Best Gay Erotica 2012

by Richard Labonté

  “All yours, guys. And don’t worry, he’s paid for. Have fun.”

  “Thanks, Rock.”

  “Man, you’re the best, Rock.”

  “Awesome!”

  “I love a hairy ass.”

  “I’m gonna breed Daddy good.”

  Randy grunted and groaned as if it were all too much, thus bringing the excited young men to quicker climaxes, filling him with ball juice that leaked from his hole and down his scrotum, forming a small puddle on the bedding beneath him.

  “Okay, guys. Remember to keep it in your pants so you got a load for tomorrow’s shoot.”

  Rock could not resist a final fuck, pounding Randy’s juicy wet hole until he shot his spunk deep inside the bound bottom. Afterward, Rock rolled over, lit a cigar and set Randy free. They passed the cigar back and forth for a few minutes.

  “Need to cum, Dad?”

  “No, I came while you were fucking me the first time. What’s this about a shoot?”

  “Yeah, see we’ve started a new company, all ’bout young studs fucking their Dads. And I want you to be our first star. We came here looking for talent and man we found it.”

  Rock slapped Randy’s ass, which was a signal for Randy to collect the cash strewn around the bed.

  “I get paid, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re our fucking star, and you’re gonna sign an exclusive contract with us, Dad. But I need you to work the crowd here, see. You’re gonna wear one of our DADDY BITCH T-shirts and walk around the Leather Mart making friends and stirring up interest. Here, put on those shorts you had on beneath your chaps, and your boots and shit. Here, wear this T-shirt, extra tight, right? Yeah. All right, take this and do some shopping while you’re there. Buy yourself something pretty. And one more thing…”

  Rock peeled a few more bills off his roll and handed them to Randy. When Randy was dressed, Rock locked a chain around his neck, kissed him and pushed him toward the door with another slap on the ass.

  “You’re sleeping with me tonight. In fact, why don’t you just move your stuff in here later?”

  Randy was in the hall counting the bills that had been thrown at him and collected with a degree of apparent chagrin that Rock had clearly relished. Smiling, he headed to the Leather Mart, beginning his final reinvention before retirement and inevitable disappearance—assured that he would be remembered as a Hot Stud for decades to follow.

  DELIVERING THE GOODS

  Anthony McDonald

  It wasn’t easy, back in those university years, to know if other people were gay or not. It wasn’t easy to know if I was.

  In my first year I shared a room in a student house in the center of Edinburgh with a burly fellow rugby player named Jack. Although rugby was about the only thing we had in common we rubbed along well enough. We visited the Edinburgh bars together, often in the company of the pair of lads who shared the room below ours. One of them, Mike, played on the same rugby team as Jack and I did; the other, a small elfin boy called Luke—and now that I’ve used the word elfin you know how this sentence is going to end—did not.

  I didn’t get a chance to discover whether Luke and I had anything in common during the whole of that first year. When the four of us were out together our conversation was general, laddish, and I seldom spent time with Luke alone. During our second term Jack and Mike switched from rugby to hockey, while I did not. I was quite relieved in a way. It gave me an excuse to drop out of rugby. I’d never enjoyed the sport that much, to tell the truth, but I had the build, the strength and the skill, and at five foot eleven I looked the part. I’d played at school as a matter of course, and I’d gone along when Jack suggested I join the team that first term at uni. But now that I’d stopped, and Jack and Mike were into a different game, played on different days, those beery four musketeer evenings became less frequent and finally petered out altogether. By that time Jack had got himself a girlfriend anyway, and Mike was trying hard to follow suit.

  I’d never had a girlfriend; never even flirted with girls, never felt the need. If I occasionally asked myself if I was attracted to men I tried to kick the question into the grass. I didn’t think that if it came to it I’d be very good at sex. At the age of eighteen I’d never even had a wank.

