Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  Seeing another man seeing his naked excitement was almost too much in itself. Karl was panting, wriggling so as to better feel his bunched-up jeans at the backs of his thighs, to feel the vinyl seat tugging at the skin around his underwear—the Eddie Guy wasn't even taking Karl's underwear off.

  Karl groaned when Eddie's fingertips stroked up and around his cock, groaned, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth with lust.

  "No," Eddie said sweetly, "Look."

  Karl peered through his eyelashes as Eddie fished out his own erect penis, holding it straight out and caressing it even as he caressed Karl's with his other hand.

  "I want you to see."

  "I'm ready," Karl thought.

  Karl saw. He watched as two hands pumped two beet-red pricks, listened to the sounds of slick masturbation, smelled sex even without coitus. The other guy came first, shooting white jism all over Karl's belly, where it stood luminous in the darkened car. Cumming didn't slow Eddie's other hand at all; if anything, it simply made Eddie forget the rhythm, made him jerk Karl without rhyme or reason, so that there was no way, no way Karl wouldn't explode with uncontrollable....

  "Christ!" Karl whimpered. He tried to keep his eyes open as instructed, but couldn't, closing them just as his own cum splashed on his eyelids, the crook above his lips, and in a shower over his chest. It was like being set afire, a universal pleasure that shook his skeleton, far more thrilling than anything his own hand had ever given him, completely earth-shattering. Each bump as the train rode aged tracks only increased the feeling of being bodily rocked, all from the radical movement of another guy's hand.

  Karl opened his eyes after Eddie had dried them, having soaked up the cum on a shirtsleeve. Karl used a small pillow he'd been sitting on to mop up the rest, thrilling at the scent of Eddie's semen mixing with his own.

  Eddie was grinning again, re-composed.

  "Did you like it?" Eddie asked.

  "Yes, I loved it," Karl whispered, suddenly afraid that they would be caught after having nearly gotten away with it. Eddie leaned forward and kissed him, brushed his lips over Karl's and tickled them with his tongue. It was Karl's first kiss.

  Except, of course, it wasn't really Eddie at all, just a guy who looked like him in some way.

  And then he was gone.

  Karl's heart beat louder than the sounds of the train. He had shoved the semen-stained pillow under the seat, removed his vest, attempting to hide the wet marks on his clothes and to pretend that no odor hung in the air in case the conductor came by. A quick peek above the seats proved that there were now only two other people at the far end of the car. "How could they not have heard?" Karl was ashamed, ashamed and afraid that the other passengers had seen it all, and had sat mortified at the homosexual coupling at the other end of the car. Someone would be told, and Karl's parents notified. He'd never go home again. His parents could never punish a legal adult with his own walletful of future, but they would know, everyone would know.

  But somehow, that tired litany didn't really make him afraid this time. He felt himself relaxing, his heartbeat slowing.

  "I'm gay. I'm gay. I'm gay," he thought.

  It didn't feel like such a Doomsday secret anymore.

  Karl curled up into a ball in his seat, pressed his pink cheek against the cool glass of the window, and watched Minnesota running past. Something wasn't right about the terrain, about the train.

  "Suck me."

  Karl was awake again, for the second time awake before realizing he'd been asleep.

  "Suck me." The voice made Karl as horny as the words did, sounding so much like his second crush, his best friend Al's father, Mr. Dereksen. Another guy was kneeling on the seat next to him, and from the darkness, it had to be very late in the night. A reading light shone from two seats ahead of them, allowing enough light for Karl to see that this was an older man, a man old enough to be his father even, in his late thirties. He had a broad chest full of sandy-colored hair—"Where is his shirt?"—and his erection was large, impossibly large, bigger than any Karl had imagined. It curled against the man's soft stomach, his nuts nearly resting on Karl's knee. The man's jeans were pulled down to mid-thigh.

  "Suck me. Suck my cock." The voice was Mr. Dereksen's unfatherly growl, but this man's weathered face and dimpled chin were sexier than sexy Mr. Dereksen's. Karl remembered the look in Mr. Dereksen's eyes when he'd seen the older man stroll naked from his bedroom into the Dereksen family bathroom. Al hadn't noticed his father, too engrossed in a game of checkers to see Karl staring down the hall at the hungry eyes of a much-older man, a man who could fuck his wife if he wanted, but chose instead to look down the hall and into Karl's blue eyes.

