Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  "Water. Is. Pouring. Out. Of. My. Ceiling," I seethed. "What's the problem?"

  "It is? I mean, I don't know, I have no idea..." He stepped back inside his apartment and I followed him to the bathroom, but there was nothing overflowing anywhere. It could only be a burst pipe, and that would be a major pain in the ass to fix.

  "Call Juan," he said, handing me his phone. "He'll have to come right over."

  Juan did, and was taking his sweet-assed time digging around in the tub and under the sink while Christopher—we'd finally exchanged names—and I sat around watching E! and criticizing Bianca Ferrere and Steve Kmetko. We really hit it off like that, just joking around with each other like old pals, no awkwardness at all. The whole time, Christopher was still in his diva robe, affording me a look at his hairy chest and even hairier legs. He smelled fucking hot, too, like he'd used some amazing bath gel, or some killer shampoo. Musky, manly, clean. With his hair dripping in his eyes, he looked like a young Marlon Brando, except doughier, blonder and more approachable.

  "It's fixed!" Juan barked on his way out. "Don't be so rough on the pipes."

  "Oh, okay," I called after him. "Next time we take a shower, we'll do it real gentle-like.”

  Now came the weirdness. Up until that point, Juan's presence made the evening harmless. Now, I was alone with a sexy guy who was wearing only a robe and a sheepish grin. He was sitting on the couch, and I was sitting on the couch's arm, feeling like Tweety Bird balancing on the swing in his gilded cage.

  "I better go, eh?" I chattered, getting up to leave.

  "No," Christopher said, taking my arm. "Stay."

  I'm not lying when I tell you that this kind of shit never happens to me, but the next step was complete facial gridlock. He pulled me over onto his lap, holding my jaw and kissing my face like a lonely dog. When he got me on the lips, he had his tongue in my mouth before I was aware my mouth was even open. Just the way he pulled me over onto him made me weak with wanting it—he was so aggressive.

  I ground my ass into his crotch, my knees at my chest, his arms around my torso and pulling me closer. He kissed my cheeks, licked my neck, nibbled the skin at my shoulder blades—in no time flat, I became shirtless without a care in the world that my belly would be exposed. When he reached up and manipulated one of my nipples, kissed it and flickered his tongue over the tip, I nearly lost it—not only did it make me instantly unafraid that my fleshy body wouldn't be appealing to him, it just so happens that with me, it's all in the nipples.

  "Oh, yeah, I love that," I muttered, forgetting that dirty talk usually does nothing for me. This time, it wasn't contrived dirty talk, it was stuff I was saying because I couldn't help myself.

  "Suck my tits, lick my tits..." I bounced in his lap, luxuriating in the attention he paid to the most attentive part of my body.

  Christopher swirled his tongue around my nipples, ran it from tit to tit and back again, chewed them until they were so raw every touch felt like 10. He was really hard under me—I could feel his prick beating against the underside of my thigh.

  I was reluctant to give up the nipple work, but there was more to be had. I stood up and unbelted my jeans, pulled them down and off. (Mental note: Use more bleach on underwear.)

  Christopher sat still, expectant, smiling, and winked at me while I was completely naked. I wouldn't learn until the next day that he secretly loves to leave the underwear on, to work around it.

  My next move was to open his robe. I don't know why gay guys are so afraid of a little meat on the bones, but if anyone could persuade them to change their ways, it's Christopher. He is a hunky, meaty man with a large gut and rounded pecs and just about the most beautiful cock I've ever seen. It wasn't porno-huge—they never are, are they?—but just perfectly fat and artistically veiny, and it was leaking pre-cum like my ceiling leaks pipewater.

  Condoms.

  He had some, thank God, because who knows what I'd have done without them. Sandwich bags? Or just asking lots of sexual-history questions and taking the gamble? I pulled a tight one on him and another on myself. He was admiring my dick, to, stroking it so firmly I had to ask him to lay off—seeing his sexy body all naked and glistening, not to mention the most loving pec job of all time, had me ready to squint and spritz.

