

  Sunday morning, I check out of my hotel and head for home. I did all right this weekend, winning enough to cover my expenses and even walk away with a hundred or so extra dollars. As I approach the Highway 80 on-ramp, I notice a hitchhiker standing at the side with his thumb out. It’s the kid who lost at Sam’s table.

  I don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, but, I dunno, maybe because I have a little history with the kid I make an impulse decision and pull over. He grabs his duffel bag and hops in.

  “Thanks, man,” he says.

  “Where you headed?” I ask.

  “Bakersfield.”

  “I’m going to Modesto. That’ll get you part of the way at least.”

  “Cool.”

  We make the introductions, and the kid tells me his name is Billy. We drive down the highway in silence for a couple of minutes. “What happened to your Pinto?” I finally ask.

  Billy shoots me a sharp glance. “How did you….”

  “I saw you asleep in it a couple of nights ago in the casino parking lot.”

  “Oh,” he says. He looks out his window and then back at me. “I sold it at a used car lot.” He snorted. “The sonovabitch only gave me a couple of hundred bucks for it.”

  Which you pissed away at the blackjack tables, I think. It’s not even worth asking him about. He’s looking out the window, and I sneak a glance at him. I take in the quarter profile he’s offering me: the left jawline, the tip of his nose, the young, strong neck…. He turns suddenly to face me, and I glance away.

  We travel down the highway for a long time without saying anything. After a while, Billy slouches down into his seat and closes his eyes. He starts snoring lightly. I look at him again. He’s a handsome kid, his face boyish but just beginning to take on the shape of a man’s. His mouth, half open now, is wide and sensual. My eyes slide down his tight, muscular torso and settle on the bulge beneath the crotch of his tattered jeans. I glance back at his face again, and see his eyes staring back, fixing me with a sharp, knowing look. Neither of us says anything as I direct my eyes back to the road.

  Traffic comes to a dead halt just outside of Elk Grove. The highway’s a fuckin’ parking lot, nothing but cars, bumper to bumper, for as far as the eye can see. I turn on the radio and find a traffic report, which tells us that there’s a five-car pileup just north of Stockton that has traffic backed up for twenty miles. After two hours, we creep no further than half a mile. “Screw this,” I say. “I’m going to get a motel room, and finish this trip tomorrow.” Billy says nothing.

  We inch up to the next exit and pull off the highway. There’s a Holiday Inn just down the road, and I pull into the parking lot. The sun is beginning to set, and the shadows from the motel buildings fall across the asphalt paving. I turn off the ignition and turn towards Billy. “Okay, Billy,” I say. “This is where we part company.”

  Billy just looks at me. “Can I sleep in the back of your car?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “I’m sorry.” Billy doesn’t say anything. I don’t bother asking if he’s got money for a room. “You need to get out, now, Billy,” I say, putting an edge to my voice. Billy still doesn’t say anything. “Billy…” I say.

  Billy turns to me. “I got nowhere to go, man,” he says.

  I give Billy a long, level look. “All right,” I finally say. “Just don’t scuff up the upholstery with your shoes, okay?”

  “Sure,” Billy says. “No problem.”

  I check in and secure a room. I grab dinner in the motel restaurant, deliberately pushing Billy out of my mind. As I walk back to my room, I notice how cold the night has gotten. Once inside, I stretch out on the double bed and turn on the TV. After about an hour of this, I turn it off. Fuck, I think savagely. I put on my coat and walk out to the parking lot. There’s a pole fixture near by, and by its light I can see Billy curled up in the back seat.

  I open the door, and Billy raises his head and looks at me. “Okay,” I snap. “There’s a couch in my room. You can sleep there. Or the floor, if you prefer.”

  Billy’s face is in shadow, so I can’t see his expression. “Just let me get my duffel bag,” he says.

  Inside, the first thing Billy does is head for the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower, okay?” he says.

  “Fine,” I say. He’s probably long overdue. God knows when he’s last slept in an actual room with a bath.

  I lie back in my bed and go back to watching the television, half-listening to the hiss of the shower. After a few minutes, Billy comes out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He sits in a chair that faces the bed, grinning. “I fuckin’ needed that,” he says.

  I grunt something, trying not to stare at how the muscles of his torso are cut, the stomach lean and chiseled. I turn my attention back to the television, but I keep sneaking glances in Billy’s direction. Billy returns my stare calmly. Each time I look at him, his legs are spread a little wider, until I finally get to see that he’s got half a hard-on, flopped against his thigh. My dick is straining against the fabric of my slacks like there’s hell to pay.

  I give Billy a hard stare. He smiles. His dick is fully stiff now. “Look,” I say. “You don’t have to do this. I wasn’t attaching any strings when I said you could sleep here.”

  Billy undoes his towel and lets it fall beside him. He’s slouching in the chair, and his stiff dick lolls lazily against his belly. It’s a beauty, fat
and veined, the head a red, shiny knob. He twitches it, and gives me a sly look to gauge my reaction. “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to,” he says. His balls hang heavily between his legs, furred by a dusting of fine, dark hairs. I imagine them slapping against my chin as he fucks my mouth.

  “Christ,” I mutter. I climb out of the bed and bury my face in his red, wrinkled sac, tonguing it, inhaling deeply. In spite of Billy’s shower, his balls have a faint, musky scent to them. I open my mouth and suck them inside, rolling my tongue over them. “Yeah,” Billy murmurs. “That’s right.” I look up and lock eyes with him, his ballsac still in my mouth. Billy’s mouth curls up into a slow grin. “Why don’t you get naked, Al?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, standing up. “Good idea.” I unbutton my shirt while Billy unbuckles my belt and pulls my zipper down. My slacks slither down to my ankles, and with a quick yank Billy tugs down my boxers. My dick springs up and sways heavily from side to side.

  Billy looks up at me, grinning. “Jesus, Al,” he says. “What a big dick you have!”

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “Little Red Riding Hood?” Billy laughs. I pull him to his feet, and we kiss, our bodies squirming together, flesh on flesh. Billy’s tongue snakes into my mouth as he grinds his hips against me. I wrap my arms around him in a bear hug and topple us onto the bed.

  We wrestle on top of the bedspread, our mouths fused together. “Scoot up my chest,” I say, “and drop those balls in my mouth.”

  “Sure, Al,” Billy says. He straddles my torso, his dick and balls looming above my face. I crane my neck and start washing his low-hangers with my tongue. I suck the meaty, red pouch into my mouth, and reach up and tweak Billy’s nipples.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Billy breathes. “Squeeze them hard.” I lock my gaze with Billy’s as I roll my tongue around his balls and give his nipples an extra twist. Billy’s eyes burn into mine with the look of a man with a serious nut to bust. He rubs his cock over my face, smearing my cheeks with pre-cum, and then shifts his position and pokes the fleshy knob against my lips. I open my mouth, and Billy slides his cock full in until his balls are pressing against my chin and my nose is buried in his crinkly pubes. He holds that position for a few beats. “You like that, Al?” he croons. “You like having your mouth stuffed with dick?”