Best Gay Erotica 2015 (8 page)

You press your face into those tight whites, inhale his musky scent of balls, curls and maleness through a thin cotton filter. Only now, the man's underwear is black again and he's that actor you dream about. You gaze up and he smiles down at you, nods. Time slips further off its tracks as you draw his black boxer-briefs lower, exposing his thick pelt of dark curls, then his meaty dick, with its thick shaft covered in ridges and veins, gorged in blood, pink in color, verging on purple, the slit of its classic head leaking nectar. Finally, a set of stones, big and loose and ripe with scent, as you've always imagined, spill out.

You lean forward, press your nose against the man's balls, inhale. The underwear around his hairy ankles is again red with navy piping. You think about how, on that summer sleepover while you and Steven Ranley, your handsome buddy, were roughhousing, he wore those same boxer-briefs. He was Spiderman, your very own misunderstood superhero. Your dicks ground together, and you, thinking you'd been granted permission, seized hold of your hero's cock. For a second or so, Steve allowed it. But after that, there were shouts and insults, and your friendship—what you hoped would go beyond simple buddy-buddy stuff—officially ended.

Not so now. The only commentary he makes as you lick his sweaty briefs and draw the straining head of his cock between your lips passes in the form of groans. They're deep ones, manly acknowledgment that what you are doing is not only accepted but appreciated. His taste ignites on your tongue, better than you ever imagined—and you've dreamed about this moment for so very long. Every time you took a dude home and sucked his dick, you half-closed your eyes and thought of him as Steve or Tom or that hunk in the commercial. Sometimes, yeah, Mister Hunt. When your tongue traveled into a hairy asshole or between toes or under armpits, you were worshipping someone else. A phantom. A bogeyman. Which is what you're doing now.

“Oh,
fuck
, yeah,” he sighs above you, Tom once more. He could be running the bases or rubbing one out, you think— picking his toes or scratching his nuts, maybe fucking his wife, except they aren't together anymore. She's moved out west and he's with you. His flesh tastes better than any you have known— or will again, you worry.

You savor his balls, working behind them, your sniffs and licks growing steadily more rabid as you near the territory of his asshole. There is no greater intimate act of worship than going there, than worshipping a man's hairy shitter, you've always believed. Sensing this, the man in black pulls you off his flesh, but only long enough for you to remove his shoes and to fully work down his pants and underwear. You catch a hint of hot, buttery sweat, that smell of a real man's foot odor that flips toggles, pushes buttons—a primitive fetish written into your genetic code.

“Yes,” you gasp into the strange mix of energy and light flickering through your house.

Tom-Steve-the Actor pulls you into the bed. He assumes a jaunty pose, with his hairy athlete's legs crossed at the ankles, his big sweaty feet bared at the bottom of the mattress, propped up and waiting to be worshipped. Yours, all yours to enjoy.

“Tom,” you whisper, adding, “Steve,” on the inhale.

You lick, sniff, rub, growing high off his scent. All hot, manly jock-dudes have stinky feet, you've told yourself for years. And sweaty nuts. Any and all assholes taste the same. So when you've passed hunky he-men in town or on the hiking trail or seen them on TV in beer commercials or pitching for the hometown team or thought about the ones that got away, you've smiled to yourself and jerked your dick, knowing exactly how any dude, all dudes, smell, how they taste.

You're in bed with all of them, licking every hot, sweaty foot of every handsome man on the planet. You tongue your way up every hairy leg on every attractive man you've ever pined for, making your way not to two balls, but two million. Another solid suck of his cock—their cocks—before you lower for a taste of his asshole. It's as hairy and sweaty as you hoped, and you lick the alphabet in circles around its crenulated knot—multiple assholes, and maybe multiple alphabets, one not of this Earth.

While squirming, clearly enjoying the attention, the man loosens his space-bending tie, unbuttons his white-singularity shirt. Buttons/planets fall out of their holes/orbits. New constellations form in the T-pattern of hair superimposed over his muscular chest. A treasure trail of fur slices him down the middle, toward Orion's Belt. The hair-ringed belly button among all that steely abdominal muscle is, you're convinced, a worm-hole linking one quadrant of the galaxy to another, a gateway to a distant realm populated by sentient life forms you can't even imagine. Except that you do, for a fraction of a second, because while eating his hairy asshole, he lets slip a little of that two-way mind magic. Multiple alphabets. The name you couldn't remember, the one attached to that sixth shirt button, the one that hovered over his belly button/wormhole until he launched it out of orbit, again slips free of the shadows and past the forefront of your mind's eye.

