Best Gay Erotica 2015 (12 page)

The highway narrowed into one lane on either side and snaked through rockslide-friendly areas without hesitation. Today, I barely noticed the masses of ever-crumbling rock walls; my sights were set on the deathtrap turnout ahead. As I passed, the now-familiar bike sped out behind me. The thrill of unexpected possibility made me smile. But the truck barreling toward me brought me back to earth, and I hugged the mountainous curves with little more than a prayer. The truck's horn blared, and while we both avoided careening into the mountains or driving into the ocean, the motorcycle sped up.

I ignored this game of speed up and slow down and focused on the swerving, curving terrain as I flicked on the radio. Hair metal all the way and the promise of multiple glasses of a dry pinot kept me semi-detached from compulsively looking to see if my biker kept in step.

A particularly sharp curve brought out the daredevil in my companion as he appeared beside me, waved and then cut me off, barely avoiding a collision with a car full of teenagers coming in the opposite direction. I slammed on my brakes but ineffectively hit the floor with the wrong foot and squealed around the corner. The road straightened out but remained narrow. The cyclist slowed and I sped up. I didn't know what this game was, but before I could make contact, he slowed down and I passed him. I slid my foot off the gas until my car drifted back and the nose of his bike could have kissed my bumper, but he cranked the gas and slid up alongside me. He then eased back and then sped up again as though massaging the side of my car with the invisible wind friction caused by our vehicles. This thrusting forward, then gliding back took on the rhythm of forceful fucking: vehicular and dangerous, but ultimately hot.

Once he drove by me, then waited for me to catch up. When I did, he smiled and moved closer. “What are you doing?” I hollered his way.

He stretched an arm out and touched the side of the car. I resisted hitting the brakes, but he slowed down. In my side-view mirror, I watched him glide along the length of my car, his hand sliding along the body.

Startled, I pumped the brakes, but when I checked the rear-view, another car usurped his position.

I'd lost him.

Uncomfortable, shaken and aroused, I pulled off into the parking lot of a beachfront fish shack called Catch. I'd written last year, as part of my job, about the motley collection of seafood shanties populating the PCH, Catch being one of my top picks. Fried, grilled or broiled, they did ocean grub perfectly. Luckily, I found a parking spot behind the restaurant. Sweat trickled down my back as my dick pressed painfully against my zipper. I'd worn boxers, and the head must have poked through the slit because a wet stain had formed to the left of the zipper seam.

After I ordered fried oysters and a beer, I scored a small wooden table. From my seat, the ocean glittered like a mass of liquid silver. The air smelled of the sea and delicious food. California coast at its finest, and despite my morning adventure, I couldn't help but admire my surroundings.

“One-thirty-seven!” a tinny voice bellowed over a static-laced intercom. “Order one-thirty-seven!”

I jumped up and maneuvered through fellow patrons, nabbed my grub and headed back to my table, making a pit stop for extra napkins and hot sauce. The smell of the oysters made my mouth water. I spritzed a couple of lemon wedges over my feast and was about to dig in when—

“Mind if I grab a seat?”

The motorcyclist stared down at me. “You,” I stammered and dropped an oyster.

“Uh-huh,” he answered and placed his helmet on the table. “So, you mind?”

I shook my head, unable to process his arrival. “Order one-forty!”

The motorcyclist looked down at the receipt in his hands. “That's me.” He left to get his food, but suddenly stopped. “Need anything else?”

When I answered with another shake of my head, he smiled and disappeared into the ever-growing crowd.

“Fuck!” I gulped my beer and stared at the patio entrance, stunned. When he climbed the steps and caught me staring, I turned back to my plate. Sadly, my hunger had vanished.

“Who are you?” I asked, once he sat.

He'd ordered two whole lobsters and stared with obvious pleasure at his bounty. “Who cares?” He lifted one of the claws, snapped it off and extracted a lump of meat. “My first lobsters of the season.”

The amount of drawn butter accompanying these crustaceans bordered on insane. He plunged the meat into one of the containers with his fingers. “You into lobster?”

“Not as much as you,” I replied and watched as he eagerly sucked the meat between his lips.

He laughed as he chewed. “Yeah, well, I don't believe in moderation.”

“Hedonist?” I asked.

