Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories (19 page)
Read Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories Online
Authors: Richard Labonte (Editor)
“Bitch,” Andy says, laughing. “What’s up with him?”
“I dunno,” I say.
Andy steps into the room, offers me the mug and reaches down to run his fingertips along the base of my cock. His fingers are warm, sliding down between my balls and then along my taint until his fingertip pokes gently at my
rosebud
—his word, not mine. I sip the hot milky coffee and lean back against the wall, letting Andy slide first one, then two and then three fingers inside me.
rosebud
—his word, not mine. I sip the hot milky coffee and lean back against the wall, letting Andy slide first one, then two and then three fingers inside me.
We met Andy by accident. I got that
Three’s Company Too
Post-it, and Nick and I talked a lot about “a third.” We batted some rules back and forth, even made a list, but the whole thing seemed absurd. So we agreed to wait and see what happened.
Three’s Company Too
Post-it, and Nick and I talked a lot about “a third.” We batted some rules back and forth, even made a list, but the whole thing seemed absurd. So we agreed to wait and see what happened.
Back when I was single, I used to cruise the bathrooms sometimes. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s de rigueur to look down on the whole tearoom scene now that iPhones and XTube have made everyone a porn star and nobody seems to give a flying fuck. But in the world before all that, when small-town boys lived in fear of preachers and police and nobody would admit to wanting to be a porn star, even if they’d ordered some VHS tapes from a black-and-white ad in the back of a porno magazine they bought on a trip to Atlanta, when there was a danger and romance to cruising, there was a feeling of empowerment in dropping to your knees on the cold tile floor of a public men’s room and sliding your bouncing erection under the partition into the warm adoration of a guy you’d never look twice at in the street. It was hot and scary and crazy and dangerous.
The place I cruised most often was the fourth-floor men’s room in the Tan Building on Barrett Drive. Back in the day there were a couple of Gator football players who used to wander in at odd hours and slip their cocks under the partitions to be ravenously fellated by a tenured economics professor with a wedding band and manicured hands, or a tall A/V guy with a ponytail and long, bloodless white fingers. The first time I realized what was going on, I’d followed one of the Gators out of my econ class and down the hall to the men’s room. There was something hungry and desperate in his eyes that appealed to me at the time. I was cute back then, dark eyes, dark hair, a slim lithe body just beginning to sprout the forest of hair that would eventually earn me my monkey sobriquet. I saw Gatorboy go into one of the stalls, fidget and tap a bit and then drop to his knees.
From where I was standing, I could see the soles of his Nikes framing his broad white ass. As he leaned forward I remember watching his asscheeks spread to reveal the pink starburst, winking at me from a thicket of dewy, wispy hair. I imagined myself diving onto the floor, arms outstretched in front of me like an Olympic diver. I could feel the cold tile under my arms and my belly as I slid under the partitions, coming to rest against his sweaty, smelly hole, sliding in there face-first, arms burrowing under him, tongue digging into his puckered hole. I could smell the heavy odor and feel the wet tang of his sweat against my lips, the coarse texture of his hair against my nose. I pulled out my cock and watched him, his ass muscles straining as the cocksucker worked him. His ass rocked back and forth, winking and winking. I jacked myself faster. A pale hand stretched around his asscheek, a long saliva-slicked finger tracing his pucker. Gatorboy gasped and then groaned as the finger slid inside him, and I came all over the place, shooting three or four feet up into the air in front of me, cum splattering the door of the cubicle closest to me. I must have groaned or something because there was a sudden commotion, Gatorboy jumping to his feet, clothes rustling and then he and I were face-to-face. I was standing there with my cock in my hand, cum still dripping from the head. He looked at me, and then shoved me hard against the wall. “Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.
I slammed against the tile and thought,
That’s fuckin’ hot
. I was hooked.
That’s fuckin’ hot
. I was hooked.
It was in that same bathroom many years later that I met Andy.
