Best Gay Erotica 2005

by Richard Labonté

  Slowly, methodically, he wraps my body. And I am more than a little afraid—no, nervous. He wraps me in Saran Wrap, like a mummy, until I cannot move. My entire body, except for feet and head, are completely secured. It is a test of my trust. And I do trust him. I trust SIRE. The fear is real, but I am relaxing into it. I love and trust this man more than anyone ever in my life. He tilts me back and lifts me onto his bed, positioning me on my back like a lab specimen that he will now test. And I am so hard. And my skin is so alive.

  He brings out his riding crop, the one he said he kept only for show and that I might never feel, the one that I knew instantly I wanted him to use. He brings it to my lips and I kiss it, the sensation causing me to shiver.

  With scissors he slowly cuts circles around my nipples, and the air hitting them is almost enough to make me cum. My cock pushes and thumps against my second skin. But this wonderful sensation is nothing compared to what I feel when he starts snapping the crop down in quick sharp slaps on first one then the other nipple. IT.

  After a few—ten, twenty, sixty?—minutes, he flips me over, carefully. The fear rises again, but his voice is soothing, calm, hypnotic. He cuts another patch of the Saran Wrap away. I think I will black out as I feel his breath on my asshole. I writhe trying to bend my ass up, without much success, and finally just bite down on the bedcover, screaming as I feel the first finger touch, then probe. IT.

  Eventually, the Saran Wrap skin stretches and pulls apart at spots. My body’s writhing and bucking has been too much. At first, I resisted the urges to let go—afraid he would not be pleased if I enjoyed it too much—but these fears were put to rest when he said he wanted me to receive pleasure, that it is his reward. It is not just for him. It is for me.

  The wrapping is slowly cut off and the shock of the cold air paralyzes me. Not what I expected after being so totally restrained, finally free but unable to move. He pulls me to him and I am held tightly and kissed fiercely on my lips, cheeks, and eyelids. I cry and tell SIRE that I love him.

  The pressure builds with every day.

  How do I tell my partner of eighteen years that I love another? How do I tell HUSBAND that I have found something that he can’t offer…and that I need to do this, that…that I love him, but that I need to do this…. How can I tell my best friend this without breaking his heart, his spirit?

  I will see SIRE next week.

  We exchange rings and vows. SIRE and boy. The rings are to be worn when we play. The vows are to be together, forever.

  He gives me a present. He lifts each leg and fits my new leather restraints on each ankle. I gladly offer each arm so he can do the same, and I am then tied to each corner of his bed—face down.

  The dried rose lies on his bedside table, perched on a pile of books. A single rose, now lacking most of its color and scent, but not the meaning. This rose was a small gift—a surprise—from me while SIRE was on a reading tour. He was in Vancouver, so far away, and I was at home in Chicago wishing I could be with him. I had a friend who lives there deliver it at the reading, with a whispered message, “To SIRE from your boy,” knowing that hearing those words would be as precious a gift to him as any I could offer.

  It is late and I’ve lost all track of time. When I realize that he has spent four hours on me, I tell SIRE what I experienced—that IT was better than any orgasm. That every time I felt the bite of his whip on my back and shoulders, or of his teeth on my ass and legs, IT intensified. That the sensations I felt while being restrained, having my ass worked over by his mouth and experienced fingers, then by a butt plug and a dildo, and finally by his fat cock, was one very long intense orgasm that was not focused just in my cock and balls, but my entire body and very soul. Pure pleasure. Bliss.

  I cancel my flight home to HUSBAND. The pressure is gone. In its place is IT.

  Old Haunts

  Jay Neal

  You could say my problems began when I was born. I was always a chubby child. I didn’t overeat, I didn’t under-exercise, I was just husky-prone. My father cajoled, my mother despaired, but there was nothing I could do about it. Not that I tried all that hard.

  Then when I was eleven, things got worse. Puberty set in and I sprouted hair all over my body. Lots of hair—really, an overabundance of hair, even considering my generous surface area. By high school I was pretty well covered and had been shaving every day for several years.

