Best Gay Erotica 2015 (10 page)

Others came in to use the facilities, which only added to the pleasure. Having come in the car, I wasn't quick, and I went at Jay a good while. At one point we had company of sorts, a guy in the next stall who, while taking a shit, got what we were up to. Soon came the sound of a hand working a dick and the restrained cry of a good come.

“Fuck yeah,” I said so he'd know I was onto him. Once he'd finished there was a scramble to get pants up and flee. I imagined him rushing out into the ballroom red-faced and sweaty, his wife silently worrying over constipation issues.

Jay started grunting as I kept pumping his ass. Sweat was running down my back when the rise hit, and I rammed it home with a fuck slap that played off the tile just as the main door opened. I didn't hear it close, the entering party stopping to listen to the climax before retreating. I issued a few grunts to give him a payoff.

When I pulled out of Jay he turned to watch me strip off the rubber, and I held it up to him since he seemed eager for all the show he could get. “Sweet ass,” I said as his gaze finally met mine. He blushed like a kid caught with his dick in hand. Suppressing a giggle, he pulled up his pants and hurried away while I took my time, washing up before a leisurely stroll back into the party. It was in full swing now, dance floor throbbing, Bill and Keith at the center. When best man Jeff Swain drew me into the throng, I managed to dance us over to the happy couple where I eyed Keith until Bill whirled him away.

“The happy couple,” I said to Jeff, who I'd known for ages. He was nearly sixty, and we called him Abby because he'd given advice to every one of us, Bill included. “Did you try and stop them?” I added.

“Of course not. I'd never intrude on love. You're awful to even ask.”

“How about you?” I asked. “You ever want to get married?” Jeff may have given good advice, but he never took it himself, going through a string of young men who left him heartbroken. Shoemaker's kids go barefoot, he'd said more than once.

“If the right man comes along and sweeps me off my feet,” declared Jeff, “I'd do it in an instant. How about you?”

“Nope. Not going there.” “Don't let Tom ruin you.”

“Tom has nothing to do with it,” I snapped. The song ended a second later, and I sought more champagne.

I'd enjoyed a fine buffet, several glasses of wine and a slice of cake, when Beth Costigan asked me to dance. I glanced around for Jay and didn't see him. “He's in the bathroom,” she offered. “Too much champagne.”

I found Beth light in my arms as we danced to a slow tune I didn't recognize. She had good skin and wore deep-red lipstick. “They make a lovely couple,” she offered.

“Absolutely.”

“You're not bad yourself.”

I chuckled, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

“Jay certainly thinks so. He can't seem to take his eyes off you.”

“Flattering,” I managed, and to change the subject I whirled her around a couple of times. But Beth Costigan was not a woman to be swayed, and as soon as we settled back into that tune I thought would never end, she took up her cause again.

“What are your thoughts on marriage?” she asked.

“Bill and Keith are made for it, very devoted. I think they'll do fine, like you.”

“Nineteen years,” she said. “Two kids, two cars, house in the burbs.”

“Have to admire that.”

“You know, Alex, a good marriage isn't built in stone, at least mine isn't. A good marriage gives and sways, like skyscrapers here in California that are built so they'll move in an earthquake.”

“Really?” I managed.

“You've heard that term
temblor,
haven't you? Of course you have, you're a California boy. Another term for quake, but it has a more friendly feel, don't you think? More alive. I sometimes wonder how happy one of those is after it's struck. Unless it's a major event, it's reduced to trivia. Oh, that was a three point two, no big deal, or hey, a four point five, bit of a jolt. Then the same old line about how temblors are good because they relieve pressure on the faults. Hah! Fault. That's funny.” Just then the music stopped. I had no idea what to say beyond thanking her for the dance. I hurried to get a glass of champagne and watched Beth Costigan glide into a knot of people like she owned them. Then Jay came out of the bathroom sporting the washed-out look of a man who's been on his knees at the bowl. He didn't look for me or his wife. He took a chair at an empty table and stared at the centerpiece.

Jeff asked me to dance again and I then asked Bill's mother Adele, who I liked more than any of them. Widowed and stout, she glided along in my arms and spoke with a throaty alto that was always welcome.

