Gay Erotic Stories

(An Almost True Story) The fat one straddled my hips, grinding her sloppy cunt into my groin through my jeans. She had smelled bad enough when she came up to us, but with her legs spread, she reeked. Her actions were doing nothing for me and my cock stayed limp. Things were different with Jake. The skinny one was servicing him in the same way. He lay back in the chair, eyes closed and moaning slightly. The fabric of his white tee shirt was stretched tightly across his pecs. His nipples were erect and his hands cupped her skinny buttocks. I pretended that it was I on top of him and that his hands were grabbing my ass. My cock began to stir. Jake and I had hooked up in a basement taverna on Avenue Revolucion earlier in the evening. He sat down next to me and asked if the chimichangas were any good. I said that they were fine but that I had had better in the States. He ordered them and agreed. We decided that we shouldn't expect more. I was taking a teaching job in the fall of 1981, and I had decided to spend the summer touring the West. I spent most of my time camping out in various national parks, but I hit a few cities along the way, too, staying in cheap motels when I needed a decent shower and a soft bed. When I hit San Diego, I decided that I had to check out Tijuana. I wanted to say that I had been to Mexico, if indeed Tijuana can be called "Mexico.” I had looked at some travel guides and knew that the best bet was to take the "Trolley,” a light rail link between San Diego and the Mexican border. I parked my car in a 24-hour supermarket lot across from a fairly decrepit motel in Chula Vista, a small city about two or three stops north of San Ysidro, right across the border from Mexico. Though in civilian clothes, Jake turned out to be in the Navy, recently assigned to a destroyer at the big base near National City. He had decided to head for Tijuana for pretty much the same reasons as I, but he had the foresight to get what were supposed to be "hot tips" from other sailors. On top of that he said it was his twenty-second birthday. That made him about five years younger than I. We began buying alternating rounds and eventually went out in search of more action. I scored three big blunts from a guy on the street and lucked out. We shared one in an alley and got a pretty wicked buzz. Avenue Revolucion is the main tourist street in Tijuana with trinket markets during the day and some modest sleaze at night. The strip shows on Revolucion were unimpressive by U.S. standards. Jake began drinking tequila; I stuck with Coronas. He had the bartender make him an "upside down margarita.” That's where they hold your head back against the bar and pour in all the ingredients. They hold your mouth closed with a towel and make you take it all in one continuous series of swallows. He puked it up as soon as we left the bar. Wasted--both the drink and the man. Jake decided that he wasn't going to leave Tijuana without getting a tattoo as a souvenir. He found a tattoo parlor recommended by one of his new shipmates. After looking through a book, he settled on a charging bull for his left pec. I tipped the tattoo guy $20 and told him in my best, but none-too-good, Spanish to use a fresh set of needles and inks. Jake laughed at this as he shed his shirt when I translated. He said I a wuss. Jake wasn't huge, but he had a chiseled chest and washboard abs. It turned out that he already had a cobra tattoo coiled around his right nipple striking up toward his shoulder. I watched in fascination as the tattoo artist worked on Jake's chest for over an hour. The sailor winced from time to time as the needles penetrated his skin. I had to admit that the guy was good. The bull turned out magnificently. He was up on his hind legs, his bulldoghood showing proudly. "OK. Your turn," he said as he got up from the table. "Not me," I replied. "This is your gig. I'm a pussy. I can't take pain." "C'mon. It'll make a man out of you. It only hurts at first. You might even enjoy it." With the dope in me, and a lot of "needling" from Jake, I found myself on the table getting the mirror image of Jake's bull on my right tit. He was right. It didn't hurt that bad. In fact, I think I took it better than he. When it came time to do the bull's groin, I said to the artist, "Make the cojones bigger than the ones on his bull." "It's the cojones down below that really matter," Jake countered. "Needles and ink won't make those bigger." We left the tattoo parlor at about 1:30 AM. Jake said, "Time we went to Zona Norte." It turns out that Zona Norte is the sex district of Tijuana, pretty far from the basic tourist district. We worked mostly by sense of direction (mine, definitely not his) and finally found the group