Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  In the white, in the now of the cold, cold white, Lew smiled a bit to himself—and tried not to set his dimestore choppers rattling too much—at that. Cold, yeah, Jeff, damned killing cold. Wish I was somewhere warm right now, Jeff, somewhere on the plains with a nice fire crackling…. “Man’s got a home, then that’s where he sleeps. Can’t, myself, see how you can stand the god-derned quiet out there in the flats,” Lew had said, listening to the music of the man’s voice.

  The man shrugged, the tip of his cigar bobbing in the soft night. “That it be. Name’s Last. Jeff Last.”

  Lew wiped the grime off his hands (and hopefully the fool’s grin off his face) and offered his own. “Lew. Just Lew around here.”

  The handshake lasted a bit too long, long enough for the two men to size each other up. Lew in his Stinkhole clothes was a burly barrel of a man, all beard and round blue eyes. He looked fat from aways, but if you’d ever seen him haul cornmeal or lumber you’d know that it was iron, fella, strong, strong iron and not just insulation against Craggy’s winds.

  Last was long and lanky, and while the light was none too good in that narrow little ways between the public corral and Miller’s Fine Feeds, you could tell that he was a beanpole: Six feet easy, in buckskin and serape. In the dark beneath his wide brimmed hat, his shaved face was carved and as Craggy as Lew’s mountain home. The handshake had lasted way too long. Now, he thought, how to get this fine feller up the mountain….

  “Gotta hit the trail if I’m ta make Ridgewood by dawn,” Jeff had said, and Lew’s heart had sunk down to his Stinkhole boots.

  “Knows how it is—” he had said, starting to turn, maybe extend a hand, and an invitation for another time.

  “But you is one fine figure of a man. Might temptin’—” Lew stared, unsure of how exactly to respond.

  “You think the same, Lew of the Mountain?” Jeff had said. Even in the low light cast from the lanterns of Sal’s, Lew could see Jeff’s fine figure, out in all its glory there in the “street” of Stinkhole. Lew’s breath was stolen by Jeff’s cock. Sure, the mountain man had seen a few in his time. Many. Some were as nicely shaped. A few were as tasty-looking. But none were as gigantic. The size made Lew wonder where the man hid the thing. “I think the same, sir. That I do.”

  “A man after my own, Lew of the Mountain. Care ta share the same with a stranger?”

  What with the booze and the excitement (well, mostly the booze), Lew couldn’t match the style of Jeff whipping out his beanpole. Clumsily, Lew fumbled with his overalls till he got a cold (shit!) hand around his own iron and managed to haul it out without doing that Jewish-thing to himself on a brass button. Even with the rotgut in his gut, his cock was strong and—Lew was known for being a modest man, but an honest man—his mighty cock. Even in the dim lantern light from Sal’s, his was long and strong: Head capped by the smooth cone of his foreskin.

  Jeff took a moment to size-up Lew. “Mighty fine, Lew. Mighty fine.”

  “Could say the same about you, Jeff.”

  Jeff’s doe-skin glove was warm on the skin of Lew’s cock. So soft. It felt like pure heat—and not much else. It felt like the glow from a potbelly stove against the chill night air.

  In the snow, in his predicament, Lew fumbled through his few—too few—layers to grip his cock. Thinking of Jeff, feeling Jeff again in his recall, made him as iron as that night by the corral. All he wanted, well besides living to see the sunrise over Craggy, was to feel Jeff again, and to have Jeff feel him again….

  “Ah’ll bet might tasty, too,” Jeff had said that night, stroking Lew slow and steady with his soft, soft doe-skin glove. “Wouldn’t you say, Lew of the Mountain?”

  Lew looked right and left but saw nothing but Stinkhole, dead asleep. “Few have said so, Mr. Late: Those few who have had such a taste.”

  Not another word: Jeff bent down easy, balancing himself from falling in the mud and shit with another gloved hand, and wrapped soft lips around Lew’s cock. The night was cold, and before his lips wrapped, Lew could feel the wave of heat from his mouth, his breath steaming out from him fogged around Lew’s hidden head.

  Jeff’s mouth was like a warm bath and your hand. It was like a fire in the stove and a good pot of coffee. It was like a huge old buck, just there on a rise—waiting for you to squeeze off a shot. It was like dawn on old Craggy. It was, well, the only thing you could compare Jeff’s mouth on your cock to was the best of everything.

