Gay Erotic Stories

Until that Friday, I'd never really thought about how much we live our lives in hope. Not just for blockbuster dreams like winning the lottery, but also for just having your day progress in a linear fashion...and being able to drive to work without being hit by a truck...and believing your coffee will be in a clean cup and your sandwich won't be two days old. Ridiculous things you never pay attention to...until the order of your existence is shattered and you have to figure out how to put the pieces back together. Sometimes even when you can restructure your life, bits are missing that keep everything out of whack.

That's how it was for me. All day I'd gone through my usual routine--wake at seven am, read the paper over juice and fruit, dress (since I'm a night shower person), and start work, believing subconsciously that everything would be in order. Granted, my work wasn't...isn't exactly a nine-to-five sort of thing. Some days I could get everything done that I needed to get done in a space of two hours; other days I'd labor for sixteen to twenty hours straight to get a plan completed on time. That Friday, I was done by four-thirty.

I met some friends at "Caruso's" for dinner about seven. It was my buddy Lonnie's birthday and six of us were giving him a surprise party. We had a five course Italian meal then planned to meet some more people at Chad/Greg's bar for a drink. We also got Lonnie one great big gift instead of a bunch of cheap-assed ones. One older guy -- Willis, whom I didn't know too well (he and a tall thin buddy of mine named Steubin had been an item for a few months) -- suggested we buy an escort for Lonnie's enjoyment...but no one else felt it was right. Thank god. So we asked Tad, a sleek guy in the group who was a jewelry salesman on State Street (very high-class), to get us a deal on a Rolex and we all chipped in. It was perfect...ten times better than foisting our buddy on some poor unsuspecting dude who was just trying to work his way through college or a drug habit or both.

Now don't get me wrong; I think Lonnie's a great guy. He's a year older than me, he says (I think it's really closer to five), and a marathoner who goes into withdrawal if he doesn't run at least an hour each morning, so he's in top shape. In fact, he's the reason I keep working out. I'd tried the gym thing before, but Lonnie's encouragement was what prevented my giving it up after a few months of getting nowhere, this time.

“It takes an average of a month of exercise for every year you've been out of shape to get into shape, Alec. You've got years of work ahead of you." The bitch...though I'd laughed when he said it because I knew he said it with love in his heart...and I'd kept at it. And I was glad I had.

But Lonnie also had this streak of...I dunno...fury in him that drew him to dabble in the darker side of life...meaning some really kinky sex. Bondage and uniforms and all that, things which made me uncomfortable. So we'd stayed friends and avoided becoming lovers; I think was too white bread for him...and he figured vise versa on my part.

Anyway, the evening went just right. Lonnie was surprised and loved his gift and we ate too much and drank too much wine and slammed into the bar about ten, en masse. Chad/Greg saw us coming and pulled out a bottle of decent Merlot. One of the crew we were meeting there had given him the heads up about where we were eating (I think it was Isaac, another programmer who was closer to what you'd think a computer geek looks like...but in a cute Jewish guy kind of way).

"And this'll keep you away from the hard stuff," he said. "We don't want anybody hitting the floor, tonight."

I felt bold because of the wine (and my success with Freddy, the night before) so I patted Chad/Greg's face and said, "I always knew you loved me."

He just grinned and poured the wine in such a way that gave each of us a glass. And I watched his beautiful hands as he did it. Long, amazingly expressive fingers curled around the neck of the bottle. Nails manicured to just the right length. I was fascinated by how right his thumbs looked...how they matched the whole feel of his hands as he worked. I think I sighed...and that's when Lonnie jabbed me in the arm.

"Aren't we the greedy guts?" he said.

I looked at him, confused, and asked, "Do you mean anything by that?"

"I hear you took home a hot little number, last night. And you never breathed a word to me."

I shrugged. "He wasn't that hot. And he split so quick, I can't even say for sure he was there."

"You still got some, didn't you?"

"No, Lonnie, he got some. All I got was my right hand."

Lonnie smirked. "Typical. But it doesn't matter. It's not polite to also want the only guy in here who's worth prison, not after getting yourself a pretty straight boy."

"Worth prison? Lonnie, your phrases are built to confuse."

"It means our favorite bartender's worth committing a crime to get." I must have looked even more clueless, so he added, "Date rape drugs. Forcible bondage. You know, felonies. A few of my favorite things."

"Obviously, you will never be Julie Andrews."

