Gay Erotic Stories

Planning for a date always seems to add to the success of the occasion. The candles, the wine, the whole atmosphere of romance gives something special to a meeting between lovers. Let me explain how I got ready one of my encounters with my Brazilian beau, my Latin lover, Rio beach boy and one-time surfer Paulo Roberto Nascimento da Silva. First, I make a shopping trip to several of Rio de Janeiros's better stocked hardware stores and pharmacies. My purchases are just the essentials for the setting I have in mind: four pieces of chain each about three-foot long (used by most folks here to suspend hammocks), four padlocks (the 40 centimeter size), one role of two-inch wide plastic packing tape, a tube of Vaseline, and a tube of Bengay sprain ointment. All together, I spend about US$40.00 on these party accessories. Second, back at my office at the university I clear my agenda for the afternoon. No classes, no students. I am going to be in the field. In skipping out, I have to make peace with the departmental secretary, Lili. We'll get together for a late dinner and then, who knows, a night in bed if its my turn on her list. All the attention and presents I lavish on Lili, I hope, will make her forget the time she walked unannounced into my office and saw Paulo posing au naturel. "Just one of his whims," I gamely tried to explain to her. Now she just covers for me. She is my impenetrable smoke screen. I get ready to bide my time waiting, but Paulo calls me up right away. Just as I imagined, he is out of money. ("Short of cash," he says, but since you may be new to Brazil, I will not only translate for you. I will tell you what he means.) He doesn't even have money for lunch or the bus, he admits, and, taking his hint, I invite him to my office from where we go out for lunch and then to my weekend home outside the city. Our thirty minute drive out to the beach house is made, like all the other times, in silence. Conversation never is our strong point, but this time I am more pensive than usual, really lost in thought. How is this going to come off? I am reflecting, especially after the last time when Paulo stated petulantly that he would never allow himself to be chained up again. True, I had exaggerated the previous time when I had him spread-eagle with his wrists and ankles secured to the bedposts. I sucked both of his testicles into my mouth and bit down on them until Paulo's howling no longer sounded put on. His cries for help were so loud that the caretaker in his cottage must have heard them. Only my earlier warning that I would be performing an exorcism kept us from being interrupt-ed, I am sure. But I really enjoyed the feeling, the resistance of Paulo's nuts as I bit down on them. My poor boyfriend was still limping and complaining when he left, but now he is back for more. Yes, I guess I did exaggerate that last time, but Paulo seems no worst for what he went through, no worse for wear. Arriving at the beach house, we throw off our clothes and give each other big naked hugs. Paulo has the tanned health of Rio's sun worshipers and the thighs of a soccer player that he once was. His smile fades and he looks abashed as I remove the chains and padlocks from their paper wrappings. I place a towel on the bed, right in the middle, and motion for him to lie down. His response is rapid: — What did I do? — he demands to know. — Nothing — I reply. He imagines that he is to be punished for something he has done and is reluctant to be chained to the massive bedposts again. Patiently, I explain that ours is a relationship based on the exchange of favors and has nothing to do with punishment. — Last time, when you laid down on this bed and allowed me to put those chains and locks on you, you knew what you were doing, you know me and you know where you are, so there. Nothing happened to you and here you are again. Nothing has changed. All you know how to do is complain. Now its time for you to lie down on the bed again. What's it going to be? — OK, but last time it hurt. — Paulo, stop stalling. Like a sullen animal, scratching his head at the illogic of my argument, he gets on the bed and reclines on the towel, placing his head on a pillow. I breath somewhat easier as I see him position his body for me. What a wonder full physique he has. The color of Paulo's hindquarters is paler than the rest of him. When he is not with me, he is most probably at the beach. No mention of a job or work can grab his interest. His legs are muscular with massive thighs, his arms sculpted with salient veins that would delight any nurse. Paulo is in a prone position, with his butt up. This is the normal bed posture for us, but I imagine that Paulo is still resentful of the last time when he was chained on his back, with his penis upward, and I chomped down on his testicles. I would have to go slowly this time. Without any hurry, without talking, I begin to arrange the chains and locks and to secure his arms. The bed is especially large, seven by seven foot, with five by five inch bedposts. A smaller chain goes around the wrist and a longer, heavier chain around the post. The padlock clicks and the right arm is secure. Another click and the left arm, too, is helpless. Paulo doesn't say a word, just sighs, probably wondering what he's gotten himself into this time. His spread legs are chained at the ankles. The chain extends from the side of the bed to his foot. Between his feet I place another chain so that he can not open or close his legs. The padlocks close, and Paulo is mine once more. He is trapped, unable to