Wild Boys

by Richard Labonté

  He hangs up in hysterics.

  My straight stars—another test!

  I consider the task before me as a simple measure of my confused affection for him, so I halfheartedly agree—only because I know if I arrive at his doorstep bearing gifts I’ll get two turns popping his ass, not just one.

  Behind the gay magazine rack, a shelf full of boys stares back at me. Freshmeat this and Boyhung that. Porn rags are so inventive. They’re hoaxes, of course. I mean, the models inside advertise themselves as Chad here: suburban straight meat with a nine-inch boner ready to turn a trick. Ha! Notorious cons, every one of them. They make up that routine just to get print space. In real life they’re camped-up, five-inch suburban queers.

  I flip through one and stop suddenly. I think that dude works out at my gym. Damn, he looks good in print! And I’ve definitely seen this one selling tickets at the multiplex. Can’t miss those popcorn eyes! If I continue, I bet I’ll find half a dozen boys from Evan’s salon who’ve suddenly become “workout buddies” for the magazine royalties.

  Now. Which magazine would I buy if I were gay?—and I’m not!

  I think I’d go for the muscle hunks in the fitness rags. Oh, yeah. Text and testosterone on the same glossy page. That’s what I like. But I’ll have to pay extra attention and read between the lines. The magazine promises, We’ll train you to build your biceps and then show you how to mix protein drinks. Ha! Another elaborate con. I laugh and shrewdly translate that to, We’ll train you to blow your own boner and then show you how to mix cum shots.

  I better not buy that. Too hetero on the surface and suggestive beneath. Evan likes to see guys who are opaque, thin and petite in the moment, not jock-strapped to the hilt. When the shirt comes off, he wants to see pretty gay-boy meat, not pumped-up man flesh.

  In order to get off, however, I buy the fitness magazine with the half-nude portfolio in the back. Sports meets porn—sporn. Allow me to read:

  Here’s how you get diesel, boys. Pump this up, drink that down, crunch here, curl there. Oh, and by the way, after your workout, there’s a dirty little treat for you on the back page.

  I rifle through the pages.

  A spread of buff dudes catches me salivating.

  Ha! Gotcha! We hang out in the back like bouncers at a club. You needn’t look if you’re not into sausage. But you did—queer!

  I swiftly complain, “But everyone looks in the back out of fitness and desire.”

  Shove off, jerk! And put us back on the rack.

  Sporn magazines give men pleasure. They give boys pleasure. They’re primordial and well produced. Our fingers dance along the fine edges of a choice bodybuilding magazine and a normal guy can’t help but feel the pinch of a woody approaching. As I flip through one, I sense myself getting hard like the legions of straight guys who dumbly purchase these rags, then hurry off for solo action in the shower, thinking they’re buff and beautiful and big like the guys in the centerfold. By their second fitness rag, and still too naïve to see the tease, their dicks are raging for a blunt cunt attack. Better take a piss in a cold shower, boys, and save that wad for later.

  Knowing the ropes, I finger through a few more then notice some real dude scoping me out from behind the NASCAR rack. He’s been standing there for an hour, unbuckling his belt like he was letting off steam. At the same time he’s cruising me with his Motorola eyes. It seems we both enjoy sports photography, so I wave.

  Over here, gay guy! Isn’t this what you want? I call out—silently.

  “Are you a member of my gym?” he asks politely.

  His voice is convincingly masculine, but I know it’s an act.

  “You own a gym?” I ask.

  He grins, “I’m Nate.”

  I grin, “I’m Bobby.”

  He likes the sound of that and five minutes later he’s stroking me off in his car.

  “Doesn’t that feel hot, Bobby?” he asks, faking a testosterone tone.

  His chest is suitably built, but I think he should shave. He spits on his mitt and lets me feel how swift he can jack off. My cock fills his hammered palm. He looks like a Hollywood boxer—the John Garfield type—but I know it’s only makeup. He probably reads the same rag that my dad does, Boxer Builder.

