Read Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica Online
Authors: Unknown
Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (30 page)
As the fragrance filled my lungs, I fantasized. I saw Gino climbing off his almost ex-wife to go for a jog, but arriving on my doorstep instead, wanting to finish with a blow job from my mouth. His prick promised a kingdom of cum as it filled to erection in his grip, the hot cream in his balls demanding to spawn somewhere manlike.
Lucio had been a harmless lie. The gym lover no one suspected—how could I have been so fooled? Lucio had conquered Gino with uninhibited carnality. That was the Old World spin: tougher man with bigger plume seduces bragging youth. But there must have been some truth to the fib. Gino, a bull in his own pen, stood with his dick in my corner, wanting to feed—and to feed me.
Okay, I’d play along. My attic apartment, dark and forbidding, aroused Gino.
What acts of gratuitous male surrender have been performed here,
his straight mind wondered.
What rituals of homosexual initiation have occurred in the tight hole of your apartment, my boyhood friend?
What acts of gratuitous male surrender have been performed here,
his straight mind wondered.
What rituals of homosexual initiation have occurred in the tight hole of your apartment, my boyhood friend?
He could smell the memory of the young macho men I have cocksucked, picked up, and brought here from neighborhood bars. He could see the history of their cum stains on my wooden floor. The aroma of their wife-betrayal and my quick queer fucks and sucks overwhelmed his senses. I knelt without hesitation and he plunged his steel dick inside my mouth without hesitation. His cock encountered the most moist tongue he had ever known, a tongue soaked with lustful spittle from days and nights and months and years waiting for my prodigal lover.
Gino wanted to know I was cumming inside my shorts, desperate for prick. I let him know he was right. He moored his cock in me, closed his eyes and grunted, as a hot current of gay saliva laved his dick, drowned his dick. His breath hissed loudly. His hands gripped my shoulders. I blew him harder, giving the precum a good chase around my mouth, his cock easy entry down my throat. But his balls withheld their load. The procreating cum that spilled into his almost ex-wife every night would not come.
“Lie down,” Gino whispered. “I want to sixty-nine.”
Ahh! The truth! This doubtful deity, this queasy god, craved a cauldron of cum like any queer man! I knew it. I nodded reluctantly. Gino grinned at my obedience.
We lay down on my blanket in a tight sixty-nine; neither of us could avoid the hard-ons anchored to our bodies. A dick was a dick, waiting to score; waist deep in sex, all men were equal. The mighty Italian faced his first gay equipment. Gino admired the strong dick bursting out of my shorts—my body was not his equal, but my cock challenged his. He hugged my hips and sniffed the space between my legs and buried his face into my shorts, chewing at my balls and drawing my cock to full erection with his oily tongue. It paraded before him, hung huge like his and spitting precum. Gino was a raucous lover, as indelicate as he imagined his former trainer. He reached down and gripped my dick savagely and jammed it into his mouth, directing my hips to screw his face unforgivingly. He sucked on it fast, getting the man juice flowing, preparing for some no-nonsense humping to douse his guilt.
I took his cue and blew his thick prick in unison to his reckless cocksucking. I held on to his pasta-hewn hips, round and firm in my grip, and pulled his crotch toward me. He was feeding on my gay dick while giving me his almost ex-married prick. He crushed it into my lips, squirting sweet cum deeper. We were face-fucking, lip-screwing, producing man seed for the mouth. After the day’s harassment, Gino mercifully administered to me. My romantic rages were gratified. Gino’s long dick nestled into the back of my throat and his huge balls hung down my chin, sharing their abundance.
