Best Gay Erotica 2013

by Richard Labonté

  Okay, that’s enough. Hell, you get it, right? They go on and on, the past scenes we’ve shared. If Daddy Draden were to tell me to get lost tomorrow, I’d still have memories enough to keep me horned up for years. But tonight reminds me that what we have ain’t just hot. It’s real. Me suffering for him helps us both get through other kinds of pain.

  “He stood me up again,” Dad says. It’s a chilly January evening, and we’re about to dive into the carry-out we just fetched home. It’s a running joke, that Sonic’s “our place.” I figure, if I’m gonna have me some edgy sex, I might as well live it up, throw the diet out the window and indulge a little, so, two times out of three, we hit Sonic for burgers, foot-long hot dogs, and tater tots before the beating begins. “The little bastard never showed.”

  “Which one?”

  “The ex-marine who wanted me to kidnap him. I sat in that motel parking lot for two hours, but he never showed.”

  Tonight, as we sit around the kitchen table, munching our greasy haul, Dad talks and I listen. He’s lonelier, more depressed than ever. He has good reasons to be grim. On top of a shit load of crap at work—most of his coworkers at the DMV sound like morons—his attempts to find a regular boy are going nowhere. He’s been chatting with single guys, guys who might be there for him all the time, as I can’t. They’re fucking flakes, every one. I’d like to break their heads. They flirt, they promise things, they get his hopes up, and then they don’t show up, or, if they do, they’re spoiled, ungrateful, selfish. One of them, after the lightest of floggings, ran out of the house hysterical, the crazy queen. One stole some money. One gave him crabs. As much as I love to suck Dad off, or take a load of his cum up my butt after a good beating, well, it’s harder and harder for him to get it up. Depression erodes his sex drive, he says, and antidepressants do the same. If he can manage to jack off after he tortures me, we’re both lucky. He hasn’t fucked me in over a year.

  One of these nights, he’s gonna be so sad he won’t want me anymore. But not tonight, thank god. When Dad finishes his last tater tot and I finish my dog and my glass of wine, he leads me into the playroom. I’m naked now, on my back on the padded bondage table, ankles tied to the legs, hands tied together beneath it. Dad’s tasty-rank briefs are crammed in my mouth again; layers of duct tape are plastered over my lips and wrapped around the bench, real snug so I can’t move my head. Dad’s in full leather, beating my chest and belly flush-red with a riding crop. We’re both relishing my muffled screams. We’re both still yet blessed. When his arm gets tired and he lets me loose, I fall to my knees and kiss his boots.

  “Lick,” Dad says, so I do, lapping the shiny leather shinier.

  “This helps, cub,” Dad says. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Ten months later, it’s my turn to talk. Dad listens, snuggling with me on the couch. I’ve just been laid off, the economy’s so bad I can’t find another job, and my savings won’t last long. My little cat’s sick; she’s got cancer and it’s too far gone to operate. Bob’s been real cranky, we’ve been fighting a lot, and we don’t hardly ever have sex anymore. I’m just glad I have a brawny Dad like Draden to hold me tonight.

  “I’m done,” I say, tipping the fifth of Jack to my lips. “Sorry you had to hear all that. You know we hillbillies can’t tell a tale of woe any way other than real long.”

  Dad stands, then pulls me to my feet. He takes the bottle from me, puts it on the table. He crooks a finger under the slave collar I always wear at his place. “I told you I’d take care of you, Donnie,” he says. “Come on.” He leads me down the hall to the playroom.

  Soon I’m stripped and face up against the St. Andrews cross. Dad locks my wrists and ankles in leather cuffs, so I’m standing spread-eagle. He ball-gags and blindfolds me. He starts slow with a light paddling, the wood warming up my asscheeks. The flogger’s next, heavy strands of leather caressing my shoulders and back. Gradually the blows get more severe. Now it feels like someone’s punching me. I gasp and drool, arch my back and beg for more.

  “Single-tail now,” Dad says. The whip’s hissing through the air, sharp stinging across my shoulder blades, fire-welts cutting into my back. I pant and shake.