shift an inch, or even a centimeter, in any direction. I place the keys on top of the dresser, as though I were completing a ritual. Yes, for these moments Paulo is mine. Now it is my turn to crawl up on the bed. I kneel between his legs. I feel the cool sea breeze coming through the window. This I feel on my buttocks as I lean forward, as though to pray. I lower my head with my mouth open. I kiss my poor Paulo on his beautiful behind. I kiss and kiss and kiss. I lick his butt. I drive my tongue deep between his buttocks. I put my mouth to the tattoo on his butt and suck and lick. I can be happy doing this. I kiss and lick and suck, but I can not stop myself from thinking at the same time. I think, I know, I must be crazy, really deranged, maybe even sick, sick in the head, but I am doing what I want and doing it right at this moment. I am the possessor of Paulo Roberto, who must be even crazier than I am. I am doing what I want and crave more than anything else, but I must remember not to exaggerate this time, not like the last time, at least. After a while of pondering all this, a while that could have been fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds, I sense that Paulo's patience, what little he has, is running out. He asks me to adjust the chain on his left wrist. It is pressing on the bone, he complains. In slow motion, I get the keys and open the padlock. I rub his wrist and redo the chain. Maybe I should get leather straps for this, but that would be too much planning. Improvis-ing gives life to a party, too. The hasp snaps shut again. Slowly, I get back on the bed. Another kiss to the derriere. What a wonder-ful ass! Paulo's legs are already glowing with beads of sweat. I worship my Adonis with more kisses and suck the perspiration off his tail bone. Somehow, I am always reminded of the film Equus, but my mount talks and complains about how I ride him. I, the groom, the jockey, the one to fix the horse's teeth. (This gift horse has dentures, no less, always requiring another trip to the dentist at my expense.) "Horse," that is "cavalo" here in Brazil also refers to the spirit mediums in the Afro-Brazilian possession religions. Dona Marlene, Paulo's aunt, was one of these mediums, able to be possessed or, I guess, mounted by several of the lesser divinities that apparently hang around just waiting for an opportuni-ty to take over the body of a middle aged women, mostly old hags who could play the witches in Macbeth without coaching. Paulo invited me to Dona Marlene's wake. She had died unexpectedly and poor Paulo was so overcome with grief that he threw his arms around the corpse and almost yanked his aunt out of the coffin. This made for some commentary among the old woman's fellow mediums, all dressed in billowy white dresses to send their colleague off to the spirits. As a foreigner in Brazil, I have been invited to several seances where the monotonous drumming and the dancing, along with the expectation that some-thing must be about to happen, make for an interesting evening. Meeting mischievous and somewhat drunk spirits can't help but be interesting. One old women gave me a start. Possessed by the "Cobra Grande" or big snake spirit, she was slithering around the floor and almost bit me in the ankle. What she had done to deserve such punishment from the spirits, when her whole life could already be looked at as a kind of punishment, is beyond me. I got Paulo to take me one Friday, some special saint's day as I remember, to the cult where his aunt used to be an important figure. To my surprise, Paulo was also well know to the dancers and drummers. He was his aunt's understudy, a horse to be saddled and ridden by supernatural beings whose interest in humanity, to say the least, is fickle. This must be the ultimate in submission, I would presume. In a trance, his mind surrendered to will of unseen spirits, the medium throws himself around like a rag doll and has to be restrained until the cult leader recognizes the visiting goblin who is then honored with special chants and accessories, clothes, hats and that sort of thing. Paulo refused to dance when I was with him at the seance, but he was handy, if too untiring, on the drums. Chatting with the other mediums, I learned that Paulo had the "dom," or calling, for attracting spirits, including the naughty little demons that descend at midnight and have to be appeased and sent away. I could imagine him swaying his hips to the insistent rhythm of the drums, shawl on his shoulders, barefoot on the hard clay floor, until the offer of his whole being was accepted by some passing apparition. Yes, Paulo is a horse. His aunt put the bit in his mouth and spirits on his back. That was his inheritance from her, a calling that has caused him to loose several jobs when his unseen masters would not wait until closing time before they occupied his mind and mopped the floor with his writhing, trembling body. The other bank guards thought he was epileptic, but he assured them it was only a jealous deity he had slighted. The next day, there he was in my office, fired from the job I got him, still scraped and bruised from the punishing beating he gave himself, eternally short of cash. There are times that I regret what I did to Paulo's pretty ass. The tattoo I talked him into getting is anything but elegant, but everyone on the beach in Rio seemed to be getting their carcass customized with timid and meaningless tattoos. Paulo's tattoo was going to be on his cock, but the so-called artist recounted a third-hand story of somebody's cock that just