Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  And then, while we were still in position, it was time for reaction shots—all those “oh, fuck, yeahs” and “aw, shit, I’m gonna come’s!” and grunts and groans and moans and facial contortions, while I’m pretending that my dick is still hard and that I’m still fucking him. And then finally, five minutes later, we could move. I just slumped down on top of Tommy and kissed him, real deep. He didn’t seem to mind in the least. Far too many of my co-stars, once the work is over, just want to get into the shower and get outta there. Tommy seemed to share my love of the work. I think he was really just doing it because it ensured a steady supply of big dicks up his ass. I can understand the feeling, even though I don’t share his obsession with size.

  So we lay there smooching, and got comfortable on the dingy old ripped mattress (we were supposed to be in a back alley somewhere, and there were trash cans on both sides of us), while the techies took down the lights and reflectors and other equipment, moving it all into the next room for another set-up; and we talked. He asked me, curiously enough, about my family.

  “They’re Mormons. Nothing much more to say about them. Haven’t seen them in years. Lots of brothers and sisters, teeming hordes of nephews and nieces. When I told them I was doing porn, Mom told me I was going to hell. And yours?”

  “Oh, about as opposite as you can get. My mom collects all my videos. Dad died when I was a kid, Mom got a great life-insurance settlement and decided to spend the rest of her life having fun. I swear, every time I go home, she’s got a new young stud hanging around the house. Nowadays, some of them are younger than me. She writes, too. Romance novels.”

  This rang a bell, somehow. “Where did you grow up?” He looked at me funny.

  “Southern Illinois. Why?”

  “Like, in Cairo, by any chance?” And I pronounced it right: Kay-ro.

  “Yeah…”

  “I think you lived just a couple blocks from me. You were two years younger, we never saw each other at school, but I remember my mother spewing fire and brimstone about that terrible loose woman down the street, how she ought to have her child taken away from her, all that noise. I guess she never succeeded.”

  The light was dawning in his face. “I remember you now! And I remember one summer at the city pool, when you and I were the last ones out of the shower, and you…”

  I’d been hoping he’d forgotten that particular episode; I found it a little embarrassing, in retrospect. But he obviously didn’t; he described it in excruciating, and lascivious, detail. Hey, we were—what, maybe nine and eleven? I’d just shot my first load of cum a few months before, and I was eager to show my new-found talent to anyone who I was sure wouldn’t tell my parents. And Tommy (I don’t think I even knew his name, but I’d seen him around, knew where he lived), given his background, seemed like a good candidate. To my surprise, however, he proved to be way ahead of me. “I always wondered why you never wanted to play with me again, after that.” There was a slightly vulnerable, childlike look on his face, now; I guess I’d penetrated one of his earliest insecurities.

  “And I, well, I guess I felt guilty about ‘seducing’ a kid as young as you. I thought about you a lot. But then, you know, we moved West the next summer.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Tommy was looking at me with a semi-worshipful gaze, which then turned thoughtful. “Did you ever do anything with Buddy?” Buddy was my younger brother, Tommy’s age in fact, and when I was growing up he was just a pest to me; I never much thought about him even having a cock and balls until suddenly, on one of my visits home during my college years, I saw him come out of the shower—I shared his bedroom on these visits. And he was…well, stunning. I didn’t put the make on him or anything, I didn’t have that sort of self-confidence, and he was a butch bruiser who could easily have decked me by that time, but I did spend the rest of the visit watching him pretty closely. And that was the visit, right at the end, when I came out to my family. They weren’t thrilled. They didn’t quite kick me out of the house, but that night they suggested that Buddy go sleep over with one of his friends, and he seemed quite eager to leave. I left early the next morning, and haven’t been back since. I’d like to see what Buddy’s developed into—he’s the only one of my siblings still unmarried, so he probably hasn’t developed a potbelly yet—but I don’t feel like braving the fires of hell just to find out. I assume he’s away at college somewhere—he was always an intellectual sort—but I don’t know where.

