Best Gay Erotica 2015 (7 page)

Then he grabbed the back of his own head, his elbows thrust out. My shaft drove as deep as it could go. I could barely hold on. I could barely move, and I was half-afraid to try. His concentration was fantastic; his arse tightened, his torso locked and his bouncing, black cock shot three times, spattering my chest and my stomach without a single hand on the trigger.

The convulsion rattled through him, and with each hot blast dashing across my front, he stopped and released and stalled and fired my orgasm, chopping one large, jaw-dropping combustion into a jagged series of tremors. I cried out, I bit my own lip, my eyes rolled and I pumped his arse trying to chase the last flickering spark.

The fire liquidated. I slid out. Adrian propped forward, holding himself up on shaky arms. Taking the back of his head, I pulled him in, allowing him to collapse on me in a trembling, twitching calm. He looked both contented and excited. His cock throbbed peacefully against mine, but his eyes were wild again.

I couldn't explain that expression, though I've spent years trying to fathom it. Hawks have preyed on me, owls have examined me, but in that moment he consumed me as if burning away whatever question or fear or regret I could ever have. Then he smiled and nestled against my shoulder.

“
Ohayou gozaimasu
.”

Looking up, I saw a Japanese man in a white bathrobe waving through the Internet.

“Bravo, feygele,” Michael applauded. “Bravo!” Half-embarrassed, half-amused, I tossed a pillow at my

computer and listened to the rain through the open window. Overheated, overworked and overstimulated, I slipped into the soundest sleep I'd ever had—and that was my great mistake.

When I awoke, Adrian was gone. Dawn had brought with it a new shade of gray, and when I climbed up the dripping fire escape, I found nothing. His tented nest had vanished, tarp and all.

I spent the morning checking every major bus stop from Soho to Hyde Park until I got a phone call from a client to review a hotel in Ibiza. Over the next few nights I kept searching for a fireball, a spark, a hint that I would ever see him again, but I never did.

Some birds you only see once in a lifetime.

Gregory L. Norris

The man's face changes, but his suit somehow stays the same.

You're sitting in a diner, you and the man in black; you, hypnotized by the preternatural color of his eyes, which never blink, him in that dark suit, a crisp, tailored number that fits his body to perfection, highlighting his many magnificent attributes—not only his guns and his chest and his muscled ass, but also his athlete's legs and his balls, which hang loose and prominent beneath the no-less-spectacular front of his crotch, the outline and gravity of his dick pulling at your eyes. Clearly, that suit cost him some serious money—though it may end up costing you far more, you fear, unable to look away, almost unable to remember the otherworldly lights you saw up in the woods, in the sky, the flying vehicle at the source of those lights that wasn't quite in the shape of a saucer.

“Are you thirsty?” he asks, his voice a deep, familiar baritone.

You've already got a glass of water in front of you, and try to not think there's some hidden meaning in his question.
Thirsty for something more? For him?
One of his big hands absently scratches at the lump of his crotch. You steal another glance, feeling your lips curl in a smile. You've always gotten off when a >man—a man's man—handles his nuts. It's a ridiculous, straight man's thing, like grunting or sniffing the toes of discarded socks to determine just how dirty they are, but it pushes all of your buttons in proper sequence as you fall deeper under his spell.

That black suit material reminds you of outer space, a star map missing the stars. The buttons are planets and moons. His flawless white dress shirt is linear time, the thin black tie cutting through its center at a slightly bent angle, a tunnel to travel through. The shoes on his big feet are so shiny, so polished, they remind you of something that should be within easy grasp, but isn't. Shoes. Leather, but not leather, not really. So shiny, so sharp, like the man in the black suit. A trace of clarity cuts through the fog. What are shoes but a method of transportation to get the wearer from Point A to Point B? A vehicle.
Space vehicle
, you think, your eyes falling into the glossy black shine of his shoes.

As though sensing the raw emotions that threaten to consume you, the man reaches lower and scratches at his leg, an action that causes his cuff to ride up, exposing a hint of hairy shin and calf. He's wearing dark socks, but the socks, unlike the rest of his attire, are frayed, and you catch a glimpse of ankle through the gaps. Thoughts of extraterrestrial spacecraft and what happened out on Sawyer Avenue retreat back into the ether.