  Lew couldn’t help but moan at this. He could feel his breath breathing and blowing warm air on the front of his overalls. The heat of him spread out from his cock down into his belly. Jeff took a deep interest in his cock. He explored Lew with his tongue, pushing his foreskin back gently to tickle the tip, then wash the smeg away with the vigor of Lew attacking a plate of flapjacks in the morning. Lew could feel the flat back of his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the sudden hardness of his teeth.

  Cold, cold, cold, Lew…moaned. He remembered it all, hanging onto the fence, opening his eyes and seeing the stars up above, and feeling a freeing breeze whistle by them, tugging at his beard. His hand was around his cock, feeling its heat, its strength. He pulled a bit, and it seemed like this was the one part of his body not freezing, the one part of his body getting hot….

  “Yessir,” Jeff said, straightening up and wiping his mouth with the back of a doe-skin glove, “mighty tasty. Mighty.” All Lew could do was smile at the man and give a faint nod. This would have been enough for a long time, something that would keep Lew happily jerking off for months on old Craggy, but maybe that night one of those stars was smiling down on him. Jeff smiled at him and pulled something from under his serape.

  Lew felt Jeff reach down to his cock and balls (shifting a bit more of Lew’s overall’s aside), again—stroking him once more with the heaven of the soft glove. Lew looked up the dancing eyes of this handsome stranger and saw them smile at him with an excited glee.

  “Let’s saddle up this bronco,” Jeff said, that hahahaha strong in his voice, those eyes, “and see how he rides.”

  In the snow, Lew had his eyes pressed closed, lost in the memories of that night, that man; his cock iron in his fist. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the heat of the memory, maybe it was the life that came into him when he realized that this was probably gonna be it, but whatever the reason, Lew felt like his cock and balls were on fire. As he jerked to the thought of Jeff’s eyes, hands, those gloves, he bit his lip and blinked away drops of water.

  Jeff neatly lassoed Lew’s cock and balls with a neat length of rawhide cord. Though Mountain Lew, bear-skinning Lew, would never have admitted it to none but himself (and then only in passing) the feeling of that cord around his most private of privates was pretty fearful: To have something tight just looped nice and neat around him like that, when all it would probably take would be a harder tug to leave his cock and balls in the mud by the city corral, was something new and more than slightly alarming to him. Pushing himself up and slightly away from Jeff and his little lasso, Lew scooted backward and almost up top of the fence.

  The lanky man laughed, the sound of water draining fast from a bucket, “Take it ease there, stud. There ain’t nothing here that’s gonna hurt ya none. Rest on back and let this old trained cowhand take the reins.”

  Those laughing eyes and smiling face, maybe just the softness of those gloves and the skill in their strokes—something about Jeff Last made Mountain Man Lew relax and drop himself back down till his boots were once again in the mud. “Just somethin’ new, Mister; can’t fault a man fer bein’ cautious.” Jeff just smiled at the mountain man, and did his magic with the rawhide, roping it around Lew’s straining cock and balls like he was going after a prize calf. In a heartbeat, Lew’s favorite sausage was trussed like a, well, like the sausage it was: Around cock and balls so that Lew felt fit to burst. His cock had been strong and tight before, but now it felt like someone had stuffed even more cock into his cock. Iron before, damned steel now.

  Despite a sud
den urge to keep his manly composure, Lew moaned and jerked his hips forward into the cool night air. “There, now, that little doggie ain’t goin’ nowhere now—” Now Jeff’s doe-skin gloves were like, well, they might have been like Heaven before, but now they were the kind of pleasure that surely only a devil could deliver. To Lew’s straining and hard, hard, absolute hardest cock, Jeff’s gentle and sweet ministrations were a real good drunk, and a gleaming lump of gold the size of a good morning dump in your pan.

  Lew’s cock felt fit to burst, but that damnable cord around him kept it bottled till all Lew could feel was the cum swelling in him behind the cord and the aching, pounding pleasure in his cock. Somewhere along the line, he had closed his eyes, and in an effort to push himself over the edge he opened them again (maybe then he’d break that cord and come!) and found himself staring into the happy eyes of the man called Jeff Last.

  “Howdy,” Jeff said, smiling even more, before dropping his head down to Lew’s fiery cock.