  That wasn’t strictly true. I got my rocks off, from time to time, like any boy. Sometimes I’d find involuntary relief in the course of a wet dream. Occasionally, very occasionally, I’d well up and bubble over in the scrum during a match, inside the appallingly tight confines of my jockstrap. This was mortifying in the extreme, as well as uncomfortable, but bent double as I was, and huddled in the melee, at least nobody saw. Sometimes too it would happen in the classroom (later, at university lectures) inside my trousers, hidden by the desk, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  But when I did want to do something about it—I mean, when I chose to make myself come, as happened from time to time—I could never bring myself, for some reason, to use my hand. I’d rub my trouser front—hard-on conveniently standing vertical inside—up and down the wall of a room (an empty room obviously) rising onto tiptoe on the slow upthrust and then back down until I’d scored my private goal. Or in bed, naked and face down, I’d rub myself off along the bottom sheet.

  Why, for all those years, from the age of fourteen till I turned nineteen, did I never use my hand? I ask myself now. Everyone else did, it’s so obviously the most convenient thing to do, and it’s something that I do quite naturally now, with others or on my own. But I know the answer of course, and even though I wouldn’t have admitted it I knew it back then too. I was ashamed, quite simply, of my size. Despite my height, muscle and build, at the age of eighteen I was still kitted out with a penis and correspondent testicles that, in terms of size, looked more like the adornments of a boy of twelve.

  Apart from their diminutive scale there was nothing wrong with my cock and balls at all. They were (and still are) as pretty and elegant a set of tackle as you’ve ever seen. And between them they delivered the goods. The quantity of sperm they could produce was in proportion to my size and rugby player’s physique, rather than in relation to the little funnel through which my spunk was squeezed. How did I know this, when I’d never done anything with another boy, nor seen another boy do it to himself? Well, I know now of course, but I could work it out back then also. I’d seen the stains on other boys’ sheets at boarding school at bed-making time, and they were approximately the same size—and map-like shape—as mine. Tidier, cleaner boys kept a hanky under the pillow or a small towel in a bedside drawer. One boy used an old gray sock. Nobody needed to take the precaution of keeping a jam jar beneath the bed.

  Size, then, was my one concern. I measured my cock often and anxiously during my eighteenth and nineteenth years. At full stretch it remained an obstinate three and three-quarter inches. It had been nearly as big when I was thirteen. Its circumference was a tad more than three inches. Not the diameter, the circumference: do the math. It was thicker than any reasonably normal-sized pen, but not by much. When flaccid it hid like a button inside the funnel of its foreskin sheath. Even when stiff it rarely showed its head, a small ripe raspberry and just as scarlet, which had to be hauled out, protesting redly, in bath or shower for its daily wash behind the ears.

  It wasn’t as though I didn’t know how big an eighteen-year-old’s cock was supposed to be. Received wisdom among us boys was that six-point-something inches was the norm. Some people boasted of having considerably more than that. And in order for there to be a norm, of course, it followed that many others—though they wouldn’t boast about the fact—must have rather less. But why me? And why a mere three and three-quarter inches? Surely no one of my size and physique had to be as far below the average as that? I’d have been grateful for five.

  As I was sharing a room with Jack, I saw his cock from time to time. He was neither ostentatious nor bashful when it came to undressing to get ready for bed. I never saw Jack’s prick erect, so I had no idea of its extent in inches when in
that state. But it appeared inevitably, from time to time, in off duty mode. On those occasions it hung, in a fat and jutting curve, like a big beef sausage over his two proud balls. It had a heavy, flattish head (this was very noticeable because he was circumcised) and that head was rimmed with a broad, shamelessly out-turned, flange. His balls were the size of extra-large hens’ eggs, thickly wrapped. I took care never to let Jack glimpse my own small packet. I had nothing that could compete with his. Undressing, I always made sure to turn my back. And my lack of willingness to parade my goods in the shared space of our bedroom didn’t bother him—even if he was aware of it—one bit.

  I’ve said Jack’s balls were the size of hens’ eggs. So what of mine? The size of quail’s eggs. For the record, they still are. Not that that bothers me. They do their job. They deliver the goods. Nobody ever complains.

