Best Gay Erotica 2011 (18 page)

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, licking 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.

It took you a good long while to decide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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, laughing 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.”

“And I'm a murderer. I'm about to go kill someone,” I replied.

“Your friend didn't say anything. I was standing two feet behind you when you said I looked like an insurance agent. Don't be embarrassed. I thought it was funny.”

 

That wasn't all that Shel found funny. I'm sure he finds my present humiliation hilarious.

I wonder if Shel has already arranged this meeting via a chat-room. Nevertheless, the walk to the bar is one of the longest in my life.

I move in to the left of the man with the beard. “Excuse me,” I say.

He's talking to his friends, seated on the right. I have to repeat myself before he acknowledges me. “Yes?”

I lean in close. His cologne smells lemony. “I want… I want to suck your cock.”

An interminable moment passes before the man responds. He looks at me, thick eyebrows raised, like he's not sure he heard me correctly. His eyes travel down my body and back up to my face. Then the man with the beard smiles.

 

We meet in the alley behind the restaurant. A sagging chain-link fence separates the alley from a neighboring vacant lot. Clouds hide the moon and there's the chance of rain in the air. Except for a pool of bluish-white light emanating from the security lamp above the restaurant's back door, the alley is dark, ominous—and exciting.

We move behind a Dumpster.

“Take it out.” My voice is a whisper over sandpaper.

The bearded guy says, “Why don't you take it out for me?”

On my knees I face the sizeable bulge in his khaki pants. I'm so eager that I rip open his fly, yank down his underwear and pull his cock into the night air.

I'm speechless.

The moment reminds me of the astonishment at seeing Shel's cock for the first time, when I was “dating” Aaron. Aaron took me back to his place, a condo in a luxury high-rise I couldn't imagine someone in his early twenties affording. It wasn't Aaron's place, it turned out. And Aaron wasn't a date; he was
bait
. While I was fucking Aaron, pounding his petite ass doggie-style, in walked the condo's real owner, Shel, a lewd tent pitched in his black silk pajama bottoms.