Gay Erotic Stories

I went with them over to Bill’s place...that turned out to be Wayne’s, too. They shared this townhouse or duplex or whatever you want to call it just outside West Hollywood, where the parkin’s the worst and parkin' enforcement's mean. It wasn’t a fancy place on the outside -- I mean, from what I could tell in the dark -- but even with the nearest street lamp half a block away and the night clouded over, I could see they kept it up. The two inches of yard they had was covered with roses and this thick kind of ivy-like stuff that trailed over the cement blocks beside the steps and up the cement walls. The place was square with a flat roof -- not good in LA in the summer; makes the house hotter -- and a yellow light was on by an iron gate of a door. The windows had gates over them, too. Reminded me of my six years at Mid-State, though this was lots cozier lookin'. Inside, it was all done up in the best queer taste -- big solid antiques all over "draped" with pillows and afghans and flowers in vases or plants in pots, knick-knack shelves and big-framed pictures covering "tastefully subdued" wallpaper, windows that had what Connie once told me were "treatments" to give them "character" -- making it just scream "faggot hole." Most of the pictures were of smooth naked guys posing like girls with pouty lips and arms stretched back...like any real man'd think that's sexy. Made me want to laugh...and puke at the same time. Bill made good on his word -- a dark ice cold Beck’s. I dunno what it is, but black German beer makes me happy...and horny. Maybe it's the bite to it...how it don’t just pretend it's beer, like that piss-water from Colorado, but first it lets you grab it and then it grabs you right back, like it's sayin’ "I ain’t gonna play around, asshole; I’m the real shit." Hell, maybe I wouldn’t mind goin’ queer, if I met a German faggot who owned a brewery...and who was built...but most of the Germans I’ve seen look like skinny rabbits, and I hear none of ‘em’s cut, so I guess that leaves that out. Too bad, in a way. I took a long drink of the beer and flopped onto a big-backed chair -- no sense in lettin’ myself wind up on the couch too quick...not till after the third or fourth Beck’s...maybe. I was already buildin’ a little buzz from the Heinekens at the bar, though they don’t really count as bein’ beer ‘cause they brew ‘em here in the states and make ‘em half what they are in Europe; I know ‘cause this one faggot I let have my dick had some direct from -- where’d he say? Holland? -- but I’d had three or four, so I was gettin’ in the mood. Bill and Wayne sat on opposite ends of the couch, both lookin’ at me, their eyes dartin’ from my face to my crotch to my pecs to my legs then back to my face. And I played ‘em, no question. My jeans were tight, and I wasn’t wearin’ my briefs -- I took ‘em off last time I hit the john -- and I kept my legs apart, not so wide it looked like I was tryin’ to be hot, but just wide enough to let ‘em get a good idea of what they could have. I was figurin’ I’d get maybe two-fifty, three-hundred from ‘em and an encore at some later date, the way they were droolin’...Bill way more than Wayne. We bullshitted some...about how good Beck’s is and how long they’d had their joint and how they thought of themselves as the West Coast "Felix and Oscar" but out of the closet. Wayne had to explain to me about "The Odd Couple" since I never watched TV, never paid attention to reruns, and he did it like some bitch old maid schoolteacher would. "Well now, little man, this is a story about two middle-aged men who live together, and who are real opposites, in everything, and how they get on each other’s nerves, just like real people do," and yap yap yap, just like a Chihuahua. What did Bill call him? "Condescending." Yeah, that's it. Thing is, Wayne looked a little like Jack Lemmon. I’d seen him in this old movie Connie made me watch -- "The Apartment", which I didn’t mind so much after a while ‘cause I’ve always had the hots for Shirley MacLaine; she looked like she could handle herself, good -- and Wayne had that same fussy directness and the same kind of hair and sort of the same chin. Anyway, I could tell Bill’s got all these questions he wants to ask me ‘bout rapin’ straight guys, but he kept dancin’ around ‘em, like they were snakes ready to bite him. But Wayne, he finally gave up on the bullshit. "Tell me something, Curt," he said, leanin’ forward just a bit, his eyes lookin’ straight at me. "Have you really raped a man?" Wayne rolled his eyes at that and sneered, "Of course he has, twit. He’s been in jail. I mean, look at his tattoos." "Porn stars have the same kind of tattoos, Bill," he sniped