Best Gay Erotica 2008

by Richard Labonté

  In reality, despite my regular weight-lifting, I doubt that this next move would be possible, certainly not for very long—plus, at age forty-five, I have to watch my back, and lately a tendon in my left forearm is screwed, despite the glucosamine I pop like candy. But none of those quotidian concerns matters here. Loving Sam makes me feel manly and strong, young, dominant, protective. Wrapping one arm around his back, another under his knees, I lift him into my arms.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I whisper into his ear. Sam nods. “Mmmm mmm,” he murmurs. I can feel the tension leaving his muscles. His head nestles in the space between my shoulder and my jaw.

  I stand there in the dark for a full minute, feeling his breath against my neck. There’s a pattering against the window-glass. Sounds like the snow is shifting to ice. With any luck we’ll be snuggled in here together for days.

  I carry Sam into the bedroom and lower him gently into flannel sheets. Blinds pulled down on the soft tick of ice, candles lit around the room. Sam’s eyes look moist in the candlelight, glistening like volcanic glass.

  Off come my lumberjack boots, my jeans and briefs, and now I’m stretched out in bed beside him. Sam shivers—suddenly the room’s chilly—so I pull the sheets over us. We lie there together, listening to the ice, to the snowplow’s distant scrape returning. “You all right?” I ask, kissing the tape over his mouth, once, then twice. Sam rubs his face against my chin, against my lips. He nods. He’s still shivering, though, so I pull him close, our bodies stretched out together, chest to chest, belly to belly. He closes his eyes, then I close mine.

  We’ve been dozing, I realize. The ice is still clicking, only yards away in the darkness. I reach for Sam, and he’s there, back to me now, rubbing his ass against my cock, his roped hands tugging on my belly hair. I wrap one arm around his chest, cup a pec, squeeze. With my other hand, I work his hard cock for a while, till he’s groaning and squirming in my embrace.

  One fingertip up his ass. “Yeah? You want this, right?” Sam nods and keeps nodding, pushes back until my finger slides entirely in. A second, then, very carefully, a third. He’s still wet from the efforts of my tongue, so only a little spit’s needed. I work his hole gently—he’s very tight, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s never been fucked before, he’s been saving himself for a man who loves him as much as I do.

  “Slow, slow, please Sir, slow?” I’m sure that’s what those tape-trammeled noises mean.

  He’s ready now. “Slow, you bet, sweet boy,” I whisper. I grip his furry pec hard. It’s wet with sweat, forest moss after a rain. The smell of him washes over me—his pits, his crotch, the musk of his slowly opening ass. Freeze us here, in eternity, like the lovers on the Grecian urn, like the golden birds of Byzantium.

  I pinch his nipple hard. Sam grunts. I slide my bunched fingers out of his ass, then push them in again. I slide them out a final time, bite his earlobe, whisper, “You ready to be fucked?”

  More nods. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”

  My cockhead, all of its existence up till now far from him, beyond him, outside him, exiled. Pressed now against his hole. And now…and now…just the head inside him. Inside his tightness, his volcanic flesh. Home.

  Very slowly I slide farther inside. Sam’s groan is continuous now. “All right?” I ask, shifting one hand to his hard-on, clamping the other over his tightly taped mouth. “Yes, Sir.” I can hear him inside my head, hear him begging for all of it. Sam rotates his hips, bucks back, and his ass swallows my cock whole.

  He’s whimpering a little, hurting a little. “Easy, Sam, easy. Relax,” I soothe, licking the back of his neck. I hold him hard in my arms, keeping very still till he grows accustomed to being filled with me. We’ve waited all our lives for this, one man’s body inside the body of the other. This is the rightness of rain reaching the dark thirst of root hairs deep in the earth, the inevitability of sunflower fields shifting hour after hour toward the sun.