  I went down on him in one big gulp, wishing that instead of mint, they made condoms taste like dick, with a hint of pre-cum. But rubbing my lips over the shape of his dick was exciting enough for now, at least until we could make a trip to get tested. And the feeling was mutual—Christopher just lay there in awe, mouth agape, eyes closed.

  I got a major rise out of him when I licked and suckled his nuts—the most sensitive part of his body—and a loud roar when I nipped my way from the tip of his cock to the underside of his scrotum. When I lifted one of his legs, he almost stopped me, thinking I'd suck his asshole. Now, would I do that? In a flash, actually, but under the circumstances I was going to settle for faking it convincingly.

  I buried my face in his ass, licking his crack and teasing his perineum with my tongue. He smelled great, very musky despite the scent of Ivory soap everywhere. I love, love, love to tongue a big man's asshole, make him cry like a baby with no much nasty pleasure. I rolled my face in the crack of his ass, hoping to absord that scent on my cheeks to smell later, when the lovemaking had invariably ended.

  He pulled me back up to kiss me, dropping his hands to my ass, which he squeezed mercilessly. He bunched my cheeks up in his fists and worked them back and forth, with and against each other, my asshole burning from the friction. I hadn't been fucked in a year, and hadn't ever wanted to get fucked as badly as I wanted it right then. He worked his forefingers toward one another until they massaged my butthole from opposite angles and slipped into me up to the first knuckles.

  "Aw, fuck," I gasped, wiggling on his fingertips. "I gotta get fucked, man, I have to have it tonight..."

  He shushed me, "I know, I know...I'll do it, I'll do it to you good and hard like this asshole," (rubbing the rim of my hole furiously) "needs to be fucked." I hadn't showered, wasn't clean like Christopher—I could smell my sweaty butt and balls, getting all riled up with his touching.

  I rubbed his condomed cock with ForPlay, unable to resist jerking it tightly enough to constitute the beginnings of a handjob. He looked like he would've settled for that quick relief, but I couldn't let that happen so I stopped, applied more lube to my butt, and positioned myself over his erection, squatting over it on the couch. I was preparing to lower myself onto him, but he beat me to the punch. He'd loosened me enough that when he shoved his fat cock upwards at my hole, it sank halfway in, no problem at all.

  "Oh, motherfuck!" I called out, seeing stars and losing control. He started pumping up and into me while I held onto the back of the sofa, just squatted there and let him nail me from below. He held my love handles, pinching them hard enough to burn, while he thrust his hips up, fucking me frantically. Toward the end, he was almost leaping up off the cushions to get as deep into me as possible, and I felt it, baby, I felt it.

  "I'm gonna..." I stood up on the couch, his prick slipping out of my ass and into his immediately jerking fist. I shot cum onto the bricks of the wall, working my meat with my left hand until I didn't think I would ever cum again. By the time I'd collapsed into his lap, he'd spilled all over the coffee table (here's hoping he'd already read that poor issue of "Out"), and was losing his boner, half asleep and satisfied.

  "That was so great," I murmured. He agreed, hugging me gently and whispering things I couldn't make out. I looked him in the eye and he looked back, rubbing my belly with one hand, holding me in place—close to him—with the other. I knew then—and I'll let you know if I'm right when the time comes—that I was gonna be with Christopher for a long time. I think he could tell I was thinking that, because he smacked my butt affectionately and kissed my nose.

  "Chubby," he whispered to me sweetly.

  And then we split a pizza.

  Gravy

 
From "Southern Comfort" (Badboy, 1996), edited by David Laurents.

  Nobody makes gravy like my Gran.

  Or, at least, like my Gran used to.

  Gran's been gone about ten years now, and—not by coincidence—it's been about that long since I had my last taste of decent, Deep South gravy.

  Do you know what real gravy is? Probably not. You're probably used to that water-thin brown junk they soup out over roast beef in diners, or maybe your dear old dad could make something he liked to call "gravy" with some oil and Bisquick. But that ain't the real thing.

  Real gravy is the color of pearls and almost as thick, whipped up from bacon grease and not much else but love.

  Good gravy'll choke your heart before you're old enough to serve any to the first of your kids. You lose a year off your life for every year you partake of it. That's the way of the world. If something gives you lots of pleasure, it's probably bad for you. There's no way I could be as healthy as I am now if Gran had lived any longer than she did. I'd weigh four hundred pounds, and my blood wouldn't be able to get anywhere near my heart.