"Well, maybe when she was a nun." I gave him another confused look and he let out with one of his patented deep sighs, the kind that seems to rise up from his toes. "I've been going through a dry spell, hence the green eyes when I heard about your conquest."

"Maybe we SHOULD have bought you a stud instead of a watch."

Lonnie glanced at me, a little pissed. "Don't you even THINK about suggesting that. When the day comes that I can't pick up a guy, I'll cut my dick off."

"Get one tonight. There's some cute guys in here."

"I don't believe it. Alec The Angel is suggesting I prowl for a pick-up?"

"Yeah, soon I'll begin dipping into the blackness of life's evil relationships. Maybe I'll even pick up Chris." (CHRIS! That's Chad/Greg's name. Jeez, what's wrong with my brain?)

"Forget it, honey," said Lonnie. "I think he's straight. Just not narrow."

Now maybe it was the wine taking over. For some reason I'd had about three glasses too many and I glanced down to notice my fourth glass too many was now empty, and I wanted to make that five glasses over my limit. Whatever it was, I sneered at Lonnie and said, "Watch your angel be a little devilish."

I motioned for Chris to refill my glass. He gave me a look as if to say, "I dunno..." but I held up a twenty and kept waving, so over he came with a fresh bottle.

"You're really celebrating, tonight, Alec," he said as he poured in half a glass.

"I'm starting a whole new life," I said. "A whole new way of viewing the world. Caveat emptor!"

"Let the buyer beware?" Chris asked, trying not to smile too much.

"No...uh...e pluribus unum?"

"I think you're really gonna regret this in the morning."

Lonnie smirked, beside me, irritating me even more, so I turned to Chris and blurted out, "The only thing I'll regret in the morning is not getting a kiss from you, tonight."

Chris smiled his killer smile, took the twenty and turned to the register to make change, shaking his head the whole time. He thought I was playing. But when he turned around, I had another twenty in my hand.

"I mean it," I said.

Chris hesitated...then his smile vanished.

"I'm gonna remind myself that you're drunk," he snapped. "And you're not getting another one of these."

Man, that jolted me out of my cockiness. I crumpled the twenty into the palm of my hand and stood up straight, saying, "Chris, I'm sorry. I...I was just joking, man."

"Yeah. Right."

He slapped my change on the counter and headed down to the other end of the bar.

Lonnie hadn't moved, but I could just hear him thinking, "That was one of your less brilliant moves."

My head started to swim, not from the wine but from the understanding of what I'd just done. And so friggin' clumsily, too. I have this way of dropping into a frame of mind that makes me cocky and sure and lets me think I know what I'm doing...and then suddenly I wind up with foot-in-mouth. It's like a quirk in my character that says, "I've got to screw up once in a while to keep me from becoming too sure of myself." And here it was -- my time of month and I'd just fucked up my vague friendship with Chris. What a fuckin' idiot.

I bolted for the door, leaving Lonnie behind. I heard him calling, "Alec, don't! C'mon, it's not that big a deal!" But I slammed outside and stopped and glanced around...and headed for home.

It was chilly out and I'd left my coat in the bar, but I couldn't go back in there. Not just then. So I just dug my hands into my pants pockets and rushed down the street. It was only three blocks. Three long tedious blocks. Blocks with nothing on them to distract me from my killer thoughts. Trying to figure out why the hell I had done what I just did.

I knew what Chris meant. I'd treated him like a whore. Twenty for a kiss. Fifty to cop a feel. A hundred to let me blow you. It's all the same thing to a guy who's got respect for himself. "Here's some cash; let me have some of you." Whether I was doing it to be cute or for real meant nothing; I was viewing him as a product for purchase and he'd been insulted. Hell, I'd have been insulted.

Well...no, I wouldn't have. Not once upon a time. Like back in college, when I was first coming out. I had zero self-respect then. One of the glories of living with an alcoholic mother and two-fisted father. Any guy who wanted me in any way, I went with, thinking it was all I was worth. It's funny that I have the persona of being "Mr. Vanilla Ice Cream" now. That I prefer to cuddle with a man instead of fuck with him. It was more of a reaction to what I'd been through after acknowledging I was gay than a real personal preference.

Oh, nobody raped me or beat me or forced drugs down my throat. I got involved with those guys because I thought that's what I was supposed to do, and a couple got me to do things I still cannot really understand how I...I could do them.