  When Sam nods, I begin a slow fucking, pushing as deeply into him as our bodies’ laws will allow. I work his cock, I torture his tits, I grip his taped mouth and pull his head against my lips. I lick the sweat on his scalp, bite his neck and shoulders till they bruise—I want him marked tomorrow. I roll him onto his belly, spread his thighs, and mount him that way, my heavy ardor stretched out along his naked length. Then Sam’s on his back with his legs over my shoulders, our eyes interlocked as I shove inside him again and again, bending down to nip at his chest and lap the tape across his face. Then, finally, back onto our sides, jerking his cock with my spit-wet fist, his tightness maddening me. Before I know it, I’ve lost all control, I’m growling, he’s roaring, I’m pounding his ass as hard and as fast as I can.

  Far too soon, my hand’s dripping with his semen and my semen’s filled his ass. We lie there, sides heaving, sweat-slippery, catching our breath. For a long time I stay inside him, letting my cock slowly soften. Meanwhile, I lift my hand to my mouth and lick off every pearl. The furnace hums on again. I pull the sex-rumbled blankets over us, pull Sam against me.

  “You comfortable like this?”

  “Mmmm mmm.”

  Of course he is. Fiction—hands tied tight behind him, but no numbness, no aching shoulders. He’ll be fine roped and taped all night.

  “Lots of ice out there. You’re gonna have to stay awhile. How about buckwheat cakes, maple syrup, and bacon for breakfast?”

  “Mmmm!” Sam snuggles even closer. For the time we have left, we want no space between us.

  I hold Sam till his breathing slows with sleep. Again I cup his hairy breast in my palm and feel his heart beat. I kiss his hair and whisper many things to him in the fitful candlelight. How much I wish him and his family well outside this room, how much pleasure it’s given me to listen to his music, admire images of him, love him from afar. How welcome the longing that star-worship allows such ciphers as I, what a surprise it’s been to find another Muse this late in life, albeit far-distant and likely never to be met. He sleeps peacefully on, while outside the snowplow scrapes by again, and the silence left in its wake says that the ice has stopped, our isolated idyll is ending, and the roads will be open soon.

  Snowbound silence is more eloquent than most speech. Tonight it tells me that I am aging, that some lovers are lost before they are ever found, that some things—the things wanted most—are irremediably unreal, never to be possessed. The silence tells me that no one can escape the mundane, that tomorrow I will wake sober and alone, back to an existence where the greatest beauties remain intolerably far from me.

  I slip from bed, careful not to wake Sam. I snuff the candles, then stand by the window and stare out over the fallen snow. The blue shadows thrown by the limbs of oaks are splayed fingers, arms thrown wide for an embrace. I sit on the bed-edge and savor Sam’s sleep, his dark eyebrows, his beard-stubbly face, the sound of his slow breath. The same world that almost always denies us what we most desire gives us this consolation, to imagine down to the tiniest detail what raptures our realities will never allow. Gently I touch his goateed chin and the black tape over his mouth. What I tell the silence is that these words are bonds, knots. To hold us together—two men who will never meet, whose passions are irreconcilable—to hold us here. What I tell the silence is that I will make my own miracles, make the moments that Fate will not.

  The winter night does not reply. And so I sit here, studying my beloved in his sleep. Outside the snow stretches on, without mark or flaw this late at night, blank as what is left of a page after the story ends, after the mediation of syllables stops and there are no words left to stand between the writer and the world.

  RUSHING TIDE OF SANITY

  Charlie Vazquez

  Manhattan: Winter, 2007

  I lip-locked with a British punk stud in an East Village dive while Kirsty MacColl warned of chasing bad boys over the shitty speakers—she and I, apparently, both helpless in our ways. Shane’s sweat was a magnetic force that drew my lips to his neck, mouth and th
e bristle around his ears. His heaving core (like an alien about to burst out of his chest) and my long lapses between inhalations of dank air fused together like a courtship ritual dance of manic flightless birds. We left and resumed our noisy pas de deux in the cab’s backseat.

  At his hotel, I initiated the first of many prickly kisses to follow; he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He let me lead the dance, which I was used to doing anyway. I opened the two buttons holding his shirt up and it fell to the floor like a lopsided theater curtain; a crimson screen of animated tattoos came to life on the stage of his torso when the flickering red lights of the hotel across the street splashed their net of light across us. He kicked his shirt out of the way with his dirty boot and surprised me when he pulled me to him by my wrists, chest to chest.

