Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  i shook my piece pretty hard…causing my precum to…whip through the air…like a serpent about to strike…its heavy liquid…leaving an…s…shape…in the sand at my feet…

  well…he got down and…crawled…through the brush… towards me…up close…he smelled of funk and dirt…my favorite cologne…his eyes…blue…his skin…deeply tanned… from working outdoors i guess…though it might have been…salon induced…goddamn that’s a big fuckin’ piece of meat you got there…he says grinning…i just stare at him…i let go of my cock…just so he could…catch a look…at the big picture…he grabbed it…giving me a couple of good pulls…then…unbuckling his belt…and unbuttoning his jeans…he unleashed…a fucking whopper…i mean…fuck… okay…i had not expected that…and all the while…he kept talking to me…about my own…big manmeat…and shit like that…but my eyes had seen the glory…so i leaned toward him…so close…my lips…could feel the heat off his body…and i whispered in his ear…can i suck your dick man…he looked at me kind of surprised…then he said…yeah buddy…go for it.

  so i pushed my pants down…around my ankles…and knelt…as shakespeare said…before the god of my idolatry…i yanked his pants down too…i opened my mouth wide…and swallowed hard…i gave him deepthroat but good…burying my face in his sweaty pubes…pulling my mouth off of him… to lick his balls…he tasted just like sex…

  he slapped me with it…smearing…that juice…all over my face…its force of impact made me whirl…using his thumbs… he opened my mouth…further…his cock…flapping about… as if it had a life all its own…he pushed the fingers…of one hand…into my mouth saying…suck ’em…and believe me…i sucked…while he slapped me…with his free hand…tears streamed down my face…i was sure i would gag…but he knew this…warning…don’t you dare fucker…withdrawing his fingers…and sliding that…mean ol’ pecker of his…down the…abyss of my throat…

  i swallowed…as fast as he would feed me…looking up into his eyes…i could see…he knew…exactly…what i needed…so he gave it to me…he spit right in my face…i went down more…willingly…after that…his cock swelled up…he grabbed my ears and…fucked my mouth…the way his pelvis pounded my face was…like a punch…i was beginning to feel dazed…when he suddenly pulled out and shouted…fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck…aiming that nasty…thing…at me…and shooting sperm…all over me…

  i was still…pulling on my own…piece…while he was beginning to relax…after being wracked by orgasm…i felt like saint theresa…treated to a…vision…of almighty ecstasy…while the urge welled up in my balls…he let go a stream of hot piss all over me…and that did it…i tried to…catch…as much as i could…while it splashed on my face…poured down my neck chest and stomach…drenching me…i blew my wad in the crotch of his jeans…

  later…walking down haight street…even the street punks say…i smell like piss…when i catch…my reflection…in a shop window…i see…i look like shit too…

  3.

  “chainsaw fuck…”

  recently…i took a big risk…i let a stud from hell…fuck me gently…with a chainsaw…and no condom…you can imagine my thrill…feeling the icy hot metal…rip into my… flesh…blood and feces flying in every direction…my last words to my trick…before he set the saw in motion…fuck the lube…i want to feel this sucker inside me…at first i thought the risk was mine alone…but as i watched an arc of blood…from a badly severed artery…squirt him in the eye…too bad he didn’t have goggles on…well…it was then i wished i had a safety monitor to tap one of us on the shoulder and say…excuse me…but i really care about you…and i think you’re taking too great a risk here…the thought was rather touching…as last thoughts often are…it was at that point…the saw made contact with bone…causing the chain to slip off track…backfiring…is that the right word for what those chains do…when they whip off…and slice up the dude holding onto the handle for dear life…whatever…i thought… as he bled to death before my eyes…too bad i won’t find another guy like this one…

  I Wonder if My Great Great Toltec Grandmother Was Ever a National Geographic Centerfold

  Jorge Ignacio Cortiñas

  Most days I sell weed in the park and from the spot I claim right by the footbridge I see them before they see me, walking up the grassy hill and staring at their feet. They won’t look up till I mutter, Mota. Then I wait and see how they act.

