Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 3

by Rob Rosen

  Vincent has spent the last half hour talking up his girlfriend to the press line, while she poses for pictures in an off-white Zac Posen that’s slit halfway up her thigh. She’s not who he would have picked for himself—too tall, too pouty, and he’s grossed out by her trashy tattoos. But she’s in on the whole charade. Dating her publicist, in fact.

  Her name is Maritza. They’ve been “dating” for eight months now, with a few prime photo ops, just as you’d expect. Holding hands in front of Moon Juice, antiquing in Silverlake. It’s all carefully orchestrated and planned: an anonymous tip texted to one of their sympathetic sources from a burner phone. Untraceable. TMZ runs with it the next day, although not as the lead story. He’s famous, all right, but not enough to be the lead. It’s okay; he can live with that.

  Famously private couple spotted canoodling on the beach. Is a proposal in their future?

  Anyway, they’ve made it through the press line, and Vincent has a dumb actor ritual he has to complete before they head into the screening. Or rather, his costar does; he’s just along for the ride. But he acts super casual, stops the whole junket and turns to his handler—and how did that happen, he finds himself wondering, that he has a bodyguard to watch his every move, and protect him from the insane groupies that come with being a teen idol—and says, with a jerk of his head as they pass the bathroom, “Hey, Frank, just gonna duck in here real quick, okay?”

  Frank, a solid wall of muscle and beer fat clad in discreet black that does nothing to minimize his bulk, grunts his assent. Doesn’t bat an eyelash when Joe follows him in there. We’re actors, he repeats to himself. We’re known for stupid ritual. In the limo, during the premiere, or later, in between interviews for the press junket. A mantra they chant or a line they have to snort before they can take the scrutiny that lies ahead. Joe is such an actor, just as Vincent is an actor, so if they tell their handlers or bodyguards or agents that they have to go to the bathroom together, any one of those people is going to assume it’s simply another quirk that comes from being famous.

  “Back in a second,” Joe chirps to his own people. They smile and nod, which is what everyone does for the talent. Let everyone think it’s drugs. A bump of something crystalline and sweet to carry them into the screening room, to bolster their spirits as they watch themselves projected to twenty times the usual size. It’s less sensational than the truth, which is that they both have a ritual that has to be performed before press lines, and red carpets, and conventions, and photo shoots.

  The bathroom has two stalls, one handicapped and roomier, with a sink built into the wall. It’s all generic, standard-issue, white porcelain. The larger stall is the one that Joe will choose, with a movement born of long practice. They’ve worked together on three projects in the last half decade. Before every screening, they end up like this.

  Even if he had any reservations about what they’re about to do, Joe’s ass in his tailored trousers is enticement enough. He flashes Vincent his flashbulb-bright smile— which, along with the perfect ass, is definitely what made him a star—and says, through downward-cast lashes, “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Vincent says as Joe triple-checks that the bathroom door is locked, then makes his way into the handicapped stall. He locks that door, too. Vincent swallows heavily. With their bodies this close together, he can smell Joe’s spicy cologne, traces of the peppermint gum he was chewing in the limo, the fresh dry-cleaner scent wafting up from his tuxedo. He reaches out, squeezes Joe’s arm, which is rock solid in his jacket. The muscles are less defined than they were during filming, now that he’s not working out three hours a day, but they’re still heavy in his grasp.

  “You seem tense,” Joe says, with a tone of reassurance. “It’s just press; it’ll be fine. Nothing you haven’t done a thousand times before.”

  “Listen to you,” Vincent grumbles, “you’re, like, so Zen about the whole thing these days.”

  “I figured out how to relax.” Joe grins, and, fuck, it’s blinding. White teeth that manage to look real on him, not the Hollywood overbleached grin. Perfect blue eyes framed with sooty eyelashes. Dark hair and a beard to match. Handsome as hell in his suit, which is Tom Ford and classic in every sense of the word. Slim cut through the legs and managing to hug every line of his ass and the powerful thighs below it. That ass has been on countless movie posters, been the framing shot for establishing his character in at least two movies. Funny, Vincent thinks, how the public eats it up without question. Nobody wonders why his ass is his selling point, or thinks that he’s anything less than perfect.