wouldn't get hard ever again after it was tattooed. My lover bolted at that thought, even though I tried to assure him nothing untoward would happen to his precious instrument. Still, the compromise emblem that besmerches his left buttock is not the one I would choose for him. He could care less, but I feel it was egoistic on my part to mark him with my monogram. Was I asserting ownership? They brand cattle don't they? Sure, Paulo would be the last person to say he has an owner, but its me he calls when the police haul him in. He calls me when his kids get sick. He calls me when his luck is running thin. I get back from a vacation in the States, and there he is to greet me. Yeah, I guess that you couldn't call me his owner, either. I wouldn't want to be. This is just a little daydream that I can indulge myself in. Paulo is his own man. What he does he does for his own reasons, I'm sure. But when we are together, he can also be my slave, my pet, my toy. For him, outside of our meetings, I don't even exist. I am only good for filling up his pocket when the money runs out. He is a hustler, a male prostitute. There must be fifty names for his kind in Rio's slang terminology. Ask for a "garoto de pro-grama" or a "michê" when you come to Rio and you just might get him — used, second hand, but at your disposal for twenty bucks. Look for him after dark on Copaca-bana beach, in front of the Rio Palace Hotel. You will know him by the mark on his left buttock. It's there for life. He will carry my initials until he dies, but that doesn't mean anything at all to him. I don't mean anything to him either. I am already looking to dump him. Take him, he's yours. Yes, I guess that outside of our short, sweaty afternoons together in bed, I don't exist for Paulo. Once he called me when the police had swept him up and he needed someone to spring him from the district jail. I got him out, but it was so exciting to see him incarcerated that I gave him a day more than what the sergeant wanted to hold him. Probably I'm the only one in town who paid to keep his lover in jail, but my reward for springing him was all the greater for the extra time he was in. What are friends for, after all? Who are Paulo's friends? I don't know who Paulo likes and admires, but I don't think its me. He said he was passionately in love his first common-law wife, Walmeire, with whom he has a son, Ariel. (The choice of name was mine.) Actions, however, speak louder than words, and lies, indiffer-ence and occasion-al punches were all this poor women got until one day when she walked out on him. She even got him thrown into jail for the violence he visited upon her, and when she left it was for good. I suspect that Walmeire was cheating on Paulo, too, from what I gathered of their turbulent relationship. Their kid still gets shuffled around. At any rate, Paulo has not abandoned him, so he must like being a father. But how can any one raise his son with money he gets by going to bed with another man? His second wife, Claudia, is just a child in the way she acts. Believing in "her" man, she tries to make a home with Paulo and their son, Arian. Touching to know that she is being betrayed by someone who can't stay out of other's beds, sad to know how fragile is their union. Once, when she was pregnant, Paulo came to me for money, but not for his growing family. It was for him. He wanted to split, take off and forget about being a husband and father. Easy, just take off. Maybe come back next year to see how things worked them-selves out for sweet Claudia. Oh yes, my poor Paulo, just who do you like? Just yourself? Do you like my initials carved into your flesh, too? (The "W" inside the "O" - just like my business card.) Do you like your police record as a drug user? (Sure, I gave you the money, but I didn't think you were dumb enough to get caught.) You are a pretty sight now, aren't you? I did get you jobs, too, didn't I? And you muffed it every single time. Said you couldn't hack it, not as a salesman in a clothes store or a security guard in a bank or a waiter in a pizzeria. There is one job you can do, though. I can see you as a stripper in a honky-tonk that brings in the gays and the occasional "liberated" woman. The group I have in mind for you is the "Leopards of Rio." Arty, at least in their pretensions, they put ten naked men with at least five feet of cock among them on a dingy stage in dimly-lit, run-down theater. But the show is great. It makes you drool to see those well honed bodies. Several television actors even got their start in this phallic review. One of them, famous Alexander, has a reputation for off-stage violence and questionable, dubious sexuality. Guilherme de Padua, another of these well-hung male strippers, got himself into the big time on television, too, but now he and his wife are in prison awaiting trial for murdering an actress who was in the same soap opera he was starring in. This guy, not terribly good looking as far as I can remember, at least with his clothes on, made a splash in the crime columns. His wife took him to a tattoo artist on Ipanema beach where both of them got genital tattoos with each other's names. Now I remember, her name was Paula. I was joking about how lucky he was that her name was so short. What if her mother had called her "Maria José Fernandinha"? Guilherme's cock would be sore for a month with that size of a declaration of his love for his co-defendant. At the time everybody was quite upset at this murder. My own reaction was of bewilder-ment. What in the world could lead a couple, however demented