Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  That was my ammunition in getting Ms. Ha to give me a raise. She told me I had an inflated sense of self-worth and I told her either I got a raise or I walked. She studied me carefully over an imaginary pair of librarian's spectacles (she doesn't wear glasses and is rumored to have better than 20/20 vision), pursed her upper lip, and—stop the presses—relented. I got an $8,000 raise. It was unprecedented. Unimaginable. And almost completely ignored by anyone in my life.

  None of my friends could truly appreciate this achievement because I only spoke to them once a week or so, and rarely talked about Ms. Ha like I would to a lover. They had no idea that I'd just landed on the moon. So Ms. Ha had the last laugh—I may have beaten her, but I'd done it anonymously.

  But I have to let that go. I didn't have a lover to excitedly to talk to about my raise, so I'd just have to get one before I did something else kind of cool.

  It was about 10 degrees outside and I'd actually passed a snow drift that had once been my neighbor's Jeep on the way in, so I didn't much feel like going out to a bar or for Chinese-for-one. Yet I didn't have anything in the house, either. I could have had spaghetti, but I was sick of the stuff, sick of supporting Paul Newman and his charities or whoever he gives his sauce profits to...Joanne Woodward?

  I was about to give up and order a small pizza when Craig called. We do that '90s thing, where you stay friends after a break-up. It had been so long since we were intimate—three years—that I could hardly remember what had attracted me to him in the first place. Maybe it was the dark hair and intense eyes, the Rock Hudson jaw and shoulders (I'm trapped in the '50s, before I was born...can you tell?), or the way his ass ski-sloped off his lower back. Maybe it was his hairy arms, his erotic, Speedsticky musk, or his singleminded determination when he used to fuck me. Or maybe it was his voice, that after-hours DJ tone that made him so popular on a.m. radio—yeah, actually, that was it. "What are we eating tonight?" he asked. He always did that—just started talking about the way things would be before asking. It was our little joke, like he was constantly trying to put one past me. I crinkled.

  "Nice try," I said. "What? You get stood up?"

  He snorted. "Never. Just by you that one time." I rolled my eyes at the man with the memory of Operation Dumbo Drop. "I just had this intuition that you would be free on this particular night. You told me you had no plans last week, and if you don't have Ex-mas Eve plans the week before, you don't have plans at all."

  "You're takeeeng the 'Christ' out of Christmas," I whined playfully. I'd forgotten—it was Christmas Eve, and all through my house, not a creature was stirring not even...well, no, I'd actually been greeted by the sight of a teensy brown mouse sitting in the middle of my sofa when I came home that night. I started thinking glue traps and animal rights protests and rabbits with Obsession-scented eyes and almost forgot about the matter at hand.

  "Oh, mmm, the thing is, I really want pizza on Christmas Eve this year," I said. "I have my heart set on pizza." I knew that would drive him away since he usually went in for fancy, sit-down meals.

  "Fine. Want me to pick up a couple pies and maybe show up in an hour?"

  I was surprised that he was up for anchovies over hors d'oeuvres, surprised and unexpectedly pleased. I almost felt like we were courting, which was a newsflash for me, and would be the same to his current datemate, Peter. Peter couldn't be called a boyfriend; I take that word too seriously, in the way some people take "lover." When I think of the word "lover," I think of what an aging Gabor calls a one-night stand. "He is vone uff my luffers."

  "Great," I said. "Come on over. And, uh—we're not exchanging gifts this year, are we?" Hoping against hope, since it was too late to grab him anything.

  He laughed. "I guess we aren't, but I'm giving one to you. You'll like it. It's nothing major—relax."

  When that voice says to relax, your shoulders listen before your mind does. My mom used to sing me to sleep, and Craig used to talk me to sleep.

  "And don't expect Peter to come; he's history."

  I made a sympathy sound and said, "Sorry." He had no reply, so I had a suspicion that Peter had done something Major and wasn't even going to be discussed as a human being anymore.

