Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (6 page)

Still, my cock swells heavy with hope. My balls don’t rule my life, but when they’re this full, this heavy, this alive, they run the show for a few hours, I guess. My butt has needs, too. And my nipples. My tongue. My mouth. My big ol’ bicycle-built thighs. Hell, even my toes want to rub up against some guy’s calves. My whole body feels like a sex organ sometimes.

I want some bruiser licking my armpits.

A meaty, musty ass on my face…on my chest, while I blow him…then his ass sitting down on my dick, riding my pole while I push up to heaven…wraparound legs…nips to suck on and play with…shoulders that can pick up and carry the world…a chest to rest on afterward.

I want…

Great. Another fifty-four-year-old advertising for somebody under twenty-five. And another UB2-spouting manbot. More breed-my-hole, BB, anonymous-pounding, door-open, no-talking, greedy, mindless assholes. No fucking thanks.

Excuse me, but I want a guy with a mind, ’cause it’s sexy when a man can talk about real things. It’s sexy when he can laugh at himself, at conditions on Spaceship Earth. To me, it’s a turn-on when a man can talk about his spirituality and not come off as a loser-idiot. It’s hot when he doesn’t have to get drunk, or fucked up, to get on his knees and show what he can do, with no hesitation and completely shameless. Hairy or smooth, muscular or wiry, geeky or cool, young and tight or mature and comfortable with imperfections: I want—not to coin a phrase or anything—a man.

Wait a minute: what have we here?

The Fortress. San Francisco’s finest dungeon is having a Dark Night, as in lights out, allowing our inner monsters to come out and play?

Fan-fucking-tastic!

Ah shit, shit, goddammit. It’s not tonight; it’s February 16, four nights from now. Fuck.

Crap.

Screw it.

Breathe.

Okay, it’s okay, but craigslist, you and I are done. For now.

Bye-bye, Internet. Funkadelic on the stereo. Chair into reclining position. It’s beatin’ off time.

Which folder tonight: Creamrising, or Dreamangels, or…

Picsajerks, let’s go.

You, college wrestler, with your semihard cock showing in your singlet. You’re up. You, trucker, standing there in your underwear, getting a blow job in the shadows, with your buns looking tight and your back as broad as all outdoors. Yep. You too, drunken frat boy with your floppy balls and fat snake cock falling out of your boxers, with that smirky grin on your face, knowing goddamn well what we want. Mechanic, yeah, you too, with your hard-on in one hand and a monkey wrench in the other, major tools. Phone repairman, in someone’s backyard, talking to a supervisor or something while getting sloppily sucked off by a customer who doesn’t give a shit about his reputation or his neighbors. Swimmer, squeezing the boner in your swim trunks. Locker room guy, adjusting your jockstrap. Other locker room guy, bending over and giving everyone your ass. You guys make me feel like the whole world is hot, horny and ready to blast off. You convince me the wave that’s coming to bury us all is not Armageddon, not Global Warming, not war and racism and voracious corporations and jingoistic nation/religions; no, the wave that’s coming is Come, a Kingdom of Come, an ocean, a cosmic sea, an eternal moment of supremely satisfying joy. I don’t have to come right now because I will drink it all in and swallow and swim and drown and die of Come and be reborn in Come and reside in the source, the original waters, where there is nothing to desire and everything is one.

Plus, it’s fun to edge with my two-dimensional heroes.

Thanks, guys. You let your pictures be taken and we are grateful. We needed you and you stepped forward. You guys have given rise to thousands of boners and gallons of splooge, and there’s plenty more where that came from.

Wait.

Friday night will be here in two shakes of a tail feather and the wink of an eye.

 

Well, slap my ass and call me Lucky. I did not think that table was going to double tip me. The people there looked at the check for a long time. I try to be a decent waiter and play by the rules, so I put two stars beside the word SERVICE on the check and then underlined the amount of the tip (since we are allowed to add gratuity to any table of six or more). How can anyone miss that? If a customer fails to pay the slightest attention to the bill, it is not my fault. And if I end up with an extra fifty dollars tonight, I know right where it’s going.