  Dad moves the action to my ass. The paddle’s no longer a warming glow. The stiff wooden whacks come harder and faster. I bite down on the ball and choke back my cries. I want him to stop now; god, how it hurts, worse than ever before, but I’m his boy and he calls me his little warrior and I want to take it all, want to be brave for him, and now, god, the single-tail again, slicing my shoulders, “You’re bleeding, boy. Want me to stop?” I shake my head, shout out “No!” and oh, fuck, at last, beneath my blindfold I can feel tears trickling, and fuck, oh, fuck, I’m so angry, scared and sad; how it hurts, bound here, bound down in this body; at last something snaps inside me, and the tears are gushing, and I’m sobbing and slobbering, spit’s running down my chin, and I’m shaking and jerking, the chains that hold me down are rattling, and I’m crying and I can’t stop.

  The blows cease. There’s the sound of the whip hitting the floor, of clothes being peeled off. Dad strokes the throbbing burn of my back, and his fingers’ soft touch makes me jolt and tremble and cry harder. Dad stands behind me, holding me inside his nakedness. He tousles my hair, pulls off the blindfold. Light floods my eyes. Snot’s running from my nose, and Dad suddenly has a Kleenex in his hand. “No, please, it’s nasty,” I mumble, but Dad holds the tissue to my nose anyway, and I blow and snort. I’m laughing and crying at the same damn time now, as Dad unbinds my hands and feet, then loosens my gag-straps and pulls the dripping ball from my mouth.

  I turn from the cross and my knees buckle and I fall into his arms and cry even harder. We lie on the floor, hugging one another tight, my face buried in his chest hair. I cry some more. Finally I stop. Dad helps me up. He leads me to his bed. He rubs lotion into my back and ass. “Yes, cub,” he says, spooning me. “Tonight you can stay here with me.”

  I sleep sound, waking only once to find Dad’s arms still around me. First light, I get up to piss. I stare at the bathroom mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and my sinuses aching, thanks to all those tears. I turn, studying my reflection. Black bruises and red welts cover my shoulders, back and butt, like someone had spilled pokeberry ink or scrawled red sentences into my skin.

  Today, I ain’t in any hurry to get back to the sadness at home. Think I’ll take the long way back, up over the mountains of Craig County. I’ll stop at my favorite down-home diner in New Castle and get me some coffee and some biscuits and sausage gravy, and I’ll sit there, listening to bow-hunters in camo talk about the bucks they brought down, and all they’ll see is a stocky little redneck with a bushy black beard, dressed in jeans and cowboy boots and a Virginia Tech Hokies baseball cap and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and I’ll be what I seem to be and very much not what I seem to be, with these wounds Dad left hidden beneath my clothes, each mark a reminder of all the gifts he’s given me.

  “Get in here, Donnie-boy,” I hear Daddy Draden growl from the bedroom.

  Don’t take Dad long to tie my hands behind my back and fuck my face till he cums. The load he dumps in my mouth tastes like hope. Milk of human kindness: now I get the phrase. Dad drowses a little and then pulls out, slaps my cheeks with his dick, lets me lick the post-cum ooze from his slit.

  I’m on the road now. We’ve said our good-byes. God knows when we’ll meet again or what’ll happen next. Maybe Bob will get tired of me coming home all beat up, ask me to move out. I suspect he’s already sick of how little sex we have, and I am too. Maybe Dad will find a full-time boy, fall in love, move away. Maybe Dad and I will end up together.

  Who the hell knows? If being tied up and tortured has taught me anything, it’s to live in my body as much as I can, focus on the present, not dwell on what I can’t change or control. Today the maple leaves are orange and red, the coves are white with mist, and the wet fields streaming by either side the road are steaming in the sun. I roll down the truck-window to fe
el autumn air on my face. I turn on the radio—that hot Zac Brown’s singing “Free.” Today, that’s how I feel, thanks to Dad, thanks to the bruises on my back and butt. I’m young and clean and light and free. I’m that dew-glitter on the pasture grass, on the verge of evaporating, ready to rise into the sun.

