Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 3

by Rob Rosen

  Jason thrust his cock deeper into my mouth, groaning louder than before. If he wasn’t concerned about discovery, why should I be? For a few moments more I continued sucking, worried about nothing more than the possibility that he might come before I could fully experience all the pleasures his beautiful body had to offer.

  Fear punched me hard in the gut as a cracking sound reverberated through the empty house, followed by the sharp, piercing whine of rusty nails being pried from wood. Though I didn’t hear footsteps, I knew someone was entering the house to try and pull me away. Maybe Jason could stuff his hard-on back inside his pants in time before the intruder (or intruders) found us. Maybe we’d just be suspected of smoking dope.

  But Jason’s hands came down on top of my head, holding me in place. “Don’t stop,” he sighed. “Don’t stop.”

  I didn’t, yet I couldn’t escape the fear that we were about to be discovered at any second. I worked on his cock at a furious pace, now hoping he’d come quickly and we’d be over and done with, our secret safe. Then Jason cried out, practically shouting: “I’m going to shoot! I’m gonna shoot!”

  Panicky as I was, I wanted to see his face when he came, and I looked up at him. And that’s when I saw the old man, looking down at me, grinning as I sucked his cock.

  I leaped back, scuttling away in a backward crabwalk, screaming as if he were coming after me with a chainsaw. I shouted—

  “What?”

  My body shuddered and I opened my eyes.

  “You say somethin’?” a male voice asked sleepily.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, so did my mind adjust to my reality. I was in bed—a futon, actually, the only new piece of furniture in the room. Everything else was second- or third-hand. On one wall, Steve Reeves’s muscles bulged as he raised his sword against unseen attackers in The Slave; on another wall, Bette Midler’s bosom loomed large in a poster-sized blowup of the photo that graced the back of her The Divine Miss M album cover. I squinted to make out the time on the clock on the dresser, determining that it was around two. There were voices outside, probably from people walking home from the bars off the square, just a couple blocks from the tiny apartment.

  “Russ?”

  “You expecting someone else?” he chuckled.

  I rolled over to face him. “I was dreaming. I was going down on this guy I had a crush on in high school. Should’ve known it was a dream. Don’t think he said two words to me the whole time we were in school, until . . . Anyway, last I heard, he got sent over to ’Nam. It just seemed so real, though. It felt real.”

  That detail elicited one of Russ’s goofy-adorable grins. “Did it? Let me check.” One of his hands traveled beneath the sheets to my crotch. He groped my hard-on through my briefs. “Yeah, that feels pretty real. Why’d you wake up?”

  “It got . . . weird.”

  Russ’s fingers slipped under the waistband of my underwear. “How weird?” he asked, while fondling my weeping cock.

  “Ah . . . it doesn’t matter,” I said, pushing my boner against his roving hand. “We’re awake now.”

  Russ snickered softly, leaning in for a kiss. I gave him a quick peck on the lips, and he asked what the hell was that. “Morning mouth,” I reminded him.

  “I’ll just kiss something else, then,” he said, licking the side of my neck. His left hand slid over my chest, stopping to tweak a distended nipple.

  His mouth followed his hand, kissing one nipple, then the other, before taking the stiff brown nub between his teeth and biting, just hard enough to make me gasp. I looked down to see Russ’s head disappear under the sheet as he continued kissing and licking his way down my torso. The uncomfortable tickling sensation of his tongue dipping into my belly button sent a shiver through me. I shivered again when he reached my crotch, but for entirely different reasons. Russ mouthed my hard-on through my briefs, my cock pulsing as his hot breath soaked through the thin cotton. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes, bracing myself for the moment he peeled off my underwear and took my dick down his throat.

  Russ’s mouth went to my right thigh instead. The stubble on his chin scratching against my skin was oddly pleasurable, though not nearly as pleasurable as his mouth on my cock would’ve been. In the two semesters we’d been seeing each other—me, an undergrad, he on the cusp of getting his masters in English Lit—I’d grown accustomed to such teasing misdirects, though I didn’t always find them endearing. Now was one of those times. I was about to smack him on the back, tell him to stop wasting time, when I felt his breath against my taint. His nose pushed against my balls as he bit at my drawers.

