Best Gay Erotica 2014 (17 page)

“That will do.” His firm hand on my shoulder prompted me to kneel. He opened his fly and said, “Get it wet and harder.”

While a bit shorter than Jamie's, Michael's cock has a very satisfying heft, even semierect. I always love the way it feels on my tongue, and I was no longer in a huge rush for it to be elsewhere. Michael, however, was. He silently guided me back to the table and pressed his wet cock against my asshole.

“Don't move.”

I obediently froze as Michael sank balls-deep inside me. He groaned in both relief from pent-up tension and an effort to avoid coming too quickly. The iron grip on my hips was for controlling himself, not me. After a few steadying breaths he said, “I can't tell you how glad I am Jamie got you ready.”

“Then
show
me, Sir.”

And he did.

STICKS AND STONES

Gregory L. Norris

Let's be clear about one thing: the dude was a fucking idiot. A tool, a moron, a real
dick
. If not for his dick, I'd call him a waste of oxygen. I'd call him worse. He'd hurled plenty of insults my way during our respective youth growing up in a lousy little hellhole called Salem. I left; he stayed. I came back for a new job and rented the downstairs apartment of a house on Height Street, unaware that my path was about to again cross that of Donald Lavallee, my former high-school nemesis, the fucking lowlife.

Boxes sat stacked in minor mountain ranges around the two-bedroom apartment. None of my furniture save the bed was where it belonged, and even that was out of alignment, pushed at an angle beneath the windows. It was the first morning following the move; a day with a heat index just this side of the planet Mercury broke bright and muggy. I was sore, exhausted,
hot
. The box fan launched warm air at my naked back, offering only mild relief. My first task of the morning after a tall iced
coffee would be to install the air conditioner in the bedroom window. If I could find the thing.

I rolled over, the bed familiar, though nothing else was. Then I remembered my new surroundings: back in the town of Salem after twelve years away. The money at the new job was great, the rent on Height Street fairly cheap. But my hatred for this town had built over the years. Not even a full day and I was ready to leave.

I reached down, found my dick erect and was thinking about giving it a tug when I caught a flash of motion beyond the bedroom windows, bald of curtains and facing the house's backyard. I sat up in time to see a lone figure plodding toward the Dumpster. A man. The image of his spine drew all the moisture from my mouth and made my already-hard cock pulse in my boxers.

He was carrying a garbage bag. He lifted the Dumpster's lid, exposing lush pit fur, and tossed in the bag. The loud clank of bottles shattered the morning's relative calm, heavy like thunder in the muggy air. Some disconnected register in my thoughts shamed the dude for not recycling while another guessed those empties had once contained beer. The rest absorbed the physique of the man outside my windows.

He had the torso of an athlete, his hips slender, lacking handles. Shapely butt was showcased to perfection in an old pair of khaki pants that hung off those hips minus a belt, flashing plenty of elastic waistband and a few inches of dark cotton underwear. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Freckled shoulders, plenty of ink on arm muscles: I couldn't tell the designs from my position and his present angle. Chestnut hair in a jock's cut, neat on the nape of the neck and around the ears. The most telling facet of the man's image were the socks on his big, flat feet: formerly white, now a degree dirtier, because he hadn't
bothered to slide his sweaty dogs into shoes en route to getting rid of the evidence of the previous night's booze fest, which I'd clearly slept through in my exhaustion.

I hoped loud parties weren't going to be a regular occurrence here. I'd signed a yearlong lease. At least I could look forward to regular cheap thrills from my upstairs neighbor, who looked great from the back and as if he clearly had pretty much given up to the point he couldn't be bothered to slide his clodhoppers into an old pair of sneakers for the hundred or so steps to the Dumpster. Blue-collar white trash. The sort of bonehead I routinely jerk my dick over and enjoy the occasional blow-and-go with.

