Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  "Young & Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories"

  by Matthew Rettenmund of BoyCulture.com

  Copyright 2014 Matthew Rettenmund

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  At first

  Three-Way Split

  Pleasingly

  Gravy

  Bet

  Brothers

  Training

  To/From

  Fix

  I Fucked a Girl

  Introduction

  When I was a kid, I had an older cousin. He was the country boy, I was the city boy. He was a daredevil, a kid not afraid to crush a mouse underfoot, stick his hand in a giant anthill, or wade barefoot in the "bloodsucker"-infested creek behind his house.

  But by far, his most daring feat was introducing me to hardcore porn, something that happened when I was still in my single digits.

  We'd always snuck peeks at my vanilla dad's "Playboy" stash (wow, nice jugs, Valerine Perrine!) and would stay up late "playing Atari" at my place, which was code for waiting until my parents were asleep and then tampering with the cable box until we could (kinda) see the adult channels. (Ah, Laura Antonelli...your hairy underarms almost had me believing I liked women after all.)

  But when his drifting perv of a big brother came back into town and we realized big bro's love van was chock-full of rancid porn, my cousin hatched his plan: I would spend the night at his house, sleeping with him in their remodeled basement, and we would sneak out the window and into the van for the porn. We'd have all night long to absorb every morsel. What could go wrong?

  Well, for one thing, I was a tattletale. I would get nervous and just sorta blurt things out. I was also a bad liar. If I was about to view porn, I might be seen grinning nervously ear to ear, silently challenging any adult to ask me what was going on.

  Somehow, I held it together until the big night. But when it was time to sneak out, my unfamiliarity with doing anything physical at all got in my way—I couldn't hoist myself out the window and was scared that I'd get stuck. Change of plans: He went out solo, returning with armfuls of illicit pornography for us to read at our leisure in the comfort of the basement. After all, like the nether regions of most female models in those days, it had wall-to-wall shag.

  We stayed awake all night, which meant we were unrousable for church the next day, a day on which we probably could have used some repenting. I remember ogling a "Hustler" spread showing a black woman gussied up as a slave, servicing her white female mistress. Even 35 years ago it struck me as outrageously wrong, but also, you know, hot. (I guess my early training in the appreciation of pussy hasn't left me; case in point, the final story in this collection, which is lesbian.)

  Unlike the kinds of images you'd find in my dad's latest "Playboy," in the pictures in "Hustler" and "Oui" and in the countless slick glossies dripping with stills from the XXX-rated films of the '70s, there were clear-as-day pictures of naked men fucking the women—hairy cracks and legs, blurry and furry nuts, massive hard-ons spewing money shot after money shot. We spent the night gushing over the ill-gotten stash, even reading every dirty story. We were too young to produce our own money shots, but we were thrilled at having succeeded in pulling off something very wrong.

  Afterward, he climbed back out the window and threw it all back into the van. We never got caught, and I never stopped thinking about sex-sex-sex.

  When I was older, I used to write sexual fantasies as a way of sustaining my closeted gay self. Without easy access to male images, I wrote elaborate tales of seduction to keep my libido stoked. Men are notoriously visual, but I discovered that in many cases, words are sexier to me than pictures.

  After I lost my virginity and became less obsessed with sex, and before I became middle-aged and therefore went back to being obsessed with sex again, I wrote the following 10 erotic tales. It was the '90s, I was turned on by Madonna's ballsy "Sex" book, and I was about to get hired as an editor for a cabal of gay-porn glossies. It was the heyday of gay publishing, and a friend was churning out erotic books, paying for short stories. My past and my present made the opportunity too perfect to resist, and so I wrote, turned myself on, published some stuff, held other stuff back.

  Now, 20 years later, with several non-erotic books and the blog BoyCulture.com (http://boyculture.com), under my belt (so to speak), I wanted to revisit these stories that were written during the time when I was a young and horny man, and that sprang from a decidedly young and horny childhood.

  Matthew Rettenmund, 1/1/2014

  At first.