  I told all this to Tommy. A smile hit his lips. “You know, I played with him. The same summer you and I met in the showers. We used to meet out behind those sheds, down by the river, and beat off together. And he’s the one who taught me how to suck cock.” Now he was grinning broadly, perhaps at the open look of shock on my face. “Of course, I don’t know if he turned out queer, but he sure liked playing with my dick.”

  Suddenly I realized that I was humping my quickly stiffening dick against Tommy’s thigh. A wave of lust surged through me. I kissed him, hard, sucking his tongue into my mouth, and he responded with a moan deep in his throat. I pulled back. “So, get down there and suck his big brother’s dick, cocksucker,” I growled in his face, and pushed his head down.

  Tommy was, without a doubt, the most eager cocksucker I’d ever met. He didn’t poke around, licking and kissing and teasing. He dove for the whole banana, taking it right down his throat. Even when, as was the case right now, the dick was too hard to bend down his throat, he still forced it right down there. I suspected he might have sprained it, but at the moment I didn’t care. I just started fucking his throat, holding onto the back of his head and slamming it home. Suddenly I wasn’t exhausted any more. You’d never think that I’d shot a load just half an hour previously. Imagining him down on his knees, doing this to Buddy—when he and Buddy were just nine years old, yet!—had really awakened something in me that I’d effectively suppressed for years, and suddenly I wanted to plant a load where my younger brother’s had gone. (Had he been able to shoot yet, I wondered?)

  Tommy forestalled me. After a couple of minutes of serious cock-diving, when he was wheezing and gasping and his eyes were running with tears, he pulled off and looked up at me with a half-wild, half-mean expression on his face. Guess I’d aroused something in him, too. “You know, I didn’t just suck Buddy off,” he said, in a knowing way, his voice suddenly huskier, deeper. (Was it so obvious what I was fantasizing? I guess it was.) “I fucked him, too. We had a blanket that we’d spread out on the riverbank, and he’d lie down on his stomach and stick his ass up in the air,” and Tommy was stroking my upstanding dick while he was relating this, and with his other hand he was rubbing my asshole, which suddenly, unexplainably, felt empty, “and I’d lick his asshole until he begged me to put my dick inside him. I bet I shot about fifty loads of cum up his ass that summer. Sometimes I’d shoot twice without stopping.”

  I moaned. Yes, he’d hit a mental spot as sensitive as any prostate. Almost without thinking about it, almost without volition, my body heaved itself over, and I was on my stomach; and quick as a flash, Tommy was behind me, with his tongue slathering spit all over my butthole.

  Now, being rimmed has never been one of my biggest turn-ons. It’s enjoyable, but it doesn’t send me into the stratosphere, the way it does with some people. But I wasn’t myself any longer: I was my little brother Buddy, that hunky teenager I’d watched for a week as he changed and took showers, until I almost couldn’t stand it any longer. I was that boy, and I’d never felt anything so incredible as this tongue squirming its way up my ass.

  In what seemed like no time at all, my asshole was spasming and opening so that Tommy’s tongue was going in with virtually no resistance; that was when he scooted forward and slipped his dick in. And there wasn’t any pain, just the sensation of a space having been finally filled, the other half of the puzzle supplied, the whole joined. The smooth slide of one slippery, spit-covered mucous membrane against another. I swear, I could feel his dick against my heart. And he didn’t fuck, ri
ght away: he just lay there, moving in and out a little bit, holding me while I shook with sudden, wracking sobs.