Then I remembered his teasing tale. Bastard! I snatched his Italian manhood, jerked it wildly, and dug my finger into the jungle of black bush between his buttocks. His asscrack smoked with sweet male scent, inviting a frenzied fucking. My fingers furrowed the woolly pubes and I licked his hole without restraint. My aroused dick wanted to assume Lucio’s make-believe position: sidesaddling Gino’s ass, burying the entire length of my cock up his extravagant rear. I could do him good…as good as his story warranted…
Abruptly, my load burst into him, straight down his throat. Gino made a bottomless hole out of his face and downed the cum, gasping. His muffled cry alerted me that he savored it, every ounce of it, and desired more. I pumped him. He choked loudly, swallowing another load. Cum escaped from his fount, too, spraying my face, raining down on my chest. He sucked my dick dry as his boiling cock twisted skyward and shot three times as much cum into the air.
When we were done, I sat back, rubbing his juice around my chest. My finger was still nestled up his dark ass. I rotated it, churning the cream. Cum dripped out of his dick as he lay before me depleted. Gino was a splendid specimen of Italian manhood and I had finally had him.
Immediately, Gino heaved out of bed. He looked around and realized he wasn’t in Lucio’s jock-friendly den. He raced to put his clothes on. His straight cock wagged anxiously. His huge body, hetero by all appearances, had surprised both him and me. Gino’s genitals were massive, a plougher and two seeders, but his balls hung low wondering what had happened to their bounty. Desperately, he tucked them in his pants.
What was it like all those years for Gino to fantasize about Lucio thrusting on top of him, wrestling Gino’s magnificent ass, savagely screwing him under the abstract threat of his wife sleeping nearby? After years of cat-and-mouse, Gino’s equipment had found the gay touch. Moreover, his mouth was receptive to gay dick. A careless lie had revealed the truth to my poor Gino.
Gino hurried to the door.
I was content at that moment to look forward to tomorrow when Gino might knock at my attic apartment unannounced, feverish for another cocksucking. But would he return? Or would I only see him on occasion as the years passed, making pizzas beside Lucio? In my mind, I saw Lucio retiring and Gino hiring a muscle-bound Italian boy to make more pizzas. I envisioned a young woman waiting tables beside a young man, Gino’s children; they made jokes about their old man as Gino sat on the stool watching the portable TV, his thoughts shrunken as his belly protruded.
“Daniello,” Gino said, easing the door open. He looked around first before speaking. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? I mean, no one?”
I shook my head, swearing silence.
Gino grinned. He nodded once more, apologetically.
“I swallowed, too,” he said and left.
There is an Italian hunk on every corner in the North End. Hanover Street is his home. Hung and horny, he’s eager to match dicks with any neighborhood jock, as long as they talk about girlfriends between hand jobs. I won’t name them all, but I’ve lusted after many and tasted quite a few. They live in the pasta closets of family obedience and fill their hours with more male fantasies than any gay man will ever know. Gino was one of those hot Italian studs. I’m wondering if you are, too.
TREASURE MAP
James Magruder
W
hen you come home from class, there is a folded piece of paper under your door. You pick it up. You read a handwritten message:
Confidential. This is for a psych project on attitudes to male homosexuality. Please return to R. Murphy, room 5418.
hen you come home from class, there is a folded piece of paper under your door. You pick it up. You read a handwritten message:
Confidential. This is for a psych project on attitudes to male homosexuality. Please return to R. Murphy, room 5418.
You open the paper. The questionnaire is typed, scientific.
Using a scale of one (most repugnant) to ten (most pleasurable), please mark your personal response to the following activities.1. Touching a man.2. Putting an arm around a man.3. Holding hands with…
By the next morning, you are in love for the first time. It is spring, and you have decided to be in love with the boy across the hallway on the basis of his responses to a questionnaire slipped under the door by a psych student neither of you know. Whether his answers, neutral fives, sixes, and one seven that he let you skim with disbelieving eyes, are from hypothetical projection or practical experience, you will never care to discover. Ever. He will say nothing, do nothing to clarify his answers. You with your nines and tens make a silent vow never to mention the questionnaire. It must be buried forty fathoms, in the twelfth century, behind ten castle walls, with black-hooded marksmen at every postern, and vats of smoking oil for backup. You immediately suppress his answers, neutral fives, sixes, and one seven, to focus solely on the side of the fence he has dropped over. His is an easy hitch of one leg, then the other. Yours is a giddy, scarlet vault.