  Christ! Lew felt the man’s mouth slip over his cock like a hot wet jacket. But this was just a taste for Jeff. He took his mouth away (“Oh, Jesus, man—“ Lew mumbled to the chill night), and careful like, real gentle like, peeled back Lew’s foreskin and promptly got right back to it.

  Lew was gonna explode, it felt so good. Great before, Jeff’s mouth was the glory of warm sunlight after a long freezing night; it was a hand of almost all aces; it was two huge lumps of gold in your pan; it was a pair of fine new boots; it was—hell—it was the reason Lew had come out West in the first place, it was a man’s doin’ for other men with the wilds tossed in! Don’t ask him how, but Lew also knew that Jeff was jerking his own, too, and that added a fire to his own flame: That he had one of those doe-skin gloves working away at his own long tool, pleasuring himself as he sucked away at Lew.

  Moaning, Lew tried to keep from jerking back, and pulling his cock from Jeff’s mouth. When he came—and Christ did he!—when Jeff carefully untied his cock, it was pails of sticky cum down the back of Mr. Last’s throat. It wasn’t a normal come, not as Lew had known them to be (a few jerks of the body, that hit of pleasure that was the reason for the trip), this was a jerking and a thrashing of the body, a moan that turned groan halfway outta his chest. It was a rush like falling off a horse, but lots more pleasurable—

  Jeff moaned, too, then and there by the fence on that cold night, a little moan but a good one nonetheless. Lew was aware of Jeff’s cum like it was some ways down a long trail, and had a sudden mean hunger to taste Jeff’s cum, to feel his cock like Jeff had felt his (wonder if I can do that mean rope trick?).

  But, leaving poor ol’ Lew there by the fence, Jeff had wiped his mouth again with the back of that so-soft doe-skin glove and had simply said, with that smile too wide and gleaming on his face, in those eyes: “See you around, pardner,” and walked off into the night.

  Just as Lew was about to call after the stranger, to ask when he might be comin’ back through Stinkhole, a voice came from down the street, soft but carrying: “Be back through in two months or so, then we can really ride up a storm….”

  But now, now in the freezing drift, Lew was just a few days away from those two months. A few days away from seeing Mr. Last again and knowing the pleasures of the man’s body, his mouth, those hands, that cock. That cock, that mouth, those hands—maybe because of the cold and knowing that this was probably gonna be his last, Lew pumped his flaming cock. All he could see was Jeff and what they were to do, fucking like deers in one of Miss Lavonia’s pretty brass beds—Jeff’s long tool down his throat, that same tool in his hands while he played Mr. Last like a meaty flute—

  His cum came with a wild thrash close to that very one that night near the corral. It leapt from Lew like an angel’s ascent, a shuddering quiver that closed his eyes against the deathly white and made him bite his lip.

  Later, he tasted the blood and opened his eyes. White, again, but this time stars looked down at Lew of the Mountain and tinkled like Jeff’s smile. The night was cold, yes, but it had stopped snowing. No longer wrapped in a blanket of pure cold, Lew reached up and grabbed the branch of a pine that had been overhead the whole time—but trapped by the white. Pulling, and groaning from the pleasures he inflicted on himself and his smashed leg, Lew hauled himself out of the snow.

  A brisk night. Dawn was maybe three hours away. More than enough time to make himself a bed of pine needles and get off the freezing ground. Maybe even enough time to make himself a crutch and limp back up to his cabin or down to Mad Jack’s. He knew, then and there, that he would see another sunrise on Craggy and, more than anything, live long enough to get his hands on Jeff.

  It was damned good to be alive.

  Hotter Than Hell

  Simon Sheppard

  It’s back when Buicks had those little chrome-trimmed portholes. The turquoise-and-white Special DeLuxe is sudsy-wet, steam rising in ripples from its bulbous curves. “Shit, it’s hot,” mutters the lanky eighteen-year-old. He’s got on nothing but Keds and cut-off dungarees. His face and forearms are golden tan, but this early in the summer, his torso and legs still are pale. He draws a hand across his sweaty belly, where a line of blond fur leads down into his shorts.

  It’s the first time this year he’s gone out without underwear, and he’s acutely aware of the feeling of his tender dick rubbing up against rough denim. His fingers slip down his hairy belly, down to the base of his peter. “Shit, it’s hot.” His dickhead’s sliding free of foreskin as his dick starts to snake down the leg of his cutoffs.

