Best Gay Erotica 2011 (5 page)

They ran the letter at the end of the month, but with no editorial response. They let the lacrosse player's letter speak for itself.

 

The wheels of Alex's skateboard clicked over slabs of concrete on the sidewalk under a heatless sun. Cars zoomed down the adjacent road. A black Chevy Tahoe roared by. The tires screeched, rubber burning into pavement. The hulking vehicle seized to a stop ahead of Alex.

Alex pulled his hoodie tight around his face and slowed his skateboard, unsure what to do. The Tahoe's white reverse lights flashed, and the SUV screeched backward until it stopped next to Alex. Max Weston leaped out of the driver's seat into the busy road and marched around the front of the SUV. He shoved Alex right off his skateboard. Cars drove around the Tahoe, honking.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Alex shouted, jumping up from the grass.

The lacrosse star picked up the skateboard and threw it at Alex. It hit him in the chest and knocked him off balance. Max shoved Alex as he wobbled. The gangly skater tumbled down an embankment into a heavily wooded ditch.

“Think you're such a smart faggot?” Max marched down to Alex and kicked him with all his strength.

Alex rolled into a muddy patch and wheezed for air, clutching his stomach. The ditch blocked the view from the road.

Max grabbed the skater's hair and dragged him through the mud, then kicked again. “They want to fucking expel me!” the athlete shouted at the curled-up boy.

Alex panted and held his muddy palms up toward Max. Wind roared through the trees. “You wrote the email,” Alex coughed.

“They say it's fucking hate speech! I'm gonna lose my lacrosse scholarship!” Max got on his knees, sinking into the mud. He slammed his fist into Alex's face.

Alex cried out and tried to roll away.

Max straddled him, squeezing his knees against the skater's ribs. “Tell them I didn't write it!”

“Fuck you!” Alex groaned, twisting. Blood trickled from a nostril. His hands were pinned under Max's knees. His face burned and throbbed.

“Fucking hell, man!” Max yelled, looking up at the dense swaying treetops, then down at Alex's bloodied red face.

The lacrosse star had been crying. Two dried trails ran from his eyes to his thin lips. The two trails terrified Alex more than his fists.

“Why do you have to be such a faggot?” Max grabbed Alex's chest, bunching up the skater's muddy hoodie in his fists like he wanted to rip something out.

“Get off of me,” Alex breathed.

“Why do you like dick?”

“Get the fuck off of me!”

“Why are you a faggot!” Max yelled in his face like a machine on repeat.

“Fuck you!”

“What? You like this, right?” The athlete grabbed the skater's knees, spread them and slammed his crotch against his, athletic shorts grinding into baggy jeans.

“I don't!” The skater's eyes widened. He felt Max's solid boner poking his balls.

Max laughed. “Yeah, feel that? Like that?”

Alex moaned, unable to stop himself. He squirmed against Max's massive dick, blood rushing to his own.

“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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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 into 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:

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.