  He looks fantastic in the suit. He’s a mass of contradictions—all hard muscle and gracious charm—and maybe, if they ever got any time alone together that didn’t end up with his cock down Joe’s throat, he might have more time to ruminate on why Joe keeps coming back for it. Or why they both do.

  But they have no time to call their own. That’s the thing about being famous: your time no longer belongs to yourself. Anything you’ve got, you’re stealing from the paying public. The press junket needs you, the fans need to consume you. There’s the lineup, and the red carpet, and the conventions, and the photo ops. Rituals make these things bearable.

  So they’re quick. They’ve got to be that, and discreet as they can be. Joe wastes no time, palming Vincent through his black pants. Feeling him up under his button-down, dipping his fingers beneath his waistband. He kisses him once, square on the lips, with only the tiniest flash of tongue to keep it from being wholly chaste. That’s another piece of this thing they have, whatever the fuck it is. It’s all out in the open, done behind the backs of publicists and agents, masses of screeching fans. So Vincent can’t walk the press line with swollen lips, certainly not with burns from Joe’s finely trimmed beard on his jaw or face. So they kiss only the one time, firm and sweet. After applying a final, aching suck to Vincent’s lower lip, Joe starts his preshow ritual and sinks to his knees.

  “Fuck,” Vincent breathes, because they must’ve done this two dozen times, and it will never cease to be amazing. Every time, every goddamn time, Joe will look up at Vincent and lick his fucking fat, pink, cock-sucking lips, and say something sweet or flirtatious, like, “What have we here? Oh, hello,” as he undoes Vincent’s flies, untucks his cock, and pulls him out. America’s sweetheart, no fucking joke.

  “Hey,” Joe repeats, and unlike before, this time he’s not speaking to Vincent but to his dick, directly. He flicks his finger against the tip, and the motion startles Vincent’s cock into paying attention. Vincent, for his part, has a lump thick in his throat as he stares vacantly off in any direction but where he wants to look.

  There’s the bathroom, which of course looks like any other moderately nice bathroom. There’s a tiled corner, an industrial-sized toilet-paper roll, a railing that he’s holding on to for dear life. He chances a glance down, and, okay, bad idea—what with Joe nuzzling his nose against Vincent’s rapidly hardening dick and all.

  If that’s bad, then it’s about to get much, much worse.

  “Look, I know you don’t buy into the self-help shit that I do,” Joe says, “but you need some way to take your mind off things. God, I hate it when you’re tense.” The words are leveled right in front of his nose. Vincent’s eyes squint. His vision blurs as Joe adjusts his hand so that Vincent’s dick is pointing right at his face. He drops a tiny, sucking kiss onto the tip, trails a finger down the side. Vincent’s cock twitches from the touch. Fuck, he’s hard. He’s hard, and in a minute there’re going to be reporters asking him about their working relationship, about staying in shape, what did he eat, how was working with the trainer, did he go Method, how does his girlfriend feel about it—heaps upon heaps of bullshit—

  “Shh,” Joe says, those puffy pink lips mouthing around the crown of his cock. “Stop thinking.”

  “Ung,” is the sound that makes its way out of Vincent’s mouth, which is not attractive in the slightest. Joe chuckles and cups Vincent’s balls with one big hand. Even his
fingernails are perfect, buffed to a high sheen. His palms are smooth, their movements deliberate and assured.

  He rubs the side of his face along Vincent’s cock. His beard prickles the sensitive skin there. There’s another large twitch from Vincent’s dick. Joe smiles, chasing the pink burn with a finger. “Stop.” Joe pops the head of the other actor’s dick into his mouth, sucks once, hard, pops it out again. He grins, impishly, does it again. “Stop thinking.”

  “You’re making it pretty difficult,” Vincent manages to choke out. All the blood in his body has converged right at the tip of his dick, which tingles from the attention Joe has already paid it. The head is a bright, angry red. Fluid leads from the slit, which Joe slides the pad of his thumb over, digging very slightly into the hole, stretching it out. Another little sucking kiss; his tongue flicks out and laps softly at the head.

