I dreamt I was getting married in the gym of my old high school with an ’80s prom theme: him the famous quarterback, me wearing a pretty white dress and a tiara and holding a big bouquet of roses.
BAREBACKING
Simon Sheppard
In the beginning, you didn’t mean to. Not at all. But there you were, with a condom around your rapidly deflating dick and a beautiful brown Indian man in your bed. The Indian’s hole was, as usual, tight, and the guy had already told you that he’d thought you two had fucked raw before, a few months back. Which wasn’t true. Whatever.
You were virtually certain your partner was negative; you knew damn well that you yourself were. You peeled off the condom and threw it on the floor. Squirting a little more lube on your dick, you began sliding your hard-on against the man’s warm, welcoming ass. Your cock instantaneously grew hard, harder than it had been all night.
It had been so many years, so long since you’d had unprotected sex. The Indian guy turned over on his stomach, the way he always liked to get fucked.
It was easy, amazingly easy, to slide inside. For the first time since you’d started screwing the guy, it seemed like there was no resistance, no fight. This is so wrong, you thought, but that didn’t stop you from sliding all the way in and staying there. Considering the number of times you had fucked the fellow—a married man whose wife (pronounced, in the Indian fashion, “vife,” providing a little cross-cultural thrill) was often out of town—this time felt surprisingly unfamiliar. Luxurious, that was the word for it. Luxurious.
You raised yourself up on your extended arms and looked down at the broad brown back. Sliding your dick in and out, in and out, you couldn’t believe how totally, absolutely, fantastically great it felt.
Well, strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. You could believe it, easily. It was, after all, how sex had once been supposed to feel, but at the same time it was as if the two of you had a dirty little secret, one neither of you would ever tell.
The Indian man had always been, in fact, a great, hungry bottom once his hole had loosened up. But now, skin on skin, there had been no initial tightness, no gradual ramping up of pleasure, and it took an effort of will not to come too soon. You would have liked to switch positions, to get the guy on his back, look down at his handsome face, kiss him. But it was what it was: the guy didn’t kiss, and he preferred it from behind. So you pounded away, enjoying what surely must be a once-only raw fuck.
You were so very, very happy.
“You’re not going to come inside me, right?”
“Of course not.” You didn’t mention you’d already felt yourself leaking precum deep inside his ass.
Pretty soon you sensed yourself reaching the point of no return. “I’m gonna come,” you said, pulling your slick cock out of the well-used hole, looking down to watch the naked shaft sliding out. Without even having to touch yourself, you shot off all over the man’s back, milky sperm on chocolate skin. You caught your breath, then rolled off your partner.
The just-fucked man turned over, a big smile on his face. His dark cock was still fully hard. He reached down and stroked himself till his nut sac, nearly black, tightened, pumping a big load out onto his belly.
“I loved when you fucked me,” the man said. He had never used the word “love” before, in any context.
“Me too,” you said. “A lot.” I won’t be doing that again, you thought.
On your way home from the Indian’s, the warm spring night seemed full of possibilities, the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine for once not cloying but absolutely perfect.
You stopped into an all-night doughnut place, braving the fluorescents, and got an apple fritter, still hot out of the oven, and a cup of coffee. The caffeine would keep you up till dawn, but that was okay; no work the next day. You bit into the smooth, sweet dough. Life was, indeed, good.
If you had done something dangerous, you had no idea what it had been.
A couple of weeks later, after you’d fucked your buddy a couple more times, both without a condom, the Indian man’s wife returned and further fucking was, for the moment, off. Even your emails went unanswered.
For a week or so after that, unmanageably horny, you jacked off two or three times a day, but one night you decided to throw caution pretty much to the winds and answer an ad you’d seen online.
When your correspondent came over, he was even better looking than he’d looked in the photo he’d emailed—a very pleasant surprise. In his midtwenties, the guy’s face was pretty and unlined, his hair long and blondish, his handlebar mustache a waxed-up architectural achievement that framed his big, soft-looking lips.
“My name’s Marc, with a c,” he said.
You hadn’t even gotten to the bedroom when you started tearing each other’s clothes off. Marc, sensing a belt-unbuckling problem, undid his own jeans and pulled them halfway down, revealing blue-checked boxers.
It was gratifying, when you reached down and groped through the cotton fabric, to discover that Marc’s cock was small, thin and very hard. Contrary to what you supposed you were supposed to prefer, you actually had a thing for little dicks, and it was exciting to you that this lovely, slightly overweight young man had one.
Once Marc had thoroughly stripped down, his body plump, a bit furry and otherwise desirable, it turned out that he also had an edible-looking, perfectly pink hole.
“Get on the bed, on your back, legs up,” you said, and once Marc had done exactly that, hands grabbing ankles to keep his legs in the air, you hungrily dived right in. You really loved eating ass. Loved it past the point of explanation, of reason. Even at the height of your caution, you’d always rimmed asses—and, amazingly, had never suffered more than an upset tummy as a result of your passions.