  They do shit that lets me know. They try and look under the bill of my cap, they smile when I hand them the weed, they say Adios or some shit like that and then stick around, like it takes ’em longer to walk away. If they want to give me stuff right away, a ride or a bag of speed, then I know for sure. That’s the type of white man who will pay if I let him put his mouth on me. If there’s nobody right by me and if I feel like it, I say, Aiight, or Sounds good, and the guy will drive me someplace, someplace of his.

  He’ll kneel before me. He’ll open his mouth to me, close his eyes and bathe my scrotum with his tongue. This is what he pays me for. He’ll take me into his mouth, he’ll swallow me whole, he’ll drink my sperm and believe that he knows me, believe that he can taste soil on the tip of my penis. When I come, his eyes well up with sorrow, his hungry mouth like a little baby when they got no teeth. I stare down at the bald spot on his head, at his big eye expression. Afterward, my body feels spent and raw, his tasteless saliva shrinking as it dries on my skin.

  Taking money from these men is easy. They all hold it out in the beginning, hoping I’ll put it away real quick in my back pocket, three twenty-dollar bills, all facing the same way. Like all three Andrew Jacksons agree. I never say thank you. That’s for them to say into the silence of my poker face, a face I make look like I’m thinking of something else. They always say something. They want to. Some of them say Thank you, softly. Some of them say it loudly, like they’re trying to convince you of something. Either way it’s the same. When I leave their house I walk out the door and don’t look back. I don’t say nothing. My backside is taunt enough.

  I always bathe afterwards, and change my socks and underwear, even if it’s only eleven A.M., the day is just starting and I got no place to be. I never return their phone calls. Sometimes I listen to them, but I don’t say I have. Then I call them out of the blue, tell them to be ready in fifteen minutes, have a bottle of Añejo and the money ready, cash, up front.

  It’s harder to get them to buy me things. That takes time. Maybe I drop a hint. Most times they’ll ask if they can help, like, Is there something they can get me, something I need. I’m careful not to smile when I think about the full-length Fila bubble jacket stuffed with goose down that is way above the counter at FootLocker, behind two employees dressed like referees and under the watchful eye of the security guard, where brown and black hands cannot reach it.

  Like I tell this man to drive me out of my neighborhood, past my corner, where I might run into one of my crew. Keep driving, into the next neighborhood, where I just barely know people’s names, but know enough to keep a low profile and not fly my colors. Drive, past mom and pop stores that sell canvas Carthartt jackets and polyester Ben Davis, to the FootLocker, all windows and polished metal. When he gets me there I make a beeline for the jacket, wait for the man to catch up to me, and then point with my chin and say only my size. Large.

  He doesn’t know I was there two days before. Considering my options. Trying the jackets on.Asking if they thought the inventory would hold out till first thing Sunday, when I can come back with this man and his stack of credit cards that he holds out like shiny glass beads.

  I walk him back to his car but don’t get in. On the sidewalk mothers with small children push past. He looks up with eyes that say he was expecting to at least suck me off. I tell him I have to get to work. I lie because it’s best to leave them dangling with their desire pent up and twisting, so that they begin calling over and over, ready to spend. I lie because I will always put myself in charge, show him and myself that it’s me calling the shots, not him, th
e green he’s got, or his appetite for men with a full head of hair. I lie because I know the kind of man he wants me to be, like men at home in a language he does not speak, men who care enough to shave, brown men who might cry when they’re drunk and might even let you touch them while they close their eyes and think of someone else, in another country. I walk home, thinking I’m leaving this white man only the view of the black Fila jacket he paid for, but through the heavy polyester and the pressed cotton shirt underneath, I feel the stare of his mouth slide up and down my spine.

  I wonder how far I can drag his gaze with me, when I come up to this Norteño on the corner who also stares at me, hard. In another neighborhood, at another hour, the stare of this rival guëy might mean something else, the way he locks onto my pupils, doesn’t let go, holds me up to the streetlight and shakes out my pockets to see if I’m afraid. But high noon on Sunday, flanked by his homies, his eyes are a dare, mad-dogging me, asking why my jacket even looks blue, on his corner, and do I wanna start something.