they may be, to stab a pretty young actress to death? Violent death does seem right at home in Rio. Every week or so there is another mysterious case of a middle-aged, well-to-do executive or artist who is found dead in his apartment with no signs of forced entry. And the answer is always the same: the victim picked up a male prostitute who turned nasty. There is that side to it, too. You can get pick-ups who are any age, from ten to fifty, and who can be as desperate as a starving wolf. You don't know where these guys come from, but it most likely isn't from the expensive high rise apartments behind the beaches. More likely than not, you're going to pick up a ghetto boy who is good-looking, maybe even a god in the way he looks, but who just can't go on living any longer without getting some money, your money. (If he has to get his hands on your cash over your dead body, so much the better. He's just knocking off another queer, isn't he?) Heady stuff to think about. I have to stop thinking and get back to what I'm doing. I bend forward to whisper in his ear. As I bend forward, I feel a breeze off the sea on my back and buttocks. You can't see the ocean from the window, but a cooling breeze lets you believe that its out there somewhere. With our two hot bodies smoldering on the bed, there is no way not to open the window, or so I have said to Paulo. In reality, the open window is just another chance I take to make our game so much more interesting, like our both driving around the city in the nude. So far so good with the window. Edison, who does occasional gardening for me, once arrived earlier than I was expecting and spied me on top of Paulo. "He was complaining to high heaven," Edison told me sometime later when he thought I would like to hear him speak poorly of my lover. Bending forward, I put my head next to Paulo's. My ass was pointed at the still open window. — What do you want to do? — I asked quietly, as though the choice were always his. — I want to be on top — was his response. — OK, very well. Slowly, I get off the bed and pick up the keys on the dresser. I open the padlock shackle and free his right arm, arranging the chain on the bed. I massage his hand. I do the same for the hardware on the other arm. The chains are placed artistically, if I do say so myself. Off with the padlock between the legs, off with the chains on the ankles. Paulo raises himself up and gives an evil smile with thin lips and half-closed eyes. He is a black devil, glistening with sweat, handsome as a thoroughbred. Paulo, in addition to being young and athletic and maybe not too astute, is practically hairless on his body, and I don't mean just when I shaved his groin and balls. His smooth coffee-color skin just does not support the hair you expect to see on his torso and legs. I suppose it is the Indian and African blood that runs in his veins. After all, the Portuguese who colonized Brazil are here famous for being hairy, and that includes their women as well. His hairless-ness is really quite attractive when you see him with his shirt open to his jeans or in a super brief "sunga," the skimpiest of swim suits. This lack of hair also gave me a waggish idea: since hair in Brazil is associated with manli-ness, I would "test" my companion in this one prime aspect. First, I insinuated to him that he might have a hormonal problem that could account for his having so little body hair. Hormones, of course, would be sex hormones, and their lack could lead to repro-ductive dysfunctions. I offered to check him out in my laborato-ry. You see, my area in the university is biology, and there I have a microscope whose pieces I found scattered all through-out the depart-ment. One evening after my classes, Paulo, on my instructions, jacked off onto a microscope slide. I put a coverslip on his specimen and made a big deal of examining this slide under the microscope. There was nothing to be seen, however, for the simple reason that I had un-focussed the condenser while focussing on the upper surface of the coverslip. With a grave expression on my face, I let him see for himself his poor showing: nothing. Then, I masturbated and put a few drops of my ejaculate on another slide. Under the microscope, this second sample was full of gyrating, wriggling sperm, by the hundreds of thousands. Paulo was puzzled, confused, concerned and finally desperate. Impressed by what he was seeing, or rather not seeing, he asked for his sample again and again. I placed it, always out of focus, for him to inspect under the microscope. We did this at least five times. Every time my ejaculate was alive and potent, every time my wretched Paulo saw nothing on his slide. My demeanor in this farce was somber, but my words could hardly be comforting to someone who has just learned his is a eunuch. "This is not definite. You will have to see a specialist. Nobody knows why these things happen. In a way, you know, its not all that bad: no paternity suits for you. You can always adopt a kid." What I did was to emasculate him mentally. He had to believe what he saw: he produced no sperm. Never would he be a father, never would he procreate, he thought. He would be, then, just a jolly good bed partner for me. Castrated by my slight of hand, he gave himself over to my coaching, landing every week if not ever day in my bed, doing everything we saw in the gay porno videos we watched. This lasted for over a year, until be got Walmeire pregnant and felt he had to assume the onus of "marriage". (Subsequently, he became adept at abortions.) Hell, I didn't even know that