Gay Erotic Stories

“In Australia, we got a special name fer people like youse,” the old man said to me, squinting out from under his broad-brimmed hat. “We call ‘em poofters.”

“Poovers?” I enquired tentatively, not certain I’d heard him right – his accent, after all, was a bit thick.

“No ya dozy twat,” he yelled at me. “POOFTERS!”

Well, welcome to Australia, I thought as I began to seriously wonder what I was doing here in the legendary Aussie “Outback”. It had been a case of succumbing to an impulse to flee the smog, the traffic snarls and the human snarls of LA for an imagined weeklong “idyll” as far from human and man-made pollution as I could get.

I flew first into Sydney – which looked really beautiful and incredibly tempting – and then took an express train from the city, out across its seemingly endless western suburban hinterland, up and across a massive sandstone mesa called the Blue Mountains and down into the heart of rural Australia.

“So this is Outback Australia.” I thought to myself as I gazed out the train window at a quite lovely landscape of rivers, trees, farmlands and small, neat and attractive towns and cities. It wasn’t at all what I had expected – which was soil the colour of iron rust and enormous flocks of kangaroos and emus. The train guard put me right as soon as I mentioned it.

“No mate, this isn’t the Outback,” he laughed. “This is just… Well, it’s just…‘the country’ I suppose. If you want the Outback you are gonna have to wait until we get out past Broken Hill.”

This “broken hill” turned out to be a very strange city devoted to iron and copper mining about 1,000 kilometres west of Sydney. It took one whole day for the train to get there but it was definitely in “the Outback” because, at last, here was the red soil, the kangaroos, the emus, the heat – and the flies.

All the streets were named after minerals – Sulphur Street, Uranium Street, Quartzite Avenue and so on. There were acres of Victorian houses and commercial buildings, much like the ones you see in New Orleans, that sat baking in that relentless Australian sun, separated here and there by gardens – one of which contained a memorial to the Band that played as the Titanic went down in the North Atlantic. Stranger and stranger, I was thinking.

It turned out that most of the city’s mineral wealth had already been mined and Broken Hill was desperately trying to find a purpose for continuing to exist. Crowded it was not.

But it was something even more remote that I was after and I tracked down the region’s tourist information center and asked them if there were any “ranch stay” options for visitors nearby.

“Ranch stay?” puzzled the young guy behind the counter. “You mean farm stay?”

“Not exactly,” I said. I’m hoping to find a ranch where visitors can play at being cowboys and stuff like that.”

He looked at me blankly and said: “We don’t have ‘ranches’ in ‘Straylya. We have ‘stations’. And we don’t have cowboys, we’ve got stockmen and jackeroos. And sometimes jillaroos.”

“I see,” I said. But I didn’t. “Look mate,” he said, leaning confidentially across the counter, “we don’t do that sort of package out here at ‘The Hill’ – but if you go outside you’ll find and old fella sitting under a big Moreton Bay fig tree called Frank who might be able to help yer. Worth a shot, anyway.”

I was beginning to see the error of my ways in not having booked things in advance. I had clearly come to the wrong place.

“Well, it’s worth trying – as you say,” I said to the clerk and went out into the late afternoon heat to see if I could find this ‘old fella’ named Frank. And there he was, just as I had been told, sitting under this enormous, spreading Australian fig tree on an old canvas director’s chair whose bottom sagged nearly to the ground. I knew immediately how that chair was feeling. Despite my freshly pressed khakis, lightly starched blouson and polished leather loafers, I was beginning to feel decidedly off-key.

“Hi Frank,” I said brightly. “My name is Victor Vargas and a guy in the tourist office over there said you might be able to help me about finding accommodation on a – er – on a ‘station’ where I might be able to do some horse riding and, you know, general roustabouting.”

“General what?” growled the old man. He was a thick set old guy, wearing rather dirty off-white pants (that I later learned were called ‘moleskins’), a checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up – presumably an acknowledgement that it was much too hot to wear such thick clothing – and a huge, broad-brimmed hat that was a hit like a cowboy’s hat, but different.

“Roustabouting,” I repeated. “You know, mucking in and helping out when things need to be done.”

“Aaaaaahhhh,” he drawled, “that sort of roustabout.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what other sorts there were.