Qua-Halos.

There one instant, gone the next, it jumbles again, like bingo balls in a spinning wire cage.
Declination. Regolith. Verdigris. Ambergris…

You devour Tom's asshole, its pungent funk on your lips making you hunger for more. He's Tom. Then he's the pitcher with the hot, high butt and the shaggy mop of hair and the giant cleats you masturbate over during the baseball-game broadcasts. He's that horse-cocked porn actor who did mostly straight work but went gay-for-pay enough times that he became one of your favorites, a horny hetero dude willing to bust a load down another male's throat under the right circumstances. You believed Tom might, too, when he was part of your past. You eat Tom's hole in the present. He shifts shape. Mister Hunt. Handsome Mister Hunt.

The man sits up, extricating his asshole off your starving mouth. Moving around stirs his masculine scent: feet and balls, asshole and armpits. He maneuvers you onto your spine and then tears off your clothes. He's now that guy who lived upstairs at your first apartment after college, after Steve. What's his name? While undressing you, you remember: Chris. Once, he left his steel-toe boots and a pair of socks outside his front door to air them out. You snuck up there after lights out, having seen them while getting your mail, too tempting a lure to resist. You sniffed, jerked. The odor of his feet, so hellish to Chris that he'd banished his boots to the welcome mat outside his front door, was heavenly to you.

Chris was a man's man. And a dog. How often you listened to him fucking one hot piece of tail after another, sometimes two at a time, his bedroom over yours. Here he is, removing your underwear, baring your ass. He smirks, studying your entrance, still Chris.

He's Tom again when he steals that first shuddery lick, his scruffy winter beard beyond brilliant. You howl, very nearly come. Only the prism lights skittering overhead, walking along the ceiling and around the walls, lights where none should be, a glow from another world, cool your excitement.

He eats your hole, fingers you. Such long and capable fingers he has. The image of a knuckled tentacle briefly flashes through your mind. You kill it, and it's Steve down there. The actor, his mouth sopping with your taste. The baseball pitcher. Mister Hunt.

Tom rises up from between your legs, his hard cock metronoming back and forth, telegraphing what is to come. He crawls over you to offer a kiss, the scrape of his hairy muscles both electrifying and also curiously featherlight, as though you're about to be fucked by a ghost. Or a hologram. Or your own fertile imagination.

You've always been a dreamer, but you didn't hallucinate what you saw in that field, right after twilight, when you came out of the woods along Sawyer Avenue and thought what you were seeing couldn't be possible. A planet has jumped down from the sky. A perfectly round orb, sitting upon a plate. No, a saucer. You stared at it long enough for the sky to darken. There's a gap in your memory, and then you're walking on, long past your home. You encounter a diner you've never visited before and probably wouldn't find again if you searched your entire life. There, you meet this man dressed in black, a man impossibly handsome. He's every man you've ever wanted, in one.

A dream, truly, you agree, your gaze falling into the lights. It must be. Crazy shit like this just doesn't happen, not to regular people like you. You chuckle, your asshole again being tasted and lubricated by the tongues of a million rugged jocks and soldiers and cops and straight dudes. And you also remember that this was the state where Betty and Barney Hill were abducted along a similar stretch of remote country road decades earlier. Not that time matters now.

“Hey,” Tom says, pulling you out of this thought-thread. Tom, handsome Tom…how convinced you were that you

loved him. Just like Steve. And, lately, the dude in those TV commercials. Tom and Steve and Mister Hunt and the actor and the baseball pitcher and the porn star and a million other men maneuver up from between your legs and assume position, their cocks entering you. The flash of discomfort transitions to a rush of intense pleasure. You moan a rosary of expletives, feeling the rub of his dick's head intimately against your prostate. Busting is not going to be a problem; it's inevitable now. The man fucking you is a master at magic.

Stopping the climax once it rolls over you might be impossible. And when you ejaculate, will you be able to come back down to Earth? You're in bed with every man you've ever wanted. Who in their right mind would think of leaving?