of bars and sleazy hotels that made up the district. At Jake's insistence, we skipped the more "upscale" establishments and found a dive on the edge of the district. It was a Spanish-only place that catered to locals. Jake said that another sailor assured him that we could get our rocks off for next to nothing. Prostitution is legal in Tijuana and the registered girls are supposed to get biweekly physicals. The two we linked up with were probably not registered. If they were, they had skipped quite a few checkups. As I watched Jake pull his bitch tight into his groin, my cock swelled more and more. I tried closing my eyes and pretending that it was Jake on my lap, but my hands would not believe that the flabby ass they held was his. I returned to watching Jake and pretending to be the girl on his lap. As my cock continued to grow, my whore's eyes widened and she stroked the hose that now extended down my leg. "Polla grande!" she said. "We go back room? Vente dollaros. Cheap!" Not cheap. And very risky. I shook my head. "Cinco dollaros,” she said. I turned her down again. "Free then. Senor Polla Grande." Mr. Big Dick. I would not have been able to keep it up even if she had been a good-looking woman. And I was not about to acquire a disease from this fat bitch. I tilted my head toward Jake, "Deserio ese hombre. No te!" "Maricon," she spat. "MaracÛn!" The other woman looked at me, then at Jake. Both got up quickly and a couple of seedy looking toughs came over. "Vamanos muchachos," one ordered. "Go fuck yourselves," he continued in his best English. I presumed he meant go fuck one another. Jake seemed unwilling to accept the invitation, but I left a $20 bill on the table and practically dragged the sailor out into the streets. "You definitely are a wuss," he said. "It was only two on two." "Discretion is the better part of valor, buddy," I noted." It ain't our country and you don't want to try to cross the border with your wallet and ID missing. Worse yet, you might land in a Mexican jail. There were half a dozen other guys in that bar waiting for you to start something, and I didn't see any marines ready to come charging in on our side." "Marines are pussies, too," Jake opined drunkenly. But, he seemed more-or-less mollified. "What did you say to the bitch that made everything go bad, and what does 'maricon' mean anyway?" "I don't know what it means and I can't figure out what happened," I lied. "But I sure as hell wasn't going to fuck the whore I was with, and you'd have been pretty stupid to do yours. Penicillin and sulfa don't cure everything." "Yeah, I know," he acknowledged. "I need a guy like you to bum around with in order to stay out of trouble. They were skanks, weren't they? But we could have at least gotten blow jobs." Jake considered his options as best he could in his compromised state then said, "Fuck it! Let's just head back home." That sounded pretty good to me, but it wasn't as easy as he made it seem. I was disoriented and Jake himself needed help just walking. We stopped once to piss. He had a nice thick cut cock. I wondered how big it would be at full extension. While pissing Jake happened to look in my direction, and his eyes widened. I was still half-hard from the bar. "Pretty fucking impressive for a white man!" he said, not the first to do so. "I still think I have bigger nuts, though." He unzipped and dug them out of his jeans. I undid the buttons of mine. He had a point; it was a close call. I pushed my crotch up to his to make a more detailed comparison. I was reaching for his orbs, when he declared himself the winner and zipped up. Reluctantly, I followed suit. After about an hour of wandering, we finally stumbled upon the bridge over the Tijuana River that leads to the border crossing. Jake fumbled with his wallet and I helped him extract his military and civilian ID's. I added my own ID and handed the lot to the border guard. "You guys look like you had a good time," he said. "Didn't get laid," Jake complained. "Nope," I echoed. "A navy man in Tijuana? Didn't get laid? I'd guess that you really didn't want to," the guard replied with a grin. "How are you getting back to your ship, sailor?" Jake didn't answer. He probably hadn't thought that far. I told the guard that we would take the trolley to my car and that I would drive Jake to the naval station. The guard said that it would be about an hour before the trolleys started up again. He said that he hoped that I would be in good enough condition to drive by then. "Take good care of this boy," he said. "I'm an ex-navy man myself." I promised to handle Jake with great care. When we reached the ticket machines, I pulled out my money and found the last blunt. "Shit!" I said. "I fuckin' crossed the border