“Definitely.” He cracked another claw. “You're not eating?” The meat plunked down into the butter. “Come here.” He extracted the morsel with butter-glazed fingers. “Eat.”

“Seriously?”

He leaned in closer. “Absolutely.”

Resigned to the ridiculousness of the situation, I opened my mouth. The butter-drenched lobster meat slid past my lips, and when I accidentally-on-purpose sucked his finger, he smiled.

“Good?” He removed his slippery digit and traced my lips. “Yeah,” I replied. Beyond his head, an older couple stared

disapprovingly. “We're being watched.”

He stood up and collected two containers of butter. “Let's go.”

“But…”

“Fuck, we'll come back. Just follow me.”

I followed him to the detached bathrooms behind the place. A man exited the men's room and the motorcyclist kicked the door open before it closed.

“Inside,” he instructed.

The bathroom smelled of cleanser and piss, and I hesitated at the door.

“You're unreal,” he snorted, eyeing my crotch. “Let's get you off.”

At the insistence of my rock-hard cock, I relented. The door slammed behind me. He locked it.

“Get your cock out,” he snarled as he pulled off his jacket. Unable to think with anything but my pent-up need, I undid

my jeans and slid my shorts down.

The motorcyclist dropped to his knees. “Fucking hot!” He leaned back, yanked his T-shirt over his head and rubbed my cock along his furry chest.

The prickly sensation of hair against my cockhead made me squirm. I needed his mouth on my dick. “Suck it.”

He grinned and nuzzled the head with his scruffy chin. “You've been thinking about me on your cock ever since I pulled alongside you.”

It sounded like a question, but in my blue-ball state, it didn't matter. “You're crazy,” I replied in a raspy voice.

He smacked my hard cock against his palm, making the muscles in my legs twitch.

Seeing him on his knees teasing my dick made me dizzy. “Please,” I begged.

The motorcyclist snatched one of the containers of drawn butter, removed the lid and poured the golden fluid into his cupped palm.

“What are you—”

The reply came when his warm, butter–soaked hands stroked my dick.

“Jesus!” I fell back against the wall and groaned as he worked my shaft back and forth. Overwhelmed as I was by his masterful touch and our mind-fucking coastal cruising, my load desperately needed release.

“Careful,” I warned and pulled away from his greedy grip, but he wouldn't be denied.

He replaced his hands with his mouth. Buried to the bristles, he slurped and sucked hungrily. Resistance inspired fervor, and unable to conjure the mental will to resist, I gave in and pumped my butter-slathered shaft deeper into his insistent mouth.

“I'm gonna come!”

There was a banging at the door.

The motorcyclist didn't stop; instead he undid his pants, jerked his cock out and spilled the entire second container of butter onto his dick.

“Shit, fucking hell.” I couldn't hold back. The banging became more urgent.

“Coming!” Claimed by orgasm, I melted into oblivion. I bucked hard into his mouth, expelling my load down his gullet.

Gorged on my spunk, he pummeled his prick until his own geyser erupted. His jaw tightened around my spent prick and he groaned and sucked until his ejaculation subsided. He then leaned back and wiped his chin.

“That's why I always get extra butter.” He got to his feet, pulled his pants up and toyed with the door. “Ready?”

I'd barely tucked my cock away when he undid the lock. A man pushed his way in. “What the fuck?”

The motorcyclist brushed past him and I followed. The man shouted something, but neither of us acknowledged it.

“I'm hungry now,” I said.

“That's why I got two lobsters. Enjoy it.” He didn't follow me to the eating area.

“But, you?”

“Go on.” He backed away. “See you on the road.” He waved and left me staring after him.

Two hours later, parked at the Greenleaf Winery, invigorated and blissed out by the impetuous public suck-fest with the strange motor-head, I composed myself. And, yes, my hair was mussed up and my shirt buttoned wrong—hell my fly was still unzipped.

“Just look at you!” Rodney, a mutual acquaintance of the happy couple caught me as he walked by and came over. “Tough ride here?” He crouched and leaned on the open car window.

Before I replied, several more familiar guests passed and distracted Rodney with greetings. Up went my zipper and on went my sunglasses, a final look in the visor mirror assuring a semi-respectable appearance. The smell of the motorcyclist lingered. I wanted more.

“Vino?” Rodney turned his attentions back to me.