  Of all the time-wasting courses I had to take in high school, gym class was my least favorite, which I’ve come to regret. The locker room was not the carefree masculine haven for me that it should have been. True, there were lots of naked boys to look at, including Matt, the other guy with body hair, a dark tuft on the chest in his case. Matt was revered as an ultramasculine god. I was reviled as a gross, hairy fairy.

  Maybe that’s when my problems began. Fat, hairy, and homo was not a socially rewarding combination in the mid-’70s. Among the men I was attracted to, it was the clone era and very hard to get laid if one didn’t fit the mold. I didn’t even come close. I had no problem with the full, bushy moustache, or the butch, short-cropped hair, or the masculine, furry chest. In fact, I had too much of the masculine furry chest for most guys.

  The problem was the T-shirt and the jeans. They just wouldn’t fit right. My waist was nearly the same size as my chest, so the T-shirt did not taper down my body, let alone ripple across any rock-hard washboard abs. And given the size of my waist, my 501s never hugged my ass in an appropriately alluring fashion. I looked more clown than clone.

  In a weak moment of celibate desperation, I decided that going to the gym was better than going without sex for the rest of my life. I discovered that with enough torture, even the most criminal waistline will submit. I pumped and pressed and curled and crunched and lunged and squatted until I no longer heard derisive giggles behind my ripped-deltoid back. I even started to enjoy group showers. Finally I had reached that pinnacle of self-worth and individuality: I looked just like everyone else.

  Except for the body hair. All the weight training in the world couldn’t help that. But as long as I pumped and sweated enough, it could be overlooked as a tragic congenital defect rather than a moral failing. I had finally pained and gained and achieved my goals. I got laid more often, but didn’t feel that much happier.

  Then I met Michael. I think that’s when my problems really began. Michael was the answer to my worst nightmares, the ones that I mistook for dreams. Michael was your basic super faggot, whose mission was to save the world from the evil influences of bad decorating, bad hair, and bad taste in all things frivolous. I think he saw me as his greatest personal challenge.

  All the lover-dearest warning signs were evident, but my body-conscious neuroses were flattered by his attentions. We started working out together, and then we started shopping together. We became lovers and moved in together. We tasted fine wines together, we prepared all-natural gourmet food together, and we accepted invitations to the most exclusive parties together.

  We led a harrowingly A-gay lifestyle for eight years. For eight long, miserable, and tiring years, Michael supervised every moment of my life. He managed my eating, my sleeping, my clothing, my grooming, and my dull but tasteful sex life. He even tried to introduce me to the joys of body waxing for hair removal. I don’t know why I drew the line there, but I’m forever grateful.

  It all ended suddenly and ironically when Michael died in a freak electrolysis accident. Tragic. One moment he thought his life would end because of some stray hair on his shoulder, and the next moment it did. For weeks after, I tried to feel sad about his death and discover some redemptive meaning in our dysfunctional relationship. I never did. My predominant emotional state was giddiness.

  I stopped going to the gym. I stopped ironing my underwear. I let my beard grow. I was once seen drinking beer from a can. Our friends drifted away, making disapproving noises about how I was letting myself go. I was letting myself go, but I wasn’t going downhill. I was enjoying an incredible feeling of lib
eration, a kind of freedom that I had never known before. I didn’t even worry all that much about finding sex.

  After a while, though, I started craving some social interaction and, to be honest, the lack of sex did start to wear a little. Then I found bears. What a relief. I can’t remember anymore who first introduced me to bears, but I think it was during a tournament at the bowling alley. It doesn’t matter. I thought my problems were over. I was wrong.

  Imagine how disapproving Michael would have been of my cavorting with bears. Guys who were big, going to seed instead of the gym. Guys who didn’t shave, pluck, wax, or depilate, but were covered in hair and didn’t feel ashamed about it. Imagine Michael, fatally overcome by apoplexy if he hadn’t already been dead. I didn’t have to imagine it.

