Best Gay Erotica 2009

by Richard Labonté

  The air within this particular sauna is infused with a hint of juniper and eucalyptus that lodges in the back of my throat, giving my tonsils a strange tickle. I watch as a burly man steps forward and scoops what appears to be frothy pale ale from a metal bucket. Using a long wooden dipper, he gently pours it over the stones and breathes in deeply. The brew causes the scorching rocks to sizzle loudly and the dry heat to rapidly intensify. An aroma of warm honey beer washes over the atmosphere, and my head seems to levitate several inches off of my neck. The burly chap begins to gently beat his back with a long birch branch, hitting his thighs, distended belly, and hairy shoulders repeatedly. I’m thinking this must be part of a cultural tradition I’m unfamiliar with, or a somewhat arcane but rigorous detoxification process. When I offer a quick glance in his direction he motions for me to take the whittled stick. I decline and look away as the warm puddle of sweat forming on the plank between my legs expands.

  Suddenly, I feel a sharp twinge of pain on my right shoulder blade as my sweathouse companion begins sharply beating me with the end of his birch rod. The tiny shoots of the branch sting as they scrape against my wet flesh. Without missing a beat, he rapidly moves down the length of my spine to the top of my buttocks. This odd ritual is accompanied with small grunts and nods of approval from the audience of three other sweat-drenched fellows.

  Being a foreigner and unfamiliar with this custom of birch beating, somewhat kindred to a fraternity hazing, I grit my teeth and accept my initiation. I can endure only five minutes or so of this furnace whipping before I stand up, wrap my towel around my torso, and attempt a gracious thank-you to my masochistic buddy. The rotund gentlemen in the dry sauna begin to whisper in one another’s ears. My husky, stick-whipping oppressor looks ruffled as I move away from the punishing whisk, push open the heavy wooden door, and head to the showers to cool the tiny welts that have begun to pop up on my moistened skin.

  I’m convinced if I hadn’t left earlier I might have begun to see mystical visions of Estonian folk dancers swirling about the tiny sudatory. Drenched with my own dripping sweat and gasping for air, I let the cool water of the pull shower rinse over my perspiration, and within moments I’m sufficiently chilled down and ready for a lengthy tub soak.

  There are two water tubs situated near the entrance of the showers, each one roughly twenty-by-twenty feet square, roughly three feet deep, lit from within with green lamps and tiled around the edges with turquoise and sea blue fish engravings. I test the temperature of each shallow pool by dipping my hand in to sample the clear water. The more populated pool is the one with the coolest temperature. Actually, it is more of an ice bath. So I opt instead for the less popular warmer pool— it’s still chilly all and all, but at least I’m able to sustain a few minutes inside of it without severe goose bumps forming on my chest and legs.

  Stripped down to my bare skin, I ease into the empty stillness of the tepid pool. Once I am submerged, two rather plump gentlemen of a distinguished age seat themselves on the seat ledge to either side of me. My narrow bony frame is all the more accentuated by the bulbous nature of their protruding bellies as they splash about the pool in what appears to be a series of haphazard underwater calisthenics. The gentleman on my right proceeds to make circular motions with his legs, bumping and nudging me for the entire episode, while the bald-headed fellow on my left pushes off the edge of the cooling pond and does miniature frog squats, moving up and down continuously, recklessly jostling his heavy frame up against my own.

  Rather than remain seated and motionless, I decide to join in with the athletically inclined chaps and form a makeshift trio. Emulating what I believe to be a customary workout routine, I begin a series of leg crunches myself, raising my knees to my chest then pushing off into the frothy aquamarine glowing waters. The whole pool churns as the three of us jostle about in the heavily chlorinated water. The tussle however begins to take on a different turn when one of the fellows on my left grabs for my crotch. Without stopping his series of jumping crouches and appearing as though nothing remotely erotic is happening, he gently fondles and tugs at my groin.

