Best Gay Erotica 2012

by Richard Labonté

  “If that bulge is for real, you should be in movies.”

  “Every damn inch of it.”

  “Meat or potatoes?”

  “Plenty of both, buddy.”

  “Here’s my card. Seriously. Call me. I’ll put you in pictures.

  You’ll make some money, too. But what’ll we call you?”

  Randy took the card and stuck it in the hip pocket of his Levi’s. Sex work had become infrequent; it was hard to sell what so many men were giving away with enthusiastic abandon. Only when the bug bit him did he don his leather jacket and cowboy boots and swagger down Polk Street to score the odd fifty to tide him over until the next payday. Knowing he could sell it made him more particular about whom he gave it to for free. In this he was like his peers for whom sex, youth and beauty were the commodities being exchanged daily on Castro Street, where appendage sought orifice and semen was the negotiated price of pleasure.

  In a few days he was on the phone with the Star Maker. The day after that, Randy was sitting across the man’s desk in a sleazy office too far South of Market for Randy’s taste, a former warehouse filled with props, lights and sets too fake to suspend anyone’s disbelief. The man lit a cigarette and looked Randy over. “Well, let’s see it.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Hot fucking damn. It’s for real. Shit, boy.”

  “It’s not all the way hard yet. Give me a second.”

  “Take your time. Fuck, I don’t know anyone who could down that thing. I mean, I’m a big cocksucker and I don’t think I could manage that monster.”

  “Maybe you could. Wanna give it a try?”

  “Hell. Why not?”

  The Star Maker put out his cigarette and, dropping his own jeans to the floor, caressed himself as he ministered to Randy. He admired the member for several seconds before taking a deep breath, opening his mouth wide and inhaling the bulbous head and the first few inches of the thick shaft.

  “Fuck, yeah, that’s it, buddy. That’s it. Come on, you can suck a few more inches. Yeah. Man, oh, man, you’re good. Fuck, yeah, use both hands. Up and down, up and down. That’s it, that’s it. Keep sucking, buddy, keep sucking. You’re gonna make me cum, man, gonna make me shoot my load. Give me that head. Oh, yeah! Oh motherfucking goddamn! Here it comes, man, here it comes! I’m gonna blow, I’m gonna blow. Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

  Randy smiled as he watched the Star Maker swallow three times and keep nursing on Randy’s shaft as he stroked himself to completion.

  “That’s it, baby, that’s it. Shoot for me, baby, shoot it for me…”

  After the Star Maker had caught his breath, wiped his mouth of any residue and recovered enough composure to talk business, the conversation continued, Randy’s flaccid trouser trout hanging limply, still wet with spit and cum, from his open jeans.

  “How about this? Randy Johnson! Or maybe Miles Long? How about Butch Studley? Butch Boner? I know, Ben Boner! No, how about Tom Kat? Travis Bent? Or Dick Dickerson? Maybe Dick Shooter! Ben Bender, Dave Dawson, Mike Sergeant?”

  “I liked Ben Boner.”

  “Then Ben Boner it is. Now we gotta find a guy who can handle that much meat. Can’t be too hard to find a whore with his asshole stretched to hell. Any preferences?”

  “None of that ugly street trash you see in those peep shows. Lots of hot guys in this town happy to take it up the ass for a few bucks.”

  “They’re all trash, but don’t worry. I’ll find some cute clone to throw up his legs. You’re a hot top, so stay that way. I don’t care how versatile you really are, just remember: bottoms aren’t stars.”

  Billed as a Castro Bartender, Ben Bohner—the h added for class, Randy shot a dozen super-eights that became legendary. He no longer swaggered up and down Polk Street, yet more opportunities presented themselves as he went about his daily business. His fee doubled in correlation with his celebrity. His fans frequently contacted the Star Maker, but he was reluctant to act as a liaison without receiving a commission that Randy refused to give him, the Star Maker having made enough money off of him. When the Star Maker was arrested on drug charges, Randy was happy that he had refused the services of a pimp.