  One evening I was enjoying the company of a dump-truck-sized bear named Dwayne who followed me home from the bar. In college he’d been either a football tackle or a refrigerator. He wasn’t the most scintillating conversationalist, but conversation wasn’t part of our game plan. Dwayne retained a taste for tackling, so we got naked and started our bedroom scrimmage. After a few fumbles, several first downs, and a conversion, the time came to sack the quarterback and try for the final score of the game.

  I rolled a latex pigskin onto my dick and slicked it with lube. Dwayne was ready for the defense, leaning across the foot of the bed, wiggling his ass at me. I was ready for my offense, taking aim with my dick on the hairy bull’s-eye of his butthole. I pulled Dwayne’s voluptuous asscheeks apart and was about to penetrate his end zone when I realized that we were not alone.

  “David, you’re not going to stick your dick into that hairy ass, are you? You never know where it’s been.”

  It was Michael, the late, never-lamented Michael. He sprawled casually across the top of the bed, pursing his lips and scowling disdainfully at the top of Dwayne’s crew cut. Michael was always a bit prissy that way, but I was in no mood to deal with his prissiness right then. Having my dead lover settling in to watch me fuck Dwayne was not my idea of a hot group scene.

  I scowled right back. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Saving you from a breach of good taste that you will certainly regret in the morning.”

  “Well, fuck you, I am most definitely going to stick my dick in this hairy ass whether you like it or not.”

  Dwayne squirmed and moaned, “Oh, I like it. Fuck me! Fuck me now!”

  Without thinking, I slapped Dwayne across the ass. “Be quiet, Dwayne. You’re not helping.”

  “Oh, oh!” Dwayne yelped. “I’m a bad bear, such a bad bear. You’ll have to spank me!”

  Michael rolled his eyes and smirked. “I’m sure even you see now what I mean. Q.E.D.”

  “Quod erat demonstrandum, my ass! I really don’t need this right now.”

  Dwayne pushed his ass back against me. “Quote rot my ass! I need it right now!”

  “Shut up, Dwayne!” I made the mistake of slapping his ass again.

  “I’ll be quiet! Slap me harder, make me obey!”

  Michael sniffed and hopped off the bed. He began his pacing routine and our relationship started to flash before my eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Michael said, “all those years with me really did nothing to raise your level of sophistication. I’m sure I don’t regret all the sacrifices I made solely on your behalf, but do try to show a little self-respect by not fucking this Neanderthal.”

  I was losing it by then, both my temper and my erection. It wasn’t only Michael, but our entire, horrible relationship that was coming back to haunt me.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled at Michael. Dwayne wiggled his ass again. “I am going to fuck this Neanderthal’s fat, hairy ass and enjoy it like I never enjoyed fucking your pathetic, melon-like bubble butt!”

  Dwayne stopped wiggling his ass and turned to look at me, perplexed. “What’s a Neanderthal? I don’t know if I like that.”

  Michael stood with crossed arms and glowered. “Go ahead then, ruin your life, but don’t blame me for not trying to help.”

  I yelled, “Go! Just go! Get out of my life forever! You’re dead! Stay dead!”

  Poor Dwayne. Michael vanished instantly; Dwayne took a little longer. He got off the bed without making any sudden moves and watched me carefully while he put on his clothes. Finally dressed, he backed out of the bedroom, saying, “David, you’ve got some weird issues to deal with.”

  I felt really bad. Bad for Dwayne, of course. He is a sweet guy, even if he is a bit Neanderthal. But mostly I felt bad, as in ill. I had finally been getting my life back on course. Now my stomach was churning again at the thought that Michael might be back.

  He was most decidedly there to stay. Not continuously, mind you. That’s what was so insidious, so Michael. He would only appear whenever I was about to get off on naked-bear companionship. Apparently no one else could see him or hear him, and I thought I could simply ignore him and get on with getting it on, but it was impossible. He’d always appear just in time to keep me from coming, leaving me with a limp dick and lame apologies to my guest.