  Pretending his face has been punched in too many times, Nate frowns and slobbers over my dick. The cum in my balls leaks inside his grip. He sweeps his upper lip over my dickhead and fakes being too masculine to go all the way down. He probably suspects I might complain about his chapped lips scraping against my man-shaft, not to mention turning an innocent straight boy like me into a five-minute fuck.

  “I’m going to cum!”

  I yank my cock from his fist and haul it away.

  “I could jack you all night, tough boy.”

  Oh, brother—smut dialogue. If he’s serious, he’d shut up and give me head.

  Please understand, I’m nutty about my junk. Many chicks have announced undying love for it. If I could, I’d sniff my balls all day and lie down on my dick just to see how the girls feel when I’m ready to explode.

  But NASCAR Nancy is too anxious. He begins to beat my balls silly. He’s desperate and doesn’t know how to conceal it. I bet he’d lose control and kill me if I told him I was on my way to my boyfriend’s. That would break his hetero delusion of me and send him packing to the next convenience store, flipping through the wrestling rags for a more appropriate mate. But right now, what he doesn’t know excites him.

  “I’m getting close,” I say.

  “Okay, stud. Time to taste it!”

  He laps up my cock in his mouth. That makes him moan. I reach down and pinch my balls just to show him how comfortable I am handling my own meat.

  “Better let me do that,” he snarls. “I know my way around Boy Town.”

  Oh, Mary, quit with the speech writing!

  One, two, three—he pummels my balls again.

  “Just say when, little hot rod,” he gasps.

  His eyes gape over my sweaty head. His lips moisten. His hands whack me off and my dick nudges completely out of my boxers and into his mouth.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” he growls, sucking in the air.

  The dick juice splats all over the place. My hips thrust into his boxed-in mug. His face pinches. By the time I’m done, hot ball fluid is dripping off his cheeks and he needs three oil rags to clean up the spill.

  NASCAR Nancy pants. His engines overheat. My fat head bubbles in his mouth. A mean amount of dick fluid leaks into his gut to cool off his cylinders.

  “That was boytastic,” he finally breathes.

  When he lets go, my straight cock retreats—another victim of drunken gay greed.

  With the well dried up, he trembles and spits into the ashtray.

  “Put that away before we do it again,” he warns, exhausted. “’Cause next time it’ll be on the sofa in my man cave. Yeah, wouldn’t that make a picture? Me watching an old match, reliving the glory days, and sucking on your dick just as the wife walks in.”

  Hold on—did he say wife?

  “I’m willing to risk some things,” he adds, “but not that.”

  Wha-wha-what?

  “Pack it up, sissy, and go back to your boyfriend!”

  “Hey! You’ve got it all in reverse!” I say.

  “You gay boys should stay in the bars where you belong, you know that?” He licks a permanent bruise. “You’re going to ruin us regular boys and make us all go gay.”

  Huh? Does this dude think I’m gay? Did another straight dude just seduce me like gay meat?

  I fold my cock over my balls and stuff them limply between my legs. I want to argue some more, make him sweat and steam that he just sucked off another straight brother, but NASCAR Nate drops me off outside Evan’s door and burns rubber back to his suburban wife.

  I have a two-second walk to contemplate our car jacking.

  He was cruising me, right? He was jerking me? He swallowed me? But I’m gay?

  Evan storms out t
he door in a huff. I drop my thoughts. His flat chest and lean thighs are visible through his robe. A peach-colored g-string bunches up his package.

  “You better get in here and explain yourself, baby!” he commands, chasing my tail indoors. After a series of loud exchanges, we finally reach the bedroom where he draws the curtains and unzips my pants and peeks into my drawers.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The reason why you’re here, where is it?”

  “It’s there. It’s just not hard yet.”

  “No, stupid. The dirty magazine.”

  Oops! I left it in Nate’s car.

  “They were out of your favorite, Spoon.”

  “Don’t Spoon me. Why don’t you just lie down and tell me you didn’t wanna look,” he spouts, then pouts. “I’ve been working all day, making myself look super-fabulous, and you don’t even respect me.”

  “I do! I went and I looked, but I know what you like and they only had fitness rags. Honest. You know you don’t like sporn.”