  Without a second thought, Karl slipped to his knees, bracing his elbow on the seat and grasping the man's erection. The man signed and moved his hips, and Karl pulled at the resistant member until the fat head lay at his lips. He could smell the man's sweat, like a used towel in gym class, or the jockstrap he'd stolen from his locker partner and affixed to his face once he'd hidden in the basement. The scent had been too intense, had made Karl so excited it had scared him. Now he wasn't scared, just hungry.

  Karl pucked his moist lips and rolled the man's cockhead over and around them, then licked under the head until it dripped. He tried to swallow the head, but found it still too dry. He swirled his tongue around it until it slipped into his mouth and Karl began to suck it furiously.

  "Yes," the man grunted, trying to shove his dick further into Karl's mouth. "Suck me, come on, that's it, boy. Suck that meat, boy..."

  Karl bobbed his head, holding the big, curved penis down so he could suck more and more. His lips began to press against his own fingers which were clasped gingerly at the base. "Oh, God, I'm sucking it all in, I'm swallowing Mr. Dereksen's big dick all the way down my throat!"

  Overwhelmed, he stopped, allowed the dick to slip out and splat loudly against Mr. Dereksen's stomach. But he wasn't done, just pausing to lick the man's balls. Karl's always wondered how good it would feel to have his balls licked, had felt dirty when he'd once considered fooling his dog into doing it. Now, he couldn't believe it, but he felt satisfied doing it rather than having someone do it to him.

  His tongue seemed as electrified as a sensitive penis as it brushed over pubic hair and bathed the man's balls in lazy circles. Karl shoved his tongue into the damp crevice between the man's hairy nuts and his thigh, then further, until the man rested all his weight on his knee and raised his leg up and out, enough for Karl to lick further back.

  Karl never dreamed he'd lick another man's butthole, but his tongue didn't stop to think, it just crept roughly up the man's crack to tease the hole, encircled by wiry hairs. He forced his whole tongue around Mr. Dereksen's nuts, slurping loudly as he cleaned the tight asshole and licked between clenched, muscular ass cheeks, engulfed in the smell of man, big man, Mr. Dereksen, "the father of my best friend."

  But then Mr. Dereksen pushed Karl back and shoved his cock into Karl's mouth again, started humping his pale face like he might fuck a woman's vagina, in and out without pause. Karl just puckered his lips, made them tight for that man's huge dick, pressed his tongue up so each thrust would be over a slick, bumpy muscle.

  "Ah, fuck!" Mr. Dereksen shouted.

  "I've never heard him swear," Karl thought.

  Cum shot out the end of his prick into Karl's mouth, spilling out the sides of his too-wet lips. He sucked hard at the tip of Mr. Dereksen's penis, milking more and more semen, more than he could swallow, cumming in his brand-new underwear only a few hours after he'd cum all over the rest of his clothes. He'd never even had to touch himself.

  Mr. Dereksen pulled out of Karl's face, stroked the boy's hair. "That was real good, Karl...felt really, really good."

  Karl rose weakly, collapsing back into his seat, gasping for air, savoring the taste of cum in his mouth. He swallowed thickly the last of the load, immediately wishing there were more. He was drenched in sweat under his clothes. He was exhauste
d, barely aware as Mr. Dereksen—or, rather, a man with the same voice—pulled on his clothes and crept away.

  "How did he know my name?"

  This time, he meant to sleep.

  Karl tried to turn, to get more comfortable. Then he was awaking with a start, realizing that his face was pressed against the cold window, that his ass was bare, that someone was fondling his bare ass.

  Karl looked over his shoulder and into the eyes of Curtis, the sexy boyfriend his cousin Alicia had brought to the family reunion that summer. Except it wasn't Curtis; that Karl could see clearly even over his shoulder, in the bright light that shone from an overhead light bulb. Curtis, or his impostor, had turned on the light.

