by Tom Graham
“I’ve only got one skin, man—and I want you in my ass!”
Well, when the choice was put like that, it was easy to decide. I hadn’t thought to bring any condoms with me, and who knew when this opportunity would come again.
Marco stood before me. I waited for half a heartbeat, then realized he wanted me to take some initiative. It’s very different to undo someone else’s belt, but I managed. Marco wore his jeans much tighter than I did, and I had to peel them away from his muscular thighs. There’s no better scent than that of a horny man, sweaty from exertion and hungry for more.
When Marco’s prick sprang free, it reared upward, almost slapping his stomach in its eagerness. It was a long shaft, nearly nine inches, capped with the purplest head I’ve ever seen. There was no way to keep my hands off it.
Used to my own thickness, I was surprised that my fingers completely encircled Marco’s meat. A few gentle strokes had the ranch hand moaning in a stream of Spanish. I spat into my hand, making sure my palm was slick with saliva. Then I gripped Marco’s prick and jacked him off.
“Tighter,” he hissed, and I squeezed. My own prick, raging hard but forgotten in the heat of the moment, bumped against Marco’s asscheeks. I slowly rubbed over that tan, hairless plain, matching each stroke to the rhythm of my hand on Marco’s prick.
“Faster,” he commanded, and I quickly obliged. His prick writhed in my hand, passion about to erupt, when he abruptly pushed his ass back at me.
“Now,” he said. “Fuck me now!”
Pushing slowly into Marco’s ass, I discovered new meanings for hot and tight. The way his sphincter snapped around my head, you’d think I was going in there for keeps.
Each inch inward was an exquisite struggle, as Marco’s ass muscles gripped me in ways I hadn’t thought possible. The pressure exerted in his hot little chute more than doubled the pleasure I’d found in his mouth.
A strange motion at the edge of my vision caught my attention, and I turned to see Diablo mounting a willing cow. Good for you, old friend, I thought, sliding farther into Marco’s ass. If what you’re getting is half as good as what I’m getting, I’d be knocking down fences, too.
Marco grunted deeply. “Am I hurting you?” I asked, slowing my motion to a standstill.
“No,” he moaned. “Don’t stop…I’m gonna come any second now.”
“Don’t come until I’m all the way in you,” I pleaded. There was no way I was going to miss feeling the convulsions inside Marco’s glory hole while he was shooting off.
“Then give it to me fast!” Marco panted.
My hips arched forward, trying to gently force the last few inches into an already overstuffed cavern. It would have been possible, I suppose, to brutally push the rest of my manhood in, but I didn’t want to hurt him. Chances were I’d never get to tangle with him again if I screwed up now.
So I wound up not quite entirely inside Marco when I felt his hot juice explode all over my busy hand. His entire body went limp with the force of his orgasm, and if it weren’t for my prick buried deep inside his ass, I’m sure the cowboy would have crumpled to the ground.
Marco’s ass muscles tensed so tightly when he came, I was sure he’d bruise my prick. But despite the slight pain, the combined pleasure of watching Marco climax, hearing his Spanish prayers to heaven, and feeling the incredible heat inside his chute was making it high time for me to unleash my own load.
“Here it comes,” I announced. My sticky hands left Marco’s prick to glue themselves to his narrow hips. Each stroke came faster and faster, went deeper and deeper. “I’m gonna come in your ass just like you wanted.”
“Just like I wanted,” Marco echoed. Somehow he managed to make his ass even tighter, as he reached around to grab at me, trying to pull me deeper inside his hungry hole.
Just then I exploded, feeling the condom swell with my hot load. It’s a good thing I had a grip on the base, or Marco’s hungry ass would have swallowed it whole when it started to slip.
Afterward, we stood, dressing ourselves in the still moonlight. Diablo had finished his business and was placidly munching clover not fifteen feet from us.
“Think he enjoyed the show?” I asked,
“Maybe,” Marco replied. “He’s a good bull—the type I used to fight in Spain.” He grinned, white teeth flashing in the moonlight. “That’s the dream I thought I would have forever, you know?”
“So what happened?”