“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about any of that.”

Oh great, I thought to myself. What do I do now?

“Why don’t you go and stay in one of the local pubs,” he suggested. “There’s one in town that has got all paintings all over the walls that was in that poofter picture about Priscilla Queen of the Outback.”

“Oh, ‘Priscilla Queen of the Desert’,” I replied happily. “Yes, I’ve seen that movie many times at home in LA.”

“Yeah, it’d appeal to poofters I suppose,” said Frank.

“Excuse me?” I said in a slightly frigid tone, smiling through my thinly stretched lips.

“Yeah,” said Frank, “In Australia, we got a special name fer people like youse -- we call ‘em poofters.”

“Poovers?”

“No ya dozy twat -- POOFTERS!”

“Thanks a lot Frank,” I said evenly. “Nice to know I’m welcome in Australia.”

“Ay, steady on,” said Frank, rising to his feet – though how he was able to dig himself out of that sagging disaster of a chair, I don’t know. “I wasn’t trying to stir the possum, mate. It’s just the way I talk. Nobody is completely straight, after all.”

“Except you, Frank,” I said with a bit of an edge to my voice, I’m afraid.

“No mate, not even except me.”

This was fascinating news. It was purely academic, of course, since Frank was old enough to be my grandfather, but interesting just the same.

“So you’ve known the love that dares not speak its name, have you Frank?” I ask him.

“Maybe not quite like you or Oscar Wilde,” said Frank, who was clearly more sophisticated than his appearance and rough language would indicate, “but, yeah, I’ve had me own share of nice young arse in me time. Most ‘Straylyan blokes like a bit of a fiddle with their mates, now and then.”

“Well I can’t tell you how much that has cheered me up, thank you Frank,” I tell him.

“Is that right?” says Frank. “Well, you’re easily please.”

I was learning that it was sometimes difficult to decide whether Australians were being completely serious in the things they said to you. Was Frank being mildly insulting to me – or was he just practicing some kind of oddball humour? I decided I was never going to work that one out – not in a week, anyway.

“So, tell me Frank, what do you suggest I do about my plan to play at being a cowboy – sorry, a stockman – for the next week?”

“Come on out to our place near White Cliffs and we’ll see if we can’t organise something for you,” he said. “They make lots of movies out at White Cliffs -- well they used to, anyway – pictures [which he pronounced ‘pitchers’] like ‘Mad Max’ with Mel Gibson and that. But our Station is out that way too – the only one in this district that still runs cattle because we’ve got a bloody good bore on the property, so we haven’t dried up like the others who’ve tried it west of Bourke.”

I later found out that Bourke was an important town beyond which ‘The Outback’ was said to begin. Australians refer to ‘the back of Bourke’ – or ‘Beyond The Black Stump’ -- when they want to indicate somewhere almost beyond civilisation.

“When you say ‘our place’, Frank, can you tell me who ‘us’ are?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “That’s me and my three boys, Andrew, Angus and Adam. They run the place now, so I just come into town on most days and watch the poor bloody tourists wanderin’ round like lost souls.”

“And their wives, I assume?” I query Frank.

“Whose wives?” he demands to know. “Oh, the boys! No mate, they don’t have wives. They just got each other, if you take my meaning. If you play your cards right you might be in there with a chance. Especially with Adam – he’s the baby -- who has been getting a bit shirty with the other two lately since they don’t seem capable of leaving his poor little arse alone.”

“My God, Frank,” I tell him with some emotion, “you’re surely not trying to recruit me as a house fuck for your family, are you?”

“Oh no, mate, no, nothing like that. My boys have got good manners and they’d never put their salamis in your sandwich unless you invited them in first.”

You’ve got to hand it to Frank; he has an amazing way of communicating some pretty explosive images when he wants to.

He led me to his rather beaten-up old pickup – they’re called ‘utilities’ or ‘utes’ in Australia – which was parked in some nearby shade and then we speed off west and north of Broken Hill to White Cliffs. The tarmac road disappears a few miles outside the city and the compacted red-earth route across these hot and dusty plains soon turns into an endless series of corrugated corridors through the low, blue-green masses of salt bush that cover most of the land surface. Trees are few and those that exist are stunted and gnarled.

