Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  My mother would sometimes tell me, “Mijo, el diablo is exactly who you want him to be. If you recognize him you must be in trouble with Diosito.” Then and there I finally understood what she was talking about. That evil ain’t just some white dude with a goatee and a tail. One could see that and run. Evil is in every nationality, in every religion, and every sexuality.

  It was too late. This seduced fair Catholic wanted to capture that tattooed dirt-under-the-nails hard-drinking boyfriend-smacking welfare-check-stealing lying cheating demonio. I pressed my thigh against his. He didn’t move his away. Well, that’s all the encouragement I needed. His smell drove my hand. I reached over to feel his thigh. Without turning, he intercepted it and held it in his fist. I tried to pull back but he held tight. For the first time he turned to look at me and that’s when I freaked out. His eyes were black and shiny. I don’t just mean that he had dark eyes, I mean they were solid black and cold. His face showed no emotion. He was silent. My heart was absent in my chest. He pulled at my hand still in his grip. I resisted and then yielded. He leaned into me, I imagined, to tell me never to go where I’m not invited. He led my hand to his face and released it onto his smooth cheek. He pressed his hand onto mine and guided it across his cold lips. Now, I’ve made some fucked-up choices in my life. Gone against my better judgment plenty of times. But the fact that I resisted withdrawing my hand scared the hell out of me. He led my trembling hand to the back of his neck. With his free hand he did the same to me and pulled me into him as if to kiss me. That surprised me because prison trade never, never kiss on the mouth.

  I tried to look away from those crazy eyes, at the darkening sky, but his strength had us face to face. He held my head and put his mouth on mine. His, our mouths suddenly warmed to fire-like temperatures. I was drunk with lust and horror. Euphoria tinged with a residue of uneasiness. The kind of uneasiness that makes most men impotent.

  My ears were suddenly filled with high-volume moaning, sighing and gulps for air. The sounds our bodies make when excesses of pleasure and pain push language past mere words. Terrible, beautiful, animalistic music.

  That’s what my ears heard. Within his violent kisses I felt his voice. Smooth and deep like silk boxers that give me erections as I walk. And that’s exactly what his voice was doing to me. He wasn’t necessarily saying anything. I can’t recall specific words. But events in my life were being narrated by our twisting tongues. He knew things about me. Things I’ve never told anyone.

  He knew that I sat at my father’s bedside for three days as he rotted with cancer, and that just before he started that gasp for air that signaled the end, my father’s last words to me were: “You disappointed me.”

  He knew that it was me who burned a swastika on the side of an old dead tree by my house with a butane torch I stole from school when I was ten. (I wasn’t being anti-Semitic. I didn’t understand what it meant. I had a crush on the only white guy at my school, and he had it on his pee chee folder. I wanted him to notice me.)

  He knew the terror I felt later that night as the sky exploded in amber when the tree that smoldered quietly all day ignited.

  He knew the shame I felt as a child when we would have to sleep on the floor during certain holidays so we wouldn’t be struck by random bullets coming from intoxicated, hot guns and how I prayed for God to make me an angel before dawn so that I could fly myself out of that barrio for good.

  He knew that I reached around and felt my sharp shoulder blades protruding and that that’s all that they were. That I was simply a child testing the existence of God.

  He knew that my lover, reeling with AIDS dementia, forgot that he was gay, that I was his lover, or even who I was, which allowed his family, with their high-priced lawyers, to lock me out of our home. And that after a while I just couldn’t fight them anymore. He died without me.

  He knew these things about me. These profane ordeals in my life. And I still wanted him. My shirt was drenched with sweat that turned icy in that night that turned black while my eyes were closed. I pulled away unable to catch my breath. I tried to stand, to flee. I felt light-headed. The blood that supplies my brain with oxygen was pulsing in my lips and groin. He steadied me and pulled me back onto his lap. Before I could scream, I heard the ripping of the seam of my pants. He impaled me onto what felt like a knife, cold and hard like his lips started out, but soon it seared me inside. He sat there, motionless, with me on top kicking and flailing. No thrusting, no sounds, no more words.

