Short Spurts Read online

  Short Spurts

  By Rob Rosen

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 Rob Rosen

  ISBN 9781634868761

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For Kenny, for all the amazing stories we’ve lived through over the years, and for all the ones yet to come.

  * * * *

  Short Spurts

  By Rob Rosen

  Foreword

  A Groovy Kind of Love

  Bowling for Boners

  Open and Locked

  Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

  Hoodwinked

  Jockey Shorts

  Free Willy

  Jackpot

  Invasion of the Butt Snatchers

  3,000 Miles of Ass

  Opposites Attract

  Reversal of Fortune

  Fairy Tail

  Heavy Loads

  After Hours

  The Lit Room

  Second Chances

  Sweet Home Alabama

  Jingle Balls

  Whip It Out

  Foreword

  When I first started writing, I avoided erotica. Not because I didn’t enjoy the genre, didn’t appreciate it, but because I thought I had nothing to add to it. I mean, it had been around a long, long time; what was there left to write about?

  Suffice it to say, I thought wrong.

  In any case, I wrote pretty much everything else. I wrote funny romances with no sex. I wrote, actually, for several years, and then, one day, I saw a call for submissions from a publisher who had previously published my work. They were looking for dark fiction, sex-filled. I shrugged and took a stab at it, the piece, Go Fuck Yourself, quickly submitted—and almost as quickly rejected. It wasn’t dark enough, I was told. Again, I shrugged, and asked if they’d like to use it for their online literary site.

  They took me up on my offer, and, a month later, my first stab at gay erotica was published online.

  It might’ve ended there, had fate not stepped in—had leapt, in fact. Because, not another month later, I received an email from the editor of MEN Magazine. He’d read my story and enjoyed it. He asked if I’d like to write for them. Me. The me who had only ever written one erotic short before, now potentially writing for the most-read gay men’s erotic magazine on the planet. FYI, the me said yes. I mean, I was a writer, albeit one with almost no erotic writing experience, but I knew I had the chops for it.

  I’d written almost nothing but romantic comedies prior to that. Now, I’d be writing erotic romantic comedies. Turned out, that was something new I could add to the genre. I could get people off while I made them grin, chuckle, laugh. It was a match made in heaven. And, by the time the magazine folded, I’d written for forty issues of MEN, plus its sister magazines, Freshmen and [2]. I also wrote for almost every gay publisher, culminating in more than two-hundred published short stories, almost all of them erotica, almost all of them romances.

  Fate then stepped in again. Soared, in fact. Because I was then asked to edit the oldest and most-read gay erotic anthology on the planet, Best Gay Erotica, which has now been around for more than twenty-five years. Did I have experience editing an anthology? No. Did I let that stop me? Hell no. Did I have the chops for it?

  Well, I’ll let you decide, seeing as you have this anthology yet to read, replete with twenty of my erotic romances, almost all of them from my early career, many from my years with the magazines. That said, dear reader, enjoy!

  Oh, and when fate steps, and leaps, and soars in, grab its hand and go for it!

  Worked for me.

  Rob Rosen

  San Francisco

  A Groovy Kind of Love

  Don’t let anyone try and tell you anything different, Woodstock, despite its monumental problems, was awesome. Yep, even though we were only there during that on-again, off-again, rainy Saturday that tried and failed to wash off the caked-on mud and grime, it was worth it. Well worth it. Life altering, in fact.

  In more ways than one.

  The concert got off to a late start. No worries, though, because so did we, my group of six, best buddies traveling across two states in our beat-up van, looking to change the world. We settled in, found a patch of barely-there grass to lay some threadbare blankets on, and waited anxiously, breathlessly. The stage was off in the distance, seemingly miles away, the sound traveling just well enough to reach our ears.

  Then again, the show around us was just as spectacular as what was happening on stage: half-naked, all naked, painted-on, tie-dyed, long haired, hippies, flower children, college kids, young parents and tiny toddlers, freaks, wannabes, men and women, black, white, and all shades in between. It was a true collective of humanity, a sight to fucking see.

  And speaking of sights, I spotted him during Santana’s third song, then lost him hours later at the start of The Who’s long set.

  He was way off to my right, a good fifty yards away, hunkered down in a cross-legged squat, his head tilted upward, his long hair cascading down his back in a torrent of dirty blond. His eyes were shut tight, a smile spread wide across his angelic face, a long goatee hanging precariously off his chin. The crowd faded from my line of vision, the roar of the revelers going suddenly mute. I stood up and walked over, my friends neither caring nor noticing my departure.

  I sat down next to him, a foot or so to his side. I watched as Santana was replaced by Canned Heat singing A Change Is Gonna Come. Prophetic words. He opened his eyes, stared for a moment at the stage, then turned his head my way.

  He nodded, grinned. “Peace,” he said, flashing his fingers in a V-shape. “Groovy day, huh?”

  “Oh, um, yeah,” I managed. “You all alone here?”

  The smile widened, dimples appearing on both cheeks. “Nope. You’re here.” He pointed to the throng on all sides. “And, well, them.”