  The beginning of my second term at Edinburgh saw all of us allocated to new rooms. I found mine easily. It was in the same block as last year’s, though on a different landing and, in honor of my new status as a second-year, a single. No more sharing. As I unpacked I wondered idly who my next-door neighbor would be. I had arrived early and the guy next door hadn’t turned up yet, or if he had he hadn’t got round to writing on the name card on his door. I had written my own name up at once—Rufus McCann.

  A short time later came a knock at my door. Opening it I found myself looking into the eyes of Luke, Mike’s non-rugby-playing roommate from last year. Since our days of pubbing with Mike and Jack had come to an end back in the spring we’d done little more than exchange the odd hallo. Now Luke said to me, “Looks like we’re living next door to each other. Want to come in for some tea?”

  If an invitation to a cup of tea seems a bit tame by way of an opener, well, neither of us was fully unpacked, and it was precisely four in the afternoon. We sat on spartan student chairs and chatted about the long summer vacs that had just come to an end, about the things we had done during that time. I had forgotten—if I’d ever properly taken it in—what a likeable, easygoing chap Luke was. I found myself regretting that we hadn’t continued to spend time together after those rugby pub outings stopped, and thinking that he was probably nicer, and more fun, than most of the new friends I’d made since then. Also I had to admit that in the last year his petite good looks were much improved. His small physique had developed, in its own small way, but nicely so. He had a cute nose and a head of dark curly hair. I’d given no thought at all to his looks last year, simply had not noticed them, and now was a bit surprised to remember that.

  Now I know better. The previous year I hadn’t allowed myself, hadn’t dared, to think about Luke’s looks; nor, really, about any other boys’. But a year on and my imagination had grown bolder; my heart and courage too, perhaps.

  As it happened, tea was not the end of my association with Luke that evening. We met later for drinks in the Union bar, briefly joined some friends of his for a drink at the Yellow Carvel and then, when we found ourselves walking homeward side by side, Luke offered me a nightcap before bed.

  “Sorry about the choice of tincture,” he said, handing me a half full tumbler of something alarmingly thick looking and the color of red ink. “It’s Dubonnet. A present from my grandmother. It’s very sweet and you’re supposed to dilute it with a good quantity of gin, but it’s the only alcohol I’ve got on hand right now.”

  I said I had no problem with it, and I didn’t. When a drink is free a drink is free, and in my room I had nothing of an alcoholic nature to offer at all. We left it at one glass each (it was nearly as sweet as cough syrup) and I returned to my own room next door for the night. I didn’t leave him completely though, or perhaps it’s truer to say that he didn’t leave me. I christened my new room, and my new bed in it, by rubbing my little self to a state of sticky wetness against the bottom sheet. I found myself thinking of Luke while this was going on and—unlike a year ago when, if I’d found myself thinking of him or any other boy, I would probably have tried to push the thought away—indulged the idea without qualm all the way through to the exercise’s inevitable, enjoyable, explosive conclusion.

  Presumably as a result of what—or who—my fantasies were feeding on, I pretty well flooded the bed. Surveying the damage the next morning I wondered whether the jam-jar expedient might be called for in future, after all. More practically, pragmatically, I took to laying a small towel across the middle section of the sheet from then on.

  Over the next few days Luke and I saw plenty of each other. Living in adjacent rooms as we did, it was the most natural thing in the world to look in on each other on returning from a lecture, say, and drink a coffee together, idling away bits of day, or evening, when we should in theory have been researching our essays, reading books or even—heaven help us—getting words down on paper: essays to be handed in. We went out to pubs together, the Yellow Carvel perhaps, or Ryrie’s Bar, sometimes with other friends but often just the two of us: we found we were quite content with each other’s company. Before bed we’d sometimes have a late-night drink in either my bedroom or Luke’s. (The Dubonnet was finished, mercifully; we had both stocked up with a proper bottle of scotch.) We’d put the world to rights on those evenings, talking politics and world affairs (I was reading politics, Luke geography: we had plenty to say.) We also talked about ourselves, our hopes, our tastes in books and films, all those normal topics. One subject was noticeably absent from our discussions, though: the subject of girls, and sex.