“Over there, I got caught being gored by the wrong kind of bull, you know? They don’t put up with that—I had to leave. Over here,” Marco smiled, boldly running his eyes over me, “no one cares what kind of horns stick you.”
SECRETS OF THE GWANGI
Steve Berman
Tuck Kirben had never hidden from danger once in his thirty-four years—not when he outrode a wild twister in the Kansas territory, not when that crazed Chinaman with the hatchet had wanted to settle a gambling score, and certainly not when an entire saloon full of men had been ready to lynch him after learning what he’d done on the piano the very night before. But damn it, he now found himself hiding underneath a rock outcropping like a snake without its rattle and with only half a fang.
From where he crouched, he couldn’t see any of the gwangi, as T. J. called the fucking things, but Tuck knew they soared above, just waiting to pick him off like he was some scampering jackrabbit. Sweat rolled down Tuck’s body, and his unbuttoned soiled shirt stuck to his chest and back like a second skin. Even as the sun set, the jungle valley held the heat like scorched Texas dirt. He cursed that map that had promised silver veins as thick as a man’s arm; if there was any ore down here, he doubted they’d ever live to find it. He wiped his brow beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Salt stung his eyes and sweat dripped onto the coarse paper, as he scribbled in his journal. That old schoolmarm who’d done taught him letters would be all hobbled if she ever read his words.
He heard the crunch of gravel from behind him, reached for his pistol and nearly shot poor T. J. full of lead. He offered the vaquero a sorry grin of apology. Tuck had traveled down to Mexico looking to challenge the infamous Tiago Josue Sanz to a gunfight. He had found the man holding court in a vast cantina. T. J. had pushed the painted whore off his knee and accepted the challenge. But first tequila. Though he’d been bottle sharp since knee high, Tuck had never drunk so much in all his days, matching the dreadfully handsome tawny-skinned devil glass for glass. Finally, somewhere between toasts to el de atras and ir a un entierro, Tuck had found himself wanting more to fuck T. J. than shoot him. The vaquero had eyes like Spanish missionary chocolate, and his carefully groomed mustache ached to be messed by fierce lips. The painted stripe, red like fire, running down T. J.’s tight pants had taunted Tuck.
When they had stumbled out of the cantina together, full as ticks, trying to walk and too stubborn to collapse, Tuck half dragged, half sweet-talked the Mexican man back to the edge of town. Behind some sagebrush he fought him to the ground. No six-shooters were needed, only the red-hot iron unshucked from his opponent’s wool pants. He tasted every inch of T. J., sucked down his mecos like it was marrow and he was a starving man. The stuff was fine as creamy gravy on Tuck’s tongue. He made sure T. J. knew he could break any bronco, especially one who cussed as he moaned.
Afterward, well, there weren’t any need for the gunfight. He stayed in town for a while ’til T. J.’s amigos began whispering and giving him steel glares. Tuck had been ready to silence them quick, but by then T. J. had found the old prospector’s body and the map.
Shit, Tuck wished they’d never gone off looking for silver. Taking on a dozen thick-headed south-of-the-border hounds would be a heap better than battling these giant flying lizard-vultures.
“I scouted the area. Counted four in the sky.” T. J. pulled off his sarape. His thick dark hair remained askew, and Tuck gently cleared the vaquero’s forehead, which felt feverish. There weren’t much water left in their canteens and only crumbs in their packs.
Th
e gwangi ate proper on their horses. Tuck didn’t think there’d be anything left of poor Stokes and Tana than cracked bones and iron shoes. He needed to find them some water to cool off in and drink. It would bring T. J.’s fever down. Then they could think straight and figure a way to get out.
Willis put down the yellowed sheets of paper gently, but a curled edge still broke loose on his workshop desk. He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and absently wiped his fingers clean.
“Genuine?”
The Mexican fellow, who’d been staring at the various armatures and half-made puppets, swung his head back to face Willis and nodded, almost violently, while beginning a chanted barrage of “Yes” and “Si.” He nervously clutched the battered leather satchel that had kept the journal safe for almost a century.
Willis took out his wallet. The act silenced the Mexican man, and his eyes grew wide, no doubt in anticipation. Just how long after his phone call had he been waiting for some gringo to count out bills?
