Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  That Rich had only been out for a short time and confessed to minimal sexual experience endeared him to me all the more; not like chicken appeals to a chicken-hawk, not in a pervy, cherry-mongering way. I found myself coveting Rich's inexperience, planning how to start over with him, innocent again myself just by association.

  Crazy.

  Around 3 a.m., Rich bravely gave all three of us pecks on the cheek (though Andy managed to slip him a hunk of lip, I noticed) before leaving us at 24 with his phone number and a mutual promise to "stay in touch." Andy and Dave were just as smitten as I was, though if either had the alien romantic notions I was having, they were well concealed under macho talk of virgin assholes and bronco-busting.

  We came to a group decision I'll always regret. But we had always shared, and Rich would be no exception. Each one of us would seduce him singly, then we'd persuade Rich to join us in our usual old-fashioned gang-bang with Rich doing double-time as a top and a bottom.

  "Can your little ass handle three dicks going at it?" Andy asked me lewdly, playfully pounding my arm. Dave's foot had been brushing my inner calf all evening.

  After meeting Rich, these guys were climbing the walls for more action. I knew we'd be in our monthly three-way soon.

  "I'm always up for anything."

  Forty-five minutes later, I was sandwiched between two beautiful men. I was lying with my upper body across Andy's lower body, his erection gleaming, freshly slipped out of my mouth. Dave hovered above and behind me, his strong arms ramrod straight at either side of me, his lower body flush with mine. He was screwing me, literally; Dave only thrusts occasionally, mostly just swiveling his hips and stirring his buried dick around inside me.

  Nobody fucks like Dave—it just feels so good-natured, like he's doing it for you and not to you. Of course, he was really doing it just the way he liked it best. If he happened to like fucking rough (like Andy did), he would've.

  "Mmmm—you're always so tight," Dave moaned wetly in my ear. "Squeeze my dick—yeah, that's right, that's it, there it is..."

  I could feel my butt burning like I was going to cum soon, so I went back to working Andy's prong furiously, mouthing the head and then deep-throating it like I knew made him hot to shoot.

  "Suck it!" he chanted, legs as far apart as nature allows, his forearm draped over his yes, head thrown back limply on the pillow. "He likes taking big dicks on both ends, loves that big dick..."

  "...lovin' it," Dave joined in, "he's lovin' it all the way up his ass... Shit, he's shooting it! I can feel his asshole twitch..."

  "Yes, fuck, fuck, fuck—yeah, yeah, yeah!" I howled.

  God, it's incredible to cum with a fat prick in your ass, especially when you're fantasizing that the dick is attached to a guy you're crazy about.

  I worked Andy's meat until he shot all over my cheek, my lips. I was a wreck, just barely conscious of licking cum from the corner of my mouth when Dave tugged out of me and sprayed my sweat-soaked back.

  We lay entwined, Dave sliding in his own semen on top of me, my face buried warmly in Andy's musky balls. Andy's palms were protectively over my ears.

  In a lot of ways, I love my buddies. But already I was setting up Rich in my mind's eye as an alternative. Why jeopardize such hot sex? Well...

  "So, who screws Rich first?" Dave asked from on top of me (and he's the shy one).

  "Me," Andy said with swagger.

  "Why you?" Dave asked.

  "I have the biggest dick," he laughed, nudging me with it and cuffing my ears.

  Rich.

  I decided to break the agreement and beat Dave and Andy to the punch.

  Three days after our breakfast at 24, I had Rich alone in my apartment. I'd asked him over to help me pack since I was moving the following weekend and needed a hand. But it was obvious when I called him that I was interested in him. That he came over made it obvious he was interested right back.

  "You have tons," Rich observed of my scattered possessions. He'd shown up in a red sweatshirt, a matching (but just barely) cap, and faded jeans so worn the back pockets sagged outward loosely, making his sprawling ass seem an even more perfect bubble. He lifted his cap and scratched the side of his head through his just-woke-up-and-pulled-on-this-cap hair.

  "Yeah," I agreed. I'm a pack-rat, more out of boredom than sentimentality. "Let's fill boxes."

