Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (24 page)

“No, I’m not,” replied Max.

“Then you’d better figure out what you want out of this.”

But that was the problem. Max didn’t know. He was in love with Geoffrey—frustrating, crazy-making, annoying Geoffrey—and that was enough. He didn’t demand the future. He didn’t want something out of it. The present was enough to deal with, with its imperfections and lopsidedness.

Though Geoffrey didn’t exactly know what he wanted either, he knew from the weight felt across his shoulders that he didn’t want this.

 

He fucks him for a while in Max’s favorite position, kneeling over with Geoffrey’s hand on his belly. But this time, they’re really going to make it last, they’ll fuck as long as they can, as hard as they can
—
in no particular order: lying on the bed from the side, one of Max’s legs lifted and resting on Geoffrey’s shoulder; standing, Max’s right hand balancing against the corner of a wardrobe for balance, Geoffrey behind him, his hands on each side of Max’s shoulders, thrusting; Geoffrey lying on his back, Max on top facing him, leaning down occasionally to kiss.

They shouldn’t really be doing this in any case, this forbidden act of sleeping with one’s ex, of making the messy messier, of complicating matters considerably and doing what all your friends say you shouldn’t do. Breaking taboos can cause even more excitement. Not that they’ll do it again
—
in different ways, they both know that. It makes this last time all the more sweet.

 

It was just a visit to pick up the last of his possessions but Geoffrey senses that he won’t return. He doesn’t feel sad but there’s an empty, unanswered feeling, like wandering into the entryway of a run-down old home, and calling out to see if anyone is there.

With some difficulty, he opens the front door to leave Max’s apartment building. His hands are each carrying a few large plastic bags, and on top of this he’s balancing a small box of miscellanea. He manages to put it all into his car then frets—
there he goes again
—turning circles in his mind:

Will what they did make it harder to be…friends? Is that what they’d be? Cordial ex-boyfriends? In contact?

Yes, it will make things more difficult. But, he decides—his heart beating fast and at an erratic pace—it was worth it. Well worth it.

Max, meanwhile, doesn’t think as much, or at least, he pretends not to. There are things that he’s putting out of his mind already: the lead-up, the background story, the dialogue. It won’t happen right away but eventually he’ll be left with just memories of the physical act and the windstorm of emotions that accompanied it. Now, he remembers Geoffrey’s head, the dead weight of it, on his right side on top of where his chest and stomach meet, resting on his torso after this last sex, this best sex they’ve ever had. He knows that it’s ridiculous but honestly it feels like there’s still an indentation there, as if in a down pillow after a deep, motionless sleep. It will take time to fill in again, for his body to regain form.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nowhere in New York City is July’s inescapable heat more viscerally punishing than below ground, where the atmospheric pressure rises with the descent into the subway. The potent odor of decay and fermented urine, occasionally peppered with bleach or ammonia by maintenance staff, offers little comfort to the unfortunate traveler who is eager to be elsewhere. Worst are evening rush hours, when trains are packed with fatigued commuters, collectively worn down by the day’s work and the unforgiving humidity.

Even subway sounds are assaulting: the unintelligible squawk box announcements, the high-pitched gnashing of metal wheels on curving rails, the thunderous rattle of train bodies squeezing their rectangular shapes through winding tunnels. Before a train arrives at a station with its familiar screeching, ironically signaling a relief from some of the subway’s other sensory hostilities, platform inhabitants contemplate their abilities to overcome the suffering inherent with waiting for and riding the train.

Will I find a newspaper on the platform bench so I have something to read, or use to wave warm air from side to side in an attempt to cool down? Is there any water left in the bottle in my bag? Do I have a rag to wipe the sweat off of my face, or to slide under my shirt to sponge off my damp back? When the train finally comes, will I get a seat? Most importantly: will the train be air-conditioned? The answer must always be yes in order to preserve sanity.

Regardless of the journey’s length, it will never be easy or luxurious. Once I’m on the train, there is no shortage of nuisances, starting with the barrage of advertisements, to which only the blind possess immunity. Portable music players, intended to shield their owners from the subway’s annoying sound effects, are turned up to inappropriate volumes, creating their own unwelcome environmental disturbances. Numerous are the loud, inane conversations of callous adults who should know better than to be so tactless. As for the ever-present boisterous adolescents, they could care less about socially appropriate behavior in public spaces. Panhandlers and subway preachers transgress boundaries further than do rib-poking shoulder bags; their grief, desperation, and diatribes remind us how much we want to be home, where privacy is guaranteed.

Fulton Street train station is the busiest subway complex in lower Manhattan, linking four train lines and serving nearly three hundred thousand passengers daily. Of those four train lines, the BMT is the least busy, and boasts only one real transportation asset: the M train. Starting in Middle Village, Queens, the M makes a few stops in lower Manhattan, and then runs into southern Brooklyn, but only until about eight o’clock at night. Afterward, passengers can take the J train, which shares a portion of its route with the M, running from Queens into Manhattan. The big difference is that the J terminates one stop after Fulton Street, in the sleepy financial district. Late at night, J trains arriving at the deserted downtown Fulton Street station carry few passengers, and fewer, if any, people wait to board the train. People still wait on the platform, but not necessarily for the train.