Master J’s Leather Store.

For those latex shorts.

With the wraparound zippers.

The men at the Fortress are going to see me coming around the corner Friday night, now that I can justify spending money on something as unnecessary as latex shorts that make me look like I’m hung like a horse. They’re so tight, they feel like part of my skin, so that when the zipper gets pulled open and air hits flesh, it feels as though it’s me who is being opened up. It feels as though this body has brand new holes that need to be fiddled with, wetted down, and filled up. And when the zipper is opened in the back, well, it feels as though the foundation of the Universe might be cracking open. And that Monster Wave of Come I imagine flipping me over like the
Poseidon
—I can practically feel it already, only it ends up lapping gently at my port side, because I am free, I am not separate, I am made of Come, and I am that big, I can take loads and loads and loads, I can take it all.

I can take everything laid at my doorstep.

 

Lord have mercy, there’s Dimitri. I did not expect to see him here at Master J’s Leather Store, which proves what an idiot I am. He works here. Fuck, he looks good. He plants himself so straight and tall, so upright, everything about him looks to be standing at attention. Including his nipples. And the bulge in his jeans. His long, strong legs. He’s African-American but something about his face puts me in mind of Egyptian nobility. I don’t know what to call his haircut, but he’s so sleek and finished, he might as well be a statue come to life.

He’s a real gentleman, extremely intelligent, sexy as hell, with an intact sense of humor, and capable of listening as well as talking. Plus, he volunteers to do important, selfless, good works on the other side of the world. I know all this because we dated for a few weeks a couple of months ago.

It was December of last year when I met Dimitri for the first time. I had gone into Master J’s Leather Store to buy a cock ring. Backtracking—again—for a moment: my old one had been removed by a wannabe-porn star at an underwear party. This bad boy, in the sheerest bikinis ever, said we could exchange rings even though we both had hard-ons. I judged that to be pretty near impossible. But he put my hands behind my head, leaned me up against a wall, and carefully proceeded to remove the donut—my superthick, neoprene cock ring—not by easing my balls out, but by bending my dick gently, gently, and working the shaft out first. Then he really scared me. He told me he could put his steel cock ring on me, balls first, then smush my cockhead in and massage the rest of it all the way down in, and through. Yikes. But I kept my hands where he had put them, stuck my chest out, and let him go to town. It took about six minutes, I was so hard. He was too; our dicks were pointing straight up to the ceiling in the bar. Then he wanted me to do the same to him. Put my neoprene donut on him, balls first. His cock was about the same size as mine, a little thicker maybe; he said it would work fine, if I just had the patience. So I cupped his balls, lifted the neoprene, bent his dick a bit because it had to be done and he swore I would not hurt him, pointed the head into the donut hole, and spent the next ten minutes making a minor miracle happen.

Voila!

We laughed and joked about exchanging marriage vows now that we had put rings on each other. He told me he wanted to dance at a local porn theater on amateur night, and if I came to support him, he would treat me real good, and we could trade cock rings again. He promised to email me the next day about when and where to show up, and what fun we would have!

Of course I never got an email from him.

I can’t say anything, though. Ninety percent of the time, I don’t call the guys I say I’m going to call either. I want to, when I get the number. I mean to. Then, I don’t. For one reason or another, I give up, or lose hope, or wait so long it would be awkward.

Hence, the visit to Master J’s Leather Store, for another neoprene donut. I’m just not that fond of three-dollar steel cock rings. If you’re going to be cheap, which I am, neoprene is the way to go.

The staff at Master J’s lets you try on the cock rings, thank god. They didn’t have the full-on donuts, but they did have nice thick neoprene rings of one-and-three-quarter-inch diameter.

So I made my nine-dollar purchase and guess who was at the cash register? He asked me if I wanted a small bag or did I intend to wear the cock ring out. I laughed and stuck my hands inside my loose heavy sweatpants and fumbled with the damn thing while I looked into this studly, beautiful, multi-ethnic leatherman’s eyes.

“You need some help with that?”