  Our mouths wrestled for dominion, neither of us willing to back down. I rested my hands on the top of his head when I gave in—melting had never felt better. That’s how I remember surrendering—I melted into him. It’s what I needed and I knew it—I was usually the boss. But not this time. No way. The sweaty bristle on his head was all the aphrodisiac I needed. This was the kind of man I idealized: a cocksucking warrior, a man-fucking descendant of Northern European barbarians who had his image burned into my crosshairs.

  Shane shoved me against the wall and tore off my grimy T-shirt, the loud ripping signaling a bone-deep sense of awe and danger. He threw the useless cloth behind him, pulled me away from the wall, and pushed me backward onto the couch. Metal jangled. Magician’s hands. He handcuffed my wrists over my head, the cold metal stinging. It was done before I realized it, and the unexpected switch was an extraordinary delight: every aggressor has a unique style, and I would soon catch a fantastic glimpse of his. Little did I know I would stew in it.

  As he bit me—¡Maldita sea la madre!—I was instructed to address my “boss” as Master Hawk. His advance was swift. The torture of his rough sucking and the scraping of his teeth on my skin sent me into soul-stirring distress. I writhed in equal parts misery and euphoria. The process of surrender began. Wave after wave of ancient music emanated from our cores and through our mouths: the tones of his slick and deep sucking—the ebbing. My guttural heaving for relief—the flowing. In tandem, we were in complete and complex bliss.

  I was forbidden to cum.

  He fitted me with a restrictive locked cock-cage. Master Hawk locked my cock away from my hands and the rest of the world! I started to beg for release, stopped. He uncuffed me and told me to dress. When I was done he cuffed my wrists behind my back. Master Hawk then stripped off his jeans, revealing even more of the inky mosaics of his tattoos—and his sexual fury, which strained up, a veiny reverential salute. He pulled a black NYPD police uniform from his closet, complete with belt, cap, holstered handgun, and nightstick.

  Master Hawk had plans. “Stand,” he demanded while tucking in his shirt.

  I stood, awkwardly.

  “Forward.”

  I did exactly as he said, not more, not less.

  “Again,” he said while fastening his belt.

  I stepped forward until I was face-to-face with him; I oozed at the sight of him in full dress, suppressed my pantings of desire. He uncuffed me and pressed my hands to his swollen crotch—his zone of unresolved pleasure. He kissed me deeply, then spit a slimy cannonball of snot-tinted saliva through my teeth and into my mouth; it tasted like beer.

  “Swallow.”

  I did.

  “About face…” I was again handcuffed, this time blindfolded, and led out the door, down the hallway, into the elevator, through the lobby, and onto the street. We boarded a taxi. The driver, I’m sure, added us to his “freaky work stories” category. Master Hawk barked an address. The driver didn’t murmur a word. Neither did the Master. The suspense of barreling down midtown streets and avenues, blindfolded and handcuffed, in the middle of the night, thrilled me.

  When we arrived, Master Hawk guided me to a freight elevator and we ascended what seemed like ten floors before stopping with a harrowing jerk. I could smell old wood in the air—even mildew and mold. A second voice greeted him; they kissed, I surmised during a brief pause; they discussed “the others.”

  I heard the breathing of a fourth person.

  I was instructed to stand against a pole. Master Hawk kissed me roughly, then the man who had greeted him kissed me; their beards were like steel brushes against my face. Cold beer splashed over me, then my ankles were shackled to the wooden post, splinters ripping into my skin. The cuffs were loosened, then my hands were reshackled in front of my crotch. My cock swelled against the painful restriction of its cage. A bag filled with bottles clattered onto a table, then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone writhing in pain.

  “Let’s let them see,” Master Hawk said.

  Our blindfolds were lifted. Three of us were bound to the pole in a triangle. A mustached, muscular, heavily tattooed man of Mediterranean mold was to my right; he was dark with thick black body hair. The base of his hard cock was encircled by a leather-studded cock ring. He sneered.

  To my left was a towering black man, hairless, muscled and soaking wet; he too had been splashed with beer, or he was sweating. He had short bleached hair and jailhouse-tattooed biceps scribbled with reapers, tombstones and gang script. He regarded me blankly.

