Best Gay Erotica 2015 Read online

  “What is your name, boy?” he asked, deep voice inflected with a rich Romanian accent.

  I was dizzy with desire, but the question startled me back to awareness. Eyes still closed, I whispered, “David.”

  The maestro laughed again. “Are you afraid to look at me, David?”

  Was I? Perhaps. If I gazed openly on the object of my deepest desires, would he vanish like the eager volunteers in his Cabinet of Mystery?

  * * *

  I’d revered vaudeville’s most illustrious magician from the time I grew clever enough to sneak out of school and into the matinee show at the Grand Theatre. There he received top billing and a devoted following. Now, a decade later, I’d been thrust into an adulthood that failed to live up to my expectations in many ways. I was forced to obey the strict, mundane masters of law under my father’s watchful patronage. The realities of tedious studies hastened me toward a future of dull routine and weighed me down. I daily longed for the magic of childhood, encapsulated by memories of the wonders of Mayer the Magnificent. I nightly worshipped the recollections my imagination conjured of the deft flick of his wrists, his thick, curling hair, and a smirk that hinted he knew all the secrets of the universe. As I summoned his visage, I would stroke myself to release, peaking with the childish but earnest wish that some miracle would turn my hand into his.

  Torn between duty I loathed and escape I needed like air, I managed one night to return to the Grand, where the object of my longings still performed. No longer star-billed, he was at least given a respectable place in the show, and his face—in a vivid drawing I remembered from so long ago—was still on one of the sandwich boards advertising the “Best Show in the Big City.”

  Once I had looked upon this man with eyes so devoted and earnest I feared a jealous and vengeful God would strike me dead for it. But now I stood firm before the bright marquee, admiring his portrait with a more mature awareness of his handsome, foreign mystique. And even God couldn’t compete with Mayer, a man who wooed me with skills more miraculous than any summoner of staff-into-snake or burning bush. My own snake, suffice it to say, stiffened at the mere thought of him, my very soul ablaze.

  So it was—cap in my lap to cover my arousal—as he took the stage amidst a poor smattering of applause in the theater that had grown dingy in my years of absence. Still, Mayer the Magnificent shone, performing many of the tricks I remembered well, and a few I had never before seen. His face was lit with mischief, as he played his part with an earnestness that made it more than real. Through glazed eyes, vaudeville’s virtuoso relished his admirers, however few—or perhaps, as I looked around me, mostly imagined. When he requested a volunteer from the audience in a commanding tone, it seemed he could still see dozens upon dozens of hands rising before he’d even finished his request. Among a few others, I stretched my arm high, hoping that I would be chosen, though I despaired as he selected a pimple-faced shop girl—pushed forward by her wise-guy beau—to join him on the stage. My heart, and my erection, sank.

  As he concluded his act with a flourish of his red velvet cape and a deep, theatrical bow, I felt numb, unsure whether to stay or go, though I knew I could not face a return home to the books. Minutes or hours later, after scarcely seen songs and dances, comedies and capers, I rose to make my way to the exit, turning up my collar against the brisk winter air. As I stepped onto the pavement, a man came up beside me and tapped my shoulder. I spun, startled at the sight of a beefy, stubbled stranger who simply stared back. He handed me a small note with weary determination and then headed to the alley around the corner. He was, I concluded, a stagehand.

  Life surged back into me as I thanked the God I had so long abused, taking this missive for a sign. I tore open the small envelope with haste and beheld the contents within: Dear Boy, please do me the honor of visiting my dressing room for a private act, at which time your generous offer to volunteer will be most graciously accepted. It was signed with a massive, curling M.

  * * *

  “I’m not afraid,” I murmured to the great magician, opening my eyes to meet the close, leering gaze that threatened to devour me whole. I took in the powerful stare of his dark, almond eyes, sloppily lined with kohl. There were wrinkles at their corners and between unruly brows that I could see were pencil blackened, surrounded by pale skin, evened in tone by ample application of cake and powder. His carefully styled mustache faced the threat of encroachment by the hair spiraling from the nostrils of his long, sharp nose. The sly curve of his wide, reddened mouth revealed uneven teeth ravaged by a smoking habit to a patchy caramel. And, yet, aging and earthly failings could make him no less magnificent in my sight.