  The Norteño stands his ground, makes me take a step around him and when he exhales a slow, ’Sup, I look straight ahead, and nod. As I pass him, my eyes rotate to the side and I just barely catch sight of his features, my height and looking like some kind of king in his red forty-niners jacket, round Olmec face set in gangsta stone. I want to brush up against him. I want to think of something to whisper in his ear. But I only pick up my pace, because in the sunlight our eyes never meet.

  Cocksucker’s Tango

  Justin Chin

  1. Queen

  The Cock of Last Resort. I am in an alleyway, a basement let-in, the leather blindfold firmly in place, gripping my eyes until I can feel the moist condensation of sweat between the fragrant leather and my short-sighted eyes. The puffy eye pads press into my eyeballs so tightly that I see green and purple spots as if I were on acid watching a Grateful Dead lightshow, but there are no unwashed hippies here, no skanky flower-children that never grew up nor teenage converts to the nostalgia trip, just the sound of shoes and boots scuffling around me, flies unzipping, the smack of cocks in hand, the ale smell of crotches and unwashed pubes, the occasional grunt and cough, the sticky smack of semi-dried lubricated cocks against flesh.

  The Cock of No Contest. There are those who will grab your head and there are those who will grab your ears like a teapot handle. There are those who will hold your shoulders and those who will try to reach down and pinch your nipples. There are those who you will feel nothing but their cocks in you as they are busy pinching their own nipples as hard as they can. Then there are those who have absolutely no idea what to do with their hands.

  The Cock of Dreams. Cocks fill my mouth, caress my tongue, poke blindly at my lips, slap against my cheeks, one by one they drip their load into my face, in my hair, dribbling down my chin, down my throat, on my lips, on my tongue and I take it in like so many deep breaths, the last gasp of a drowning dog. The very first time I had a cock in my mouth, I gagged so hard, I vomited so much I scared myself. The man I was sucking fled the toilet stall. At that moment I decided that I would never gag again, no matter how large or mean or deep the next cock got. I practiced with fat marker-pens, broom handles, shampoo bottles, beer bottles, carrots, cucumbers. I practiced on the dog to make sure that I could tolerate even the most disgusting cock. I practiced hard and, like musicians training for the symphony, I got good.

  The Cock of Wine & Roses. Once I was falling so fast that I woke up in a pool of piss. Once I was falling and when I woke I was falling and when I got up, I was still falling. There is a Chinese boy who I meet with sometimes, our relationship is wholly undefined, he is not a hustler, at least not in my eyes, but someone I pay. But that is a different story altogether. We agree on a number and it is his job to get me that number of loads. We use dice for this, sometimes one die, sometimes two. He blindfolds me and puts my wrists and ankles in shackles and ties me to my bed, he puts a gag in my mouth, he saves his load for the last one of the session. In the meantime, he gets on the phone and calls phone-sex lines and party-room conferences, he gets on the computer bulletin boards and invites anyone to come and feed me. He takes pictures of the men who come through to feed me. I know, I can hear the click and whirls of the Polaroid camera, I can see the flash through the edges of the blindfold. After the session, after he empties his cock into my mouth, he unshackles me and holds me while I cry like a whipped child. He whispers into my ear, describing the men who I have eaten from. He never shows me the pictures, though, in my imagination, I like to think that he masturbates to them in private, maybe he sells them to other people, saying, look, here’s a picture of a pig, a real pig, (oink oink) do what you want to do to him, here’s his address.

  The Cock of Understanding. When did you learn how to suck cock? The artist Louise Nevelson was once asked how she created her art, and she replied in her croaky Bette Davis voice, “Honey, how do you eat a peach?” Sucking cock is nothing like eating peaches. It is nothing like sucking, even as the prominent verb/continuous tense of its namesake suggests. Suck: to draw into the mouth by inhaling; to draw from in this manner; to draw in by or as if by suction; to suckle. In my youth, terrified by the crudeness and suggestiveness of language, we called it “eating ice cream.” But it is nothing like eating ice cream at all. It is nothing like breathing, it is nothing like art. It is its own act, its own tense, transitive verb, noun, dangling pronoun. It is its own universe, not made of atoms but of stories, so many stories you wish you were deaf.

