Best Gay Erotica 2015 Read online

  Raising my fist up and down, I leaned back in my chair. I could feel my balls getting tight, but I knew Michael would finish him before I even got close. Hummingbirds, after all, were never known for their patience.

  Trying to coax myself on, I licked my hand, wetting my palm to give my head something smooth to rub against.

  The rain pattered, I turned, and there, outside my fourth-floor window, was a pair of eyes nestled behind a grin.

  Freezing in my chair, I stared back. The face disappeared. There was a thump and a scrape as a length of chain slid upward.

  Blinking again, I saw Michael on my screen, throat-deep in Nihonjin cock.

  Grabbing my glasses, I shoved the window open, fighting against its half-rusted springs. Poking my head into the rain, I saw the fire-dancer climbing up the fire escape. He was wearing a short jacket and carrying a heavy rucksack, his springy black hair catching raindrops.

  “Hey!” I called. “What are you doing?”

  “Your fly’s open,” he said, swinging away from the ladder with one hand, if only to grin at my erection.

  Tucking in and zipping up, I looked out again, just as his metal chains rattled over the roof.

  Michael gasped, come dashing across his pixilated grin as he glanced sidelong at the camera, but I was already gone.

  Rain hammering my shoulders, I crawled out onto the metal platform. It was the last stop before the roof, but the whole ladder felt like it would pull off the wall. Climbing up the old rungs, coating my hands in orange rust, I made it to the rickety summit, vertigo and trash cans below.

  The top of my flat was an abandoned nest of TV antennas, some generations old, shoved in next to a row of grimy satellite dishes. A chimney stack in the corner grew an outcrop of moss, and to its left someone had tied a blue tarp between the stacks, a few cinder blocks and an overflowing bucket of rain. Beneath the weighted canopy was a camper tent, unzipped. A flashlight fumbled around.

  “You’re that fire-dancer, yeah?” I asked, approaching slowly. “Do you live up here?”

  “No,” he answered, pulling a canister of fuel out of his back-pack. “Do you typically follow homeless black guys?”

  “Only when they live on my roof.”

  “Name’s Adrian,” he said as I crouched in front of his tarp. The whole tent smelled of musk and sandalwood—not unpleasant, but certainly unwashed; he remedied his need for a Laundromat with incense. “You want to come in?”

  I paused, pretty sure that was supposed to be my question, but Adrian seemed sweet. His eyes were young and hopeful, and he smiled easily. If I had to guess, I would say he was twenty-two, possibly second generation English-Jamaican. His features were naturally boyish and his body was new, having only just come into itself. His nose was broad, flaring whenever he was excited, and his face bore a symmetry so striking it would have been disconcerting had it not been for the single mole just below his left eye.

  Sitting down on his sleeping bag with my feet outside the tent, I surveyed his little home. There wasn’t much to it. A stray box of groceries sat by a drying pair of sneakers, and his only pillow was a large hiking pack used for carrying his gear.

  “Those are poi, yeah?” I asked, pointing out his metal chains. “I saw some guys in Corfu who had some.”

  “You like fire?” “When it’s done well.”

  “But that’s not why you followed me up, yeah?” he asked, with a slight grin.

  “Why were you spying on me?”

  “No reason. Just getting done for the night. See a hot guy jacking it, why wouldn’t I look? You watched me when I was dancing. I figure a show for a show seemed fair.”

  “You remember me, then?”

  “Gray coat with the scarf and the hipster hair,” he said, his grin growing wider. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “My name’s Paul.”

  “Do you like magic, Paul?” Agreeing that I did, I watched him peel off his wet coat. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath, and I was starting to wonder if he owned one. “It comes with a price, though.”

  “A price?”

  “I need a shower and a dry towel. Can you do that for me, Paul?”

  “That’s all you want?” “No, but that’s all I ask for.”

  Grabbing a bottle from his pack, he slid on a thick glove made of several cotton and leather gloves shoved one inside the other. This he dunked in the bucket of rainwater outside as the continuous shower poured over his skin, forming rivulets from his shoulders to his chest. No part of him feared the rain, though he waited for the wind to settle, his dark brown eyes intently watching the clouds.

  “Get the lighter, would ya?” he asked, pouring isopropyl over his layered hand. “Coat pocket.”

  Fumbling with his abandoned jacket, I found the lighter along with a handful of stamped bus passes. The wind had died, but the flint was wet, and I had to flick it a few times to get it going.

  Dropping to his knees right outside his tent and right in front of me, he held his glove over the little flame. A blue fire ignited, searching over his fingers until his whole mitt was alight. As he ran his burning right hand up his naked left arm, I saw a trail of fuel dance and flicker across his skin. Amazed, I watched as he squeezed his gloved fist, causing a waterfall of burning blue to trickle into his other hand, where it vanished like a tiny ghost.

  Thinking he couldn’t get any hotter, I watched him splay his blazing fingers across his chest, rubbing the fire into his abdomen before twirling his arms in a raver’s dance.