  “Sir,” I ventured, my voice bringing into concert in a single word the awe of my boyhood and the longing of my untested manhood. “Will you share your secrets with me?”

  He threw back his head and laughed with stagy splendor. Then, cupping my face in his hard, papery hands with their horny, overlong nails, he leaned into me as I lay passive yet wildly eager on his musty divan. My pulse raced as he placed a firm, ardent kiss on my waiting lips. From his fleshy, knowing mouth I tasted vodka and cigarettes and passion. When he pulled away, I could see the impressive bulge in his worn black trousers.

  He pulled the suspenders down from his bony shoulders and over the starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar to expose hints of silvery chest hair. I tried to steel myself for whatever would come next, but my imagination, I had suddenly to confess to myself, had never reached beyond his fingers replacing mine around my stiff member.

  I bit my lip and watched as he brought his fingers to unbutton his trousers. I shuddered involuntarily, while he cocked his head and grinned. I felt a fool, so unprepared, embarrassing myself before the master of my heart. He shook his head, loosening a thick curl that fell down over his left eye, revealing gray roots even as it softened his appearance, melting my heart and hardening my resolve even more. Without a word, he released the grip on his trouser button and knelt before me. “Dear, dear boy,” he cooed as he reached between my legs.

  I arched into him, my eyes drifting closed once again. I was unable to stop my body from seeking what it had so long anticipated. My idol was here, stroking me, warmly and surely, tapping his fingers gently up my shaft as he went. I could not hold back a moan.

  He answered my call. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  His voice encouraged me, both soothed and roused me. His question reassured any doubts about my “performance” as it hardened me further. I could feel myself swell.

  “You’re going to spill soon, aren’t you, my lad?”

  My lips parted, but I could not speak. The room spun and my head swam with images of wands that sprouted into bouquets and doves flying out of handkerchiefs. He bent and filled my gaping mouth with his thrusting tongue, and my every muscle locked in response. Before I could address the fear of making a mess all over his chest as it pressed against mine, I was peaking, pulsing out a spray of desperate devotion and joy at the end of innocence.

  I labored to catch my breath as I shook with the after-pleasure of release. I felt my benefactor rise, making amused sounds of mock dismay. I heard him walk across the room, though I could not yet find strength to speak. As I lifted my heavy lids, I saw him as in a dream, undressing quickly as he hastened to his dressing table, where he pulled open drawer after drawer in search of something. I could not imagine what or why, for the world had become only the glorious beating of my soaring heart as my mind drifted and my body lay limp. Suddenly, Mayer the Magnificent once again stood before

  me, entirely naked but for his ample, thickly swirling body hair, a blend of black and gray and snowy white. His thick erection stood proudly from within its curling nest. He handed me an unlabeled, half-full bottle of some viscous liquid. I stared at it uncomprehendingly as he made his way to my feet and quickly removed my shoes and socks, tossing them away as he whistled some exotic tune. Next came my trousers. Finally, he gaily took the bottle from my hand as he told m
e to take off my unbuttoned shirt and come to my hands and knees on the divan. I obeyed in a haze, unable to do or even consider anything other than submission to the magician who had already fulfilled my wildest dreams. Still, when he took a lubricated finger and began to insert it within me, I gasped and flushed hotly, realizing in that instant that my innocence had hardly yet begun to be breached.

  “Relax,” he intoned as he pressed down on the small of my back so my ass jutted out, fully exposed to his whims.

  Though I might have resisted his intrusion, I allowed myself to be calmed, to accept Mayer’s power as I held myself up on shaky but determined arms. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself onstage, the eager volunteer, honored to be chosen. I arched into first one slick finger and then two, hypnotized by the slow, sure rhythm of the master.

  I could feel his smile as he murmured, “Good, good,” and increased the pace of his thrusts.

  The world spun. My lips parted and a sigh escaped.