“
Babe
,” Tom grunts, on top of you, his heady male stink filling your next desperate sip of breath.

You gaze into his eyes, falling into those twin vortexes of moody gray-blue. The meadow? Lights appear in Tom's eyes, mimicking the ones on the ceiling, the walls, running in spectrums and sparks around the bedroom.

“You okay, babe? You able to take it? Take my big old dick, dude? You like the taste of Tom's stinky jock feet? The scrape of his beard on your shithole, pal? You like having me”—(
He
and all those other
he
s)—“bone-deep in you, buddy?”

You either close your eyes or spill past the lights, into the dark realm behind them, to that dark planet with the haunting name beyond the curvature of space, beyond his belly button, through the wormhole. Briefly, you knew the name of that place, but it's gone now, locked in a mental box for which you have no key.

There's only the dark, elegant and black, like his suit—his suit, and his big feet, his hairy legs, his balls gonging off your ass, his handsome face, all of their faces. All of their cocks, filling you but also taking something
from
you as they work around inside your core, your head, leaving you happier than you've ever been before and slightly less than you were before you returned home with him/them.

“
Yes
,” you sigh, hoping you'll remember this part of the encounter when the long, strange night comes to an end.

Salome Wilde

Though I'd laid my arm across my eyes and could not see, I could feel the waxed ends of the great man's mustache brushing my exposed belly before tickling the dark hairs that trailed from my navel down to my groin. That groin, and specifically my quickly stiffening shaft, was next exposed to receive the warm breath of his broad nostrils and parted lips. I shuddered as his brash sounds of delight poured over me.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked, deep voice inflected with a rich Romanian accent.

I was dizzy with desire, but the question startled me back to awareness. Eyes still closed, I whispered, “David.”

The maestro laughed again. “Are you afraid to look at me, David?”

Was I? Perhaps. If I gazed openly on the object of my deepest desires, would he vanish like the eager volunteers in his Cabinet of Mystery?

* * *

I'd revered vaudeville's most illustrious magician from the time I grew clever enough to sneak out of school and into the matinee show at the Grand Theatre. There he received top billing and a devoted following. Now, a decade later, I'd been thrust into an adulthood that failed to live up to my expectations in many ways. I was forced to obey the strict, mundane masters of law under my father's watchful patronage. The realities of tedious studies hastened me toward a future of dull routine and weighed me down. I daily longed for the magic of childhood, encapsulated by memories of the wonders of Mayer the Magnificent. I nightly worshipped the recollections my imagination conjured of the deft flick of his wrists, his thick, curling hair, and a smirk that hinted he knew all the secrets of the universe. As I summoned his visage, I would stroke myself to release, peaking with the childish but earnest wish that some miracle would turn my hand into his.

Torn between duty I loathed and escape I needed like air, I managed one night to return to the Grand, where the object of my longings still performed. No longer star-billed, he was at least given a respectable place in the show, and his face—in a vivid drawing I remembered from so long ago—was still on one of the sandwich boards advertising the “Best Show in the Big City.”

Once I had looked upon this man with eyes so devoted and earnest I feared a jealous and vengeful God would strike me dead for it. But now I stood firm before the bright marquee, admiring his portrait with a more mature awareness of his handsome, foreign mystique. And even God couldn't compete with Mayer, a man who wooed me with skills more miraculous than any summoner of staff-into-snake or burning bush. My own snake, suffice it to say, stiffened at the mere thought of him, my very soul ablaze.

So it was—cap in my lap to cover my arousal—as he took the stage amidst a poor smattering of applause in the theater that had grown dingy in my years of absence. Still, Mayer the Magnificent shone, performing many of the tricks I remembered well, and a few I had never before seen. His face was lit with mischief, as he played his part with an earnestness that made it more than real. Through glazed eyes, vaudeville's virtuoso relished his admirers, however few—or perhaps, as I looked around me, mostly imagined. When he requested a volunteer from the audience in a commanding tone, it seemed he could still see dozens upon dozens of hands rising before he'd even finished his request. Among a few others, I stretched my arm high, hoping that I would be chosen, though I despaired as he selected a pimple-faced shop girl—pushed forward by her wise-guy beau—to join him on the stage. My heart, and my erection, sank.