You learn a lot when you gain weight. Like how big a turn-off spare pounds are to your gay brethren. One week, you’re right in the thick of things, cruising and flirting up a storm; the next, you don’t get noticed unless you make a funny sound or ask an untoward question…like, “How’s it goin’?”
Being chubby in a skinny fag’s world leaves you with lots of time to look around unnoticed, to see things. Important things like what’s passing for glamorous these days, what makes all the guys’ heads turn. When a musclebound, shaven-headed, earringed, faux macho-man struts past, the other guys are so busy craning their necks for a second look that they don’t even realize you’re checking them out, puzzling over how something so homogenous could elicit such ravenous interest.
I may be chubby, but I haven’t lost interest in sex. I’ve never been much of a slut, always the big talker and seldom-doer. Until last weekend, I’d only ever slept with three guys: two steady boyfriends I ended up seeing for almost two years apiece, and one one-week stand in-between them, with a snarky undergrad when I was a graduating senior and old enough to know better. The latter left me with genital warts, quite a feat considering we both wore condoms at all times. Did the fucker have them on his tongue or something? Sheesh.
Don’t listen to anyone when they try to get you to, “Relax…we’re having safer sex.” Safer than what? Not having sex at all? Yeah, but still not safe, not ever one hundred percent safe. Sex is always dangerous. One way or another.
I was probably thinking about sex when I first bumped into Christopher. I always think about sex; I’m thinking about it right now, even as I’m trying to describe all the things that led up to the most incredible sex of my life, with Christopher, last weekend.
I had been on my building’s elevator for so long I was almost convinced it was stuck. Visions of Keanu Reeves appearing at the vent overhead, pulling me to safety, evaporated when the ancient door slid open: Ground floor. Hooray.
I stepped out and made a beeline for my mailbox, hoping desperately that I’d received my copy of Entertainment Weekly. The weekend just isn’t the weekend if I haven’t devoured everything that just happened the week before. Besides, I’d heard that there was a Barbra Streisand cover story, and though I hate that woman (I’m sorry, but where’s the pizazz?), there was a fifty-fifty chance for a photo of her luscious son by Elliott Gould (go figure).
Standing at my box was this guy, this big, chunky guy, trying in vain to force open my mailbox with his key. The nerve! I couldn’t believe it was happening; I started to pipe up just before he glanced over at me and flashed me the pearliest grin I think I’ve ever seen.
“Hiya,” he chirped, as nonchalantly as a person not trying to steal my mail, “How’re you?”
“Okay.”
He’d straightened and was facing me now, allowing the full effect to sink in. I’m not one for physical attraction; I mean, I get turned on by just about any guy, whether he’s classically studly or charmingly nerdy, just so long as he’s “cute.” But this guy—whoa!—this guy was unwittingly pushing every button on my panel without even lifting a finger.
He was my height, five foot nine, give or take, and roughly my build, except maybe even a bit chubbier. That would make him about, what? two twenty? Shut up, already—we’ve both got broad shoulders and big bones; two twenty isn’t the end of the world, even if it is nearing the end of the scale. He had short, dirty blond hair, a slight scruff on his round cheeks, and a Kirk Douglas puncture wound (read: dimple) in the middle of his chin. His eyes were sort of hazel, and they were looking at me with keen interest. It was like when you catch the attention of a cat—you get the feeling that no matter how hard you try, they’re not gonna stop staring at you until they’re good and ready.
“I’m having a hard time with my mailbox,” he shrugged, “I’m new.”
“You might have an easier time if you stuck the key in the right box,” I said playfully, pointing first to the 6-E on my mailbox, and then to the 6-E printed on my key. He did a double-take, checked his key, then flushed scarlet and stammered an apology.
“It’s no problem,” I laughed, enjoying his cute discomfort, “Any time.”
When he retrieved his mail—success!—it turned out he lived in 7-E, just a few feet above my head.
“I’m dying of embarrassment,” he said, squinching up his face like a nine year old might. A great big, cuddly nine year old in a twenty-nine-year-old body.
