Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  I lie like mad, and he laps it up like a stray mongrel licking Sizzler throw-outs feed your boy your cum, daddy I whisper and he feeds me with semen, sweet greens, money, gifts, promises. Oh he feeds me good and he feeds me like I was some starving Third World child touched by the blessed golden hand of Sally Struthers and the Christian Children’s Fund and he feeds me and oh, I eat, I eat and I eat like I was that starving Third World child wide-eyed visited with the blessing of All-You-Can-Eat, every meal was like the last meal on death row, belly full, and I shat the whole day to keep up with my feeding schedule and I ate till I puked until I kissed sweet sleep.

  But like the well-fed, contented with my buddha-belly filled with yummy treats, hips swelling fat, I learned to give it away for free, I thought I found my twenty-four-hour open-all-night 7-11 of satiation, yeah, I gave it away, I thought I found the high road to all that I couldn’t bear, every wisp of grief that I couldn’t bear, my heart, my lungs, my liver, my guts, my eyes, my ears, my heart.

  I give it away all the time and I also take too much, but the buffet table doesn’t go on forever, nothing ever does, and he moves on to some little Latino kid who satisfies him better than I could.

  I see you through the glory hole at the adult bookstore, you have him in the black sheer crotchless panties that you once offered to put me in. He is sitting on your lap, you are masturbating with one hand, one hand free to feed the tokens, he is curled on your lap, your head is buried in his skinny chest, he is curled silent as an aborted foetus and you are stroking him and cooing like a pigeon on speed. I do not notice that I am kneeling in a pool of someone else’s cum. After you leave, I sit on the small stool and bring my knee up to my mouth and suck at the fluid in the fabric, sucking out someone else’s cum that I say is yours, that you put your dick through the hole and left your cum just for me and now I am feeding on it like a hungry mosquito, like a baby hungry for a spurt of teat milk.

  But nothing goes on forever, not that craving for some consecrated high in slosh and grind, not for anonymous cum, nothing goes on forever but this bursting in my chest, this new addiction that I hold in my ribs, this bursting this little pisser desire, this queer desire, I take a swig of my heart and baby, lean in, let me tell you one last secret, if I were to leave my body and never come back to it, if I were to leave my blood and never again taste the metal of it, if I were to leave my semen in some stranger’s rectum, leave my brain in some discarded pool of my past, I will know that in the crux of any reckoning, this queer desire defines a locus wider, more than where my dick has been and who it has regretted.

  Liberty

  John Tunui

  My adopted parents treated me to a vacation in New York. We had been friends for three years, and one day at my Fourth of July party, I introduced them, in front of all my gay friends, as “my new adopted parents, whether they like it or not.”

  “Honey, you look just like your mother,” one of my ‘sisters’ said. Both my adopted parents are white.

  It was my first time in New York, a most magical city, and I absolutely fell in love with it. I’d bought myself a poster of the Statue of Liberty and was taking a break from sightseeing in Washington Square when I spied a guy looking me up and down. I had seen him on the subway, and also on Christopher Street, and now he was sitting on the bench across from me…wow, I thought, I could get to appreciate this fair city even more.

  The guy was bold, and his confidence caught me off balance. As for myself, I couldn’t believe I was suddenly overcome with shyness and starting to blush. He noticed, came up to me and asked if I needed directions or something. Damn, I thought: he stole my line. The park was crowded and I wanted to try to make it look as if the guy was really giving me directions, so I unfolded a map. He pointed to it and said, “My place is not far from here.”

  He spoke with an accent. At first I couldn’t place it. His eyes, deep blue, bored through me: I could not believe his speed. I thought I was quick, being a former Polk Street hustler, but this guy had me beat, and he wasn’t charging. He introduced himself as Gaël, from Paris, and said he’d been living in New York for a year.

