Best Gay Erotica 2005

by Richard Labonté

  “Don’t.” Bravey slapped Demonte’s hand away.

  “Oh, I’m not good enough a lay for you?” Demonte plucked at his grungy ’76ers jersey. “Didn’t complain on your first fuck, ’ese.”

  Bravey Boy could not stop staring at Demonte, admiring every bit of muscle on display, aching to touch the skin under a cotton tank top and baggy pants.

  When he got up the nerve one night to follow Demonte, a winding route through sinister back streets of the neighborhood, they ended up at the derelict garden. An old man seated on a bench muttered a greeting. When Bravey looked down, he saw the man’s hands busy below his belt, stroking his cock. That almost sent Bravey running. But Demonte had walked by without breaking stride, so he did, too.

  It took a while to navigate the garden; in the dark it seemed the size of a park. He glimpsed men standing, or sitting, or strutting about. Their stares made him tremble.

  He found Demonte leaning against the thin trunk of a sorry-looking willow. One of the brother’s hands lifted up his T-shirt, obscuring half the marijuana leaf drawing covering the front, and scratched at his flat belly, offering a peek of the waistband of his boxers.

  Demonte nodded at Bravey, who forced himself to walk over to the object of his obsession.

  “Yo. Didn’t know they let little boys in here.”

  If the guy hadn’t been grinning, Bravey might have been hurt, instead of slightly stung. He stepped back.

  “Don’t leave. Come closer.” Demonte reached out to the younger boy’s belt loops, and pulled Bravey closer. The boy’s hands reached for Demonte’s chest. The heat from solid muscle coursed through Bravey’s fingers, making him sweat, and yearn.

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  Bravey’s face burned. “I-I don’t know.” His mouth was dry. Words came out in a hoarse whisper.

  Demonte laughed and grabbed one of Bravey’s wrists, leading him toward a clump of scrawny bush. Demonte’s boxers slid to show a hint of asscrack. Bravey swallowed hard, turned on by the speed of what was happening, more excited than he ever thought possible.

  Behind the cover of vegetation, Demonte pushed him roughly to the ground. Bravey tensed, worried he had been played, that he was going to have the shit beat out of him. One dead faggot. In this neighborhood, who would ever care?

  But instead of fists pounding Bravey’s face, Demonte’s hands were quickly, deftly, zipping down his jeans.

  A warm wetness engulfed Bravey’s dick, the greatest sensation ever. He squirmed in the dirt, biting his lip not to cry out and let everyone in the garden know what was happening to him.

  Cool night air replaced the warm wet. Bravey looked up to see Demonte tugging his pants down. A thick cock pushed out of a forest of black hair, leaking a strand of pre-cum that caught the moonlight and turned silver before breaking.

  “Have to get it wet,” Demonte said, directing Bravey’s spit-slick dick toward his furred crack. He grunted a few times, eyes closed, as the tip went in, and then sat down, forcing the boy deep inside him.

  Bravey’s first time being sucked was intense, but this first-time fucking was a thousand times hotter, tighter, more demanding. He instinctively pushed up as Demonte rode him hard and slapped his chest. Neither of them lasted long and when it was over, they lay in a heap, sweaty and sticky, and quiet, listening to each other gasp for breath.

  Demonte didn’t date or even fuck the same guy regularly. That had been made clear in the awkward aftermath, as they parted.

  Still, that didn’t stop Bravey Boy from finding his way back to the garden on nights to come, hoping he might change Demonte’s mind. But he was dissed, ignored, and ended up jerking himself off in the dark, listening to others get laid.

  He told himself he was done with the garden, but two nights later he was lying on the bad mattress in his room and could not stop thinking about what happened there. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t fall asleep. So he threw on shorts and a tight T-shirt and snuck past his snoring grandma, cursing with every step but knowing he had to go back.

  He didn’t find Demonte, but an older guy, in his thirties, with muscles that only came from construction work, approached him. He wanted to kiss the man, discover if the guy’s goatee would tickle his face, but the man made it clear he only wanted to suck Bravey off. He let him.