  It wore me down, ruining my sleep, my appetite, and my sex life, not to mention my reputation. I’d go to the bar looking for some companionship, but my friends would avoid talking to me, let alone consider sex with me. Even newcomers managed to avoid my glances. That left only Joe, the bartender, my sole outlet for social intercourse.

  It was a quiet night, at least around me. I was sitting at the bar, unsuccessfully trying to drown my sorrows in glass after glass of diet cola. Joe stood behind the bar, squeaking a glass with a towel.

  “Joe,” I said, “what am I going to do?”

  “What’s wrong? You’re looking pretty pale, like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

  “I have. Literally. For weeks now.”

  “Ah, ghosts of relationships past.”

  “More like dead lover from hell.” I poured out my entire story to him, and he poured out diet cola to me. When we’d both finally had enough, he reached over behind his cash register, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t really believe in all this mumbo jumbo myself, but you might want to give it a try.”

  The card read:Onslo Bigpaw

  Bear Psychic & Spiritual Healer

  “Why settle for a Medium

  When you could have an Extra-Large”

  I didn’t believe in it myself, but what was there to lose?

  “Thanks, Joe,” I said as I gulped the last of my cola. “I think I will.”

  It was well after midnight when I got home, but people who deal with the afterlife and all that are mostly working after midnight, right? It seemed safe enough to call Mr. Bigpaw then. I couldn’t wait any longer to be spiritually healed.

  The person who answered the phone, his voice unusually low and gentle, merely said, “Good evening,” but it was somehow reassuring.

  I began: “Is this Mr. Bigpaw, bear psychic…?”

  “…and spiritual healer,” he said. “Yes, but please call me Onslo.”

  I began again: “Fine, Onslo. I got your card from…”

  “…Joe at the bar. Yes, David, I know.”

  Spooky.

  “So anyway, I have this problem…”

  “…with manifestations of your dead but still disapproving lover. Yes, I understand.”

  Spookier.

  “So, do you think…?”

  “…that I can help? Most certainly, but it will take a committed effort from both of us.”

  “How?” I asked. “Some sort of psychic therapy? Isn’t it true that people who die traumatic deaths haunt us until their souls find rest?”

  “Usually,” Onslo explained, “but not in this case. Someone like Michael will never find rest, so that approach is rather pointless.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Bear exorcism is the only answer.”

  “Bear exorcism?”

  “In layman’s terms, we gross him ou
t so much that he’ll never come back. It’s a sort of aversion therapy.”

  He proceeded with the details. I was to meet him in three days’ time at his place, at midnight, and bring along six of my most hirsute and trustworthy bear buddies. He suggested that we wear loose clothing and no underwear.

  It took a lot of pleading but I finally got six guys to agree. The prohibition on underwear was the most convincing argument. I even enlisted Dwayne by telling him I was working out my weirdest issue. We met at the bar on the appointed night and fortified ourselves with several beers each. Minutes before midnight we left for Onslo Bigpaw’s house.

  We were met at the door by Onslo, himself a massive bear with a magnificent white beard. I had expected he’d be wearing a turban and cape and was disappointed that he was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. However, the room he led us to didn’t disappoint. It was large, draped with exotic cloths, lit by candles, and dominated by an enormous circular table at which we were to sit. I ended up directly across from Onslo, with Dwayne at my right.

  “What we undertake tonight,” Onslo began, “is a very delicate operation that requires everyone’s fullest cooperation. Please follow my instructions most attentively.

  “First, we must conjure the troubled soul by focusing our bear energy. Join hands with your nearest neighbors to close the spiritual circle. Good. Now purge your mind of all thoughts except those of your most recent sexual encounters.”

  Onslo began to hum a low, mystical tone. From the looks on the guys’ faces, there’d been some pretty good fucking going on lately. Dwayne had his eyes closed and was smiling, obviously not recalling our last evening together. For my part, I tried to imagine the fun I could have with Michael permanently dead.

  Onslo stopped humming. “The gamma energy is increasing nicely. David, while we continue focusing, go to each man around the table, unbutton his shirt, run your hand through his chest hair, and caress his nipples while you kiss him.”