by Rob Rosen
BEST GAY EROTICA OF THE YEAR
VOLUME ONE
BEST GAY EROTICA OF THE YEAR
VOLUME ONE
Edited by
ROB ROSEN
Copyright © 2016 by Rob Rosen.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, New Jersey 07302.
Printed in the United States.
Cover Design by Scott Idleman/Bink
Cover photograph: iStock
Text design: Frank Wiedemann
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-156-5
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-158-9
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication Data is available on file.
For Kenny,
my life, my love
CONTENTS
Introduction
Heat Stroke
The Real Thing
Fire and Pain
Viva
The Husbands
The Other Side
GI Blow
Nothing in Common
Incident at Yellow Rock
The Magazine
Charity Case
Whip It Out
Bus Ride
Vaquero’s Pride
Valentinius
The Healing
About the Authors
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION
Hello and welcome to Best Gay Erotica of the Year! It’s great to be back, serving my second term as editor of this esteemed collection. The irony, however, is not lost on me that I should get to do this amazing job. Mainly because when I started writing I avoided erotica. Oh, not because I didn’t love the genre, but because I didn’t think I had anything new to add to it.
Actually, my foray into the field happened completely by chance—though it’s more fun to attribute it to fate, kismet, perhaps a fair bit of luck. See, I wrote one single piece of gay erotic short fiction, it was spotted by the publisher of MEN Magazine, which was then the oldest and largest of all the gay men’s erotic magazines, and I was asked if I’d like to write for them—me, me who had avoided the genre!
Well, the me who avoided the genre wasn’t stupid. So, despite having little to no experience, I said yes—scratch that. I said YES!—and the rest is history. I ended up writing for MEN, Freshmen, and [2] magazine for more than five years, my work appearing in more than forty issues, and that’s led to writing erotic short fiction for well over a decade now. In fact, my stories have since appeared in more than two hundred anthologies.
Turns out, I did indeed have something new to add to the genre. Turns out, in fact, that so many great writers constantly have new and exciting and fresh ideas to add to it. Evidence of that fact are the remarkable stories that follow, every last one of them adding something new, something different, something exciting. I mean, where else but in Best Gay Erotica do you get to read about sex with androids, and then follow that up with a twink hooker tricking with a pastor? We also have a near-future mystery thriller, a ghost romance, a breathtaking tryst in Cuba and a spectacular sadomasochistic encounter involving an early twentieth-century archaeologist.
So, like I said, I’m lucky to get to do this amazing job, to bring to you the best and the brightest talent around. I hope you enjoy the stories I’ve amassed, that you too see something new and different in them, that you also see that the genre is ever changing, and that, yes indeed, it’s only getting even better!
Much LOVE,
Rob
HEAT STROKE
Michael Roberts
“Fuck me,” I cried. “Drive your fiery engine of lust into my hot, humid tunnel of desire. Ravish me, pillage and plunder me. Take me completely, absolutely, utterly.”
Well, no, I didn’t say that; I was somewhat less imaginative. What I actually said was, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”—repeatedly, and at about the same volume and intensity with which the Chicago Symphony Orchestra would attack the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon and fireworks.
The cannon was the substantial cock that was plunging into my ass, and the fireworks were in my head. I didn’t know if they came from Derek’s sexual prowess or from his banging my head on the arm of the sofa on which he was so energetically fucking me.
And I was definitely getting fucked. There are times when someone makes love to you, and there are times when someone screws you. There are times when you just have sex. But having sex couldn’t begin to describe what was happening to me now. No, I was decidedly getting fucked—absolutely, utterly, unquestionably, primal and raw and unrefined, direct and to the carnal point. And the sheer fuckness of being fucked was as exciting as the action itself.
In my hunger and my heat and ardor, I’d lost all self-control, all sense of decorum, and I was going to lose my voice if I kept shouting at this volume. I hoped that my neighbors weren’t at home to overhear my noisy abandon.
On the north side of my apartment lived a middle-aged couple who sniffed in disapproval every time we met in the hall. And if I was bringing a man home with me—which happened far too infrequently—they were rendered sniffless and could only silently flare their nostrils. The apartment above me was quiet except for sudden thuds as if a body had fallen, and the apartment below was equally quiet except when, about once a week, I heard Kenny Rogers praising someone who was, improbably, three times a lady and Johnny Cash endlessly walking the line.
And on the south side of me lived a guy my age—late twenties—who regarded me with overwrought sympathy as he was escorting his one, two and occasionally three companions into his apartment. I rather hoped that he was at home and was now learning that I could score—except that he no doubt figured I must attract only the dregs of manhood.
Derek was definitely not from the dregs. We had, following a tried and true formula, met in a bar. It was toward the end of the day, and I wasn’t sure that I was going to have any success finding someone for a bit of a diversion. But there was Derek. He sat down and ordered a bottle of beer, and after a few moments he waved it at me. With some hesitation, I waved back with the rather lilac fizzy drink I’d been nursing for half an hour. He wasn’t discouraged by the effervescence of my libation and moved to a stool next to me.