  “You are under my spell,” he encouraged as he stretched me wider, twisting in a third, slippery digit that seemed to reach my very soul.

  I felt the slack softness between my legs suddenly swell into an aching stiffness, even as I feared I might swoon. I was lost to myself, tossed into the Cabinet of Mystery without hope or desire of return. “I’m yours,” I heard myself whisper.

  I listened to Mayer’s low chuckle before the fingers were suddenly withdrawn. Blood pounded in my ears as I tried to find my bearings, but all was dark behind my lids and I could not open them. Mayer’s hand grasped my hip firmly as I felt him join me on the divan, nudging me forward as his bristly thighs parted mine more wildly. A moist, blunt knob nudged at the hole so recently plundered by his fingers. I held my breath and gritted my teeth. I had been wrong: I was not within the Cabinet; I was the Cabinet.

  “Breathe.” The command was stern and clear.

  I inhaled, raggedly. The knob began to force its way in. I whined in fear.

  “Relax, boy!”

  I knew I was displeasing the aged magician, but it hurt. I was on fire, burning with pain and the need to obey. The knob stopped its pressure, though it did not withdraw. I hissed out a breath, and then forced my jaw to unclench. I took two, then three, deep breaths. The pain remained.

  “That’s better.”

  The praise soothed me as the knob shoved through the tight band of muscle and I cried out. I wondered if I could endure the initiation, when, as if he knew my panic, Mayer’s hand reached beneath to stroke me. As the ache shifted slowly from sharp to dull, his talented fingers coaxed me back to hardness.

  The conjurer of my dreams then began to rock me, body against body, filling me beyond sense, and I surrendered to the mystical rhythm. He pumped and ground, wheezing with effort as I panted beneath him. Woolly hair tickled my cheeks as his balls slapped against mine. We made glorious music from our gaping mouths and our sticky bodies. Faster and faster we raced, he stabbing furiously and I grinding back, both of us soaring, apart and together.

  At last, when I thought my arms would buckle, I felt my eruption near. New and terrifying, the feeling was incomparable to the little spurt into his hand that had been as far as my child-like imaginings could take me.

  “Oh yes!” Mayer spat, and I felt his thickness swell and his movements grow wild and frantic.

  Before I could grasp the significance, I felt myself thrown over the edge into a shattering, roaring eruption. Only seconds later, the magician followed, groaning as he shook and spasmed inside me. Waves of pleasure flowed over and through me. I grew heavy and faint.

  When Mayer withdrew, I was startled back to wakefulness. “Get a cloth,” he puffed, pointing vaguely across the room. I wanted to rest, to flip onto my back and lie on the divan until the room stopped spinning, but he was insistent, and I could only obey.

  As I rose, wobbling to my feet, I saw again the dingy dressing room and squinted up at the stark yellow of the small, dusty bulb hanging from the ceiling. I made my way to a small folding screen, over which hung a musty towel. When I returned, thinking to clean the mess I had made on the divan, I found Mayer lying on it, lighting a cigarette. The circles beneath his eyes were darker than ever, the wrinkles like great mountain crevices against the flickering match light. He puffed from between the tips of sticky, shiny fingers, and blew smoke through his tobacco-stained grin.

  I brought the towel to him, but he shrugged it away. I used it to wipe between my legs, then tossed it aside and sat on the chair opposite him.

  “So,” he declared. “How did you find the show, my boy?” I paused before I answered, taking in the decay and squalor

  of the little room, breathing in the cloying odor we’d roused together and feeling a kind of base decadence that throbbed within me. There was only one expression for it: “Like magic.”

  Nothing to Lose

  Dale Chase

  Unlike Keith, I had nothing to lose. I’d broken up with Tom, so sex for me was unencumbered, while Keith had a partner, Bill Forney. In fact, their wedding was in two hours.

  I’d known Keith Dunnock longer than Bill had, and far better. Thus, when I drove him to the Regency Hotel, where the ceremony was to take place, I wasn’t surprised when, soon as he got into my car, he began to unzip. I calculated we had fifteen minutes.