  “That’s more like it,” I sighed, raising my ass off the mattress so that he could pull off my underwear with his teeth.

  Russ flung off the top sheet, rising up on his knees with my briefs hanging from his mouth, looking like an excited puppy with a toy. The puppy comparison went to his face as well. Russ had a round, friendly face with big brown eyes and an upturned nose. He was more cute than handsome. His body, though, brought to mind less good-natured beasts, bulls and stallions, specifically. His physique was on the stocky side, his torso closer to a rectangular shape than Steve Reeves’s inverted triangle, though it was, to be fair, all muscle.

  He also had a great ass and a pretty penis, both of which were finally revealed after he tossed away my underwear and removed his own. My eyes were immediately riveted to his hard-on, artfully lit from a shaft of light cutting through a gap in the curtains.

  “If you’re not going to suck my dick, then I’m going to suck yours,” I said, getting a thrill out of saying words I’d have been embarrassed to think just a year earlier.

  Russ didn’t accept my offer. He didn’t suck my cock, either. He did dive between my legs, though, taking my thighs in his hands and lifting them until my ass was pointing toward his face. His fingers caressed my splayed cheeks, tickling the hairs lining my crack and making my butthole twitch in anticipation. The tip of his index finger pushed against my contracting sphincter, as if testing its resistance. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the invasion of that single digit, even though it would be nothing like the invasion to come. Then my eyes popped open and I let out a cry that was half moan, half chortle, overtaken by the pleasurable shock of Russ’s mouth on my hole.

  I rested my legs on his shoulders, bearing my weight down on them to simultaneously push Russ down and lift myself up, ensuring his face was locked into position. His tongue poked and prodded, working its way past the tight ring of muscle and into my chute. I moaned softly and reached down to stroke the top of his head, running my hands through his straight brown hair. A year ago, a man licking my ass would’ve been out of the question, I mused, rim jobs being outside the realm of my sexual imagination. In any case, Russ wasn’t the first guy I’d had sex with, but he was the most experienced, the first one to show me that gay sex was more than hasty blow jobs and quick fucks to be approached like a robbery: get in, get off, and get away. He’d eat my ass until I was quivering on the brink of orgasm and begging him to fuck me, then tease me with the promise of his cock, either batting it against my lips or nudging it against my asshole, then resume tonguing my hole until he could stand it no longer.

  This early morning butt-munching session promised to be as excruciatingly glorious as all the times before it. Already my cock drooled so profusely that my belly was slick with precome. If he stopped boring his tongue into my chute and started wrapping it around my dick, I’d be shooting a thick load down his throat in less than a minute. As much as that idea excited me, I held off suggesting it, not wanting things to end too soon. I thought of another diversion instead.

  “Hey, babe,” I said, my voice hoarse with lust, “how ’bout letting me take a turn eating your ass.”

  Russ slowly raised his head from between my thighs. Except it wasn’t Russ. The old man looked at me, dead eyed, yet still managing the suggestion of a smile through his white beard.

  I kicked him away, pulling my body up into a b
all as I cowered against the wall. “No, no, no!” I shouted, my eyes shut tight in denial. “This isn’t happening!”

  Only the intrusion of distant laughter convinced me it was safe to again open my eyes. The old man had disappeared. And so had Russ.

  I heard the laughter again, and then the door to the master bath opened, releasing a bright shaft of light into the bedroom.

  I saw that Steve and Bette had disappeared from the room as well, their images replaced by large Bruce Weber prints in thin black frames. The furniture had changed, too, everything matching black lacquer and chrome, including the bed, which was no longer a hard futon but a king-size platform with a fan-style headboard. Clothes littered the floor.

  A dark-haired young man stepped out of the bathroom, naked, rubbing his nose and giggling. In the bathroom, I heard the steady stream of piss splashing down in the toilet bowl, echoing off tiled walls.

  “Oh, hey,” he sniffed. “You want to do a bump? We saved a line for you.”