  A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC

  Tom Mendicino

  The charms of Prague are fading as the temperature plunges to minus six centigrade. My face is raw and chapped, my toes are numb in my boots, and a polar fleece vest and Carolina Tar Heels hoodie are poor insulation against the bitter winds whipping through the sloping streets of the Hradcany district. I stomp my feet, trying to generate enough body heat to survive as I wait for the night tram to roll down Keplerova. It arrives after an eternity, at least twenty minutes, its bright electric lights and a crush of bodies promising a haven from the cold. But when the doors close behind me, I’m trapped in an overheated, humid prison that reeks of stale Pilsner and body odor. A small dog—or maybe a large rat—scampers across my feet. I grab a pole, steadying myself before I topple into a filthy Rasputin muttering obscenities through his black teeth. The tram grinds to a halt, and one group of drunk students trying to disembark elbows and jostles another group trying to board. The hollow-eyed blonde next to me squeezes a ripe pimple on her forearm. Empty beer bottles roll under the seats as the tram lurches toward my stop at the doors of the department store, Tesco, the end of the line.

  The brittle air is a tonic. One block ahead, on a narrow street that curves around the stone walls of an ancient church, is my refuge from the inhospitable Czech night. The boy at the reception desk takes my crown notes and asks in ungrammatical English if I want a locker or a cabin. The changing room where I peel off my clothes is spotless. I wrap a towel around my waist and slip my feet into a pair of clunky rubber shower shoes that I quickly shed after tripping on the stairs to the wet area. I hurry across the cold tile floor in my bare feet, enter the steam room and grope my way through a meandering maze, drawn toward the shadows lurking in the wet nooks and crannies and the promise of slick, wet skin. A hand reaches out and strokes my chest. My suitor, a middle-aged German businessman looking for quick orgasm after a long night of drinking, pushes me against the wall and grabs between my legs. I brush him aside and hurry away, slipping on a patch of liquid slicker than mere water. I take a long, hot shower. My clipped American penis is unimpressive compared to the flaccid uncut European cocks of the men lingering under the showerheads. There’s a beauty swinging between the legs of the Cossack soaping his armpits; it’s as thick as naval rope with a spotted mushroom head. I wonder what it looks like hard and ready for action. Only one way to find out. The fucking son of a bitch brushes my hand away. Cocksucker. Who the hell is he to be so choosy, with his receding hairline and double chin? I knot my towel around my waist and go in search of a wet mouth and a willing hole.

  It sounds like a day at the zoo in this place: grunts, groans, guttural noises. Put your cock in my mouth, an Englishman begs as I hurry past his cabin. Sorry, Lord Brideshead, nothing personal. Everyone who wants me isn’t my type, and no one I want is interested. Coming to Prague was a mistake. The guidebooks promised a nonstop orgy (at an hourly rate if all else failed), the perfect antidote for being dumped via email by my transatlantic partner of seven years back in DC, who informed me that absence did not make the heart grow fonder and that he’d met the love of his life, a twenty-four-year-old White House intern with a full head of hair and a virgin ass. Discouraged, disheartened, disgusted, I convince myself to make one more round through the bathhouse. If nothing more promising—or willing—materializes, I’ll drop off my key and my towel and splurge on a cab. Better to be held hostage by the extortionist Prague taxi mafia than suffer another adventure on the night tram back to my hotel.

  The door to Room 41 is ajar, inviting any curious hand to open it. A pot-bellied bear mounting an eager cub is willing to share his bounty, but frowns when I ask for a condom. I shrug and step back into the hall, resigned to the night ending in frustration.

  “Hello.”

  I turn and stare into the face of an angel sprawled across the mattress of his brightly lit cubicle. I look to my left, then my right, thinking he must be speaking to someone better looking, more ripped and chiseled, than me. He strokes his long brown penis and offers a blazing smile. I take a tentative step forward, crossing the threshold of his room, still expecting him to shake his head no when, after getting a better look, he realizes he’s made a mistake. But he spreads his legs and cups his round balls in his hand, tugging at his scrotum.

  “You like?”

  “You speak English?” I ask, confirming the obvious.

  “Yes. Of course. Come in. Please.”

  He tosses aside my towel and takes my cock in his mouth. His tongue teases me to a full erection, then he slides his lips up and down the shaft, nibbling on the head.