  "I wanted to get a good look at your hot ass before I fucked it," Curtis said quietly, his pretty lips mouthing the words Karl had dreamed of Curtis saying for weeks. Everyone at the reunion knew that a sexy, dark-haired boy like Curtis wasn't letting Alicia get away without S-E-X. Curtis was too charming, his teeth too white, his eyes too chocolate, his lithe body too insistent, with its smattering of hair between silver-dollar nipples and in a trail from his navel to his swimming trunks.

  Karl had been embarrassed at his hardness while watching those trunks, and had stayed in the pond for hours trying to avoid its detection. Then Curtis had swum up behind him and locked his hands around Karl's waist and pressed his own hard dick between Karl's cheeks, pretending for the others that all he was doing was horsing around, grabbing Karl before dunking him. No one but Karl had heard Curtis whispering in his ear, "Don't tell Alicia or I'll mess you up, but I'd really rather fuck you, you pretty guy...pretty butt..."

  Karl felt so nasty with his bare butt spread out, with Curtis staring at his hole and playing with his buns, squeezing his ass. He felt so nasty, and so hot, so fucking hot, in spite of having shot his load twice already.

  "Do you like it?" Karl sighed. "Is my ass still pretty?"

  "It's the best," Curtis smiled, pressing his boner into the crack and rocking forward.

  Karl's mind called out in pain—"The fucker just shoved it all the way in with no warning fuck-fuck-fuck!"—but he relaxed when Curtis embraced his bare back from behind, pressed those full lips to the nape of Karl's neck.

  "God, ithurtssomuch..." Karl slurred, already instinctively wriggling, allowing his asshole to snap around Curtis's prick.

  Curtis started pumping his hips and Karl couldn't help arching his back, accepting the dick as it split him in two, dragged away the last vestiges of his virginity.

  "Fuck me!" Karl sputtered, sweat dripping from the end of his nose, or was that moisture from the chilled window glass? Every muscle in his body involuntarily tightened even as Curtis struggled to loosen his asshole, even as he deliberately fucked Karl's virgin ass.

  They fucked like dogs on the train and an almost imperceptible whistle sounded, just loud enough that it should've jostled the other passengers, but Karl could see that no other passengers were there, and wondered if that last, missing passenger was the very person screwing his ass right now.

  When Curtis came, he cupped handfuls of Karl's chest, pinching his nipples reflexively as cum spurted into Karl's raw butt. For the third time in a single day—a feat Karl had never even had the urge to try alone—Karl lost sight of the world before his eyes and withdrew into prolonged, chanting orgasm, splashing his seat with spurts timed to the last of Curtis's frenzied thrusts, strangely in synch with the bouncing train.

  When Curtis pulled out, Karl stayed on all fours, allowed sweat and semen to trickle down his scrotum, and the cool air to soothe his hole.

  "Time to de-train, son." The conductor's patronizing tones woke Karl up, and for a brief moment, he feared that the conductor would be the fourth man to rouse him for sex in a single night. But the conductor moved on, and Karl breathed a sigh of relief. He was exhausted, felt sore all over, and looked a mess. He must have changed—at some point—into another pair of jeans and a loose, gray T-shirt from one of his overhead bags, and then fallen asleep. The air was heavy with musk, with after-sex. Karl felt flushed with it even now, what had to be hours later.

  Karl stood and gathered his things, preparing to leave. Three other men did the same: Eddie, Mr. Dereksen and Curtis. Except it wasn't really them, just three very similar men.

  When Karl stepped off the train, he felt an alien spark in his chest—freedom. Or was it manhood racing in his temples?

  He wondered how he'd walk the two miles to the university all loaded down with his bags. "I'm a man now," he thought. "I'll have to figure out things like this by myself from now on."

  "You look lost."

  The voice wasn't familiar, nor was the guy's smile, nor his gray eyes, nor his sandy hair. The guy talking to Karl looked like no one he'd bumped into in Little. If anything, he reminded Karl of himself. But only slightly. When he spoke again, that spell vanished and Karl was faced with a completely new person.

  "I'm heading as far as the university, if you need someone to walk with," the guy said amiably, adjusting an overstuffed gym bag on a broad shoulder. He looked soft, like he'd never done the manual labor Karl had had to do. His parents might be subsidizing his stint at the university. He had laugh lines like he might've been voted Class Clown last year. But he also had something that made Karl nervous to make a good impression.

