Best Gay Erotica 2012

by Richard Labonté

  “Fuck me all night, baby.” The emblem of the miscommunication that brought us together.

  “Feste ass.”

  The bed squeaked, scooted and rocked: the sound of bridled horses galloping across the German countryside: work boots tromping and scuffing wood floors.

  Rolf’s mouth hung open and he shut his eyes tight, crying out, “Aaaaahhhh! Aaaaahhhh!” Copious amounts of semen flooded my asshole and spilled onto the bed. He kept thrusting into me well after he came; a squishing-squelching sound chorused with the staccato thumping of the bed. He raised his upper body and told me to jerk off. “Ich wunsche Sie ejakulieren.” His spit on my dick and told me to use it for lube.

  I yanked my dick while Rolf’s cock kept stretching me out. He grasped my ankles and splayed my legs wide. I looked at his broad torso shiny with sweat and imagined Apollo driving his sun chariot across the morning sky; Hadrian, clad in armor and a centurion helmet, marching off to war, his blood-red cape billowing behind him; Hercules slaying the Hydra.

  I groaned and a geyser of come exploded from me. My nut-busting orgasm felt as if it lasted for several minutes, and when I had squeezed out the last drop of cum Rolf lay down beside me. He kissed my temple and wrapped his arm around me. We slept.

  The Strassenbahn glides through the rain-swept streets of Mannheim during morning rush hour. Though the skies remain overcast and gray, now and again the sun announces itself, not unlike a mischievous child sneaking out of bed to dance and play after his parents have confined him to his room. The citizens of Mannheim are still bundled in their heavy clothes, still stubbornly adherent to their own routines and resigned to the rough unpleasantness of the season.

  I take a seat near the door and place my backpack squarely on my lap. I am rereading Dixon Weatherby’s first novel. It concerns Eugene MacArthur, a black gay man from Mississippi who narrowly escapes a lynching in 1947 and moves with his female cousin to New York City where he falls in love with an Italian-American mason named Giancarlo. It is an engrossing novel, and I read it now with the same wonder and zeal as when I first read it in my freshman year of college. The book enthralls me so much that I do not notice the Fahrkartenkontrolluer standing before me, waiting patiently for my ticket. His looks are handsome in a way that is devastating. His physique is undeniably gorgeous; it is a body not developed naturally but forged over years of discipline and a strict diet and exercise regimen—an archetype of masculine power and strength. I hand him my ticket. He examines it and, satisfied that I paid my fare, returns the ticket to me. “Good book?” he inquires.

  “Ja,” I say.

  “What is it about?”

  “Ein Mann, der sich befreit.”

  The officer nods. He appears intrigued. His gray eyes look directly into mine and for a moment we let the world fall away, existing outside the limits and order of language. We are two men with the same wants and desires, the same need for recognition, respect and comfort. We are not our nations, our languages or the stereotypes that have the power to confine and condemn.

  The officer’s voice slightly quivers when he asks, “Could we meet for a coffee later today? At Connexion?”

  I smile and nod.

  “I’d like to learn more about your book. Perhaps you will bring it with you?”

  I answer, “Ich hole Ihnen eine autographierte Kopie. Ich bin auf meiner Weise, den Autor zu treffen.”

  “Ah, so you know the author? Yes, I would very much like an autographed book. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “At five o’clock?”

  I nod and return to my book.

  As the officer prepares to disembark the tram he turns to me and says, “You speak German quite well.” Once he steps off the tram he lifts his hand in a gesture of farewell and maintains eye contact with me until the tram is out of sight.

  THREE BOYS AND A BOAT —OR POSSIBLY FIVE

  Tony Pike

  The summer of 1976 has remained in British folk-memory as the hottest and longest ever, in spite of all the records that have tumbled since. During that summer three young London lads who hadn’t met before rented a holiday cottage together on the Cornish coast, answering an ad they’d all seen in Time Out magazine. There was Jason, just out of university, aged twenty-three and the tallest and biggest of the three. There was Nick, living in that short limbo between school and university: at age nineteen he was a size or two smaller than Jason—though Jason found him quite big enough for his taste in bed. Then there was young Danny, with his last year at school behind him, guitar-playing, broad-brimmed-hat-wearing, very small and very cute, eighteen years old the week he met the other two for the summer.