  Somewhat surprised by the nonchalance of the swift move and mindful that a rebuffing of his forward gesture might signify bad manners, I congenially allow for this mild groping. The splashing and bubbling disruptions on the surface of the water allow for a significant reduction of sight lines for passersby and throughout the escapade, there is no indication of any carnal indiscretion occurring below. In fact, during the entire brief interlude, my companion has struck up a clipped conversation in what appears to be Russian with the fellow doing the leg twirls. Since I don’t speak the language I make half attempts at following the hard syllabic edges and varied inflections of their discourse as my balls are softly cupped and fondled.

  Though I’ve barely begun to even remotely “chub up” in the brisk pool, my nimble groper seems amply gratified with this brief, covert encounter, and after five minutes or so of frog-leaping in close proximity to me, he stands up, reaches for his towel, quickly wraps himself, and heads for the dry sauna. I take the cue to step out myself, and head in the opposite direction, past the ice pool and the showers, to the glass-enclosed steam sauna.

  I enter a narrow room of two or three disrobed men seated on five ascending rows of stone benches. No one speaks as the hiss of heavy wet steam fills the foggy dark enclosure. I remove my towel, take my place at the end of the row, and wait to be ensconced in the smoky tendrils of the densely clouded room. The high-pressured whoosh of the steam entering the musky room immediately calls to mind my favorite Starbucks in Chicago on Michigan Avenue. I feel at this moment that I myself am inside of an espresso machine, quickly getting a sense of what it must feel like to be that dark-roasted bean releasing its caffeine-rich brew.

  It is suddenly within this pared down steam room in Tallinn that I am fully engaged in my youthful gayboy fantasies. Within moments of entering the wet vapor area, an old Falcon Studios porno from the late eighties replays in my head. I imagine a full-throttle orgy of wet limbs and elongated phalli flailing about in this dank Spartan steamer. In reality, however, everything here in this Tallinn sauna remains perfectly still except for the persistent rush of wet vapor that emanates from the far corner of the room. I breathe in deeply, surrendering to the thick, heady mist, and within a few minutes I’m completely saturated with steam.

  I leave and reenter the wet sauna several times in order to shower and towel off the dampness. As I am drying off, a brisk fellow, my own age, in his late thirties or so, has taken note of my slingshot entrances and exits, and wisely sensing that I’m not a native of Tallinn, nods at me and to my surprise says in reasonable English, “Hallo.”

  “Good to meet you,” I reply as I begin to reenter the steam room for one more skin-pore opening.

  “You come here to rise too?” My newfound friend generously smiles, showing a slight gap between his two front teeth. I take note of his healthy tanned skin, brown eyes, and full moist lips as he motions me toward the far back corner of the steam room.

  “Rise? Like rise and shine?”

  “You know, to go up. Up in the steam?”

  My new companion has a closely shaved head and a blue-black scorpion tattoo over his right shoulder blade. Across his muscled stomach the tattooed words MARE BALTICUM float over a classic ship anchor.

  “You can follow me?” He opens the door and we reenter the desolate steam room.

  “Of course.”

  His full biceps push against his wide chest. In soft-focus frame I see a shock of dark brown armpit hair as he tosses his towel aside. He smells like cool amber. His fat tongue darts out across his thick lower lip. We say nothing, everything. His broad nose drips with sweat, a little droplet forming at the tip. I want it to fall on me, explode onto me. I want to be drenched in his perspiration, the musk emanating from his crotch, his breath.

  “You would like to take a ride with a real sailorman?” My sea captain entreats me to move slightly forward.<
br />
  “I would. I would ride across any sea wave with you.”

  There is a serpent uncurling in my belly, moving into my groin, making my balls tingle, my shaved organ stiffen. The engorged head of my rising penis brushes against his own hardening cock. I step forward slightly again in order to press my shaft onto his crotch.

  “Be still for a moment.” It’s almost a soft plea followed by a quick intake of breath. He is extending his arms out, just slightly, as though he’s absorbing my entire presence. “Just feel.”

  So I obey again and we consummate the moment. We ravish each other, wordlessly, without motion, without flailing limbs or searching tongues, without slippery caresses, or greasy thrusts. We bake in the steam. Levitating in the heavy wet air, we kiss without pressing our lips together. We devour one another’s dripping flesh without letting our mouths go near scrotums, armpits, or warm ass crevices.

