Best Gay Erotica 2012

by Richard Labonté

  Tony wandered off and danced with his pretty, overweight wife. I drank whiskeys at the bar and wondered which of us remembered more of the truth, and whether it mattered. Was the core experience—the emotion, not the meaning—the same for both of us? But I was too distracted by the pale blue eyes and dark brooding eyebrows of the bartender to let my questions evolve in the direction of answers. Toward the end of the night I knelt behind his furry ass among the boxes in the back of the catering van. I pushed him forward on his elbows, grabbing his hips to position his ass in front of my face. The smell was exotic and dangerous and I dove in with abandon, rimming him until he screamed and squirmed and, at one point, fell forward slamming his head against the cargo door. He was wobbly, but he said he was okay as he sheathed me in a pink condom and resumed his submissive position in front of me. I fucked him hard, smelling his sweat mingled with the smells of whiskey, bread, cheese, chocolate and latex. When we finally came, we did so with a simultaneous jolt that toppled us sideways, flailing and laughing into a pan of white, sticky icing. He wiped a gob of icing off the side of his face and slid his finger slowly, sensually between my lips. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, pants still knotted around his ankles, and kissed me. I reached around to pull him closer to me and wondered how each of us would carry this experience forward into our separate lives.

  Last year I was in Chicago for a conference and I skipped the afternoon sessions to go to the Art Institute. I wandered for a while, restless to find anything that would make me feel something. I wandered until I found myself staring up at Georges Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. The painting hung large and low on the wall, the figures nearly life sized, the colors so vibrant and alive I felt momentarily disoriented. The images inside the thick, plain frame looked more real than the people around me. I looked down at the pale skin of my hand and then back up into the brilliance of the painting. I stepped closer, close enough to peer into the dense pattern of the brushstrokes, close enough to see the tiny dots and dashes that made up the grand and glorious whole. The tiny daubs of color, meaning nothing on their own, together formed this extraordinary moment in time, a moment that never existed in reality. I thought about the Young Turk of Pointillism, his pale fingers streaked with red paint, his faded blue jeans molded tight over muscles and his velvety brown eyes staring hungrily into mine. He longed to create something out of nothing, when everything surrounded him. “Art gives meaning to our experiences,” he’d said. But I was pretty sure he’d gotten it wrong. Life gives meaning to itself, and life itself can be art.

  I stood in front of the painting for hours, thinking and pacing and staring into the galaxies of dots and dashes and daubs. And I felt something overpowering, something real and revelatory as the moment imprinted itself indelibly on my soul.

  Today, leaning against the fence in the sun, I am putting all the pieces together in my mind, thinking about the tiny flashes of memory that cluster together to give meaning to my life; thinking about how they seem to fill in the spaces between the big moments, lending color and order to the whole canvas. Right now the pieces are: sunlight; heat on my skin; the smell of pretzels; the heaviness of the humidity; constellations of color dancing behind my eyelids; car horns; a helicopter; the music on the lawn; the sounds of children playing soccer. I am standing here between moments, waiting for the next thing to happen.

  And then it does.

  “Beautiful day.” His voice is low, with a soft Southern twang. I turn to face the sound, opening my eyes to the outline of his body, a black form between my eyes and the blinding light of the sun. He reaches out like the god of the sun, his hand tweaking my nipple. I glance down and see pale fingers and a smear of blue paint.

  “Walk with me,” he says.

  “What about the Hat?” I ask.

  “You’re observant, Henry,” he says grinning.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Forgotten already.” He turns and walks away, glancing over his shoulder with a pouty little grin that makes my cock twitch.

  I follow him away from the main path into the overgrown smear of green ferns and shrubs. The canvas of green around us is pierced from above by long, slender shafts of light. Above the canopy the afternoon light is fading from insistent yellow to mellow orange. He half turns periodically, grinning and beckoning me deeper into the woods with dewy brown eyes and a flashing white smile.

  I hear the sound of water, flowing through a ravine that girds the east side of the park.