  On holiday together for the first time, they’d made the happy discovery that they were all gay. The hot weather had caused them to discard the jeans and tops they’d arrived in and to spend all their time in shorts, or swimming trunks, or sometimes neither. The last of these three sartorial possibilities tended to be their favorite when they were alone, the three of them, at Wrynack Cottage, Stoat Lane, in the evenings and early mornings.

  During the first week of their stay, and of their acquaintance with each other, each had been clever enough not to stake any sort of exclusive claims to anyone, and they intended things to stay that way. If Jason wanted to sleep with Nick one night, that was fine with Danny; if Jason and Danny wanted to be alone together one afternoon then Nick saw no problem with that; often they found themselves—almost by accident, it seemed—enjoying a threeway on the lawn. So Jason did not feel in any way put out when, this particular morning, after a brief swim at the beach and a lie down to dry off in the sunshine, the two younger boys walked up the hill to get their bikes and ride off along the Devon lanes. They planned to have lunch in a village pub somewhere. Jason said that if they were planning to be back in time for an evening meal he’d shop and cook for them later. They thanked him and set off.

  Jason remained on the beach, sunbathing and half dozing in the warm air. From time to time he sat up and gazed toward the sea. It was a brilliant blue, sparkling in the sun. Around the cove a number of small sailing boats, dinghies and cabin cruisers, yachts of varying sizes, lay at anchor, barely moving on the calm water, while little wavelets broke lazily against the shore. On one of the boats that stood farthest out there was some activity. Two young men were aboard it, bobbing in and out of sight as they moved about in the course of some task or other—changing the sails, maybe, or painting something. What attracted Jason’s notice particularly was the fact that both the slim and youthful figures appeared to be—as far as he could be certain from this distance—completely naked. Jason watched them for some time, and his heavyweight cock thickened lazily inside his trunks.

  An idea occurred to Jason, though he soon dismissed it as far-fetched. Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to put it into practice today. There was shopping to be done. And if he needed sexual release before the others returned, there was always that familiar entertainment system between his legs. It stirred just then, as he thought about it. Jason smiled. That was something that never let you down.

  In the pub that evening Danny and Nick regaled Jason with the story of their day. It had been more eventful than Jason’s and had involved Nick getting fucked by the diminutive Danny for the first time. There isn’t space to detail that particular adventure here. Enough to say that when the tale was done there was a palpable sense of excitement among the three of them. Nick, who had been the storyteller, felt obliged to break the spell: they were in a public place after all. “Okay,” he said, “who’s for another beer?” As he got up to go and fetch the second round, the ridge in his shorts was plain to see.

  “I hope they don’t look too closely at him when he gets inside,” Jason said to Danny when he’d gone, and Danny gave a little snicker of a laugh and, half turning on his chair toward Jason, enabled him to see—gently showing off—the outline of a miniature erection in his own tight shorts, together with a freshly arrived blot of precome, which had worked it
s way from inside to out and of which he seemed to be quite proud, which Jason found touching.

  Jason would have been tempted to reach out and have a feel of Danny’s hard-on through the fabric of his shorts but the occasional comings and goings of customers through the inn doorway just three feet away ruled that out—at least for the here and now. And then, a moment later, out came Nick, carrying two pints of beer, and with him two young men of about his age—though perhaps one was as old as Jason. This older one was carrying Nick’s third pint, which he set on the table in front of Danny and Jason just as Nick placed the others there. The young man explained, “Saw him struggling with three pints and two hands. Offered him the use of mine.”

  “Thanks, mate,” Nick said, turning to him. “You sure you won’t stay and join us for one before you go?”