with fuckin' dope in my pocket. What an asshole!" "Let's get rid of the evidence," Jake said, pulling his lighter from his pocket. The third joint blew us both away, and we settled onto a bench for our long wait. After a few minutes, he was slumping against me, snoring away. His "polla" was visible through his jeans. After deciding that he was really, truly out, I reached down and began massaging it. The shaft lengthened as I worked it. Jake squirmed and moaned. Suddenly he woke up and I snatched my hand away. Jake looked down at himself and said, "I'm still hard after all this time." He sniffed the air then turned toward me. "It’s your fucking crotch that's doing it," he said. "You smell like ripe cunt." When he leaned down to get a better whiff, I grabbed the back of his head and pushed it hard into my jeans. He spun away laughing with the dope and pulled his shirt to his face to wipe away whatever residue had been transferred. "Like ripe ELEPHANT cunt!" he said. "I guess you would know," I countered. "What makes you think you don't smell just as bad?" "Because my whore was less skanky," he replied. I leaned forward and sniffed. "You're right!" I said. "You just smell like a bitch ready to be fucked." He tried the same maneuver with my head. I could have easily ducked it, but instead I let him guide me, latching onto his fly with my teeth. I began shaking my head and growling like some crazed terrier. Jake collapsed onto the platform in a fit of laughter then cried, "Ouch! Let go! You're pulling out crotch hairs." I let loose and lay back against him, laughing just as stupidly. "OK," he admitted. "I guess we both need showers pretty badly." By this time, there were other people waiting for the trolley and looking at us incredulously. Jake rolled away from me and stood up. Pulling me to my feet he said, "Get a grip, man. People are watching." Then he collapsed against me in another fit of dope giggles. The trolley arrived and we began our trip north. We got off at Chula Vista and somehow managed to find my car. As I looked at the motel across the street, I said, "Are you going to be in trouble, Jake? Did you miss a curfew?" "Naw," he replied. "I still have another seven days of leave. I just reported to the ship so I'd have a place to bunk." "Look," I said. "I'm going to be finding a motel anyway, and I'm really not fit to drive any distance. I already have two DUI's." (A minor lie, that. I only had one.) "Let's get a room across the street, take those showers, and crash for about 10 or 12 hours. It's on me. I'd be paying for the room anyway." "Sounds good, if it won't cost me anything." The clerk gave us quick going over. Check in was at 2:00 PM, not 5:00 AM, he said. I handed him a $10 bill, and he looked up availability. He offered a room with a queen size bed for $22.00 and one with two single beds for $26.00. I took the queen, saying, “We don't need luxury. We just want to crash. We've been driving all night." For the first time since I met him, Jake had no comment. I brought in my backpack when we got to the room. Jake pulled off his shirt and lay back on the bed. The bull on his chest was red and angry. "Who'll go first?" I said. "You're the one whose crotch smells like elephant cunt," he replied. I couldn't argue and pulled my jeans off. I don't wear underwear because, frankly, there isn't enough room to stash my stuff. I hadn't come down since I fondled him at the trolley station. When I pulled off my jeans, my cock stuck out in nearly its full glory. "I think I said it already, but I'll reiterate," he opined. "I've showered with a lot of guys in the Navy, but you've got a dick that belongs on a really big black guy. You must get backaches." "Go-oo-olly, Sergeant Carter!" I said in my best Gomer Pyle accent. "Do you really like it?" "Just take your shower!" Jake said. I don't think he got the reference. He was right, though. I still smelled of the fat bitch and I hated it. I made sure that when I stepped out of the shower I was more engorged than when I went in. I watched him through the mirror above the sinks. He had his face in my jeans, near the inside of the butt; definitely not the outside front. "Your turn," I said, toweling myself off and walking into the main room. He dropped the jeans onto the floor. I let the towel dangle, as I wiped my face. He laid back on the bed, his cock straining at the fabric of his jeans. "Am I really the first sailor to come back from a night in Tijuana without getting fucked?" "Night's not over yet," I replied. He looked doubtfully at the light coming though the curtains. "Night's not officially over 'til you crash," I explained. "I guess not," he said, "but I don't see any prospect before I'm out for good." "A man that would