  He opens up the nozzle of the green plastic hose. Cool water pours over his head, down his chest, soaks his denim shorts. His dick is still hard, if anything even harder now, the heft of it clearly outlined by the wet shorts.

  He leans up against a soapy fender, presses his crotch against the warm, wet metal. He starts humping the two-tone Buick. The cheeks of his trim butt clench and unclench as he jams his dick hard against the car. When he shuts his eyes, bright sun filters through his lashes.

  The legs of his old jeans are cut off pretty high, close to his crotch, and his wet dick has slipped out past the frayed fabric. He reaches down and gives his swollen dickhead a firm squeeze, rearranges the shorts till most of his dick is lying naked up against the fender. He reaches for the sponge, squeezes a big handful of warm suds down his crotch. Muscles ripple beneath the white flesh of his back as he fucks the fender, head thrown back. In a minute or two, his hot cum jets out, splattering all the way down to a shiny chrome hubcap. He looks up. His little brother is looking at him, eating a Moon Pie. No telling how long he’s been standing there. “Mama says to come on in,” Little Brother says. “Yer lunch is ready.”

  “My Jesus, what happened to you?” says Mama, careworn as usual. “Go dry off and change before your lunch gets old and wrinkled.”

  Over peanut butter, banana, and mayonnaise sandwiches, Mama tells them the big news: Cousin Earl is coming to stay with them for a while. The last time they saw Cousin Earl was years ago, before he went off to fight in Korea. Back then, Little Brother had been very small indeed. Big Brother, though, can clearly recall his cousin. Cousin Earl, nine years his senior, had been every inch a man, muscled and deep-voiced, while he was just a gangly boy. He still remembers the way his cousin’s good-bye hug felt, firm yet somehow infinitely soft and tender.

  But something happened in Korea, Big Brother knows, something that had landed Cousin Earl in a hospital, not for the body, but for the mind. The details, though, remain a mystery. “...you boys won’t mind,” Mama is saying. “There’s plenty of room on the sofa-bed for you, Little Brother, while Cousin Earl shares the bedroom with Big Brother.”

  And the notion of sharing his room with a man, a man who’s traveled and fought and worn a uniform, the thought of sharing a room with Cousin Earl instead of his pesky little sibling, that thought does not bother Big Brother at all.

  When the day arrives, Big Brother walks to the Greyhound stop, down by the filling statio
n. He gets there early, way before the bus is due in.

  Toothless Tom is sitting on a crate in front of the filling station, sipping an RC. Toothless Tom is the man who helps out around the filling station. He’s old, thirty-five or so, but he’s not quite right in the head and he doesn’t act much more mature than Little Brother.

  “Hey, Big Brother,” says Toothless Tom.

  “Hey, Tom. Hot enough for you?”

  Tom gives a low chuckle. “How hot are you, boy?”

  “Oh, hot enough.” Big Brother knows what comes next. Toothless Tom gets up off the crate, unfolds his big husky frame, and shambles into the storage shed behind the filling station. Big Brother follows him. The shed smells of metal and grease.

  Tom bolts the door and sits himself on a rickety stool near the workbench in the corner. He takes out his teeth and sets them down on a piece of newspaper on the bench. Big Brother’s fly is already open. Toothless Tom takes one last swig of the RC and his mouth, when he puts it around Big Brother’s soft prick, feels cool and wet. His tongue, licking and stroking Big Brother’s young, sensitive flesh, makes the dick swell up and fill his mouth. The half-wit’s greedy, insistent sucking sends shivers of pleasure through the teenager’s body. Big Brother shuts his eyes and tries hard to think about Cassie Renfrew and her enormous titties, but instead his mind homes in on his cousin’s imminent arrival.

  “Just a second,” says Big Brother, backing away so he can unbutton his pants and let them fall to his ankles. Looking down, he sees Toothless Tom stroke his tiny, angry-red dick, which sticks out through the fly of his greasy, dark-green uniform pants. The distant roar of an approaching bus cuts through the humid air. Big Brother plunges his hard-on back into the wet mouth, back between the silky-smooth gums, and pumps until the cocksucker starts to gag, until hot jizz squirts down Toothless Tom’s open throat. Without a word, Big Brother wipes off his dick and pulls his pants back up. Toothless Tom’s dick is still in his hand, dribbling a rope of cum into a little puddle between his shabby boots.