Best Gay Erotica 2011 (16 page)

I raised my bottle to take another drink. With a jerk of his hips, my dream dancer spun around and started to shimmy. My hand froze halfway to my mouth.
Holy fuck!
The dancer was Martin, the flagman from my crew!

Martin and I had never done more than nod hello at work.
Yeah, I'd noticed his body was fine, despite the hard hat and Day-Glo orange vest and machismo swagger. But there were a lot of guys on our crew, and working nights on the freeway was a bitch. If you didn't pay attention to the job, you could end up dead real quick. But damn! If Martin had ever moved like that at work, I sure as fuck would have paid more attention.

The bulge in the front of his pants that night was as pretty as his ass. His T-shirt clung like a second skin. Nipple rings? It was hard to tell from this far back. Starting at the far left, the dancers started to strip. As each one got down to a G-string or jock, he danced to the edge of the table. People surged forward, tucking bills under straps and into pouches. Martin was fourth.

By then, I'd worked my way to within ten feet of the table. The floor vibrated with sound. Martin cocked his hip and drew his T-shirt over his head. Streaks of red laser light played over his smooth brown skin as whistles split the air. He flexed and ran his hands over his chest, stroking the intertwined male symbols tattooed high on the right side. Light gleamed from the silver bar piercing the nipple below. He swiveled his hips, and those baggy fucking homeboy pants plunged to the top of the table. The crowd roared as he turned and spanked his ass.

With a quick jerk, he pulled his pants free of his boots. Fuckin' breakaway pants! Martin rocked his hips, bumping and grinding. He turned toward me again, the short, thick snake in his crotch taking on a life of its own as he pranced around the stage. He teased his fingers along the waistband of those sexy blue boxers. With one quick tear, they were gone, too!

He worked his way around the table, smiling his wicked handsome grin as people stuffed bills in his G-string. His eyes got huge when he saw me. I held up a twenty—and waited. He rocked his crotch a couple of beats, watching me back. Then he grinned and cocked his hip toward me. I stuffed the bill in the
front of his G-string, so he'd feel my cool green money on his dick as he wiggled his hips. Then I motioned for him to turn around.

He dipped and wiggled his ass, flexing those firm, tight globes as he sneered over his shoulder. But his eyes were sparkling. I stuffed another twenty deep in his crack, right up against his asshole. Then I thrust my hips at him, rubbing my beer bottle over my crotch, never breaking eye contact as my dick stretched out into my jeans. I was going to fuck Martin's ass. I knew it, and I was making damn sure he knew it, too.

I nodded toward the wall where I was going to be waiting when he eventually climbed off the table, which was pretty damn quick after that. The last dancer had brought a whole slew of friends, so the competition wound up pretty fast.

Martin's boxers were back on when he joined me. He was carrying two Tecates. He handed me one.

“Didn't know you were a fag,” he grinned.

“Same,” I smiled back, raising my bottle to him. “I'm going to fuck that pretty round ass.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, taking a long, slow drink. “But first we're gonna dance.”

We danced until they closed the place down. Then I took him out for breakfast, and we went back to my place. His kisses tasted like beer and chorizo. The smooth brown skin of his chest and ass and the hot flesh of his thick uncut cock were everything that looks had promised and more. We fucked and sucked until dawn, then we collapsed in each other's arms on the bed. My AC still didn't work worth shit, and it was still hotter than hell, but I asked him to spend the day anyway. We fucked again when we woke up and once more, after dinner, before we went to work.

Martin and I still don't talk about dick on the job. But we hang out at lunch, and we catch the Dodgers games together. Sometimes we even catch a matinee on days when we want to sleep in AC that fucking works. And every Wednesday night, we go to Chico. Every Wednesday night, I tip his hot homeboy ass while he dances. Then I take him home and fuck him till we both hear the fucking angels sing. The San Gabriel Valley won't ever be WeHo. But thanks to Chico, East L.A. is now my kind of place. And I fuckin' love it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a sophomore in college I got a job bussing tables at a Syrian restaurant. One of the cooks was named Hannad and he was from Iraq. He scared the shit out of me. He was built like a brick shithouse, with crude tattoos lining his hands and powerful arms. He had a handsome but rough face, and he was missing some of his teeth.