  I shook my head. My perceptions were fucked up enough already.

  The guy shrugged and walked toward the bed. He was as handsome as the models that adorned my walls, his smile bringing out the sharpness of his cheekbones. He had a slim, athletic build—the proverbial swimmer’s body—that had been waxed smooth, save for the dark tufts of fur beneath his arms and at his crotch. His thick, circumcised cock hung to the left, curving up slightly at the head. His balls were drawn up slightly, bulging in the tight, clean-shaven sac.

  “Maybe you want to do something else?” he asked mischievously, bringing up one of his legs and resting his knee on the edge of the bed. His eyes were glued to my crotch.

  I stretched on the bed like a cat in a sunbeam. “Maybe.” I fought the urge to ask his name.

  The toilet flushed, and a moment later out stepped another naked young man, this one taller, skinnier, and blond. He was cute, though his face appeared permanently fixed in a bored expression, and when he smiled it looked more like a grimace.

  “What’cha guys up to?” he asked, moving toward the bed, his cock—longer than his friend’s, though not as thick—swinging gently as he strode. As he got closer, it became clear he wasn’t a natural blond; not only was his pubic hair almost black, but what I thought was a shadow falling across his face was actually dark stubble. Dangling from his right ear was a small silver cross, above that, a thin silver hoop.

  I suddenly remembered where I’d met them, if not their names: Backstreet. Of course! I’d dubbed them GQ and George Madonna, the dark-haired one decked out in an Armani knockoff, seemingly posing for imaginary photographers, and the bleached-blond doing his damnedest to look like the love child of George Michael and Madonna, replete with fishnet shirt and leather jacket. I thought they were silly at the time, until I noticed them staring up at me from the dance floor. Moments later, they joined me at my perch on the second floor.

  And now—now they were rejoining me in my bed. GQ snuggled next to me, throwing his left leg over my left thigh. His index finger traced my upper lip. “I like the ’stache,” he giggled. “Makes you look like Magnum.”

  His reference to my facial hair shook me. Until that moment, I had thought of myself looking the way I had with Russ: clean shaven and clean cut, my brown hair a little too long to brand me a square, but not long enough to be lumped in with the hippies.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I got confirmation in the form of a kiss from GQ, his dick swelling against my thigh as I pushed my tongue into his open mouth.

  George Madonna sat on my right, idly playing with my cock, while his boyfriend kissed me. I gyrated my hips, thrusting against George Madonna’s hand, while my right hand stroked his lower back. Next thing I knew, my hand was moving over the curves of his petite ass, G.M. now hunched over as he sucked my dick.

  “Oh yes,” I moaned into GQ’s ear, adding that I thought his friend gave great head. GQ responded by kissing me even more ferociously. He was hard now, really grinding his cock against my leg.

  At some point, GQ’s rigid dong found its way to my mouth, about the same time G.M.’s mouth made its way to my balls. GQ moaned loudly, holding on to the headboard as he stuffed his fat, curved cock down my throat. I brought my knees up and spread them farther apart to give George Madonna easier access to my ass, should his mouth move lower. It didn’t.

  GQ was less subtle in his hinting. He pulled his cock from my mouth, turning so his back was to the headboard, and then lowered his ass over my face. I dipped my tongue between those firm globes of flesh, finding the tight ring buried there and working my way inside. GQ gasped and giggled, saying my mustache tickled. (I wondered if he imagined Magnum was eating his ass.) Then I felt the heat of George Madonna’s body over mine. GQ’s moans went up a few more decibels—and with good reason, as he was getting it from both ends: my tongue digging into his hole, G.M.’s tongue swirling around his curvy cock.

  In the midst of his ecstatic cries, GQ said he wanted me to fuck him. George Madonna hopped off the bed then hopped back on with a condom and lube in hand. “Gotta play safely,” he quipped before tearing open the condom packet. He had me wrapped and ready in seconds.

  I remained on my back while GQ lowered himself onto my throbbing cock. “I wanna watch it go in,” George Madonna said, his eyes glittering with cocaine-enhanced excitement.

