Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  The first of the needles broke his skin, the ink penetrated his dermis, hundreds of times a second.

  We Own the Night

  Paul Reed

  San Francisco is loved for its spectacular natural setting, its staggering views. But there are other parts that are best described as urban blight. These are the parts we love, especially after dark, in the night, when the fog rolls in and the chilling sea breeze sweeps the streets. The homeless bundle themselves in makeshift tents and cardboard cabins, and the citizens of fogtown burrow into their apartments with drapes closed, blinds shut.

  It is a beautiful place then, when we walk these streets, cold and deserted, lit only by the syrupy orange haze of halogen streetlamps. The fog is a blanket, muting sound, chasing even rats indoors. We walk these streets then, for miles, the only sound the scratch of litter chased by nasty westerly winds, the distant moan of foghorns on the bay, and the phantom wail of sirens in some other part of town.

  We are a gang of punks. We are petty criminals. We love the dark, with its dreams and its silence, its call to the imagination, its blackness a shroud for our thrilling adventures. We admire ourselves because we adore crime, we relish the utter lawlessness of it, but our moral boundaries prevent us from doing any real harm. Oh, I suppose someone could make a case that we instill fear and terror in the hearts of “innocent” witnesses and unsuspecting victims, and this could be emotionally damaging to some people. And what can we say in our defense?

  We have never killed, never maimed, never so much as struck other human beings, other than the freaks and neoNazi skinheads who have the unfortunate fate of crossing our paths. Luckily—for them and for us—true skinheads are rare in San Francisco. The city has long been home to so much radicalism and such a hotbed of perversion that truly conservative and the right wing extremists have long since fled to outlying suburbs. And beyond. Since we never venture beyond the city—except in rare circumstances when we go to Berkeley to attend punk concerts—we have few chances of meeting these radical right wing lunatics.

  Of course, we ourselves have been called lunatics for years. People see shaved heads and mohawks and colored hair and piercings and tattoos, and all they can think is that we are outlaws, lunatics. To the charge of outlaws, we plead no contest. We are the embodiment of anarchy, the guys our parents might have called hooligans, committing “foolish shenanigans.”

  But we are not lunatics. If anything, we serve as the saviors of humankind, the preservers of everything that is truly righteous and just. When we deface a public landmark—say, the Henry Moore sculpture in front of the symphony hall—we are making the bold statement that not everyone agrees with everyone else.

  We have no use for such things.

  We are Randy, Darwin, Cage, Jacky, and Christian. Randy has longish green hair. Darwin always sports a plain black mohawk. Cage’s head is shaved. Jacky’s is, too. And Christian, he sports a fiercely spiked red and blond mohawk, a sort of retro late-seventies look. We are all average-sized young guys—twenty, twenty-two, nineteen, twenty-four, and twenty-one respectively. That makes Jacky the oldest of the group, but you couldn’t tell by looking. We all appear fairly childish, as though we might be only teenagers. This is to our advantage.

  We all have very big dicks, too. Randy’s is the smallest, an average six-and-a-half inches long (hard, of course) but with a nice girth to it. Darwin is bigger, about seven-and-a-half inches. Cage, at nineteen, has the second biggest dick, a good eight-and-a-half inches, thick and veiny. Jacky’s dick is very beautiful, a solid seven-inch column of thick meat that stands arrow-straight and can fuck for hours without losing its erection. And lastly, but certainly not leastly, is Christian’s cock, a complete, tape-measure-verified ten inches, with a circumference of seven inches. A monster dick. Beautiful.

  Why such detailed comments about cock size? Why not? We enjoy each other’s bodies, every night, every day. We are buttfucking, cocksucking queerpunks. We rape each other, whenever we feel like it. One of our most favorite scenes is to hold down little Cage and let Christian ram his monster cock into Cage’s very young, very tight asshole. They love it, and when Christian is done, we each take our turns. This is the sex life of our family.

  We are not just well hung, we are all well-tattooed. Jacky has prison tattoos, because he spent most of his adolescence in either reform schools or juvenile halls. Crude, single-needle tattoos of lightning bolts and spider webs. Christian, again, has the biggest and the greatest number of tattoos—dragons, tribals, biomechanicals. The rest of us have a sprinkling of tattoos, words like Fuck Society and Biological Hazard tattooed on our forearms, in plain view of anyone who glances our way.