  Karl sensed he was face to face with his first—maybe his forever—lover.

  "Sure thing. I'm headed there myself," Karl said, with butterflies.

  "Cool. Let's get over there before we miss registration completely."

  Karl and the guy—David—started off down the road toward the university, at first struggling to make conversation, then joking around like best friends from way back.

  Over the months—and years—people asked Karl's parents how he was doing, shivering when the couple shrugged their shoulders. Mr. Dereksen inquired at the local pharmacy, and a young man called Curtis sent a "What's up?" postcard to Karl c/o, but both received vague brush-offs. Man and wife eventually forgot about son, blocked him from existence, so that years later, when a scruffy drifter named Eddie called on them to see how "Karl" was doing, they simply denied he'd ever lived.

  Karl never saw his parents again, but he never missed them. The only person he ever missed again was David. He would miss David every long summer when David went home to be with his family two states away, until the summer after graduation, when Karl accompanied David home. They raised a house near the one in which David had grown up, and Karl, originally someone's first son, became a second son to David's parents.

  Karl never told David about training to the university, and tried not to spend long minutes analyzing that improbable trip. But his new home was less than two miles from a train station, and every time he heard the throbbing tracks and faint whistle, he held David like he'd never let him go, and told him, told him how good it was.

  To/From

  From "Stocking Stuffers" (Circlet Press, 2002), edited by David Laurents.

  I'm 31 years old and I've probably slept with about two men for reach of those years. Since I didn't have much sex in my pre-teens or even my teens, and didn't start doing men until I was 25, that two-per-year average sounds a lot better than the reality. The truth is, I've slept around in the past six years. I've slept around.

  I'm not one of these silly, sex-absorbed, flashy queers who brags about his conquests and treats sex like Oreos, one after the other. I've slept with every man who's shown interest in me—old friends, dudes met at parties, men who pressed up against me on the subway—for one reason only: I'm looking for a boyfriend and I'm worried that if I pass some guy up for sex, I might be missing out on one.

  I've racked up dozens of sex partners, but only one boyfriend, and I was right—Craig probably never would've become my boyfriend if I hadn't jerked him off within two hours of our first meeting.

  "Daddy, how did you and Daddy #2 meet?" A postmodern question I'll fortunately never have to answer. "He was visiting his friend, a ne
ighbor of mine, and after making eye contact, he slipped into my door for a tawdry handjob, and the rest is history, Pumpkin."

  I know there are arguments against blending into straight society, against accepting monogamy as natural, normal, and our ultimate goal. But as long as I can remember, that's all I've really wanted. I get sick of introducing myself to guys in bars, playing cat-and-mouse, luring them home or being lured to their homes. Lured? It's more like sixth-grade squaredancing—you just mechanically choose partners based strictly on physical desirability and hope that your peers don't laugh at your idea of a first-round draft.

  "I love your apartment."

  "I love your chest..."

  The worst time to be alone is not, as some people will tell you, Christmas. Christmas, I can handle. No, I just hate not having a lover when I do something spectacular. I'm not a Nobel Prize winner, or a published author, nor have I pulled some clumsy waif from a well. My accomplishments are considerably less newsworthy, but that doesn't make them any less exciting to me.

  Last week, I challenged my boss. Nobody challenges Ms. Ha. Ms. Ha is devoid of conscience. She has been known to fire people at staff parties simply because she knows she'll find them there and be cause she doesn't believe in cordiality, sentimentality, or, well, kindness. Ms. Ha is a reptilian woman with dull brown hair and cold green eyes who somehow managed to convince a perfectly charming, almost jovial Korean guy to give her his name. If you were to cut her finger off—just theoretically—you can be sure there'd be a new one in its place in the morning.

  I've been with Bright Idea for over five years, and my work has always been solid. I've never had a client outright reject my plans for an ad campaign; at most, I've had some express doubts or ask for minor revisions. But most of the time, I'm dead-on. I did that slapsticky Elizabeth Taylor commercial where she tells the guy his wife stinks and offers him a jug of her perfume. I know it's hard to watch every 10 minutes, but that scent has doubled its sales in a little less than six months. Liz hasn't been this happy since she got her second brand-new hip.