I had visited Master J’s infrequently but occasionally for some twenty-odd years, waiting and hoping and doing everything I could to get some guy to say those words…and then, when I least expected to hear them…

“Yeah! That’d be great,” I enthused.

“Over here,” he said, leading the way. He walked me to the dressing rooms. I ducked into one.

“This one,” he suggested, pulling a large leather curtain to the side and opening the way into a double-sized changing room.

I pulled my sweats down, and my dick went:
boing!
Yep, already hard. He put the cock ring on, the regular way, then he bent over, to work my balls in, and put my dick in his mouth. He got down on his knees and got serious, reaching up to tease, flick, and pinch my nipples, god love him. I always think that’s such a generous thing to do. I reached down and returned the favor. We got busy, changing positions, trading blow jobs, and just having a blast.

Then, he said, “Wait here a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Good timing: I needed to catch my breath. He had probably done this once or twice before (I even saw lube up on the ledge, along with a roll of paper towels), but I’d been waiting for this for two decades.

He returned right before I could get bored or uncomfortable.

“Try these on,” he encouraged.

And he handed me the aforementioned latex shorts.

“I think these will fit you.”

You have to work to get those fuckers on, but man, it is absolutely worth the effort.

“Now see, the zipper goes all the way from the front to the back. Plus, you got four tabs. So you can unzip the front and close it back up from the top, while you—or somebody else—does the same in the back. That wide flap of latex inside keeps your little hairs from getting caught in the zipper. Let me show you.”

He put me on this small round pedestal in the dressing room, turned me around, and opened the zipper in the dead center of my butt, whereupon I nearly swooned, especially when his tongue got to licking and darting around my asscheeks and then in between. He went to work on my crack and got my asshole so wet, I had to bite my tongue to keep from begging him to fuck me right then and there.

Truth is, orally, I’m superslut, whereas anally, I’m a scared schoolmarm.

I have to be partially or at least somewhat in love, to fuck. Top or bottom. I mean, we don’t have to be forking over the down payment on a wedding cake or anything, but love has to be on the table. It has to be in the room as a possibility, the sparkling glittery promise of love, a relationship, a slim chance at least that we might conceivably have a future. I have fucked exactly three guys in the last fifteen years and they were all extremely talented bottoms, charming, lovable, and determined. None of these turned out to be my next husband, however. One, unbeknownst to me, already had a husband: groan. One lived on the other side of the planet: sigh. And one did not share a single interest in my rock ’n’ roll-artfag-into-Eastern-spirituality-world: alas.

Exactly one guy has fucked me in the past fifteen years and he was a top who turned out to be as patient and gifted and generous as he advertised on Craigslist. That was an experiment, to see if I could still take a dick up my butt after so much time. Love was not in the room in that instance, and had no chance of appearing since Mr. Top, as good as he was at sex, was that bad at the art of conversation. I just wanted to get fucked because… well, just because. It did not make my toes curl with pleasure, but it wasn’t horrible either, nor particularly painful.

That had happened three years before Dimitri escorted me into the dressing room, and I had not sought to repeat the event. So when Dimitri and his tongue and those latex shorts all conspired to make me feel like my asshole had suddenly turned into a pussy, my sirens went off. Which made me come before I could even send up a flare to let Dimitri know what was in the works. Our clothes were all over the floor so I aimed for my belly, which made me arch my back and that did signal my new buddy…but by the time he stood up and came around to face front, the show was over.

He dipped his finger into the pool of jizz that covered my abs, swirled it around and then popped that gooey finger into his mouth, just like a boy getting the last of the pudding.

Dimitri kissed me, stroked his cock for about twenty seconds, and creamed my already sticky belly while moaning into my open mouth. Now
that
just about made my toes curl, although I was standing on them at the time.

Obviously, we traded phone numbers before I left the store.

Not that I thought we would ever see each other again.

I did not buy the shorts at that time. Fun but too expensive. I left with my new neoprene cock ring, a wet spot forming in my briefs, and a smile I could not get off my face.

All of this, however, transpired three months ago, and in my world, in the gay world, hell, in any world, a lot can happen in three months.