After you’d sated yourself, you backed off, wiped your mouth and spit-lubed your dick. This time, unlike the first bare fuck with the Indian, there was no hesitation. Marc had advertised for a raw fuck, and a raw fuck was what he was going to get.
He had warned you by email that his hole was tight, but it wasn’t, not really, though in any case, the extended rimming had prepped it well. Just a little prodding, and there it was: the feeling of skin sliding against skin. Well, it was against mucous membrane really, but that sounded a lot less romantic, and with your dick all the way inside Marc, your pubic bone pressing up against the boy’s meaty ass, you weren’t about to quibble over terminology.
“I’m getting a cramp in my leg,” Marc said.
“Want to ride me, instead?”
“Sure.”
You rearranged yourselves, Marc on top and straddling you, hole against hard cockhead. With one swift stroke, Marc lowered himself down on you, velvety hot softness enveloping your sensitive shaft.
You looked up at Marc’s handsome face, at the cute mustache, the bright blue eyes, the skinny little dick oozing precum, and though you knew you were expected to keep fucking for a good long time, you realized you were, distressingly, already at the point of no return.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” you said.
If Marc was disappointed, he hid it well. “Go for it,” he encouraged.
“Inside?” It had been prearranged, so you didn’t really need permission, or if you did, it was your own permission to yourself.
“Yeah.”
The spasms came from deep inside your balls, and they lasted for a long, long time, until you’d shot your entire load of sperm inside Marc’s furry ass. Marc leaned over, allowing your dick to slide out of his ass. Though he’d said in his emails that he didn’t kiss, Marc planted a surprising soft kiss on your mouth; that mustache felt great.
“Can I ask you a favor, Marc?”
“Sure, I think.”
You’d been wanting to do this for a decade, more. “Let me eat your ass a little more.”
When Marc was obligingly on all fours, you knelt behind him and spread his asscheeks. As the hole relaxed, a stream of cum trickled out. You plunged your tongue against it, li
cking it up.
You jerked away with a shudder. What the fuck am I doing? you thought. Then you relaxed, snuggled your face against Marc’s ass and slurped some more.
Like any loss of virginity, you reflected, the first time had been the hardest. (Though okay, it hadn’t really been the first time, since you had, many years ago, never used rubbers at all.)
But now that you had become almost accustomed to barebacking, nearly reconciled; now that you had found the very perfect Marc, the blond boy wasn’t answering your emails; you sent four intentionally breezy notes suggesting you meet up again then, not wanting to seem a pest, not wanting to feel any more rejected than necessary, gave up.
You once had an English boyfriend who’d taught you the phrase, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” Though the Euro had made it technically obsolete, in this case it seemed appropriate.
A barebacking party was not, in your city, hard to find.
You hadn’t been to a sex party for years, not since you’d brought home a persistent case of scabies. So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that you made your way to the address specified in his invitation.
You were still unsure, actually, just what you’d be prepared to do once you got to the party. Unlike the Indian man and unlike Marc, the men at the party, you assumed, were more likely to fuck first, negotiate afterward. Still, it might be interesting just to walk in the door.
When you paid your entrance fee and walked inside—into a nicely furnished, middle-class house, as it happened, not some sleazy dive—you were pleasantly surprised to find a goodly variety of men already there, some already naked. Out of the couple of dozen guys, there were a few standard-issue gym bunnies; an unclothed older man with a thatch of unexpectedly sexy gray hair on his meaty chest; a young Asian man, Thai maybe, with beautiful eyes and a tight-fitting Lycra wrestling singlet that showed off his hard dick; a prodigiously tattooed, skinny young blond guy with piercings everywhere, including his dick; a black man in Bermuda shorts; a bear or two. And you.
There was an air of sociability mixed with awkward expectancy; some of the men seemed to know each other well, while others hung around on the margins. Then one guy, obviously the organizer/host, announced that the door had been closed to newcomers and detailed the rules for the evening.
You hadn’t realized till then what the setup actually was—insufficient research, you supposed. The party was in fact a gangbang, the tattooed boy the planned recipient of everyone else’s loads. This was not only not a turn-on for you—you’d planned on a one-on-one, or a threeway at most—but a little worrisome, too. Fucking one ass without a rubber was one thing; plunging your cock into a reservoir of other men’s cum, much of it no doubt infected, quite another. It was only after the festivities were already underway that you realized you might have asked to go first, thereby shortening your participation but allaying your fears. By then, though, one of the gym bunnies had groaningly popped a load inside the tattooed boy’s ass, his cock quickly replaced by the gray-haired man’s.
Meanwhile, some of the men were getting blown—fluffed for their upcoming fucks, no doubt, since oral sex to completion was not the main dish on the menu. The muscular man who just finished fucking was headed your way, his cock still hard, at least probably a testament to the powers of Viagra.
“Drop your pants and I’ll blow you,” the muscular man said.