  “Not this time,” he said. “Time for me to be off. But can we take you up on it another night? I’m Pete.” He offered Jason and Danny his hand to shake. All shook hands and gave their names. The younger boy was called Simon. In contrast to the shorts-wearing threesome, Pete and Simon were quite heavily dressed, in cord trousers, boots and fishermen’s sweaters. They both looked nice, though, in a butch and clean-cut way. They said goodnight, and see you again, then strode off and disappeared into the dark.

  “They were finishing a game of darts,” Nick explained as he sat down and they all said cheers. “Then, as they were leaving, they saw me trying to carry our three drinks and helped me. Nice of them.”

  The others agreed. “Nice looking too,” Jason said. He thought back to the idea he’d had, lying on the beach that morning, watching the boats and the boys that moved to and fro aboard one of them. Was it possible…?

  “You’re sure you don’t mind Danny and me disappearing on our bikes again?” Nick asked Jason. Another sun-washed morning had begun, and the three lads had once more made their way downhill, with towels and wearing swimming trunks, to the beach.

  “No, not at all,” Jason said. He added mysteriously, “I’ve got a little adventure of my own in mind, actually. Though it may not work out.” But he wore a look of determination that made the others think he was going to make pretty damn sure it did work out, whatever it might be. “I’ll let you know all about it afterward. Promise.”

  Relieved to be let go with Jason’s blessing, the younger two took their leave. Half lying, half sitting on the sand, Jason watched them go, waved to them as they mounted their bikes and rode away uphill and inland, then turned his head toward the sea, glittering with its morning diamonds, and for some minutes lazily half watched the two young men on the distant yacht—who again seemed to be completely naked—going about their nautical housekeeping tasks.

  Then, wearing nothing but his flip-flops, his tightest pair of swimming trunks, and with his small towel over one broad shoulder, Jason stood and walked down the sun-warmed beach. Halfway to the water’s edge he came to a sudden stop. All signs of life on board the yacht he’d been observing had disappeared, and Jason wondered if he was already too late. But then, after a little while, the two naked young men Jason had been watching earlier emerged from below deck, showed themselves in full-length silhouette for a moment, then sank down till only their heads were visible. It was difficult to be sure at this distance but they had each seemed to be carrying some object carefully in one hand, and Jason made the reasonable guess that they had come out on deck with a cup of tea or coffee each, and had now sat down to drink it in the sunshine.

  Jason continued to stare at their heads for a moment longer but saw no other sign of activity. Then he resumed his walk down the beach to where gentle wavelets—the soft lappings of a summer morning—were unthreateningly licking the shore. He realized, hardly daring to believe it, that this was the moment. He was about to put his plan into action. The thought made him giddy for a moment. It was a plan so bold, so outrageous, that until a few days ago he would not have contemplated it in his wildest dreams.

  A little distance before the water’s edge a craggy pile of rock reared up through the sand. Here Nick and Danny had gone poking about in rock pools their first morning. Jason remembered how his cock had stiffened as he’d watched them both in the distance getting their dicks out and playfully peeing into a pool from opposite sides. By now Jason knew there was a crevice in this rocky outcrop, near the top, which remained dry even at the top of a normal summer high tide. He made toward this crevice now and, on finding it, stuffed his flip-flops and the towel he carried as far into it as they would go. After a moment’s hesitation and a glance back along the beach, he peeled off his trunks and crammed those in as well. Then he walked the last few yards into the sea.

  Jason waded till he was armpit deep and then struck out, breaststroke. He wanted to keep his destination in sight, if it were possible, all the way. The hull of the yacht was now only occasionally visible, but the masthead remained a reassuring landmark to help him keep his course. It was a longer swim than he’d anticipated. At one point he thought he heard the buzz of an outboard motor somewhere quite near, but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction of the sound with any accuracy nor could he see a boat. But at last the side of the yacht loomed close in front of him, and Jason, feeling there could be no going back now, quickly closed the gap between it and himself.

  He hauled himself out of the water with the help of cleats on the yacht’s slippery side, and then was peering in over the rail. And there he beheld, sitting in the well of the yacht’s cockpit, not two young men with no clothes on but, sitting facing him, a single youth clad in shorts. They were the smallest, tightest shorts imaginable, it has to be said, and they were khaki in color, so they very nearly matched the tone of the youth’s lightly tanned skin, but they still clothed him a hundred percent more decently than Jason himself was clad. What’s more—although this surprised Jason rather less—the youth was someone Jason knew.

