Gay Erotic Stories

I've gotten out of the business of demon summoning, and I'll tell you why: they come. It's as simple as that... Before moving into the Christian-owned "Transition House" for males in recovery from drugs or alcohol or whatever demons torment them, when I had nearly a year clean, I stood on the balcony of a self-proclaimed witch named Cindy and said aloud, into the cosmos, "I could sure use a complication in my life..." The fact is that life in sobriety and in accordance with the 12-Step programs had become, for me, impossibly boring---other than the encounter in Skinner's Butte Park I chronicled in the previous chapter---the lesson here being, of course, Be Careful What You Wish For.... What follows, as before, is all true; also, in accordance to the tradition of anonymity, I'll use only first names, though, frankly, there are no innocents to protect, least of all myself... My personal ally, if not my higher power, has until recently been nothing less than a literal, personal demon whom I invited, or conjured into existence, his name Elexi; an incubus, darkly sexual in nature, his ancient signature written not in blood, but in the semen of countless males, boys and men... It came to pass that things changed radically in the transition house shortly after my spoken wish. Through an unlikely alignment of circumstances and some small effort on my part, there arrived at our address of three guys a fourth, named Christopher, whom I met first in residential treatment... Chris was tall, and dark, and handsome in the extreme---better than was good for either of us---and, following treatment, we had also briefly shared the calamity of living in a full-out recovery house (more rules and observation than in a transition home) in this Oregon campus town. I left and he was later expelled on his way to a full-out relapse back into both alcohol and his drug of choice, heroin... I'd come out while in treatment, after ten years being married, while Chris's past remained largely obscure, other than his revealing a tragic recent loss and some facts about his life, including a criminal history and his place of birth, Inglewood, CA---the same suburb of the City of Angels as mine... Whether an extremely unlikely coincidence (like the witch I mentioned sharing both the same first-and-middle names as my estranged wife, or an effect of the "cosmic tapestry's" repeating motif, the commonality of our origins a thousand miles from the small graveled rectangle designated for smoking where we met, I can't say---but the fact of it has bound us together in more than one way since... Elexi, can be so damned accommodating...a force of nature. Tall, dark and handsome Christopher, whom Hispanics nick-named "Burro" for his enviable manhood, lived in a riverside tent for weeks prior to his arrival into the House; on the very day he went to collect his few things, it happened that some animal or other wild thing (the universe is full of them) invaded his camp and shredded his shelter to rags... Christopher's move had become a necessity. Though he was beautiful, I had neither designs nor even dreams of designs on Chris; however, I should have considered the dangers inherent in having someone I cared about, admired, shared meals and difficult truths with and occasionally hugged so close, his bedroom door adjacent to my own... Over days and nights, we grew closer. Fast forward a matter of months... I came to love Chris; he helped with moral support during my one-night relapse on alcohol after more than a year clean. Cindy---the witch, whom I met when she worked at Kat's 'Beading Circle' shop---and I shared real admiration for the man, as he and I grew closer still... I confessed fear I'd developed feelings of full-out love for the man, while she admitted she'd "really like to do him," after more than two years of her own fat-enforced celibacy. Still, hers was something less than the degree of affection I was feeling...and with considerably less time and friendship invested. Witches are catalysts, though. Her betrayal of me led to another relapse on my part, only three and a half months after the last... I think it fair to say that, had the four-titted cow been a more faithful friend, none of what followed would ever have happened... She "handled" me that night, driving me to the health club, where I intended swimming off some of the pent-up feelings for Christopher, she saying she was heading back to her balconied apartment---yet, immersed in my element of water, quite suddenly, I had the absolute CONVICTION she'd lied... The Sight told me she'd turned around and gone directly back to the Transition House and was even then plying Chris with what limited charm she had to offer, mainly the damsel-in-distress routine; like her, like myself, Chris, too, had been abstaining from sex for some time, the three of us a triangle of considerable sexual energy. My demon prepared to feast that night... I got out of the Jacuzzi, dressed and quickly walked the distance back home, knowing what I would find even as I turned the corner: the witch's car in my drive, the bitch on my couch and a look as though butter wouldn't melt in her lying hole as I walked through the door... Chris was in another room. "You're back already...?" Cindy asked demurely, feigning illness with a blanket over her...still fully clothed. "And you're still here..." I shot back venomously, on the way through to my own room, there to collect the necessary funds to get absolutely shit-faced. I couldn't talk to her---could barely look at her---and didn't see Christopher at all... In the over-a-year she'd known me, Cindy could easily perceived something was going on---and, in retrospect, exactly what---but offered no comment as I went back out the door... Suicide was not beyond the realm of possibility at that point, but no effort to intervene followed; I hit three bars at least, that night, one of them the only