The story of the century only cost Willis eighty-three dollars. Or the greatest hoax. Not that it mattered. What was making movies but a combination of both?
Tuck offered the last of his water to T. J. Together, their fingers held the canteen. He fought the urge to kiss away the drops that hung on T. J.’s lips and mustache. Now weren’t the time for such things.
He cautiously looked out at the sky from underneath the rock. Plenty of clouds in the clear blue, but it looked anything but calm. Any one of those clouds could be hiding a hungry gwangi.
Still, they had to move while there was light. At night they could stumble through the jungle and miss a pond three feet from them. Tuck put away his journal. He hoped he’d have a chance to write more later. In one hand he held his shooting iron; with the other he took hold of T. J.’s sweaty palm.
Willis arrived early for his meeting with the studio executive. He paced near the receptionist who watched him warily out of the corner of her eye. Her fingers went clickety-clack on the typewriter keys. Normally, the sound comforted him—he always considered it a cunning echo of creative energy—but that afternoon he found the typing an uncomfortable staccato. He tried not to glare at her, worried she might think he was staring at the more-than-ample tits straining her fuzzy blouse.
The phone rang, and in one smooth motion the receptionist swept the receiver up to her ear. “Yes, sir,” she said. When she told Willis he could go in she didn’t even look at him.
The studio executive’s office had its own personal fog bank, not Thames murk but Chesterfield bluish-gray smoke drifting about the ceiling. Willis had never known the man to have a hand or mouth empty of a cigarette.
“Thank you for seeing me—”
“Willis, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” The executive leaned back and stabbed at the front of his vest. Ashes flickered about his person.
“I don’t understand.”
“This dreck.” The man slid a thick yellowed hand over the pages on his immense mahogany desk and sent them cascading over the edge in a magnificent paper waterfall into the wastebasket. “The Valley Time Forgot. Pfeh. I wish I could forget I read it.”
“It’s the queer thing, right? But this,” Willis said, lifting up his own copy of the screenplay that represented thirteen days of sweat and blood spent over the keys of his Remington, his thoughts consumed with imaging how metal wire and papiermâché could bring the creatures to life. “This is guaranteed drive-in gold.”
“You’re fucking nuts, Willis, if you think anyone wants to see a movie about two faggot cowboys—”
“What about the ferocious pterodactyls?”
“More dinosaurs and less faygelehs. That’s what makes a movie.” The executive flicked open his gilded lighter, even though his last cigarette still smoldered at the corner of his mouth.
Thirteen years after the filming wrapped, the drive-ins of suburban New Jersey have gone the way of the dinosaur. UHF features all the horror and fantastical films on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Steve sits on the floor in the den, his friend Chucky close by, and watches the movie on the bulky console RCA television.
Steve holds one of the couch pillows in his lap, almost as if hiding behind it. Not that the monsters on the seventeen-inch screen are the least bit threatening, but lately he finds Chucky to be so. Or rather, his thoughts about Chucky. He turns back to the television and decides the movie would be a lot cooler if the handsome cowboy—who has the silly name of Tuck, which must have been just awful when the guy went to school—wouldn’t bother so much with the girl. Yeah, Steve thinks, grabbing a handful of Fritos from the bowl by Chucky’s knees, T. J. ought to have been a guy. Then the kissing part wouldn’t be so bad. Not that Steve has ever kissed another boy, but he does wonder a lot about it, especially when he’s around Chucky.
On the curved glass screen the cowboys begin to lasso the clay allosaurus. Chucky starts to laugh. His breath reeks of corn chips. “That’s so gay.”
Steve winces, and then, with a steadiness that surprises him, lifts a hand up in a pistol gesture. He takes aim at Chucky’s handsome features and clicks his thumb. Bang.
On the makeshift studio lot the dust settled to the earth minutes after the jeep stopped. Esteban looked over his shoulder and saw the loco American leap from where he had sat in the back, still clutching some sort of pole. Esteban didn’t understand why he had to drive around in circles while men tried to rope the pole’s end. But the movie business paid well.
In the passenger seat, Carlos laughed as the movie folk scrambled like busy ants. Esteban loved the sound of Carlos’s deep laughter as it so often came before an embrace. Making sure no one watched, he reached over and firmly squeezed the crotch of his friend’s denim jeans.