For several days you are unwilling to believe. You regard him, rather than look at him. His Person, not his Answers, is free to devastate you now, and there stretches before you weeks of callowness. He has left you to guess, left you to become the maker and the knower of roads. What burns is not lust, it is inquiry. It is the getting behind his eyes, the slipping into his form and features, the sifting of habits, convictions, false fronts, family. He—Boyd—is the ontology of observation. You smile to use the word. You deserve to use the word. He gives you words. Boyd is a list of words, a list of wonders, he makes wonders in you. A license for extravagance, he is what you are tested on.
Boyd is to wake up in the morning knowing where your eyes will go. It is a constant stop, a putting down of the foot, no matter where you are, to acknowledge him walking elsewhere. You place Boyd into the rhythm of your walk: in the instance of falling between feet, you think Boyd, you breathe Boyd in, you thank Boyd for Boyd, Boyd who is ineluctably there, you drop the other foot, complete the Boyd stride, breathe him out.
You place him consciously in your breathing so that you won’t lose him those moments when he turns up in person, unaware that he can take your breath away. Boyd is about not losing your breath, your balance, because on certain days, with the buds popping like gumdrops on the branches, you fizzing, you think something might pop out of you in front of fourteen thousand students. The fizz, the geyser, is all, endlessly renewing, endlessly slaking.
You are grateful for the progress of Western Civilization after Luther, for it meets two mornings a week, so early that it is your task to dress in the dew and knock at Boyd’s door at a quarter to seven. He pokes his head out—black curls, Boyd is the blackest of Irishmen—to let you know that you can retreat to your room and complete your toilette, after which he will find you at a quarter past in front of the elevator, from where you will proceed to breakfast. Boyd is which, and where, and whither. You listen to him shower while you brush your teeth; you share Poseidon’s strength through two of his long, verdigris fingers.
In line behind him at breakfast you order whatever he orders, which is not much, and you are in training for love anyway, an egg, some orange juice, wheat toast held out on tongs by a bleary hairnet. You will leave your crusts behind, a detail calculated, as are all things you do now in his presence, to appear that nothing is of importance. Crusts, you are not that hungry, the calories are in the crust, the boys are having themselves a breakfast with their morning.
You eat quickly to have time to study, before it fades, the purple stipple at the outer corners of his eyelids, and more important, to get Boyd’s coffee. You don’t walk for it, you lope bowlegged to the beverage bank like it is a chuck wagon in the Oklahoma Territory. You are Oklahoma on these mornings. You lope for yourself: Boyd doesn’t watch your butt curve out, but that particular motion connects to a lax sideward throw of the legs, which lets you lasso two coffee cups off the rack with one hand and have them dangle, roped dogies on your fingers, middle and index, until you are good and ready to set them both, still laced inside your grasp, under the spout, which you palm with your free hand. While the coffee pours, you keep shaking your legs, loping in place to communicate the message that you are so sleepy that the ole stems are still waking up, but oh, so virtuous to have early classes, and oh, is this java going to taste good; me and my pardner, breakfast-having range riders, are going to drink it up, the Drink that Won the West, to speed us up the hill to learning.
The coffee orders diverge; you drop the body language. You are sorry that Boyd likes half-and-half because that means you can’t pour it in and stir it with the same spoon you use for your milk. You don’t deserve half-and-half, and are happy to deny it to yourself. You pull two dripping bullets from the crock, and flick the water off the ridges. To know how your beloved takes his coffee, and to act upon the knowledge, is the Pike’s Peak of breakfast.
You place the potion on his tray, you look not at him, you look out the window behind his head until he says thanks. Then you whip the half-and-half containers down in a manner you find cruel. Do not mention this servile thing you do for no other man. Should Boyd get you a refill, should you let him, you do not offer thanks. He has purchased you already.
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