consider those whores is pretty desperate," I said. "Look who's talking! I wanted blow jobs till you wussed out…" "I can make it up to you, Jake." I made it serious, and he immediately understood. "Maricon means faggot," he said matter of factly. "So you knew, or at least you suspected," I replied. "And you came here with me anyway." "I was tired and you said you couldn't drive." "Spare me the rationalization. We'll stipulate that you're not the first macho sailor who has had an unsuccessful night on the town and wound up in a motel room with a guy willing to suck his dick. It doesn't make you a faggot; just very horny." I judged that this was the moment, so I reached out and popped the button on the top of his jeans. I pulled down the zipper and yanked the trousers down along with underwear. He made no effort to stop me. His cock sprung out, about seven, seven and a half inches, fully erect. I started licking the lines of his groin, burying my nose between his leg and balls. He tasted of man sweat and spunk. The whore's cunt juice was just an overlay. I licked his balls then began working my way up the bottom of the shaft. I teased the underside head and worked my way around the tip. My tongue lingered on the oozing slit. Jake writhed and pushed my head downward. "You're killing me. Just suck it!" "I gotta get the cunt smell off you first!" I took in the head and worked my way up and down, each excursion about an inch deeper. When the head hit the back of my throat, I opened up and took it all they way in. "Oh, Jesus!" He immediately began to pulse. "Suck me, suck me. Suck. Suck it faggot! Oh yeah!" He came in big gobs, but I deliberately did nothing to drain him. I pulled back so that the last of his cum wound up in my mouth. I moved to his mouth and shared his load with him. Our tongues tangled and he swallowed his own spunk. "Thanks, man," he sighed. "That was good. You guys really know how to suck." "Most guys, gay or straight, do it naturally," I offered. "They know what they themselves like." "Yeah, I guess so," he said. "That makes sense. You haven't cum yet, have you? You wanna jack off or something?" "We'll take care of me later," I insisted. "I'm sorry, buddy," he said. "I'm kinda shot. I need to sleep." His cock had subsided after its explosion. "We've just begun," I replied. "Give me two minutes, then decide." I lay on the bed, serendipitously in the "69" position. I slid my left arm under his lower thigh and grabbed his upper buttock with my right hand. Spreading his legs and his ass cheeks, I plunged my nose into his cleft. I knew he hadn't showered this morning. Nor the day before, I was sure. And probably not the day before that. It was good. There was a lot to digest, and I took my time. The chimichangas had left their punch; they may have tasted even better on the way out. The tequila and Coronas had left their sloppy residue. The older stuff was not distinguished enough to identify. Once he was clean, I plunged my tongue deep into his hole. "Holy shit!" he cried with no apparent irony. His cock began to rise like Christopher Lee from the coffin. I forced my nose into his outlet and let loose a huge snort. Meanwhile, my dick flopped around, hitting him randomly in the face. "I guess I have to do you, too," he said. His breath was hot on my dick as he spoke. "We don't exactly have a contract," I noted. "But it would be polite.” He licked tentatively at my member. His tongue rasped along the shaft. Finding out that it didn't taste that bad, he went for more. Mimicking me, he licked the groin, then the balls, then worked his way up the shaft. He hesitated when he came, the head oozing pre-cum liberally. He took an audible swallow, then flicked his tongue out. Maybe out of sheer dumb luck, he caught the tip just right and a shiver ran down my body. That turned him on even more than my tongue up his ass. He latched onto my cock like a dog with a stolen bratwurst. He was up and down the first four or so inches, letting loose to lick the bottom part from time to time. After a few mishaps, he learned to keep his teeth out of the way. A natural, I judged. He tried to deep throat me and gagged big time. "Look," I counseled. "I'm not the guy to learn that on. Don't bite off more than you can chew. So to speak.” "Just let me try again," he said. "If you can do it, so can I." After several abortive efforts, he managed to get the head back behind the glottis. He took another two inches, then gagged and came up for air. Still following my lead, he nosed into my ass. The fact that I had just showered meant that all he had to deal with was the sex sweat. To make things more interesting, I let out a small fart. It was wetter than I expected. "Oh yeah," he exclaimed, then dug right