  So it went. His craving was satisfied too quickly after every trip to the garden. He needed something more, but he couldn’t define it, describe it, imagine it—until one day he bumped into Lashon while on break from bagging groceries.

  Lashon. The new stock boy.

  Because of the rain, Bravey chose not to step outside. Instead, he headed for the chips aisle, meaning to get a snack. That’s when he saw the boy with the linebacker’s build, humming as he carefully arranged bags of salty pork rinds. Bravey knew he was wasting precious time; he only had fifteen minutes of freedom from ringing up sales of cold raw chicken and boxes of mac and cheese. But he couldn’t break away. He was mesmerized, drawn to the boy’s sweet, high voice, as he shifted from humming to singing—not some rap song, but an old R&B tune; he couldn’t remember the name, but his grandmother listened to it on the radio.

  The stock boy caught Bravey’s stare, smiled, nodded hello, but kept working.

  They hung out after work, sipping sodas, chatting, every day for a week. Suddenly, Bravey was excited about coming to work. Seeing Lashon, talking with him, brought Bravey alive. He wanted to sing, he wanted to dance, he moved to new rhythms in his head.

  But at night, before he could find sleep, he worried. He replayed every moment spent with Lashon over and over in his head, trying to figure out if this look or that gesture or some word said by the fine boy meant that Lashon liked him. More than liked. Did he ache, too? Not knowing drove Bravey crazy.

  One day soon after, distracted by desire, he fought with his manager, and was told to go home early. Lashon saw him leaving in a huff and ran out, risking his own job, to ask what happened. Bravey didn’t even remember exactly what he said, but then Lashon was hugging him, out in the parking lot in front of everyone. Not just a light squeeze and a fast slap on the back: He held Bravey tightly for seconds that seemed to become hours, and softly sang in his ear, If I have to sleep on your doorstep, all night and day…just to keep you from walkin’ away. Let your friends laugh, even this I can stand… ’cause I wanna keep you any way I can.

  On the walk home, Bravey no longer saw the dilapidated buildings or the trash on the street or the dealers and the drunks lounging lazily to pass the day. Occasionally he shut his eyes, the better to recall the feel of Lashon holding him, the smell of Lashon close to him, and the soft whisper of Lashon in his ear.

  Nervous as all hell—maybe he had misread the boy—he called Lashon that night. Asked to meet him, told him how to get to the old garden.

  But Demonte didn’t seem ready to leave. He stepped close to Bravey Boy, and their bodies brushed. Bravey felt the heat rising off the brotha’s body, carrying with it the stink of a dump in July.

  Demonte smirked.

  “I know you remember it.” He reached down and cupped Bravey’s crotch, expertly rubbing the tip of the shaft with his thumb. Bravey was aroused. “See, this remembers me, too.”

  Demonte’s touch made Bravey gasp. Unsteady, he leaned in to Demonte, his head touching the other boy’s forehead, damp and feverish. Bravey lifted an arm and laid it on a bare shoulder.

  “Please,” he muttered.

  “Please what?” Demonte said, aping Bravey’s voice. He slid his other hand under Bravey’s jacket.

  He didn’t know what to say. He no longer wanted whatever quick fix Demonte once offered. Yet the cravings could not be denied. But when he heard whistling and saw a figure walking toward them through the darkness, the desire threatening to overtake him turned to sick fear and shame. He pushed with both arms, separating their bodies.

  It wasn’t Lashon—just a man dressed in bad overalls, who looked them over with goggle eyes. “Any you boys w
ant to party?” He held up a paper bag with the tip of a dark amber bottle showing.

  Demonte turned back to Bravey. His voice was low, dangerous. “Come on, one more time. You can ride me good. Hard.” He slid his baggy pants down, revealing a trail of wiry hair. “Let you bust a nut in me.”

  The man piped in with a desperate pant. “Let me watch that shit, at least.”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” Bravey said. “Both of you.”

  Demonte’s face fell, a scared boy, no longer a cocky kid. The man next to them wavered, unsteady, obviously drunk.

  “There’s me.” He gulped at whatever was in the bag.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Demonte grabbed the man’s arm. “Too bad, papi.”