Like Nick, Andy’s a natural beauty, but being from a generation weaned on reality television and
American Idol
—he was fifteen when he watched the first season of that alleged American classic—he understands what his beauty can buy him. He was born into startling wealth, both economic and genetic, and he takes them both eloquently for granted. Nick calls Andy “pretty baby” with a mixture of praise, affection and fear. Andy will turn twenty-four a week before I turn forty. Nick will still be forty-five. Nick worries about our ages more than he should.
American Idol
—he was fifteen when he watched the first season of that alleged American classic—he understands what his beauty can buy him. He was born into startling wealth, both economic and genetic, and he takes them both eloquently for granted. Nick calls Andy “pretty baby” with a mixture of praise, affection and fear. Andy will turn twenty-four a week before I turn forty. Nick will still be forty-five. Nick worries about our ages more than he should.
Andy, despite his startling beauty and his preternatural self-confidence, is an old soul. He’s centered and calm in a way I could never be. He meditates, disdains junk food and spends the afternoons he doesn’t have work or classes standing at his easel, painting naked in the sparkling sunlight. Our friends sometimes mistake his complete lack of self-consciousness for feckless innocence, but he’s more calculating than that. You can almost imagine him walking naked onto the set of “Real World DC” and conspicuously ignoring the cameras. He has an XTube account, and his library of films has logged over a million views. He’s desperate to perform, to be seen, to be praised and to be loved; which brings me, somewhat obliquely, to the circumstances of our meeting.
I was in the Tan Building for a meeting with one of my clients, an old guy who was trying to dodge a sexual harassment charge filed by a slutty sophomore public relations major who’d blown more professors than I had and who probably framed this old bastard because he asked her to turn in a term paper or something. We were meeting in his office to review some pretrial motions and when we finally packed it in, he walked me out into the corridor, shook my hand and ambled back into his hobbit-hole, leaving me standing in a familiar corridor. I could smell paint and mildew as I walked down the hallway toward the men’s room.
When I pushed open the inner door, I stopped in midstride. Things around me shifted into fast-forward and I struggled to catch up.
Andy was completely naked, his body thick and muscular, forested in ginger hair from his feet to his clavicle, his hands tied to the poles that supported two adjacent stalls, his arms outstretched like Christ on the cross. My cock jolted awake in my suit pants. The ginger Christ was a vision of fiery perfection, his body illuminated by a shaft of sunlight from the window that made his hair shimmer and his skin shine. His legs were spread, his weight perfectly balanced on his broad, high-arched feet. His finely muscled legs rose to thin hips and a tight waist. His broad shoulders branched from a perfect inverted
V
of muscle that rose from the obstructed region of his crotch past ridged abs, hard bronzed nipples and solid slab-like pecs, all of it covered in a carefully manicured lawn of golden-reddish hair.
V
of muscle that rose from the obstructed region of his crotch past ridged abs, hard bronzed nipples and solid slab-like pecs, all of it covered in a carefully manicured lawn of golden-reddish hair.
His head was bowed, a tousled mass of hair veiling his face. Kneeling in front of him, obstructing my view and noisily worshipping his cock, was an overweight redneck who, when his head whipped around to face me, I recognized as the Gatorboy who had led me into this men’s room more than twenty years before. A vertiginous heat crept across my face. He was at least sixty pounds overweight, his Wranglers sagging in the back to reveal his enormous ass, cracked down the center like a massive dumpling. A John Deere ball cap worn backward imperfectly hid his receding hairline, and his angry eyes danced over a graying mustache.
“I told you to fuckin’ lock the door,” Andy snarled.
“He ain’t nobody,” Gatorboy said, turning and staggering to his feet.
“Goddammit,” Andy shouted, shifting his arms and slipping his makeshift bonds. He rubbed his wrists and watched me, his expression cagey. “Who’re you?”
“He ain’t nobody,” Gatorboy said again.
“Then he must be somebody,” Andy said pulling on his jeans, tucking his still-glistening cock inside and reaching for his T-shirt.
“What? You’re just gonna fuckin’ go now? After I done drove all this way?” Gatorboy watched Andy pull on his running shoes.
“Fuck off, Gary.”