  After a few minutes of that, my ass started reacting of its own volition. It began humping up against Tommy, trying to take every millimeter of him, right down to the pubic bone. That’s when his sadistic streak started coming out. He pulled out to the point where just the head was inside my ass, and kept it there. No matter how frantically I pushed back, I couldn’t get any more of him inside. Then, about every ten seconds, when I was clawing the mattress and crying in frustration, he’d slam it balls-deep and grind it for a few moments, flattening me to the mattress, and then pull out again. God, he knew how to make me crazy. And then, while he had me pinned to the mattress, he leaned down next to my ear and whispered, throatily, “This is the way I used to make Buddy crazy,” and slammed it in with that extra-hard hip-twist that rocketed my prostate right into heaven and made my cum start spilling out all over the mattress, even though my dick wasn’t even all the way hard. “And this”—shove—“is the way”—shove—“I shot my cum up Buddy’s butt”—and I could feel his cum-tube pulsing, and he grabbed me in a ferocious bear hug, and for once in my life I was very glad there wasn’t a director leaning over us telling us where to shoot our loads, because from a cinematic viewpoint, we’d clearly fucked up big-time. No cumloads visible. But oh, I liked where we’d left them. I swear I could feel his load swirling around in my guts, practically percolating: all those spermatozoa beating frantically against the walls of my asshole, trying to find someplace fertile.

  And we lay there contentedly for another ten minutes (we could still hear the sounds of the next scene being shot in the next room over), kissing and stroking each other and breathing hard; as our heart rates slowly returned to normal, Tommy eventually rolled off me, and I scooted down so I could suckle on his dick. There’s nothing like, for me, the act of sucking on a dick that’s just come out of my ass: sucking the remnants of a cumload out of it, cleaning my own shit off it (What does my shit actually taste like? Although I’ve sucked dozens of dicks after they’ve come out of my ass, I still couldn’t say), letting him know that I really worship his dick, that I appreciate the pleasure it’s just given me. And Tommy was looking down at me with a curious mixture of pride and wonder; and I guess I could have predicted what he said next. “You know, that’s exactly what Buddy used to do after I’d shot a load up his butt. Do you suppose these things run in families?”

  “No, not really,” I mumbled around my mouthful of dick. “I just think I know my brother well enough that I knew, subconsciously, just what he’d like. That’s what relations are. People you know better than you want to.”

  Griffith Park Elegy

  Al Lujan

  If this story were a pile of bones, I would fracture them, pulverize them and scatter them across beautiful landscapes like the ashes of so many beautiful lovers. So intense and horrific was that afternoon that all I could really do is romanticize it, when all I should really do is let it go and not repeat what took place. Or what I believe took place. It disorients me.

  I was in Griffith Park, in the heart of the City of Angels. Hanging out in a section referred to as the “meat market” where men young and old, rich and poor, gay and not gay, follow their instincts and their hard dicks like divining rods, through a series of dirt paths that wind, in and out, through the heavy brush. Most paths twist back onto each other or branch out into small clearings where men pose, pout and hold up the trees till coaxed into the moaning bushes. They circle through the maze in search of the Minotaur, sometimes finding him in the rustling plants. Other times what they find instead is an undercover cop busting them for obviousness.

  That afternoon I marched to the topmost clearing with intent. Without distraction. It’s the second highest lookout in the park. It faces west across a field of dense, brown haze that blankets the basin, except for the shaggy heads of the sixty-foot palm trees that poke through here and there. That area ain’t too popular with the guys, although the bushes to the left and the bushes to the right are particularly squirrely. Wide open areas make these guys uncomfortable. Some would probably go into an agoraphobic coma were they caught without a bush to scurry about in.

  The vista is accessible by a dirt road that connects from the east side. Park police off-road vehicles frequently tour the area, shooting pebbles into the foliage with those knobby tires they use to hug the hillsides. Scares the hell out of those bush queens with sex-offender histories. But not enough for them to actually leave. The vista is visible from the observatory on an adjacent peak. If you put a quarter into the binoculars and aim in the right direction…welcome to Los Angeles.

  Me? Well, I’m an exhibitionist. I love the great wide, white sky, the fires of dusk and the risk of getting caught, as much as I love my fond memories of blood, mean teachers and the fist fights I’ve won.

  I planted myself on one of the C-curved benches put here some forty or fifty years ago when this area was some hetero lover’s lane or tourist lookout before the observatory was built. Benches of wood and concrete, unpainted since the seventies, carved with symbols and initials. (T.D.+S.G.’63, EL HUERO CON LA PEE WEE CON SAFOS Y QUE, and I SUCK DICK 4 P.M. to 6 P.M. M thru F).

