Take This Man

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “No,” he replied, “that we’re jogging on the day we’re getting married, and that’s—”

  “How we met!” I shouted, finishing his train of thought. “Funny.”

  “I already said that.”

  I nodded my head. “Great minds think alike.”

  Which is why we both knew where to head from there, our paces picking up, legs pounding the pavement, a fresh line of sweat trickling down my chest as we tore through our neighborhood to the park barely a mile away. In we raced, laughing as he tried to beat me to the entrance and I tried to beat him. In the end, it was a tie. Same thing as the beginning, nine years earlier almost to the day. On that fateful afternoon, I was running to the water fountain, while he was running to it from the opposite direction. He spotted me, I spotted him, a race ensued. Like I said, we tied—in that we both reached the fountain at the same time, our heads colliding in a thunderous crash, stars swimming before my eyes.

  “Which reminds me. Did you invite Doctor Marsh?”

  He nodded as he sipped from the spigot. “He’s bringing his medical bag. Just in case.”

  I pushed John over a couple of inches and craned my neck down, the cool water instantly gliding down my hot throat. “Smart.”

  I stood. He stood. He grinned as he placed his fingertips on my forehead, admiring the good doctor’s handiwork. I aped the gesture on his forehead. “Great minds scar alike, too.”

  His fingers lingered, tracing their way down my cheek, my neck, my clavicle. They landed on a breeze-stiffened nipple. I stared down at his midsection. Apparently, my nipple wasn’t the only thing stiffened.

  “Um, what are you doing?”

  He also stared down, moving his hips from side to side so that his burgeoning stiffy swung within his meager shorts. “Taking your mind off of, um, things.”

  I watched as he then grabbed said shorts from the bottom, scrunched up the cotton trim, and released the beast within. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” I commented as I continued staring. It hung in midair, bathed in a silver glow, balls swaying a mere second later.

  Again he swung his prized prick, a breeze seemingly rising in its ample wake. “It looks lonely.”

  I dropped my shorts to the ground and kicked them off, leaving me in nothing but my sneakers and an erection that could crack open a safe—if, in fact, you felt like wasting a perfectly good erection that way. “Well, I must say, you get an A for effort, John.” I gave it a tug and a squeeze. “A-plus.”

  He sunk to his knees. “Amen.”

  My handsome husband-to-be downed my chubby in one fell swoop, a gagging tear streaming down his scruffy cheek as he sucked me off and yanked on my nuts. Another breeze wafted over us, goose bumps riding down my arms as I pinched my nipples and watched his steady progress. “Can two play this game?” I eventually thought to ask.

  My swollen, moonlit prick popped out of his mouth, spit flinging off the tip and down his chin. “I thought two were.” He wiped the saliva away and stood up, his own shorts now kicked off, leaving us both like the trees that surrounded us: erect and wooden. “Follow me, fiancé.”

  “Anywhere, fiancé.”

  Hand in hand, shorts gripped in our free mitts, like Adam and Steve, we made our way through Eden (better known as City Park West) and headed for the grassy knoll in the rear—the park’s rear, not mine, which was neither grassy nor knolly, though it was indeed in John’s face barely a minute later. He was flat on his back, I was straddling him, my mouth down (way down) on his dick, my rear, as mentioned, pressed up tightly to his mouth. It was a perfect seventy: sixty-nine plus a bonus point for location, which, as they say, is everything.

  His crotch smelled of sweat and musk, plus a little zesty fertilizer thrown in for good measure. His cock filled my mouth as it glided down my throat, his heavy, hairy balls rolling between my dexterous fingers all the while. He bucked into me, while I pushed into him, until it was impossible to tell where he ended and I began. Ironically, that was our life in a nutshell as well.

  While I sucked and slobbered and licked and tugged, he ate my ass out with gusto, his tongue swirling inside of me as he stroked my cock between my splayed thighs. White-hot volts of adrenaline shot down my spine as the sky above began to turn from murky black to a deep, dark blue. And then, to up the ante, and knowing me all too well, he slid a spit-slick digit deep inside my hole and gave it a swirl, causing my cock to throb.

  “Mmm,” I moaned, my back arching as a second finger joined the fray.

