Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  He lit up. A real feat since we were sitting outside this cafe on Market Street. That shouldn’t mean anything to you unless you’ve been to San Francisco in the summer. It was late afternoon when we put our first pints on the table. And a late summer afternoon in San Francisco means that the fog flying in over Twin Peaks uses Market Street as its landing strip.

  So as gust after gust touched down, he lit up. On the third try. And, by then, he was curled so tightly around the cigarette he looked like a fetus hugging its heart.

  He sucked a few times on the burning paper and then spoke. I had the masculine signifiers he wanted—bulk, a beard—or so he said. But, he added, I was smaller than the men he’d been with before. And I thought, yes, I am small; beware the small.

  I know. I know. You probably don’t give a shit what we said or what I look like. You only want me to describe my dick and what it did. I won’t. Call me a tease, but we both know one man’s dick is another man’s dink is another man’s dong. Besides, I’d rather give your puny little imagination a workout. So maybe I have one. Maybe I don’t.

  The boy and I kept talking. Through several more beers, cigarettes, a course of spring rolls and pad Thai, then along the streets and up the stairs to my apartment and down the hall to my bedroom.

  We stopped beside my bed. I put one of my short, thick fingers to his lips. I stepped back. “Strip.”

  He beamed. Quickly, he gripped the bottom of his terrycloth shirt of many colors and yanked it over his head and down his arms. His nipples stood out on the pale skin. Two dark dots. Alternating patches of muscle and bone. All strung together by a few hairs running from his breastbone to the rim of his shorts. He knelt and unlaced his Airwalks. They’d been the color of wet sand, but in the unsteady light of the room’s candles I could barely see the whites of their laces or his socks. He put them all against the wall and returned to the spot beside my bed. He unbuttoned his shorts, let them drop, stepped out of one leg and, with his foot in the other, kicked them over towards his shoes. I could forgive this smiling eagerness to please as a bit of nervous excess, but that kick smacked to me of precociousness. My suspicion was confirmed when he tried to lock eyes with me as he tugged his white cotton briefs down over his budding cock and then his thighs. He had to look down once he got to his knees. As soon as his underwear was at his ankles, he raised his back so I could get a good view of his dick. It was long and fat like an animal’s snout. It flopped against his balls while he shook one, then another, foot free.

  It’ll do, I thought.

  I looked up and met his eyes. “It’s interesting how it’s often the choices made with the least thought that carry the most damning consequences.” He blinked. “Like your high kick. Very precious. I don’t like precious.” His eyes widened. “Maybe I should just send you home….” He blurted out something. The beginning of a plea. I jerked my right index finger to my lips. He swallowed a paragraph of yet-to-bespoken words.

  “What—no one’s ever spoken to you in the conditional? I said ‘maybe.’ I said ‘should.’ You’ll stay as long as I want you to stay. And that might even be the whole night if—if you obey my one rule: you may speak, but each sentence may have only three words; and each word may have only one syllable. Otherwise, you can jabber away at the cab driver on your way home. Agreed?” He nodded. “Are you sure you don’t need me to diaper that mouth with a gag?” He shook his head so hard his balls swung from thigh to thigh.

  Always the student, I thought, craving tests. Good, we’ll begin with the hardest. So I decided to take a few long minutes and bind him tight with the one thing I knew he feared most—silence.

  It began when my face stiffened into a stare. He smiled nervously for the first few seconds. I think it was a minute before I even blinked. By then, his lips had filled in the gash of teeth. We listened to our breathing. To the sputtering of the candles. Finally, I turned and walked out of the room. I left him alone in the squirming shadows. It would be three, maybe five, minutes more before I’d return with a wad of pink fabric tucked in my right fist.

  I tossed it towards his feet. The wad fluttered up into the air and blossomed into a pair of pink silk panties, a size five women’s, a snug fit even with his narrow hips. The one-petaled flower fell fast to the ground. “Put them on.”

  He crouched to pick them up. He fumbled trying to get the crotch going the right direction. He stepped out of one leg and turned the material around the pole of his other. The panties slipped up his calves and over his knees. Then, he had to tug slowly up along his slim thighs, over the ass I’d yet to see, and around his resistant cock. The waistband snapped at his hips and his dick was plastered against the right side of his pelvis. He looked up. Either the material chafed or he was pantomiming defiance. I didn’t care.