  I loved Keith’s pile-driving cock. At twenty-four he was as rampant as a teenager, which, I’m sure, was why Bill, at forty-five, wanted to legally snare him. While Keith stroked his dick in my periphery, I considered myself headed toward the pinnacle of distracted driving.

  “One more,” he said. He gave himself a few more pulls, then reached over to free me and set to work. I forgot to use my turn signal going from Second onto Broadway.

  When Keith dropped down and took me into his mouth, I slid into a sexual blindness where traffic hadn’t a chance. A honking horn caught me drifting into the next lane, and I yanked the wheel while squirming under Keith’s attentions. Then at a red light this monstrous SUV pulled alongside and I glanced up to see a woman looking down at us. I offered a shrug.

  I came a block from our destination, tapping the brake with my first spurt—or maybe it was the gas, who the hell knows. The car balked and horns honked as if celebrating the climax. Bucking in the seat, my foot tapping, we lurched down the street until I’d emptied and Keith pulled off. “Holy hell,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Keith replied after spraying jizz onto the dashboard.

  I was happy for Keith and Bill getting married, mainly because it was them and not me wading into the quagmire. Tom and I had talked about it. Well, mostly he had, but it seemed more playing to the trend than any genuine commitment. I tried my best to dredge up respect for the institution because freedom to marry was important, but I hadn’t been able to shake a deep-seated resistance, even when watching the two grooms walk down the aisle hand in hand. And Keith was no help when he glanced my way as he passed down said aisle, offering more smirk than smile. I knew he still tasted my come.

  Tying the knot was quick, the reception grand. The ballroom was circled with round tables, dance floor at the center, while off to one side sat a square-shaped cake that looked like a confectionary skyscraper. Champagne flowed and there was food enough to feed a small country. I knew most of the people, grooms’ local family, mutual friends, but it was Keith’s new brother-in-law that I fucked in the bathroom.

  He didn’t know me, having come up from San Diego with his wife, Bill’s sister. Ruddy and blond, early forties, his name was Jay Costigan, and he reeked of straight-man desperation. When he offered me a sweaty palm that squirmed more than shook, I knew I had him. We exchanged pleasantries about the happy couple while he eyed me with abandon, and I wondered if his wife, a silky brunette named Beth, was picking up on it or if she was so entrenched in her marriage that she didn’t bother with concern about a straying husband, especially with some gay guy.

  I kept an eye on Jay as I made the rounds chatting, drinking, laughing and generall
y enjoying myself because every time I glanced his way I found him looking at me, sometimes while he spoke to his wife. Did she get that he was looking past her for something better? I thought of asking him to dance just to torment him, maybe sneak a grope right there on the dance floor, right there in front of Beth.

  When he headed to the men’s room, I followed, knowing he’d crave cliché bathroom sex. Sure enough, I found him in a stall, door unlocked, standing with pants down, hard cock in hand.

  “You ever take a dick?” I asked as I got out mine.

  “Not since college.” He didn’t stroke himself, just held on. “Good. Turn around.”

  He did as told, thrusting his bare ass at me while bracing one hand on the tile. He started pumping his cock while I got a condom on and got myself lubed. I always carried both, full service fucking for one and all. When I shoved into him in one mighty thrust, he cried out and sprayed spunk onto the wall, but I didn’t care about him getting off; I was going to ride him so hard he’d want it again before the cake was even cut.

  Others came in to use the facilities, which only added to the pleasure. Having come in the car, I wasn’t quick, and I went at Jay a good while. At one point we had company of sorts, a guy in the next stall who, while taking a shit, got what we were up to. Soon came the sound of a hand working a dick and the restrained cry of a good come.

  “Fuck yeah,” I said so he’d know I was onto him. Once he’d finished there was a scramble to get pants up and flee. I imagined him rushing out into the ballroom red-faced and sweaty, his wife silently worrying over constipation issues.

  Jay started grunting as I kept pumping his ass. Sweat was running down my back when the rise hit, and I rammed it home with a fuck slap that played off the tile just as the main door opened. I didn’t hear it close, the entering party stopping to listen to the climax before retreating. I issued a few grunts to give him a payoff.