  Never one to be outdone, and while I continued sucking gleefully away, I let my wedding-ring finger (still, for the time being, unadorned) worm its way inside his silky hole. And then two of us were moaning up a storm, a flock of pigeons suddenly taking wing from somewhere nearby, apparently disturbed out of their morning slumber. Them and me both, I figured.

  “Three’s my lucky number,” I reminded him, very nearly breathless at his ministrations.

  He chuckled, his fingering duo quickly a pistoning trio. “I know, my dear. I know. And mine is—”

  “Four!” And, wouldn’t you know it, four wet fingers were now pummeling his ultra-tight tush. “I know, my dear. I know.” Because, yes, there’s something to be said for so intimately knowing your partner, as John and I obviously did.

  Which is why his next request didn’t surprise me all that much. Excite, sure, but surprise, nuh-uh. “You ever fuck anyone in a sling before, Peter?” he panted, most of my hand buried so far up his ass that it was a wonder I wasn’t waving from inside his mouth at the time.

  I stopped pumping and turned my head to the side. “A sling, John? Trust me, there isn’t one hidden up here.”

  He spanked my ass, and I moaned in rapturous delight. “How about the next best thing?”

  I scrunched my face in thought—either that or because his triple digits were snugly pressing up to my ever-hardening prostate. “The next best thing to a sling out in the middle of a park in the middle of, well, whatever time it is?” Suddenly, a proverbial lightbulb pulsed above my not-so-proverbial noggin. “You dirty boy.”

  He chuckled and retracted his hand from inside my hole. “Which is why you love me.”

  I retracted my hand from his hole. “Among the many other reasons.”

  He helped me up off the grass and once again held my hand. Off we walked to the playground at the side of the knoll, rigid cocks swaying all the while as we looked into the near darkness for signs of any intruders, apart from us and the wayward pigeons. Thankfully, we were the only naked, horny, hard men to be found. Go figure. Guess they were all at home, waiting for Sesame Street to start.

  In any case, I quickly spotted the sling in question. That is to say, the swing, long meant for children to squeal while riding on, would now be making my husband-to-be squeal instead. Yippy for public-funded city parks.

  “Dirty boy,” I quipped as we entered the playground.

  “You already said that.”

  “Bears repeating.” I glanced into his sparkling eyes of blue and grinned. “And since you’re already, um, bare…”

  He hopped on the swing. “Whee,” he squealed, not too surprisingly, as he gave a push with his legs, which were quickly dangling as well as spread wide. “Now start that promised repeating.”

  I stood in front of the apparatus and stopped his to and fro. His legs went up higher and wider, hole winking out my way. I crouched down, my cock in my left hand, mouth to his chute, tongue licking and lapping, sucking and biting, all while he stroked himself and moaned with abandon, his balls bouncing on the bridge of my nose.

  “You smell grassy,” I mumbled, in between hearty slurps.

  “Assy?” he purred, hand rapid-firing on his pole, eyes in a squint.

  I shrugged. “That too.” I slid a slicked finger inside of him, in and up and back. His purr turned to a rumbling groan, thundering when two fingers joined the first, louder still when they became a pumping quartet. And then he set the swing to swinging, yet again. Out popped my finge
rs, whoosh went his ass; whoosh it went in reverse, in went my fingers. Steps one through four were repeated again and again and again, all while he stroked and I stroked and our balls slowly did their inevitable rises upward.

  On the last whoosh and whee, he stopped the swing by wrapping his feet around my sweat-soaked back, my fingers once again deeply entrenched up his ass. He threw his head back and howled his way into the day. The whoosh and the whee were then joined by a plop, plop, plop as his come flew up and then rained down, splashing on his wildly expanding and contracting belly.

  “Fuuuck,” he exhaled, the pungently pleasing aroma of come wafting languidly up my nostrils.

  “Just did,” I rasped, hopping up as I gave my cock one final tug, the come spewing up and out before joining the puddle of spunk on his hairy abs.

  He lowered his sneakered feet to the ground, the pool of jizz sliding down before dripping off. I smiled at him as I fought to catch my breath, then leaned in for a deep soulful kiss, the kind that made my very soul pulse—and my cock; take your pick.