back, "but they haven’t necessarily forced a man to have sex with them." "Porn" stars? Fuckin' asswipes that let themselves get fucked for cash on video? That got my back up. I glared at Wayne as I said, "You think I do porno?!" He backed down a bit...but not much. "I don’t know," he said. "That's why I’m asking." That really pissed me off. I swallowed the rest of my beer and, since Bill’s was on the glass coffee table between us, I helped myself to his. He let me. Then I leaned forward and looked straight into Wayne’s eyes and said, "I did six years at Mid-State. For drugs. They don’t allow private visits with your wife, and your right hand only goes so far. You do the math." "But there are other possibilities," Wayne said. "Gay men who are willing to have sex in exchange for..." "They give you AIDS," I said. "That's insulting!" "That's the truth, you fuck!" I snapped. "Most fags in prison got there ‘cause of drugs -- usin’ ‘em, whorin’ for ‘em, stealin’ to buy ‘em, that kind of shit. If they ain’t got AIDS from gettin’ fucked, they got it from a needle. Only dumb fucks do it with them. Then those dumb fucks take it home to their wives and girlfriends, or they gang-bang a guy and give it to him and he takes it home when he’s let out. Smart guys get fresh clean meat, straight guys in for the first time. Smarter guys keep ‘em to themselves as long as they can." "And you're a smarter guy?" Wayne asked. I just sneered at him. "I don’t think I’m all that fuckin’ dumb." "How many times have you been in?" "Why?" "I'm curious. You sound too experienced for someone who's only been to prison once." This was startin’ to make me feel...weird. Like they wanted me t' tell ‘em more than I really wanted to. But it also felt...I dunno...good to be talkin' to somebody besides Connie...somebody who acted like they gave a shit, even if they really didn’t. Connie, she'd act like she's listenin', but after a while I figured out she was really thinkin' 'bout the costume she had to make for some low-rent movie she was workin' on...so I stopped trying to talk with her. But Wayne...it really seemed like he wanted to know. Then I got the feeling there was something more going on here, something I couldn’t quite figure out...and it made me want to be careful. I must've taken longer than I figured to answer him, cause Bill added, "Well...are you up for a third strike?" I shook my head. "My first time, I was a kid. They wiped it clean when I met my probation. Then I hit Mid-State." "Were you raped?" That question came at me, low and quiet, from Wayne. Now I remember I’d already told these two I wasn’t, so I knew they didn’t believe me. But I wasn’t gonna tell them anything else. Problem is, he got my mind ripped back to the first time I got busted. I was eighteen. Just a dumb-shit kid who got too deep into drugs and wound up havin’ to pay off his dealer by doin’ some transactions in "home room." I got narc’d out by this dark-haired little fucker named Anthony on the school’s varsity baseball team. Little "Mister Born Again" Boy Scout bought a joint off me and turned it over to the principal, who turned it over to Vice, who turned me over to the County Jail. Now, I’d never been in trouble, before, not where th’ cops had to come down on me, so it looked like it was just gonna be a smack the wrist time for me. They put me in a holding cell and called my mother to come bail me out. Good ol’ mom did just like she always did -- she bailed. Told ‘em to make me take care of it, myself; that she was "tired of dealin’ with me." Like she ever had "dealt with me." Fuckin’ cunt. She could get stoned and blasted and leave me to fend for myself most of my life, but th’ second I get in cop-land trouble, she figures, "Well, he sneaks out at night and gets stoned and got into a fight or two, so he's on his own." I hate her fuckin’ guts, and when I finished with that stint, I split. Haven’t seen her since. So there I was, this scared punk kid caught dead to rights and no one backin' me up, with a public defender who had a thousand other cases to follow. He told me to plead guilty and he'd try to get leniency. I got lucky; the prosecutor offered a plea bargain of six months in county, and the judge said that if I was good, they'd wipe the slate clean...so I went. Since this was my first time in, I didn’t know what the fuck was goin’ on, but that didn’t stop the guards from actin’ like I should. They treated me like I was the devil’s disciple or some such shit. Anyway, I got transferred to a long-term wing and made it through booking and th’ mug shot, okay...but then they strip-searched me. And the pig that was doin’ it pulled on some rubber gloves and shoved his fingers up my