“They're a marvelous couple,” I said of her son and his new spouse.

“Indeed,” she replied. “Bill is happier than I've ever seen him. I can go to my grave in peace.”

“I hope you're not planning on that soon.”

This brought on her big laugh, as I knew it would, and she beamed, then settled in to study me. “I'm so sorry about your breaking up with your actor friend. Tom, wasn't it?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“You mustn't let it color your future, Alex. You're a delightful boy, and the right man is out there somewhere, probably looking for you this very minute.”

“Of course,” I said. “Of course.” I then changed the subject, encouraging her toward tales of her lady friends, which ran like a geriatric soap opera.

When the song ended I escorted her to her table, kissed her cheek and fled to the garage situated one floor below. I'd seen waiters slipping out for a smoke and I joined them now. Tom had gotten me to stop smoking, and for our three years and one month together I'd obliged. Now I was nearing a pack a day.

The garage was gray, cool and quiet, a sea of cars waiting to flee. I sought a corner where I savored my cigarette, noting it a good spot for sex. Tom and I had done that at a wedding at the Hilton, fucked in a dark corner of the garage because we couldn't wait a minute longer. We'd driven ourselves crazy at the reception, eyeing each other while chatting people up, eating, drinking. After a couple of hours it seemed appropriate to add fucking.

This occurred three weeks into our relationship, back when we couldn't keep our hands off each other. I was crazy about him because he was all I'd ever wanted, darkly handsome with sharp features, wicked eyes and full lips. I remember the first time we met I thought how I wanted those lips to do things to me. But it wasn't all sex. Our passions met other ways: he an actor who, at thirty-five, was making good after a long struggle, me an avid film buff. We both loved the beach, tennis and prowling art galleries. He was perfection, and after the garage sex he said he loved me and I moved into his shiny loft.

Garage sex has an earthiness to it, city man's equivalent to fucking in a meadow. Car smells, be it oil, gasoline, grease, I really have no idea, bring a gritty feel to the otherwise hollow cavern, and I've found this much to my liking. On the first anniversary of our garage sex, Tom and I snuck into the Hilton and did it again in that same corner. And there it was, that smell, lingering, or maybe just trapped. I grew to crave it. Now I inhaled it as much as the cigarette smoke.

A waiter soon joined me, cute, sandy haired, with a light sunburn. He nodded as he lit a cigarette. “How much longer do you work?” I asked.

“Until they chase out the last guests.” He blew smoke with an audible breath.

“What else do you do?” I asked, because every waiter I've ever known was an actor, writer or painter.

He chuckled. “Actor,” he said. “Haven't landed anything yet, but I make the rounds, attend a workshop. You know the drill.”

“Actually I do. My lover was an actor, but we broke up.” He knew this was foreplay, knew I'd suck his dick, and I

got how he was savoring the prospect. When I stubbed out my cigarette, I turned to him and moved in closer. He kept smoking, rushing his puffs, which confirmed he was up for it. Then he tossed the butt and unzipped his pants. I got that he wanted me to fish for him so I reached in, groped his half-hard cock, and brought it out to where I could enjoy it. Nice little number, good mouthful, and soon I was on it, licking and sucking while he issued little moans and thrusts. I didn't handle my own junk; I just wanted to take him, and he ran a hand through my hair until he grew urgent. Then I was swallowing jizz while attempting to swallow his dick and losing myself in the act.

I kept on even when he was empty and he gradually eased me off. “I have to get back,” he said as I stood and he zipped up. “Maybe see you later,” he called as he fled. He was gone before I could reply, leaving me his taste and that goddamn promise. Tom had said the same thing after our first sex in the bathroom at a party.
Maybe see you later.
He'd then gone back to the festivities and I'd gotten so drunk I woke next morning among several other wiped-out guests, Tom nowhere in sight. I was a wreck until he called two days later.

Back upstairs I found the party going strong, music louder and faster. I wanted a drink, but paused as it meant washing away the taste of the waiter. The debate lasted just seconds before I hit the bar for a bourbon, neat. As I downed it, I heard Adele's big laugh and turned to see her in the arms of Bill's cousin Dennis, a fifty-something welder who was the only person present wider than Adele. The two were caught in some dance step I'd never seen before, not giving a damn how they looked.