  Knowing his audience, he unbuttoned his trousers, letting his cock swing down. It was thick and heavy, not overly long, but dense enough to cause my nervous, lip-licking pause. His entire abdomen was shaved clean, or perhaps burned clean, denoting how often he played his fire games. Again, his burning glove washed his front, following the V-line of his stomach to run his palm over his cock.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked, barely able to look up. “Always,” he smiled, blowing out the last trail of flickering,

  blue fuel. The firelight died. His glove steamed. All I could smell was the overpowering alcohol residue as I stared, hypnotized by the most beautiful boy I’d ever met.

  Removing his glove, he looked up, his whole body exposed to me and the rain and the night. It was then I realized his mole wasn’t a spot but a tattoo, a teardrop reminiscent of some far-off prison. But Adrian, whatever kind of bird he was, would never warble about a cage.

  “You want to come back to my flat?” I asked, sitting in his tent.

  Standing, slick with the worst of British weather, he walked to the ladder, his pants held up by nothing but the tension of his hips.

  “You first,” he said as I blinked away from his penis. He wasn’t going to tuck it in.

  As I climbed down, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had a perfect bubble-butt, adding curves to his naked back. On the grated platform I stopped. He turned, grinning his infectious grin, before slowly lowering his body, from cock to navel to chest to chin to lips, where I kissed him. His mouth was larger than mine and twice as eager. He sucked my bottom lip and pushed back, causing the whole fire escape to creak.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling him through the window of my tiny flat, past my computer—where Michael dozed in a crusted come-mask—to the stand-up shower in my tiny bathroom.

  As I pushed down Adrian’s trousers, he pulled off my shirt; we both stumbled under the hot water, my jeans still on. Laughing at each other, we fumbled in cramped quarters, my glasses dropping in a soap tray. I sucked his ear, he bit my neck, I clawed his back, he grabbed my shoulders and shoved his pelvis into mine. With my clothes off, our cocks rebounded against each other. We were comparable, about seven and a half each, but his black shaft turned pink below the head with a line of thick, circumcised scars.

  Squatting low, he mouthed my cock, pulling my hips forward by sheer sucking tension. Grabbing his short curls, I held his head, blinking through steam to see odd burn marks across his shoulders—pink against his dee
p, black skin. There were still soot stains from his earlier performance, quickly washed away by my pawing hands.

  As he rose, I spun him around, planting his hands on the shower wall. Lathering his back in soap, I traced the scars with curiosity. This was, it seemed, where some long ago fire had marred his perfect body. Slick with lavender-suds, I reached between his legs. Everything was hairless and smooth, from his perineum to his arse, and as I rinsed with one hand I pumped his cock with the other. He grunted, his knee bent, and I swiveled my fist—screwing down over his head, sliding up, screwing down and sliding up, until his grunts became moans.

  As I turned the showerhead first on him, then me, we rinsed off. I stepped out and threw him a towel, as promised, though he only dried his hair. Wet and steaming, he crouched forward, shoved both hands between my legs and picked me up with his forearms like a forklift, hurling me back onto my bed.

  Reaching up, I dragged my suitcase over by its strap, pulling out a condom and holding it between us. His decision was thoughtful but quick, and he pushed it toward me. Sliding the latex over my shaft, I slicked my cock with saliva. Neither one of us had lube, but he didn’t seem deterred.

  With my tip against his opening, he dipped his hips, resting and testing as he tried to find the right angle. I felt a pulsing pressure clench around my cock, then he finally relaxed. He was pushing himself too fast, and for a moment I lifted my hands off his thighs.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Always,” he whispered, leaning down to bite my chin. All mouth and fervor, he gasped as I sucked his lip and drove my penis into pure heat. His whole body clenched.

  Maybe it was the shower or the fire or our searching need, but his entire body radiated an almost scalding temperature. He felt slick and red-hot, his muscles tightening around my shaft. He felt like the inside of his fire-glove. Rounding my hand over his thick butt, I kneaded and pushed, but his skin was just so hot. His chest flushed red, but he didn’t stroke his cock, he just held on to himself as if at any moment he might burst into flames.

  Momentum bound, I thrust, driving into a confusing fire of pleasure and agony. I was hurting him and he loved it. Bouncing a few times to shake himself out, he dropped his body again, pressing his forehead against mine. So as not to lose an inch to that near-searing warmth, I slid lower on the bed, lifting my legs to pump into him. He wasn’t trying to escape, but he could only take so much without overheating.

  What was once water had now become sweat, and he seized up as I fucked him again. A whirling frustration came over his dark, angelic face. His weight caused my legs to drop flat again, and he rode me. Raising his arms, as if gravity had suddenly forgotten them, he balanced momentarily, all motion centered on his rolling hips. He was dancing, literally dancing on my cock, hitting some place I wished I could feel in his internal furnace.

  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.

  The Man in Black

  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 ta
lk 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?