Gay Erotic Stories

I think that for most of those I played with for two-and-a-half years in the 1970s, the hedonist urges resulted from the intersection of a few “realities.” As a society, Americans were coming out of a decade of national hedonism in the form of the flower child/hippie generation that, itself, lifted the orgasm and the concept of “if it gives pleasure, do it” to the level of both a desirable and an obtainable goal. Overlaying that was that we were just coming out of a physically and emotionally draining Vietnam War period in which we not only suffered the depression of defeat (no matter what a spin our government tried to put on it) but in which, like so many other wars, we had lost the cream of our generation—our very generation, those we had grown up with and had mistakenly assumed we would grow old with. The “pack all of the pleasure in today, because tomorrow we die” syndrome was laying heavy on us, especially on those of us in Thailand, close still to Saigon.

Add to that that Americans finding themselves living and working in Bangkok were basically adventuresome folks and that, with the jobs they did, they tended to be beautiful and fit folks, Bangkok was, morally, a wide-open, “if it feels good, do it” society. So we had a heady brew of an invitation to sexual adventure, openness, and experimentation. The horror of AIDS wasn’t even a moat in anyone’s eyes yet.

This mix was particularly heady for me. I came to Bangkok a vanilla monogamous heterosexual, who had had thoughts of a world further afield than heterosexuality, but who had been so narcissistic that I hadn’t given more than a passing thought to sex at all outside of marriage let alone in pursuing the goal of perpetual orgasm with multiple partners, and those of the same gender as I was. All of that exploded early in my Bangkok diplomatic tour when, naïvely not even seeing what I was sinking into, I was seduced by a sexual magician male Indian doctor, who was an expert in the sexual positions of the Kamasutra, and whose goal it was to totally debauch, master, and control largely innocent young men—and to make them open to having multiple partners simultaneously.

Within months of arriving in Bangkok, I was attending male-only nude pool parties and laying on a chaise lounge by the pool, with my legs perpetually open to a parade of cocks—and not thinking a bit of anything but the pleasure of being wanted by beautiful men, one after the other, with hard, muscled bodies and a goal of the perpetual orgasm.

Particularly perplexing to me now, decades later, with all that has happened in my life and the trending of societal attitudes and medical reality, is how easy it was for me to accept the dripping cock of one man to be immediately replaced by the hopeful hardness of that of another one—as long as both men were beautiful and hard bodied and said they wanted me . . . extending sometimes to the third and the forth cock. The thought of life-threatening disease wasn’t even an issue then, as AIDS was a reality for the future, not for that present. Ironically enough, I once again was living—and fucking indiscriminately—in Bangkok in the mid 1980s, when the reality of AIDS did thunder in—and it coldcocked much of the freewheeling rolling sex party atmosphere of the city’s expatriate gay male community. But not at the time I am speaking of here, the mid-1970s.

When I look for explanations for my own behavior, I see my narcissism as a dominant factor—more than the physical pleasure of melding with a beautiful body, being closely embraced by hard muscle, and feeling a hard cock churning in my gut, the explosive release of my own building orgasm and the jerk and spout and flow of hot cum inside me, again and again. But what motivated me most was the emotional pleasure of knowing that someone worshipped my body and wanted to possess it fully, was willing to surrender their manliness and the control of their desires to the squeezing of my channel muscles. It was at the height of my partner’s impassioned, uncontrolled drive that I felt the most powerful—when they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to. This was why it was sometimes the rough, dominating sex that made me soar the highest—the man wanted me so badly he was lost in his primeval lustings. It wasn’t him in control; it was me—and my beautiful body. Pure narcissism.

And the thrill of partners in quick succession? To see the look in the eyes of the man standing behind the man then plowing me—and to the man standing next to him—to see the want and impatience of them, the way they couldn’t keep their hands off their own cocks and how hard their cocks were getting—in anticipation of me, of being inside me, of having their turn at doing to me what someone else was then doing. To see how they couldn’t keep their eyes off me. The enjoyment of the assessing of their individual attributes, an unusually muscled chest here with prominent nipples, a riot-of-color tattoo there. A flaming red bush, ebony skin next to alabaster, unusually beefy hands, black, curly chest hair in an arousing pattern, a short but thick cock, an unusually long one, low-hanging balls the size of Ping-Pong balls, a crook on a cock that had me wondering whether it would be felt differently inside me, an “oh my god” thick cock ring. All of these observations, even while I was arching my back and the lover of the moment was thrusting, thrusting, thrusting hard inside me and sucking on my nipple, made the multiple partners, in succession, hot, and a desirable goal in the atmosphere of gay Bangkok in the mid-1970s.