  Unpublished, 1990s.

  My first time was in a friend's house during a party.

  Crowds of mostly intelligent, rebellious, teen-art types congregated every day at the Sharkeys' large home. We milled around from the upper floor, with its living room, unlighted patio and adjoining, plentifully stocked kitchen, down to the shadowy family room, full of sofa pieces, big pillows and a massive TV.

  The three Sharkey kids slept in avant-garde cubbyholes off the family room, sagging with Siouxie Sioux and Bauhaus and original black ink drawings by two of the three completely unique siblings. There were other rooms for parents, for storage, for laundry, several walk-in closets.

  Most of my visits to the Sharkey home were forgettable, just a few hours' worth of gossip, wasted time, and TV-worship.

  But a gathering one August right after the youngest Sharkey and I turned 18, I can't forget.

  The house was charged with the air of scandal—Russell, the older "Shark" son, had gotten his biker girlfriend pregnant. Everyone had found out independently and was either discussing it or avoiding rooms where it was being discussed. The parents, still blissfully unaware, were not at home, which was a rarity. Talk about watchdogs.

  I was downstairs on the couch, half-watching a bad horror movie with Roger, the least art-faggy of the Sharks and my classmate, a black-sheep jock-loner who didn't seem to fit in with any group and often shoved his older brother around when they got drunk on beer.

  I'd never liked Roger.

  Roger was mean to this magenta-haired fat girl, Kellie, the chatterbox of the group with a perverse sense of humor that made me smile. He'd never done anything to bother me personally, but he could have at any moment. It was in him.

  In-between on-screen bloodbaths, Roger kept saying stupid things about the video, talking back to it when the characters behaved irrationally. He was trying to forget about his brother because Russell was once again in the spotlight, even if it wasn't for anything good.

  I replied to Roger's comments, feeling unsettled by the suddenly very adult atmosphere at our teen hang-out, brought on by the big news:

  Pregnancy.

  (Sex.)

  I was terrified of sex, or more specifically, of kissing. I was nervous that I'd never find a man to kiss me or that when I did, I'd freak out and be unable to go through with it or do it properly. I once almost bought a how-to book on kissing; the only thing that stopped me was that Roger worked at the local bookstore.

  I don't know when I realized it was going to happen, but Roger said something and went to his room and stretched out on the bed, leaving the door open.

&n
bsp; When you've got a group of 18-year-olds hanging around each other day-in and day-out, sooner or later some fucking's going to happen, if only out of sheer boredom. Suddenly, one of them is thinking, "That one is looking pretty good right about now." That's what I was thinking.

  'Forget about Roger's meanness; I wonder how he kisses?'

  His room was dark beyond the door, but I could see him faintly, a blacker mass in the blackness. He was rubbing his chest slowly.

  I was so scared—blood pressurized me beyond rational behavior. I felt cooked, like a hot dog in the micro just before it splits. I could hear a Eurythmics song blasting upstairs and the sounds of jaded seniors joking and goofing off. So cool. It was 1986.

  I went over, and into.

  I knelt at the bedside and the door stayed wide open. Roger sprang up to kiss me awkwardly, automatically, no questions asked. Soon the jury was in: Despite the awkwardness, Roger was a good kisser. That's how low my standards were. I flipped when he kissed me, but didn't choke, kissed him right back. Nothing's ever been so easy, and no kiss since then has felt so...free.

  Roger seemed like he was twice my size, his face covering mine, his lips engulfing me and trailing wet smacks over my mouth and cheeks. He Frenched me and it got me so hard, so horny—it just felt so terrific and so terrifically dirty to get tongue from this guy, Russell and Nancy's brother, a dude I'd grown up with.

  He opened his shirt and pulled my face down to his smooth chest. I kissed him all over, licked the closest nipple inexpertly. I wasn't sure if I was doing anything right, but he breathed hoarsely and the firm pressure of his hand at the back of my neck encouraged.

  Bold, I licked his navel and he squirmed and seemed to get even hotter. Bolder, I put my hand on the boner in his jeans, not at all sure that that was going to be okay by him.