  You could say that crime is our foreplay. Most nights we wander the town, starting at our usual meeting place, the whitewashed wall of the cemetery at Mission Dolores. Some nights, we wander the deserted streets south of Market. It is dark and moist, foggy and windy. We stroll the empty streets, listening to the forlorn wail of foghorns in the Bay, the occasional passing car. We look westward, toward Twin Peaks, and see the lonely light of Sutro Tower blinking endlessly. We see an elderly Vietnamese woman shuffling along, en route, probably, to some semi-legal living unit within one of the brick and tin warehouses that fill the streets around Harrison and Bryant, Brannan and Division. She hears us coming up behind her, and we howl like maniacs, surrounding her and joining hands to dance a circle round her. She shrieks into the night, holds out her purse to us, supposing that we mean to rob her, that we want money.

  But we want no such thing. We want only to have fun, to see the fear in her eyes, the look of a caged animal. She drops to her knees, sure that we must intend something worse than robbery, but no, we simply break the circle and run away, our retreating forms dissolving into the foggy night.

  We feel exhilaration, such a rush. Our adrenaline is alerted, we have attacked but done nothing of any consequence. We wander the streets again, laughing at our memories of her screams, her offering of her handbag. It is quite possible that we are given the biggest jolt of pleasure ourselves by merely confusing our victims, for if we did not touch her, did not steal her money, did not demand any lewd acts or sexual submission, then what did we do?

  Absolutely nothing, our point exactly.

  We walk closer to the gay bars in the area, the Eagle and the Lone Star. Faggots are easy to frighten. They usually howl like banshees, much more noisily than any woman could ever hope to shriek. We do not understand this prissiness, this extreme sensitivity, because we, too, put cocks, mouths, and asses together for pleasure. We, too, force each other to service our sexual urgings. We, too, slap butts hard, and twist nipples meanly, and tug on ballsacs forcefully enough to take one’s breath away. How are we any different from these guys dolled up in leather?

  But we are different, somehow. We don’t understand it, because, as we have fantasized ourselves, we long for rough treatment. For the choking gag of a long cock shoved down our throats, for the ultimate submission of being raped by throbbing pricks. Why, we wonder, do these men in leather fear us? Why don’t they feel stimulated, aroused by the Everyman fantasy of gang rape?

  When we reach the Eagle, it is nearly closing time, past last call. Men are leaving the bar and climbing on their motorcycles. One young guy catches our fancy—a dude kind of guy, clean shaven, longish hair, torn jeans, leather jacket, Doc Marten boots. He doesn’t get on a motorcycle, he just walks away from the Eagle, along Twelfth Street, towards downtown. We pursue him, quietly, inconspicuously (we think —but then it really isn’t possible for us to blend into the woodwork). By the time he reaches the next block, there isn’t a soul around, and we step up our pace and come right up behind him.

  He looks over his shoulder, and we see the first bit of fear in his eyes. We relish that glimmer of terror, that uncertainty, or perhaps, that certainty that we intend to involve ourselves with him, quite possibly against his will. Before he has a chance to consider his options, we’re upon him, tackling him and draggi
ng him into a sheltered alcove, away from sight. He groans a sort of plea not to hurt him, but we don’t intend to hurt him, only to make a sex toy of him.

  He doesn’t understand this and opens his mouth to call for help. Jacky silences him by clamping his hand over the dude’s lips. Darwin makes a gag from a couple of bandannas and ties it around his face. Something begins to change in the guy, we’re not sure what, but he relaxes, suddenly, as if already giving himself up to us, no fight at all. For a moment we are puzzled, then pleased: he will be easy to use. We grab his wrists and wrench them behind his back. Cage rips the dude’s white tank top beneath his leather jacket, while Randy unbuttons the guy’s jeans and pushes them down around his ankles.