  Gran was more mother than the woman who gave birth to me—then gave me the slip early on, preferring the company of exciting truckers to the needs of her own flesh and blood—and Gran was a strong believer in food for the stomach over food for the heart. In some ways, I think Gran expressed all of her emotions with food. If she loved you, she made you cornbread you'd never forget; if she hated you, you'd be lucky to wake up the next morning after eating a mess of greens no forensic scientist could rightly call "poisoned," but that nevertheless were dripping with enough spite to drop a bear.

  And if you were me, you got the best prize of all—Gran's blue ribbon (if potentially lethal) gravy. She was so protective of the recipe she would only enter it in contests outside of Missouri. As far as I know, she and I were the only two people in the state who got to eat it regular, and we did manage to eat it with every meal. In fact, only one other person—outside contest judges in surrounding states—got the privilege of tasting that deliciously artery-busting elixir. And that's the person making me think about Gran right now.

  I was beginning to feel like a spinster back in the summer of '80, except guys don't get called "spinsters" when they still haven't gotten married and out of the house by age twenty-two. They get called queers. Which I felt like. And was. Am.

  I was born in and spent the first twenty-two years of my life living in Gran's ramshackle homestead in Potter Crick, Missouri. I don't think anyone in town realized that "Crick" just wasn't spelled right; I had probably been the only kid in school who had enjoyed spelling lessons and was probably the only adult in town who was ever able to pronounce "creek" like all the actors on TV would, long E. (Only problem was I couldn't show off my brains since some crafty hick had gone and spelled "Potter Crick" the way everyone said it.)

  I was always too caught up in actors on TV, I'd be the first to admit. I didn't like to socialize at the five-and-dime, play baseball with the "good kids," or raise hell and drink myself into a mess of children like the "bad kids." Instead, I preferred to lie on my bed, my head propped up on my hands, squinting at the pip-squeak black-and-white TV I'd rescued from a flea market as a teenager.

  I guess that preoccupation with—I'm embarrassed to admit this—"Dukes of Hazzard," "CHiPs," "BJ and the Bear" and the rest kept me out of trouble, but it also kept me from making some important decisions about my life, like what I was gonna do with it. And where in hell I was gonna get myself to so I could be queer in peace. Nowhere in Missouri was all I could figure, and the idea of leaving poor old Gran (who was already up in her eighties) and starting a whole new life some place I'd never even visited was enough to drive me straight into fantasyland.

  My hottest fantasies from that time period didn't involve Daisy Duke. They involved Bo and Luke. Even now, thinking of a lanky blond and a strapping brunet on either end of me is enough to get me going. Back then, before I'd ever kissed a man—ever kissed anybody—it was enough to make me want to jerk off in broad daylight, and screw it if Gran walked in and dropped over dead from shock.

  But my days of thinking and not doing changed, like everything does eventually. We had a visitor to town, to our home. A first, but a first that was on a collision course to bring about a mess of lasts.

  I was pretty near pissed off when I had to miss a "Wheel of Fortune" puzzle to answer a loud banging on the back screen door that day. Who in the hell was that? Had Gran gone off to wring some chickens' necks and locked herself out again? Was it that nosy next-door neighhhh!-boor, Alice-Fay? (I was the only person under 60 who knew where her parents got that name from.)

  I couldn't believe my eyes when I got a load of the young guy standing on the other side of the mesh. He was my height—just a split end over six feet—and had the shoulders of a local but the polish of a city boy. He had shiny black hair that looked fresh-washed perfect like it would never fall out of place, and he flashed a boyish grin that made you smile back without even thinking about it. He was wearing, of all things, a business suit, and not just some old ragtag thing he kept for special occasions, but a really snazzy tan summer suit the likes of which I hadn't seen outside of "Dallas."

  Weirdest of all, he was Latin. A Latino in Potter Crick? I felt guilty just looking at him, knowing how the neighbors would flip, and how hot I was getting over his gorgeous face. I suddenly recalled a vision I'd had of Erik Estrada doing me against his motorcycle and blushed in spite of myself.