  “Take off your glasses.”

  He chirped. Something about no longer being able to see.

  “What’s to see?”

  I walked up to him, pulling a strip of leather out of my back pocket. I let it hang out of my right hand, though I doubt he could see this. I got behind him and lifted it above my head, then over his. I tied it around his eyes. I stepped back in front of him. As I pressed my hands close to his eyes to adjust the blindfold, I could smell his face. It was bitter with smoke and fear. I lingered long enough for his cold skin to feel the warmth from my breath.

  I moved away. “You’ve talked a lot today. Most of it, I enjoyed. In fact, by dinner, I felt like I was back in school. Shooting the shit at three in the morning with a paper due at ten.” I paused to cross the room and return with my butterfly knife.

  “I have just one question. It’s about what makes a man. You seem to know. Well, you did in that article for Homosex(e).” He started as he realized how naked he’d become. “What was your thesis for that one? Something about ‘penetration being a mode of production in the manufacturing of the masculine’?” I stopped to let his own stilted words limp over to him.

  “I’m sorry. Here I am contextualizing my question and I haven’t even asked it. Let me try this again. First, I’ll introduce some givens, then the question.” I opened my left hand. “This is a dick,” I said while I pushed my palm flat against the pink panties and then his prick until each were mashed against the wall of pelvic bone. I waited for his dick to stiffen and push back. Hand and cock then began a little dance until the hand had shuffled the tip of the dickhead up and under the strangling elastic waistband. Below it, a swelling pink stem was pointing towards the ceiling.

  “Then,” I said as I plucked the head, nearly in full purple bloom, “to use your own terms,” and I pulled flower, stalk, and the taut rim of the panty out to me as far as I could—I almost lifted him up off his feet—“there’s what you called the concretized phallus.” And now my right hand and its knife reached into the gap between his dick and his belly.

  I turned the knife on its side and stroked the dull edge of the cold blade up the shaft, prickling with hairs and goosebumps. “Actually, anything with a point’ll do.” My left hand slowly let go so that only the knife held his cock and the overextended waistband in place. “So here’s my question. If I took this,” and I flicked my left index finger at his dickhead, as if it were a marble and this were a game. I paused to feel it thud against the warming metal. “If I took this and left you with this,” I pushed the concretized phallus against the cock that was trapped on the other side by my finger, “would you still be a man?”

  I waited.

  The muscles of his stomach flinched, shaking the skin that rippled the air that stirred the hairs on my arm holding the knife. I hoped that this was his answer. I waited. It was.

  I almost smiled. I was beginning to enjoy our date. For now I could spend the rest of it teaching him the deeper meaning of his wordless response.

  I pulled the knife out in one stroke. The panties snapped his prick back in place. He gasped. He was stung but uncut. I grabbed both his hands and pulled them towards me and the bed as I jumped up onto it. I rolled off the
other side still holding him. I let go and he lay across it. I took his left hand and tied it to the left post of the black metal headboard. I moved around the bed knotting and cinching his three remaining limbs to the three remaining corners. Then I stood. Breathing deeply. I’d worked fast and was winded. I’m sure he could hear my snorts over the thudding of his own heart.

  For the first time, I saw his pink ass. I jerked the waistband down and under the curves of his butt. The smooth, round, white cheeks plumped like breasts lifted by an underwire bra. I cupped them with both my palms. They grew warm. Pap. Pap. Pap. Three swift slaps to warm them more. I allowed a few moments of silence. Enough time for his ears to stop ringing. So he’d be able to hear this. I yanked the tail of my leather belt out of its buckle so hard that it creaked. Next belt and buckle slithered into my hand. The treated and tanned skin groaned as I bent it, then snapped it taut.

  “You cocky little fucker. Answer me.” The dead animal’s hide slapped across the hide of my little live one. The echo of the clack somersaulted around the room. The candles wavered. But he said nothing. This boy who, in print, had never made his point in under fifteen thousand words, said nothing. I was growing quite excited as I realized there might be a spark of brilliance in him after all.