my "sperm-less" wonder was knocking up girls then. Obviously, I was not getting every last drop of his cum. Then came fatherhood for Paulo, and there was no denying that the kid was his. Progenitor and son, you see, share the same eyes, with a membrane at the corner that gives them an oriental look. I guess this comes from the Indian in them. The fine membrane reminds me of Paulo's foreskin. His eyes are beautiful. The kid, on the other hand, in addition to being a cry baby, is cross-eyed. Father, too fainthearted or maybe just too disorganized, has yet to arrange for the eye operation that will give his kid the chance to learn to read. For that matter, I've never seen Paulo with a book so maybe its in their genes. I don't say anything, just go into the bathroom to take a piss. When I return to the bedroom, Paulo spreads the towel on the bed and motions for me to lie down on it. I get on the bed and stretch my arms toward the two bedposts. I open my legs. I know that my ass is not good-looking. It is big, like a sumo wrestler's, not like Paulo's elegant rump. I can't be attractive to him, but, what the hell, you can't be a university professor getting on to middle age and a beach boy at the same time. I would swap bodies with Paulo at the drop of a hat, if it could be done like in science fiction stories. I would even take care of his nagging family. Anything, just to possess that body. I try to relax. I am about to give myself over to the wiles of my animal, not quite knowing whether he is a man-eating tiger or a pet pussy cat. With exaggerated testing and adjusting, Paulo positions the chains and snaps the padlock closed. My right arm is immobi-lized. Going to the other side of the bed, he secures my left wrist. Click goes the second padlock. Now my both arms are out of action. Paulo fusses with the chains on my feet. Is he agitated? Why can't he get the padlocks to close? He pulls my legs even farther apart. They can't spread any more than this. Another attempt at perfection and then I become a work of his art, positioned just the way he wants me. A tremor of excite-ment in my legs, a tingle in my spine. I feel the cooling breeze all the way to my exposed asshole. I hear a malicious laugh. There is not a centimeter of slack in the chains. My sexual sidekick from the slums has me locked up and unable to budge. I am proud of my disciple turned master as he places the keys on the dresser, but he frustrates me when he closes the shutters on the window. Don't be nervous, Paulo, the gardener already saw you having your ass screwed. Don't worry about the caretakers, either. They won't come no matter what. You got me and I am all yours. You can do whatever you want. Just do it. What can he do with me? Anything he wants. For my part, I have left him marked with pigments under his smooth, baby-like skin proclaiming my initials until his flesh melts away. I have, on occasions, stripped him nude in the water on a crowded Rio beach, shaved off all his pubic hair and sent him home to his less-than-credulous woman, laced him with power-ful laxatives before he boarded an inter-state bus, let him cool his heels with muggers and thieves in the clink at the police station, put a padlock (a 50 centime-ter size one) around his nuts when the key was all the way across town. All this and much more: I ruined his marriage with Walmeire, the bitch who finally took every-thing she could and got out. (I can't really say why I showed her see my calling card and monogrammed stationery when she was sure to recognize the design of her husband's posterior in them. I told Paulo I just wasn't thinking. After all, it was Carnival and no one was thinking all that well, except her, that is.) Most recently, I put Paulo's plump testicles in my mouth and bit down on them until he begged and cried for mercy. What right will he claim now that he's on top and I can't move a muscle? More pulling at the chains, more testing, more hesitating. In the silence of the bedroom decisions were being made. Paulo gets on top of me, kneeling between my imprisoned legs. He lowers his head to my buttocks, finding a pimple that needs squeez-ing, careful squeezing. He pulls on my arms, still unnecessarily testing the chains. He knows he can do anything. He gives a snort. He grabs my ass, runs his hand between my buns, pokes at my anus. Then it comes: kisses on my ass, a big hug, more kisses. He speaks. — What do you want to do? — he asks, imitating my earlier question to him. — Look in the top drawer of the dresser — I respond, indicating where I had placed the role of packing tape and the tubes of Vaseline and Bengay. He gets the gist of my idea very rapidly. He can't control a nervous laugh. Sitting on my back with his knees at my sides, he grabs me by the hair and pulls my head back, while he puts layer on layer of the plastic tape across my mouth, in my mouth, over my eyes and ears. He is very excited, too excited. Will he block my nose? I won't be able to breath then. He lowers my head, now completely wrapped mummy-like in the tape. I breathe slowly through my nose. I can't talk or even mumble. I can't see. My own heart beat is all I can hear. He is truly my master now and I his slave. I feel him station himself over my buttocks. Reaching under me he pulls my cock and balls but only to position them gently below my abdomen. He maneuvers around me hurriedly now, off the bed and then back on. He slaps my buttocks with the open palm of his hand and then liberally applies the Bengay, squeezing the tube right into my anal aperture. Almost immediately, the