Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For all the hundreds and hundreds of erotic
short stories published each year, in other collections,
in magazines, and online, not a lot
of cream—or spunk—rises to the top. One of
my favorite science fiction writers, Theodore
Sturgeon, is said to have said, crankily, that
ninety-nine percent of everything is crap. True
enough. Every year, I aim, along with the guest
judge, to find that other one percent—to lap
up whatever rises to, or spills over, the top.

Regular readers will recognize a few familiar
names in this collection: Simon Sheppard,
Wayne Courtois, Shane Allison, Jeff
Mann, Alana Noël Voth, horehound stillpoint,
and Andy Quan. Some are new to the book,
though they’ve been published elsewhere: Sam
J. Miller, Tim Miller, Jason Shults, and Tom Cardamone. Different voices, different styles, different kinks,
with quality as the common denominator.

But it’s a particular pleasure to include first-time writers—
new to publication, or at least new to me. There are five such
authors, more than usual: Lee Houck, mixing sexual memories
with the immediacy of an encounter out of control; Arden
Hill, writing about the power of cool seduction; Charlie
Vazquez, with a story about the rewards of role reversal in sex
play; Rhidian Brenig Jones, whose tale explores how good sex
is a salve that eases the pain of love gone wrong; and Andrew
McCarthy, whose characters exult in the thrill of public sex.

Emanuel Xavier had his own publishing debut in 1997 with
the short story “Motherfuckers,” an excerpt from what became
the novel
Christ Like
. It’s been more than two decades
since we met; in that time, he rose to literary prominence, curated
trendsetting reading events and published the poetry collections
Pier Queen, Americano: Growing Up Gay & Latino
in the USA
,
If Jesus Were Gay & other poems
, and
Nefarious
,
and edited
Bullets & Butterflies: queer spoken word poetry,
Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry
, and
Me No Habla with Acento: Contemporary Latino Poetry
. It’s
been a treat to spend time with him again.

 

Richard Labonté
Bowen Island, British Columbia

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s easy to forget we are a nation faced with
many struggles when sex is everywhere around
us—the front pages of newspapers, all over the
Internet, used to sell everything from cars to
shoes to kitchen appliances. Gay sex is fashionable
and mainstream. Even if it’s subtle, all one
has to do is pick up a magazine or turn on the
television. I would be a hypocrite to claim not
to indulge in such pleasures because I would
rather focus on the realities of the world. Let’s
face it—if every consenting adult could enjoy
sex without repercussions, the world would be
a better place.

When making selections, others have often
complained how hard it is to choose which
erotic short stories make the final cut. I found
it’s not really that difficult. Stories forwarded to me from editor Richard Labonté either left me hot and bothered
or had me curling into bed with my cat. The submissions I
truly enjoyed made me close my eyes and jerk off until I stained
them. Lube and cum stains sealed the selection of each finalist
found in this collection.

Yeah,
papi
, they were that good!

Who wants to get really drunk, shut off the lights and go
to bed with an “It’ll do for the night!” collection? Short stories
should also hold up to sobriety and proper lighting in the
morning. It was fun being asked to be a slut, to receive a diverse
selection of erotic short stories, and to be asked to decide
which work as both erotica and art. I knew deep inside I would
get great submissions demonstrating the talents of creative individuals.

These are certainly the best from among the several hundred
submitted to Richard. I know for a fact he suffered through
hours and hours of crap that wouldn’t get even a scat fetishist
off. So I make no apologies for getting turned on by the stories
featured in this collection. I’ll keep it real: there is a lot of competition
in writing erotica. Submitting your work to any publication
is a quiet contest—much like walking around in a towel
at a sex club, hoping to get laid by hot guys before your time
is up. With so much hard-core sex and pornography thrown
at us,
erotica
is a challenging word to define. It’s “works of
art, including literature, photography, film, sculpture and
painting, which deal substantively with erotically stimulating
or arousing descriptions.” Or it’s “a modern word used
to describe the portrayal of the human anatomy and sexuality
with high-art aspirations, differentiating such work from
commercial pornography.” However, artists are forever pushing
extreme, “erotica” has been violently abused, left behind in
some cheap hotel with a used condom sticking out of its ass.
I’m happy to say that, while there are condoms in some of the
stories here, there’s also a lot of art.

 

After Richard sifted through the submitted works of art, I received
a stack of his favorites, with the author’s names deleted.
It was truly awesome to discover, after the fact, that I was
not familiar with more than half of the finalists. My picks had
nothing to do with the writers’ reputations within the genre:
I based my choices on the quality of the anonymous writing
and weighed the impact of the stories against my own active
healthy sex life. At times, I found myself trying to figure out if
I knew the author, ever had sex with them, or even wanted to
collaborate for mutual stimulation. As any narcissistic reader
would, I imagined myself one of the characters in each story.
But without knowing the authors’ identities until after I had
made my selections, I was able to enjoy each submission not
because I was physically (or intellectually) attracted to the writer,
but because I found myself in each of these narratives.