He made no effort to hide his dislike of me. Every time I came back into the kitchen he would fix me with an intense, hostile gaze. He told people that he'd been a sniper in the Iraqi Army. I had no doubt that he'd killed—you could see it in his eyes—and I was a skinny, white, gay boy who'd never done anything worse than shoplifting. I dreaded every encounter with him.

I worked there for more than three years and eventually I became a waiter, which meant a lot more interaction with Hannad, and I guess we reached a sort of truce. He wasn't my friend, but he wasn't set on intimidating me anymore, either.

Then one night I was out at a bar with some friends when I
spotted him off in the corner. Feeling bold because I was buzzed, I walked over to him and said hi. We started having an actual conversation, and I realized, as it got later and we got drunker, that he was flirting with me. He pointed to a girl in a red dress, said something about the color red then showed me, by lowering the waistband of his nylon pants, that he was wearing red underwear. It was a pretty obvious overture and it made me half hard. When the bar let out he said, “You come with me.”

I thought we'd go back to his place but instead he took me to a diner, like we were on some weird date. He said that there were Iraqi men who performed songs about loving young boys. I was twenty-one at the time, but I had a boyish, innocent look, and I guess he responded to that.

We went back to his apartment and ended up on his bed. I rubbed his soft dick through the crotch of his pants. As he got erect he kissed me roughly. He was all brute strength, throwing me back on the bed and holding me down with one arm while he stripped. He took out his cock, which wasn't anything spectacular but was hard. I blew him for a while, and then he wanted to fuck me. I wasn't used to getting fucked, but I was too afraid to say no to him, so I let him hold me back on the bed and toss my legs over my head. He did not take his time—it hurt like hell. He was rough and unforgiving, and after a while I had to make him stop. I finished by sucking him off and letting him cum all over my face.

After that night, we got along famously. He drafted me as his workout partner and I joined his gym. After my first weight-lifting lesson we went back to his place and sat on the couch, pleasantly tired and weak muscled. He put on some porn, and eventually I reached over to feel his erect cock. I took it out—it was dank and sweaty—and leaned over to blow him. I had more fun this time; I felt more relaxed with him. I held on to
his balls—he wouldn't let me get anywhere near his ass—and sucked his little cock for all it was worth. He blew a load in my mouth, and all the while a cheesy studio portrait of him and his girlfriend beamed down at us from the mantel.

The next time, we'd been out drinking and had gone back to his place even though his girlfriend was home. He had a couch and a TV set up in the basement, and I got on my knees before him there and sucked his cock and swallowed his cum while his girlfriend slept upstairs.

One time I was with him when he fucked a girl. He wanted me to join in, but I just wasn't into it. I got behind him and watched him fuck. He had his boxer shorts on but I pulled them down so I could look at his muscled ass. He hated that. He pulled them up but I just pulled them back down, watching his firm butt thrusting while I jacked off and came into my hand.

He fucked me once more, this time after a party at his apartment where the only guests were me and an extremely drunk straight friend of his. After his friend passed out Hannad took me into the bedroom and bent me over. I was more into the idea of getting fucked than I had been the first time, but I still couldn't take it for very long. I was (and still am) a lousy bottom; it just took me a while to realize it.