There were only a few Caucasian men in the city who would go on a string—that’s what we called taking one guy after another in a session. Mostly young Thai men did this—and usually effeminate ones. Thanks to the conditioning of the Indian doctor, I was an American who, under controlled circumstances, would do so. And most who flocked to me said they appreciated that I wasn’t limp wristed and effecting the pretense of being female.

* * * *

Rodney—insisting to go by Rod—was a Marine guard at the embassy. I passed him there, standing guard in the embassy’s foyer, a couple of times a week. But where I knew him from was as someone else who played tennis on Saturday mornings and afternoons with me, some other embassy men, and high-ranking Thai military officers at the Thai Military Academy compound adjacent to the American embassy complex on Wireless Road. We played in that venue as much for the business of diplomacy—the contact with high-ranking military officers in a nation that was having a military coup every two years or so—as much as the exercise. The exercise was good, though. The Bangkok climate is sweltering hot. We’d go through a couple of two-liter bottles of Coke each during the three or four hours we were at it. The fat would boil off of us and flow away in the sweat. Everyone who participated was hard bodied; most of them were beautiful to boot.

We played shirtless and in skimpy shorts. I liked the way Rod looked. He obviously liked the way I looked too, as he propositioned me. Pretty straightforward and bald about it, he was, which I learned was a trademark of his. He thought the world of himself, of his own looks, and he assumed everyone else did too. He was fucking one of the Thai colonels there. Neither of them made much of a secret of it. This was Bangkok in the mid-1970s. Thai men tended to be at least bi, taking their pleasures where they could get them. The colonel had propositioned me, too, but was disappointed to learn that I wanted my sex the same way he did. I didn’t tell my embassy mentors of this proposition, as the colonel was so well positioned in the Thai military hierarchy that they would have wanted to me somehow accept his proposition and do what pleased him to establish the contact. My supervisors didn’t mind my activities as long as they served their needs when they saw the need.

In fact, at length, my Saturday tennis activities became a professional duty for me and I did hook up with high-ranking Thai military officers who I could use while being used by hem.

I turned Rod down—politely. By then I was accustomed to the proposition. I’d gotten them before coming to Bangkok, where I had only slowly learned to identify them as such. After arriving in Bangkok, they came left and right and weren’t usually disguised well in a conversation that could be gracefully exited. But at that point I had not yet been cornered in a gym sauna by the sensuous hands and mesmerizing voice of a crafty Indian doctor, taken home by him, turned on explosively to my latent desires, stripped of my male-on-male virginity, and fucked to ejaculation repeatedly in every position imaginable. Through his weeks of conditioning my defenses were worn down over multiple sessions to the point that he could bring in other men and I’d open my legs and roll up my pelvis for a succession of them in a single sex session.

Rod was a cute blond with a buzz cut. Only about five foot six, but all body-builder muscle. He had tattoos, the military ones the Marines liked before they banned tattoos altogether. And he strutted around like a bantam rooster. It was his lack of height, I think that is what made him so cocky; he was trying to compensate. That’s sort of a type of U.S. Marine—guys of that type often try to join the Marines to compensate for size. And not just in height. That type tends to have small cocks too. In his case, he might have been not quite five inches long—but he was a good two inches thick. I knew that, because that was how he propositioned me that first time. We were taking a break under a straggly tree next to the tennis court, which accorded just about all the shade there was to have, and he just leaned over me, pushed the front of his shorts down to below his balls, and said. “Willy’s hard for you. Let’s go someplace after tennis today.” And he was hard, but not impressively so.