  “Or maybe you can’t.” I began to punctuate each sentence with the end of my belt. “Not because you’re too dumb.” Thwack. “Not because you’re too smart.” Thwack. “But because you’re one of those pitiable scholars who can’t speak without citing someone else.” Thwack. “Must explicate.” Thwack. “Must legitimate.” Thwack. “Must use the f-word.” Thwack. “Foucault.” Thwack. “Foucault, Foucault, Foucault.” Thwack, thwack, thwack.

  His ass was pink again. Almost roseate. I took my left hand and let my fingers survey those patches that even in this dim dark shone. “Such a hot ass,” I said. I lowered my head towards it. My tongue slipped and slid over the nearly hairless skin as if it were ice. Ice that seemed cold and smooth, but my tongue grew warm against it, felt its throb. “Such a hot ass,” I said again, and left the room.

  The kitchen isn’t far from the bedroom. A few feet. He must have heard me open the mouth of the freezer. Heard it sing its one long, cold note. Heard the spine of the ice tray crack in my hands. “Miss me?” I think he moaned some answer. “Miss this?” I dragged my tongue back along the trail left by my belt. I’m certain he was groaning when I took my tongue and pried at his crack, digging deepest near his hole. He tried to push his ass closer to my face. So trusting for one I’d thought so critical.

  I lifted my head. Now, before my saliva could dry, I pressed down the melting cube. His butt muscles clenched. I retraced where the tongue, first of my belt and then of myself, had been. His whole body tensed as I pushed the cube down between his cheeks. “Such a hot ass,” I whispered. I nudged the ice over his hole. It was sweating its own lube. I took my thumb and ground it into his asshole. He rolled his head over the pillow, biting at it. “Go ahead. You still have your dick. Be a man and scream.” He tried to kick me off. Maybe he yelped. I dug at the decomposing ice cube with my fingernail. It plopped out. I slid it down towards his balls, leaving it to melt.

  He began to twist against his ropes. All this show to shake off a shrinking chip of ice. I grabbed the scruff of his neck. Then I gave him a swift, sharp blow with the belt. He was still.

  “You lied to me.” I struck him again. “I’ve read everything you’ve been able to get published so far. You posited yourself over and over as a master theorist. Acted like you could demystify any obfuscation thrown your way. Like you were going to deconstruct the cosmos. Down.” Thwack. “And down.” Thwack. “And down.” Thwack. “Until your praxis led to your dick. But why’d you stop there, boy.” Thwack. “What’s so fucking special about your dick?” Thwack. “Is it magical?” Thwack. “Is that where you keep your male essence?” Thwack. “Your fucking trans-historical male essence?” Thwack. My left hand pulled at his hair and shook his head while my right hand flung the belt over my back. “You fucking hypocrite.” Thwack. “You’re nothing but a fucking,” thwack, “closeted,” thwack, “essentialist.” Mid-stroke I stopped.

  The harder I had hit, the higher his ass had leapt. On the last stroke, it jumped up to meet the belt. “No,” I said out loud. I wasn’t going to let him take control of the scene. This was about my revenge. Not his pleasure. Not tonight. Not on our first date.

  I climbed onto the bed. I sat on his butt. Even through my jeans, I could feel the warmth of his skin. I sat there a moment, like a hen on her almost-hatched egg. I sat there a little longer. Soon, I thought with instinctual certainty, soon.

  I leaned over his back until I was crouched over him, my belly pushing his head deeper into the pillow. I untied the left hand, then the right. I crawled off him and the bed. I untied the left leg, then right. With both hands, I dug for the waistband that had now burrowed under the cheeks of his ass. I took the elastic and scraped it up along the skin. Before I let go, I gave a final yank and, snap, his panties were pulled up.

  He began to mutter, reciting a rosary of “no’s.” He must have thought I’d untied him to send him home.

  I tugged the ropes and the boy over to the chair and down across my legs until I felt the smooth fabric and the stiff cock slide across my right leg. I stopped when I had his dick bent over my knee just so. As if it had been scaling the outer wall of my leg and was now stuck, unable to heave the balls over.