Through it all we became genuine friends. He told me sad stories about Iraq, like how they used to drug him when he was in Saddam's army to make him a better killer. He'd come to America when the U.S. Army recruited him after the first Gulf War, but he missed Iraq badly. I was with him in the weeks leading up to the 2003 invasion of Iraq, and he was visibly, understandably disturbed. I lost contact with him when I changed jobs. Last I heard he made it back to Iraq, and I sure hope he's okay. Underneath all his aggression he was a genuinely sweet guy who'd been through enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I dreamt of getting finger-fucked. I dreamt of pierced nipples. I dreamt that my asshole was the size of a tennis ball. I dreamt of leather cock rings and big pink dicks. I dreamt I was bound with extension cord, gagged with stinking, sweaty socks. I dreamt of Jeff Mann raping my butt. I dreamt I was gagging off his cum. I dreamt I drank his piss. I dreamt of frat boy circle jerks, all those dicks coming on my face. I dreamt of passing my ass around to gangbangers and liking it. I dreamt of musky white Irish asses and bathhouse floors slippery with semen. I dreamt of well-hung go-go boys, dollar bills hanging from their G-strings. I dreamt of Tom sucking peanut butter and Cheez Whiz off my dick. I dreamt that I was drenched in piss. I dreamt of the asses of biker dudes hanging out of leather chaps. I dreamt that my face was being smothered in ripe armpits. I dreamt of calloused hands of brutes tugging at my hips. I dreamt of one big brute dick after another taking it out on my ass. I dreamt of jacking off with chocolate sauce.

I dreamt of getting fisted by old men. I dreamt of cum being licked out of the assholes of gay porn stars. I dreamt of lean, lithe Chelsea boys. I dreamt of blond fur around assholes. I dreamt of shaved balls and thick strings of cum in beards. I dreamt I had a fetish for the gym shorts of sweaty teenage boys. I dreamt I was getting the best blow job ever. I dreamt of a butt plug slathered with Vaseline. I dreamt that I found a white hair in my pubes. I dreamt that there was nine inches of dick past these lips. I dreamt that my ass was raw and tender from a spanking Simon gave me and afterward he fucked me till I saw stars. I dreamt of Emanuel's warm asshole. I dreamt that my daddy caught me jacking off while I watched gay porn.

I dreamt that Chris had orange hair. I dreamt that I ate his ass so good, his toes curled. I dreamt of my lips around his dick. I dreamt that he was smiling sadistically at me as I blew him. I dreamt I had a pussy. I dreamt of the sweet foreskin of Latino men. I dreamt of beefy, bubbled asses. I dreamt of asses with beauty marks, birthmarks and freckles. I dreamt of pimpled asscheeks too. I dreamt of dicks hanging from the zippers of a farmer's overalls. I dreamt of teardrop piss slits and dick heads glossy with lubricant. I dreamt of French tickler rubbers and the scuffed knees of Brazilian boys. I dreamt of giving blow jobs in the bathrooms of college libraries. I dreamt of Dean's sweaty ass. I dreamt of whips, cuffs and alligator tit clamps. I dreamt of wet, naked men toweling off in Montgomery Gym showers, dicks hanging for the attention of a man's mouth. I dreamt I drugged some Mexican boy and fucked him while he was unconscious. I dreamt of cocks being shoved under dividers. I dreamt of a butt cupped in hands as it rode a stiff dick. I dreamt of that same stiff dick bulging in tight jeans. I dreamt of hands forcing my head in stinking baseball stadium pissers. I dreamt of buttcheeks like valleys. I dreamt of giving head in the bathrooms of mall food
courts. I dreamt of the warm mouth of a married construction worker. I dreamt of a cute twink in camouflage cutoffs. I dreamt of thick lips on white boys. I dreamt that I was getting fisted by Robert Mapplethorpe. I dreamt of punks and skater boys with tattooed cocks. I dreamt of perfectly pedicured toes being sucked and worshiped. I dreamt of standing on toilets, watching the action overhead from my stall. I dreamt of cum being spat out in a pool of commode water. I dreamt of teeth brown from chewing tobacco behind a handlebar mustache. I dreamt of dicks sweeter than pussy. I dreamt of muscular bicycle thighs, cum sticky in crotch hair. I dreamt of rim chairs. I dreamt of dick rings. I dreamt of slurped boners. I dreamt of sweaty balls stuffed in my mouth. I dreamt of sugar daddies that would pay me anything for a good time.