  Still drenched, not to mention awfully sticky, we found our shorts, slid them back on and prepared for the jog back. “Look!” John suddenly shouted, index finger pointed to the sky.

  My eyes followed his digit’s trajectory. “Nice,” I exhaled, staring at the blue sky as it turned a stunning purple, pink already at the periphery, a promise of blistering orange at the horizon.

  Hand in hand we again made our way to the grassy knoll. We lay down beside each other and watched as the morning yawned its way into existence, the colors morphing, growing as bright as the future that lay ahead.

  Though, of course, when two sex-drained and newly relaxed men, who’ve barely slept a wink, lie on the cool grass as the sun begins to warm them with its first rays of the day, well, it’s sort of easy to figure out what happened next.

  In other words, when I awoke, Sesame Street was long over and done with, and the sky was no longer pink and orange. Instead, it was a cool, crisp blue, not a cloud to be seen.

  “John,” I grunted, poking his side. “Wake up.”

  He twitched and covered his face with his hand. “Are we married yet?”

  I hopped up and wiped the grass off my shorts. “Not even close.” I reached my hand down to help him up. “Hurry up, John!”

  I didn’t have a watch on, and he didn’t have a watch on—heck, we were barely dressed as it was—but I knew it was late. Though lord only knew how much of the eight hours and five minutes (and counting) we had left.

  Needless to say, we ran faster than we’d ever run before, covering that mile in what seemed like mere seconds before rushing inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. I looked at John and he looked at me. “Forty-three minutes!” we both shouted in unison. And counting. “Fuck!” And, no, that wasn’t the good kind of “fuck” this time.

  So off the sneakers came, the shorts were shucked and into the shower we ran, me soaping him up, him lathering me, both of us shampooing ourselves. We were car wash meets whirling dervish in the blink of eye. Then I shaved while he brushed his teeth and he shaved while I brushed mine. I blow-dried while he towel-dried, deodorized while he talcumed.

  Again we looked at each other, then at the bedroom clock. “Sixteen minutes!” Last time: and counting. Mainly because that was the last time we had time to look. Or dared to.

  On went the dress shirts, the socks and underwear, the slacks, the belts, the vests, the jackets and the bow ties, and all in a dazzling blue—to match his eyes, which would make the sky outside jealous. And, just as we put the finishing touches on all of that: hair gel, cufflinks, a spritz of Polo Blue, we heard it.

  “Limo’s here!” he shouted the obvious.

  I looked at him, he looked at me and we both smiled, a flush of warmth suddenly spreading through me. “You look very handsome, fiancé,” I told him.

  “Ditto, fiancé.”

  And then, once again, we tore downstairs, our rental shoes clomping loudly as we raced outside, a beautiful late morning breeze hitting our faces. The limo driver was waiting by the passenger door, which he opened just before we climbed inside.

  My mother was already waiting inside the limo for us, John’s mother right beside her. The dads were at the hall, arranging the finishing touches. I plopped down, John plopped next to me and we both smiled at the women sitting across from us.

  “You look relaxed,” said my mom. “Good night’s sleep?”

  I laughed until my side hurt, John coughing all the while. “The best, Ma,” I eventually replied. “You look relaxed as well.”

  “Xanax,” she replied, a hazy yet joyous expression blanketing her face.

  John looked at his mother. “What’s your excuse?”

  She pointed at my mother. “We went halfsies.” And then they handed us each a frosty margarita.

  Ah, family!

  Ten minutes later, we were pulling up to the hall, flowers festooning the entryway, a GOOD LUCK, JOHN & PETER sign hanging above the door. I had a feeling that luck was something we already had plenty of. And love, of course.

  I was no longer worried or stressed or nervous (or horny)—thanks to my soon-to-be husband—as we entered the hall, our friends and family all turning, all clapping and smiling. And, no, it never rained that day; everyone showed up; I had, it appeared, put stamps on all the invitations; I had, it seemed, paid the caterer, the minister, the rental hall and the florist; and, yes, my tux fit beautifully, and, no, I didn’t look fat in it at all. In fact, if I looked half as stunning as John, we were probably the two most spectacularly handsome (and happy) grooms getting married anywhere that day.

