Best Gay Erotica 2015 (6 page)

“You got a haircut. I like the faux-hawk thing. It suits you.” “It's just easy,” I said as Michael leaned into his end of the

webcam. He was clearly in Japan. I could tell by the paper lanterns decorating his fantastic view of a room. We'd dated, briefly, after discovering we were both travel writers aboard the same cruise. He was a hummingbird type, fluttering from cocktail glass to cocktail glass with seemingly endless energy. He approached sex the same way, and I found myself quickly kissed, topped, adored and abandoned. And now? I was just one of his countless webcam friends, smiling back at him, though he was the only one I had left.

“So are you gonna talk about it, feygele? Or do you want me to just leave my laptop on again? I could, you know.”

I winced. Feygele was his little nickname for me, an odd derogatory nicked from his Yiddish grandmother. He said it was cute. He said it meant “little bird.”

Behind him, the raised outline of a bedsheet revealed the pert arse of his latest dozing flower. Sometimes he left his webcam on so I could spy on mute, jacking off to his exotic Asian adventures from my pathetic, box-room flat.

“You would like this one.” He grinned. “He's got tattoos. I think he might be in the mafia. So if I go missing, tell the children I never had that I died doing what I love.”

“Rimming?” “Rimming Yakuza.”

“Model parenting,” I said, defogging my glasses. The square frames were starting to bend, but I couldn't afford a new pair. Not until my next assignment, anyway.

At least the radiator kept the place hot.

“So you dumped the queen?” he went on, raising his 7:00 a.m. coffee.

“Her majesty reigns no more,” I nodded, opening a 10:00 p.m. beer.

“I thought you liked that one.”

“I did. He just liked himself more.”

“Well, darling, this might just cheer you up.”

Six thousand miles away, on the far side of a lagging Ethernet connection, Michael slid aside his bedsheets, revealing his guest's morning wood. Most cocks I'd encountered lilted to one side, but as he rolled over, it stuck straight up, inviting Michael to lick his way from base to tip.

The guy was ripped, with a swath of geisha-koi-fish-dragon tattoos wrapped from his back to his pelvis. His spine arched as Michael slid his lips up and down, simultaneously holding one finger in front of the laptop to shut me up. With his face in a bush of uncut pubes, he hit the mute button, hiding my little screen. I could still see everything, but Michael's guest couldn't see me.

Sliding my hand into my jeans, I ran my palm along the length of my shaft. I typically liked to jack off inside my clothes. The friction against my inseam rubbed in just the right way, but tonight I was restless. My date had been a bust. Penguins made poor substitutes for flamingos, and I hadn't been laid in a week.

In the land of the red sun, Michael was performing his famous hummingbird lick-fest, with one hand cupped between the Mafioso-samurai's legs. Michael had a talent for fingering and sucking in one bobbing, harmonious motion.

In London, I stroked, half-mast. I wasn't ungrateful for the game, but my heart wasn't in it, and I tugged at my foreskin now and then to remind myself what I was doing. I remembered when I used to be Michael's little feygele, his one and only little bird, but I was tired of being kept. Michael said I was a pragmatist. He said I was a sparrow.

Raising my fist up and down, I leaned back in my chair. I could feel my balls getting tight, but I knew Michael would finish him before I even got close. Hummingbirds, after all, were never known for their patience.

Trying to coax myself on, I licked my hand, wetting my palm to give my head something smooth to rub against.

The rain pattered, I turned, and there, outside my fourth-floor window, was a pair of eyes nestled behind a grin.

Freezing in my chair, I stared back. The face disappeared. There was a thump and a scrape as a length of chain slid upward.

Blinking again, I saw Michael on my screen, throat-deep in Nihonjin cock.

Grabbing my glasses, I shoved the window open, fighting against its half-rusted springs. Poking my head into the rain, I saw the fire-dancer climbing up the fire escape. He was wearing a short jacket and carrying a heavy rucksack, his springy black hair catching raindrops.

“Hey!” I called. “What are you doing?”

“Your fly's open,” he said, swinging away from the ladder with one hand, if only to grin at my erection.

Tucking in and zipping up, I looked out again, just as his metal chains rattled over the roof.

Michael gasped, come dashing across his pixilated grin as he glanced sidelong at the camera, but I was already gone.