ointment seems to set my orifice on fire. It burns like hell. Must be the witch hazel, I joke to myself. The Vaseline is for his tool. I hope he puts enough on. I can tell he's in a hurry to penetrate me, and I would relish being able to plead for just a bit more lubrication. But how? I can't beg. I can't cry. Hell, I can't even whimper. My abode is about to be invaded by a barbarian entering through the back door that is almost being torn off its hinges. I would never beg for more Vaseline anyway: I am too proud to repeat Paulo's performance that Edison saw through the window. Now, with energetic thrusts that seem like they could cleave me in two, my conqueror rams his sword into the depths of my entrails. He throws his weight into his lunging thrusts in an effort to penetrate even farther, and he rocks his hips from side to side to separate my buns and push them apart. He's pumping away like an engine, panting like an wild animal, not contemplating his fate, not complaining of the miserable lot that live reserved for him. No, he is going at it like there is no tomorrow. He is doing what he wants. I can feel it. He is out of control, brutish, lusty, a savage beast devouring its prey, tearing it piece by piece. I am his quarry for him to devour, existing only for his carnal gratification. Don't think, Paulo, just do it, more, more, more. Let me have it. Hold me tighter, don't hold back. His hands, like paws with ripping claws, dig into my flesh. He is going for it. He's going to cum in me, deep in me. That's what I want. Without being able to manoeuver much, I still try to position my ass for his greater insertion. I tighten my breach hole around his driving staff. Then, suddenly, he ejaculates. The thrusting stops. He snuggles up in my cubbyhole. He pushes himself all the way in. He drops down on me. I feel the full weight of his hot, sweaty torso on me and the pumping of his sperm into my bowels. His heart is beating wildly. He moans and sprawls himself limp on me as though he were dead. I feel his cock pop out of my anus. I remember other times he was in me like this. He fulfilled me on the balcony of my apartment while I held onto the railing, in the forest near the Christ statue above the city, in the water at the beach, at the sauna, at the motel. Kind reader, you won't know what a motel is. A motor hotel? No, not even close. A motel is a place you go to fuck. A motel room is rented by the hour, a sort of pleasure dome where you have all the modern conveniences and privacy, too. When I have enough money, I take Paulo to a fancy motel with mirrors on the ceiling and all that. Nobody takes the slightest notice of two guys going into the motel, but at first Paulo was always nervous and embar-rassed. Now, thanks to me, he is an old pro and even complains if the private swim-ming pool or sauna is not just the right tempera-ture. He gripes more than I do, but I just think about the temperature there up inside his cozy rear opening. It was at this motel that I first got to screw him in his virgin rear end. He was de-pressed, I guess. Nothing was going right. Why, he couldn't hold a job. He had no idea why he was being punished by the spirits but no way to escape them. He couldn't stand living with his cousins after his aunt died. He had no right to the house where he had lived and been brought up. It now belonged to his dear cousins who must have waited a decade for their chance to tell him to move out. He had no one to turn to. What good was he, anyway? He couldn't even get a girl pregnant since he didn't produce any sperm. He was a fish hooked on my line. All I had to do was reel him in. Come on now, I'm your friend. Well, we're friends, aren't we? One hand washes the other and Paulo's anus was virgin no longer. His posterior portal to passion was no longer an untravelled road. After that day, there was no turning back. No caper or gadget was too extravagant for him to undertake. He tried everything. He did everything. Well, almost everything. There are still some new horizons for us. Paulo himself suggested, half seriously and half fiendishly, that we drug and rape adolescent boys. He suggested using our unremovable "toys" to make the event all that more unforgettable for our immolated victims as they regain consciousness and vainly attempt to dislodge the rubber and steel contraption from their fundament. For my ghoulish part, I am not sure I want to share a Brazilian prison cell with killers, thieves and rapists, at least not for the duration of an average prison sentence. Well then, just what kind of a heinous monster have I been creating? Frankenstein should be so proud. It takes only a few minutes for him to fuck me, always just a few minutes. For my part, I always remember the other times. They are my life, are they not? Here am I, a ridiculous, potbellied fag, "bicha" in Rio slang, getting it up the ass from a homosexual prostitute in a travesty of the act of coitus. Pretty picture, isn't it? And no stopping, no turning back, and no repeating. Every opportunity for love-making has to be different, new places, new risks, new toys, new tricks. I can't bear the thought of doing the same thing over and over again. That's what marriage is for. That is what my marriage is like, anyway. Now I make every dish with new spices, strong flavors for my acquired tastes, jaded tastes. Bengay, anyone? One of these days, when Paulo and I are two old relics in rocking chairs, I will ask him just what recipe he liked best. What season-ing most appealed to him? Was it better to eat or be eaten? The diner or the