Best Gay Erotica 2011

by Richard Labont

  “I got something now,” Max grinned devilishly, flashing the gap between his front teeth. He grabbed Alex’s crotch and pumped the skater’s cock and balls through his jeans. “Look at you go, faggot.”

  “Fucking shit,” Alex moaned, throwing his head back into the mud. The trail of blood from his nostril reached his lip. The orange sky peeked through the treetops. Mud matted his hair.

  “Oh, yeah.” Max’s hand pumped Alex’s growing boner, the violent friction hurting and teasing.

  “Fuck,” Alex moaned.

  “Tell me you like it,” Max said through his gritted teeth.

  “Yeah,” Alex breathed.

  “You think of this shit when you jack off?”

  Max pumped Alex harder, pounding his crotch with rage.

  Alex nodded feverishly and grabbed the glimmering blue tent of Max’s athletic shorts, easily pumping the loose hard cock.

  “Oh, god,” Max quivered. “Fucking good.” The hairs on his arms and legs stood on end. The skater pumped with equal vigor. Max stopped pounding Alex’s dick and fumbled with the buckle of the boy’s wide cloth belt, pulling it apart and unzipping the skater’s jeans.

  Alex pulled Max’s athletic shorts down trembling thighs, and his eight-inch cut cock flopped out. Peach-sized nuts dangled halfway to the ground. Max yanked the skater’s baggy jeans down with his boxers, their dicks both exposed to the cool air. Max pressed his thickness against Alex’s smaller dick and pumped them together in his fist.

  Max’s sweaty balls bounced on Alex’s nuts. They moaned and Alex’s asscheeks sank into the mud. The lacrosse player whimpered as he pumped their cocks furiously, a sound Alex never expected to hear from the athlete. The skater humped into Max’s pumping hand, pushing into the warm space with Max’s cock sliding against his. Everything got slick with precum. They were in bliss, oblivious to anything but the sex, pain and anger peeling away.

  Mr. Albrecht’s beat up Toyota pulled to a stop behind the black Chevy Tahoe on the side of the road. He turned on his emergency lights, got out and inspected the SUV. Traffic was light. An orange evening sun cast shadows. He went back to his car, but as he reached his door, he heard a groan of pain through the wind. He walked back to the Tahoe and looked down the embankment.

  In the shadows of the densely packed trees at the base of the ditch, Max Weston was fucking Alex in the mud, doggy-style, fast, angry and silent. They had their clothes on, except that Alex’s jeans and Max’s athletic shorts were pulled down to their knees. Max cupped the skater’s mud-smeared neck as he pounded his white, bony ass.

  Mr. Albrecht stared in a trance, then got on his hands and knees, obscuring himself behind the embankment, but not enough to block his view.

  He watched until they finished, holding his breath. They made no noise. The lacrosse player fell against the skater’s body, pushing him down into the mud. They lay together, muddy, sweaty and spent. Alex’s face appeared bloodied, but he was smiling. The athlete rested his lips on the skater’s cheek. He pulled the skater’s hair to turn his face so their lips touched and melted together. They tongued into each other, the athlete clutching the skater’s hair.

  The English teacher crawled away and went back to his car and drove home. He washed his face in hot water and stared in the bathroom mirror before scrubbing grass stains out of the knees of his khaki pants.

  The next day when Alex told him he was the one who wrote the hate letter from Max Weston, the English teacher didn’t know what to say except, “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to ask me why?” Alex asked.

  Mr. Albrecht looked somewhere else. “That’s fine, Alex. I’ll tell Principal Edwards.”

  “I already told her.”

  “That’s good. Thank you, Alex.”

  The skater glanced at the English teacher’s distant gaze before going back to his seat.

  “What was that all about?” Monica asked. “You wrote the letter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? Do you like getting bullied or something?”

  “Forget it. I just wanted to get him in trouble. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I don’t care,” Monica said. “It does make us look kind of bad, but I don’t think anyone really reads anymore. It’s weird Mr. Albrecht isn’t more pissed.”

  “Yeah. He’s probably just disappointed in me or something.”

  “He keeps staring at you. It’s sort of creepy.”