  “God,” Vincent can’t help but say, “that’s such a good look on you.” And it is, too. What a fucking center-fold that would make. Cover of Variety, People, and all the rest. Forget boring staged pictures with picnics and puppies; this is the real deal.

  Joe whines, pleased, and pops the warm head into his mouth again. He licks at the underside with his tongue, and then pulls back, thumb resting just below the crown. He sits back on his haunches expectantly. His color’s up, his tuxedo still immaculate. How long that’s gonna last, though—especially once Joe’s hand flies up to wrap around Vincent’s shaft, stroking firmly—is anyone’s guess.

  And then he focuses, gets to work. “Jesus,” Vincent manages as Joe takes him in. That little wrinkle between his brows, so earnest, as he works his mouth down, slow, an inch at a time, until his pretty mouth is distended with the width of it. It’s hot in there, burning like a furnace. Vincent glances around the bathroom again: same tile, same fixtures, same floor.

  A spit-filled gurgle comes from below his waist. He can’t look. He can’t.

  Fuck it. He looks down, gasps at what he sees. Joe is down there on his knees like he’s in heaven. Widemouthed, lips stretched as open as they can go, fucking his own throat on Vincent’s dick. There’s an obscene sound coming from down by Vincent’s balls—wetness and cock and spit. The noise reverberates off the cold tile that surrounds them. It’s so loud that, for a brief, horrible second, he’s sure that everyone in that press line can hear.

  With a drawn-out moan, Joe seals his lips over the head and returns to sucking the first few inches, down just below the crown. Vincent’s dick is so hard, in the tight wet heat of Joe’s reddened mouth. It’s too much, all at once, and he shoves a knuckle in his mouth to muffle his own cry.

  So this is Joe’s thing, a thing he is wickedly talented at, and a thing that Vincent should really say no to when they’re out in public like this. There’s press right beyond that bathroom door. Fake girlfriends, former costars, producers past and potential. They might know he’s not into women because, hell, a fair number of other A-listers prefer men themselves, but they expect high-profile talent to have some discretion: to fuck at home, in one of their million-dollar mansions on Malibu Drive, on vacation, if they must. Not for one of People magazine’s sexiest men alive (Joe, 2014, the year he starred in a war biopic that showed his serious side and got himself a Best Supporting Actor nod) to be sucking off one of the 30-Under-30.

  He should say no when Joe uses his hand to speed things along, and say no when he takes Vincent’s dick in one grip and smacks it across his lips, his cheek. But he’s not a saint. He can take sixty more seconds of suction, tops. And then? “I need to come,” he says, because it’s making his stomach cramp something horrible. It’s urgent.

  “Hmm,” Joe says, from beneath lowered eyelashes. He peeks up bashfully at Vincent and then smiles his movie-star smile. He gazes at Vincent with that fucking look, the one he pulls out in his photo shoots: teenaged girls hang the glossies up in their lockers; their boyfriends beat off to the grainy online scans of the same.

  He tips his face up and purrs, “Go for it.”

  “I can’t,” Vincent protests, because they have to be photographed again at the end of the night, be seen getting into a limo and out at a restaurant, and then there’s the stupid fucking after-party. He can’t risk getting jizz on Joe’s suit. It’ll show up in the pictures, even once it’s been wiped off, a barely noticeable shimmer on the collar, a shoulder.

  Joe blinks, shows his lashes, and leans back a little farther. He parts his lips, licks them for good measure. “Sure you can,” he says, huskily and demanding. “Come on, baby, I need it. Come on my face.” America’s fucking sweetheart, Vincent thinks, and all he ever wants is a cock in his mouth and a hot load on his face.

  “Oh shit,” Vincent gasps, working his hand on himself, trying to keep his eyes from screwing shut. He wants to see that first hot arc hit Joe’s face—the second higher on his forehead than where he’s aiming. Another, hot and painful, that nearly burns with the force of his ejaculation. His come hits the angle of Joe’s perfect cheekbone, dripping down into his beard.