I was glad to see that I hadn’t misjudged him in the dim light of the bar. Sometimes when a guy moves closer, you discover that he has one eye in the middle of his forehead or a horn growing from his chin or that he really looks like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. This guy was certainly more than presentable. His face was handsome, his shoulders were broad, and when he shook my hand and said, “I’m Derek,” his handshake was neither cold and clammy nor bone crushing.
I told him that I was Tim, and then we engaged in the requisite small talk, as if we were speaking dialogue from a porno film that was leading up to the Big Event: had I been in this bar before; how often had I been in this bar before; did I live in the neighborhood; and since I did live in the neighborhood, could we go to my place, and since we could go to my place, would I like to go now?
I would and we did.
On the four-block walk to my apartment, I was distracted by the play of his shirt against his chest and, when I deliberately fell a few steps behind him, the play of his pants against his ass, so that I didn’t really hear what he was sa
ying and just murmured at what seemed the appropriate times. In a brief moment of relative lucidity, I hoped that I wasn’t agreeing unaware to something that would put me in the hospital or at the mercy of a band of sexual slave runners—well, not the former, at least.
When we got off the elevator on my floor, I looked to see if any of my neighbors were in the hallway, sniffing in high dudgeon or smirking in amazement that I was finally bringing a guy home, but no one was there.
Inside, I asked Derek if he wanted a drink, and he said, “All I want to drink is you, man.” In the midst of my thinking that really didn’t make sense, he peeled away his shirt to reveal an absolutely stunning set of pecs, and I was pretty well lost to coherent thought.
Then he slipped off his shoes and unzipped and lowered his pants, and from the fly of his boxers popped his stiff cock, and I think that I audibly gasped. It wasn’t just that his dick was longer than average—although that certainly was nice—and it wasn’t that it was thick, but it was so wide it looked as if it should have a flag declaring it a different country. He evidently heard my intake of breath, because he smiled slightly and pulled down his shorts, and his cock bounced, and I hurried to get out of my clothes as quickly as possible. I pushed him back onto the couch and knelt between his legs.
His dick tasted so good. I fit as much of it as I could in my mouth, listening to the cracking of my jaw as I sampled its myriad attractions. Well, sampled isn’t the right word—I devoured its delights. His cock was lovely—absolutely lovely—and it was enchanting, and it was exquisite, and it was succulent, and it was everything I could ask for in a cock. I was smiling—partially in my enjoyment of this superb appendage and partially because I was trying to fit as much of the damn thing as possible between my extended lips.
He seemed to be getting pleasure from me, too, for he said umm a few times, and then he added oh to the repertoire, and then he said umm! and oh! as a few dense drops of salty moistness dropped onto my tongue.
I closed my eyes and devoted myself to consuming his captivating dick.
I was extracted from this contentment with his cock when he pulled me up onto the couch and pushed me onto my back and lifted my feet. He very nearly overflowed his condom, and then he very nearly overflowed me. I wasn’t prepared for the intrusion of his amplitude, and I gasped again, and his smile turned into a grin as he began to fuck me.
After that initial shock and after a few stabs, his cock was just as breathtaking at this end as it was at the other, and I abandoned myself to his plunging attacks and his plummeting dives and the propulsion of his prick. One time he withdrew all the way and then thrust into me, and I felt the shock of reentry and then the joy of being so vigorously fucked.
I was smiling again—but this time, my asshole was smiling, stretching—stretching as it tried to accommodate the bulk of this mammoth slice of manhood. He grabbed my feet and spread my legs apart, and then he slid his hands down to my knees and opened me up farther, and then his hands dropped down to the middle of my thighs, and he widened even more the angle of my legs, and it seemed that at any moment, my lower limbs were going to be one straight line from foot to foot.
The springs of the couch were shrilling like something in a Wes Craven movie. After several forceful strokes that were strong enough to push me right through the cushions, he completely withdrew again and hurled himself back into me, and I started shouting and let all of my sexual fervor surge past the boundaries of modesty and restraint. He grinned down at me—I think he grinned, because at that point, everything was spinning as if I were on a merry-go-round—and he fucked me with more intensity and ferocity than one man should possess, spreading my legs as if I were a wishbone about to snap. I was rapturous and I was ecstatic.
At some point—fifteen minutes into the fuck? an hour and a half? two days?—who knew? who could tell?—we rolled off the couch and onto the floor. As we fell, we crashed into the coffee table, and a leg of the table went flying off in one direction, and another leg went a different way. I knew the feeling.
When we landed, he was behind me, and he grabbed on to my hips for leverage and found several new angles of attack on my joyously suffering asshole. I was bent over, and the top of my head banged against the floor, just as the back of my head had banged against the couch, and maybe that was why I was seeing whorls of light. The thud, thud, thud of his cock lashing into me ran counterpoint to the thud, thud, thud of my head on the carpet.