  “Is it nice for you?” he asks, his blue eyes twinkling, confident in his skill.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Please. Close the door.”

  I wedge my body against his on the narrow mattress. He throws his leg over my hip and grinds his cock against my belly.

  “Will you be happy to fuck me now?” he asks.

  His ass is already slick with lube. He watches with almost clinical interest as I roll a rubber over my hard-on.

  “It is good. I am safe, too,” he says before pressing his open mouth against mine and plunging his tongue deep into my throat.

  A sweet, fleeting romance with this blue-eyed boy would be nice, twenty or thirty minutes of gentle touching and soulful glances ending in a passionate climax. But his body language says he wants to get straight down to business. He flips on his back and raises his legs, grabbing my hips and pulling me close enough for the head of my cock to tease his puckered hole.

  “You will fuck me good?” he asks, less a question than a command to drive my pole deep inside his ass. I slip inside him easily and he thrashes against the mattress, challenging me to pump him harder, faster. He’s not the shy, quiet type; pleasure is an experience to be shared at full volume, with grunts and moans and harsh, blunt syllables that need no translation. I shoot quickly and my penis shrivels in a condom full of wet semen. He bites his lower lip and frowns, obviously expecting better from a broad-shouldered, hairy-chested American. But disappointment is fleeting and he flashes a toothy smile. The boy is clearly an optimist.

  “Let’s have a cigarette. Then you fuck me again.”

  I haven’t smoked in years and almost decline then decide to test whether tobacco is as seductive as it is in my fond memories. The first puff makes me light-headed, inexplicably happy. I cough and flop beside his lean, smooth body.

  “We will rest,” he says, squeezing my limp, sticky penis.

  It’s pleasant lingering here, basking in the heat pouring off his body for a few brief moments before it’s time to brave the bitter cold. I fold my arm under his neck and he cuddles against my chest, drawing circles around my nipples with his long, tapered forefinger.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I’m an American.”

  “New York?”

  I’ve lived abroad long enough to know that most Europeans believe that the entire population of the United States resides in California or the isle of Manhattan—except for Mickey Mouse, who lives in Orlando.

  “Washington,” I say.

  “Ah,” he says, intrigued by fantasies of proximity to prominent names in the international press. “Do you know the Clintons?”

  I laugh at the presumption then admit I have, on occasion, been introduced to the former Leader of the Free World and his charmless former First Lady.

  “Bill Clinton is very sexy,” he insists.

  “You think so?” I smile, being blind to the appeal of our nation’s Seducer-in-Chief.

  “Yes. Like you.”

  Meaning, I suppose, we’re both husky old boys gone slightly to seed.

  “Talk to
me some more with your Bill Clinton voice.”

  Obviously, he doesn’t hear the difference in intonation between an Arkansas and a North Carolina accent. To a Czech boy, a drawl is a drawl.

  “Where are you from?” I ask.

  “Brno. In the South. My family come to Prague after Havel for me to study music.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Antonin. Please call me Tony.”

  “Antonin. Like Dvorak.”

  He sits up and stares as if he’s astonished an American provincial is familiar with a national icon.

  “Yes, of course,” he says. “You like his music?”

  “I don’t know it that well,” I admit.

  “What is your work?” he asks.

  How do I explain the mundane responsibilities of a Department of State civil servant with a Juris Doctor and a current assignment to the delegation in Brussels? I simply say I’m a lawyer.

  “You like music?”

  “Sure.”

  “You would like to hear me play?” The cubicle door is unlocked and a bald man with an enormous, lumpy head enters and starts stroking Tony’s leg. The two Slavs have a brief exchange and the intruder leaves, closing the door.

  “I tell him we are resting. He will be back,” Tony giggles.

  “I should go,” I say. “It’s a long ride back to my hotel.”

  “Where are you staying?

  He whistles approvingly when I tell him the name of my hotel. Apparently, it’s a destination for celebrities visiting Prague. Tony says Cher has stayed there. I mention a minor American television star drinking in the hotel bar last night, but the name means nothing to him. I ask if he’d like to stop by for a drink before I leave town.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Tonight. Then we make love again. I will drive us.”