As a writer, I read for inspiration, with the hope that emotions
I never knew existed will be provoked. The erotica here
offers a wide-ranging public glimpse into the private sexual desires
of each of the authors—but it’s all consensual, and it’s all
inviting. With so much going on in my world, I read mostly for
simple pleasure. I got that, and so much more, from this collection.

 

My very first publication was a short story titled “Motherfuckers”
in 1997. Even then, I knew to stay away from using certain
words, the kind that elicited fits of laughter in the bedroom. For example, “mangina” would get any story trying to date me
directions to the nearest exit. As a pet lover and a survivor of
sexual abuse, I shunned any stories that involved harming pets
or children. Likewise, as a person of color, any stories obsessed
with white supremacy were snubbed. On the other hand, the
subtle introduction of a condom was a definite plus. Some of
the submissions seemed as if their authors were more interested
in shocking than actually inviting the reader into their private
worlds and arousing anything other than awe. Maybe I’m jaded,
but an erotic story should excite the reader with its imagination,
besides providing pleasure.

The tales I ultimately selected widened my eyes with the
recognition of real people seeking to unwind from their everyday
lives by sexually connecting to others. These were erotic
adventures that took me on a thrilling journey, sometimes
dropping me off when it was over in the familiar front of
my apartment, other times leaving me somewhere out on a
strange and exciting road. The voices featured eroticized real
experiences and, sometimes playfully, sometimes surprisingly,
revealed genuine desire.

As I read, I wondered how self-aware the writers were about
having the reader indulge in their fantasies; I often sensed a
smile on their mischievous faces as they challenged our own
sexual constraints. Andrew McCarthy’s “Underground Operator,”
Wayne Courtois’ “Capturing the King,” and dirty daddy
horehound stillpoint’s “Donuts to Demons” are perfect examples
of such stories.

Among these selected short stories, there is both pain and
joy. A story by Lee Houck delves deeply into bondage, Simon
Sheppard’s dabbles in hustling, Shane Allison’s poetic confessions
draw deeply on his memories and Alana Noël Voth’s “Release” is all about longing; there is a Tim Miller performance
classic, plenty of twosomes and threesomes, and a piss
party as imagined by Charlie Vazquez. More improvised fantasies
or off-the-cuff cravings motivate Arden Hill’s “My Boy
Tuesday,” Jeff Mann’s “Snowed in with Sam,” Jason Shults’
“Minimum Damage, Minimum Pain,” and the fantasies of the
gay couple in Sam J. Miller’s “Short Sad Sordid Sexual Encounters.”
Whether the characters featured are simply exploring
their passions, as in Taylor Siluwé’s (RIP) “Breeding Season,”
or getting over relationships, as in Rhidian Brenig Jones’
“Come to Light,” it can be said that the root of all good erotica
is love. Even the most provocative erotica, if carefully read, reveals
the need to connect on a deeper level. Sometimes through
these stories we discover things that arouse us about which we
may not have been fully aware. Whatever emotional demands
a short story such as Tom Cardamone’s “Funeral Clothes” or
Andy Quan’s “The Best Sex between Them” places on us, at
least we are able to relate to the writers and enjoy the ride. The
result is a celebration of the pleasures of gay sex.

So welcome to a diversity of voices, revel in an exploration
of sexuality and a range of desires and indulge yourselves with
the anthology—and remember, the authors are not always their
characters. Erotica writers are often not what we imagine them
to be, which says a lot about all of us on a more intimate level.

Finally, thanks to Cleis Press for trusting me with this collection,
and to Richard, for making the selection process so easy.
And thanks, of course, to the seventeen writers featured, for
providing me (and now all of you) with such splendid pleasure.

 

Brooklyn, New York
August 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

He needed a name so I named him Tuesday. Tuesday for the day we met in Professor Alice Adams’ section of Shakespeare’s Women. I was wearing my hair blond and blue then, so of course he noticed me when he walked in the door, though I have no doubt he would have, even if I’d tried to blend in. Blending in is one of the few things I don’t excel at. It is an art I choose not to explore. Tuesday was wearing worn brown pants, both knees reinforced with bright green patches. They said to me, “Hello, I kneel down a lot,” and so I smiled at them before following the slouchy lines of his body up to a subdued green sweater, solid not striped, soft and patchless. He had a sweet face and when I looked down at my watch I noted he was three minutes late for class. I fantasized about punishing him for this, slapping him hard. And when he became hard enough, I would tie his right hand to his ankles and tell him to make himself come for me with his left one. I would reward him for this act.