  “Fuck, it just keeps coming,” says Joe, and leans in to milk the final spurt out. He dips his nose like he’s going to wipe it off on Vincent’s pant leg, but pulls back at the last second. Probably for the best. There’s a screening room waiting just outside these two swinging doors. Directors to appease, flesh to press. Once they leave this toilet stall and this bathroom, Vincent is going to have to smile and put his hand on the small of Maritza’s back and guide her through the throng. He’ll keep his arm around her until the theater lights dim, the two of them looking every inch the cozy couple.

  From his position on the floor, Joe’s breathing is ragged. His cheeks glow pink from beneath his beard and under their sheen of come. Vincent hates for him to wipe it off. He’d like to take his sweet time. Nuzzle that prickly beard, lick all traces of it away himself. But the ritual is over, and the screening will be starting soon. They have to get back and play their parts. He’s the good boyfriend, the sure bet. Joe the all-American boyfriend every girl dreams about. God, if they could see him now.

  “Help me up?” he asks, a second later, and Vincent pulls him to stand. Joe hovers over him, and even though he’s covered in Vincent’s come, Vincent’s still the one who feels small. They make their way over to the little sink.

  “Thanks,” Vincent manages, after he’s scrubbed at himself with some paper towels. Joe has rinsed his face and dried it, rather badly, under the hand dryer. Their publicists will be furious at their rumpled appearances. People think Vincent’s a bad boy, so he can get away with it, but there will be gossip tomorrow about how disheveled he looks. Fuck it, let TMZ go to town.

  “Thank you,” Joe says, and flashes that bright smile again. They’re both buoyed by the experience. It’s better than any drug could be, although it’s so much less forgivable. “Now, let’s go face this press line.”

  Yeah, there are rituals that actors have—Vincent shrugs to himself as the restroom door swings shut behind them—and they don’t make all that much sense.

  COLLIDER

  M. McFerren

  There’s more paperwork involved in smashing together subatomic particles than one might imagine.

  That’s not to say it isn’t exciting. Sent directly from my commencement ceremony in California to an internship with CERN in Switzerland, I’d be an idiot not to recognize how rare it is to be doing something so extraordinary at the meager age of twenty-four. It’s a dream. Geneva is beautiful. I work alongside some of the strangest and most extraordinary minds in particle physics. On certain quiet nights, when those of us still here after hours are usually heads bowed over our desks, I like to wander through the halls and listen. Immense databases calculate without the rest that their human companions occasionally require. Colliders and synchrotrons, even powered down, seem to emit a resonant hum that carries through the floors.

  This is the place where antimatter was made, the Higgs boson verified, and the World Wide Web created. This is where the core of the universe and
everything within it could—potentially, theoretically—be quantified into comprehensible knowledge. Even the work required to make the tools needed for study overflows into new discoveries, in a constant outpouring of creation.

  It’s thrilling.

  It’s challenging.

  And sometimes it’s downright tedious.

  When I return to my desk, there’s a pile of paperwork that needs to be done before morning. Committing logs of check-ins and activities from paper to computer. Data entry, glorified. I refill my cup of coffee from the thermos, and consider California. Nine hours behind, though I hardly have to calculate it anymore. Every time I check the clock, I check his, too, and I know at this hour—when I first give thought to crashing out on one of the break-room couches—he’s eating a late dinner at his desk.

  It wouldn’t hurt to check in, I justify to myself. See what Menlo Park is working on. It’s research, right? Peer collaboration. It’s definitely not because I’m putting off my work. It’s definitely not because the loneliness at these hours is damn near painful.

  I slide my phone closer and cradle it to my ear, speed-dialing SLAC. Press three. Press one. Press one again. Biting my lip, I rock back in my chair and listen to the ring. He catches me mid-sip, the coffee scalding as I choke on it.

  “What’s up, Raj.” He always drags the a in my name out a little long.

  “Hey, Chris. Hope I’m not interrupting.”

  There’s a snort on the line, and I can hear his smile. “Of course you are. I just sat down with dinner, and I said to myself as soon as I picked up the fork, ‘He’s gonna call right now.’ Like clockwork, man.”

  “We’ve got our own supersymmetry.” I grin. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Cup of dried ramen from my desk drawer, with a side of hot water from the kitchen, and a soupçon of hot sauce.”

  “Glad that the dietary standard of Stanford hasn’t slipped in my absence.”