  I laughed, sidling over an inch or two. “I meant, did you come alone?”

  “Oh, no, man, I never come alone. More fun with someone else.” Now it was his turn to laugh, the sound rippling through me, making my balls rise. “Why, are you offering?”

  I coughed, a red flush splashing across my face. See, free love hadn’t worked its way into my neck of the woods just yet. Probably never did, actually. Still, the thought was enticing. “I, um, that’s not exactly what I meant.”

  He winked, his rump moving over. “Got it, man. Was just joshin’ with you,” he said. “I’m here with friends. Got separated on a joint search. Lost the friends but found the weed. No sweat, though, because we know where to meet up later. You?”

  I pointed to my group, all
of them now lost in conversation with a gaggle of hippie chicks, then turned to watch him as he removed the joint in question, my eyes riveted to his slender fingers. “Name’s Steven,” I told him.

  “Glenn,” he replied, lifting the long, tapered object up for inspection. “Smoke?”

  I nodded, shrugged. “Sure.”

  He held it to his lips and lit it, sucking in, his eyes in a squint. He then leaned over. “Shotgun,” he said, inhaling the word, his lips suddenly on mine, soft like a cloud, the acrid smoke exhaled into my mouth, down my throat, through my lungs. His face retracted an inch, his eyes wide open, steely blue, wafts of smoke trailing out of his mouth, his nostrils.

  He smiled. I smiled in return and exhaled. “I’ve never kissed a guy in front of a half a million people before,” I whispered into his ear. “Or, well, any people before.”

  Again, he laughed, moving all the way over, his flowy slacks pressed up snug to my denim, his hand on my knee. “Should do it more often,” he said. “Good for the soul.” His face drew nearer, his eyes sparkling like diamonds. Again, his lips found mine, only without the smoke this go around. They mashed into mine, parting, his deft tongue snaking its way inside, coiling around, his hand rising up to caress my cheek, my neck, causing instant lumpage in my jeans.

  “Yep,” I agreed, my smile widening. “My soul feels better already.” I casually glanced down, his crotch now expanding, the thin material doing little to hide his burgeoning stiffy. “And yours is looking pretty happy, too,” I added.

  He pressed his hand into his lap. “Oh yeah, sucker’s on cloud nine.” He grinned, a wicked smile that sent my heart madly pounding. “Wanna see it?” he took another toke, deep, his cheeks sucking in, and again shotgunned into my lungs.

  I held it in, then breathed out, enveloping us in a rich, earthy aroma. “See it? Here?” I asked with a cough that made my lungs tremble and my prick throb.

  He shrugged. “Good a place as any.” He lifted his rear and slid his blanket out, the material soon billowing over our heads like a parachute before wafting down on top of us, the light pouring through in a funky kaleidoscope of color. “Alone, surrounded by half a million of our closest friends.”

  Another band, Mountain, took to the stage.

  Again, he leaned in, his hands on both my cheeks, his lips flush on mine, the kiss soft, tender, perfect, as the pot took hold of my brain, sending a warm eddy through my belly and a burst of fireworks off behind my eyelids. He then reached down and wriggled out of his cottony slacks, his prick springing out, hard as granite, swaying as he plopped back down. The crowd erupted in frenzied applause, more than likely for Mountain’s song, For Yasgur’s Farm, than for our antics.

  I reached down to hold his prick in my hand, feeling it pulse with blood, the wide mushroomed head dribbling out a bead of slick precome. Glenn’s eyes fluttered as he let out a rumbling moan, just barely discernable through the enveloping uproar. I slapped the head against my lips before downing it, inch by steely inch, the hot flesh filling my mouth and throat as a gagging tear trailed down my cheek. Glenn’s hands stroked my long hair, though not half as long as his, as he moved in closer, our bodies meshed together in one large, blanketed lump.

  While I jacked his cock with my mouth, he swayed to the music, beating out a rhythm across my upper back. I reached my hand to the ground and cupped his balls, the skin soft, covered in blond fuzz. I gave a tug and a yank, eliciting a moan and a sigh. “Mmm, you feel good, man,” he whispered down into my ear, taking a bite and a suck on my tender lobe.

  I popped his prick out of my mouth. “Mmm, so do you.” I replied. “But this is killing my back.”

  His laugh returned. “Then we should move this to someplace more private.”

  I sat back up, offering a quick kiss before asking, “Um, you know we’re surrounded on all four sides, right?” Which was, of course, a gross understatement, all things considered—all things being Woodstock.

  He nodded and slid his pants back on, waiting for his boner to subside before removing the blanket and standing us both up. “Pays to be a local,” he replied, grabbing my hand as he walked us through the dense crush of writhing, smiling, tripping young-folk.

  “You live around here?” I asked, my head moving from side to side, taking in all the activity, the swirl of color, the tidal wave of sound, the explosion of youthful vigor. It was fucking good to be alive, I had to say. Peace and love, man. Peace and love.