  We hung up and I immediately started pacing about, looking for something I already owned that I could wrap up (in magazine tear sheets? Newsapers? an A&P bag?) and present to him as new. He'd been over since I acquired my latest batch of books...he worked at a radio station so CDs would be pointless. I settled on a small antique frame I'd found at a flea market, into which I put a photo booth shot of him and me together. I gingerly sliced it from a strip of four, then stopped to recall the day it was taken. It had been our third anniversary, right before he left me because he was too young and wanted to make sure he wasn't passing up other opportunities. Yeah, I know, I know.

  We'd just made love that day, and I remember it because it was a rare mutual orgasm. We'd been lying on the bed, frantically working each other over, stroking chaotically, until I had the sensation that my hand was actually stroking my own prick, and that sent me over the edge. When I opened my eyes, I saw both our ejaculations arcing in the air at the exact same moment, and that sent another, even more powerful burst through my balls. I wound up with a faceful of somebody's jizz (his? mine?) and Craig walked away unsoiled. The bed was worse off than my face. But it was one of those sexual peaks you think about forever.

  I hadn't come close to achieving that since. My next runner-up was the time I let two drunk bartenders take turns poking me, and the only reason I came so hard then was from having my prostate bullied into it; it was hardly an emotional or psychological thrill.

  It was snowing like mad outside when I sat down to watch TV, and to await Craig's arrival. Dusk made the city look lavender, which was a nice thought, politically, and which looked pretty neat, too. I didn't bother to shower since I didn't expect anything to happen. Except the fact that I was even aware I wasn't showering meant I was at least thinking about letting something happen.

  I wondered if I could stir up the same passion from our mutual O, or maybe even rekindle some of the fun we'd had our first Christmas together. We'd been so very good, so safe for a whole 10 months, and since we were both negative and both positive that we weren't going to cheat (I was naïve), we'd decided to start having unprotected sex I don't know if I'd expected something momentous that night, but I never thought we'd be so giddy, or that I'd find giddiness such a turn-on.

  I had been lying on my bed, trying to look hot and bothered. I hadn't shaved (he loves—loved—my scruff), I had my shirt off, I was wearing a pair of white briefs fresh out of the package, and I was sitting back so my legs were bent at the knee and my crotch clearly spread toward the door. My hairy balls were half-hanging out and probably a hunk of my cock was, too. That always got Craig hot, the illusion that he was sneaking a peek. He was always fascinated with my balls—firm and round and low-hanging. I'd shaved them when he kept commenting favorably on the hairless balls of his favorite pornstars, and that had driven him wild.

  He'd come in for bed wearing a huge grin and his padding-around-the-apartment running shorts, very tight and very old. The kind that has sheer, built-in support so you don't wear underwear. We both have jock fetishes even if we are couch potatoes outside vain trips to the gym. "You want some action?" he teased, gathering the material at either side of his cock and tugging until his erection, trapped, was outlined as clear as nudity.

  I let my knees drift further apart, reaching under and around and tugged on my nuts like I had an itch. "Always."

  He came up to me and pulled his shorts down and off, flinging them across the room. He was totally naked except for his beat-up running shoes, which he left on. There was something in that gesture that turned me on, something about his unself-conscious libido, about just how certain he was that he could fuck me; I felt my boner stretched in my briefs, pulsing so hard it felt pretzeled.

  His cock was pointing straight toward me—out and slightly dow
n, like it was a divining rod seeking H20. He's got a big one. I have no clue about inches since I never had occasion to measure it. It's just...big. It's more that it's really fat than just really long, though it's that, too, with a mass of dark hair I used to love to sniff. I'm a sniffer. I like the way men smell, and I love the way Craig's crotch smells. The peculiar odor that his body decides to emit about six hours after a shower is like a truth serum to me, forcing me to admit I'm horny, which I always am, but which I usually mask.

  "Get me ready," he said in a normal, conversational tone. No whispering or shame. But his voice is so sexy that it had the same effect as another man grunting, "Suck my cock!" I got up on my knees and grasped him at the base of his cock, my fingers braced against his sensitive balls. I started by licking up and down the length of him, getting him wet, so that when I closed my lips around the tip of his wide, flared head, it was simple work sliding down his slippery prick.