“Fuck you, Andy. I’m done with your stupid horseshit.” Gatorboy kicked one of the cubicle doors, giving the row of stalls a good shake and then stomped out the door.
“I just came in to piss,” I said.
Andy scowled at me, and then reached over and picked up his video camera off the sink. He flicked a switch with his thumb and looked at me, his eyes curious and blue.
He watched me in silence, his breathing even and low. My chest felt tight and I wondered for a moment if I was having a heart attack.
“It’s just anxiety, man.”
“What?”
“It’s just anxiety. You know, the symptoms: breathing, elevated pulse, red face, sweating. You’re not having a heart attack. But I might kick your ass for fucking up my shoot.”
“Your shoot?” I said, finally getting it. “Fuck you, your shoot.”
“That guy was a minister.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Who the fuck
are
you?” I said, beginning to smile.
are
you?” I said, beginning to smile.
“I am the great I am,” he said, wrapping the camera strap around his fingers and dropping the camera to his side. “Wanna fuck?”
“Can I bring a friend along?”
“Three’s company too,” he said.
The rest is histrionics
, as Jonathan says.
, as Jonathan says.
The next two years were transformative and liberating and scary. I took Andy home that afternoon, and Nick and I fucked him until we exhausted ourselves. I woke in the middle of the night to find Andy wearing my
Phantom Der Oper
T-shirt, sitting on the sofa with his bare legs tucked underneath him, laughing and watching an old rerun of “The Avengers.”
I could love this boy
, I thought to myself. I padded across the living room naked and plopped down on the sofa next to him, propping my feet on the coffee table and dropping my hand onto his thigh. He reached down and slid his fingers between mine, holding my hand as we watched the last half of the episode that ends with Mr. Steed pulling Mrs. Peel in a rickshaw. As the credits rolled, Andy shifted his body, turning to face me. The smell of sex was overwhelming. The hair across his left thigh was matted with dried cum. He smiled when he saw me looking.
Phantom Der Oper
T-shirt, sitting on the sofa with his bare legs tucked underneath him, laughing and watching an old rerun of “The Avengers.”
I could love this boy
, I thought to myself. I padded across the living room naked and plopped down on the sofa next to him, propping my feet on the coffee table and dropping my hand onto his thigh. He reached down and slid his fingers between mine, holding my hand as we watched the last half of the episode that ends with Mr. Steed pulling Mrs. Peel in a rickshaw. As the credits rolled, Andy shifted his body, turning to face me. The smell of sex was overwhelming. The hair across his left thigh was matted with dried cum. He smiled when he saw me looking.
“I think that’s Nick’s,” he said.
I leaned down, licked it and nodded. “Yes,” I said.
He laughed, the gesture knocking several years off his age. The man I’d met earlier in the day, hung from the stalls of a public restroom in mock crucifixion, now looked like a high school senior. His eyes squinted in merriment, his face stubbled and shiny in the light from the television. I watched him, trying not to feel too much.
“It was just a game,” he said.
“Can you read my mind?” I asked in my best Margot Kidder voice.
“Do you know what it is that you do to me?” he replied.
“Oh, Clark, you’re such a hunk.” A voice from the darkness behind the sofa startled us both.
“Nick.” Andy reached up for Nick’s hand. Nick laughed and let Andy pull him down on the couch. He was wearing a pair of blue boxers, his hair tousled and his face still partially immobilized by the vestiges of sleep.
I looked at the two of them, my beautiful partner and this new man who had so easily captivated the two of us. I wanted to jump up and run away, never looking back. I also wanted to propose marriage on the spot to the both of them. My compromise was to move around in front of them, take Nick’s cock in my mouth and slide my fingers around Andy’s. We fucked again on the sofa in front of flickering images of Peel and Steed investigating a voodoo trance in Hertfordshire.
This morning in the bathroom all those tentative moments, fraught with anxiety and newness and uncomfortable silences seem so distant. Andy has become a part of our lives, his own future inextricably intertwined with ours. Nick asked me yesterday if we should ask him to move in with us permanently.
Three’s Company Too
.
Three’s Company Too
.
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