dinner? Paulo takes his seventy kilos of weight off me and leaves the bed. Considerately, he wipes my ass with some toilet paper. I recall the time he did not want to service me. We had been playing with each other's behinds then, and he had placed one of our special "toys" up my asshole. These toys are our specialties, and we have all kinds. The contraption he had placed in me was a rubber ring, usually used to suspend mufflers under cars, attached to a short steel rod. You see, the rubber ring can be inserted into the rectum when well lubricated with vaseline and pinched together as it is intro-duced into the anus, but to withdraw it requires no little sweating and someone's helping hands. The first time I placed this in Paulo, we had the devil of a time getting it out again. (Rio's malicious gossip includes stories of late night hospital visits by actors or public figures in need of extracting carrots, wine glasses or light bulbs from their rectums.) This time, when Paulo extracted the rubber ring from my orifice, there was some slight anal bleeding, and he didn't feel like going through with his sexual obligations. He doesn't like fucking his woman when she is menstruat-ing, so I can hardly complain. Who's complaining anyway? Aren't we doing what we want to? Paulo sure is taking a long time. What's he doing? He can't want any more than what he just got. I can't see, hear or talk with this tape on my head and breathing is none to easy. What more can he want? What more is there? I hope the caretaker doesn't see him prancing naked through the house again. I get tired of putting out fires. Finally I feel his hands caress my buttocks. He is getting back on the bed, sitting astride me, facing toward my feet, placing his head between my legs, pressing his mouth to my scrotum, twisting his face around to get my balls between his lips. Now they are between his jaws. No, he has not forgotten our previous date. I shouldn't have been so mean to him last time. Paulo almost chokes on my two testicles now between his teeth. A slight pressure, more pressure, like a vice slowly closing. You can feel it all way up to your kidneys when your balls get clouted and that's what I am beginning to feel. Now he stops, paddles my derriere in a jolly manner, as though he were playing his voodoo bongo drums, and gets off my back. I am released from the bonds of chain and packing tape for our bath that has become a ritual between us. We wash away the perspiration, the blood, the shit, the sperm. We can then appear civilized and just good buddies, able to talk about soccer games and television soap operas. I wash him like even his mother never washed him, with lots of soap and getting into all those hard to reach places. His mother, by the way, probably never did wash him. She took off with her gigolo lover when Paulo was 10, never to be heard from again. His aunt Marlene, the spirit medium, raised him, but her two kids never let Paulo forget that he was an interloper in their house. He could use some appreci-a-tion from somebody, from me. I try some small talk. — Wow! I feel like I was reamed by a stallion. My asshole must be the size of a horse's, too. You should take it easy on your friends, you know. Where's the rest of your platoon hiding, anyway? This last remark refers to a day of glory in Paulo's year as a sailor in the Brazilian Navy. He had waited in line, along with almost everyone from his squad, for his turn to butt fuck his fellow recruit Elias, loser of some trivial bet. Interestingly, Elias was Paulo's friend before the gangbang, but afterwards Paulo was more embarrassed by the episode than was the victim. Conformity, I guess, made him fuck and foreswear his pal. He smiles. The washing continues, more soap, more hard to reach places. I am drying him. He sure is beautiful. I reopen the window, the better to see him in the afternoon light. — Do me a favor, would you? — I ask. The towel once more is spread on the bed. He lies down on it, but I get him into a crouching position, buttocks up. More vaseline, on his ass, on my erection, up his ass. No hurry. He is well lubricated. I ask him to help me make the penetration, and his big, soft, brown hand takes my throbbing penis and introduc-es it into his rectum. I rock forward and backward, just enough to keep my hard on. I don't want to go too fast, but I don't want to loose my erection either. I have a hand on each of his hips. I caress his ass, gently, ever so gently. We don't want to exaggerate. "This can't be hurting. After all, how many years have we been doing this? Six? Seven? Easy, easy. Don't move. No, don't move. This is the best its ever been, I mean, the best its every been in my whole life. Yes. Yes. Oh." Paulo moans, puts his head down on the bed between his arms, but his wonderful ass is offered. His asshole is mine to penetrate. His body is mine to enjoy. I talk softly, mostly nonsense, until I feel that I can't hold back any longer. I discharge my semen silently, deep in his tunnel of love. Not a drop of sperm is spilled. The towel goes to the laundry still a vestal virgin, I go back to the university to teach my night classes and to my dinner date with Lili, my dedicated secretary. Paulo Roberto Nascimento da Silva goes back to his woman Claudia and his crying kids in the shanty town some twenty dollars richer. (I know its perverse of me, but I always keep track of these expenses. In my check book, his code is "BB," for "Brazilian Boy" or "Beautiful Butt" - "Bunda Bonita" in Portuguese.) As we drive back to the city, dusk has fallen and the city's lights