  I sat at the foremost bench facing out. A bench where winos died drunk and lovers fell together entangled in arms, scarves and hair. A bench with a personality like mine. Quiet. Private. With a secret history in this part of town. There I sat with my legs spread and a look that said, “I’ve got less important things to do, only the serious need apply.”

  My olive and black Pendleton was folded across the knee of my pants, pressed with origami-tight creases. Just like my T-shirt. Just like my boxers. I resisted dressing this way growing up in East L.A. Dressing like my brother, Flaco, and his pachuco homeboys from our block. They hung out in our garage since I can remember. Pants slung low, lowrider posters, Calle Diesiocho along with every members’ placa on the walls. A weight bench, beer cans and KRLA on a radio connected to a car battery. The smell of weed, sweat and anarchy in the barrio.

  Now, my cholo-without-a-gang look worked me an angle on that hill. Unapproachable, rough trade, mean-dicked, risky challenge. The bold motherfuckers who cruised me knew they’d either be getting to blow a sadistic, gang-bangin’, drive-by Richard Ramirez maniaco or just be getting punked. Only the biggest freaks would conjure the nerve. The kind I could do anything to and who’d do anything I said. Like a Dockers-wearing CPA type who gave my shoes a real spit shine. A nervous, fey princess with fluffy hair whose hairbrush I broke smacking it across his bare butt. Or a tweak freak who tells me that I don’t need to use a rubber with him. Yeah, right.

  Every once in a while I hook up with a man who turns the tables. But that Sunday afternoon was particularly quiet. I could hear birds and winged bugs nearby. The sounds of slurping and grunting, down the hill, were more than audible, they seemed amplified and exaggerated, like porno. I felt horny and impatient. I’d been up there for over two hours and no one made it up. Not even an obscured “pssssst” beckoned me for a blowjob in the bushes.

  The sun was sinking into the grimy distance and I felt February on my face and hands. The salmon-colored streetlights that pacify the barrios and the ghettos were coming on in sheets across the horizon. I hit my flask to pacify the chills that were making my body jerk. I reconciled a fruitless afternoon of meditation. I stood and put my Pendleton on. Buttoned only the top button like a true vato loco. I turned to the path behind me to head for home. Home to call fuck buddies who would come to me, although that was not exactly what I was in the mood for when I planned that afternoon.

  I looked back once more. Goose bumps covered my arms. The blood in my body felt cold and thin. A man was seated at the opposite end of the bench I’d just left. My heart was racing, for a couple of reasons. I thought about my options and said, “What the fuck?” I sat back down. The warmth that my body had left on the bench had dissipated. It was cold on the backs of my legs. I
n fact, the temperature had fallen considerably in the last couple of minutes.

  We sat under the elongated shadow of an olive tree some twenty-five feet away. The fronds of the palm trees, just ahead, swayed and rustled in gusts of wind that I could not feel. The winds picked up clouds of dust from the paths leading down, obscuring them.

  The impending dusk gave the stranger a dark, menacing feel. He sat quietly, staring ahead at the swirling, cherry-vanilla clouds that were changing shapes as fast as they were changing color. His profile was still and sharp like stone carving. His dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid down his back. He wore charcoal-colored Dickies with knife-like creases and a white T-shirt that was luminescent against his brown Aztec skin. A stray cholo on the hill. My lucky day.

  He sat next to me, staring ahead; I dared him with my eyes. He had tattoos on his forearms, hands and neck. Blue-black letters and symbols. A portrait of some ruca and a spider web on his left elbow that, in prison, signifies that he killed a man while doing time. At the edge of his eye, a black indelible teardrop. This man was trouble and he was unraveling my upholstery. He was the number thirteen, black cats, burning crosses, bad luck personified. He had the quiet disposition of a seductive cult leader. He oozed: run and don’t look back. But I couldn’t. I wanted him.