  We worked for four solid hours stuffing boxes full of stuff to move, stuff to throw out, and stuff to donate, the latter of which I'd secretly throw out as soon as Rich left. I kept an '80s classics station on the whole time so our work was continually interrupted by mutual exclamations of recognition, frenzied dancing and Boy George impersonations. The '80s were only one decade ago. It's scary how quickly the present becomes nostalgia.

  Rich was so much fun that day, so "on" and infectiously cheerful. I couldn't take my eyes off him—the always smile, the forever arms, the never-going-to-let-you-down. I could smell his sleep-sweat seeping from the neck of his sweatshirt, and kept fantasizing that my fingers were in his hair.

  As we wound down our work, the tension in the room was palpable, our mutual glances meeting every couple of minutes. My time with Dave and Andy (and a lot of other buddies over the years) had conditioned me to be aggressive.

  "It's getting hot, Rich," I said, plainly manufacturing a situation. He looked up at me from where he squatted, taping up a box. "Why don't you go ahead and lose the sweatshirt?"

  He stared at me silently, his eyes so round and warm and ready. He knew what I needed. He knew. Slowly, he stood up. I could hear his back crack and I was counting the seconds.

  "Okay," he said hoarsely. "That'd be great." He pulled his sweatshirt up and over and off with a graceless but brief struggle. His chest was broad, his torso so thick and firm, but with a welcome layer of softness that gave away irregular visits to the gym. He had dark chest hair between his nipples, which were erect and probably tingling.

  Tentatively, he asked, "How's that?"

  I knew I looked aroused. I couldn't help it—I was so horny and liked him so much that I just knew, knew, that fucking with feeling was going to be incredible. My cock throbbed in my jeans, my asshole twitched in anticipation.

  Have to have it.

  "It's great," I said, coming up to him. "You look fucking great." I reached up with both hands and squeezed his pecs, rolling the rock-hard nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. Rich groaned softly, leaned back a little with his hands in his back pockets.

  "Oh, that's good," he said shakily. "Do more...I like it..."

  I felt up his entire upper body, my fingertips rubbing over skin slick with perspiration. I felt him deliberately, screwing a finger into his navel, pressing my palms into the curves of his fuzzy underarms, gripping his powerful biceps with both hands, telling him what a hot man I thought he was. Rich loved it, let me explore him at length, then took my head in his hands and brought our lips together for the most leisurely kiss. He pulled me against him and we gently chewed each other's lips, sucked tongues up and down like sucking a cock. Our pricks were grinding together, our bodies locked.

  "Suck me," he whispered. "Love my dick with your mouth." I sank to my knees and he undid his belt, unzipped, pulled my face into his crotch. "Suck me...I need it so bad right now..."

  I pulled out his big, uncut cock, its musk stinging my nostrils. I was blind with hunger for it. Immediately I took it all, couldn't wait, no time for a slow suck now, only time for fucking face. He held my head still and thrust his long prick in and out of my loving mouth, forcing it over my rough tongue.

  "Oh, I could cum," he moaned. "I'd love to just lose it in your mouth."

  I took him out of me and kissed his belly. "No," I gasped, "save it for up my ass. I want you in my ass."

  ?"Yeah." He lifted me up and turned me around, holding me against his body, rubbing his cock against my butt. I tilted my head back and slipped my tongue into his mouth, more turned on than ever. I was going to have the fuck of my life. I lost it...
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  "I want you up me now," I begged, tugging my jeans down to mid-thigh and bracing my hands on my knees. I thrust my hairy ass back against his hot prick, feeling it throb against my crack.

  "God, you're hot," he grunted. I could hear him spit to moisten his dick, the slick sound of his fist working the spit over his tool. "I wanna slip it right in..."

  "Yes! Do it, all the way in..."

  His cock pierced me all of a sudden, just sluiced into me with no resistance, my sphincter trained so well to take that big dick.

  At once, "Yes..."

  I almost fell forward from his eager thrusts, full-body slam-slam-slams as he sent himself all the way up me again and again. I couldn't talk, my teeth gritted, my eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

  "I'm going to—" He slowed and gasped and I felt that fullness, that incredible burn as he shot his nut in my butthole. It was so hot, the hottest fuck, and his kisses caressed the back of my neck as he slumped forward, exhausted and panting.