  “Great. That means he’s pissed.”

  The bell rang. In the densely packed hallway between classes, a foot tripped Alex. The skater toppled forward onto his hands and knees, backpack sliding away. The crowded hallway parted to make room. A male voice barked, “Watch it, faggot.”

  Alex stared at the faux-marble floor inches from his face, then looked up at the lacrosse attackman. Max Weston stood tall, fully dressed in padded gear, lacrosse stick planted on the tiled floor like a warrior. Just visible through the zoetrope of faces and bodies rushing through the hallway, a smirk crept onto Max’s lips, which Alex matched with his own. Mr. Albrecht saw it all from his classroom doorway.

  COUNTERREVOLUTION

  Thomas Rees

  It starts and he’s sitting in this claw-foot tub. I can tell it’s a claw-foot by the way it’s set off from the wall behind it by a shadow. It makes me miss the tub from my youth, off-white like coffee creamer. But I never masturbated in that tub.

  He looks too young, but that’s probably because he’s shaved like most of the younger things nowadays. Why is that? A generation that grew up on Internet pornography will obviously have different standards of what makes for a good-looking cock, but when the ideal is looking like an eleven-year-old, that means that the old perversions have become normalized to what some might call an unhealthy extent. Though I’m not particularly inclined to jerk off to them, the eroticization of young boys has reached a point where an aesthetic and cosmetic fascism has taken hold of what illusory “community” can be said to exist. As if community were created by rainbow flags, monosyllabic club names or the generation of “sexy” handles, like godtony1986, or shaved-master, or my own, gaytrees79.

  Anyway, he holds his cock like a teacup, stroking with two and sometimes three fingers, pinky set off and raised ever so slightly. The signification of feyness.

  “Do you want tea with your lunch, Henry?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Mom.”

  The claw-foot makes me imagine a house of Persian carpets and a mother drenched in pearls, doting on this kid who spends his free time jerking off for strangers on camera.

  A few years ago, I heard about a pornography production class at some film school. Probably somewhere in L.A. or San Diego, because where the fuck else would they have a class like that? At the end of the semester, during final project screenings, the usual parade of films came through: girl-on-girl action with soft-focus lens, reimaginings of Deep Throat as tranny porn, Cinemax-style elaborate skin flicks. But the project that won accolades was the project that didn’t include any sex at all, or at least nothing on camera. It was just the lens focused on two eyes, belonging to a person of indeterminate gender. It ran for ten minutes, and a lot of the students didn’t get it, but the director saved the gut punch for last: the credits revealed that the entire film was shot while the subject was masturbating.

  The eyes of the kid in the tub alternately focus on the camera and the task at hand. He has a smug smirk on his face that’s sort of petulant and sweet. It makes me want to tousle his hair. When it starts getting somewhat more feverish, he rolls his lips into his mouth and closes his eyes, sometimes rolling them back wetly just before he does so. He’s puffing up his cheeks, too. At one point, he even opens his mouth all the way, revealing these rows of perfect teeth biting very hard. Looks like the boy needs a pillow.

  Just as his hand becomes blurry from the speed of his motion, the camera shifts down and back slightly, going from a longer shot of his dick, hips and torso to something broader, his inner thighs, perineum and hole coming in
to view in a breathtaking change of scene; long, then luscious. In my head I want the kid to be a bottom, but I also know that with a dick as big as his he’ll probably always be the top.

  My friend Evan always hated not knowing who he was doing porn shoots with because he couldn’t prepare his ass ahead of time, and giving a stranger a condom covered in frothy lube and blood is kind of embarrassing. One time, he was the bigger one, and ended up having to fuck this desperate straight hippie kid who kept bleeding and shitting and crying, and despite all that Evan didn’t lose his hard-on, because he’d been pumping Viagra all day like a good porno soldier.

  Back to the kid and his perineum: it’s the sort of thing I’d like to suck for hours. Like Nathan’s, but more youthful. I once woke up with Nathan in a stranger’s sunroom, and we were both sweating so much under this down comforter that we didn’t even need lube. Just some lip-spit on the salt of the taint, and we were ready to go.