The worst of that group was Woody, my "James Dean Suffering Fool." Wayne Woodrow, actually, but he hated his first name. A bit shorter than me. Stockier. Ten years my senior. And with a strut like an angry tomcat on the prowl that made his to-die-for legs sexier than should be allowed by law. Even though he worked out three or four hours a day, somehow he managed to stay lean and mean and too full of energy instead of turning into the incredible bulk. He had dark curls and eyes so deep and blue you could vanish into them. And his lips were made for perfect kisses. And he loved to fuck with you...and I don't mean that in a nice way. What I mean is, he was just my type.

I met him the second time I joined a gym (he was a personal trainer there) and he showed me how to best use the equipment. I got three sessions with him for free; after that, they were sixty bucks each. I was just getting started in my career so I didn't have the cash for it, but I noticed Woody still kept wandering by when I worked out to offer tips. He usually wore tight sweats that accentuated his too-beautiful-for-words body, and I wasn't what you'd call subtle in my notice of it...I mean, when no one else was around.

To make a long story short (one that took place over the space of nearly three months), one day I got a charley horse in my calf in the middle of my cardio, and I went limping back to my locker. Woody noticed and followed me.

"Muscle seize up?" he asked as I sat by my locker. I just nodded, so he squatted before me and took my leg and began kneading my calf. "Oh, yeah. This is a mean one."

I almost screamed from the pain of it. He chuckled. That should have told me something.

"Let's hit the massage room and I'll work it out," he said.

I just shook my head. "I think I'll try the Jacuzzi, first."

He stood and took my arm. "C'mon, Alec, I got an ointment that'll cut the pain. It'll work lots faster."

I let him lead me into a tiny room with nothing but a tall padded bench and table topped with bottles of lineaments, and no windows, just a door. I lay on the bench, still in pain, and he closed the door and set the lights to dim.

"Face down," he said. "Give me access to the muscle."

I rolled over. Gladly. Just having him rub my leg in the locker room had given me a hint of a woody (pun intended), despite the pain. He had good hands, too. Strong. Well shaped. Light wisps of dark hair dancing over his skin. I knew the second my leg stopped hurting, my dick would be raging from his touch. I was so happy I wore briefs.

He slopped some cold lineament on my calf and started kneading it, again...and he was right -- the ointment worked wonders. That combined with his fingers rolling into my skin and his palms rubbing around my muscle made the hurt vanish. The one and only time he ever did that for me.

"Wow," was all I could say.

"Yeah. Helps to know what you're doing. I'm surprised you haven't had one of these before now."

"I have. I just walked them off."

"You could keep 'em from happening if you stretched more and had a massage every now and then."

"I'm too broke, right now," I muttered, finally getting into the rhythm of his massage. "I can barely afford the gym."

"Been there. Done that. Lemme check something." Then his hands shifted to the back of my thighs, one on each of them. His fingers played harsh on my skin, digging deep in a way that was guaranteed to make my dick hard as a rock. "Yeah, you're getting tight here, too."

"I...I'll get back to stretching," I muttered, not sure exactly what the hell was happening...other than the fact that every motion of his fingers was sending screams through every nerve in my body and every damned one of those screams was ending with a crash in my crotch. He had me so on edge, even the slight movement of my long loose shorts across the hair on my legs was setting off little jolts.

Then his hands shifted to my butt, the kneading motion rubbing the fabric of my shorts against the fabric of my briefs, which rubbed against my scrotum...which was now on fire.

"Hmph," he said, "firmer than I thought. Not bad."

I looked at him, startled. He smiled.

"Looks like I'll have to make the first move," he said...then leaned down and kissed me. And, dear GOD, what a kiss. This was ten times more than two mouths connecting; it was the whisper of breath laced with peppermint drifting from moistened skin that was so close, it had no need for touch to allow electricity to leap from him to me. It was warmth of the sort you dream of at home, glowing and cool like the energy of existence. It was the passing of life along conduits made of nature's purest gold. His lips gently melted into mine as his chin and nose caressed mine and heaven seemed to open for a moment.

God, Himself, couldn't have told me that what happened next was wrong, it felt so normal and natural and honest and real. He slipped his hand under my left hip and guided me onto my back; his lips still a part of mine, then his fingers trailed over my stomach and down to play with my crotch. He fondled my balls and slipped his hand along my dick, feeling the size and weight of it.

"Not bad," he whispered, breaking away from the kiss. Then he gave my dick a squeeze that almost made me explode. "Not so fast." Then he shifted my shirt up and his lips and tongue played over my chin and down my throat and across my chest to toy first with one tit and then the other, his hands slipping under the elastic of my shorts to shift them down my hips.