  Strange, I thought, how I’m the top, yet I feel totally passive, lying here while this guy I’ve known for all of five hours rides me like a rodeo cowboy, his dick, quivering like a tuning fork, dripping precome onto my belly. The thought evaporated as quickly as it formed, erased from my mind by the glorious sensations radiating through me as GQ squeezed the walls of his ass around my cock.

  George Madonna inserted himself between GQ and me, moving in to suck his friend’s cock. He lay across the bed on my left, his crotch just far enough out of mouth reach to deny us some sixty-nine action. I fingered his smooth butt instead.

  GQ seized a fistful of G.M.’s bleached-blond locks, breathlessly announcing he was about to come. I saw George Madonna’s head bob faster, eager, it seemed, to hasten his boyfriend’s orgasm. GQ arched his back and made a croaking noise, like he had a scream stuck in his throat. From his rigid posture, I could tell he was shooting his load, G.M. happily drinking every last drop.

  Well, not every last drop. When George Madonna was done, he sat up and turned around so he was facing me. A trickle of jizz glistened on his chin. He flashed me one of his grimace-like smiles and leaned down to give me a kiss and to give me a taste of GQ’s tart spunk.

  Our lips parted, and I was once again looking into the eyes that had been haunting me since . . . well, when, I couldn’t be certain.

  “Who are you?” The question came out a terrified whisper.

  The old man’s voice sounded so distant I wasn’t sure if he spoke at all, yet I remember his words. “You already know.”

  I pushed him away and pushed GQ off of me. “Hey, you didn’t even come,” GQ protested as I jumped off the bed. As soon as my feet landed on the floor, I spun around to confront them, though about what I wasn’t sure. Mostly, I just needed to confirm that the old man had been a hallucination, that he had disappeared as quickly as he appeared. I wanted to confirm that GQ and George Madonna were part of the physical world.

  All I confirmed was that I was losing my fucking mind.

  The old man was gone, but so were GQ and George Madonna. The clothes on the floor and even the condom on my cock had disappeared. All that was left was an empty bed.

  A sickening tightness formed in my gut, as if my stomach were collapsing on itself. Icy needles formed beneath my skin and stabbed their way up from my arms to the back of my neck. I backed toward the bedroom door, my eyes remaining on the vacant bed, bracing myself for the possibility of something arising from the rumpled sheets. Once I reached the door, I darted out of the room and bolted down the darkened hallway. I kept running until I reached the end of the hall, passing into . . .

  Da
ylight.

  “Well, well, well,” a male voice chortled. “Someone knows how to make an entrance.”

  I looked in the direction of the voice, finding an old man, but not the old man. In fact, this old man wasn’t all that old, being at least a decade younger than the man who’d been haunting me. He was sitting on a pale gray sofa, thumbing through a copy of Vanity Fair. He was handsome, there was no denying that, even if he was older than the guys I usually went for. His body wasn’t bad, either, from what I could tell: broad chest, muscular arms, and well-developed legs. He was still fuckable, for an old dude.

  I smiled at him, playing along, like I had meant to barge into his living room butt naked. “Wait until you see the rest of the show.”

  He set down the magazine. I noticed it was an issue with Heath Ledger on the cover, the one where he’s wearing an undershirt and exposing a teasing swath of bare belly. “I hope audience participation will be encouraged,” said the man, rising from his seat. “Surprised you’re able to do a show at all after last night. I’m glad, but surprised. You could barely stand up when we left Louis and Warner’s party.”

  “Really? I don’t remember.” Though I didn’t remember getting drunk at a party, I did remember where I was, and whom I was talking to: Fort Lauderdale, in the condo I shared with Dave.

  “Just as well,” Dave said, walking toward me. “Don’t worry, I got you out of there before you did anything too embarrassing. You did throw up in their hydrangeas on the way to the car, but I don’t think anyone saw that. Except me, which was when I decided I would not take advantage of your weakened state when we got home.”

  I shook my head, blushing. “I really don’t remember.”

  Dave pulled off his tank top. ”That’s why I’m taking advantage of you now; I want you to remember every minute.”