  We wandered to a nearby café to get better acquainted, and he said he thought I’d been following him, and I said I thought he’d been following me, and one thing led to another, and finally he led me to his apartment—this absolutely gorgeous twenty-two-year-old French boy, with shoulder-length blond hair, electric eyes, and a killer smile, and it seemed he was not a whore like me. (There’s only one thing worse than sleeping with a cheap john, and that’s sleeping with a fellow whore.) Anyway, Gaël’s interest surprised me. I had been so busy cruising everyone in New York that I hadn’t noticed someone had noticed me.

  He was a student in English, living the poor-student life, and his small studio didn’t have much furniture. His bed was just a mattress tossed on the hardwood floor.

  We hit that bed, kissing quickly and passionately, undressing each other with practiced speed. He had a lean, smooth body and an uncircumcised penis. I assumed the bottom position while Gaël donned a condom and stroked on some lube.

  “Take it easy, honey, I haven’t had it in a while,” I whispered through the curtain of his blond hair dangling in my face. My legs were already wrapped around his neck.

  “How long has it been?” he asked in his sexy and somewhat formal French accent.

  “Oh, not since San Francisco,” I replied.

  “San Francisco is not as far as Paris.”

  “Oh, yeah? New Zealand is as far as one can get,” I said. “Aaahhh, take it slow, once you get it in, keep it there for a while, okay? Please?”

  Gaël silenced me by kissing me hard on the mouth while he penetrated me.

  “You have many sheep in New Zealand, no?”

  “Oh, too many, too many sheep,” I moaned.

  “New Zealand sheep like to get it up the ass, no?”

  “I don’t know, aaahhh, slowly, honey, slowly.”

  “This sheep is tight, no?”

  “Just shut up and do me, honey.”

  “You sing me a New Zealand song while I make love to you, please.”

  “What? I don’t know any New Zealand song. Just shove that thing into me.”

  “Please?”

  “Okay, but I have to warn you I’m not a good singer. Bah bah black sheep… owww, no no, take it easy, have you any wool ahhh, no, no, please, no, ohhh yes yes yes sir, yes sir, three bags full give me three bags full sir, please sir, give it to me, one for the master, one for the dame, and one for the little girl who lives down the lane, honey.”

  “You are a very bad sheep, no?”

  “Bah, bah, yes sir.”

  “The master will have to punish the black sheep, no?”

  “Bah, bah, yes sir, I’ve been a bad black sheep.”

  “Master must fuck black sheep up the ass, no?”

  “Bah, bah, yes sir.”

  Our sweaty bodies climaxed simultaneously; I returned from cleaning up in the bathroom to find Gaël’s beautiful lanky body at rest, a Gauloise jutting from his mouth at a jaunty angle. It was like a French film. I knelt to kiss him, and I was in awe that this sweet and beautiful angelic being had just fucked me like a beast.

  I unrolled my poster of the Statue of Liberty and held it in front of me. I turned to face Gaël: “Liberty,” I proclaimed.

  “Liberté,” he answered, with another cute smile.

  “Liberty is a white French bitch standing in the water.”

  “Oh, you are from San Francisco and you are crazy,” he said, and pushed his lovely white body off the bed and walked into the bathroom for a shower. I stuck the poster to the wall with a thumbtack from his cluttered study desk, then dropped back onto the bed with the TV remote, channel-surfing to the news. The headline was “Trouble in Paradise,” about the Tahitian people protesting the French government’s decision to test another series of nuclear bombs in the South Pacific. The footage showed native people attacking French functionaries in Tahiti.


  I heard Gaël whistling in the shower, while on TV I watched police arrest a number of the protesters, one of them my Uncle Oscar, who was handcuffed and hurled into a police car. I was horrified. My uncle’s face was pained, his kind and gentle eyes were now dark and sad and angry, a window into his anguish and suffering. Back in the bathroom Gaël was still showering.