That was his form of directness. He had assumed I was available, because in those days so many were. I just wasn’t yet—at least not that week. I think his proposition, though, is what helped weaken me when the Indian doctor put his hand on my cock in a sauna a couple of weeks later, making me come for the first time with a man, and, showing me a much more impressive cock, cast a spell on me with his mesmerizing voice that drew me onto the examination table of his home office with its stirrups and cuffs—and its progressively more complex sexual experiences and demands to give up my every sexual inhibition.

The Marine, Rod, just blew it off when I politely told him I didn’t swing that way. A couple of months later, though, when he was cruising the pool at an all-male nude pool party and saw me being fucked, he was a bit more miffed. The party was being thrown at the house of a U.S. Army officer working for JUSMAG, the U.S. military advisory group to the Thai military, who I knew because we were both involved in an expatriate theater group, as was Rod, who was a stage hand there. By this time, I had already been picked up by a big, black JUSMAG major, with a body-builder’s physique and a monster cock. To this day, when I think of well fucked, my mind goes to my black major, and when Rod saw me that day, I was already fucking around, but I was a captive of this major’s cock. One thing about the Indian doctor, his indoctrination program moved fast.

I was on my shoulder blades on a chaise lounge. The black major was standing, his legs straddling the sides of the lounger. He was gripping my butt cheeks in his hands and had pulled my pelvis up to his. My feet also were on the patio tiles next to the lounger and my body arched up to the black major, my feet rocking back and forth on the warm tiles to the rhythm of the fuck. His cock was stroking my channel in long, deep slides. (Thinking back on the teachings of the Indian doctor, I knew this to be a variation on the Kamasutra position of The Stem. I would have told the black major this, but I knew that he wanted to think that all of these positions were of his own invention.) And I was gazing up into his handsome face with glazed eyes. A small group had gathered to watch a master cocker in action; most were pulling on their cocks. I wasn’t turning my face to them very often, wondering who was next, though. There was no gang-banging following the major. He fucked for an hour or so and wanted at least two ejaculations—I would get more—before he stopped. There was never much left of me for anyone else after one of those sessions. I heard my name and looked up, into the angry eyes of Rod, the Marine. He just gave me a withering look, muttered, “Fuck you later,” and walked off.

Later was after closing one evening the next week on a platform on the stage at the Bhirasri Institute, the facility that the expatriate theater group used for its plays.

For Rod, a fuck was all about him. I let him fuck me that first time out of curiosity, a sense of “what the hell, it’s just a fuck” attitude that was prominent in Bangkok in that period, and because I saw nothing good in having one of the embassy’s Marine guards angry at me.

“Yes your hole can take it. I’m not too thick for you if you want to take it—and you will take it, because you’re not leaving here until you do. Move here, like this. Willy wants this angle.”

Of course my hole can take it, jackass, I thought. The major is just as thick as you are—a hell of a lot longer too. And do you see me running for the exits at the sight of your short little “Willy”? Who got you to calling it that juvenile name anyway?

“Willy” wanted to take fast, shallow, rabbit-punch strokes just to the prostate. (So, who cared what my channel wanted?) His cocking was like a jackhammer. He had power, I’ll give him that, and as long as he was making it to the prostate, I wasn’t going to complain. He held my legs up and together with fists grabbing my ankles while he fucked me missionary style. I’m sure he held my legs together to tighten my hole and accentuate the effect inside me of his thick cock. No working me with his hands, which were imprisoning my ankles. He was looking down at the jabbing of his cock in my entrance, very pleased with the job he was doing. Everything was concentrated on the pleasure of his cock—and of his image of himself. He fit the description of a bantam rooster perfectly. Arrogant little bastard.

I’ll admit, though that, for variety, I liked his cocking—that and as long as the body was hard and well muscled, they could take me any way they wanted to. He was body-builder hard. Not many pistoned hard like a jackrabbit to a depth of just four inches or so (although I have seen that since in porn videos occasionally). I think being only a bit longer than that four inches, he liked the sensation of not all of his cock being able to go into the hole—like he could pretend it was a mammoth length or something.