  We climb down a steep embankment, walking sideways, our feet sliding in the loose, gravelly earth, and finally leaping down to a small grassy clearing at the water’s edge. The sides of the ravine rise above us on both sides checkerboarded by ferns and palmettos. Above us towering pines and oaks eclipse the summer sky. At our feet the stream, tumbling over loose rocks and tree roots, is glassy, striped with frothing, white ripples.

  The Painter is standing in the center of the round grassy clearing watching me, like an emcee standing patiently in a cabaret spotlight. His eyes are so dark, I cannot distinguish pupil from iris. He reaches down and rubs his crotch and I realize his cock is already hard, standing out beneath the tight denim like a pistol. I think of the old Mae West joke and smile.

  “That’s it, baby,” he says. “Come on over here and see what I’ve got for you.”

  We’re both naked pretty quickly. Any resistance I might have had to getting completely naked melts away when he drops his own jeans and steps out of them. His body is lean and lanky, with long, interlocking arcs of muscle. His arms and legs are tanned and hard, dusted with fine dark hair that becomes denser and more unruly as it approaches his torso. His cock is familiar, but it looks longer and more imposing now that it is not collared by the fly of his jeans. It stands out from his crotch erect and eager, bouncing and dripping with precum.

  The earth is springy beneath my feet and I realize for the first time that the grassy clearing is not grass at all, but a mass of green, spongy moss. I’m looking down at my pale feet, toes flexing in the moss, when the Painter’s perfect tan feet step into view.

  I feel his hand grasping my erection and then he’s on his knees pulling me between his wet lips and down his throat. He works on my cock, taking it in impossibly deep and massaging the length of it with his insistent throat muscles. His eyes are closed and his breathing is labored; he’s immersed in his work. I close my eyes and lean my head back, savoring the lightheadedness that accompanies the growing tension in my groin.

  When he has dragged me to the edge, I try to gently pry him off me, but he holds fast, ignoring my “I’m coming” announcement and taking my cum down his throat. My knees weaken and he holds on to my hips, holding me inside him as I expel wave after wave of cum. And then he continues to hold me inside him and starts again, bringing me slowly, deliberately to a second, shivering orgasm. When he finally releases me, my hands are shaking and vertigo drives me to sit down. I drop onto my T-shirt and watch the Painter, still on his knees, jacking himself with his left hand, strong leisurely strokes.

  I crawl toward him on my hands and knees, the sweat between my asscheeks cools in the gentle breeze. I reach out and touch his cock, letting the heat warm my fingers. I jack him for a few minutes, then dig a condom out of my pocket, sheathing him in emerald green, lubing him up and rolling over on my back in the moss. I pull my legs up like Tony did all those years ago, watching the Painter’s greedy eyes and toothy grin as he positions himself, aims, and then slides himself inside me. He grabs the back of my thighs and pushes down, compressing me and tilting my ass toward him to give himself leverage. His pale, paint-streaked fingers are digging into my muscles as he rocks himself in and out of my ass.

  He finds his stride easily, like a thoroughbred on the track, his flanks sweating, his face transforming as intentionality flees from the beast between his legs.

  I stare up into the canopy beyond the Painter’s head, my unblinking eyes mapping the constellations of sunlight in the sky of green
leaves. He is grunting above me and sliding his cock deliberately along my prostate, listening to my groans, watching for signs of my own growing excitement. He’s pushing and I can feel him shift into that uncontrolled cadence that marks the end of the race. His face is slick with sweat, his hard eyes staring down at me.

  He bends down without breaking his stride and kisses me roughly, wetly on the lips. He pulls back and sees the surprise on my face. “Come on, baby,” he says. “No distractions.”

  He shifts the angle and a bolt of pleasure shoots through me. My body is trembling; there is nothing in the universe but his cock reaming me like an overripe orange.

  “Can you come three times, Doc?” he asks me through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, my god,” I say. And I do come again.

  A deep guttural sound escapes his throat, and he does too. He collapses on top of me. His heart is beating fast against my chest, the sweat on our bodies cooling and leaving goose pimples up and down our arms and legs. He pulls himself up on his arms, thick cords of muscle supporting him above me. I can feel his cock twitching against my thigh; he reaches down and pulls off the condom, tossing it aside. He looks down into my eyes and kisses me again, gently this time, like there is something else to be had here. And the kiss sparks something inside my body, nudging blood toward my exhausted, deflated cock, and making my cheeks flush.