  The three of us would be forced to work as a team, in order to serve our bosses. Secretly (or maybe not), we were better off bound the way we were. We would have caused each other untold harm—in order to more selfishly please our masters. That is how determined we were, it was in our eyes.

  After taking in the physiques and demeanors of my slave peers, I turned my gaze to Master Hawk’s companion. I was taken aback. The second master was a rural warrior from Appalachia or the deserts of Oregon or even Australia’s outback. He wore a light gray shirt with EARL written in cursive red script over his left pec. The shirt’s armpits were soaked with sweat and his dark blue slacks were marred with grease, a formidable erection evident against the classic worker’s fabric. “Earl” was barrel-chested with slicked-back, salt-and-pepper brown hair, a tail of curls dropping from the nape of his neck, with two days of torturous stubble—little spears of gray piranha teeth—on his fierce face.

  We were told to call him Baron Trash.

  Master Hawk’s eyes met mine when I finished taking in the scenario. He approached, forced me to stand tall, then bound me to ceiling restraints, turned to face the pole. He dragged my blindfold back into place and kissed me roughly, from the back of my neck to the cheeks of my ass, his serpent tongue darting in and out, before biting into my armpits, savoring them deeply. Then he drew back from his consumption of me, and the thick tips of his leather flogger tickled my face.

  The whip was like an oscillating weapon. Its featherlike tips were as soft as cilia on first contact, but soon accelerated to a force that battered my upper back and then my ass like a boxer’s rolling, pounding fist, faster and stronger, next landing with a hissing crash on my left shoulder. I tried to kneel to my left, but was restrained by my bindings.

  Something within me collapsed and I allowed myself to fall with it. The skull-rattling blows transitioned to thinner strands that tore at my skin more greedily—cat’s claws dragging through skin, razor tips carving designs into flesh. Master Hawk had replaced his original whip with another, one that lashed at my back in horizontal swipes, biting stings from the left and hungry slices from the right. My skin was at once hot and cold. Each strike was preceded by the snakelike hiss of cutting air, which added to the glorious anticipation. My body convulsed. I was more alive with each strike.

  Baron Trash unshackled the darkest slave; I heard him crawl forward, heard him slurp on Master Hawk’s cock. My Master moaned. I recognized the sound of his breathing and I hated the slave who was sucking my Master’s cock, torn by his pleasure at what should be rightfully mine!

  The sound of Master Hawk’s approaching orgasm filled my ears as the full-lipped slave worked his cock like
a machine—every wet slurp sounding as though it were happening inches before me. Master Hawk made him stop and struck him in the ass with the nightstick. I was then able to make out the sound of Baron Trash feeling the reward of pleasure seize his fat and dirty dick, as the kneeling slave went to work on him instead. It was apparent that the bare concrete floors stung the slave’s knees; his breathing was tinted with a pain he tried to subdue beneath his duty.

  The hairy third slave was unbound and forced to suck Master Hawk—I was, by that time, able to tell what was happening by employing the rest of my senses. My jealousy surfaced at the worst of times. I was not allowed to communicate that—though I knew that Master Hawk felt it thickly in the air and was delighted by it. He then instructed the Greek-looking punk slave to lick his balls and boots and accept delicious verbal humiliations, which the Greek slave seemed to derive great pleasure from; his servicing became more enthusiastic with the worsening of the verbal insults.

  I was deprived of worshipping the masters at all—I’d been granted a severe punishment. My need for sex became a burning torture in my crotch: I was done with the mind games and was ready to come, but I would need to learn to wait. My deprivation hatched imaginary outcomes in my mind—as to what the rest of the night would lead to.

  Our blindfolds were removed again. The black man’s mammoth cock was majestically erect. The hairy man’s equally massive erection was fleshy and red around the head. My cock was still at bay, incarcerated. We were made to kneel. Master Hawk and Baron Trash set three metal dog bowls down and filled them to overflowing with beer. I knew better than to move. The hairy man did not. He was whipped by the Baron for sipping without first awaiting directions. His bowl of beer was dumped over his head, filled again, put to his mouth, and again dumped over his head, a cruel reenactment of the Curse of Tantalus.