Carlos favored him with a smile.
“Tonight,” Esteban said, leaning in close, “let’s steal away to the jungle set and pretend we are lost in their valley.”
“What of the monsters?” The crazy American who had wielded the pole played with toy lizards, posing them for hours.
Esteban squeezed more and felt the reassuring firmness and heat beneath his palm. “I like some monsters.” He kissed Carlos, tasting a bit of the road dirt in the man’s mouth, but the grit did not last long. “Besides, we can play cowboy.” He made sure to say the word in English, feeling it strange and wondrous on his lips.
THE NEW SHERIFF
Dale Chase
In April 1864, when I last rode to Springfield, Edgar Rawlings had been sheriff. I knew him to be an honest man possessed of a quick gun hand, but his skill did him little good as he was ambushed soon after arresting Bob Brown. It was believed Bob’s brother Ben pulled the trigger, but nobody was saying and the deputy had made himself scarce. Now, six months later, I was back in town.
“New man coming,” a bartender said after I remarked on the absence of a sheriff.
“And we still got laws,” insisted a drunken cowboy, but then another laughed. “Who’s to enforce them?” the man said. “You wanna put on a badge and go after Ben Brown?”
No reply came, and I turned to watch cowhands doing their drinking and gambling; whatever coin remained after these pursuits was destined for the whores upstairs. I stayed by the bar, hoping to see the blacksmith’s assistant, a man I fucked whenever I got to town.
“Clay Carver? You ain’t heard? Gunned down two weeks ago,” I was told when I asked after him.
I swear I felt the bullet myself, tearing through me and leaving a deep wound. Clay was a good man, honest, straightforward, never giving anyone a lick of trouble. But he fucked men, and without so much being said, I knew that might be the reason his life had been taken.
“Had him some trouble down at the livery,” a grizzled man said with a whiskey leer. I knew he wanted me to ask more so his cock could grow hard as he told. He knew about Clay and was guessing about me, so I offered nothing more and changed the subject.
“Who’s the new sheriff?” I asked him.
“Man named Alden Reed
, due to arrive next week. He’s known to be hard, much experienced, with little tolerance for lawlessness. Word is Ben Brown has moved on.”
“Alden Reed?”
“Out of Wichita.”
I’d never heard of him, but I missed a lot of what went on as I worked on a ranch some distance away and only came to town when I got my monthly pay. It was then I’d see Clay at the livery or the saloon and we’d meet after dark and fuck. My cock stirred at the thought of him even though he was dead, so I forced my mind toward the new sheriff. Maybe he was man enough to bring in Clay’s killer.
In the days before his arrival, talk of Reed grew. The idea of him aroused me much the way Clay had, and I envisioned a big thick man with a good-sized cock. Of course I took the idea beyond what others did, wondering if he might like men instead of women. I reminded myself this wasn’t likely his persuasion but decided there was no reason not to enjoy the pleasures of speculation. So as I lay in my hotel room working my swollen prick, I let my mind consider.
I saw him push an unruly drifter to his knees, saw the sheriff unbutton his pants and take out his prick, shove it into the waiting mouth, thrusting as the man gagged. I saw the gun belt slung across the sheriff’s hip, the cock below taking what it needed. I heard the drifter’s cry as the sheriff let go his spunk and made the man swallow, holding him there on the prick, and when the sheriff pulled out he was still erect, the big thing dripping with his juice. I saw him then make the drifter strip, get down like a pony, saw the pecker go up the man’s bottom and ride out another come. I would’ve pictured more except I began to squirt and pumped my rod as pleasure ran through me.
Of course I had it all wrong about the sheriff, at least with his looks. It’s always a mistake to anticipate, as reality is seldom as you want to see it. Still, he was impressive. Tall and lean, he bore the hard look people had said, weathered by the sun, lined by life. His hair was black; his mustache gray, a clue to his age. Quick and sure in his step, he was rumored to have the reflexes of a cat. He said little, speaking with action rather than words. A few days after he arrived, he brought in a haggard Ben Brown, reduced to sullenness. None would say how the capture had come about.