  I did what he liked best: I gave my face over to a fast-paced bobbing, working almost—but not quite—friction-free up and down, up and down. I knew my curled lips were rubbing wetly against the juicy head of his cock, and I knew that that made him almost uncontrollably hot.

  "I like that," he growled. "Fuck—I like you on my cock, baby."

  I did it so fast I didn't have time to gag as his massive meat tickled the back of my throat. I did it totally for him, but I'd be lying if I claimed not to love the taste of dick.

  "No, stop," he begged, and backed half off me. My mouth followed, pinning him against my dresser. I reached behind him and felt his plump ass pressed into the handles of the drawers. He had a great ass, big and pliable, like straight guys have. So many gay guys have those perfectly sculpted buns, but I prefer the fleshy feel of Craig. I squeezed and spread his ass, feeling his moist, hairy crack, working my way toward his hole.

  "You want to eat my cum?" he asked as a warning, but then he remembered we were going to be unsafe and he shut up. Of course I did.

  When my fingers reached his puckered hole, I rubbed if furiously, making it hot and wet. He loves that kind of stimulation—all on the surface, no insertion. I rubbed his butthole and continued suctioning his prong. If I'd had a third hand, I'd have reached up and smacked his pecs for him, that other little peculiarly Craig thing he likes guys to do to him.

  "I'm so close," he said through clenched teeth. I kept at it, made my sucking even more deliberate. I was so hard myself it was a chore to keep from reaching down and bringing myself off. But first I wanted to eat his cum.

  "Oh, man," he said raggedly. "Oh, fucking suck me—yeah!"

  I felt a well of juice pouring onto my tongue, and then had to make room in my cheek for the six or seven spurts of spunk that followed. It felt like I was holding a mouthful of live crickets the way his shots pulsed in my cheek...and it tasted a shade worse. I'd discovered that I didn't really like the taste of cum after all, but it had been a noble experiment. I blocked off my nose (and my sense of smell) inside and avoided tasting any of his ejaculate, just kept siphoning it into that reservoir until he was done. Then I took a deep breath and swallowed it, staring directly up into his eyes, never allowing myself to show any distaste.

  "How was it?" he asked eagerly, no afterglow at all.

  I cracked up and smacked his ass. "Just shut up and fuck me."

  He was always good for two loads in a row before his cock got hypersensitive, whereas with me, I can sometimes have sex and feel great without cumming at all. Not that night, though.

  "How do you want it?" he asked.

  I pulled my underwear down to my knees, got on my belly, and raised my ass to him. "Like this."

  I get turned on by that position so much. Something about the restraint of keeping my knees together, but offering my butt up. It makes my asshole feel so tight, makes every passage through it burn. It's like that position makes me feel every fucking inch.

  For once, we didn't lose valuable time and enthusiasm with a condom. Craig hunkered down on top of me, straddling me with his cum-slicked dick poised at my hole. I felt it ease between my half-clenched cheeks, squirmed when it sank snugly into the small area just before my sphincter. It was wildly hot, that anticipation. I couldn't wait, and so I reached back and pulled my left cheek roughly away; his hardness was sucked into the beginning of my hole and I felt like the happiest slut on earth.

  "Knock yourself out," I panted, pushing back on him, trying to make do with almost no lube. He started wiggling his cock in circles, slipping it around in the last few drops of his cum. When it was finally in me to the hilt, he just started banging me like a convict.

  It hurt without lube, but after a few minute, my hole felt pretty slippery and there was no stopping him. He fucked me so hard the wet smacking noise on my ass sounded like I was being stropped. His balls banged against mine, and my dick rubbed against my mattress until I started blasting cum involuntarily, and with no warning.

  My hole spasmed frantically around his big tool, and Craig stopped his pumping and came loudly up me. It felt surreal, like ribbons being drawn upward into me and then through my dick.

  I didn't feel right down there for days.

  The doorbell rang and I felt real regret at not having showered and changed into something sexy. I realized that all I wanted for Christmas was that first Christmas we had together. Again.

  Craig came in with two small pizzas and his gift. He looked really handsome. He seemed older, but in a good way, and he hadn't shaved, either.