In a bit over an hour we arrive at Frank’s ‘Station’. A mailbox at the property entrance gives its name as “Forays”, not, explains Frank, because it offers any forays but because the property is “for the boys whose names start with A -- Andrew, Angus and Adam”.

It takes another 20 minutes before the Ranch-House – or Station House, to be correct – hoves into view. It is quite amazingly beautiful. In the middle of this near-desert, the water from Frank’s bore-well gives life to wide, spectacular lawns, stands of towering conifers and other trees and several gardens – roses, fruit and vegetables. The house itself is large and rambling with a very wide veranda throwing deep shade onto all sides of the building.

When Frank’s ‘ute’ pulls up in front of the house, his three boys are standing on the short flight of steps that lead up to the main entrance. They are all wearing wide-brimmed hats like their Father, two of them are wearing moleskin pants and one – the youngest, I think – is wearing jeans. They all have checked shirts on and all are wearing leather boots. I would have called them “cowboy” boots but I was sure I would be told I was wrong and they had another name altogether. I’d already had an attack of the smarts and asked Frank what the hats were called.

“Akubras,” he said. And that was that.

“Victor,” he says when we clamber out of the pickup, “these are my three sons – Dozy, Dopey and Dribble. Nah, I mean Andrew, Angus and Adam. This is Andrew, who’s the oldest, Angus, who’s the one in the middle, and Adam who’s our baby. Aren’t ya Adam?”

“No Dad,” mumbles Adam.

These guys are hunks. I mean Hunks, with a capital H. Andrew looks like he’s a body double for the Governor of California – fortunately with a much better looking face than Arnie – while Angus is a bit smaller and a bit softer. But not soft, you understand – just less angular. And then there’s Adam who has a face so sweet he could almost be a girl, or, at least, a very young boy. But his body, all toned muscles and firm, tanned flesh, tells me otherwise.

“Boys,” says Frank, “this is Victor. I picked him up outside the tourist center. He wants to ride horses and do odd-jobs.”

The boys are looking at me with great curiosity. It is clear my much more slender body, my pale complexion and my nicely tailored clothes do not compute with their ideas of what makes a stock-man or a jackeroo…or, a jillaroo, for that matter.

“Hi guys,” I say cheerfully.

“Oh, and I forgot to say,” interrupts Frank, “he’s a Yank.”

“A Yank,” gasps Adam. “What’s a Yank doing out here?”

“Good question,” I say to him.

“He says he wants to get away from the pollution and the shit-bagging that goes on back where he comes from in Los Angeles,” says Frank. “And I think he’s lookin’ for a bit of a shag, too, if anyone’s interested.”

I could have kicked Frank in his withered old nuts for saying that. I didn’t need him to go procuring for me among his sons. If they were interested, they’d let me know by themselves, thank you Mr. Tact.

Andrew immediately stepped forward and moved towards me. For a moment I thought he was going to bend me over right there and throw me a length of his cock – but it didn’t happen.

“Can I take your port for you mate?” he asks.

“My what?” I reply.

“Your port. Your bag. Your suitcase,” he said. Another hour, another lesson in Australiana. Andrew slung the suitcase I’d been dragging all over with me across his broad right shoulder and marched into the house with it.

“You putting him into Mum’s old room are you Dad?” he called back without looking round.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” says Frank. “Come on inside out of the heat, Vic, and we’ll have a nice cuppa tea.”

I hated being called Vic but I wasn’t about to say a word to Frank about it.

We stepped through the front door and were immediately embraced by the cool, sweet darkness of the house. It almost felt like it was air-conditioned but I knew it was not. Something in the rugged, Australian personality – outside the cities, anyway – resists “poofter” affectations like air conditioning.

But who needed it here anyway? The house was wonderfully comfortable.

Andrew was standing at a doorway on the left side of the hallway that ran right through the house, waiting for me to catch up with him.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said. “My Mum used to sleep here but she’s dead. About 10 years now.”

The room was dim with the shades drawn and a soft, pink light from refraction off the red soil outside revealed a palely feminine suite of bedroom furniture, bagged drapes at the windows and a large painting of breaking surf on the wall facing the double bed. Andrew saw me looking at the picture.

“Mum always wanted to escape and go and live by the sea,” he said. “I hope she’s got plenty of sea-shore where she is now.”