Long after crowded subway cars are vacated by passengers who think themselves entitled to imaginary and invented private space, the intersections of public and personal intimacy are explored on the platform. And this is where my story begins.

 

The Brooklyn-bound #2 train I was on pulled into Fulton Street around ten o’clock. I got out and navigated through the maze of passages and staircases to the downtown J train. Moving slowly through the palpable heat of the quiet station, I looked around and saw no one. The platform arcs in a way that leaves its northern section obscured, and that is where I headed, hoping to find a piece. As I approached the end of the platform, a figure became visible from behind one of the many steel-beam columns that run from the floor to the ceiling of the station. As I got closer, a well-kept, stocky brother revealed himself.

I eased my stride, checking him out as I walked to the column behind the one he was leaning on. My man was in his late thirties, shorter and heavier then me—about five foot eight inches tall, weighing about one hundred seventy pounds—light-brown-skinned, with a mustache and shaved head. Dark blue jeans wrapped tightly around his hefty thighs, and a thin, sky-blue basketball tank top hung from his shoulders, draped over his burly torso. Large white vinyl letters spelled out RIM ROKKA. His arms were big, and any muscular definition was subtle. This man was undeniably hot.

Positioned opposite him, my back against the metal girder, I reached my right hand down to grab my crotch while my left hand rubbed my chest through my fitted tank top. The resonant buzz of the fluorescent lights above characterized the tense contemplation that filled the next few seconds before either of us made a move. Finally, his thick fingers pulled at the bulge in his jeans. This single gesture answered my greeting with affirmation, and I stepped nearer.

Standing in front of him now, both of us still pawing at our dicks, I ran my free hand across his meaty chest, excited by the firmness and impressive size of his broad pecs. He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, sighing as I brushed his stiffening nipples. My hand found its way below his shirt, sliding up his smooth hard belly to his chest, where my fingers rolled his right nipple, then his left. Leaning into him, grinding my waist into his, my eyes caught the first sight of his naked upper body as he raised his shirt over his head to lay it across the back of his neck, signaling his commitment to this encounter. His robust muscular build, covered in a thick layer of skin, seemed natural; definitely sexier than a gym-manufactured sculpture.

I made sure that there was no one else around by craning my neck to look past the column we were hiding behind. My man’s hand gently pulled me back, drawing my head lower to his chest. My lips parted as they made contact and my tongue flicked across the tips of his nipples. Cradling me in his burly forearm, he guided my head back and forth as my mouth re-moistened the dried sweat that flavored his skin salty. I lifted my tank top to give him access to my nipples, which he rubbed and made firm. He then freed my growing dick from my jeans and dug out my balls with two fingers, massaging them before palming my cock. He spoke for the first time. “Damn. You got some big dick, Pa. You gonna break me off a piece of this?” His voice was as deep as his intent. Smiling, and feeling up his trade through the fabric of his jeans, I replied “Hell yeah! Let’s get to work.”

He squeezed as much of my dick as could fit in his hand, hardening me further. Shaking his head, his eyes locked on me as he unfastened his belt and loosened his pants. I pulled down his jeans and boxers to find his already-hard dick and balls nestled between his massive legs. He was smaller then me—about five inches long—and had a tight foreskin that pulled back from a shiny pink head. Both our dicks curved upward, but my fat head was his focus. Crouching down, my man lifted my low-hanging nuts to meet his lips, sucking them into his mouth one by one. His mustache crushed into the base of my dick as I bounced its head against his jaw, letting him know what was next.

Shorty repositioned himself and was kneeling before me on the filthy platform floor. He was not here to waste time, which was perfect for me, because I meant business. I pushed my crotch into his face as he sucked my balls. “Harder. Suck ’em harder,” I instructed as I cupped his head in my hand, pulling his face into my groin. A cherry-flavored condom was fished from my pocket and rolled down to the base of my dick. I receded to get enough room for brandishing my trade, showing off the piece he was going to eat. My dick bobbed in the air before he took hold of it, pulling me closer as his mouth and eyes opened wide.

His lips and tongue ushered my cock into his wet mouth, and the intensity of the pleasure matched the density of the hot humid air. He got me harder by rotating his head from left to right as he sucked. His hand wrapped around my cock and followed his mouth up and down my piece while his tongue licked my shaft. On the way down, he’d remove his hand so that he could take all of me inside of him until his mustache blended with my pubic hair. Increasing the speed and strength with which he sucked, my man grabbed the back of my legs for leverage as he jerked back and forth. His head nodded furiously up and down, and I writhed on the platform, desperately trying to keep my groaning to a minimum.

Suddenly my dick popped out of the cocksucker’s mouth as he coughed and spit, then climbed up off his knees. Standing in front of me, his chest lifting with heavy breathing, he panted, “Fuck me, yo.” He pulled his pants down past his knees as he turned around and bent over, bracing himself on the column in front of us. Brother man stretched his arm back and pulled his left cheek out of the way, exposing his hairless hole to the air and to my throbbing cock. He was already wet and opening up, inviting me to slide in. It’s a good thing I packed a bottle of lube with the condoms I was carrying, because I like to get up in a man when his ass is sloppy and juicy. After lubing my dick, I grabbed his other asscheek and closed in on his hole, pushing the knobby head of my cock inside, then plunging in until our legs smacked together.