At any moment, it seemed, the tip of his cock was going to dislodge my eyeteeth, and I wondered if I could bear this any longer, and I wondered how I could make this go on forever. Without letup, without even a pause, he flung himself into me, and I doubted that my asshole would ever return to the nice round shape it once had.
Suddenly, he fell forward onto me, slamming me down into a prone position with my nose in the carpet—which, I reflected, needed to be shampooed. With an effort, I raised my head enough so that I could turn my face to the side and get some air. Derek’s hot breath burned against my ear, and the carpet burned against my crotch as he rocked me back and forth on the floor, and his uh—uh—uh echoed in the inner recesses of my ear, and his cock thrust more and more into the recesses of my bowels.
Then his grunts grew in volume until they were deafening, and I was shouting in concert with him, and my hard dick was rubbing against the rug, and I wanted to hold on, but I couldn’t hold on. Derek bounced up and down on me with so much verve that I was sure the floor couldn’t hold on, and Derek and I were shouting in a harsh harmony, and in the apartment below Johnny Cash went on the line again, maybe in an attempt to drown out our cacophony. And then there was no holding back, and I was coming onto the rug, the wet warmth spreading beneath my legs, and I really was going to have to shampoo the rug, and I seemed to come more than I ever had before, there was spasm after spasm and gush after gush, and a hammering at my overheated asshole, and Derek came as well into this new configuration that he had inflicted upon me.
We lay panting like some odd sea life that had been thrown up on the shore. I realized that in his passion, Derek had planted his teeth in my ear. I was going to ask him to let go before I lost a lobe, but my mouth was mashed against the carpet. Anyway, I couldn’t muster enough strength to make my request.
After a while—a minute? several minutes? an hour? who could tell?—he slowly raised himself from on top of me. My earlobe quivered as he released it, and his cock went pop as it left me.
“Can I use your shower?” he asked.
If I could have told him yes, I would have. All I could do was blink at him. With one eye, I watched his magnificent ass swaying toward the bathroom. As I lay listening to the hiss of water, I decided that I wouldn’t worry about shampooing the rug—in all likelihood, I would be out looking for a new apartment soon. Somebody from a nearby apartment—or somebody from an apartment not nearby—or, considering the noise we’d made, somebody from somewhere in the city—would complain to my landlord, and after getting my ass pounded, I’d be out pounding the streets. I tried to smile at my little joke, but the effort was too much.
The shower stopped. After a moment, Derek came back into the living room. His wide, wide cock was completely rigid again, sticking straight out from his pelvis.
“Well,” he said, grinning, eyes sparkling, “I’m ready to go again.”
That’s when I fainted.
THE REAL THING
Dale Chase
Explaining how it got down to just me is impossible. Suffice to say, it was the worst planetary fuckup of all time. Give the androids control of their own destiny, somebody said. Yeah, right.
So what we have after a very messy couple of millennia is a world full of constructed people. Make more as needed and dispose of the malfunctioning. Efficient and less costly than maintaining humans, which are subject to problems. Except they missed one thing. Like all great ideas implemented before they were thought out, nobody considered how much we liked humans. And how even androids would experien
ce a surprising shift to that mindset.
Where am I in all this? Not a droid, that’s for damn sure. No, I’m probably the last human guy in the world, an oversight to be exact. I’ve been on the run for years because I’m a wanted man—in more ways than one. Illegal, yes, but also possessed of the last real flesh-and-blood cock. And they want it. They won’t admit it, though. They say they brought me in because I’m a renegade, a criminal, living outside society, but the truth is they want what I have. They want to get their hands on it, their mouths on it. They want to spread their cheeks and take it up the ass. I’ve been in this cell for just a week and have lost track of the number of droids I’ve fucked and who have fucked me.
They won’t let me have any clothes, and the cell has a window in the door, so more often than not there are faces peering in. Like now, a good-looking droid is watching me stroke my meat. I play with it so he can watch it get hard, squirt a load, then soften. Theirs won’t do it quite like the real thing. More of a mechanical spring-like inflation and not at all fleshy. Too hard, actually. Unreal. And they never did get the come mechanism right. A droid once confessed that it’s a gentle wave, a kind of ripple, and they greatly covet my pulsing shots and the obvious charge they bring. How on earth the creators could have made coming so mild is beyond me. Who in the hell was in charge?
My ass is also coveted, although droid asses are pretty close to human. Except, of course, theirs are only for sex. They can’t imagine our multi-purpose chute, say over and over again what a disgusting place it is, but when one of them gets near me and hits his arousal switch, he’ll invariably want to get his nose down there for a sniff and maybe even his tongue for a taste. I sometimes think the great droid creator way back when put a few glitches in on purpose, a human failing here and there to maybe soften the perfection.