  Whenever I went back to my room after one of our late whiskey talks I always made myself come, once I’d got to bed, in my tried and tested way. But now it was a more regular thing, an essential part of my routine, and always, always, now it was with thoughts of Luke. I sometimes wondered if Luke was doing something similar next door. In fact I was pretty sure he was, since it was something all boys did and he certainly had no girlfriend. I presumed he used his elfin hand for the purpose, and managed quite easily to picture him doing this. What I didn’t dare to imagine was that he might be thinking of me, strapping red-haired Rufus, as he stroked himself. That would have been a narcissistic step too far. Even so, I knew he liked me, as much as I liked him, and was growing to like me even better by the day. But in that way? I didn’t allow myself to imagine that.

  Sometimes even Edinburgh can deliver an autumn day that is positively hot. One of those days occurred in the second week of that term. After breakfast I had some reading to do, but before settling down to it I decided I would change into a pair of shorts. I hadn’t brought rugby shorts up with me for the start of this second year. I knew that I didn’t want to play again, and having no kit to wear would be quite a good answer to anyone who tried to wheedle me back onto the team. I had, though, the lightweight, brief white pair of shorts that I’d used back in schooldays for gym. I stopped for a moment before I put them on, and decided, just for the hell of it, to take my underpants off first. I liked the feeling of my cock and balls inside nothing except those lightweight shorts, half free but half confined. As I said, the day was hot. And then I got down to what I was supposed to be doing, sitting reading at my desk and making notes, dressed in those shorts, a very skimpy short-sleeved blue shirt that I didn’t bother to do up and nothing else. No socks, no shoes.

  After a couple of hours of reading I began to feel, well—ready to do something with my cock, rub it against the wall perhaps, encouraged by my semi-undressed state. I was just beginning to think about doing this when I heard my neighbor’s door open and then shut again. Luke had returned from a lecture. I sat still, trying to imagine what Luke was doing now in the privacy of the room next door. Not rubbing his cock up and down against the wall, I guessed, but then, you never knew. I decided to call on him. There was nothing new in that by now. The only different thing was the way I was dressed.

  And the way he was, I quickly discovered. I’d knocked at his door and walked right in, without waiting for an invitation, as he and I now always did. And there he stood, in the middle of the room, havin
g just emerged from his bathroom, I think, wearing similar white gym shorts and nothing else, not even a shirt. I couldn’t speak. He looked so stunning that words were temporarily strangers to my mouth.

  Then he grinned, said, “Have a coffee,” and I said, “Yes.” We made no reference to the exceptional way in which we were both dressed, or what a coincidence it was that we were both attired this way, or even to the unseasonable warmth of the day. We sat opposite each other in his two armchairs, drinking our milky brew, talking about inconsequential nothings that we wouldn’t remember even five minutes afterward, and looking at each other. We didn’t try to hide that, at least. We just looked, and looked.

  Luke was small, about five foot three, but in his own small way as muscular as me, with neat, nicely developed pecs, biceps and thighs, hard calves and a stomach as flat as a board. Two fans of dark hair spread across his chest. They met at the bottom of his rib cage and spindled to a single line of hair, very neat and, except for a tiny detour round his navel, very straight. Finally that line of hair dived teasingly behind the waistband of his shorts, leading to… Well, perhaps I would never know.

  “No wonder you’re called Rufus,” Luke said. He too was seeing my chest hair for the first time. Like the hair on my head it resembles, in color at any rate, a copper wire brush that is spanking clean and new.

  “My parents didn’t call me that,” I said. You’d have to be pretty prescient to guess what color a newborn baby’s hair is going to be. “I’m really William, but I’ve almost forgotten the fact, I suppose. There was a king of England called William Rufus, wasn’t there?” We’re a bit hazy on English kings up here in Scotland. They teach us all the Scottish ones, but they whiz through the ones south of the border a bit quickly until 1603.