  "That was incredible," he said through a satisfied grin. "I want you to shoot for me now."

  "Finger-fuck," I said, and he replaced his slowly shrinking penis with a few stiff fingers. He fucked me to the knuckles while I beat my meat with abandon, wriggled my ass on his fingers. When he started doing big circles and I heard the wet smacking of his digits in my asshole and the...

  "I'm cumming, oh, yeah!" I shouted, tears in my eyes it felt so good, so, "Goddamned good!"

  "Yeah, shoot it...cum!" His fingers were unrelenting, as my asshole gripped them for dear life.

  It was more than fucking; it was...I don't know what, but somehow more.

  We cleaned up, kissed, slept.

  I woke up in love, kissing and stroking Rich's furry chest. I knew I could never share him with Andy and Dave—no way. I needed Rich all for myself. Things could only get better.

  "Andy was so right," Rich said dreamily.

  I froze, the sound of hope drowning. And then Rich crushed me, oblivious.

  "You do have the best ass." He hugged me close, but my face was flushed. Andy had said no such thing at 24.

  I was suddenly overhot and tried to move away, but Rich thought I was playing, so he held me all the tighter.

  "When did he say that?" I asked, my ears ringing.

  "Two days ago at his, you know, at that crash-pad of his."

  "Where he fucked me," the unspoken.

  Seems I am not the only untrustworthy one in this neck of the woods. But I may be the only dreamer.

  Since then, Dave's had his crack at Rich, too, and we have regular three- and four-ways, just buddies trading a little meat for some of the best sex anyone out there's ever had. I like it a lot, it feels great, it's incredible to crawl into a bed full of gorgeous men and suck any available cock, feel them sliding inside you, rubbing over you.

  How can I complain?

  Still, more often than not, I find myself seeking Rich's parts in the tangle, extra-thrilled when it's him I'm sucking or taking in the ass. But even when I find him and he takes me or lets me take him all the way to blinding, raging orgasm, I'm still not satisfied, you know? I guess I'll never get enough of that guy. I hope not.

  Crazy.

  Pleasingly

  From "Best Gay Erotica" (Cleis, 1996) selected and introduced by Scott Heim, edited by Michael Ford.

  I never let myself go, I just went.

  Actually, if you ask me, I didn't really go very far, just spread out a little. I'm not "obese" or "fat" or anything, just soft around the middle, blurred around the edges. I'm...Rubenesque.

  You learn a lot when you gain weight. Like how big a turn-off spare pounds are to your gay brethren. One week, you're right in the thick of things, cruising and flirting up a storm; the next, you don't get noticed until you accidentally make a funny sound or ask an untoward question. Like, "How's it goin'?"

  Being chubby in a skinny fag's world leaves you with lots of time to look around unnoticed, to see things. Important things like what's passing for glamorous these days, what makes all the guys' heads turn. When a muscle-bound, shaven-headed, earringed, faux macho-man struts past, the other guys are so busy craning their necks for a second look that they don't even realize you're checking them out, puzzling over how something so obvious could elicit such ravenous interest.

  I may be chubby, but I haven't lost interest in sex. I've never been much of a slut, always the big talker and seldom-doer. Until last weekend, I'd only ever slept with three guys: two steady boyfriends I ended up seeing for almost two years apiece, and one one-week stand in-between them, with a snarky undergrad when I was a graduating senior and old enough to know better. The latter left me with genital warts, quite a feat considering we both wore condoms. Except for on our tongues.

  Don't listen to anyone when they try to get you to, "Relax...we're having safer sex." Safer than what? It's never 100% safe. Sex is always dangerous. One way or another.

  I was probably thinking about sex when I first bumped into Christopher. I always think about sex; I'm thinking about it right now, even as I'm trying to describe all the things that led up to the most incredible sex of my life, with Christopher, last weekend.

  I had been on my building's elevator for so long I was almost convinced it was stuck. Visions of Keanu Reeves appearing at the vent overhead, pulling me to safety, evaporated when the ancient door slid open: Ground floor. Hooray.

