Best Gay Erotica 2014

by Larry Duplechan

  The one in the middle, together.

  ART APPRECIATION

  Thomas Fuchs

  As Bobby leaned back in the chaise longue, he thought how peaceful it was there, by the pool. Quiet. Up at the house, the guys were talking, talking, talking. Most of the talk was about art. Leo, their host, was a big art collector. The party that afternoon was to celebrate and admire his latest acquisition, a Hockney drawing of palms sheltering a swimming pool; a scene meant, as Richard had explained, to evoke a summer afternoon in Southern California. Bobby thought it was nice but, preferring the real thing, he’d slipped away from the party to bask in the sun.

  He’d found a towel and some sunscreen in the pool house, stripped off his clothes—all of them, including his Calvin Kleins, no tan line, please—and stretched out on the chaise. As he went to work applying the cream, he thought that in a way, he was a work of art—his biceps, triceps, forearms so carefully shaped, his sculpted chest, smooth and powerful, the abs he’d worked so hard to achieve—a perfect six-pack. Then it was on to his dick, with its fine, solid thickness. Richard had joked how it should be registered as a dangerous weapon: “You could beat someone to death with that thing.”

  Bobby went from applying the sunscreen to stroking himself, and quickly got hard, that really great feeling, the head pushing out from the foreskin, the whole thing getting pink, then darker, that delightful deep sensation flowing along its length and a tingling in his ass. He worked himself and worked himself, the sun blazing down on him so that the distinction between himself, the sunshine and the world around him dissolved and he was filled with that power surging through him in those delicious, shivering moments before he bucked and twisted and the jism shot out, burst after burst, gobs spattering his chest, then sliding down as he lay back, collecting in a shimmering ivory pool in the hollow between his pecs. He dipped his fingers into it and spread it over his chest and abs, rubbing it into his skin, the rich cream, the finest sunscreen there was; then he lay back, basking in the after-bliss.

  Total contentment never lasts for long and after a while his thoughts drifted back to the house and all the sophisticated talk, much of it from Richard. He smiled, wondering if Richard’s artsy friends could imagine what it was like watching porn with him, Richard commenting on the models and the action as though it was some kind of art film. He wasn’t sure if Richard was serious about this or just joking. Richard was a nice guy, really, all in all. Certainly generous. Fun travel. Good companion. Except that sometimes he went on a little too much, lecturing like he was giving one of his classes. Not bad looking and in pretty good shape for an old guy. Thank god he wasn’t fat. Always respectful. Not too demanding. Pretty easy to please, in fact. Bobby certainly had plenty of freedom.

  The sound of a bolt turning interrupted his thoughts. Someone was coming into the pool area through the door from the alley. If Bobby, stark naked as he was, had been less self-confident, he might have been embarrassed and tried to cover himself, but he just sat and waited to see what would happen.

  It was the pool man: a good-looking, dark-skinned Latino stud in a company polo shirt and cutoffs. Not tall, but not too short. Good face, high cheekbones. Jet-black hair, carefully spiked. Nice biceps, big chest. Great thighs, big and bursting with strength. Altogether, pretty hot. RAMON was stitched in yellow just above his shirt pocket.

  Ramon, busy with his equipment and supplies, didn’t see Bobby for a few moments. When he did look up and catch sight of him, he stopped dead, was silent for a beat, and then said, “Oh, sorry man,” but he didn’t look away from Bobby or his crotch.

  “No problem,” said Bobby. He took his time reaching down for his briefs, then stood up and faced Ramon directly as he pulled them on.

  What was on the verge of happening next was interrupted by the click of footsteps on the flagstone path leading down from the house.

  It was Richard. When he got to the pool, he clearly recognized that he was interrupting something, but he nodded politely to Ramon and said only, “Come on, Bobby. They’re serving lunch.”

  The meal—a sit-down for twelve, served by a butler—was, in its own way, a work of art: two plates, one a fish-shaped pastry complete with tail and scales, filled with thin, alternating layers of smoked salmon and a truffle-laced pate; the other a fruit dish, leaf-shaped slices of mango arranged around concentric rings of shimmering green kiwi and a heart of strawberry, the whole thing forming a large, exotic flower.