gay establishment in town, and bought myself a sixer of Lowenbraus on the way back to the House of Transition, hours later... I went into the one room now empty of tenants on the opposite side of the house from Christopher's and mine, gathering candles, a knife, music, other art and artifacts of my pagan craft, there to conduct a bleary final ritual, out of my head with grief, hurt and anger... The things I did in that room before interrupted I will not specify, other than to drink, draw a small amount of blood; music played while I drew a circle on the unadorned wall and filled it in, surrounded as I was by a sculpture and paintings I had fashioned. Instinctively, I set into motion much of what would take place there with Christopher, myself, and other males to inhabit that very room without even knowing I was doing it... The household was empty but for Chris and I, the room I was in unoccupied and the third tenant gone for days on a work-related gig. I went to use the second bathroom, having only started my arcane work, when a hand came out of the dark shower stall and rested on my shoulder in the shadows... "What are you doing...?" I nearly jumped out of my body, even in that degree of intoxication. I used the other side of the house to be more discreet, yet here he was, witness to my condition; suddenly, I was revealed completely. Here was Chris, whom I'd come to love, with whom I shared recovery, seeing me in this state, dejected, drunken, ready to die rather than endure such treachery related to him. I walked into the other room, where I no longer had anything to hide, the ritual laid out, beer on ice... Explanation was impossible, unnecessary... and to my dull surprise, Christopher reached into the bucket of ice and pulled out a Lowenbrau, opened it, and began to drink in front of me, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. He'd hidden the fact of his relapse for some time... We drank together; he the object of my desire, me the guy who'd landed him a room at the House of Transition---- But transition into what...? He led me by the hand to his room on the other side of the house, away from the candles and music, and in his room, he stripped off his shirt, revealing the lean, tan, minimally furred, tattooed torso I had looked at out of the corner of my sharp blue eyes for months. He laid back on the mattress and box spring on the floor of his room, pulling me gently down with him, removing the corduroy shorts he wore from his long, strong legs, completely naked...and beautiful... "Mark..." he said with surrendering affection as I went silently, unerringly to the divide between his legs, to the organ which men had called him Burro for, placing my mouth on his cockhead as he put his large brown hand upon my head... "Oh, Mark..." It was the first of times Christopher and I got together in this way, later without the ritual or contemplated tragedy. Though he was primarily straight, a father, had been in prison and ultimately to be with the witch after all---proving an ending I would, indeed, wish for her once all's been said and done----I cherish a collage of the acts I savored with him. It's hard---very hard, even at this writing----to think of him as straight when I remember his legs going up into the air as first my tongue and then fingers fucked his sweet ass, which he especially loved, or envisioning him straddling my chest, buck-ass naked, , his meaty prick going in and out of my mouth, slapping my face wetly, as he demanded I tell him how much I loved it---- "Tell me," he ordered gutterally, "how much you love sucking cock, c'mon. Don't tell me how much you love sucking MY cock. I don't wanna hear that----just tell me how much you love sucking DICK..!" ---which I did--- This was a whole other side of the man... Hard to see him straight with the taste of his hot cum in my mouth, the feel and fact of it smeared on my amazed, blissful face---- Or his tongue moving deeply, greedily in my mouth---- His powerful hands gliding over my body in the shower we shared---none of this could be happening, and yet it was, it did--- The contours of his body as mine discovered his----and how it felt spooned, that body against mine the night we shared sleeping in my bed... Other moments, things spoken, presents given, flowers offered, rings worn, walks taken, but I reserve something for myself of these, and for him in this telling... It all led to the end of our time in the House together; the witch got him, after all, a jarring, nearly-fatal transition, but for the fact I am scarred, literally and figuratively, by the feelings surrounding her doing anything to fill that rapacious hole at my expense, even after he and I were lovers. I'm glad that Christopher has a home, any home, and is protected by someone who would kill for him; I bless him, and may Cindy be blessed as well, though I cannot perform that function. Fate has allowed me to regain something of what I lost to her since then...and there have been compensations for his absence in my present life... One of those compensations was the homoerotic experience I shared with a twenty-one-year-old skinhead Satanist in that room where I performed the aborted ritual after Chris left. I have photographs to commemorate the event, but not many get to see them, nor will I use his name, because he IS still so young, and has a long way to go... My advice to him, and to you, fellow seekers, is to be careful what you attract... I'm in my seventh month of recovery, the second-longest term since I was a teen, and having given up summoning for good, I should think let this be the fifth corner of the pentangle, completing the chronicle. My friend, Kathy, or Kat, who passed away in February of this year, would have wanted it so---("Behave...!")and she is still no less influential a power in my life now than while she lived, perhaps even more so. In my heart, love, and Kat, both live... Blessed be.