With a shock, you realized that you were the only one there who was still fully clothed. You unzipped your fly, took out your half-erect cock and, when the well-built man was on his knees, slipped it between the guy’s lips. It felt great, but you still weren’t getting fully hard. You didn’t think of yourself as a prude—far from it—but there was something slightly disconcerting about watching the older man, having come, pull out of the tattooed boy’s slick, dripping hole, to be replaced mere seconds later by the Asian man. Hot, yes, but somehow not quite right.
“The bottom boy…” you began, speaking to no one in particular. The man sucking your cock paused for a minute, though, and looked up.
“Alex? He’s a friend of mine. Bug-chaser. He came here for the gift. Been here before, actually, and it looks like he’ll keep trying till he gets it.”
That was it: enough. Too much, actually.
“Thanks for the head,” you said, “but I think I’m going to split.”
Taking care to seem casual, you made his way across the room, which already smelled of sweat, cum and ass, and out the front door. You paused for a moment, until you heard the door being locked behind you, then headed home through the chill night air.
A couple of weeks after your abrupt departure from the party, you went to the clinic for the result of your HIV test.
Testing was always an anxiety producing experience for you, but the results were, as expected, negative.
You hadn’t barebacked since the party, hadn’t had any kind of sex with anyone, actually. Marc, who’d warned you that he didn’t play around all that often, hadn’t even bothered to reply to your emails. And cruising Craigslist had turned out to be a frustrating pain in the ass. So you’d contented yourself, for the time being, with jacking off, sometimes to the point of soreness.
Then, one sunny morning, you got an email from your Indian friend:
Sorry I haven’t got back in touch with you before, but I guess you understand. My wife is out of town again. Want to fuck me? “Bare” went unspoken, but implied.
You remembered the feeling of your unsheathed dick sliding into the caramel-colored man’s soft hole, recalled licking your sperm from Marc’s ass, thought about skinny little Alex getting gang-banged in a quest for HIV infection.
You reread the email.
Want to fuck me?
It took you a good long while to decide.
SHEL’S GAME
Jonathan Asche
Shel slides his hand down my back, hesitating briefly at the base of my spine to dig his fingers into the hard flesh beneath my shirt before moving to my ass. My jeans are ragged and threadbare, nothing I would have worn out in public. They’re reserved for messy household projects, as suggested by the paint splatters and dirt stains. But Shel insisted. “Those pants hug your ass perfectly,” he said.
Shel’s hand follows the center seam, the one that goes right between my buttcheeks, his fingers gliding over the curve of my ass until they reach the spot where a hole has worn through the fabric. The hole isn’t noticeable to the casual eye, but Shel knows it’s there and pushes his fingers inside. The hole in my jeans is near my hole. I’m not wearing underwear (of course); Shel has easy access.
“Stop it,” I scold as his index finger prods my asslips.
“Thought you liked it,” he says, smiling, staring straight ahead.
A fingertip works its way past my puckered sphincter, leaving me breathless. My cock swells instantly.
“Not here,” I scold.
“Why not here?”
The hostess enters the waiting area, bearing two menus and a frozen smile. We follow her to our table, Shel’s hand remaining on my ass—and his finger up my hole—the entire time. To think I was embarrassed to be wearing ratty jeans. I cross my hands in front of my crotch to hide my telltale bulge. “Hands by your side,” Shel whispers, and I obey.
The restaurant isn’t fancy, just fashionable. There are straight and gay diners; some giggle as we pass by, others tsk tsk, but most don’t seem to notice us, or pretend they don’t. By the time we reach our table my face is red hot.
We have a table for two, but rather than sit across from each other, Shel and I settle in side by side, looking out at the restaurant. Shel puts a finger to my lips—the same finger that was digging into my asshole—and tells me I’m cute when I’m embarrassed. I take the finger into my mouth and suck on it loudly, making Shel laugh. A waiter clears his throat and asks if we’d like anything to drink.
After the waiter leaves with our order Shel points out three guys sitting at the bar, in the thirty- to fortysomething range, lau
ghing like they’re already on their second round of drinks.
“They’re cute,” Shel says, not taking his eyes off the men.
“The one with the beard is hot,” I say.
Shel’s eyes brim with mischief. “I didn’t know you had a thing for beards.”
And then: “Go up to him and tell him you want to suck his cock.” By the tone of his voice I can tell Shel isn’t joking.
Excitement and terror wrestle inside my stomach. “I—I can’t do that.”
Shel slides a hand between my legs and squeezes. My hard-on gives me away. “Yes you can,” he says. “You can because you want to.”
And Shel wants me to; that’s the deciding factor. I get up, trembling, nearly knocking over the candle on the table.
I barely acknowledged Shel when I first saw him six months ago, at a Christmas party. A bald, middle-aged man with a broad, unremarkable face and a stocky build—he looked like someone who’d try to sell me life insurance, I quipped to Aaron, a sinewy cutie I met at the same party. I wasn’t interested in meeting him, let alone fucking him. But Shel cornered me in the kitchen when I was freshening my drink. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling broadly, “I won’t try to sell you insurance. I’m even more exciting: I’m an accountant.”
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