You remember Mister Hunt, your teacher, and that particular math class, way back when. Mister Hunt was an attractive man, a bachelor. In math class that day, he called upon you to answer a question, only you weren't ready. Six times six? You were fixated on the image of his ankle, visible through a frayed sock, not the number thirty-six.

You force your eyes back up. “You look familiar,” you say, your lips feeling flabby, flaccid, stung with Novocain. The sensation is like trying to talk while dreaming.

The man grins, revealing a length of white teeth, the gesture more snarl than smile. All you can think about, apart from the miserable itch emanating from your erect cock, is how much he looks like Mister Hunt, and how desperately you want to kiss him on that beautiful mouth, surrounded by the prickle of five o'clock shadow at whatever time this is. There's a clock on the wall behind the cash register, but it's lacking hands. A calendar hangs beside the clock, though the days and dates are blurry.

“Hey,” he says, and repositions his hand on your knee. “You okay?”

Electricity ripples through your blood and bone and over your flesh, the wave both icy and hot at the same time. You are drawn back to his eyes. He looked like Mister Hunt a second ago—or was that an hour? Now he's Tom, the tall ex-soldier, ex-husband of an ex-best friend, that guy you fell madly in crush with for a few years, back in your midtwenties. Tom, who was always scratching at his balls, who played sports with his Army buddies, who, a couple of times, you caught sniffing his dirty sweat socks and whose socks you, more than a couple of times, exhumed out of the laundry hamper to also steal whiffs. Tom, with his neat mustache.

One winter, he grew a beard and, for months, you masturbated dreaming of the tickle and scrape that your then-best friend surely felt when he ate out her pussy, only you imagined it rippling across your most sensitive flesh, Tom's beard unleashing pinpricks as it scraped around your asshole.

You blink, and the man in the black suit now sports a beard. You gasp, drawing in a deep breath. On it is the pitch-pine scent of male sweat, fresh and arousing, that heady natural cologne of a real man—a man's man—you remember from Tom when he walked into the house after mowing the lawn or chopping stove lengths for the fireplace.

“You're…” you begin, but it's no easier to speak now than those few minutes/hours earlier.

“I?”

For an instant, the man in black hesitates. And his face isn't there, only his clothes: his dark star suit and flying-saucer shoes and that crisp white shirt with its narrow passage of time through the middle, and those buttons, six in all, which remind you of planets, terrestrial ones—Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Pluto. Today's greatest scientific minds no longer believe that Pluto is a real planet, but fuck it, you think; the man in black does, and his opinion matters. It isn't the fifth button that concerns you, anyway, but the sixth, at the very bottom, just above his asteroid belt—buttons, in a line, laid out like planets on a map, galactic reference points. What's the name of that sixth terrestrial planet-button? Where is it located? Would you even be able to pronounce its title, like its native inhabitants could?

Your attention wanders and, you think, maybe the bit of mind reading on the part of the faceless creature beside you, touching your leg, works a little in your direction as well. An elegant word drifts through your thoughts. A second after you experience it, the word is gone. Verdigris? Perigee? Perihelion? Heliopolis? No, that last name owes to ancient Egyptian mythology. The name of Planet Six is not a word or name for humans or human lips. Still, it's up there in your gray matter, and perhaps you'll be able to remember it once you've nutted, once you're home safe and can jack one out, tug on your balls, dream about Tom and Steve and—

He has a face again, the man in black. Now, he looks like Steven Ranley, that dude you grew up with who became a cop, joined up after 9/11: the guy who led you on, let you get only so close before he pushed you away. Steve Ranley, only he's dead. KIA in the desert, in Iraq, you read. Yet here he is, seated close to you, his hand scratching at those big nuts you never got to suck and wanted to so badly. Steve, with his buzzed black hair and twin sapphires for eyes. Star sapphires, you muse, high on his piney sweat, the scent of his male skin. Those eyes sparkle with eight-point compass stars. Steve Ranley had the biggest, sexiest feet you'd ever seen before meeting your friend's husband, Tom. Big feet, hairy legs. All those toggles triggered and buttons pushed, you gasp his name.