  He kept his job at the Neon Chicken, tending bar and enjoying the camaraderie it provided. To his regulars he was Randy. To those who sought him out with money in hand, he was Ben Bohner. Randy joked with his friends in the upstairs wine bar; Ben Bohner asked his patrons to meet him later at the Twin Peaks, Toad Hall or the Rawhide, where fees could be negotiated away from the prying eye of a boss that had no qualms about employing a whore as long as the whore was discreet enough not to transact business on the premises.

  “Keep your cock out of the cash register! That’s what my dad taught me!”

  “Sure, Mel, whatever you say.”

  Life went on, his former exuberance tempered with experience. Coming from a small town, Randy found comfort being a neighborhood fixture. Strolls to Cliff’s Variety, Cala Foods or the Norse Cove were filled with nods and greetings. Only rarely did strangers accost him with undying love or unquenchable desire. The former was something for which he had no cure, the idea of romantic love between men an alien notion to him; the later meant money. At once collegial and chauvinistic, the locals defended Randy from unwanted attention, vocally deriding the tourists smitten with unfathomed desire as they watched Randy copulating to the silence of a projector’s rattle.

  Just as Randy thought his celebrity was dissipating, he was visited at work by the Famous Porn Star responsible for Ben Bohner’s transition to sound. From Los Angeles (where Randy had never been), he was in San Francisco looking for talent. He was intent on working both sides of the camera, transitioning to where the real money lay. He came to the Neon Chicken just before closing, arriving in a flurry of narcissism and self-importance, too tanned for January and showing too many perfect teeth. Randy recognized him at once, his fame preceding him. A part of Randy blushed, another part was flattered to merit the Star’s attention.

  “Someone told us you were here. Man, you’re hard to find. We’ve been in every bar on Castro looking for you. Anyway, I’m Drew. I have a proposition for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Hey, I like your voice. Sounds butch. We looked up this other guy you fucked once, that hair burner, Dan something, and he had a voice like Minnie Mouse. Couldn’t use him, but we didn’t tell him that, just said we’d be in touch. But you sound great, which means we can use you. We’re making a feature porn movie with sound. More money and more publicity. Whaddaya say?”

  “Okay. When, where and who do I fuck?”

  “Me. We’ll do two shoots on different days and splice them together, make it look like you shot two big loads.”

  “Cool. But two fucks means I get paid for two scenes, right?”

  “Yeah, well we can negotiate the details. The important thing is you’re on board, right? What’s your name, your real name I mean?”

  “Randy. Let’s have a drink on it.”

  The Famous Porn Star had been right. Randy’s transition to sound increased both his fame and his fortune. His fee was double the going rate, the price of his growing celebrity. He wondered if he were really the object of so many hushed conversations, whispered giggles and sideway glances that paused when he passed, or if he was being egotistical or paranoid, not sure which would be worse.

  “There he is.”

  “Omigod it’s real. Look at the fucking basket.”

  “And he’s tall, too. Not like those other guys who just look hung ’cause they’re short.”

  “Shit, how does he squeeze into those Levi’s? Those jeans need a third leg or something.”

  “Nice ass, too. I wonder if he gets fucked?”

  Randy loved to get fucked, loved the feeling of a big cock in his prone and waiting hole. He loved the intensity of another man sweating like a horse, reaching his climax and spewing sperm deep inside him. He loved the urgency that came with being fucked, loved the sense of contentment t
hat followed the injection of semen into his bloodstream. But Bottoms Weren’t Stars, and Big-Dicked Bottoms were the bane of a community where chickens far outnumbered roosters. Any suggestion that he give up his ass for payment was met with the same speech:

  “I don’t know, man, I’m not really into that. I dunno, maybe, but it’ll cost ya. And you can’t tell anyone you fucked me.”

  No matter the size of the assaulting member, or the violence it asserted, the monologue remained the same:

  “Fuck, that hurts! Damn, you got a big dick. You’re tearing me apart.”

  Though sworn to secrecy, the men that had the pleasure of Randy’s ass were quick to share the details of their expensive conquest. Eventually word got around that, for a price, Randy’s backdoor was accessible, but the price increased each time he was fucked because:

  “I don’t really like getting fucked, you know? It hurts too damn much. Especially with a hung stud like you.”