No pretty talk once he got started. All business of what pleased him. Taking what he wanted with a thick cock and a beautiful body as if by right, ejaculating in great globs of cum near the surface (condoms were considered sissy in those days), and just pulling out and strutting away, whether or not I’d come, leaving me panting, with my legs flopping open to the sides. It was all over in seven or eight minutes. I hadn’t come. He didn’t give a shit whether I came or not.

The first time, I thought he didn’t like the fuck. But the next night, after theater practice, he wanted it again. Just like the first time.

“Move your ass to this position; role your hips up more; it’s a good angle for Willy.”

And he kept pestering me thereafter. It was no big deal saying yes. I let all of the male actors and stage hands who wanted to but who weren’t exclusive bottoms themselves fuck me—as did most of the others with each other. In his case, though, I savored the victory of him doing the asking for sex. I never begged it from him; his body was good but the cocking was nothing special. And it was I, not him, with ultimate control after that first time. Knowing he was going to come quickly and then leave, I wouldn’t go with him again unless he embraced me closely with his muscled body with his fingers moving inside my passage until I had jacked myself off. Only then could he fuck me. He refused to suck me or to do the jacking himself. He actually seemed to like fingering me while I jacked off (since he continued to ask me for it). His ejaculation then legitimately was the closing curtain. I think he was self-conscious about being a fast ejaculator. As far as I know, he didn’t rebuild fast, so that one time was what there was going to be—but he produced enough cum for three times. As a Marine, I think he saw his size and lack of stamina as substandard.

Did his length matter to me? Certainly not as much as it seemed to matter to him. The size of a cock only mattered to me if it was extraordinarily long—and then more if it also was thick. Other than that, it didn’t matter to me at all. And I wasn’t moved by the physicality of the length and thickness, really, as much as by the emotional sense that something that size was possessing me—and that I was taking it all. If a huge cock just jabbed four inches inside me like Rod’s did, its size meant nothing to me. When a guy had a long cock, I insisted on taking it all inside me.

When the length mattered, it was because I could feel it deep inside me, and I could feel my bush mingling with his, knowing he had put it all inside me—that’s when I had the emotional high of being totally taken. The black major did that for me. He was both extraordinarily long and thick, and he fucked me deep. And he knew I soared to the feel of the depth of him inside me. Bush would entwine with bush, and he’d loosen his embrace of me and let my torso relax back with his arm supporting the small of my back, me panting, and literally purring, letting my arms just dangle down onto the mattress and my head flop back, all of my senses going to my gut. He’d hold for a full minute, maybe more, letting the pleasure of him deep inside me roll over me in waves. And then he would start short stroking, deep, and I would start to moan and jabber, and he’d pull me back to his chest and move into the long, deep stroking. This was heaven if the cock was long and thick. And any bottom who doesn’t say they prefer it this way is, I think, full of crap.

Of course I’d tell any man I was with, who wasn’t obviously small, that he was deep inside me. I’ve never met a man who didn’t want to hear that. If he was small, I just made sure he knew how to reach my prostate, and then I’d please him by shuddering at him working that and clutching him close to me. He had to be well muscled, though. Skinny or heavy only worked when the cock was oversized and he knew how to use it to best advantage.

The Indian doctor wasn’t thick, but he was among the longest I’ve had, and his cock was evil. His cock had the flexibility of a snake. I felt he could almost reach my stomach with it, but it was the other things it did inside me that had me charmed and kept me coming to the Indian doctor—and for the Indian doctor—long after I knew that his hold over me was evil. He could slap my channel walls with it or caress them as my moaning directed him, or revolve it inside me so that it rubbed against the channel walls in revolving succession, and he could make me come just with the sensation that the head of it was latched onto my prostate and sucking it hard. Now, after all these years, I think he was drugging the drinks he gave me before we fucked and that, with me in a mild hallucinatory state, he was whispering in my ear what his cock was doing inside me, and I was taking that for reality. Whatever the circumstance, he had me in thrall, until he released me for some reason, a magnet for men who wanted other men and conditioned to be an easy slut, into a hedonist city.

The bantam rooster, cocksure Marine guard, Rodney, was reassigned from Bangkok a couple of months after he started with me. I didn’t miss him.