  Or at least, had met. It was hard to say which of the two was the more surprised. But it was the youth, on his home ground and more confidently dressed, who spoke first. “Oh, hi. We met in the pub last night. You were with… Sorry, I don’t remember their names. Pete helped carry your drinks out. He’s my cousin. I’m Simon.”

  “I remember,” Jason said. “And I’m Jason. My two mates… Well, they’re not here right now. Danny and Nick.”

  “Climb on over,” Simon said to Jason, who still hesitated, hanging on to the rail, his feet trailing in the water below.

  “Are you sure?” Jason queried, suddenly disconcerted by his nakedness. “I don’t have any trunks on.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Just hop over the rail anyway. You’ve just missed Pete. He buzzed off to shore in the inflatable a few minutes ago to get some supplies. Surprised you didn’t meet him.”

  “Think I heard his outboard, but our paths didn’t quite cross.” Jason hauled himself onto the deck and stood in all his naked glory, dripping. In the main he made an impressive sight: a Michelangelo statue, tall, slim waisted and muscular. But his crowning adornment, his more-than-Michelangelo prick, had been severely affected by its exposure to the chilly sea, and looked distinctly cold and sorry for itself and small: a little pinecone protruding from the join between belly and legs, retreating shyly behind his foreskin’s folds, his pee-hole a tiny tight pucker in the skin. As for his magnificent balls, they were scarcely on view at all, as they tried to climb back into the warmth inside him, his ball sac tight and wrinkled as a prune, and almost hidden among his pubes. Whatever might or might not be lurking in the privacy of Simon’s shorts, the boy was not going to be intimidated by anything that Jason had on show right now.

  “Let me get you a towel,” Simon offered practically. He got up. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared down the companionway, making the boat rock slightly. Jason lowered himself onto the bench seating of the cockpit and made himself as comfortable as naked skin can manage to be on shiny, plastic-covered cushions.

  Simon reappeared a moment later with a towel. To Jason’s
mild disappointment, though hardly to his surprise, he was still wearing shorts. Even so, he was a very prepossessing sight. Jason guessed his age to be about nineteen, like Nick. And though he wasn’t as big or tall as Nick he was chunky and muscular in a cute kind of way. He had straw-blond hair, blue eyes, snub nose and a smiling mouth. And those shorts were tantalizingly tight. Jason guessed they had been his Boy Scout uniform shorts, outgrown and discarded maybe three years before but now pressed once again into overstretched service for the summer. They revealed practically the whole of his sturdy thighs, and were tight enough to display a proud prominence at the front: a dome in which it was not yet possible to pick out separate outlines of cock and balls but which was nevertheless extremely promising in terms of size.

  “Here.” Simon threw the towel to Jason, who caught it, thanked him and promptly stood up and started to dry himself. After a few seconds he was surprised to hear Simon say, “Here, I’ll help you do your back,” which he immediately did, even patting Jason’s buttocks dry, though he was careful not to let his hands stray round to the front. Then they both sat down again on the bench seats, facing each other across the cockpit. They were both nervous now and unsure what to do or say next. Simon, conscious of his duties as a host, said, “Pete’ll be back shortly, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’m not too sure what the time is but I reckon it’s never too early for a gin and tonic. What do you think?” Jason thought this a fine idea and said so, at which Simon disappeared below deck a second time.

  It took him a little longer to fix the gin and tonic than it had to fetch the towel, and Jason took advantage of this time to try and do something about his sadly foreshortened cock. In deciding to swim out here and bravely show himself off in statuesque nudity he had forgotten to take into account the inevitable effects of prolonged immersion in cold water. Nor had he guessed that the two young men he’d come calling on might not be naked after all. That made two things that had gone wrong. Still, it could have been worse. Simon had turned out to be not quite a stranger, and a nice fellow too.