  As the images flickered, I wondered what would happen to Uncle Oscar and the rest of my people being arrested. I recalled how the French government had annihilated the native Kanaks of New Caledonia, its other South Pacific colony, some decades ago, and I remembered the dark cloud which showered dust on Aitutaki when I was just a kid, and I recalled the native Tahitians who came to New Zealand frantic for cancer treatment, cancer the French denied had anything to do with their bomb tests. And I remembered more recent history, the attack on the Rainbow Warrior Greenpeace vessel in Auckland, New Zealand by the French secret services, killing or injuring the defenseless crew. The newscast showed file footage of a bomb exploding. A tall, white figure rose from the water. I gazed at the tall white figure of Liberty on the wall, looked back at the figure on the TV screen. “that white French bitch in the water,” I whispered to myself.

  Gaël turned off the shower, and I turned off the TV as he stepped into the studio, drying himself with a towel.

  “Baby, please get me some wine from the refrigerator,” he asked as he dried his body, his hair falling over his face as he bent to dry his toes, before raising one leg and towelling his testicles.

  “Are you okay, my baby?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I opened the fridge, brought out a bottle of wine, poured him a glass.

  “Pour yourself one.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink this,” I said. He sipped at the glass, smiled that sassy French smile, reached out with his hands and pulled our bodies back together. We kissed, quickly.

  “Baby.” He grinned. “You’re not smiling.” He grinned again, a sweet and innocent and beautiful smile, the sort that is so rare.

  “Oh,” I said, “I’m just letting you soak in, that’s all. You were wonderful, and you’re still wonderful.”

  I welcomed his comforting kiss, took his wine glass away, laid him down on the bed. We made love again but this time I wore the condom and he wheeled and squealed while I penetrated him. He moaned and wept and tried to push me away. He swore in French and struggled to escape me, but I was too big and too strong and too upset with what was happening in Tahiti, and soon I ejaculated inside his white butt and he ejaculated into my hands. I rolled off his beautiful body and he went back to the bathroom.

  “Baby, that hurt me real bad,” he said when he came back, and then he beamed another of his sexy smiles. “But I liked it.”

  He walked over to the kitchenette, poured more wine and stood in front of the TV, next to the poster of the Statue of Liberty, the wet cotton towel draped over his shoulder, a cigarette suddenly lit in his raised right hand, the glass of wine at his side.

  Liberty had never looked sexier.

  And then he said to me: “That’s why I prefer making love to a black man. You are best when you are angry.”

  Body Hunger

  Grigoris Daskalogrigorakis

  I wake up grudgingly a split second before the chirping cricket of my digital time ball, and, by the lack of sound anywhere else, am the first consciousness to rouse in my building. I’m up until dawn the night before waiting for my heart to stop pounding. When I go home late at night and there’s no one else around, I try to lie down and nod off, but after a while I start to get the shakes. It’s no use. I just can’t sleep.

  But by daybreak I’ve usually fallen off. I’m lying in a puddle of my own sweat. This morning, the bedroom is redolent with the smell of rotting gardenias swept into the room by a morning breeze. It’s already blistering outside and the sun’s begun to singe them. Through the filter of the beginnings of a roaring migraine, the sharp perfume stings my nostrils and excites me at the same time.

  It is so difficult to dredge myself out of the torpor of deep sleep and the first crackling pangs of a headache that, half awake, I know I have to resort to the usual solution and I start to pull myself off, languidly at first, the sensation almost too abstract to instigate true arousal, then my heart becomes alert and beats faster, my mind pools and the first identifiable image in it is an oval, blotted in emollient, rubbing against the plate of my mid-brain until it soft-focuses into a face, the lambent face of Terence Stamp, the way it looked in the movie Billy Budd.

  That visage fades too soon into a profusion of nameless mugs attached to disembodied mouths, loins, napes, cocks, and asses, so dissociated, in fact, that they become mere landscapes of flesh anchored in smell, in spit, in mucous, in the metallic stench of harsh pheromones, all those forbidden particularities and associations I only manage to cut loose from their straitjackets after teen age. Out of that private, heavily-guarded sanitarium, they’ve turned into detailed, inflammatory things I’ve made friends of, that I can touch, that wake me up—sort of—during that perfunctory release, squeezing out a few drops of seminal fluid, the sobering up, the “little death” that almost always pulls me out of the “big death” every morning and leaves me distracted now, worrying, still half asleep, wondering for a moment why I’m estranged from women, how repelled I am by the thought that I bear any resemblance to the father I loathe as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