“Oh yeah,” I replied and attempted to shake the memory of the cyclist from my head.

The parking lot led up to the vineyard's main buildings, which included a tasting room stocked with assorted gourmet tidbits and unnecessary extravagances that were focused on weary tourists and wine-addled foodies. Gardens of abundant and fragrant herbs surrounded the place, and intimate wrought-iron tables, hidden wooden benches and a man-made lake suggested secluded escapism. As I'm an easy sell and was feeling a bit romantic, this obvious spell worked on me. Meaning, I imagined sucking and fucking all over the place.

“Here comes the bride.” Rodney nudged me out of my deviant fantasies as one of our hosts, Jeremy, approached.

“Hey, guys!”

“Hey,” I said as Jeremy embraced me, “congrats and all that!”

Jeremy's sunny Californian good looks were magnified by his obvious excitement. “Thanks!” His blue eyes sparkled. “I'm glad you're both here.”

“Is it too early for happy hour?” Rodney asked as they hugged.

Jeremy smiled. “It's happy hour all weekend. Let's get you drunk!”

Much wine ensued, followed by pleasantries with Jeremy's soon-to-be husband, Carl. After exchanging witticisms with other guests, I took my tipsy ass out onto the back veranda. The majestic view stirred something in me. Vineyards spread to the mountains and the sun's descent set the landscape on fire with color, distant shadows giving an otherworldly aura to the scene.

Behind me friends laughed, drank and celebrated, and while I loved being there to celebrate Carl and Jeremy, selfishly I wanted to be with someone of my own. Thoughts of the cyclist rushed in, but I shook my head and downed the excellent syrah.

Rodney came up and stood beside me. “You all right?” “How could I not be?” I gestured with my glass at the moun-

tains. “Look at all this.”

“Jeremy never throws a bad party or pours cheap wine.” Rodney downed the last of the red in his stemless goblet.

Before I agreed, Jeremy came out. “Guys, come inside. The Greenleafs are presenting a toast with one of their rare vintages.”

“Greenleafs?” Rodney snorted as Jeremy scooted past us. “That's really the family's name?”

“Let's do it,” I said and nudged Rodney inside.

Jeremy caught my arm. “They're the oldest, most successful family-run vineyard in the area,” he whispered. “You should feature them in your column.” He paused at a table with rows of pristine wineglasses and offered me one. “Trust me, there's a story here.”

I took the glass and dinged my glass against his. “I'm on vacation. Positively no writing while drinking.”

Carl came up and put a muscular arm around Jeremy. “Ready, groom?”

“Oh god,” Rodney snipped, but smiled as Carl led Jeremy through the crowd.

The sound of multiple wineglasses being dinged drew my attention over the assembled guests to a handsome, silver-haired man and a distinguished-looking woman by his side.

“We'd like to propose a toast.” The man raised a formidable glass.

“Silver Daddy Greenleaf is
my
vintage,” Rodney said and lifted his glass.

“Too much,” I replied and nudged him. “Patriarch stealing is a crime in wine country.”

The woman standing beside Silver Daddy Greenleaf lifted her glass. “But before we do,” the woman said in a distinctly rich voice, “let's pour some damned wine!”

The crowd went wild and the Greenleafs smiled. “Our son, Montgomery,” intoned Silver Daddy Greenleaf as he gestured to an extravagantly but tastefully decorated table, “will be pouring the Greenleaf Syrah of which we are most proud. This vintage is distinct in both…”

But I didn't hear the rest, and I nearly dropped my glass. I made my way past the enthralled group and stared at the man behind the table. Montgomery Greenleaf didn't see me, and I was allowed a brief interlude to appreciate his casual, aloof sense of obligation. Carelessly groomed, but effectively stylish and sexy, he appeared perfectly imperfect. Raven-black, restless curls crowned his head and his equally onyx eyes scanned the room with a sly curiosity that intrigued me. I'd paid so little attention to his dark beauty when presented with it ocean side and butter drunk, that now he compelled me. I wanted more of his wildness.

When his parents signaled for the wine to be poured, he smiled, but I had the feeling it was not for the crowd. He opened the bottles of wine with the finessed grace of someone distinctly unaffected by its contents but willing to put on a show for his own amusement. When he lifted the bottle from the first pour, he saw me. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his lips.