* * * *

What the first time that the Marine fucked me on my back on a platform on the Bhirasri stage provides in connection with the multiple partner theme of this remembrance is what happened after he pulled out of me and just strutted off, leaving me uncompleted.

The Marine had just left me, flopped out on my back all askew, panting, and my legs spread open from the release of his ankle hold, buzzed by the pistoning of a thick cock inside the entrance of a tightened hole and by the three strong spurts of his cum up into my channel—but not completed myself. Within seconds, a tall Thai guy I never saw again and who likely had been watching, and stripped while he did so, slipped in from the shadows and finished me with a long cock squishing through the still-warm cum the Marine left inside me. A thin, lithe, berry-brown body—good muscle tone, though, which most Thai men have because they are manual laborers—torso covered with blue tribal tattoos. The proverbial Thai smile of “everything’s just fine; you’ll like this.” And I did.

He whispered to me in Thai—maybe asking for permission, maybe telling me he couldn’t resist, maybe admonishing me for being a slut and telling me I needed to be punished. I don’t know what he said; unfortunately I didn’t speak Thai. As long as he was going to finish me—and do a good job of it—I didn’t care. He showed every indication that’s what he was going to do. Whatever he had said didn’t prevent him from gently taking hold of my ankles again, raising and spreading my legs, and taking a long, long slide into me that had me arching my back and burbling my pleasure and acceptance of a second cock within barely a minute.

He smiled, knowing by how I groaned and clutched his waist with my hands, holding him to me, that I wanted him inside me.

Long, slow, deep strokes, me coming first—and second—but not right away, and him later, deep inside—again, condoms weren’t thought necessary there yet, and fuck strings were fairly common, more than one guy in succession. He fucked me longer than the Marine had—some half an hour of “this is what a fuck should be.” He released my legs and let me dig my heels into the wood surface of the platform and raise my pelvis to him for an even deeper reach of the cock. He ran his hands over my torso and gave me nipple play. He even let me suck on his thumb while he slow-stroked me. The minutes clicked by. He stroked my cock, making me hard again—for him. But it was about both of us, not just him. He playing my body with his hands and his cock. He raised my pelvis to his face, palming my buttocks, taking my cock in his mouth and sucking me to a second ejaculation.

He lowered my pelvis and slid into me again, still hard, still long, still making me moan with pleasure.

Maybe what he had said at the beginning was, “Sorry about that little bastard. Let me show you how it’s done.” Because he was doing a great job of showing how it’s done well.

He squeezed my knees with his hands and moved them in and out with the rhythm of the stroke like I first experienced with the Indian doctor. That was pretty much a Bangkok technique that I haven’t encountered much since then. I found it arousing, and in later years I asked my Lebanese lovers to do it—I would work my pelvis to the rhythm too. In the circumstances, I thought that was hot—even with him just pulling out and melting into the shadows again after ejaculating, retrieving some cum from inside me, and, giving me a smile, taking it to his lips.

I thought I’d see him again—and maybe experience him again—but I never did. He knew how to give and receive pleasure in a fuck. I occasionally thought about the encounter for months thereafter—until other memorable fucks caused it to recede into the recesses of my brain to only recently resurface by way of having my memory jogged by photographs.

Did I think twice at the time about letting a Thai stranger come in for a second fuck on the stage of an otherwise deserted theater? No, I didn’t. What I thought about was wanting to have him inside me again. Would I do this today at that age, knowing what I know now—both the Marine and the Thai stranger (I won’t even begin to think about the Indian doctor)? The Marine maybe—with a condom. The Thai stranger, probably not. Multiple partners in a string? Probably not that either.

But those were hedonist days in Bangkok, and, who knows, perhaps they still are today. A friend recently sent me a link to Internet pictures of the Bhirasri Institute in Bangkok—the photographs mentioned above. It was an art gallery as well as a theater. It’s now unused, blocked off with a chain-link fence and derelict, covered with trash. I looked at current satellite photographs of Bangkok and found that the compound with the pool where the JUSMAG officer held those male-only nude pool parties is now the location of a high-rise hotel (with, perhaps, just as much sex going on in its rooms as went on at that pool on a Sunday afternoon).

I wonder who is fucking who in Bangkok today, where, and with how many partners?