Orange August light infused the morning, painting the world in an impression of flames. I drew in a deep breath, smelled the lush green fragrance of newly mowed lawns and figured his body was equally magical in its male, funky scent up close. His mission accomplished, he turned and started back toward the door to the front hallway that joined our two apartments. I noticed the cancer stick dangling from lips wreathed in day-old scruff before gravity and lust dragged my eyes down a sculpted chest with a patch of chestnut hair at the top center and a line of fur cutting down the middle of a sculpted abdomen. Nice bulge at the crotch. A big toe poked through a hole in one dirty sock. En route back up to the dude's face, I identified the ink: an Iron Cross, a naked woman, a human skull, barbed wire.

Higher: hairy throat, chin and cheeks. Generic handsomeness, the hard kind you see on millions of men. Clearly, my upstairs neighbor was one of those small-town tough guys who smoke cigarettes, drink too much beer and lounge around shirtless on hot summer days. He blew another noxious puff of gray. When the toxic cloud dispersed, I noticed something else about the dude as he reached down and scratched his balls through his
pants without worry or apology, clueless that I was watching.

“Holy fuck,” I gasped.

I knew that dick. He was my greatest tormenter, my worst enemy from a decade-plus gone by. I had moved into the apartment beneath the one he rented.

“Donald Lavallee,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

A look at the upstairs tenant's mailbox in the front hallway confirmed it. The same fucker who'd made my life miserable starting in junior high was walking around over my head, his big, smelly feet squeaking around on the floorboards, stinking up the place. I was as horrified as I was turned on. Little as I wanted to admit it, the fuck-wad who used to call me “cocksucker,” “cum breath,” and a slew of other slurs, most involving my presumed penchant for gobbling dick and guzzling buckets of skeet, looked better than fine.

I jerked off fantasizing about sucking on the long, lanky dick that lurked over sweaty balls in his underwear and khakis, and chuckled at the irony after I came. Back in Salem; and nothing much had changed except twelve years of birthdays and mailing addresses.

I set about unpacking, installed the air conditioner and put up curtains. I didn't know how long I'd manage to escape Donald's notice but suspected it wouldn't be long.

Two days later, I pulled into our shared driveway to see a shitty pickup truck more rust than actual metal parked in my assigned spot beside the wreck of an old blue four-door that hadn't moved since my arrival. I pulled my car onto the lawn and got out. Fucking inconsiderate ape upstairs and his fellow primate friends I thought, too tired to do more than gripe to myself.

As I worked the key into my front door's lock, the loud clomp of footsteps thundered down the staircase. I got into my
new apartment in time to avoid any visual contact. A pair of male tenor voices grunted in the front hallway. I watched from the window as Don and another dude not much higher up the evolutionary ladder said their good-byes in the driveway, lit cigarettes clamped between teeth. Don wore his T-shirt draped over one shoulder. The vision of that perfect torso and inked sleeve drained the last of the moisture from my mouth. So, too, did the fact that he was barefoot.

The other dude got into his truck and started the engine. The earth quaked. The truck pulled out. I turned from the window, unknotted my tie. I was contemplating a cold diet soda when a series of sharp knocks sounded on the front door. My pulse galloped. There was no avoiding the reunion any longer.

Getting to the door seemed far longer than the actual few seconds and steps. Donald Lavallee stood on the other side, the foul stink of cigarette smoke announcing him ahead of the big reveal.

“Yo,” he said. Fucking idiot.

I gave him a tip of my chin, that universal greeting between males, the human equivalent of a deep sniff around the asshole so happily explored by other mammals.

“Yeah, just wanted to let you know that my buddy's out of your parking spot.”

“Great,” I said, my mouth operating separately from my consciousness, the rest of me focused totally on the image of the man at my open door: all man, an amazing primitive specimen despite the putrid cigarette smoke and his lack of gray matter. I absorbed the vision of his ripped musculature, the way Donald's scant clothes loved his body, caught the scent of his sweaty armpits between toxic, ashy ribbons.

“I'm Don,” he said. “Live upstairs.”