  When several of the guests pulled out their phones to take pictures of the meal, Richard said, “You can’t capture this in images alone. This art is meant for more than just our visual sense.” Lifting his fork, he added, “Let us fully appreciate it.”

  Bobby ate quickly and as the butler cleared his empty plates, he asked their host, Leo, if it would be all right for him to take a swim.

  “Sure,” said Leo. “That’s what the pool is for. There are suits in the pool house if you want one.” Richard, deep in conversation with the woman next to him, seemed barely to notice Bobby leaving.

  As he started down from the house, Bobby was relieved to see that Ramon was still there, vacuuming garden debris from the pool. His shirt was off and his broad back and shoulders were golden in the sun. Bobby’s dick began to stir. When Ramon saw him, he flashed a grin that made it abundantly clear that he had been hoping Bobby would return.

  There wasn’t any small talk between them. No talk at all, in fact. They went into the pool house, a small, somewhat dank concrete room, furnished with a few rattan chairs and pillows.

  Still without speaking, both men stripped and stood inches apart, appraising each other, growing increasingly excited by what they saw. Both were magnificent: in shape, well defined and nicely hung. Bobby was shaved; Ramon sported a nest of glossy black hair. Both were semihard.

  Like professional dancers improvising a routine, they stepped toward each other, held each other. Bobby’s dick sprang hard against Ramon, and Ramon’s pressed into Bobby’s thigh.

  For both, touching each other was like embracing a finely carved statue, only warm and pulsing with life. Bobby licked a spot on Ramon’s neck that made the Latin boy shiver and moan.

  Now it was Ramon’s turn to give pleasure. He slid down and began flicking the tip of his tongue on one of Bobby’s nipples (a touch, a touch, a touch), a rapid fire of stimulation, each contact distinct, each making Bobby ache all over with pleasure.

  Again without a word and acting as one, they grabbed the pillows off the chairs and threw them on the floor to use as a bed where they explored every slope and crevice of each other’s bodies with their fingers, lips, tongues.

  When Ramon got to Bobby’s dick, Bobby swung around so they could sixty-nine and began licking and sucking as Ramon did the same to him, repeating what he had done to Bobby’s tit, teasing the tip of his prick with a rapid-fire series of tongue touches that overwhelmed him so that he neglected Ramon’s cock and had to control himself to resume rewarding his partner with sensations as intense as those racking him.

  After some time of this, Bobby tasted precum. Ramon was about to shoot and Bobby wasn’t sure how much longer he could restrain himself. He pulled away and held himself to head off the explosion. There was a brief pause, a moment when neither was sure what would happen next.

  Then Bobby decided and led the way. He didn’t usually like to get fucked, but he wanted it now: maybe it was Ramon’s thick, powerful thighs. He rolled onto his back, his legs up, his desire all but palpable. Ramon, flashing that grin, was clearly all for it.

  Bobby started to tell him that he had a rubber and lube in his pants, but Ramon reached over to his own pile of clothes and fished out the necessities. He turned out to have a fine technique, not trying to ram it in but taking his time, using his cock to tease Bobby’s asshole, getting it to relax and open so that he could slide right in as Bobby closed around him.

  With a rhythm that was slow, steady, sure, he pumped deeply into Bobby, making him gasp and groan with pleasure.
And then came a transition, a sliding change of tempo, Ramon pumping faster and faster, making Bobby writhe in the sweet agony of a really good fuck.

  Finally, Ramon rammed in as deeply as he could, and Bobby caught him, using his ass muscles to squeeze Ramon and hold him tight. The Latin guy bucked his hips as Bobby squeezed harder until Ramon gasped, “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Bobby relaxed his hole and Ramon slowly pulled out, then stripped off the rubber and grabbed his cock, giving it a few final jerks while Bobby jacked his own bloated dick and suddenly there was cum everywhere.