  With his mouth he punctured and gnawed on the back of my neck. I felt my spinal cord being sucked out of my neck and out of my ass. I prayed that the wetness that soaked my pants was my piss and not my blood mixed with his cum. He squeezed my torso to the point where things went black. Then a bright electric jolt shot through me with such force that my fingernails and nose shot blood into the dirt.

  “Goddamn…that felt good.” Did I say that or did he?

  I awoke sitting erect on that bench, my head thrown skyward. The sounds of sirens all around me. Intense hot breath enveloped my aching body. The violent suns that illuminated the black fog were in reality a series of palm trees engulfed in balls of flames. They surrounded me on all sides. Black ash snowed upon me and all I could do was sit there and cry.

  All that I have left are burn scars, bad dreams and three cranberry-colored, crescent-shaped hickeys on the back of my neck that won’t go away no matter how hard I scrub. If you’d like me to show them to you, put on your hiking boots, bring your faith, and meet me at the park some sacred Sunday afternoon.

  Six Positions

  Andy Quan

  I’m making love to the oldest man I’ve ever been with. His hair is white as Egyptian silk, his skin is translucent, blue and pink. I can see his heart beating from excitement. I am drawing an arrow down with my tongue, shoulder to opposite hip, a ribbon of saliva like a banner from a beauty pageant. This one says, “This man has tasted and been tasted by men for decades.” Blood ricochets around his body and builds at his surprising erection. The wrinkles on his face, arms, hands, so loose, a multitude of scrotums all over his body, which I take into my mouth like dinosaur eggs, rare plums, a tulip’s head unopened. With veneration, I lift, squeeze softly, hear a gasp like an ocean caught in shells. It is the last ocean. It is wet. The tide recedes like sadness.

  I’m making love to the fattest man I’ve ever been with. His anus cannot be found amidst the mounds of flesh, but his mouth, pink, red, puckering, surrounded by two round cheeks, has a passing resemblance. He laughs a great thrusting belly laugh for the whole time we grapple, him turning and flopping, me dodging the weight whirling all around for my own safety. Every part of my body is a phallus, my fingers, hands, arms, legs, head. I press these into skin that says, yes! and takes me in, out, in, out, sweating, sliding, surrounded by warmth, by darkness. Somewhere in this maze I find a cock that is fat and round like a root vegetable. I punch at it, grasp it with my hungry hands, hear a voice as if outside of a room or all around, of god, of a pregnant mother, huh huh huh. The sticky fat flood smells of appetite.

  I’m making love to the most exotic man I’ve ever been with. He has eyes like jungle animals. Tigers, wildebeests, possums, crocodiles, sloths, night owls. His skin turns color depending on the angle of light: dark as petroleum, as the center of your skull, then yellow as the eyes of those jungle animals. As slight as a bamboo reed, then a tight round muscularity on fire with bound-up strength. Then two-breasted and big-cocked and more pictures, pretty pictures, so many I’m almost blind and I fuck him I fuck him I fuck him until I am covered in the fluids of my own exertion, thigh muscles, stomach, arms, still tensed, energy hanging on me still. Shivering, and when the thought returns to my head, I understand him not a bit more.

  I’m making love to the thinnest man I’ve ever been with. He is so thin and long that he is sharp. I bleed with pleasure. He presses his fingers down on me and leaves a lovely symmetrical arc, five small half-moon-shaped pricks. The air on my skin, and my cuts,
feels spiny like a cactus, a tall spindly one with a downy white veil of spikes. Like pins and needles, when a part of your body has fallen asleep, and you have to shake and shake to get the blood back in. I am in a desert of sensation, so quiet that every grain of sand is noticeable. But I do not notice as he clothes himself head to foot in rubber and enters me from behind. I don’t know if it’s his penis, his arm, his leg, his whole body. I just remember he’s thin. It’s suddenly an Arizona night and the stars are twinkling in time with an orgasm soon to arrive. Sensation pours through the star-holes, the rest is black. Each time I exhale, one of the stars goes out.