  Bravey watched them walk away. In the moonlight, Demonte’s feet seemed never to touch the ground as he led the man deep into the garden. Bravey exhaled, releasing tension, then paced back and forth, worried—sure—that Lashon wouldn’t show.

  And then his stock boy was by his side.

  Bravey hugged Lashon tightly, then eased into him, relaxing in the other boy’s arms.

  “This is some strange place,” Lashon said, shaking his head. “Two guys came up to me lookin’ to hook up. Freaks.”

  Bravey saw the look of disgust on Lashon’s face and knew he had been wrong to ask Lashon to come to the garden. What had he been thinking? Wanting? A fast grope or quick blow job or sloppy fuck? No, not with this boy. A smile from him would be enough.

  Lashon must think me a ho, Bravey thought. “Yeah, you shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  But his friend only chuckled. “Like you should? Shit, look at this.” Lashon motioned at Bravey’s clothes. “You acting all sexy for me?” He laughed. “Trying to make me think you like me or somethin’?”

  “No,” Bravey lied, looking away. He could no longer meet the other boy’s eyes. He backed up a few feet, and then turned to walk away, cursing himself for thinking something good could ever happen here.

  “Wait up. Why you leavin’?” Lashon started after Bravey.

  Bravey shrugged, not sure what to say. The two boys passed an overturned barbeque grill, the metal long since turned to a rusted hulk. Not far away, a man lay on the ground.

  “Damn,” Lashon said, and nudged the guy with his foot. The man didn’t respond.

  Bravey saw a paper bag wrapped around a bottle, leaning against the barbeque—it was the man who left with Demonte. The guy’s pants were undone but not pulled down. He stank like sour milk and rotten meat. Demonte was nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s just drunk,” Bravey said out loud, more to himself, because he wasn’t so sure.

  “This is some park,” Lashon muttered.

  “I’m sorry I asked you to come here.”

  “I’m not.” Lashon’s fingers cupped Bravey’s chin.

  “No?” Bravey didn’t dare smile, afraid he’d heard wrong.

  “Unless that’s all you want.” He pointed at the man on the ground. “What everyone else ’round here wants. I’m not trash and won’t be treated like it.”

  Bravey shook his head. “It’s cool. I mean, I want….”

  Lashon chuckled. “Wanna go get somethin’ to eat?”

  Bravey nodded, buttoning up his jacket, suddenly embarrassed at how much skin showed.

  “Cool.” They headed back to the edge of the garden, walking so close they rubbed shoulders or bumped lightly against one another. Lashon pulled out car keys and flicked them playfully into the air. Bravey meant to catch them but only succeeded in knocking them to the ground.

  “S’all right.” Lashon bent to pick them up. “Damn,” he said then, lifting something small and red from the ground near his foot.

  Bravey looked at the strawberry. Small, and a bit misshapen. Lashon smiled and lifted it to Bravey’s lips. The tiny berry was Elsewhere, sweet and strong, lifting him away.

  “How does it taste?”

  Bravey Boy leaned in and showed Lashon.

  Surf

  Andy Quan

  I’m thinking about the colors of tanned skin. Sunlight boring into the outer cells of the body and each body reacting individually, changing into different hues, all of them inviting. I like the way that tanned skin in the sunlight makes you want to put your hand on it, to rest it there gently and maybe coax back some of that solar energy into your own self.

  It’s ten-thirty, a good time to be at the beach. I could get fried into an angry red if I were to stay out too long at noon. I wince at the thought: the sunburn wheedling up to the head’s feverish fatigue, the peeling a few days later. My friends in Sydney go to tanning salons. They’re too rushed to go to the beach, or maybe it’s too far. Most people say they can’t tell the difference, but I think I can. There’s always a trace of ultraviolet orange. Also, the evenness makes one suspicious at a gut level.

  A natural tan is best, really. It makes me think of food: honey, bran, chocolate. But I could easily think of elements: earth—brown shale, red sand, the tan shade of certain rocks, parched soil; or metal—copper, bronze, platinum, rust. Even trees—though the tint of a deepening orange maple tree is probably unknown here, as would be the paper-thin bark of the arbutus tree, narcissist, exhibitionist, constantly stripping itself down to raw green underneath.