Rain hammering my shoulders, I crawled out onto the metal platform. It was the last stop before the roof, but the whole ladder felt like it would pull off the wall. Climbing up the old rungs, coating my hands in orange rust, I made it to the rickety summit, vertigo and trash cans below.

The top of my flat was an abandoned nest of TV antennas, some generations old, shoved in next to a row of grimy satellite dishes. A chimney stack in the corner grew an outcrop of moss, and to its left someone had tied a blue tarp between the stacks, a few cinder blocks and an overflowing bucket of rain. Beneath the weighted canopy was a camper tent, unzipped. A flashlight fumbled around.

“You're that fire-dancer, yeah?” I asked, approaching slowly. “Do you live up here?”

“No,” he answered, pulling a canister of fuel out of his back-pack. “Do you typically follow homeless black guys?”

“Only when they live on my roof.”

“Name's Adrian,” he said as I crouched in front of his tarp. The whole tent smelled of musk and sandalwood—not unpleasant, but certainly unwashed; he remedied his need for a Laundromat with incense. “You want to come in?”

I paused, pretty sure that was supposed to be my question, but Adrian seemed sweet. His eyes were young and hopeful, and he smiled easily. If I had to guess, I would say he was twenty-two, possibly second generation English-Jamaican. His features were naturally boyish and his body was new, having only just come into itself. His nose was broad, flaring whenever he was excited, and his face bore a symmetry so striking it would have been disconcerting had it not been for the single mole just below his left eye.

Sitting down on his sleeping bag with my feet outside the tent, I surveyed his little home. There wasn't much to it. A stray box of groceries sat by a drying pair of sneakers, and his only pillow was a large hiking pack used for carrying his gear.

“Those are poi, yeah?” I asked, pointing out his metal chains. “I saw some guys in Corfu who had some.”

“You like fire?” “When it's done well.”

“But that's not why you followed me up, yeah?” he asked, with a slight grin.

“Why were you spying on me?”

“No reason. Just getting done for the night. See a hot guy jacking it, why wouldn't I look? You watched me when I was dancing. I figure a show for a show seemed fair.”

“You remember me, then?”

“Gray coat with the scarf and the hipster hair,” he said, his grin growing wider. “Yeah, I remember.”

“My name's Paul.”

“Do you like magic, Paul?” Agreeing that I did, I watched him peel off his wet coat. He wasn't wearing a shirt underneath, and I was starting to wonder if he owned one. “It comes with a price, though.”

“A price?”

“I need a shower and a dry towel. Can you do that for me, Paul?”

“That's all you want?” “No, but that's all I ask for.”

Grabbing a bottle from his pack, he slid on a thick glove made of several cotton and leather gloves shoved one inside the other. This he dunked in the bucket of rainwater outside as the continuous shower poured over his skin, forming rivulets from his shoulders to his chest. No part of him feared the rain, though he waited for the wind to settle, his dark brown eyes intently watching the clouds.

“Get the lighter, would ya?” he asked, pouring isopropyl over his layered hand. “Coat pocket.”

Fumbling with his abandoned jacket, I found the lighter along with a handful of stamped bus passes. The wind had died, but the flint was wet, and I had to flick it a few times to get it going.

Dropping to his knees right outside his tent and right in front of me, he held his glove over the little flame. A blue fire ignited, searching over his fingers until his whole mitt was alight. As he ran his burning right hand up his naked left arm, I saw a trail of fuel dance and flicker across his skin. Amazed, I watched as he squeezed his gloved fist, causing a waterfall of burning blue to trickle into his other hand, where it vanished like a tiny ghost.

Thinking he couldn't get any hotter, I watched him splay his blazing fingers across his chest, rubbing the fire into his abdomen before twirling his arms in a raver's dance.

Knowing his audience, he unbuttoned his trousers, letting his cock swing down. It was thick and heavy, not overly long, but dense enough to cause my nervous, lip-licking pause. His entire abdomen was shaved clean, or perhaps burned clean, denoting how often he played his fire games. Again, his burning glove washed his front, following the V-line of his stomach to run his palm over his cock.

“Doesn't that hurt?” I asked, barely able to look up. “Always,” he smiled, blowing out the last trail of flickering,

blue fuel. The firelight died. His glove steamed. All I could smell was the overpowering alcohol residue as I stared, hypnotized by the most beautiful boy I'd ever met.