I was thinking furiously: these are really nice boys. They must have loved their Mom.

He plops my suitcase on a stand under the window and turns to me.

“There’s a little private bathroom right off Mum’s room that you can use,” he says, opening a narrow wooden door on the left side of the bed. “It has got a shower and a dunny [a toilet I learned] but its a septic system so don’t throw anything down it apart from poo and piss. But a little bit of paper’s alright.”

“I’ll remember about the septic,” I tell him and he responds: “Yeah, a septic for a Septic, eh?”

Now what the hell is going on, I wondered.

“Excuse me?” I stutter. “A septic for a Septic?”

“Yeah,” beams Andrew. “You’re a Septic. Septic Tank – Yank, get it?”

Holy Mother of God, I think. First I’m a poofter, now I’m a Septic Tank.

Andrew sees I’ve gone sort of all inside myself and he steps towards me, puts his hand on my arm and says: “Its not rude or nothing. Its just the way we speak English around here.”

“I know, I know,” I reassure him. “I’m just learning as I go along and sometimes things are a bit of a surprise.’

“Oh,” he says, “like this?” And he steps behind me, takes my buns in his two big, grasping hands and squeezes them tight until I feel my asshole starting to stretch.

“Pleasant surprise?” he asks. “Yeah,” I reply. “Pleasant surprise.”

Andrew gives a big hoot of delight, smacks me playfully across the butt and we step into the hallway, making our way to the back of the house and the large kitchen-come-living room that fills almost all the rear section of the building.

There’s a big, old English Aga stove at one end of the room, which, despite the heat outside, is burning away brightly while Frank stands over it watching a kettle boil for tea.

“Will that room do ya?” he asks me. “Yes,” I reply, “its really very, very nice. Are you sure it is OK for me to use your wife’s room?”

“Sure I’m sure,” he says, smiling at me. “The boys use it a lot of the time for playing around in, so there’s no problem at all – unless you count throwing a bit of a spanner into their hanky panky-works as being a problem.” And Frank winks and taps the side of his nose.

“Give it a rest, Dad,” cries out Angus from the other end of the room. “Vic don’t wanna hear about no private family stuff.”

“Oh, is that so?” says Frank. “What about if Vic does want to know about private family stuff. What about if he might like to become part of your private family stuff? What about that?”

I am bristling with annoyance at Frank all over again. How dare he keep throwing hints about my availability to his sons?

“Oops,” says Frank. “I’ve bloody gone and done it again, haven’t I? Sorry, Vic. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Frank,” I say, a bit tersely. “Please don’t do this. You are giving your boys quite the wrong idea about me.”

The three boys – well, we are calling them boys, but the youngest, Adam, can’t be less than 21 and Andrew is probably around 30 – all stand up from the arm chairs where they’ve been lolling around and make their way around the fairly cluttered furniture in the room to the place where I’m standing.

“Is that right, is it Vic?” asks Angus. “You aren’t up for a bit of how’s-your-father with us after all?”

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, along with another part of my anatomy a bit further south. But that’s probably from shock, rather than any reaction to these three strapping hulks, I reassure myself.

“Well Angus”, I stutter, “I am not trying to be coy or precious with you – I just get embarrassed about being offered up on a plate by your Daddy.”

“So which is it?” demands Angus, who I notice has very luminous green eyes behind rows of thick, black eyelashes. “Do ya put out or don’t ya?”

“Do I what?” I ask.

“Put out,” says Angus. “Take it up the Khyber. Bite the pillow. Chew the carpet. You know.”

Adam interrupts. “You’re scaring him, Angus,” he says in a low growl. “Don’t scare him. He doesn’t understand how we do things here. He’s a Yank. So leave him alone.”

Oh you blessed boy, I think.

“Yeah,” comes Frank’s voice from behind me. “You’re scaring him. Let the poor bugger relax and settle in before your start sniffing round his arse-hole, for God’s sake.”

Oh, fine Frank, I’m thinking. That’ll really help cool things down, you stupid old cunt. Andrew saves the day.

“You wanna take a ride before tea?” he asks. I’d learned that “tea” is the term used in rural Australia for dinner.

“That’s be great, Andrew,” I say with a 5000-watt smile.