  I’m making love to the smallest man I’ve ever been with. Small is beautiful. He has attached his mouth to my cock, his legs dangling down. I feel enormous, I am enormous in comparison. He leaps and lands on my tit, and bounces on my nipple as if it were a trampoline, does cartwheels and somersaults up my stomach, around my neck. My touch on him is crude but large; he rubs into it like a cat, then returns to my crotch where he gives special attention to each square millimeter. When he finishes the last, I explode. I worry I’ve drowned him, but he shakes himself off in a triumphant dance, slides down my leg and disappears.

  I’m making love to myself. Really. With elasticity and extra parts, I am seeing what all the others have seen before me, I am tasting my nipples, which come alive and harden, punctuation marks in the air all around me. My voice, oh oh oh—periods. Uh uh uh—commas. Awuhaaahh—question mark. Gasping hyphens, sighing slants, I grunt out underlines. I am writing myself onto my page as my cock extends long, so long, I’m entered. I’m thrusting into myself. I have ten hands. I have eight tongues. A line between my balls and thigh. The slit in my throbbing head. A dimple where chest meets abdominals. All fingered. All stroked. All tongued. The skin of the page curves into its wet stain. Words run into each other.

  Tricktych

  Pansy Bradshaw

  1.

  “what i really want…”

  out cruising…i meet up with this man…he is…maybe… fifteen or twenty years my senior…well past six feet…military coif…shaved on the sides…short on top…salt and pepper… his rugged face bears a five o’clock shadow at two a.m.… there’s a paratrooper’s tattoo on his left biceps…a pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve of his t-shirt…narrow at the hips…broad at the shoulders…he looks like an illustration by blade…he’s a major buck…i’ve seen him around…

  he releases smoke from his lungs and suggests his place…cool i say…we walk silently the approximate ten blocks down market…then into the tenderloin…four flights up sour dimly lit stairs…along a dingy corridor…he shoves me against the wall…his tongue probes my mouth…i recognize the flavor…cigarettes and too much beer…

  he lights a smoke…flicking the still-lit match to the floor…i want to yell fire…and run screaming from the building…but i do not…he blows smoke into my face… through the haze i see my father…staring back…as an afterthought he turns and unlocks a door…

  as i follow…a line from an old song wafts…through my mind…where you lead i will follow anywhere that you tell me to…

  a freakshow light cast by a street lamp outside the only window…fills the room…the space is small…chaotic…with a mattress on the floor…filthy sheets thrown everywhere… there’s a dresser…drawers partly open…with clothing appearing to explode from within…a single open door reveals the toilet…i think he smells like his room…he sprawls…fully clothed…on the mattress…

  take yer clothes off he says…his voice is loud…though he is not shouting…what i really want is to suck his dick okay… but he has other plans…obviously…

  i pull off my boots…taking time with the complicated laces…setting them aside…i unbuckle my belt…unzip my jeans…standing first on one foot…then the other…i remove my pants along with my shorts…stop he says…he stands…towering over me…i feel…on display…lift yer arms he grunts…i do this…even while wondering…might he have some ill…purpose…in mind…for me…

  he’s got another cigarette…dangling…dangerously…from the corner of his mouth…will he burn me…will my friends and co-workers read about me in the papers…how my badly decomposed body was discovered…in an abandoned tenderloin rat-trap…will my brother be able to…identify…my mutilated remains…

  he blows smoke on me…and then with surprising gentleness…lifts my t-shirt off me…i lower my arms…but he takes my wrists in each of his hands and raises them again…placing his mouth first against one armpit…then the other…he kisses and tongues them…he is making sounds which i can only…imagine…as animal-like…i respond with my best… guttural vocals…

  his lips are on mine now…we kiss each other hard…i bite his upper lip…he stands back from me…takes a deep drag off his smoke…flicks the butt out the window…as he exhales…he punches me in the gut…