  Even the pinky is wrapped around it now. The kid’s stomach is contracting in that special way, trying to withhold a bit, and his eyes are going wider and then shutting for longer periods.

  Apparently, a lot of people have problems with their eyes after masturbating. Take this account on the MedHelp site from someone with the handle, basar:I am a 19 years old boy. I masturbate 2 or 3 times a week. Every time I masturbate it may be continue for 30 min. Nearly a year ago after a masturbating night I saw a black spot in my eye.After that every time I masturbate I see added spots and cloudy vision like floaters. And it become worse and worse every time. Now i have lots of them. What is the reason of creation of this floaters in realation with masturbation? What is the difference between masturbation or having sex with others that sex with others does not creat floaters? Are there any ways to treat and to avoid of creation of more floaters?

  Fucking scary! But it’s never happened to me, so I sort of just want to tell basar that he needs to focus on his grammar schoolwork and stop lying, because everyone knows that nineteen-year-olds and pretty much everyone with a dick masturbates daily until the age of forty, even fifty. Hell, your dad probably masturbates.

  The tub and the kid are so white that it’s almost hard to notice the spray. So quick, only five minutes of hard work! He lets go of his cock and smiles, sated, and reaches around to bring the camera closer to his stomach. There isn’t really much to see—the lighting is bad—but he spreads his stuff around on his stomach and chest for a minute, seeming almost bored; drawing in the dust with a stick. The video ends.

  God, that perineum.

  I press PLAY again, though the screen says, gaytrees79: You have only two free video views left today. Whatever. I won’t pay for pornography. I just want to watch the kid again. This time, I’m going to call him “Georgie.”

  Georgie’s sitting in the tub. He probably imagines himself as a twelve-year-old, smoothed-out. He might actually be a twelve-year-old, though this site isn’t the sort of place that hosts illegal images knowingly. No doubt, he’s at least eighteen. A twinky eighteen.

  I can hear his mother yelling at him for spending too much time in the bathroom. Nowadays, teenage boys spend as much time in the bathroom as teenage girls, according to the Times, beauty products lined up next to sinks. Instead of Venus, though, the boys have Axe or Swagger or Magnetic Attraction Exfoliating Enhancement Body Washizzle. I wonder if Georgie uses any of these, but the thought passes because he’s starting to stroke faster, and my heels click together.

  “Oh, Georgie.”

  “Oh, gaytrees 79.”

  “Mmm, yeahhh, Georgie.”

  “Gaytrees79, yes yes yes, gaytrees79.”

  It’s a brief James Bidgood sort of moment; I’m in the tub with him and my saliva’s running all over his balls, and I have my fingers in my asshole. Georgie’s holding the back of my neck. One of my hands grips the side of the tub and I start to raise myself.

  Suddenly, though, his mother busts through the door. Her hair is in that very Midwestern tight bun; she’s wearing a gold chain with a big fucking crucifix on it, a conservative pink blouse and mom-khakis in navy.

  She screams, and it’s over.

  The deflation of fantasy is one of the truest routes of pleasure seeking; pursuing sexual fantasy to its logical ends makes sense, obviously, but the withholding is more rewarding. If every day of our lives was like Pink Narcissus or even Fuck Me Raw: Athens Edition, cocks would become revolting and the sweet, musty smell of butt would initiate vomiting. The mother has to interrupt, because if she didn’t, everything would end in just another wadded-up tissue on my desk.

  Georgie’s pinky is wrapped around his dick again now, the death-grip position that means that things are about to happen. He doesn’t know that this position can lead to trouble down the road, as evidenced by the countless men who write in to sex columns confessing how years of fierce-grip masturbation have made it impossible to achieve orgasm during actual sex. I whisper, “Light touches, Georgie, light touches,” but he ignores me. It is hard to be ignored, even if I am alone in my room watching a screen, and so desperation is mirrored in this way. Georgie is posting videos of his svelteness to the Internet because he’s teased at school for holding his Diet Coke with his pinky up, or because he does Irish dancing on the weekends, or because everyone knows what he tried to do to Keenan last summer during the camping trip. I empathize, and so we stare at each other and lick our lips and wonder about the possibilities of reaching through the screen and just holding on.