“So I’ll come too,” says Angus. “So will I,” says Adam.

“No you won’t, lads,” says Andrew. “Go and take a cold shower or something.”

We ride out from the back of the station house on a couple of steeds that Andrew refers to as quarter horses – why, I’m not sure. They look like whole horses to me. The sun is slowly sliding towards a range of burnt, blood-orange colored hills on the horizon and we ride quietly up to the top of the nearest hillock where we look down on the station house, the gardens that surround it and the plains that stretch off into the distance. Here and there are little clumps of brown cattle, grazing endlessly on the grass and stock feed that thrives as a result of the property’s underground water supply.

“You’ve gotta good seat,” Andrew tells me.

“Your ass isn’t too bad either, Andrew,” I reply – but I’ve got it wrong again.

“No, your ‘seat’ is the way you sit on a horse,” he tells me. “But anyway, your bum is nice too.”

“My bum?” I ask – but suddenly remember the Aussies call their asses ‘bums’ or sometimes arses.

“I’m sorry my Dad stirred you up in there,” he tells me. “He doesn’t mean any harm. He just lets his mouth flap before he thinks sometimes. And he’s gone and got Angus all stirred up because the randy little bugger got the impression you were anybody’s, from what Dad was saying.”

“Yeah, I know. I got the same impression myself.”

“So I’m sorry about that little matey,” says Andrew and reaches out to pat me on the ‘bum’ again. “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forthright with you, Vic. But, from the moment I saw you getting out of the ute my guts have been in an uproar about you. I’m trying to keep myself all calm and controlled and that -- but the truth is I would dearly like to rip your gear off and eat you up.”

For a moment I felt like a delicate English rosebud in ‘Pride and Prejudice’, with an attack of the vapors coming on. Here I am with my own Mr. Darcy, riding out on horseback into the setting sun with this spectacularly beautiful man telling me he wants to devour me. How incredibly romantic. I want to cry. I am on the verge of muttering: “Oh, Ashley, Ashley . . . as God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again”, but of course that would be mixing up the scripts and I was confused enough already about what drama I had become lost in.

“Don’t worry, Vic, I won’t be hurting you,” Andrew says softly. “I won’t even be touching you. I want you to decide in your own good time if you’ve got time for me.”

Oh you goddamn heartbreaker, I think to myself. I’ve been here one goddamn day and already I’m twisted in knots trying to fight off two of your brothers who are drooling at the idea of screwing my ass and you, you great big beautiful male specimen, you are trying in your own awkward way to tell me you love me. And you’re being so gallant and self-sacrificing and sad and wonderful and I don’t know if I can stand another nanosecond of this.

So I turn in my saddle and look across at Andrew who is looking like a beautiful golden spaniel who’s been rejected by his master, downcast eyes and a droop in his splendid, broad shoulders.

“Andrew…Andy,” I begin tentatively and he looks up at me with those mournful, dark eyes.

“Would you mind very much if I kiss you? Now? Here?”

With one single swoop, Andrew leaps from his horse, reaches up and takes me by the waist and lifts me to the ground, like I was a bundle of feathers. He sets me down, puts his left hand under my chin, raises my face to his and plants the hottest, wettest, most thrilling kiss on my lips that I have ever experienced.

“You bloody lovely man,” he says to me. “I never dreamed I’d ever find anyone as lovely as you. You make my heart jump about inside my body, you do. And you wouldn’t want to know what you’re doing to my old fella.”

“You’re old . . .?” I begin, wondering what on earth any of this has got to do with Frank.

“No, you little bloody beauty – my old fella . . . my prick . . . my donger.”

“Oh, your . . . donger, eh?”

“Its sending me a message saying ‘let me take a trip up the back passage to Paradise, will ya Andy? Its saying it was made like a key to fit your lock and it wants me to put it into your doorway so it can kiss your date and make love to your beautiful bum.”

Never in my life had I ever heard such a profession of love – or maybe lust. What the heck? I was getting into swoon mode again and had to make a decision real quick about how this was going to progress.

“Andy,” I gasp. “I have never in my life been so overwhelmed, so full of love and lust and emotion as I am at this never minute. I can’t resist you. I want you. I want you.”