  A-plus and amen yet again.

  Whee!

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  KRISTA ANDERSON, writing as Krista Merle, has been a massage therapist, a preschool teacher and a magazine writer. When she’s not working at her local library, she writes erotica and dark fantasy. She lives in Columbia, SC but misses her Jersey home.

  BRENT ARCHER started writing in 2011, and had his first short story, “Dear Bryan,” published in 2012 by Ravenous Romance. He had several short stories published in 2014 by Cleis Press. When not writing, he enjoys acting, gardening and traveling to research new stories.

  KITTEN BOHEME, (kittenboheme.com) besides being an avid reader and writer of erotica, is also a published playwright. When not writing, she pursues her interests in the European aristocracy and the occult. She lives a nomadic lifestyle with Franklin, her cat, and an angry goldfish, Sir Swimsalot.

  MICHAEL BRACKEN is the author of several books and more than one thousand short stories, including erotic fiction published in Best Gay Erotica 2013, Best Gay Romance 2010 and 2013, Model Men, Steam Bath, Ultimate Gay Erotica 2006 and many other anthologies and magazines. He lives and writes in Texas.

  HEIDI CHAMPA has been published in numerous anthologies including College Boys, Big Man on Campus, Skater Boys and Steam Bath. More stories can be found at Dreamspinner Press, Amber Allure and Torquere Press. Find more online at heidichampa.blogspot.com.

  JAMESON DASH lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest, where you learn to love the rain.

  KIWI ROXANNE DUNN has published the erotic short stories “Hunger Pains” and “Birthday Presents” with Dreamspinner Press.

  D. K. JERNIGAN (jerniganwrites@gmail.com) loves men who love men, hard cider and long walks on the beach. He lives in California with the most amazing husband in the world and a devoted German Shepherd, and has been published in Spellbinding: Tales from the Magic University from Ravenous Romance.

  RHIDIAN BRENIG JONES has herded sheep in New Zealand, taught English in Poland and run a bar on the Costa del Sol. Now settled back home in Wales, he leads an adult literacy program and writes whenever he can snatch a spare hour or two. He lives with his husband, Michael, and two arthritic old Labradors.

  JUSTIN JOSH has worked as a carpet cleaner, fast-food cook, data-entry clerk, teacher, writer, payroll specialist, actor and bookkeeper. A lifelong f
an of gay male erotica, he recently began writing his own stories. This is his first sale. He currently resides in Reseda, California.

  OLEANDER PLUME (oleanderplume.blogspot.com) believes everyone has the right to create her own happily ever after, and that love in all its forms is a beautiful thing. She also writes erotica sometimes.

  P. L. RIPLEY is a born storyteller, weaving worlds since he could first express what he saw in his head. Fascinated with human sexuality, erotic fiction is a natural place for him to explore the connection between sexual excitement and our emotional responses to it. He lives near Bangor, Maine, with his partner.

  ROB ROSEN (therobrosen.com), award-winning author of the novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf and Vamp, and editor of the anthologies Lust in Time and Men of the Manor, has had short stories featured in more than 180 anthologies.

  Unbeknownst to her dissertation committee, T. R. VERTEN was really a spy in the house of academia. She is the author of the gay erotic novella Confessions of a Rentboy, now republished by Burning Book Press. You can find her on Twitter, @trepverten where she talks about hot boys, her cats and what’s for dinner.

  LOGAN ZACHARY (loganzacharydicklit.com) is the author of Calendar Boys and Big Bad Wolf, an erotic werewolf mystery. His stories can also be found in: Going Down, Best Bondage Stories of 2013, Tricks of the Trade, Big Men on Campus, Beach Bums, Sexy Sailors and The Spy Who Laid Me.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  NEIL PLAKCY is the author of more than twenty novels and collections of short stories, as well as the editor of many anthologies for Cleis Press. He began his erotic writing career with a story for Honcho magazine called “The Cop Who Caught Me,” and he’s been writing about cops and sex ever since, most recently with seven novels in the Mahu mystery series. He lives in South Florida, and his website is mahubooks.com.

  The Best in Gay Romance

  Best Gay Romance 2014

  Edited by Timothy Lambert and R. D. Cochrane