  “Something’s happening,” I say.

  “Finally,” he says.

  THE ROBIN CLUB

  David Holly

  Saturday, April 25, 1942

  Densely forested, the ten-acre thicket called Going Wood had grown without the taint of human industry. Alders, spruce and firs arose from the woods, and beneath their trunks crouched thick undergrowth. Raspberry and blackberry canes clutched at anyone attempting to enter, so few people did.

  I reached Going Wood by way of an unpaved street. I pedaled my Schwinn Aerocycle past the creepy old Sizemore mansion and up the steep ridge. I stood to pedal, feeling the muscles in my thighs and buttocks contracting to push my bike to the top. A hot sexual urge rippled through my crotch as I fantasized that my thighs were becoming like the powerful thighs of the Boy Wonder. Robin’s bare legs and tiny shorts always excited me, but this time I also had anticipation.

  When I dismounted, I leaned my bike against the yellow-blossomed Scotch broom, carefully extracted the two comic books from my carrier and bent low under the vines. Invisible from the road stretched a narrow path, well worn, but navigable only on hands and knees. I crawled down the narrow tunnel through the growth until I reached the wooden shack in the center of Going Wood.

  The shack was tin roofed, tight enough to keep out bugs and rodents, secure against the elements and floored with smooth planks. Over the door, red painted letters proclaimed THE ROBIN CLUB. Along the side came the warning: NO GIRLS ALLOWED.

  “What’s the password,” a masculine voice demanded as I neared the door.

  “Dick Grayson,” I whispered.

  “Boy Wonder,” came the secret reply. I opened the door and stepped into the semidarkness where Calvin, Oliver, Maynard and Merrill were waiting. The boys were wearing only their white undershorts, which conformed to the Robin Club’s dress code.

  “Were they in yet, Archie?” Merrill asked.

  Grinning, I displayed the latest issues of Detective Comics and World’s Finest. “Buster’s Newsstand had these two. The latest Batman hasn’t arrived yet.” I handed the comics to Calvin while I slipped out of my shoes. I dropped my pants and tossed them into a corner, along with my socks and shirt. Like the rest of the boys, I was wearing the new jockey shorts from Cooper’s Underwear Company of Kenosha, Wisconsin. Cooper’s had revolutionized underwear fashion just eight years earlier when they introduced their jockey shorts.

  Calvin passed World’s Finest to Maynard. Merrill crowded close to Calvin, as shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek they studied Detective Comics. Maynard shared his World’s Finest with Oliver. That arrangement was not intended to squeeze me out. I slipped in between Maynard and Calvin. We read both issues cover to cover before we settled on the pictures we liked best.

  Our dicks swelled in our underwear as we read. I could feel the sexual heat of the two boys pressing against me. Maynard’s firm ass was tight against my buttock, and Calvin’s thigh was plastered to mine. I rubbed my throbbing dick through the soft white cotton. Looking across, Merrill’s eyes followed the movement of my hand. His hand slipped into the waistband of his jockey shorts.

  “I like this one best,” Oliver proclaimed, pointing toward a drawing of the Boy Wonder crashing down on a criminal’s back. Robin’s strong thighs were wrapped around the hoodlum’s neck, and his legless shorts looked more abbreviated than ever. His fleshy thighs swelled with muscles as he overpowered his victim.

  “Nice,” I said. My voice was husky. As I studied the comic panel, my cock grew even harder.

  “Good choice,” Calvin said. “Let’s jerk off to that one.”

  “Merrill is already doing it,” I said.

  “Yeah, and what’s your hand doing, Archie?” Merrill scoffed good-naturedly.

  “I’m like ‘the laughing, fighting young daredevil who scoffs at danger like the legendary Robin Hood whose name and spirit he has adopted,’” I quoted, pulling off my underwear. My cock bobbed free. I ground my naked butt against Calvin’s ass and spit into my hand.

  My fist slid up and down my shaft, wringing my foreskin with every stroke. I rose onto one buttcheek and stroked my ass with my left hand while my right pounded my dick. Calvin rubbed his ass against my back as he beat his meat. He rose, pushed back his ass and wiggled against my arm. I felt his firm buttocks with the deep cleft in between.