Andrew throws his head back and lets out a huge holler. “Yaaarrrr, hoo,” he yelps. “Vic my little darling man, you are never ever going to regret this moment. I am going to make you the happiest, sexiest, most loved and best fucked man in all the world and I’m gonna love you until my dick drops off.”

No doubt about these Aussie boys, I think, they sure have a way with words. But there is no time to think beautiful thoughts. Andrew is already undressing me right there on top of that little hill, within sight of his home, his Father and his brothers. Then he pulls off his own clothing and, for the first time, I see his magnificent body: the deeply etched pecs, the well-defined six-pack on his abdomen with a delicate line of hair running into his pubes, the broad shoulders – and that spectacularly beautiful cock. You know how some people have big sexy cocks with standout veins and big mushroom heads and a very few have beautiful pale, smooth and well defined penises? Well, Andrew’s was of the latter variety and it was about a foot long, even though it wasn’t even fully erect.

Andrew gently lays me on the ground where he’s placed a traveling blanket that was rolled up on the front of his saddle. He stands there looking at me for a while and then kneels down beside me, trailing his big, thick, country-boy fingers across my chest and abdomen and toying playfully with my neat, but not spectacularly impressive, penis. His own cock has grown to an amazing size – I’m guessing it could be as much as 14 inches -- and is as thick as a young guy’s arm.

“My old fella says he wants to take a look up your crack, if that’s OK” says Andy.

So he gently lifts my legs into the air and shuffles forward on his knees until his massive wang is positioned right against my butthole.

“My old fella says he’s never seen a date as pretty as this one,” says Andy. “He wants to know if he can take a look inside.”

“Tell him he’s welcome,” I say with a smile. “But tell him also that he needs to put on a raincoat before he goes inside. And maybe – just because he’s such a great big boy -- if he could take a roll around in a bowl of cream before he starts traveling.” I was getting the hang of this kind of fantasy talk that Andrew seemed to revel in.

“Gee Vic,” says Andy. “I don’t have a raincoat. And I haven’t got any cream, either. I didn’t think we’d be able to . . . you know . . . when we left home. Maybe we should pack it up and try again some other time.”

I can see an unmistakable droop beginning to impact on Andy’s big erection.

“No, the hell with it, Andy,” I say decisively. “I want to be able to remember this moment all my life and I’m damned if a bit of lubricant and a goddamn condom are going to stand in the way for us now,”

“You bloody little ripper, Vic,” says Andy. His cock springs back to full erection and he moves his position slightly in front of me. “I’ve got another way of lubing up your date if you’ll let me. A bit of spit and a bit of tonguing should do the trick, little matey.”

“By all means, Andy,” I whisper hoarsely. “Go for it.”

So Andrew sets to work sucking and tonguing my asshole until he seems to feel it has dilated enough to accept his big schlong. He drips some spit on his dick, gets me to spit a bit more into his hand and then lubricates his penis before presenting it at my hole and beginning to press it in.

I am sure this massive cock is going to split me in two (“what a great way to die,” I think) – but it doesn’t. Maybe love and emotion have parted the lips of my ass enough for him to slide in easily because, in moments he’s banging away at me giving me the ride of my life. His eyes never waver from mine as he speaks in little grunts and grabs, giving me a running commentary on what’s happening in my ass.

“Here we go again, little Vic,” he says softly, “here comes the big, bad Banksia man (an Australian storybook character) sliding his dirty big donger into sweet little Cuddlepie (yes, another childhood character) but he’s now called Cuddlevic.”

And Andy keeps on fucking me until the sun has set beyond the horizon and his great whoosh of semen has sprayed the insides of my guts. In any other place, at any other time, we would then have stood up, cleaned ourselves off and headed for home.

But Andy waits to catch his breath, leaves his mighty cock buried up the hilt inside me and leans forward to suck me off. When I orgasm it is like my whole soul shoots out of my cock and into this beautiful man’s mouth. He swirls it round his mouth, tasting it and savouring it and then swallowing it with a tremendous gulp.

“You’ve got really lovely sweet spunk,” he tells me.

Eventually, the cold of the desert night sets in and we are obliged to break away from the loving clinch we’re in, get dressed, mount our increasingly nervous horses and head for the station house.

I am wondering what on earth we will face when we return.