  We hugged, which I prolonged, as if we were still together and he was just back from a business trip or from seeing his folks at Easter.

  "You'll love my gift," he said proudly.

  Later, I was relieved at how touched he was at my thoughtless gift. He remembered the day at the photo booth with a little story about how reluctant I'd been to sit for those shots, in contrast to my overenthusiasm in the resulting photos. Sitting on his lap always put a big grin on my face. I think he felt like I was reminding him of our last day together, our mutual orgasm—our relationship—which I hadn't been doing at all. Or had I?

  I opened his gift, which was not, thank God, a Rolex. It was an ornament. I studied it and read the girly script on it, and realized it was an antique ornament he and I had once been given by his best friend. He'd taken it when he moved out. It said, "Our First Christmas Together."

  I had a brief flashback to our first condomless fuck and glanced up at him. He was grinning like a wolf, but his eyes were smiling sweetly, nostalgically.

  I didn't know right then if his gift was an invitation to reignite our relationship or just a really terrific way of getting into my pants, but I decided not to look a gift horse-hung ex-boyfriend in the mouth. If we were about to get back together, it'd happen. If not, I'd at least be spending an intimate Christmas Eve with a friendly face and the hottest cock ever.

  "You shouldn't have," I said, and we took off for my bedroom. On my way, I grudgingly went to the medicine cabinet for some condoms and lube. Let's not get carried away with reminiscing, shall we?

  Fix

  Unpublished, 1993.

  Sometimes I think I'm living from fuck to fuck.

  I dream of men like kids dream of toys: A hundred thousand men of every shape and disposition, big, hunkering fathers of healthy young sons, libidinous athletes in too-tight gear, my best friend from elementary school all grown up and eager for release.

  I dream of myself, walking up and down the line, staring openly into every pair of eyes—blue, green, gray, brown, maybe one verging on violet—reaching out to cup the bulging crotch of each man, squeezing gently until each man is aching hard. Then—and I am aware I am dreaming at this point—I come to a wall. I reach out to feel the raised, needly texture of the brick, and then a pair of hands is bracing my back, another around my head, on the tensed back of my neck, all firmly guiding me down. I'm leaning against the wall, my head hanging, my legs spread, my back arched. I know I'm about to get my butt fucked by every man I've just arou
sed. It's a feeling like being hugged by your mother; that comforting to be secure in the knowledge that you're going to be so thoroughly used. I push back against the hundred thousand cocks, my teeth gritting.

  When I wake up, I swear I can feel the rawness on my palms where they have been skinned by the bricks.

  Fuck to fuck.

  Not counting my dreams, my last fuck was an hour ago and already I feel horny again, a stretched rubber band in my nuts.

  I called for a plumber to check my sink—underneath the counter, the pipes have ruptured along their metal seams. Legitimate, but I have given myself to and taken so many visitors to this apartment that I was bubbling with expectant arousal when the buzzer sounded. The voice that greeted my "who is it?" was deep, straight, and classically Brooklyn. I am extremely attracted to all three of these qualities, especially the straightness. Desire is not PC. It may be a flaw that I can never have emotionally, only sexually, but I find the idea irresistible: to suck a cock that has been in the mouths and vaginas of women.

  I opened the door and smiled.

  He saw me—a tall, slim, moderately muscled blond, green eyes, square jaw, clefted chin, shirtless, tight-but-unself-consciously-so white shorts.

  I saw him—a bit shorter than me, a broad-shouldered young guy with short, unruly black hair, an Italian son in a tight blue-black T and paint-spattered, comfortable jeans. He was solid, had strong, strong arms. I knew instinctively he enjoyed it when a girl felt up his muscles and cooed while he worked on top of her. I had to get him on top of me.

  He was sweet, returning my smile automatically.

  "Got some problems up in hee'?" he asked gamely.

  "Want a beer?"

  We drank a couple of beers, making small talk, a novelty for a guy being paid by the hour. His name was very Brooklyn, like his unembarrassed friendliness. He was so easygoing, so easy. I wanted him, but even more urgently, I wanted to give him real pleasure.