ass. Didn’t say a fuckin’ word about what he was gonna do, first -- he just poked ‘em in. I jumped and kicked him off me...and the other guards smashed me around the room for a few minutes, then shoved me over a table and held me down and let th’ fucker dig around inside my ass lookin’ for I don’t know what. When the finger-fucker was done, he told me to wipe my ass and get dressed. I did. Then I started cryin’; swear to God, I couldn’t help myself; I just started blubberin’. Well...that made the fuckers laugh and sneer. And this one motherfucker got down in my face and smiled and said, "You think you’re sorry now? We’re gonna show you what sorry fuckin’ means, cocksucker. We’re gonna teach you how to do time." Then they took me way back in the jail and down this block of cells. All of ‘em were packed with guys who looked like they could rip your heart out with their pinkies. The place reeked of piss and sweat, like six-year-old laundry, and the prisoners whistled and called out to me as I was escorted past. I was really gettin’ scared that I was gonna wind up in some cell with a dozen black guys and they’d spend the night beatin’ me up for bein’ white. I had no idea what could really happen. Then they stopped before this one that had two bunk beds...and three gang-banger "Latinos." One of the guards, this big fat ugly Mex named Martinez, shoved me in and slammed the gate shut. Then he smiled and said, "Have fun," and he and the other two guards walked away. The motherfuckers knew what was gonna happen. No question in my mind they did it to punish me and his last comment was to let 'em know it was okay. ‘Cause soon as they left the floor, my fucking cellmates were surrounding me, asking me questions like, "What you in for, ese?" and "You a maricon, pendejo?" and shit like that. I couldn’t get away from ‘em. Now I wasn’t exactly a skinny-assed kid, back then. I’d been halfback on the football team and pumped a little iron, though not regular like. And I’d been in enough fights to know how to defend myself. But that don’t mean shit when you’re faced with three guys who’ve had more fights in a month than you had all your life. I tried to stay calm, tell ‘em everything was cool, that this was down with their deal. But they kept circlin’ me and yankin’ me by my chin to make me look at ‘em and goin’ chest to chest with me. Then one grabbed my ass and said, "Hey, you a faggot?" I clipped him with my elbow...and that's th’ only real hit I got in. They didn’t punch me back; they just took hold of my arms and legs and carried me over to a bunk bed. Next thing I knew, I was bein’ held face down on a lower bunk. I was yellin’ and callin’ for the guards, even though I knew they wouldn’t come, and the rest of the floor was yellin’ along with me. Then this one chunky asshole named Paco slapped me a few times and told me I was gonna suck them off, told me that's all they wanted. And he told me that if I bit any one of ‘em, they’d cut my balls off. He showed me a shiv to prove he could do it. Then he pulled out his dick, this thing that looked like an eyedropper and was about th’ same size as one till he yanked it to where it was hard, and put it up to my mouth. "C’mon, puta," he whispered. "Take it. Do it right." And I did...I took it. That's how scared I was. And I gagged as I did it, he was so...fucking...dirty. Stank of piss and shit and head cheese. And I choked on it as he shoved it in and out like he was fuckin’ my face. And when he came in my mouth, I almost blew chunks. Then his buddies did the same thing to me. But that wasn’t the worst part. It really got bad the next night, after lights out. That's when Paco an' his buddies yanked me out of bed and slammed me against the wall. Then Paco started rubbin’ my ass and tellin’ his buddies how nice and round it was. He said it in Spanish, not realizin’ I knew some. Just enough to figure out what he’s sayin’. I tried to get away from him, but his guys held me too tight. So I said, "C’mon, man, I did what you wanted, last night. So leave me alone. Please, man...please." Paco laughed and yanked my pants down to my knees, then he pulled my briefs down. Then he rubbed his hands over my skin, sayin’, "He’s sweet. Smooth as my bitch’s ass. And white." And then he rammed his dick inside me. I felt like I was being ripped in half, it hurt so fuckin’ much! I screamed, I know...but I don’t remember for how long. All I can tell you for sure is, he kept pumpin’ into me and it kept hurtin’ and his guys kept laughin’ for what seemed like hours before he came. Then the others fucked me, each one of ‘em. And when they were done, they said I was theirs. Let everybody in the jail know it. I didn’t have the first fuckin’ idea what to do, so I let ‘em get away with it...and kept tellin' myself I could hold out till my time was up. But after a couple weeks, Paco got sick of me and started tryin' to pass me around for cigs and dope. I wasn’t dumb-fuck enough to let ‘em turn me into a jailhouse cunt, so I let everybody know Paco’d slapped me with a dose of herpes. He got pissed as shit when he found out, and him and his amigos came close to killing me, that night -- punching me and kicking me and throwing me around...and I let ‘em till I was able to grab a fork I’d hidden behind the toilet...and I nearly ripped Paco’s balls off with it. Then I used it to hold his buddies back till the guards came. They didn’t have much choice, that time; he was screamin’ so fuckin’ loud. The second I heard 'em getting' close, I chucked the fork down the toilet and flushed. Shit, I couldn’t tell who was more pissed -- the amigos or the guards cause they couldn’t prove I had a weapon. They threw me into a basement cell for a week, anyway, till they could sort shit out. Then I got let out after the infirmary doctor confirmed I was just defending myself against a brutal sexual assault. Best part is, word got around I ripped Paco’s balls off with my bare hands, so nobody came near me, after that. And th’ word even followed me into Mid-State. "Watch out for Curt, man; he’ll rip your dick off by just lookin’ at ya." That's when I started workin’ out real hard, so nobody could punk me out, again. By the time I hit Mid-State, I was already bulkin' up. It makes a difference, walkin’ into a real prison for the first time and bein’ built like a brick shit house, as my gramma’d say. With such a major rep, nobody’d want to think about fuckin’ with you. Gave me time to figure out how the joint works, and time to make a couple pals by hittin’ up old buddies on the outside to send in some smoke to pass around. By th’ time this one black guy decided to pull his "territorial" crap on me, I had a pack to watch my back...so he did some struttin’, but never got down to really tryin’ anything. Made the rest of my time go nice and easy. Another thing is, since Paco an' his buddies, when I turned a guy into my punk, he had to be cut. Circumcised. Don’t matter that I don’t suck his cock, that he only sucks mine. Th’ second I find out he’s still got a foreskin, he’s on his own, and I spread th’ word he’s available. Paco’s head cheese made me hate even th’ thought of an uncut cock. One more thing is: it didn’t matter that most of the guys in prison are black or brown; all I’d go for is white guys. It's not like I’m a racist; it's more of a cleanliness thing. White guys are raised to stay cleaner than "African-Americans" and Mexicans, for th’ most part. And those three weeks with Paco’d made me so disgusted by anything not clean and white, I couldn’t have got it up to fuck Warren Moon, who’s th’ best lookin’ black guy I’ve ever seen. "What th’ fuck do you think?" I snapped. "I’m fuckin’ eighteen years old, dealin’ with hard-assed cons who’re in for their third strike. You think they give a shit ‘bout me or anybody? And let's get this straight -- the only thing I’ll tell you ‘bout it is, they didn’t fuckin’ make me like it." "Which...which proves my point," said Wayne. "Bullshit," I snarled. "They just didn't know how." "How did you learn?" "Practice. First I made myself look like this." I stood up and spread my arms apart, lettin’ ‘em see how built I was. "Then I started usin’ the fresh meat to...take care of me. And bit by bit -- what's that phrase? Through trial and error? -- I figured out how to make ‘em like it. And once I knew, I showed those fuckers...some of ‘em with a wife and five kids on the outside, always talkin’ ‘bout how much they liked pussy and tits. I laid 'em back and I popped their legs in the air, an' I shoved my dick down their ass, an' I made ‘em shoot their wads while I fucked ‘em on their backs, just like you fuck a woman. And not just once; I did it to some of ‘em over and over. I made ‘em like it. I made ‘em think they were queer for a man's dick up their ass. And it wasn’t all that hard to do." Wayne was lookin’ at me with wide eyes, again, but he still wasn’t backin’ down. "That was in prison," he said, so soft I almost couldn’t hear him. "That's a rarified environment, where men have few normal outlets for sex." "So...fuckin’...what?! You think I couldn’t drag some guy in off the street and do it to him, right now?!" Bill got up and put his hand on my arm, saying, "Curt, why don’t you sit back down? Let me get you a nice cold beer." That's when I realized I was standing over Wayne and he was frozen against the corner of the couch, looking like he thought I was gonna pop