  The funny thing is that if you’re rich enough to have an iPhone, the possibility is already there. Grindr is an application that guys sign on to and, using GPS technology, search for other guys looking to hook up within a given radius. A former lover of mine tweeted a while back that Grindr at the airport makes U look at EVERY1 diffrrntly. I can only imagine, because iPhones kind of scare the fuck out of me, and evidently, Grindr scares the fuck out of the Apple corporation, as they’re trying to ban it from their app store.

  I love Georgie’s stomach contracting and expanding. My friend Myles is a chubby chaser, and I’ve always wanted to ask him whether he gets off on the stomach thing, too, or whether there’s some sort of impossibility there. I’ve even done it with bigger guys, in claw-foot bathtubs no less, but I cannot remember whether there was the same level of gasping and shuddering as with the skinnier types I usually go for—ribs showing themselves, the abdomen tightening, relaxinging, tightening.

  Georgie’s almost done. His mother’s calling him for dinner.

  Maybe he’ll eat in silence, his kid sister babbling at his parents while they wonder what they’re going to do with him. Maybe he’ll go out afterward, saying he’s going to meet friends, but just walk in the park alone. Maybe he’ll loiter around the toilets, waiting for the inevitable stranger to wander up, lead him into a stall and suck him off in three of the best minutes of his life. Maybe the stranger will give Georgie his number, and Georgie will throw it away in a panic before laundry day. Maybe.

  It’s strange how he smiles for the camera. It’s not a seductive smile, really, but the sort of smile one would give for a family vacation photograph taken at the beach, posing alongside little sister, Natalia, and Mom and Dad with Atlantic waves crashing and spreading behind them. Georgie’s the tallest next to the patriarch, his clavicle winging out beneath his neck. The smile isn’t forced, because everyone loves being at the beach, but there’s a quality of it that says, “I belong somewhere else.” To smile like this in a video on a porn site seems ludicrous, but it’s just a wank piece, so Georgie can do whatever he wants and I’ll understand. I’m sitting in my room, my cock wet and hanging out of my briefs, my fingers pressed against my prostate.

  I wish I had an iPhone.

  BODIES IN MOTION

  Johnny Murdoc

  Two weeks before school started, I went to teacher orientation and found myself staring at Nathan Derricks, the new assistant coach. Nathan wasn’t new to me. Eight years ago, we both attended this very high school. He was on the f
ootball team. Everyone in school knew him. Almost everyone in school wanted to be with him. Including me. He was that guy.

  In a small town, teacher orientation is something of a class reunion. Most everyone runs away from his high school, his hometown, but some of us come back. We become the teachers; the parents; the ones who couldn’t stay away.

  There’s Marcia Tungsten, who wrote every boy’s name on her binder with a heart around it well into high school: music teacher. Bill Dyson, who played guitar in the quad to a small circle of tone-deaf groupies: English teacher. Davie Strunk, former bully who I had a crush on even after he slammed me into my locker: sociology teacher. Carol Jacobs, who used to give blow jobs beneath the bleachers to anyone who would take his dick out in front of her. I should know, because she gave me one. She’s the school nurse now. Then there’s Nathan.

  And me. I was a nobody, and now I’m a science teacher.

  Over the summer, I grew my beard out. It makes me look older and, I think, more teacher-like. Students have a hard time paying attention to someone who looks more like an older brother than a teacher. So I grew the beard, and I let my dark hair grow longer than usual, so that it curls. I’ve been fighting the curls all my life, but for now I let them go.

  “Are you married?” my students ask me.

  “No,” I say, not lying.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” they ask.

  “No,” I say, not lying.

  To class, I wear a dress shirt and a sports coat. I’m a high school teacher wearing college professor drag. During the day, I lose the jacket, and I roll my sleeves up. I talk loudly, but I give my students a chance to speak, as well. I do my best to bring science to them not as an idea in a textbook but as a set of rules for questioning.

  “Who is that man in that picture?” a student asks, pointing to the framed portrait on my desk. “He your dad?”