back in, cleaning it up. He lifted his head out of my crack to admire his handiwork. "You know, from this distance, all assholes look alike." "How would you know?" I teased. "I've porked my share of women up the chute," he bragged. "So...Are you a pitcher or a catcher? I always hated that one. "With my cock? What to you think?" "Oh, yeah. Sure." He couldn't hide his disappointment. "You know, when you start out in a sport, you usually try your hand at all the positions. It's been a few years, but..." I rolled over, fumbled in my backpack and found a tube of KY. I tossed it back to him, got on my knees and pressed my chest to the mattress. "Happy fuckin' birthday, Jake." At my direction he squeezed some out and spread it on his cock and my hole. I had him work one, two, then three fingers into my hole, loosening me up. I warned him that I would be tight. I'd help him, but he had to stay rock hard. He had no problem with that. After one aborted attempt, he thrust in past my sphincter and was home free. I gave him a roll of my glutes, which often get overlooked but are pretty sweet themselves. "God, you're so tight," he moaned as he thrust deeper. He banged me for a bout two minutes, then slowed down and asked, "What does it feel like? Does it hurt?" "The sphincter hurts when you first stretch it. You're nearly as thick as me. It'll be sore tomorrow, too. You came in fast, so I had some bad cramps, but they’re gone now." "Sorry, man," he said. "Are you OK? Should I pull out?" "No need. I'm cool. Did you ever put a finger up your ass when you jerk off?" "Yeah, all the time. It's great." "Well, you're massaging your prostate from the inside, except that your finger can't match the feeling of a hard cock in there." Jake thought a minute, then pulled out and said, "Would you do me? Just a little. A couple of inches maybe." I turned over, looked him straight in the eyes and said, "No." "I thought you said that you usually..." "I don't fuck anybody 'just a little'," I insisted. "It's all the way or nothing. You can't be little bit pregnant or a little bit fucked.” "It's just that you're so big," he complained. "I've never done it before." "Look. I've done this a lot. I'll work slowly. It'll hurt. No question. Then it'll feel real good. I promise." "I don't know," he mused. "You brought it up. Those are the terms. You've been calling me a wuss all night. Well, I want to fuck man who can take it. Not some pansy ass. Maybe next time I'll hook up with a marine." "All right. Go for it!" he said as he got onto his knees. (I can’t believe he fell for that marine ploy!) I rolled him back over and put his legs over my shoulders. I buried my nose once again into his crack. After getting as much spit as I could spread around, I took a huge gob of KY and packed it in. I pushed my fuck finger against the roseate. He pushed back. I told him that it would hurt a lot worse than it had to if he didn't help. He did and the finger went in. I found the underside of his gland and stroked it gently. He sucked in a sharp breath, then moaned loudly, "Ohhhh, ohhhhh." I worked in two more fingers stretching the hole. "Ouch!" "Sorry, but I have to do this!" "I know. Just take it easy." I squeezed out the whole tube of KY and spread it up and down my dick. Pushing Jake's knees back into his chest, I positioned the head of my cock against his puckered muscle. I gave him a pillow and told him to bite on it. "I'm gonna do this quick. If you don't help, it's really gonna hurt. On three, then. One..." I jammed my organ hard and burst through. Jake gave a muffled scream. He spat out the pillow. "What the fuck happened to 'two' and 'three'?" I shrugged. "Does it hurt?" I asked. "Shit yeah!" he replied. "Good. You'll remember getting your cherry popped for a long time. Now we've got to make some room." I eased it in an inch or so until I felt him cramping. He was breathing in rapid short bursts. I pulled back and eased forward. After three or four cycles, I was in another inch. He was breathing easier and actually squirming back onto me when I paused, gaining yet another inch or so. "Better?” I asked. "Yeah," he replied. "Real good. It sure is different. Let's get it in!" He took a big chunk of pillow into his mouth and I pulled back until just the head was in. I plunged forward until my crotch hairs were jammed against his butt. Even through the pillow, you could hear his cry in the office. The people in the next room pounded on the walls. I went halfway out and back in about three more times. He looked up at me, tears streaming down and a shit eating grin on his face. "I took it!" he proclaimed proudly. "I took the whole damn thing!" "Not bad for a rookie," I smiled. I leaned down and put my lips on his. This can be