  But this anxiety rapidly dissolves down the drain. I splash rusty water from the faucet into my eyes, then pull myself back to sitting on the edge of the bed and turn on the TV while I stretch on my socks. There is a local news brief on about summer recreational facilities on the Castaic Reservoir about forty miles northeast of where I am now. But the sight of the gleaming, waterskiing bodies only serves to remind me of the time I am stuck on the nearby “grapevine” on Interstate 5 with a hopelessly debilitated car for eleven hours.

  I am driving to San Francisco with three acquaintances. We’ve just filled up the gas tank, spirits are high, and escape is in the air, when suddenly trucks are playing chicken with my stalled car and passengers on a steep incline as I watch them helplessly in the rear view mirror from the middle lane. Against my pleas, the others vote to stay put until the highway patrol can come to our rescue, but from my privileged position I am seized with such terror watching the transports barely missing us that I can hardly breathe from shaking so violently. Seeing my panic, the others are finally convinced that we’re sitting ducks unless we get out. Even having made this decision, it takes fifteen minutes for the convoy of night freight to die down enough for the four of us to sprint to the road shoulder, then clamber up the steep walls of the canyon rising up from the sides of the freeway. Just in time it seems, too, when a passing motorist stops and gives us flares to alert the trucks because the car’s hazard lights are too dim to see in the one A.M. dark. They are all annoyed. I just feel humiliated and disappointed. Two of the other three hitchhike back to the city and take buses to the North.

  I am left alone with Billy. We both want to get away this weekend from an emotional parasite that’s broken into both our lives and attempted to ransack our souls. The two of us spend the night alone by the roadside rehashing every sequence of events that has led to this crisis of being stranded, every forewarning we’ve ignored that there was something desperately wrong all along.

  It is one hundred and four degrees within a few hours after the sun comes up. Two weeks later my car ends up being abandoned at the turnoff to Magic Mountain amusement park not far from Castaic. Even now, despite the foiled escape and automotive disaster, I can recall with some fondness the mechanic at the auto repair—Jim, a crude, attractive blond man with a moustache, in his early forties, an ex-sailor gone to seed with an anchor tattoo on one arm and a not unattractive beer gut. The mechanic tells me jokingly that my car has had an “aneurysm” as he holds out the small, obscene, thick section of rubber hosing that has burst in the effort to get the
old ’72 Dodge Dart Swinger up the steep grade. And then I wait here for what seems like hours, days, eras until someone comes to drag me back to L.A. But for the time being I’m stuck in this auto dump with its proprietor, chatting, being attentive to and verbally rough-housing with big Jim, who occasionally calls orders out to his teenage son, learning his daddy’s trade at his daddy’s knee. Later on I think that it is almost worth having paid two hundred sixty-nine dollars and having to abandon the car after all, five miles away, when it overheats again, just to have inhaled that aura, a mixture of axle grease and a day’s worth of sweat squeezed out by dry Saugus heat.

  For an instant the sight of all the unbridled swimmers and waterskiers on the Castaic reservoir carries me back to the old Athletic Model Guild studios where my best buddy Jack and I went one Saturday night to see a presentation of a friend’s male nude photographs for a slick local magazine. He is showing the slides of his shoot because he recruited his models through Physique Pictorial’s cornerstone and founder. His series of photos turns out to be part of a monumental slide show that lasts three and a half hours in a makeshift auditorium in the middle of what is an indoor studio with a backdrop against which many of the young male models, who are part of the show, have been captured. The unwitting celebrities of the evening, in fact, can be seen loitering around outside by the pool area in the dark, simultaneously trying to look available and at the same time embarrassed at the impending, shameless display and exhibition of their raw-muscled bodies about to go on inside. I remember the period from the ’50s to the mid-’60s when I go to magazine stands and sneak looks in physique magazines, older versions of these bodies, never having either the nerve or the money to buy one.