  When his nipples, ass, cock, and balls feel the kiss of the chill night air, his cock stirs, thickening perceptibly, lengthening and plumping. His nipples stand erect, hard buttons on a smooth expanse of a lean, muscled chest. Christian is the first to unbutton his own jeans and let that monster dick swing free, and at the sight of it, the leather guy’s dick leaps upward. We take the bandanna gag off his mouth. We force him to his knees and Christian presses his already-hard cock against the guy’s lips. He opens his mouth, and, to our surprise and delight, takes the entire length of that thing down his throat. We see the Adam’s apple pressed outward from within, no gagging. This disappoints Christian, because he likes to make guys choke.

  Next thing, Darwin is on his knees behind the dude, fondling his butt, sticking a finger into his mouth to lubricate it with saliva, and then inserting the finger into the dude’s ass. The guy thrusts his butt back towards Darwin, like a monkey in heat, presenting herself to be mounted. This one is easy to gang rape. Something about the easiness takes a little pleasure out of it all, but we press on, taking turns at both of his holes—manpussy, we call the mouth and ass of a guy—depositing loads of squirting jizz into him like he’s some kind of disposable bottle.

  Soon it gets a little messy, our cum running out his ass and down his legs, dribbling from the corners of his mouth. We decide to quit, buttoning up and racing away into the night. We do not look back. Later, when we talk about it, we laugh at the simplicity of it all, thinking that we are forever to be a fixture in his jackoff fantasies.

  We walk home from there, to our flat on Haight and Webster. We strip naked and tumble onto three large futons, a tangle of boys, sheets, blankets, and pillows.

  Imagine the sheer thrill of it all—wandering the streets, stirring up fear, arousing suspicion, pure rambunctiousness run amok. We rarely gang rape strangers. We usually save that for ourselves, amongst ourselves. But, as we have just said, occasionally we pick out an attractive rough-loving guy and make him perform for us, service us. We are all so young and energy-ridden that our dicks are half hard all the time, anyway. Satisfying them is as natural a part of the day as eating or pissing.

  One night, bored and restless, we concoct a plan to abduct a straight boy from the streets south of Market, some innocent bridge-and-tunnel type, fresh in from Hayward or Concord, thinking he’s really something by doing the SOMA club scene, so urban, so chic, so happening. Such boys are everywhere on weekend nights, and we want one that is straight and perhaps even a little bit scared—of the city, of sex, of fags, of leather. And of punks.

  We stroll for hours, standing across the street from clubs, examining this and that possibility. Near the Paradise Lounge we spot him, a straight kid, not more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, dorky haircut (a suburban version of a buzzcut), wearing tight jeans and a white T-shirt, and—this is what we like most—topsiders on his feet. We quickly nod in agreement and follow him. He walks down Eleventh Street, toward Slim’s, where he stops and peers in the door. Then he moves on, past the DNA Lounge, and walks into the parking lot beside DNA. We nearly laugh, this is so perfect.

  Following him into the lot, we are excited, and he is unaware. We can hear the music coming from the DNA, a mix of Alien Sex Fiend, Reverend Horton Heat, and the Lunachicks— music from Club Exile. We approach him rapidly from behind, reaching out and grabbing him by both arms, propelling him into the far, very dark corner of the lot, behind parked cars, out of sight of the street. He struggles, we assure him that we intend no harm, just a bit of fun. He relaxes and fails to put up a fight. This is fine. We strip him. He is mystified, his mind clearly puzzled at the reason these punks are stripping him naked. He begins to tremble in fear, and this fills us with delight.

  We are already hard. He is completely soft, but Darwin drops to his knees and takes the straight boy’s dick into his mouth. The boy gasps—pleasure? fear? sudden recognition that this is not a mugging but a sexual encounter? Whatever, he can’t deny the pleasure he feels, or, rather, his body can’t deny it, because despite his fear and confusion, his cock instantly swells in Darwin’s mouth, and his hips begin an involuntary, natural thrust. Cage drops to his knees behind the boy and applies his tongue to the boy’s butt, licking and nibbling. The guy’s dick leaps in pleasure.

  We hold him tight, as Cage works more magic on the boy’s butt, preparing him to take our dicks up his ass. He is lost in a world of pleasure, fear, confusion, anguish, and desperate uncertainty. He has feared sex with boys all his life, but he loves it. He feels he will explode in Darwin’s mouth at any moment, and so Darwin, sensing the approaching orgasm, stops sucking and grabs the boy’s balls and gives a squeeze. That forestalls the orgasm.