  Completely sated, both men lay back and rested. It was Ramon who, a few minutes later, sat up abruptly. “Geez,” he said, “it’s late. I’ve got to git.” He toweled off, pulled on his clothes, said, “Well, that was fun,” and left.

  Bobby looked at his watch. The afternoon was almost gone. Richard would be ready to leave.

  In the car, going home, neither said anything until Richard broke the silence with, “You might not have noticed, but our host’s Hockney is a fake.”

  “What?”

  “His newest acquisition,” said Richard, “the piece we all came to see. It’s a copy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d have to take it out from under the glass, but I’m ninety-nine-percent sure. It’s a new method. The original is digitized, then the forger goes over it by hand. It’s a lot of work but it makes for a very good copy.”

  “Did you tell him?” asked Bobby.

  “No.” said Richard. “Why should I spoil things for him? He takes such great pleasure in it.”

  “But he’s been ripped off.”

  “When he insures it,” said Richard, “the appraiser will catch it. And if he doesn’t, well, then, officially it’s just as valuable as the real thing. Think of it this way. Art isn’t an object. It’s what happens between the object and the person experiencing it. Whether it’s a picture, sculpture, music, dance, literature, it’s the transmission of feeling that makes it art.” And then without a pause, he went on to ask, “And speaking of experiencing things, did you have a good time this afternoon?”

  “I did,” said Bobby.

  “Excellent. You’ll tell me all about it tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “All the details?” asked Richard.

  “Of course,” said Bobby. “Don’t I always?”

  COACH’S PUSSY

  Dan Cavanagh

  The coach came into his office from the locker room, tucking his cock and balls back into his jock. A trickle of leftover piss ran down the hair on his heavy thigh. He palmed it off and wiped it on his sweaty T-shirt, then took his shorts from over his shoulder and threw them at Ken.

  “Wanna smell, fucker?” he said through a broad grin, then turned his back to the kid, pressed his hands against the wall and began to stretch the kinks out of his calves.

  Ken had come in from practice and had just finished cleaning up the coach’s office when the huge man lumbered in. He sat on a low stool, staring up the crack of the coach’s ass; watching the calves ball up and release as the man worked them; watching the asscheeks tighten and dimple. His palms began to sweat as he rubbed them up and down the golden hairs on the insides of his thighs. He was a freshman and had barely gotten in on a work-grant as a “team manager.” He’d been a champion swimmer in high school; he was now a physics major in the classroom, and a flunky in the Athletic Center who would do anything the coach told him.

  “I finished the laundry.”

  “Those assholes,” the coach moaned as that good stretching pain traveled up one calf, then the other. “They’d leave stuff in their lockers until mold grew.” He turned to face Ken. “Shit work, huh? But I bet you really get off on all those sweaty jocks. Huh, Kenny? Am I right? I found three of them in your locker.”

  And he smiled that perfect smile.

  Ken’s face flushed and his lips parted slightly as he drank in the man. Coach Yastic was forty-eight; six-foot-one of hard muscle under hairy, deeply tanned skin. Huge biceps stressed the seams of his sleeves, sleeves so short the armpit hair poked out underneath. Ken could trace the pattern of thick hair visible under the shirt; there was a fold of cloth stretched between fat nipples. The man’s legs were massive and covered in black wire everywhere except the backs of his calves, where the bulk of them had rubbed against his jeans for years. And his cock, only semierect, pushed the jock pouch out with such force that in profile Ken could see the balls trying to work their way free.

  Normally combed straight back, Yastic’s black hair, graying at the temples, fell into an unruly mop of curls when he worked out. Ken’s father had called him a man’s man. He was married, but he could seduce with a smile and had been warned repeatedly about fucking coeds. But he always had a favorite, a “boy-tool” he laughingly called the kid: some punk stud panting around his heavy rod.