He gestured toward the staircase with a tip of his skull. And
then he extended his hand. The same hand he used to jerk his dick, to scratch his low-swinging nuts and hairy ass, to pick at the funky stink between his toes, those incredible bare toes drifting in and out of focus at the periphery of my line of sight. The same hand that had delivered so much misery during my teen years, on courtyards and in locker rooms.

“I know who the fuck you are, goat-boy,” I growled.

“Huh?”

The world plunged beneath a filter of red. Balling my fist, I swung, clocking the handsome moron on his chin hard enough to launch the cigarette from his mouth and knocking him onto his dumb ass.

What felt like a very long time later, I blinked the red out of my eyes and shook out my hand. Donny-boy scrambled back to his feet and massaged his jaw.

“What the fuck?”

I knew he wouldn't call the cops. Not my old pal Don's style. What I didn't factor into the knock to his noggin was that one punch wasn't likely going to take him out of the fight. Don Lavallee was an animal. An injured one now, thus far more dangerous.

He sprang at me, striking with enough force to tip me over. The room spun. Don scrambled on top, and his face—his rage only enhancing its handsomeness—got close to mine.

“What's your fucking problem?” he barked, spraying spittle.

“You are, ball-sac!”

I shoved. Don landed beneath me. For a brief and thrilling instant while our dicks mashed together, I assumed the Top Dawg position.

“A lot has changed since high school, Donny-boy,” I said, a smile I imagined looking quite mad blooming on my expression. “I'm not so easy a target anymore.”

My dick grinned as well, trapped in my dress pants and
pinned at an awkward angle in my boxers. I grew aware of its hardness, pressed against his, right as recognition dawned in my adversary's pale blue eyes.

“Cargill?” he huffed. “
Cocksucker Cargill
?”

I drew back, ready to clock the fucker again, the scent of his body infusing my shallow sips of breath with ever more hypnotic power. But lightning-fast, Don flipped me back onto my spine and electricity rushed through my cells, launched from my dick as it rubbed against his thickness.

“Fucking Cargill,” Don chuckled. “Nothing's changed—you're still some jizz-gulping cock-smoocher. Only older and probably better at it.”

Don cuffed my wrists against the floor. I struggled, humped upward, saw stars as our cocks collided. The position put his sweaty armpits close over my face. Their ripeness filled my lungs. The manly stink of his feet drifted up and into the mix, too. I wanted to beat the fuck out of him. I wanted him to fuck me one iota more.

A slippery grin broke across my old and current enemy's mouth. “Cargill, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Paying my rent on time, moron,” I said. “I'm shocked that you don't still live in your mom's basement.”

“My mother don't have no basement.”

“Oh yeah, that's right—because her house is on wheels.”

Don made a face. I couldn't tell if I'd pissed him off with the quip or wounded him. Maybe both.

“Get the fuck off me,” I said.

Don's eyes narrowed. I could see the tiny wheels turning inside the pea where smarter men have brains. “No.”

“I'm not playing around with you, dickhead,” I said. “You're not gonna shove me into a locker anymore; or shove your dirty jockstrap in my mouth.”

“You fucking loved that.”

“I'm gonna love ripping your head off and making you eat your own asshole if you don't get off me.”

“You like me on top of you,” Don said in a metered voice. And then he smiled. “Oh, fuck yeah—you're already boned up and dripping like a leaky faucet, dude.”

Don unshackled one of my wrists and reached between my legs, the surge of itchy pins and needles so powerful that, at first, I didn't realize I'd been released.

“You fucking
love
it,” Don said.

I slid my hand onto the bulge at the front of his crotch and discovered the idiot from upstairs loved it, too.

Our eyes met, held.

Don flashed a shit-eating grin. “You want my dick.”

“And you want to be a guest on ‘Springer.' ”

My enemy's smile waned. “You got a fucking mouth on you. How about I shut it? Stuff my hairy bone down your throat to quit all your bitching?”