“Really,” I replied, “it could’ve been worse—you could’ve been trying to get into my apartment.” We both laughed and then I took off to the store with my mail peeking out of my backpack. As I walked away from him, I had that familiar desire to be able to suck it in—not my tummy, but my love handles—for his benefit. I miss the days of feeling like I was doing someone a favor simply by turning around and walking away, gifting them with a pleasant view. But as I left the building, I turned slightly and saw that he was standing in the same place, watching me leave. Not so shabby after all, I guess, or was I just imagining things?
Later that evening, I found out.
I shopped, came home, put stuff away, and dropped. I’d been working thirteen-hour days trying to finish a mailing list at work, and now that it was over, I felt every lost hour of sleep and relaxation coming back with a vengeance. I thought I could sleep for days lying there on my folded-up futon mattress. I didn’t even bother spreading it out, or changing into more appropriate clothes, I just…
…woke up with the shock of submersion. I was dripping wet, suddenly awake, and too annoyed to do more than exclaim. It was pitch black outside; I’d been asleep for hours and had only woken up because a light but persistent stream of water was drizzling on my face from the ceiling, where it was condensing in a two-foot patch.
Oh, shit. All I could think of was that the new (cute) neighbor had left his tub running and taken off for the evening. I was going to have to call the super and get him out of bed to come over, get into the apartment, and wade across the upstairs neighbor’s living room to incapacitate the tub.
I dashed out of my room, out of my apartment, and up the two small flights of stairs to seven, pounding on the door to 7-E.
“Anyone there? C’mon, open up!”
To my surprise, someone did. It was the new guy, and he was wearing an enormous white robe, just like Madonna in Truth Or Dare.
“What’s up?” he asked, warming to the intrusion.
“Water. Is. Pouring. Out. Of. My. Ceiling,” I seethed, “What’s the problem?”
“It is? I mean, I don’t know, I have no idea…” He stepped back inside his apartment and I followed him to the bathroom, but there was nothing overflowing anywhere. It could only be a burst pipe, and that would be a major pain in the ass to fix.
“Call Juan,” he said, handing me his phone, “He’ll have to come right over.”
Juan did, and was taking his sweet-assed time digging around in the tub and under the sink while Christopher—we’d finally exchanged names—and I sat around watching E! and criticizing Bianca Ferrere and Steve Kmetko. We really hit it off like that, just joking around with each other like old pals, no awkwardness at all. The whole time, Christopher was still in his diva robe, affording me a look at his hairy chest and even hairier legs. He smelled fucking terrific, too, like he’d used some amazing bath gel in the shower, or maybe it was just a killer shampoo. With his hair dripping in his eyes, he looked like young Marlon Brando, except doughier, blonder, and more approachable.
“It’s fixed,” Juan barked on his way out, “Don’t be so rough on the pipes.”
“Oh, okay,” I called after him, “Next time we take a shower, we’ll do it real gentle-like.”
Now came the weirdness. Up until that point, Juan’s presence made the evening harmless. Now, I was alone in the room with a sexy guy who was wearing only a robe and a sheepish grin. He was sitting on the couch, and I was sitting on the couch’s arm, feeling like Tweetie Bird balancing on the swing in his gilded cage.<
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“I better go, eh?” I chattered, getting up to leave.
“No,” Christopher said, taking my arm, “Stay.”
I’m not lying when I tell you that this kind of shit never happens to me, but the next step was complete facial gridlock. He pulled me over onto his lap, holding my jaw and kissing my face like a lonely dog. When he got me on the lips, he had his tongue in my mouth before I was aware my mouth was even open. Just the way he pulled me over onto him made me weak with wanting it—he was so aggressive.
I ground my ass into his crotch, my knees at my chest, his arms around my torso and pulling me closer. He kissed my cheeks, licked my neck, nibbled the skin at my shoulder blades—in no time flat, I became shirtless without a care in the world that my belly would be exposed. When he reached up and manipulated one of my nipples, kissed it and flickered his tongue over the tip, I nearly lost it—not only did it make me instantly unafraid that my fleshy body wouldn’t be appealing to him, it just so happens that with me, it’s all in the nipples.
“Oh, yeah, I love that,” I muttered, forgetting that dirty talk usually does nothing for me. This time, it wasn’t contrived dirty talk; it was stuff I was saying because I couldn’t help myself.