  I stepped out and made a beeline for my mailbox, hoping desperately that I'd received my copy of "Entertainment Weekly." The weekend just isn't the weekend if I haven't devoured everything that just happened the week before. Besides, I'd heard that there was a Barbra Streisand cover story, and though I hate that woman (I'm sorry, but where's the pizzazz?), there was a fifty-fifty chance for a photo of her luscious son by Elliott Gould (go figure).

  Standing at my mail slot was this guy, this big, chunky guy, trying in vain to force open my box with his key. The nerve! I couldn't believe it was happening; I started to pipe up just before he glanced over at me and flashed me the pearliest grin I think I've ever seen.

  "Hiya," he chirped, as nonchalantly as a person no trying to steal my mail. "How're you?"

  "Okay."

  "He'd straightened and was facing me now, allowing the full effect to sink in. I'm not one for physical attraction; I mean, I get turned on by just about any guy, whether he's classically studly or charmingly nerdy, just so long as he's "cute." But this guy—whoa!—this guy was unwittingly pushing every button on my panel without even lifting a finger.

  He was my height, five foot nine, give or take, and roughly my build, except maybe even a bit chubbier. That would make him about, what, two twenty? Shut up, already—we've both got broad shoulders and big bones; two twenty isn't the end of the world, even if it's nearing the end of the scale.

  He had short, dirty blond hair, a slight scruff on his round cheeks, and a Kirk Douglas puncture wound (read: dimple) in the middle of his chin. His eyes were sort of hazel, and they were looking at me with keen interest. It was like when you catch the attention of a cat—you get the feeling that no matter how hard you try, they're not gonna stop staring at you until they're good and ready.

  "I'm having a hard time with my mailbox," he shrugged. "I'm new.”

  "You might have an easier time if you stuck the key in the right box," I said playfully, pointing first to the 6-E on my mailbox, and then to the 6-E printed on my key. He did a double-take, checked his key, then flushed scarlet and stammered an apology.

  "It's no problem," I laughed, enjoying his cute discomfort. "Any time."

  When he retrieved his mail—success!—it turned out he lived in 7-E, just a few feet above my head.

  "I'm dying of embarrassment," he said, squinching up his face like a nine-year-old might. A great, big, cuddly nine-year-old in a 29-year-old body.

  "Really," I replied, "it could've been worse—you could've been trying to get into my apartment." We both laughed and then I took off to the store with my mail peeking out of my
backpack. As I walked away from him, I had that familiar desire to be able to suck it in—not my tummy, but my love handles—for his benefit. I miss the days of feeling like I was doing someone a favor simply by turning around and walking away, gifting them with a pleasant view. But as I left the building, I turned slightly and saw that he was standing in the same place, watching me leave. Not so shabby after all, I guess, or was I just imagining things?

  Later that evening, I found out the answer to that question.

  I shopped, came home, put stuff away, and dropped. I'd been working 13-hour days trying to finish a mailing list at work, and now that it was over, I felt every lost hour of sleep and relaxation coming back with a vengeance. I thought I could sleep for days lying there on my folded-up futon mattress. I didn't even bother spreading it out, or changing into more appropriate clothes, I just...

  ...woke up with the shock of submersion. I was dripping wet, suddenly awake and too annoyed to do more than exclaim. It was pitch-black outside; I'd been asleep for hours and had only woken up because a light but persistent stream of water was drizzling on my face from the ceiling, where it was condensing in a two-foot patch.

  'Oh, shit.' All I could think of was that the new (cute) neighbor had left his tub running and taken off for the evening. I was going to have to call the super and get him out of bed to come over, get into the apartment, and wade across the upstairs neighbor's living room to incapacitate the tub.

  I dashed out of my room, out of my apartment and up the two small flights of stairs to seven, pounding on the door to 7-E.

  "Anyone there? C'mon, open up!"

  To my surprise, someone did. It was the new guy, and he was wearing an enormous white robe, just like Madonna in "Truth or Dare."

  "What's up?" he asked, warming to the intrusion once he saw it was me. No time for flirting.