risky with a straight guy. He seemed surprised, but he opened his mouth and accepted my tongue and returned his own. My tit was hot against his. I pulled back slightly until we just brushed nipples. "Look," I said, slapping our tits together. "Our bulls are fucking too." "I don't know, man. They're awfully red. Mad. Or maybe just embarrassed." Something crystallized that had been bugging me all night. "Quiz time, Jake," I announced. "What's my name?' "Huh?" I pulled my cock all the way out and slammed back in. "You heard me. You've been calling me 'guy ' and 'man' and ‘buddy' all night. You forgot my name, didn't you? "No, man, I..." He shut up. I pulled all the way out, head included and slammed back in. "What's..." (Slam.) "My..." (Slam.) "Fucking..." (Slam.) "Name?" "Sam, Mike, Willie, Bruce.... I don't know and I don't care. I just know I'm gonna cum!" I grabbed his cock and pinched the head between my thumb and forefinger, just below the slit. Nothing was going to emerge without my say so. I continued my relentless plowing. Jake grabbed my ass, pulling me as tight as he could with each thrust. "You gotta let me cum," he pleaded. "I'm going to explode!" I eased my thumb back, letting the pressure down slightly. A fine jet of white semen splattered against the wall above the headboard. Rocking my thumb and forefinger back and forth, I controlled his release. He nearly squirmed off my pole. Eventually, his face, my face, both our chests and both our abs were covered in his jism. "Stop it," he begged. "My balls are practically in my mouth." I gave him one last tweak then let him go. I resumed my pounding and quickly let loose into his cavity. Wave after wave of pulses turned his tight chute sloppy. A light brown soup trickled out around my cock. "Is that us?" he asked as he looked down at the mess between us. I started to withdraw, but he grabbed my ass and pulled me tight. He raised his leg over my head--very impressively, I might add, and settled in on his side. I eased in behind him, spoon fashion. "Stay inside me until I'm asleep, OK, Rick?" Rick. "Sure, Jake," I replied and I kept myself awake until he was sawing logs. About 14 hours later, I woke up with a hard-on. Nothing unusual there, except for the mouth around it. "You're on duty again," Jake announced. "Get it in me." "You know, buddy," I said. "A sailor that lets some dude suck him after a frustrating night isn't all that unusual. He's just horny. If he sucks the other guy back, he's just polite. If he porks the guy? Well, any port in a storm. If he takes it up the ass? Drunk. Stoned. Whatever. But if he asks for it again when he wakes up, he's..." "Maricon," Jake finished. End Disclosures So, what is "almost" true about this story? Well there WAS a sailor I met in Tijuana that summer. His name might or might not have been Jake. We met at a bar, drank a lot, smoked a lot of dope and got lap dances. However, we did NOT get tattooed. He had one already, on his shoulder. I always fantasized about a tattoo, so it found its way into the story. We did NOT flee from Mexican bouncers in any bar. In fact, we never left Avenue Revoluciun. I only learned about Zona Norte on a later visit. We did not compare "cojones,” but "pingas.” HIS was a bit larger. (Another fantasy. Sue me.) The border guard DID tell me take care of my drunken, stoned friend, and I accidentally DID carry a joint through customs. The only time anyone called us "maricon" was when I was fondling the sleeping "Jake" at the trolley station. The song and dance about being unable to drive is pretty much as I performed it. When we got to the room "Jake" ASKED for the blowjob. Turned out he woke up earlier than I thought at the trolley station. The sex went pretty much as I described it. I apparently wasn't the first guy to suck his dick, and I doubt that mine was the first he ever had in his mouth. I do think I popped his cherry. If not, he gave a pretty good simulation of it. He did ask me to do it, but he also made a lot of wimpy noises. The tears were real enough. I did fuck him again the next morning (at his request). We fucked some more that night and stayed together the entire next day, doing Black's Beach, the famous nude beach in San Diego. I began to lose interest, though. He was proving to be pretty much an asshole. We hit the gay bars that third night. He was all uptight about being pegged for a faggot by the other sailors who were there. Duh. Finally, we hit one of the baths, where he was quite the hit. I picked up another guy and left him there. I guess he found his way to his ship. I have not seen him since. Constructive comments can be forwarded to mgw@gay.com. Other comments should be sent to eatshit@writeyourownifyouthinkyouthinkyoucandobetter.com.