  "Hi," he said cheerfully, in perfect, unaccented English. More than I could say for the locals, or for myself. "Sorry to bug you, but..." and he laughed and made a silly kind of embarrassed gesture, "...my car broke down about a mile from you, and I have no idea how to get back to town and to Route 17."

  This seemed like a day-fantasy come to life, except it also sounded like a crock; what business did he have here, in his slick suit? Was this some sort of ruse?

  "You just walk back the way you drove," I suggested coolly, testing him. He had eyes so brown they might as well have been black. I blushed even more fiercely.

  The stranger was ready for coldness and just pushed on ahead with his plan for help. "I don't want to be a nuisance, but it was ten miles to get back to town, and only two to get to the next major road, and since I was lucky enough to find you after one, please don't jinx me by sending me packing. Don't you have a truck or...anything? I'd pay you for the gas and your time..."

  No telling where Gran was unless she was out back hanging wash to dry, since I couldn't hear the chickens shrieking as she made them into soup fodder.

  I don't know what made me bold that day; maybe it was just desperation, or the thought that there was nothing stopping me from seizing what looked to be a golden opportunity. I opened the door and waved him in and shook his hand and decided it was about time I lost my virginity.

  "I'm Lest," I said.

  "Lest? As in...?"

  "Lester," I sighed, always annoyed at having to say the obvious. Hated that name. Changed it since then.

  "I'm Nacho," he said, and I cracked up. Not fair, really, since my name was probably just as dumb sounding to him, but...Nacho????

  "Short for Ignacio," he said, his smile dimming. "Never heard any Mexican names around here before?"

  I grinned as broadly as him or broader and squeezed his arm like I'd seen guys do in bars when they were trying to make friends with each other. "Never seen a Mexican guy in the flesh until now," I said. "But don't let's make it a race thing. I'm actually kinda sorry it took so long."

  He laughed out loud and walked into our kitchen, casing for a phone. He didn't seem to get that I wanted to suck his cock real bad, or if he did, he was placing his priority on arranging a ride back to civilization. He was sorely disappointed when I told him our old truck wasn't running right (it was, actually) but seemed relieved when he got through to the guy he was calling.

  Turned out our Nacho was in town to make a million dollars selling land outside o
f the Crick to some developers banking on subdivisions and a nice new school to take care of the baby boom that'd been going on since the late sixties. I never understood Nacho's involvement completely. He seemed to be just a broker but acted like he owned the land. I'm not closed-minded, but I couldn't help wondering how a Mexican-American had come to own land in Potter Crick. Nor was his name featured on the paperwork me and Gran later received when we sold our property, though I would lose sleep wondering if our encounter that day had been some sort of conspiracy to sweeten the deal, put me in his hip pocket to ensure that me and Gran'd sell....

  "Mind if I camp out here while I'm waiting for my ride?" he asked, hanging up after a brief, muffled conversation. "It'll only be about two, two-and-a-half hours.”

  I opened the icebox and tossed him a Bud. "Only if you'll drink and eat and make yourself at home." Nacho twisted the cap off with a smile, and I caught him looking me over as he walked into our living room and unwound onto the couch.

  I wasn't much to look at, tell the truth. I was probably as solid and muscular as a baby on the teat; I never exerted myself, and the only work I did was repairing farm equipment and light electronic stuff, nothing to build muscle, just stuff to keep me and Gran afloat.

  I'm a dirty blond, as I like to call it, part brown and part gold hair, white as corn silk in summer, dark as Nacho's in the dead of winter. I'm slim and wiry and had never gained a pound through all that gravy—the benefit of being young. My best feature is probably my eyes. They're green. No, really—true, true green, just like a romance heroine's. That was something back then. Now, all anyone ever says to me about my eyes is, "Great contacts! Where'd you get them?" But back then, I got lots of compliments on them.

  Nacho didn't mention my eyes, but he kept his eyes on me from the minute I sat across from him in the living room. I wasn't drinking, just staring at him and trying to tell him—without having to say it—that I wanted him in the worst way.

  "You here alone?" Nacho asked, over-casual.