him. And maybe I was about to. So I took in a deep breath, let Bill have my beer, stepped back and flexed to let off some of the tension in my back, then sat back on the chair. Wayne’s eyes never left me. Bill was in the kitchen, trying real hard to sound cool as he called, "So you got guys to cum just by fucking them?" I shrugged. I could’ve told him there was more to it than that, but I wasn’t in a sharing kind of mood. He came back in with an ice cold one, still trying to sound cool as he said, "You must have a huge dick." I could tell from how his hand shook that it was playtime. I’d spooked him and he wanted to get me done and gone before I got too much drunker. So what the fuck; get it over with. Why not? "Almost ten inches," I said. "No," was all Bill could say. I chuckled and said, "I can prove it." Bill was all but dancin’. He’d already put my snarl from a minute ago straight out of his head. "You mean...I could measure it? See for myself?" I slid deeper into the chair, stretching and letting my body do its job. Wayne was breaking out of his spook-time, too, his eyes looking me over with a wary interest. "Tell you what," I said. "Let's bet on it. Two hundred says I am. A freebie, if I’m not." Bill hesitated. Wayne didn’t move. Bill looked at him and asked, "What do you think?" Wayne licked his lips...and I knew I had him. "For both of us?" he asked. I smiled and said, "Two-fifty." Bill went to a desk and pulled out a ruler. Wayne pulled a hundred, a fifty and five twenties from his wallet. I couldn’t believe it; the dumb fuck wasn’t smart enough to know carryin’ that much around with him is askin’ for trouble. He put it on the table. I stood up, stretched, again, and slid my zipper down, real slow. Makin’ ‘em wait was half the fun. Then I pulled my dick out...and they both looked at it like they’d never seen one before. I started playin’ with it to get it hard...but Bill jumped over to stop me. "I want to check something out," he said. Then he took my dick and lay it on the ruler and whispered, "Six and a half inches, soft. Now let me." And he began strokin’ me. Wayne come over to watch. I just stood there. It didn’t take long to get me hard; like I said, Bill had good strong hands. And Wayne finally helped him by slippin’ my balls out and rollin’ ‘em with his fingers. I closed my eyes and thought about...nothin’. I never did think when I was lettin’ a guy do me. My mind’d just go blank, like I was in a trance, even though I knew I wasn’t. It's weird how it happens. Anyway, when I was as big as I could get, Bill put the ruler alongside my dick...and whistled. "Nine and a half," he said...and then he slipped his mouth around it. It wasn’t the best blowjob I ever got, but it wasn’t the worst, either. And Wayne joined him. And I let ‘em put their hands wherever they wanted, so long as they didn’t pull my jeans down any lower. And as I was close to goin’ off, I started thinkin’, "That'll show you, Connie. Fuckin’ cunt. I’m the one in control here." When I was done, I felt...I dunno...I can't really describe it. I felt...good. Full. Relaxed. All of it. Wayne was still jugglin’ my balls and strokin’ my dick and I didn’t want him to stop, even when he ran his hands down the inside of my legs and around and up over my butt. But I couldn’t let him think that that's what I wanted, so that's when I took the money off the table and shoved it in my pocket...then I tucked my dick away. Bill was lyin’ back against the couch, smilin’ like a cat that just ate some dumb bird. Wayne was still runnin’ his hands over me...over my back, like he was worshipin’ it, or somethin’. When he started gettin’ lower, goin’ back down around my butt, I stepped away from him and drank down the last of my beer. "I better split," I said. "You don’t have to," said Wayne. I shrugged and set the bottle on the table. "Naw, I got a ways to go to get home." "Long drive?" asked Bill. "Walk," I said. "I got no car." "We could drive you," said Wayne. "Don’t want you to." I headed for the door. "You want a car?" asked Bill. I stopped and looked at him, thinkin’ I knew what he meant. A little more serious "fun time" and I’d get a set of wheels. "Why, you got one you don’t need?" Bill didn’t move; just let his eyes drift in my direction as he said, "Yes. A Chevy. Not a new one...but it runs good." "In exchange for what?" "You show me how you did it." I didn’t get it. Neither did Wayne...or I don’t think he did. I was pretty much ready not to think I knew anything about how Wayne thought. He looked at Bill like he was talking some weird language and said, "You want him to come back?" "Yes," said Bill. "I want him to show me how he did it." "Did what?" I asked. "Raped ‘em."