  Maynard kissed Calvin on the lips. Calvin continued rubbing his ass against me even as his tongue pressed into Maynard’s mouth. Oliver jumped to his feet and rubbed his erection against the cleft of Maynard’s ass, while Merrill approached me. I kept my eyes focused on the drawing of the Boy Wonder, which was spread on the floor, until Merrill stepped in front of me and blocked my view. His cock hovered directly before my face.

  “Please, Archie,” Merrill pleaded. “You know what I need.” Merrill knew where my talents lay—my friends all knew.

  Merrill’s cock was thick. Its head was circumcised, widening from the thick shaft into a broad lid, like the cap of a mushroom. Its bulk increased down its shaft, growing in mass at its base. Merrill’s dick was neither as long as Oliver’s nor as huge as Calvin’s. But it was thick, and it was the prettiest, except for my cock, which was a beauty.

  Pushing forward, I kissed Merrill’s dickhead. I kissed the tip and kissed around it. I took it into my mouth and massaged the tip with my lips. I sucked his pecker deep into my mouth, and it was good. As his thick cock filled my mouth, I fucked him with my tongue. Yes, I received intense pleasure from that shaft of man-meat in my mouth, but a greater pleasure came from knowing that I was giving him pleasure. I bent all my will into forcing his ejaculation. And as I sucked Merrill, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was Robin, the Boy Wonder, blowing the dick of that almost legendary figure, the cowled shadow of the Batman.

  Merrill began grinding his hips. Curious, I opened my eyes briefly and pulled my mouth off Merrill’s dick. Oliver was pressed tight against Merrill’s back and dry humping him while I sucked his dick—Oliver’s hot hands were stroking Merrill’s chest as he rubbed his cock against Merrill’s buttocks.

  I sucked Merrill’s cock harder and faster. I made my lips a bruising machine that bumped and pounded his prickhead. Reaching around Merrill, I cupped Oliver’s ass. Oliver’s ass was quivering from the hot lances of ecstasy coursing through his groin. Oliver was shooting his semen into Merrill’s asscrack and up his back, while I tortured Merrill’s dick with pleasure. I could feel Merrill’s dick vibrating, and I knew that he was going to shoot. His body was responding to the cum bath Oliver was giving him, and he could not hold out. I delighted in giving him no moment of peace. I ground his
dick with my lips while it throbbed in my mouth and swelled harder.

  Calvin had been rubbing his ass against me while I sucked Merrill, but as Merrill shuddered in orgasm, Calvin pulled away. I opened my eyes again and saw Calvin was standing, bent forward, and jutting his rump to receive Maynard’s cock. Maynard slicked his dick with spittle and pushed it against Calvin’s asshole.

  Merrill’s cock bucked hard in my mouth, and I tasted hot spunk. Merrill was coming enthusiastically. I swallowed the blasts that hit my throat, taking it down easily. I wished I could tell Merrill how yummy his dick tasted, but I was too busy drinking his jism. He moaned as he came, and he only quieted as his ejaculations ceased. I pulled my head back and rested with his dickhead softly caressing my lips.

  He oozed but a single drop. I had virtually drained him. I thought about his semen in my stomach, and the picture gave me a warm feeling. I loved having something of my friend inside of me. “Thank you, Batman,” I said, which made Merrill laugh. Then we turned to watch as Maynard’s dick slid deep into Calvin’s rectum, pulled back to his asshole and drove home again.

  “Oh, that’s so good,” Calvin was moaning. “I love your big cock. Fill my ass, Maynard. Shoot your cum into me.”

  “Why don’t you fuck me that way, Archie?” Merrill suggested.

  Before I could respond, Oliver pushed ahead of him. “Not this time, Merrill. I’m gonna suck Archie’s dick, just like he sucked yours.”

  As Oliver dropped to his knees, I felt a euphoria that intensified when he kissed my dick. As a seductive weakness claimed me, my eyes drifted shut. Oliver’s Boy Wonder mouth kneaded my cock’s head, sending ripples through my entire body. “Oh, Oliver,” I mouthed.