“Suck my tits, lick my tits.” I bounced in his lap, luxuriating in the attention he paid to the most sensitive part of my body.
Christopher swirled his tongue around my nipples, ran it from tit to tit and back again, chewed them until they were so raw every touch felt like ten. He was really hard under me—I could feel his prick beating against the underside of my thigh.
I was reluctant to give up the nipple work, but there was more to be had. I stood up and unbelted my jeans, pulled them down and off. (Mental note: Use more bleach on underwear.)
Christopher sat still, expectant, smiling, and winked at me while I got completely naked. I wouldn’t learn until the next day that he secretly loves to leave the underwear on, to work around it.
My next move was to open his robe. I don’t know why gay guys are so afraid of a little meat on a man’s bones, but if anyone could persuade them to change their ways, it’s Christopher. He is a hunky, meaty man with a large gut and rounded pecs and just about the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t porno-huge—they never are, are they?—but just perfectly fat and artistically veiny, and it was leaking pre-cum like my ceiling leaks pipewater.
Condoms.
He had some, thank God, because who knows what I’d have done without them. Sandwich bags? Or just asking lots of sexual history questions and taking the gamble? I pulled a tight one on him and another on myself. He was admiring my dick, too, stroking it so firmly I had to ask him to lay off—seeing his sexy body all naked and glistening, not to mention the most loving pec job of all time, had me ready to squint and spritz.
I went down on him in one big gulp, wishing that instead of mint, they made condoms taste like dick, with a hint of pre-cum. But rubbing my lips over the shape of his dick was exciting enough for now, at least until we could make a trip to get tested. And the feeling was mutual: Christopher just lay there in awe, mouth agape, eyes closed.
I got a major rise out of him when I licked and suckled his nuts—the most sensitive part of his body—and a loud roar when I nipped my way from the tip of his cock to the underside of his scrotum. When I lifted one of his legs, he almost stopped me, thinking I’d suck his asshole. Now would I do that? In a flash, actually, but under the circumstances, I was going to settle for faking it.
I buried my face in his ass, licking his crack and teasing his perineum with my tongue. He smelled great, very musky despite the scent of Ivory soap everywhere. I love the smell of a man’s ass, and under safer circumstances, I love, love, love to tongue a big man’s asshole, make him cry like a baby with so much nasty pleasure. I rolled my face in the crack of his ass, hoping to absorb that scent on my cheeks to smell later, when the lovemaking inevitably had ended.
He pulled me back up to kiss me, dropping his hands to my ass, which he squeezed mercilessly. He bunched my cheeks up in his fists and worked them back and forth, with and against each other, my asshole burning from the friction. I hadn’t been fucked in a year, and hadn’t ever wanted to get fucked as badly as I wanted it right then. He worked his forefingers toward one another until they massaged my butthole from opposite angles and slipped into me up to the first knuckles.
“Aw, fuck,” I gasped, wiggling on his fingertips. “I gotta get fucked, man, I have to have it tonight....”
He shushed me, “I know, I know...I’ll do it, I’ll do it to you good and hard like this asshole,” (rubbing the rim of my hole furiously) “needs to be fucked.” I hadn’t showered, wasn’t clean like Christopher—I could smell my sweaty butt and balls, getting all riled up with his touching.
I rubbed his condomed cock with ForPlay, unable to resist jerking it tightly enough to constitute the beginnings of a handjob. He looked like he would’ve settled for that quick relief, but I couldn’t let that happen so I stopped, applied more lube to my butt, and positioned myself over his erection, squatting over it there on the couch. I was preparing to lower myself onto him, but he beat me to the punch. He’d loosened me enough that when he shoved his fat cock upwards at my asshole, it sank halfway in, no problem at all.
“Oh, mother fuck!” I called out, seeing stars and losing control. He started pumping up and into me while I held onto the back of the sofa, just squatted there and let him nail me from below. He held my love handles, pinching them hard enough to burn, while he thrust his hips up, fucking me frantically. Toward the end, he was leaping almost off the cushions to get me as deep as he could, and I felt it, baby, I felt it.