Removing his glove, he looked up, his whole body exposed to me and the rain and the night. It was then I realized his mole wasn't a spot but a tattoo, a teardrop reminiscent of some far-off prison. But Adrian, whatever kind of bird he was, would never warble about a cage.

“You want to come back to my flat?” I asked, sitting in his tent.

Standing, slick with the worst of British weather, he walked to the ladder, his pants held up by nothing but the tension of his hips.

“You first,” he said as I blinked away from his penis. He wasn't going to tuck it in.

As I climbed down, I couldn't take my eyes off him. He had a perfect bubble-butt, adding curves to his naked back. On the grated platform I stopped. He turned, grinning his infectious grin, before slowly lowering his body, from cock to navel to chest to chin to lips, where I kissed him. His mouth was larger than mine and twice as eager. He sucked my bottom lip and pushed back, causing the whole fire escape to creak.

“Come on,” I said, pulling him through the window of my tiny flat, past my computer—where Michael dozed in a crusted come-mask—to the stand-up shower in my tiny bathroom.

As I pushed down Adrian's trousers, he pulled off my shirt; we both stumbled under the hot water, my jeans still on. Laughing at each other, we fumbled in cramped quarters, my glasses dropping in a soap tray. I sucked his ear, he bit my neck, I clawed his back, he grabbed my shoulders and shoved his pelvis into mine. With my clothes off, our cocks rebounded against each other. We were comparable, about seven and a half each, but his black shaft turned pink below the head with a line of thick, circumcised scars.

Squatting low, he mouthed my cock, pulling my hips forward by sheer sucking tension. Grabbing his short curls, I held his head, blinking through steam to see odd burn marks across his shoulders—pink against his deep, black skin. There were still soot stains from his earlier performance, quickly washed away by my pawing hands.

As he rose, I spun him around, planting his hands on the shower wall. Lathering his back in soap, I traced the scars with curiosity. This was, it seemed, where some long ago fire had marred his perfect body. Slick with lavender-suds, I reached between his legs. Everything was hairless and smooth, from his perineum to his arse, and as I rinsed with one hand I pumped his cock with the other. He grunted, his knee bent, and I swiveled my fist—screwing down over his head, sliding up, screwing down and sliding up, until his grunts became moans.

As I turned the showerhead first on him, then me, we rinsed off. I stepped out and threw him a towel, as promised, though he only dried his hair. Wet and steaming, he crouched forward, shoved both hands between my legs and picked me up with his forearms like a forklift, hurling me back onto my bed.

Reaching up, I dragged my suitcase over by its strap, pulling out a condom and holding it between us. His decision was thoughtful but quick, and he pushed it toward me. Sliding the latex over my shaft, I slicked my cock with saliva. Neither one of us had lube, but he didn't seem deterred.

With my tip against his opening, he dipped his hips, resting and testing as he tried to find the right angle. I felt a pulsing pressure clench around my cock, then he finally relaxed. He was pushing himself too fast, and for a moment I lifted my hands off his thighs.

“Doesn't that hurt?”

“Always,” he whispered, leaning down to bite my chin. All mouth and fervor, he gasped as I sucked his lip and drove my penis into pure heat. His whole body clenched.

Maybe it was the shower or the fire or our searching need, but his entire body radiated an almost scalding temperature. He felt slick and red-hot, his muscles tightening around my shaft. He felt like the inside of his fire-glove. Rounding my hand over his thick butt, I kneaded and pushed, but his skin was just so hot. His chest flushed red, but he didn't stroke his cock, he just held on to himself as if at any moment he might burst into flames.

Momentum bound, I thrust, driving into a confusing fire of pleasure and agony. I was hurting him and he loved it. Bouncing a few times to shake himself out, he dropped his body again, pressing his forehead against mine. So as not to lose an inch to that near-searing warmth, I slid lower on the bed, lifting my legs to pump into him. He wasn't trying to escape, but he could only take so much without overheating.

What was once water had now become sweat, and he seized up as I fucked him again. A whirling frustration came over his dark, angelic face. His weight caused my legs to drop flat again, and he rode me. Raising his arms, as if gravity had suddenly forgotten them, he balanced momentarily, all motion centered on his rolling hips. He was dancing, literally dancing on my cock, hitting some place I wished I could feel in his internal furnace.