  He grabbed my hand and stuffed it inside his pants.

  I grasped his penis, marveled at it, at the feel of it, at the hot and the firm and the alive of it. It wasn't huge—probably the same size as my own erection—but it felt so strange. It was like steel, but flexible and pulsing, hot and leaking at the fat head of it; and then the gelatinous delicacy of his scrotum, me rubbing his balls into his inner thigh.

  I grasped Roger's cock and stroked it like I always did my own, compensating for the different angle...here was the true strangeness: I was used to the feeling of an erect penis, but not to holding one that did not directly pleasure me. I reached down and started screwing my own hand, doing us both at once.

  "Yeah," he groaned, thrusting his hips into my strokes. He got very excited and sat up straight, pulled my face into his damp crotch and I just did it, wetting the head with lick-swirls and embracing his dick with my wet lips, caressing it with my tongue. I kissed his dick and hoped it felt as good to him as his kisses on my lips had felt to me.

  "Yes, yes, yes, suck," he kept panting, wriggling and thrusting, pulling me so I would suck it all in at once. The gagging sensation was almost overwhelming, then became desirable until the more I almost choked, the more turned on I got. He seemed to love it when I choked too, murmuring, "Yeah, eat it," to egg me on.

  He smelled great, so good and so clean. His sweat tasted salty and like a deer at a lick, I couldn't get enough.

  I kept licking and nursing it until he said, very calmly, "Here."

  I missed the cue.

  It seemed as if he were about to start a conversation, then I felt cum spurting into my mouth and I was swallowing it and sucking and then choking and feeling it dancing out across my left cheek and into my hair. He emptied in me, on me.

  'Everyone in town will know I'm just a little slut-cocksucker, that I sucked off Roger, ate his cum.'

  I hung my head low and came on the floor, against the bed, almost soundlessly. Braced by my elbows on his knees, I swallowed all of the semen I'd caught in my mouth in one big gulp.

  Roger fell back, exhausted, on the bed, sated. He touched his cock gingerly, moaning softly.

  I got up and pulled my pants up. He got up and dressed again. We embraced clumsily and he kissed me brusquely and said I was really good at it, which made me feel ridiculously proud. He said he definitely wanted to do more, but to keep the whole thing under wraps.

  I said, "Cool," and we left, went back upstairs, and tried to blend back in with the others.

  Russell's girlfriend lost her baby before his parents ever even figured out that she'd been pregnant. I don't think they ever knew Roger was gay, either, but I wouldn't know: We never spoke to each other again. Ever.

  Roger wasn't a bad guy—wasn't a good guy, necessarily, but wasn't a bad guy. But either way, he's the only Shark I ever think about these days, the only one I wish I'd kept in touch with, the only one who ever kissed me and made me remember it every time I was kissed by another man.

  Three-Way Split

  From "Mandate" (July 1995), edited by Gordon Wallace, and "The Young & the Hung" (Prowler Books, 1998), edited by David Laurents.

  It's a selfish world out there, but me and my buddies share everything.

  Like when Andy gets paid (he strips at Rosebudz), he splits his tips with us by keeping us in the liquor all Saturday night; when Dave's prude roommate takes off for the weekend, the pad's ours to use like our own.

  Even I have something to contribute to the kitty, something I enjoy sharing. It's my ass, because I'm the only bottom of the trio. So, I swap a little hot-and-tight for some of the big-and-hard. People could do worse, and have.

  Recently, we three found something new to trade to each other. I'm pretty bad—not something, someone, this guy Rich, a new addition to our clique.

  We all met Rich at the exact same moment, the only reason our trading deal ever came to pass. I mean, if any one of us had even met Rich alone, any one of us would've kept him all to himself.

  As it happened, the three of us met Rich at Rosebudz.

  Me and Dave were sitting a few stools apart watching Andy dancing on top of the bar, naked except for a wringing wet Holiday Inn towel he clutched with no particular modesty to his hairy crotch.