“
Steve?
”

“I am every man you have ever wanted, never gotten, but will have tonight. Say yes, and we can leave here, and we'll create the best memories, enough to sustain you. Nothing unrequited will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“I saw something,” you babble. “Tonight, walking along Sawyer Ave. Near the conservation woods. The hiking trail. In the big field, there was…”

You don't finish your statement, as the balance of hot and cold within you unbalances and cold crawls over you.
Choose your words carefully
, a voice in your thoughts warns.

You look up, into his star-sapphire gaze, and melt. “Steve,” you sigh and boldly reach up, cupping his cheek, loving the scrape of his five o'clock shadow beneath your fingers. “I'm so happy to see you. I've missed you.”

The cold passes. The man in black takes your hand in his, kisses your palm, fixes you with a stare that further hypnotizes you. “That's right, babe. It's me. I'm here. Nothing to worry about. I'm gonna take you home, take good care of you. Stick my cock down your throat, fuck the shit out of your face, your asshole. After tonight, you won't remember what you saw in the field, only that we were together again, over coffee in the diner, and how we fucked for hours and hours. For years.”

He takes your hand, pulls you into a tight embrace. The fabric of his suit caresses your bare skin like feathers. Or fur.
Scales?
You smell his flesh up close and it bewitches you. The word
synthetic
crosses your mind, worrying you for all of a second before his cock stabs against your thigh and primitive lust wins out. You reach down, fondle his thickness, tickle his balls right through his trousers. He permits it, groans. After all, it's not as if there's any reason to worry. You're the only souls in the deserted diner, which probably isn't a real diner, any more than his thousand-dollar duds are really a man's suit.

A space suit, perhaps.

“Come on, babe,” he growls in your ear, kissing your head while you rub his cock and get high off his hot male scent. Even his voice seduces. You fall into the black hole he is dressed in and your world evaporates, leaving you imprisoned in his.

It's your little home, your place on Sawyer Avenue, which runs along three hundred acres of conservation woods, meadow and hiking trails. You try to stay fit, so you jog up and down the trails and hike the woods, in love with nature but also trying to keep in shape just in case you one day encounter a man like Tom, like Steve. Hell, you've been dreaming about your archetypical man since Mister Hunt's classroom, when you caught that flash of ankle through sock and realized that not only did you love the male physique, you loved it so intensely that even those parts of it normally deemed ugly or aberrant by polite society stiffened your dick. What normal male finds another male's feet attractive? Or his hairy athlete's legs? What man craves another's musky natural odor?

What's
normal
about anything on this night?

It's a little house, with a pair of bedrooms and a view of the woods from the back deck and a bed in the master suite big enough for two, though usually occupied by one. You've brought home a hot guy on the rare occasion over the years, but no one who compares with the men you've really wanted but didn't want you in return—the ones who would fill that black suit brilliantly and tonight do just that.

It isn't Steve who waltzes you toward the bed, his big feet in those magical black shoes backing you closer to the edge of the mattress. Now he's some dude with perpetual bed head and emeralds for eyes who you've jerked off to on the television. He's in a commercial, hasn't shaved, a real red-blooded, beer-drinking, he-man sort of dude.

“Hey, buddy,” the guy says, a new swagger in his voice. He places both hands on your shoulders and guides your ass down to the bed. Once you're in position, he rakes his fingers through your hair, unleashing pins and needles, which cascade all the way to your toes. He then scratches his nuts. “See this? It's yours.”

You unbuckle his belt, the leather cold beneath your touch, slick like a length of polished rock. Again your imagination dreams of an asteroid belt. You undo it, unzip his fly, listen to the cool, jangling melody as his expensive and illusory pants fall around his ankles, revealing black boxer-briefs beneath—of course, they are black! Because that's what turns you on the most. None of that bikini shit.

Steve wore red ones, with dark blue piping around the edges and the piss slit. You nicknamed him “Spiderman,” and it stuck, right to the end of your friendship. Tom, you know from your many secret missions to the laundry hamper for his dirty sweat socks, wore tight whites. Black boxer-briefs are your absolute favorite, though. They shift, becoming red with navy highlights. And then they're white, plastered to Tom's tight male flesh, and he's urging you on, yours at long last, calling you, “Dude,” like he did in those other times. Just a regular guy, Tom was, with above-average good looks and nuts as big as baseballs—a man's man. And this man belongs only to you on this night.