  The Cock of Love. Once, I considered pulling all my teeth out. I had met a man who promised me nothing but load after load of jism from his beautiful cock and I had partook of it enough to believe him, it was his suggestion. The gumjob, the selling point of men who have gotten so decrepit that that’s the best they can offer on phone-sex lines, sight unseen, all that’s known is a mouth, void of teeth, just a fleshy wet slobber to face-fuck and a voice that cries, Please. I chickened out at the last minute. More likely, I couldn’t make the sacrifice of having a wound in my face, unable to suck cock for weeks while I healed. Sucking cock has nothing to do with monogamy, I recalled telling myself and I got on my knees in the backroom of another bar and I never ever saw that man again. It is no loss. Not yet.

  The Cock of First Offense. There are two kinds of hell. One is an icy world where sinners are lodged in a lake of ice, their heads two-thirds popped out of the lustrous sheet, mouths trapped beneath the frozen solidity, the air is dry as meat lockers. In the other, the more common version, hell is the fire-and-brimstone land that children are told they will be sent to if they misbehave, don’t obey or tell family secrets. Here, demons rip out the glutton’s bowels and drape their intestines on pine trees that are on fire. Liars are fed hot coals. Idolaters have their eyes poked out with blunt pencils. Those who love gossip have their eardrums perforated with biting insects. We’re told that it is the hottest place that anyone will ever experience. The hell you want to go to, though, is that place somewhere between the two hells. Here, there is no sand, as all the sand has melted into glass. But, unlike the fiery hell where melted sand remains in liquid-glass puddles collected on the floor like clogged storm drains in New York City, rank and foul-smelling, floating with the flotsam of discarded memories, the melted sand in this place, by virtue of the clashing temperatures, condenses into a sparkling expanse of glass that you may walk on. It is like walking on an eternal sheet of shattered windscreens, cracked, shattered as an exquisite spider web but still holding to each chip, smooth as the underbellies of lizards, the size of a desert. The fierce light from the Fiery Hell and the coldest intense light from the Ice Hell light this place and the waves of light sneak through the cracks in the glass and make it radiate into a quintillion spray of light. It is a hell worth going to.

  The Cock of Heaven & Earth. Someone’s beeper goes off, someone is chatting to another in the background, someone is preparing for another shot, someone pops open a canned drink, someone can’t get hard, someone has the co
ld flaccidity of a tweaker, someone I recognize, someone has brought a friend, someone is being re-acquainted, someone has a new piercing, someone has a fever, someone has strange bumps on his cockhead, someone is severely deformed. This is democracy in action. I take it all. I accept it all. I accept them all. Like a mother of a nation, I hold them all dear to me. Here on my knees, in this alley this basement let-in with this blindfold in place, here at the wee hours of a new dawn, week after week, I am queen, and I will rule here forever and ever. Watch my coronation, watch me ascend the throne.

  2. Pisser

  You tell me that this kiss means I’m your boy and that your lover doesn’t understand your craving for young smooth boys to play dead for you, the bear of a man that he is and how you now cannot bear the sight of his face nor his body nor his cock, you need a boy to lie across your lap tell me a secret you whisper in my ear tell your daddy your secrets and I spit my spirit of transaction into your ear. This is such a fucked-up way to score but—shit—what’s a person to do when your dealer changes his phone number and doesn’t give it to you—you either take it personally, take it as a sign from the almighty to get clean or you improvise, easy choice when the only voice on the other end of the line plies your ear with sweet promises in some adult bookstore, yeah desperation and dependency can make me fake it good, yeah, I can fake that virgin-shit, that innocent-fuck-shit, that I-haven’t-had-good-sex-until-you shit, being a bespectacled chink helps and he wants to know a secret so I tell him about how my uncle buttfucked me when I was ten which explains my daddy-fetish and oh daddy daddy, feed me your cum daddy.