  Movie followed movie. He posed naked for Mandate, Blueboy and Torso, dick arching to heaven or hanging half hard. He smiled his winning smile, his eyes sparkling, head bent slightly to one side. But despite his continued popularity, Randy sensed that moustached, shaggy-haired men would soon be out of style; he kept his job at the Neon Chicken.

  Seeing one of his movies on a home video, Randy sensed a milestone had been passed, the old medium succumbing to the new, and just as not all of Hollywood’s silent film stars were able to make the transition to talkies, neither would many of the established porn stars move seamlessly to video—a far more brutal media than celluloid. It was then that the Porn Mogul appeared, the new proprietor of an old studio that had bought the rights to what were now known as Ben Bohner’s Classics. The success of Ben’s early work in the new medium meant renewed interest in Randy.

  “I got this great idea, see? I’ll get me a stable of the really popular guys from the old super-eights and sign them to Exclusive Contracts!”

  “Like Hollywood?”

  “Sure, whatever. So you sign with me and I give you a little something just for signing. And it’s a contract so I have to use you for so many videos a year, see? So you get some guaranteed work and I get a roster of stars that’ll make the other guys weep!”

  “Sounds like a great idea. Just so you know, though, my price has gone up. A lot.”

  “Not a problem, Benny. I got investors ready to make some money!”

  “When do we start work?”

  “Soon. Just one thing, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I get to swing on your knob sometimes. Kinda of a perk of being the boss, see?”

  “Sure, man. After you pay me.”

  “Not to worry. We’re riding the wave and we’re riding high!”

  Almost overnight, the world changed. Sex was no longer a commodity but something feared. Semen was now toxic and pleasure had consequences. Whispered rumors, shame-filled eyes, gallows humor and desperate laughter were the new norm. Spontaneity died and all pleasure was suspect. Once stars, the sluts that had proudly peopled the City became pariahs irrationally blamed for not having foreseen the plague.

  A pall hung over the Castro, a heavy black veil blotting out the joy that had filled their lives. The streets, once full of foot traffic every night, were empty. One by one, businesses closed, either because they were unable to succeed with diminishing foot traffic, or because the entrepreneur had died intestate. One could only fuck within restraints that felt unbearable to the initiated but were quickly adopted by the succeeding generation.

  Among the first wave of deaths was the Porn Mogul. His silent partner took over and made vast sums of money by anticipating both an increased consumption of porn and a shift in popular tastes. Moustached and bearded men with hairy chests disappeared from the skin magazines to be quickly replaced by skinny boys touted as “Healthy Men.” Then they were replaced by buffed but shaven men with boyish faces and pouting lips. Randy watched the need for porn increase even as his own ability to get work within the medium waned with every video he made. Men with maturity (which is to say men over thirty) and experience were no longer a part of the iconography, buried under the avalanche of shaven chests and genitalia. When the Neon Chicken closed its doors on Eighteenth, and with his options fewer than ever, Randy consented to be kept by a wealthy man living in a modern monstrosity in the Oakland Hills. Randy left the city that had nurtured him, feeling like an exile from the home he had loved, fearing that Oakland would be his Colonus.

  “He left me how much?”

  “Enough to live on comfortably. You must have made him very happy.”

  “I sure as hell tried.”

  “Funny. I always thought Wayne was a top.”

  “He was. Mostly. And super hung. There weren’t a lot of guys who could handle that much meat.”

  “But you could?”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “But your image…I always thought you were a top, too.”

  “Versatile, but don’t tell anyone. It‘d ruin my image.”

  “You know, I always thought you’d look good in leather…”

  “Yeah? As it happens, I do.”

  Thus another career for Randy, Leather Master, one for which there was a ready and anxious market. In this, as in all his endeavors, he excelled because he liked the people he made happy with the abuse he provided, and because he loved his work. Which brings us to why he was in Chicago on this particular weekend, in this hotel lobby…looking for work.

  The kiss was invasive and Randy liked it. Rock’s tongue assaulted his mouth with a will to dominate the Leather Master being held in his lip lock. He grabbed Randy’s ass, squeezing his buttocks tight in his strong hands. With a sudden and insistent moment of clarity, Randy managed to pull himself from the kiss.