are just coming on. The sight is memorable. Rio is, after all, a fantastic place, a place to make your wildest dreams can come true. Beautiful bodies, all on display, all there for the taking. Unless you are terribly deformed, you will never go wanting for a sex partner in Brazil: everyone plays the game, at least according to their rules. Adoles-cents boys and young men can be had, principally because they believe themselves "ma-cho" when they "eat" another man, that is, when they fuck another man in the ass. By their lights, they are even more "macho" doing this than by having a heterosexual union. Servicing a gringo fag for a few bucks is an irresistible call to duty for, I estimate, about a third of Rio's men and boys between the ages of 17 and 27. You just get them alone, in the mood, state your case and make your offer. They always start out on top, but, as you have seen, things get more mixed-up as you go along. I first picked up Paulo some seven years ago, when he was 20 years old, at the Rio international airport. I had just sent off my wife and kids for the holidays. They would spend the month in the States, and I would begin a tumultuous relationship with a stripling Brazilian youth. I made an outright offer of money for the privilege of blowing his whistle. He accepted. As it turned out, he had just that night been fired from his job as dishwasher at an airport restaurant. He was down. Unlike other boys I had picked up, I brought him to my empty apartment and even convinced him to remain the whole night. It was the first time he had ever been picked up. He would do no more than to let me masturbate him with my mouth. We spent the night mostly in trivial talk until we fell asleep in separate beds. The next morning, as though to emphasize how unexcep-tional it had been for me to have a hustler in my home, I gave him my office phone number and told him to look me up. He did and we went out together. He kept showing up at the university and calling my home, trying to make himself a nuisance, I guess. Of course, he came to me with the proposal that he would "leave me in peace" and not "spill the beans" to my wife, all for just a small sum. Never would I submit to this kind of threatened blackmail and I told him so. I also told him that our relationship was potentially worth far more than he could ever get through coercion. This, at least, has been true. Today, we play our games together. We are each other's hobbies, our gay pastimes. He keeps me young. We walk on the beaches, from Copacabana to Leme, from one end of Ipanema to the other. Thanks to him there is not an ounce of fat on my legs or rump. The slight droop of my belly over my sunga is the only remnant of the physical wreak that I was before Paulo came into my life. I can't give him up. He is the one I get up for in the morning, the one I wait for in the evening. He is my passion, my obsession. He is all vigor, strength and potency. May he have the occasion to break out of the misery that surrounds him and come into his own light. May he perceive some day that he is a valuable human being, beloved and cherished. In the meantime, Paulo is like a plaything waiting for me to wind him up. Already I am planing our next date, the next time our naked bodies will embrace and unite. The novelty of our setting, the jeopardy we will put ourselves into, the unbridled lusts we will liberate, always taking care not to exaggerate, advancing just as far as prudence and safety permit. The props for our next date? Strong sedatives (maybe knockout drops, your good old chloral hydrate), a lock-on motorcycle helmet with opaque visor, oculists's eye drops that cause the pupil to dilate (giving you a fuzzy view of your captors), plastic tape, cotton batting, and plenty of chain and padlock. Yes, it could be that my lover and I are finally going hunting. It was coming to this anyway. To be fair, maybe we will flip a coin: heads, a young Rio gallant, chosen at random from herd; tails, a gringo tourist with ample hindquarters who will never forget his misguided visit to South America. When you come to Brazil, look us up. I know you will enjoy Rio like we do. The folks here are full of fun and live life to the fullest. You can have the time of your life. The weight of cruel reality has descended on us all at once. I don't know how she found me after me evening classes, but Cláudia came to me at the university. Paulo had been shot. Nobody was helping. He was still waiting surgury in a small clinic where the only doctor was having trouble locating an anesthetist. We hurried there in my car, plowing through Rio's unrelenting traffic only to get there too late. Paulo was gone. A nurse was dressing the body, stuffing the mouth, nostrils and ears with cotton. The wrists were bound with gauze to keep the arms from dangling from the stretcher. Self-conciously, I helped for a few minutes with the preparations, touching his face and hands for the last time. Cláudia was inconsolable. Luckily her relatives were there to keep her from doing anything to harm herself. I wandered out onto the street in from of the clinic where the news was already being spread and distorted. Paulo was a drug dealer. He shot it out with the police. No, he was an informer. The drug lord had him executed. No, he was a police informer, but the police wanted to get rid of him. They lead him into a trap. He didn't have a chance. That was some weeks ago. Life is still going on here in sunny Rio de Janeiro. Cláudia comes by from time to time. Our plan is to operate Ariel's eyes to correct their crossing.