  Evan gags at the thought, but he isn’t convinced. Neither am I. I can already hear his ass clenching and his crack sealing and his spine bumping me off the road. I immediately make plans to enjoy the first round on top of his ass twice as hard.

  “Lie down,” I say.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I want to tell you something.”

  “Why do I have to lie down to hear your shit?”

  “Because I want to fuck you, then I’ll tell you.”

  My cock pulses out of my boxers and conspires with me. He sees the monster growing with abounding grace. Evan drops my drawers and shoves my dick in his mouth. He squeezes the meat with his teeth. I thrust it in, silencing his fears and begin fucking his face. The skyward arch of my dick rides into his mouth where it causes a little pain and I feel a teaspoon of jism shoot into the washer. Then a preliminary orgasm, one-fourth my usual force, breaks the golden gate and boy mix sears from my balls.

  Evan goes wild as the precum ripples out of my nuts to the back of his throat. He grumbles and grinds and shudders with pleasure, turning pale in the face as he coaxes more out.

  Dazed and amused, Evan slips off his robe and starts squirming on the bed. He’s warming his butthole for imminent penetration. He’s horny for it, having rehearsed all day with a jar of olives. He twists his nipples and covers his groin and prepares for the straight seduction.

  The raincoat I yank out sends him into hysterics.

  “Not another shower!” he shrieks.

  “Yes, Spoon.”

  I slip it on and stand over him, sawing my prick across his face.

  “This ain’t a magazine!” I knock my canvassed dick against his brow. “You want me to leave in this state? You want me to go home and play fantasy football with the boys? Or do you want me to club you in the ass and get you all preggers?”

  He doesn’t respond. He turns into a silent movie star as I lumber over him. He crawls backward in bed. He reclines on his side, the way I like to fuck him, with his ass preening in the air. Against popular opinion, straight boys like to sidesaddle. With a captive gaze, Evan spits in his hand and slaps the edge of his hole.

  “I gave you a blow job,” Evan breaks his silence, “now give me a baby.”

  I lie on my side, too, and assume the position of warriors on a Monday night, who ride their sofas with a pillow on their knees and watch the gridiron boys hump each other between posts. I warm my crotch against his butt. I slide my cock high. And I bounce my balls up and down.

  “Wiggle it, bitch!”

  I ride his rump and find the hole.

  Evan swoons. He peeks from his pillow.

  “Turn around!” I bray. “You want to marry a straight boy, remember? Well, I’m going up your ass for as long as I want. This is our fucking wedding night. Say you want it. Say I do!”

  “Get in there and get off, stupid!” Evan curses.

  The gay hole inhales my cock and I abandon seduction for a raging screw. I stuff it in and find Evan hot. His ass captures my dick in an oily grip. We’re going to have a slippery session, I can tell. It may not take an hour after all.

  As I pump it, I recall the helpful hints inside today’s sporn rag: Massage your muscle. Expand your hips. Don’t lock your knees. I wrap my thighs around him for leverage. Breathe deeply. Our necks collide and we exhale at once. We almost kiss.

  Suddenly, I lose it. I lose all control. I call out the names of the girls I want to fuck. All the bitches who chased me down this rabbit hole of super-straight-jerkdom.

  “Liz! Liza! Joan!” I scream.

  Evan shouts from his pillow, “Don’t forget Lucy!”

  That turns me wild. My frenzy ramps up. The pubes around my groin rip.

  I dare to kiss Evan as we side-fuck, hips grinding and both holding back cum. I feel I’m ready for my first sporn shoot when in that moment I remember Nascar Nate, who whacked me off because I seemed the perfect buddy for his repressed desires. I remember the fitness boys in their sports rag, who sell themselves off for the masculine gaze. And I declare I’m straight like them—I must be straight like them—’cause all I do is think about them!

  My rapid hump strains Evan.

  He cries out, “I don’t want an abortion! I want to keep it!”

  My legs buckle. I cum fast. I throw it in his hole. My juice oozes into the condom squishing between his legs. I play dumb and pretend I hadn’t cum just to get off one more time. And I do!

  “I’m a man!” I declare openly.

  “You’re a queen!” Evan shouts back.