  “I’m from about thirty minutes away, in Monticello. Still, I know the area well enough,” he replied, gripping my hand harder, sending a million tingles down my back that shot out to all four limbs in a pot-induced blast. It took us an hour to wind our way through, hopping over bodies, around flaying limbs, eventually reaching a high fence to the far right of the speakers just as Janis Joplin was making her entrance. “And here we are,” he informed with a flourish.

  I grinned, my eyes roaming upward. “I’m way too stoned to climb up this thing.”

  “Not up,” he said, bending down to unlatch a well-concealed opening. “We came up here a couple of days ago and made this.” He laughed and started to climb though. “In other words, four free tickets to Woodstock.” Ironically, the concert was free for everyone soon after it started.

  I followed him and stood up on the other side before we made our way over to a small cluster of old oaks, the sound of Janis’s wailing crystal-clear in my ears, our view now blocked by the wide trees. “Home sweet home,” I said, diving onto his mouth and pulling him into me, our bodies at last pressed up tight together, our hands roaming north and south—though mostly the latter.

  Soon enough, he backed away, his hand up, motioning for me to wait where I was, to watch him. He grabbed the bottom of his blousy orange and brown tunic, slowly lifting it above his head, his thin belly, ripped with dense little muscles, coming into view, then his chest, tight pecs, a smattering of blond hair trailing down the center and circling two pink, jutting nipples. The shirt, now off, was thrown to the ground.

  “Your turn,” he said, his voice suddenly raspy, eyes equally bright as they were blue, veined with red.

  I did as he had done, reaching for the trim of my tie-dyed-T before lifting it up, gradually, revealing my body, inch by inch, until my shirt joined his. Goosebumps ran rampant across my arms. “Um, your turn again,” I told him, then smiled, waiting anxiously for the visual reply.

  His own smile grew wide on his adorable face. He kicked off his sandals and grabbed the top of his pants, sliding them down, his blond bush glinting in what little light made its way through to our secluded patch of land, his wasp-narrow waist giving way to thicker legs, thighs rife with curly blond hair, sinewy muscle, and then densely packed calves even farther below. The pants got kicked off, his rigid cock swaying, balls bouncing, his young, perfect body laid out bare before me—mine for the taking. And take, naturally, I soon did.

  I moaned at the sight of him, eager to join him in his butt-nakedness. Still, I gave him the show he was obviously eager to witness. I kicked off my sneakers, rolled off my socks, and unbuttoned my Levi’s, the bellbottoms brushing the ground and then sliding down, off, my cock springing out and arcing up. And then I, too, stood there naked, acres of people screaming in the distance, my eyes and ears glued only on him.

  He smiled and walked toward me, his lips quickly finding mine, arms wrapping around me, hands roaming over my lower back, my ass, his fingers splaying my cheeks apart to tease my hole.

  “Mmm,” I hummed, my lips moving down his neck, across his clavicle, taking in a thick nipple for a chew and a suck and a tender bite.

  “Mmm,” he echoed, his knees buckling as I pulled with my teeth, yanking on his cock as I did so.

  I turned him around, leaning him against a tree, his hands up against it for support. I ran my fingers down his back, through the blondish tangle of hair just above his ass, and then spread his legs apart while he pushed his butt out for me. It was small, tight, a trail of hair running down the cra
ck, the cheeks otherwise smooth, alabaster, solid.

  He bent down even more, his pink, crinkled hole coming beautifully into sight. I reached out, running my fingers once, then twice around the track, zooming in for a feel of the silky-soft center. My free hand reached between and pulled his prick through his legs, causing him to arch his back and bend down even further, his ass and hole and balls and cock now at my disposal. I spanked his cheeks, again, then again, his growl echoing Janis’s.

  My mouth moved in for a spit and a lick, a suck on his hole before moving southward, across his great expanse of balls, and then, at last, devouring his prick, the salty head gliding down my throat as I worked a finger up his tight chute.

  He moaned and bucked and pushed his ass into my hand, aching, it seemed, to be fucked. I released his cock from my oral grip. “You want the real thing, Glenn?” A cloud burst above our heads, the rain trickling off the leaves high above, splashing over-heated skin.

  “Fuck yeah, man,” he replied, lifting his head to catch a few moist drops.

  I again stood up, leaning in, my chest across his back, his face turned to the side for a deep, soulful kiss as my cock pressed up achingly tight to his hole. I entered him slowly, his moans traveling from his throat, then down my own, again shotgunning me, only with his breath this time. It zapped my brain just as much as the pot had.

  I slid in deeper, deeper still, with him panting as I parted him open and filled him up, his lips still pressed tightly to mine, my arms wrapped around his waist, my hands playing a syncopated rhythm across his tight stomach muscles.

  He pushed his ass into me, until my balls were slapping up against flesh. All the while, he slowly, methodically, stroked his fat prick as the Grateful Dead took to the stage, the crowd roaring their pleasure, the sky above trembling and shaking. His tight hole, gripping my prodding cock, launched me into fucking overdrive, the sound of distant drumbeats prodding me on.

  I pumped his ass, fast, faster still, as he quickened the stroke on his prick. “Close, man,” he panted. “But I want to watch you come.”