  “Hey, son, this is great, but you know why I’m here, right?”

  “Dad’s a whore. I knew that already. I’m horny and got money in my pocket to spend on a man I’ve wanted since I first got pubes. Come on, Dad. I’m gonna fuck you good.”

  Soon they were in Rock’s suite. Rock threw a few C-notes on the bed, sat on the couch, opened a beer, undid his jeans, grabbed a bottle of lube and nodded to Randy while stroking his own huge dick.

  “Okay, Dad. Strip for me. And make it last.”

  Randy had stripped before, both in bars and for clients. Having no innate sense of rhythm or gift of movement, he’d developed a technique that had served him well over the years, developed by hours of practice in front of a narrow mirror.

  He spread his legs and slowly removed his motorcycle jacket, letting it fall with a soft thud to the floor. Then came his leather vest, removed with a single, simultaneous movement of both shoulders. With a final shrug, it too found the floor. Looking into Rock’s eyes, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it quickly off, letting it drop. He left the white, ribbed singlet stretched across his broad chest, before slowly turning around, bending over and, grabbing the flies from both legs of his chaps, slowly pulled up on the zippers until they fell open. Standing erect, he undid the snaps, finally letting the chaps share the floor with the rest of his gear. Facing Rock again, Randy slowly unbuttoned the leather under-chaps, letting them fall down his legs to his still booted feet. He kicked of the shorts and stood naked except for leather gloves, boots and cap.

  “Shit, Dad. Turn around and show me the hole I’m gonna fuck. Oh, yeah. Sweet, hairy Daddy hole. I gotta eat that ass. Bend over, fucker.”

  Randy turned around, slowly bending forward as he grabbed his booted ankles. Rock’s tongue assaulted his hole with the same insistence with which it had invaded his mouth, laying claim to it, preparing it for what was to come, enjoying the taste and scent of the orifice. With one movement, Rock stood and pushed Randy face-first onto the bed. In a moment, Randy was bound spread-eagle, testing the restraints to show off straining muscles. A few more bills fell onto the mattress.

  “You okay with bareback, Daddy whore?”

  “Yes, but you should
know…”

  “Shut up. All I wanted to hear was ‘yes.’ You know, I think I’ll call my posse so they can fuck you, too. Don’t worry, I got a wad of C-notes to pay for each of my bros… Hey, Joe? Yeah, he’s here. You and the boys come up and take turns with him when I’m done. Yeah, raw is cool. Head up now so you can see me shoot my first load, Yeah, it’s a sweet hairy Daddy ass. Worth every fucking penny. Hey, I’m done talkin’, ’kay? Get the boys up here… All right, now bite the pillow and take it like a man.”

  Rock was on top of him, his rigid cock dripping honey and looking for the moist, warm harbor between Randy’s buttcheeks. Tentatively, it approached the waiting orifice, slowly but steadily pushing its way toward its goal. When the head had been engulfed in the warm, hairy flesh of Randy’s fuck hole, he gasped with pleasure at the same moment Randy gasped in pain. Rock pulled back only slightly before continuing to push inside Randy, who could only groan in response to the delicious anguish. After what seemed an eternity, Rock was fully embraced by Randy’s hole, a hole grabbing onto the huge cock, grasping for the bulbous head striking against the prostate and sending shivers up and down Randy’s hairy, bound body. Rock’s pace increased, slowly at first, in both strength and speed, pounding harder against the hard rock that was Randy’s prostate as it prepared to shoot sperm against the sheets beneath the sweating bodies thrashing together as they reached their climax. Joe and the others came in just as Rock screamed and made the last, hard thrust inside Randy, letting his seed spew deep inside Randy, marking Randy as his own. At the same moment, Randy came, his hard cock spurting spunk against his belly. Rock caught his breath a moment before roughly disengaging himself with a slap on Randy’s restrained, hairy ass. Rock shook the sweat from his face as he smiled at the posse of young men, all of them engorged and prepared to take Rock’s place.