  I keep pumping, straining harder, until my cock is ready to shoot a third load so huge and thick that I need to see it for myself.

  “I’m all the way in!”

  “You better come out!”

  Evan flips on his other side as I unwrap the hose and spray a riptide of sperm across his chest. He basks in the shower. He shoots a load himself; I can barely see it. I wipe the last drop from my head and flog him in the face.

  “There! Our honeymoon is done.”

  I crash on the pillow, moaning and aching because I came four times in one night.

  My cock is spent. My balls are sore. I need to eat pizza.

  “Sleep,” I mutter, like a lazy straight bastard.

  I lie there, impressed. I did everything right. I retained my straight dignity.

  After a few minutes, Evan pokes me in the belly. He combs my pubic hairs and stares at my cock.

  “What did you want to tell me, Bobby?” he asks. “Before we got busy, you said you had something to say.”

  I mutter, “I’m buying a car.”

  “Tell me you’re gay,” Evan insists. “It’s all I want to hear.”

  I burp, or maybe fart.

  “Tell me you won’t read Men’s Fitness or Health and Fitness or Bodybuilding Fitness,” he pleads. “You know they’re out of your league. Instead, you’ll read Out and pick up the Pink Pages and buy me the Advocate.”

  I hold back, thinking how easy it would be to say yes, how easy it would be to cancel my sporn subscriptions and move in with Evan and follow him down the aisle and yell at the top of my lungs, I’ve gone gay! See the ring? You should, too. Yada-yada-yada!

  Instead, I curl up like a brute fumbling an imaginary football.

  “When will you come out?” Evan whimpers. “Everybody knows you like boys.”

  You’ll never tame me, I muse—silently.

  Then I add, whispering, “Pretty soon, Spoon. Pretty soon.”

  COSBY KIDS

  Roscoe Hudson

  We were the only black family in our subdivision. My parents and I moved in right after Mom got hired at her law firm, just about the time I started middle school. The house is a lot nicer than the condo we lived in back in the city, and the neighborhood is much safer, but everywhere we go we’re surrounded by white people who give us phony smiles and suspicious looks. Dad was sure they were all racists. I didn’t have tro
uble making friends, but I was ambivalent about my new environment. Though I went to one of the best high schools in the state and outperformed my peers scholastically and athletically, I missed life in the city, its vibrancy and diversity. That’s part of the reason I applied to an historic black college in the South. I couldn’t wait to get out of the suburbs.

  There weren’t many black students at my high school, but we managed to stay pretty close to each other. We were all from well-to-do families: our parents were CEOs, doctors, lawyers, engineers, professional athletes or professors. We lived in posh multistoried McMansions and spent our weekends shopping in the city while our parents worked sixty hours a week. The white kids at school called us Cosby Kids behind our backs. I didn’t give a shit. Truthfully, we never had a problem with any of them. As for myself, I tended to be very popular with the girls. From the time my parents moved us out here I was surrounded by one Barbie doll replica after another. White Barbie dolls gave me blow jobs in the locker room after school, black Barbie dolls let me finger them in the backseat of my Lexus RX, Asian Barbie dolls let me suck their titties behind the bleachers after basketball games. And I didn’t really want any of them, not so long as my homeboy Rod was willing to offer me his cock from time to time.

  Rod and I convinced our parents to let us visit the college campus on our own a couple of months after my eighteenth birthday. Rod graduated from high school the year before, entered a local college in the fall and didn’t return after winter break. His parents both had advanced degrees and six-figure jobs, were active in the NAACP, state and local politics. They couldn’t understand why their son, who had grown up with every advantage, couldn’t handle college. He had been working at his uncle Nate’s used-car lot for the last three months. Nate let us borrow one of his used Ford Expeditions for the trip; I didn’t want to put too many miles on my Lexus. But our SUV broke down in the last place two young black men want to be stranded: near the Mississippi-Alabama state line. The car sputtered to a stop on a deserted stretch of highway around noon on the second day of our trip. The area was so remote Rod and I couldn’t even get reception on our iPhones. We got out, lifted the hood and looked inside.