  Keeping the ropes in my left hand, my right hand was left alone to tear down his panties for the last time. I could feel the faint pulsing of his cock. It wouldn’t be much longer before he wet himself. A few good slaps. So I decided to take my time. I ground my palm into the small of his back. Then I turned it on its side and started to push at that firm pink border wall. It gave a bit. A budge more. Then it recoiled, scooting my hand back to where it began.

  Once more. This time I rolled my hand back onto its palm and let it curl into a fist. I plowed against the panty waist. My knuckles, like the broad lip of a shovel, tried to lift it. Instead, they pushed under the rim and over the warm earth of his ass, until all momentum was lost and my hand flattened again, this time over that long fissure venting heat from its deep hole.

  It was a pleasant moment. Unexpected. I dragged my hand out to try yet again. I placed my knuckles half on skin, half on silk. The boy squirmed a bit. I felt his cock flatten against my leg. He was growing impatient, insecure. Good. I would go even slower now.

  I took my knuckles and rubbed at the edge of his right hip. Several tries and I got the rim to fold over on itself. I moved my hand towards the left hip. I did the same there. Soon I had the elastic turned in and out all along the edge of his butt. Now I would knead and roll and knead and roll the panties down as if I were making a pie crust. By the time I had them tightly under the ledge of his ass, I’d left his skin stinging, throbbing even, where the elastic, like a crude lawnmower, had torn out some of the few black hairs. And, though I was pleased, I could feel that my little man’s interest had waned.

  “Don’t fall asleep on me, boy.” I slapped his cold butt hard enough that my baby had to fill his lungs with air. “Do I bore you? Afraid you’ll drift off before your queer elder passes the staff along to you?” I felt his body hesitate. He actually thought of answering me. “Oh, is that it?” I yanked the ropes and his wrists to the floor. I let my voice drift back in time and up an octave. “Fuck me, daddy, sir.” Possessed, I began to bounce him against my knee and whack out a beat while I said, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Fill me full.”

  I stopped. His skin shook. His cock quivered. I leaned towards his left ear and whispered hoarsely, “I will, young man, but when I’m good and ready. Do I make myself clear?”

  I tugged the ropes again. His dick slid over my leg until his balls were flat against the side of it. “Huh?” I let go and he slunk back. I pulled again. “Well?” Then several more times until I knew these slow kisses between his silk and my denim must have been burning his dic
k. I could feel it swelling. I let him slide back and forth over my leg several more times as I kept shouting, “Do I?” The last time I didn’t let go of the ropes. His cock and balls could barely teeter on the edge of my quite warm thigh.

  “Now, you’re going to tell me the truth. Aren’t you, my queercore kid?” I slapped his ass twice. My palm stung. “You’re going to tell me just how much of a lying essentialist hypocrite you are. Aren’t you?” And I began to whack at the fleshy underbellies of his cheeks. Soft fat, some muscle. I kept whacking all the while I kept shouting. “Aren’t you a liar? Aren’t you? Aren’t you a fucking closeted essentialist? Queer theorist, your ass. You never read Judith Butler. Did you? Did you? No, you hunched under your covers with a flashlight reading Judy Grahn and diddling yourself. Didn’t you? Huh? Didn’t you!”

  By hitting the undersides of his butt cheeks, I’d been lifting his ass with each swat, forcing him to rub his cock over and over against the hard muscle and bone in my leg, making his own body first slap his balls and then mash them against the side of my thigh, so hard and so fast that the silk and denim were close to sparking. Even if I’d wanted to stop beating on his beet-red butt, it wouldn’t have mattered now. He would’ve kept on humping my leg like the precocious panty-wearing dog he was.

  Now, for every word I would speak, I batted at him with whatever strength was left in my nearly numb hand. “I know you read Mark Thompson’s Gay Sprit over and over and over…” A yes spilled out of his mouth. “And over and over and over…“ Another yes. “Until you were weeping and clapping for fairies.”

  YES! He bucked forward and then rocked back on the fulcrum of my leg. It shook wildly, then he did. And did. And did. He was spewing a loud stream of yes’s now.