  Behind the boy, Cage lubricates his enormous cock and then presses its head against the boy’s butthole. The boy tenses but does not resist, not really. He simply yields to this unexpected, unknown sensation, and, judging by the firmness of his erection, he enjoys these attentions. We each take turns at his ass, fucking him deeply and thoroughly until his dick is issuing a steady stream of clear pre-seminal fluid. When the last of us has emptied our seed into him, we spit on his dick and jerk it off. It takes less than fifteen seconds to get him off, and when it is all over, he drops to his knees, spent. He has been transformed, and we swiftly put ourselves together and run away, into the cold wind of night.

  Months later, we recount this tale and many more like it to the detectives. It serves to underscore the missionary zeal with which we approach such acts. We are not devoted to lives of real crime—we do not murder, maim, burn, or torture. We enable others to expand their experiences, to see new things, to explore the depths of their terror and maladjustment to this fucked-up world.

  None of this makes any sense to the detectives, but what can we expect of such simple-minded folk, who see the world in black and white, who wrap themselves in mantles of forensic science, “criminal psychology,” cut-and-dried domestic disputes, drunkenness, and lewd behavior? We do not fit into this traditional world of crime and punishment, of good guys versus bad guys. It makes no sense to us, who see so clearly, who examine the world in terms of experience and feeling—the exquisite world of sensation. We see the world in terms of sex, excitement, or daring and cowardice, hope and despair, and something, of course, between these qualities; that certain gray area.

  We are drunk with experience, with sensation. We are the eyes and ears of Mother Earth. It is through our eyes and ears and tongues that the planet sees and hears, breathes and lives. The purpose of life, we believe, is to collect as much experience, as many sensations, as many states of mind as we can.

  These detectives think we are nuts, of course. They have arrested all of us on charges of petty theft, bomb scares, rape, defacing public property, and, unfortunately, homicide. They interview us, one by one, to determine “where we are coming from,” but they don’t understand a word of what we say. They see us as misfits and criminals, nothing more.

  But our individual tales, the stories of our lives, are of terrific interest to the court-appointed shrink, who elicits from each of us—one by one, alone—our life histories, you know, where we come from and all that. We have much to tell, the many lives we live and have lived, our vision of America, our hopes for the future. Yes, we have much to tel
l.

  Motherfuckers

  Emanuel Xavier

  1989

  The fiercest, most notorious graffiti artist in New York City: a puerto-rican banjee boy known to everyone as “Supreme.”

  A legend in the making with his “FUCK-YOU-ALL-while-sucking-on-a-lollipop” attitude: Mikey X.

  They first lowered their sunglasses to clock one another while hustling at the West Side Highway piers.

  Supreme: limping up and down Christopher Street with his wooden cane, spitting, crotch-grabbing, smoking big, phat blunts to impress potential clients, the whole time cruising Mikey as he sat trying to sell away his bitter youth.

  Mikey: feigning boredom with Supreme’s played-out machismo and casting him shade, but lighting candles at night and praying to Oshún, santería goddess of love, for just one night with him—fantasizing the touch of Supreme’s milky white skin against his own tanned, olive body; secretly worshipping Supreme while having sex with ugly, old fucks.

  Mother’s Day

  After downing two Crazy Horse forties and smoking a joint, Mikey felt more than pretentious enough to step right up, staring deeply into Supreme’s blood-shot green eyes, making out with him right there at the piers—the lampposts hovering, casting carnal images over the Hudson River, sounds of lust drowned out by inane laughter and blaring house music in the background. An overly excited faggot beeps his horn as he drives by, hoping to experience a ménage à trois. LUNCH BREAK! LUNCH BREAK! Mikey sings out, making it perfectly clear that tonight they belong only to one another.

  Without so much as a gesture, they end up back at Supreme’s West Side crib. The loft: small, dark, seedy, the smell of piss and Pine-Sol creeping in from the bum-infested hallway. Mikey: captivated by the graffitied walls revealed by the soft white candles Supreme lights.