  i drop to my knees…i cannot breathe…fuck you he grunts…he slaps my head with the back of his hand…i’m trying to breathe…he kneels in front of me…grabs my face with both hands…puts his mouth on mine…blows air in…and releases…i exhale violently…still trying hard to breathe on my own…he lets go of me…calmly lighting another smoke…inhaling deeply…he grabs my face again…he exhales smoke into my mouth…forcing it into my lungs…i black out…

  when i come to…he is lying next to me…naked…i wonder if i have been…used…while unconscious…but i sense no…violation…back there…you okay he asks…gazing at me with something bordering on…indifference…i manage a meek…yeah…my stomach is sore…roll over he tells me… when i do…he straddles me…and begins to stroke my back…his hands are large and rough…they move over my flesh with a familiar deftness…i know him somehow…yet…i do not…every so often…he slaps me…hard…deliberately… and it burns…

  he climbs off me…and the mattress…and walks into the toilet…i can see his backside…i see his balls hanging through his legs…will he let me at them…or what…he’s pissing up a storm…i am jealous of the porcelain bowl…he strolls back to the mattress…kneels at my head…look at this he says…his cock and balls are in my face…the odor of smoke and shit…emanates from his crotch…i breathe in this divine essence…the skin over his dickhead is pulled back…just enough…to see the slit…glistening…in the room’s bizarre light…open up he orders…i do…and he places his cock in my mouth…

  he tastes like piss…cheese…and someone else’s ass…he pushes it in more…he slides the foreskin back…and i gather the full benefit…of his natural treasures…i close my eyes and suck…he fucks my mouth steadily…taking his time…every so often pulling out completely…he whispers…come on boy…clean daddy’s cock…or…lick me faggot…i wonder to myself…can it get any better than this…

  he pulls back from me…and crawls around between my legs…his hands are on my ass now…each hand envelopes one cheek…he spreads me apart…slowly…thoughtfully…i can feel the rush of his breath against my butthole…then his tongue…causing me to shudder…i want to ask him if he can touch his nose…with his tongue…but i do not…it’s rough…wet…he continues to probe my hole…he shoves his face in for more…i push back so he can…have at it…

  he stops now…to readjust…he spreads my legs further apart…grabs my hips…and with one swift motion…lifts me…into a kneeling position…with my face still…prostrate… in his filthy mattress…i wonder…am i facing mecca…he speaks softly now…almost a whisper…tell me what you want…tell daddy what you really want…

  2.

  “afternoon on the hill…”

  all in all…it had been a dull morning…so up the hill i went…with a full load in my pocket…sunny…with a cool breeze…it’s so different in daylight…first of all…you can see…and what i was seeing…wasn’t pretty…i must admit to a little apprehension…as a frequent visitor to the hill…at night…i mean…like…what kind of…holes…was i sticking my dick in…when i couldn’t see nearly so well…as in broad daylig
ht…oh what a dude will do to get his nut…

  just shy of the peak…there is this shelter…of low-hanging trees…with horizontal trunks…and a sandy floor…covered with the remnants…of past tawdry moments…i parked my ass against a tree…and whipped out my…thang…when it’s soft it doesn’t look like much…and it takes me some time to…get it up…it amuses me to pull on it…i just love to…spit and pull…until it gets wicked hard…right there in broad daylight…with the air…and sun…touching me…it’s hard to keep from…blasting off…if you know what i mean…

  i noticed some guy…crouching…in the bushes…just past the entrance to my…special…place…he was wearing glamour sunglasses…for fashion’s sake…reminding me…a bit…of jackie onassis…i was not in the mood for calling up the… memory of any of the…dead kennedys…of course if it had been…john john…that would be different…i decided to ignore him…he split…only to be…replaced immediately…by another man…

  this one was like…a construction worker…he crouched…just like jackie o…an impersonator i thought… even though he looked…the type…work boots…jeans and t-shirt…with a black baseball cap…for effect…all of him seemed…respectfully…dirty…the visor of the cap…pulled down so low…i could hardly see his eyes…