  He’d promise a kid a “better body” and schedule late training sessions. Yastic would show up in gym shorts slit up to his hip and an athletic T-shirt dingy with age. He’d stand directly over the kid’s head during bench presses, counting low and slow, giving the boy a direct view up between his thighs into the wet, rank crotch. He’d smile, watching the kid squint his eyes shut, fighting it; then stand there once the set was over, letting the boy inhale him with every gasping breath.

  Ken had seen the results. He remembered Pete, Yastic’s last piece—a short, redheaded wrestler with a muscle-boy build under paper-thin white skin. He’d watched Pete in class one day, squirming at his desk in crotch-high cutoffs during an American History lecture, his ass grasping as if trying to eat the chair beneath him. What Ken hadn’t seen was, that night, the kid had sucked Yastic from head to foot; and before the evening was over, Pete’s asshole had inhaled the man’s hand to the wrist. The next day, the kid had an orgasm in class. Audibly, not even touching his dick: apparently, Yastic had treated the kid to a large butt plug. Pete was expelled the same day.

  Yastic slumped into the chair behind his desk and pushed the chair away. Leaning back, he put his feet up on the edge of the desk, facing Ken.

  “Lock the door.” Ken did as he was told. Yastic lit a cigarette, clicked the lighter shut as he exhaled. “Let’s see.”

  Ken slipped his T-shirt over his head and, reaching down, worked off his gym shoes. He reached for his shorts.

  “Leave it.”

  He began his routine. He flexed his biceps, imitating the poses he’d seen in the muscle magazines. Yastic chuckled. Turning sideways, he twisted his torso and worked his lats, putting one foot behind the other and rising up on his toes.

  “Hold it.” It was an awkward position. Ken trembled. “Hold it, Kenny-boy.”

  The routine was ridiculous. Yastic knew it; Ken knew it. He had a beautiful, smooth swimmer’s body with big pink nipples and hard long muscles. But the “muscleman” poses were humiliating.

  Yastic exhaled. “You’re comin’ along, baby.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You make me proud. Are you happy for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You like makin’ me proud?”

  “Yes, sir.” He was beginning to sweat.

  “How proud is that, baby?”

  “Real proud, sir.”

  “Then come over here and show me how much.”

  He broke the pose and walked slowly over to Yastic. He stared at the man and waited for the next instruction. When nothing came for what may have been a minute or two, he timidly bent down and crawled between the man’s legs that still rested on the desktop. He brought his head up, feeling the heat from those thighs, and stared eye-level at the jock pouch. Another pause. He could hear Yastic talk through a smile.

  “This one never gets washed. You understand that, baby?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s a lot of man-spit on that jock. If you’re really lucky, I’ll let you wear it up your asshole for a day. You like that?”

  Ken was breathing quickly.

  “Yes, sir.�
��

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, sir.” he repeated, louder.

  Yastic ran his hand into the pouch and pulled his rod up until the head was poking out over the top, glistening. He groped inside again and began to mash his balls hard. He groaned. Then he brought his hand out and held it out toward Ken.

  “Kiss it.”

  Ken moved his lips against the hair on the back of the hand and inhaled. His cock was so hard it hurt. Yastic liked it that way: knowing his fuck-boy’s cock was aching in confinement. Ken began licking the funk, sucking. Yastic turned his hand palm up and Ken closed his eyes, taking each thick, calloused finger into his mouth and sucking on them one at a time.

  “Nice. Real nice. Just like a pussy with a tongue, baby.”

  He felt the boy swallow each fingertip and stretch his tongue to reach for the hair on the back of the coach’s hand. They locked eyes. Yastic tossed the cigarette on the floor, then reached down and took the boy’s head in both hands. Pulling Ken’s mouth into his crotch, he slowly brought his thighs together, tight, enclosing the head. He tilted his head back, crossing his legs at the ankles, squeezing tighter.

  “Oh yeah…c’mon home, boy.”

  Ken’s head disappeared completely in wet, straining thigh muscles and massive hands. His mouth and nose mashed hard into the jock material, drowning him in the smell of the man with every breath. His arms barely made it around the man’s legs as his hands came up to stroke the thighs.