  This is what every step in Tallinn has led me to, I think to myself. I know now the reason I came to this city: to recalibrate my senses, to surrender to this strong, poetic, Estonian sailor. We have stepped effortlessly into each other’s genetic code, recognizing at once that we are each other’s avatar.

  “From Copenhagen to Finland, we’re sailing together now,” my sea captain whispers with eyes tightly shut. “Salt air and the wide-open waters. Can you smell it, see it?”

  I imbibe his words, picturing a sky over an expanse of choppy blue-gray water. “I’ll let you navigate then. Anywhere you want to go, I’m with you.”

  Time is suspended in this cavernous muggy den. I am aware at certain pulse points that we are standing at the vortex of where the heavy steam is initially blasting into the entire rectangular room. The tiny blond hairs on my arms are trembling with subtle but palpable electricity. The curling mist is nearly overpowering from this vantage, and the hiss and the heady smoke have effectively blotted out the rest of the room. Secluded and undetected by others within this vapory passage, the handsome stranger and I seem to have found our own plush, walled-off universe. I reach instinctively toward his tight muscular frame and high-haunch buttocks in the overpowering gray haze, but he holds back my extended arm and rests it gently at my side.

  “No hands, just let the vapor raise you up.” His coarse masculine voice cradles inside my throat as he steps very close to me, his powerful chest grazing my hardening nipples, but just barely. Our exposed wet skin flecks off heat waves back and forth onto one another. I’m vibrating within the continuous waves of the electromagnetic rays that are shooting off his hairy damp torso.

  Our eyes are open now as we hold each other’s gaze. Neither one of us uses his hands to touch the other, or ourselves. His generously sized member is rock hard and rapidly flexing in its swollen state. I match his quick muscled cock pumping with my own organ hitting against my belly. In unison, we flex our backs, our glutes, and our thigh muscles. Both our bodies are vibrating at a new pitch and it seems as if any moment I’ll ejaculate into the thick air.

  “Go slow,” my sweet sailor cautions. “You want to savor it.”

  I’ve read of the Tantric practice of the kundalini energy rising though the spine as it ascends to the skull. It seems we have prolonged this orgasm for an inordinate amount of time—though time seems to hardly impinge on any of this alchemy. We breathe more rapidly now, the pleasure seems to rise from the belly to the brain in a continuous circuit of pure ecstatic energy.

  “We are one ship, on one sea.” My sailor closes his eyes and throws his head back into the pervasive fog. With those words, I recognize there is no need to spill my man juice out. No need to masturbate him or myself. No need to define this moment by an ordinary orgasm.

  For a moment, the steam seems to move entirely through him, ascend and wend through his body, as though my partner has somehow become a translucent outline, a mere profile of a toned, sexy man filled with a sweet, soupy haze.

  I am weightless for a moment, having transcended normal gravity. Then in another instant, I’m aware that I’m standing in the direct channel of the steam grate. My stiffly erect organ is still bathed in the deep wet heat. Still no mouths, no fingers, no rubbing of sweaty skin upon skin, but a euphoric rapture is filling me. An indescribable sense of elation and fulfillment.

  Nearly breathless, I continue to gaze into this strange oracle, this womb of sexy warmth. I watch now as my swarthy sailor is transformed into a sea creature. I note the cresting green fin now of an elusive and alluring merman swimming back out into the mysterious Baltic ocean. I try to ride this wave, hold on to this roiling primeval furnace, and my sailor who provokes this sudden and tumultuous heat storm.

  After another blast of wet heat, I can no longer feel my body. I have become buoyant, pure pulse and charged instinct. A wild, vital force of the universe. The stillpoint of Eros. I have evaporated into the wet tempest, and it feels as though I have broken into many hundreds of moisture pellets and I am falling onto the skin and curvy muscles of my cohort.

  I am the soggy air that settles on his skin. The syrupy, humid atmosphere that moves into his heaving lungs. I am one with the impulse of his flickering libido, his heavy breathing, his pearl-shiny cock pressing firmly onto my own. We take this impulse of instant rapture head-on until we are both just one great thrust of motion and innate desire. There are moments when it seems I am unable to maintain my waking consciousness, and I simply surrender to the incessant heat blast and haplessly whirl into the flash of his dark skin and Neptunian stature and muscle and the shifting gray and white fog.