As I took my second bourbon, the waiter whose dick I'd sucked sailed by with not so much as a glance my way. I'd have to keep an eye on him, follow him down to the garage if he took another break, and fuck him this time, fuck him good.

Time seemed to drag. Not that it mattered, as I had no place to go. I watched people mix and mingle, some now plainly drunk. One couple was getting loud, each accusing the other of being a problem drunk. And people were still wandering in, and I had to wonder where they'd been. Stopped off at a better party first? Making an appearance like celebrities? Or maybe just couldn't get out of bed until now.

A single man came in, acting like he owned the place, tall and big chested. Holy shit, it was Vance Basch, or was it? Sure, it was him. How could I not remember the man who took Tom away from me? Vance Bitch, as I called him. I'd followed Tom one day when I found his work on a new film was a sham, there being no new film. He'd met Vance, who was newly arrived to seek his fortune onscreen. They'd hurried to a downtown apartment and not come out for hours. How could he show himself now? He had to know I'd be at the wedding. But wait, it wasn't him. No, maybe it was. Yes, it had to be. I moved closer to get a better look, but when he glanced my way, I stepped back, stumbling over some child. “Sorry, sorry,” I said to the mother who scooped up her little bundle of joy.

I got a double bourbon and sat at an empty table just as Jay and Beth danced by. She looked triumphant, nose in the air, evil smile sent my way, while Jay appeared numb. She'd make him fuck her later on. That's what she was telling me. That's what he was dreading.

Bill and Keith were making the rounds, speaking to each and every person before making their grand departure to an upstairs suite. Arm in arm, they played their parts like the best of actors and then were at my table. “Alex, we're so glad you're here,” said Bill. “It means so much for you to share in our happiness.”

“Always glad to share,” I replied, raising my glass. My eyes were on Keith, who snickered. “Anytime,” I called as they moved on. Then Jeff Swain sat down next to me. “You little shit,” he growled.

“It's noon,” came the announcement. Fingers pinched my big toe and I drew up my leg, curling into a ball because I wanted no part of noon or any other time. “Come on, sunshine, the day beckons whether you like it or not.”

Go away
, I thought.
Fuck off. Leave me alone.
More phrases came to mind, but none got through the pain of a headache and the gunk in my mouth. My tongue felt so awful I'd have tossed it out if I could. Then a hand was on my bottom, patting gently. “Wakey, wakey,” urged my keeper. “I think a hot shower is in order or maybe a warm bath. Anything to rinse the smell off you. Come on, open those baby blues.”

It had to be Jeff. Was this his bed or mine? Oh Christ. I opened my eyes and there he was, washed and smiling like he'd had the best night of his life. No, not Jeff. Even drunk I wouldn't. Would I?

When he tried to get me up, I pushed him off, which broke through his good humor. “Listen, Alex, you're in my bed and you're smelling up the room, so get the fuck up or I'll drag you out by your dick.”

“You and who else?”

A hand went around my ankle, the grip iron, and I was yanked to full length, then pulled to the floor and left there. “Two minutes,” Jeff said. “You're up and moving or you'll be sorry.”

I wanted to challenge further, but wanted more not to be sorry, so I got to my feet, which sent my stomach to the depths. I ran for the bathroom and attempted to throw up, but found myself empty of all but a putrid bile. “You gave it all up last night,” Jeff said from the doorway. “Take some water so you'll have something in there.” He handed me a glass and I downed it, thirst now overwhelming. “Now get in the shower and clean up.” He handed me a towel and retreated, leaving the door open. I closed it, then turned on the water and stepped in.

The shower revived enough of me to function, and I found a fresh toothbrush to scrape away the gunk in my mouth. I recalled the reception, which ran like a badly cut movie. Dick sucking, Adele's big laugh, Vance Basch. I thought of Bill and Keith playing house in their hotel suite. When I glanced in the mirror, I saw myself dragging, which led me to add up all I'd done. Jay Costigan, Keith, that waiter. Not a bad time, I decided as I dressed. I then went to find Jeff.