I was blank. Could not think of a thing to say. Couldn't even think about thinking. To have this perfect-looking man come on to me and now being close to servicing me with no attempt on my part to get him to do it was way out of my sphere of existence. Suddenly, I was nothing but nerve ends laughing from the pleasure of his fingers touching me and his lips trailing over me and his tongue tickling me and his chin playing with what little hair I had on me. When he finally pulled my shorts and briefs away from my hips, my dick leapt back onto my abdomen, as if to say "Take me, I'm yours!" (A bit Clara Bow-ish, but way too true.)

He pulled back and looked at me and smiled. "No, not bad at all. And a natural blond, to boot."

I was still speechless, so he just leaned in, took me in his mouth and began to run that beautiful velvet tongue along me as the fingers of his left hand played with my balls and the fingers of his right hand played with my ass.

Now, none of this was new to me. Several older men had used me in the same way...and I do mean older. An English professor with twenty years tenure. A doctor who started his practice years before I was born. One of my dad's business partners, a guy with five daughters (dad almost killed him when he found out). But Woody was my first porno-beauty...no, porno-god. And he was porno-good at knowing what to do. I was about five seconds from losing control and firing away when he pulled back.

"Not so fast," he whispered, then he slowly guided my shorts and briefs down to my ankles. He played with me for a moment longer, then pulled off his shirt to reveal he looked exactly like I'd known he would--washboard abs under a rich chest behind feathery hair that seemed combed to perfection. Then he lowered his pants to his knees...and I saw he was wearing a jock. I was so startled at seeing it that I laughed.

"What?" he asked then motioned to the jock strap. "This?"

"Sorry," I muttered, trying not to laugh, again. "I just didn't realize that guys really wore those..."

"Shh."

He pulled it aside to let his own dick stand free...and it was lovely. As rich and full and perfect as the rest of him. Then he ran his hands over my thighs...and over my still hard dick...and around to cup my ass...and suddenly he yanked me down the table to the edge, almost ramming my butt against his crotch. My legs wound up on his shoulders, my shorts behind his head, binding me in position. I gasped at how easy it was for him.

I started to speak, but he shook his head. "Shh." Then he let his dick glide up between my balls and over my pubes to rub along the side of my own...and his fingers pinched at my tits, sending the screams of joys flashing across every nerve in my body, again. He was bigger than me in every way...and more than ready. He pulled back, drawing his dick back down over my balls and then, in the space of a nano-second, his fingers found my anus and he guided his dick to it...and slammed himself inside me.

I cried out in pain. He put a hand over my mouth and whispered, "Shh," again, then he began to pound away. It hurt like hell...but it also felt so...so fucking erotic that I had to let him have at it, gasping and grunting at the intensity of the experience. His hand left my mouth and began stroking me...then pumping me as he got close to completion. I came before he did, bucking against him with involuntary spasms as I spewed hard enough to splash cum on my face.

He laughed and growled and then he was firing his own load inside me, over and over and over, until he collapsed atop me, my legs still over his shoulders, his dick still inside me. He kept laughing, softly, even as he lay there, his hands coiled around my ass, his face on my chest, breathing deep and happy. He even nuzzled my abs and licked at some of the cum on them.

Finally, he looked up at me, his face glistening from sweat and semen. Then he grinned and asked, "How's that charley horse?"

I was still blank...so I just began to laugh. And he laughed with me. And we started seeing each other that weekend. And what hell it became.

And that's what I was thinking as I neared my condo. I was remembering Woody and how beautiful he was, at first...and I realized in one of those blinding flashes of recognition at just how stupid you've been that Freddie had looked a bit like him. So had just about every other guy I'd been involved with since him. And then I saw how Chris did NOT look like him, and for that reason I'd tried to treat him like a whore.

I was really deep in my confusion, trying to understand why my thoughts were going the directions they were going, when I heard tires screeching, behind me. I turned, automatically, and saw a black Ford Explorer slamming to a halt in the street and four guys in various kinds of caps jumping from inside it. I had no idea what they were doing...no concept that they were after anything but getting out of that car until one of them said, "There! Him!" and another swung at me with a baseball bat. The only thing that kept it from connecting with my temple was I twisted my ankle and fell. It ricocheted off my hard head, instead.

I hit the ground and rolled, without thinking, and started yelling at the top of my lungs. But that didn't stop the four guys from piling onto me and punching me and kicking me with grunts and snarls and laughter. And I wondered, for a moment, if this was how I was going to die