  I miss those trees sometimes, but I’d rather be here. You wouldn’t find tanned surfer boys in Canada. Not like these magnificent packs of young men striding through late adolescence, the particular motion of the body when walking in sand. I’m glad I made the move to Australia and was surprised at how easy it was: the whole world calls out for experts in IT—In formation Technology—who ever says it by the long form anymore?

  Not only that but I get to go to new places, not just stay in Sydney with its excess of men and attitude and beauty—not that I’m complaining—but hey, hey, Brisbane-Brisvegas (I don’t know why they call it that). Welcome me with open arms. Show me something new in my two weeks here.

  It was a pleasant enough journey out here: A train from the center of town, a ferry, a short bus ride, a little walk from the road through some trees and now I’m on this really long, flat white beach on Stradbroke Island that goes on and on. Step out of reality for a second, and you can imagine it stretching out forever.

  That’s what I’m thinking as I breathe out and watch the salt dry on my body. I’m a bit winded from playing in the surf. The scenery is calming me. There are some cute gay men here: A posse just ambled by in two pairs of Speedos and one pair of designer trunks, box-cut. I’m not as fixated as some of my friends, but my eyes did settle at crotch level in this case. Shiny sky-blue Speedos was well packaged, the light color of the fabric revealed a good contour: Big balls, it looked like. Black Speedos was harder to see, seemed like he’d tucked himself off to the left. The box-cut got my prize: Through a geometric pattern on white, he had his penis pointing right up against his belly. I love that habit, and the shape that results. And it was fat.

  A lot of the surfer boys are wearing board shorts. I’d complain that they’re covering too much but it’s not a bad look. Tight little waistbands slung low on the body. Hugging a contour like two hands touching at the wrists and forearms and pointing away from each other, stretched out, forming a wide shallow cup. And in the space of this cup is a beautiful alcove where tanned, muscular backs slope into the shorts and then jut out suddenly and modestly to round, tight buttocks. And these butts are ready. Ready to be part of a balancing system to stay upright on the waves, the long board underfoot and now a part of their bodies. A great big hard long extension.

  Other guys are wearing wet suits. I don’t mind them either. I like the thought of men, young or old, squeezing themselves into tight rubber like a cock into a condom. I imagine myself as a pair of arms, a throat: Either embrace. They hold up both sides of their suits, put one foot in, then the other, shimmy it up so they can slide in their arms. I picture myself as that material so I can press against all parts of their bodies. Funny, I don’t get the same thoughts when I s
ee a man in a nice pair of jeans. Maybe I should.

  I was just playing out in the surf. I’m not a strong swimmer and there’s a sign warning about the undertow here so I stayed close to shore. It was hard to be far out. The strength of the sea rolling in on big constant waves: Swells would lift me five feet off the bottom and put me back down, a wave would break over my head and fill my ears and nostrils with salty water. I tried to figure out body surfing but I’m not sure Canadians are naturally suited to it.

  So here I am, resting up on my shoulders, checking out all the cute young surfer boys through my sunglasses when Brian walks by. He’s tall and lean with long rectangular muscles. His surfboard is in his right arm behind him so his silhouette is a chunky cross. He notices me looking, or senses my lust, or his gaydar goes off. Something. But he glances over, and with his smile I forget everything: my name, my country, my present location.

  “Hi,” he says, though it might have been “G’day.” Whatever he says, it’s in the most natural way in the world, as if he always talks to strangers, and as if there’s nothing unusual about somebody checking him out—which there isn’t—since with that kind of beauty, I’m sure it happens all the time. I look left once and right and no one else is watching him, or us.

  “Hi,” I reply, because “G’day” would sound forced, too chummy, a colloquialism that doesn’t quite sit right with my Canadian accent. No foreigner ever learns to say “G’day” here correctly.

  He stops and I tell him I’m here for work. It strikes me, while we’re making small talk, that I hadn’t considered the possibility of a gay surfer. Not that the two things would be opposed: homosexuality, balancing on a board in the waves. But my image of the sport was of young, virile boys filled with straight testosterone. It’s ironic that I try to fight against stupid prejudices but hold them myself.