  Andy's an exception to the hairless rule with strippers a big, beefed-out guy who insists on keeping his expansive chest and heavy groin (and even the small of his back) as hairy as Mother Nature designed them.

  Whenever he danced and I was at the bar, we had a routine worked out. I'd make a to-do about slipping him a fiver as a tip, then he'd squat a little and let me reach up under his towel (or into his jockstrap, depending on what look he'd gone with that evening) to play with his fat, hairy balls. Nearby customers would trip over their chins to give Andy a five or ten or even twenty-spot for the shot at groping his nuts or prick or shoving five rude fingers into the crack of his ass.

  I got to feel Andy up completely—the others were lucky to make full contact before he swiveled coyly, expensively away. Highly unethical to rope 'em in like that, but then what sort of ethics do you expect from a damned stripper and one of his fuck buddies?

  Furthermore, I don't even look like I should be trusted. I'm a little dark-haired guy with a good haircut and a lean body that doesn't betray much indulgence, just a lot of conditioning. Andy likes to tell me I'm handsome, but always adds that I'm sleazy looking, with something untrustworthy about my eyes. He especially likes to tell me this before he shoves his thick eight inches up my butt.

  Anyway, on the night we met Rich, I was buzzed on good booze and a daylong marathon of getting mercilessly reamed out by Andy. He'd been unusually aggressive and horny after an ill-fated, celibate, quasi-relationship with a pious college-age Mexican boy who'd thrown him over for a fucking priest. Hail Mary.

  Tipsy with alcohol and afterglow, I was antsy to do the old five-buck scam with Andy as an excuse to fondle the fuzzy nuts I'd recently drained. Andy was scanning the bar for potential tippers.

  Dave? Oh, him—the quiet one. I almost forget to include him in any stories I tell about us, even in sex stories where he's my partner. Bespectacled Dave, who is six-foot-two with tr
ansparent blue eyes, boyish bangs, and the longest non-female eyelashes in circulation, is by far the "cutest" one of us, and the most generous in bed. Yeah, Dave was there, too, half-heartedly trying to engage a Francophonic towhead sitting on the other side of him.

  Then, as if on cue, we all three laid eyes on Rich for the very first time.

  Rich is not Hercules. He's just a real good-looking, sandy-haired guy with a little more chest than belly, and a little more shoulder than chest, and a sweet, masculine-looking face that belongs in a college track team group photo. In that homespun, wholesome way, Rich is very average to the eye, but there is also an extra something, a warmth and a pleasing enigma. It's the simultaneous familiarity and mystery you see in posed faces from vintage family photos sold unceremoniously in stacks at flea markets.

  Rich plopped down on the empty stool between Dave and me, and from the looks he was getting from me and my buddy, I realized he was about to be hit on from three directions at once. I also knew that whatever it took, I had to have him.

  Rich saw me before he noticed either Andy or Dave, and smiled at me nervously. I could picture myself on my knees, his thighs at my ears while my tongue licked his swollen prick, coaxing out pre-cum. He would smile in gratitude—not smugness—as I sucked him off, this I could tell from the unpretentious pull of his lips at his teeth when our eyes met.

  Then Dave extended his hand to Rich and received a similar grin, as well as an introduction.

  "Nice to meet you guys—I'm Rich."

  Rich spotted the white of Andy's towel and gawked at that beautiful body. When Andy dances, it's like watching The Thinker standing to stretch and gyrate and flex and arouse.

  Within the hour, Andy was done with his performances and his pockets were even fatter than Rich's promising, black-jeaned basket. The four of us were doing the egg thing at our favorite dive, "24," an all-night diner.

  Rich charmed us with his Midwest disposition and funny stories of having been a closeted frat boy in Michigan. When he compared the state of Michigan to the shape of his hand, pointing to his thumb and saying, "I'm from here," I felt my heart doing flip-flops. It'd been so long since I'd had a crush, a bona fide crush, that I'd almost forgotten how much more exciting crushes are than plain old lust.