“I’m gonna...” I stood up on the couch, his prick slipping out of my ass and into his immediately jerking fist. I shot cum onto the bricks of the wall, working my meat with my left hand until I didn’t think I would ever come again. By the time I’d collapsed into his lap, he’d spilled all over the coffee table (here’s hoping he’d already read that poor issue of Out) and was losing his boner, half asleep and satisfied.
“That was so great,” I murmured. He agreed, hugging me gently and whispering things I couldn’t make out. I looked him in the eye and he looked back, rubbing my belly with one hand, holding me in place—close to him—with the other. I knew then—and I’ll let you know if I’m right when the time comes—that I was gonna be with Christopher for a long time. I think he could tell I was thinking that, because he smacked my butt affectionately and kissed my nose.
“Chubby,” he whispered to me sweetly.
And then we split a pizza.
Clothes Do Make the Man
Lawrence Schimel
George’s apartment was a nightmare scene of half-dressed fags. George designed porn CD-ROMs for a living, but this wasn’t a shoot for his latest title. In one of the previous jobs on his long and checkered résumé he’d been a mannequin designer. When the mannequin company had folded, George had been left with more than a hundred wigs in his possession, and while he’d lost or given away many of them over the years, he still had more than sixty left. Every year, a gaggle of fags would show up on his doorstep on Wigstock morning begging to borrow a wig and be made up. Now, ten gay boys had descended upon his apartment like a plague of locusts before the harvest.
I’ve always found partially-clothed men to be extremely sexy. A man in a vest with no shirt on underneath will inadvertently give you a flash of nipple every now and then, and soon you find yourself waiting for it, watching for it, because it’s so unexpected when the drape of fabric suddenly falls back to reveal that pert brown circle. Or your lover will walk unabashedly about your apartment in silk boxers, and your eyes fall to his fly as it gapes and yawns and flashes the dark hair beneath and (what you’re really hungering for) a glimpse of cock, momentary, like a flashbulb on a camera. And like that brilliant light, it lingers on your vision even after it’s faded away.
And there’s something about men who are partially dre
ssed in women’s clothing (especially butch men like the Chelsea gym queens now before me) that’s even more attractive, because it accentuates their masculinity. For instance, Bernie (short for Bernardo) was one of those deceptive Italian studs: all muscle and meat on the outside, but such a soft and nelly voice, seemingly so out of character with the rest of him. But right now he had his mouth closed as he puckered his lipsticked lips and, shirtless, postured in front of the full-body mirror on the closet door in a pair of silver elbow-length gloves. He put his hands on his hips and pouted into the mirror, trying on different expressions.
I marveled at the intense musculature of his back, the way his shoulders and biceps faded into those slender-seeming gloves, the way his top-heavy torso faded into his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, which poked out from beneath his practically non-existent cut-offs. He had a firm, round ass, and his legs were undeniably male: thick columns of muscle. I imagined them wrapping around me and squeezing me tightly, until I was unable to move, pinned by their strength and bulk.
Bernie caught my eye in the mirror and said, “Honey, you’re going to need to tuck that thing.” He stepped aside and I got a look at myself in the mirror and blushed. I was wearing an orange and yellow dress that looked like it had once been the wallpaper on Continental Airlines back in the seventies, and I had an erection tenting it out in front of me.
I strutted forward, wobbling a bit in my heels (in part for effect and in part because I didn’t really know how to walk properly yet), until I stood right behind him. I rubbed my crotch against his ass. “You want me to tuck it in here, did you say?”
I got whistles and hoots of laughter from the other boys, who’d paused in their own preparations to pay attention to this latest mini-drama. Or maybe they’d all stopped to check out my basket. I stepped beside Bernie and stared at myself next to him. How could I properly cruise any of these boys when they couldn’t see what my body really looked like? My best friend (who was to be called Royal Flush today) and I had arrived at George’s before any of them, and my make-up had been well under way by the time anyone else had arrived. I was done up to look like Agnes Moorhead as Endora from Bewitched, with bright orange lipstick and thickly-applied blue and purple eyeshadow. George had done wonders, but that was always the case. He had a sense of style that could create art—or camp—out of anything or anyone.
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