  My partner has completely vanished in the steam. Unable to withstand this sodden blaze any longer, I am somehow able to regain my grounding; I step out of the wooly cushion of heat and stumble toward the exit. I teeter across the wet tiled floor to the icy bathing pool and linger inside its frigid zone for an indeterminable amount of time, waiting for my companion to emerge, but he doesn’t. Was the sailor a sea ghost, just part of my intoxicated, heat-induced stupor?

  Time elapses and I begin to sense the boundaries of my body again. I return to a normal waking consciousness and eventually I am able to somehow make my extremities move about, enough to dress and tip the attendant on my way out.

  Being at the sauna is like resting underneath an oversized bivalve shell. for a few moments, I am able to ditch the monotony and tedium of the mundane world. I can forget about smog levels, frenetic tour itineraries, and crosstown traffic patterns and enter a tiled landscape where I am stripped down literally to only the essentials: air, water, steam, and men.

  I leave the sauna completely satiated. I am no longer craving a Starbucks moment because I am as jazzed and as caffeinated as if I have just downed a double shot Americano. In fact, I have myself become the double shot, extra-sweetened Americano in Estonia.

  I hail a taxi and head back toward the center of the Old Town near to where my hotel is. I pay the driver his Estonian kroons and wander about the simple grotto huts selling sheepskin rugs and handmade candles, still reeling from my venture into the mists. In my mind, I try and reach for my steam room cohort again, put my arms around him, and hold him closer to me, but he’s all mist and cloudy vapor and boiling gusts.

  I have come to realize that Tallinn has just about everything. I can eat the indigenous canned spicy fish sprats for a snack. I can buy a brightly painted duck or a keychain carved out wood from the Euro-Siberian taiga. I can take photos of the narrow steeples of St. Nicholas and St. Olav. I can swoon to the folksinging of the Estonian Philharmonic Chamber Choir or marvel at the domed Russian architecture of the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.

  I discover that I don’t even need my imperialistic Starbucks coffeehouse transplanted here after all because I can sip and savor the original syrupy sweet Vana Tallinn coffee liqueur or take shots of the traditional Saaremaa Vodka, or nibble on the famous Kalev chocolate and get a better buzz here than I ever could back home. I can come back to that Estonian sauna in that remote part of town and locate the magical nexus where steam meets flesh and where
men really can become like a sea Triton and for one souvenir moment, I can learn to breathe underwater with a handsome mythical sea god.

  LOVE POTION # 9

  Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

  Voicemail on my cellphone: we met on barebackcity or bareback-whatever. You had it. I wanted it. I’m calling to let you know that it finally took.

  I play the message again, somehow in disbelief at this horrible world—the whole world first, and then the more specific world of guys searching out HIV infection and the scarier world of the guys who want to give it to them. And give them my number—ha ha—I’ll breed him with my poz load, and then give him some hooker’s cell!

  It’s hard to stay present in so much hopeless-ness, I mean way more than the usual despair, burning out my lungs and replacing them with air. Why lungs? Because heart would be too painful.

  Blake calls; he says an eight-year-old boy set our house on fire—twice—so we’re having a benefit. Rue says: I’m at the bottom of my everything right now. But I want to emphasize his illusions and finesse them into delusions. What about a ten-day land-and-sea vacation? Meanwhile, Ralowe wants to know if The Hulk made back all the money, or if there are warehouses full of green Oreos.

  How many amps are in your breaker, how many breakers to get to your maker? I’m dressed up, Zero and I are frantically trying to hail a cab in the rain, and this guy says what do they call New Yorkers who used to dress like you in clubs? Club kids? That’s right, he says—club kids. I spend the next day recovering from sleep; Ralowe says we need to start a group for people who don’t do drugs, but feel strung out anyway. Benjamin and I talk about the tension between us, because she doesn’t see herself as a queen; she constantly needs to tell me this.