Gay Erotic Stories

I did it on a bet. Yeah, yeah, I know -- that’s a dumb-shit reason to do anything. But I was pissed at my bitch of a wife and had a couple beers under my belt and these two annoying old faggots that were buying those beers were yammering back and forth over whether or not any guy is capable of queer sex, no matter how straight he is, in the right place at the right time for me to just let it be. Besides, I was in the mood to do some damage; why not do it up right? Looking back, I don’t remember why I was pissed at Connie, except that she can be a real cunt when she’s on the rag. And she’d started in on me soon as I got up, bitchin’ right and left about it being almost five pm and shit, as if working all night don’t mean I can sleep in the day. Usually, I just shrug it off, or if I’m an a "fuck you" mood, I yell right back at her. Call her every skanky name you can figure, then we wind up in bed, fucking. An' those could be some damn good fucks, believe me. But sometimes it'd get t' be too much and...shit. ‘Course, I know better than to hit her, now. Last time I did, I almost lost my parole. She had to threaten to take ‘em to court or something to make my P.O. back off. "I fuckin’ had a couple of fuckin’ beers and fuckin’ fell out of my fuckin’ car!" she screamed at the asshole. "You got a fuckin’ problem with it?" One of the few times she used her mouth and attitude for good. Anyway, this time I just wasn’t up for it, for some reason, so as soon as she got onto the bitch wagon, I busted from the house to grab a brew. Problem was, I left without any cash. Like I had so much. People really ain’t so interested in hiring ex-cons for those six-figure jobs you hear about in "the new economy." So I was cleaning fuckin’ offices after hours for a dyke and her pussy in a couple downtown office buildings for about a buck more than minimum wage. And that wasn’t every day; just when they had a big job, an’ then they paid me under the table. I didn’t have a job lined up for that night, even though I’d only worked five days in two weeks. Really makes you want to keep on the straight and narrow, as this ass-wipe of a priest said to me on my way out of my last stay. I flipped him off. Not that it mattered -- me not having the cash, I mean. I know how to get a beer or two at no real cost to me. I mean, I’m just past thirty, kind of sandy-haired and smooth skinned, so I look younger. And I got a good dick. Not huge like a horse, but big and thick...and cut, just like the rest of me. I keep myself in shape...and I mean top shape. My gym’s my only real money taker, after rent and food, but if I ever get back inside, it’s the best way of lettin’ ‘em know straight off I can’t be punked out. Not easy, anyway. ‘Course, I got a week in solitary the first day of my last time in ‘cause some dumb fuck of a Nazi warrior decided I was gonna be his bitch; only reason I kept him outside of me was being able to rip one of his ears off with my bare hands. Fuckers left me alone after that, I can tell you. So not to brag, but all I gotta do is a few pushups, tuck my shirt in tight, hit the Queer Town and let my muscles do the rest. If I gotta put up with a few pinches and grabs in exchange, that’s okay. Sometimes I’ll even let one of ‘em suck me off for fifty. Makes them happy; gets my mind off Connie’s crap; and takes my rocks off in a way that don’t mean nothin’. I mean, once you been in jail a few times, you know a mouth’s a mouth, don’t matter whose it is. So there I am in this skanky little fag joint in the middle of the day letting this skinny-assed faggot "ply me with alcohol" in the hopes I’ll get too drunk to say no when he puts his hand on my crotch. His problem is, he don’t know how much I can drink. Not that I’m a drunk or anything. I lived without it, last time I was inside; didn’t even think about it. But this queer don’t know that, so he’s real easy to string along. I’m even thinking I’ll get a hundred, he wants my dick so bad. Anyway, the skinny-assed faggot’s name is Wayne, of course; half the guys I met in my life named Wayne were queer. Like it’s a necessary part of being called that or something. Thank God or whatever my mom named me Curt; it’s a real name...a guy’s name. As for Wayne, it’s not like he’s a sleaze or dork or anything; he’s just...lazy-lookin’. He’s got that black and white hair -- "salt and pepper," that’s it -- an’ good-sized hands; he surprised me at how strong they are. He’s always looking at you sidewise, like he’s not really lookin’ even though you know he is. Kind of creepy, y’know. My feeling was, if he’d just take care of himself, like run or swim or do something besides sit in a bar and try to pick up guys, he wouldn’t have to sit in a bar to pick up guys. On the other side of me was this chunky faggot named Bill. He looked a little like that cocksucker in the oval office -- or was it him gettin’ his cock sucked? I can’t remember -- but was darker and looked like somebody who used to be in shape but let himself go, bigtime. If he’d lose about forty pounds, he wouldn’t have to try this double-team shit him and Wayne were pullin’ on me, flanking me and keeping the beer comin’ like they’re gonna drop a "roofie" or some "viagra" in it or something and drag me out back to have some fun. Dumb fucks. They were bitchin’ back and forth about guys and sex and who’d do it and who wouldn’t. I figure it started as a way to see if they could do a double with me -- I’d done it for two-hundred once, but they didn’t know that, and I was taking the tact that "I didn’t do that kind of thing," which’d probably get it up to two-fifty before they were done -- but it was turnin’ into a real bitchfest. Not as bad as Connie, but not fun. Bill was swearin’ you could get any guy you wanted, in the right place at the right time. And Wayne was sayin’, no way. "It’s a biological thing," he snipped in this snotty way he had. "Some men just cannot have sex with men. At all. Others may or may not, depending on where you are in the bell curve..." (Which brought a big "Huh?" from me.) "...and some men cannot have sex with women, period. End of story. It’s not a choice to those on the opposite ends of the spectrum." "Bullshit," said Bill...snarled, really. "Sex is beyond our control. Period. Researchers are just now figuring out that men have no control over their dicks. No, seriously!" I was laughin’ at that one. These "researchers" are so fuckin’ lame. Ask any punk in prison, he’ll tell you about what he can control and what he can’t. I remember this one guy, couple years younger than me, back then, wound up in my cell my last time in. It was his first time in real prison, and he was scared shitless some black fuck’d fuck him. He had reason -- blond, trim body, nice mouth, boyish face -- I saw some guys givin’ him looks. I figure he played lots of basketball, he had that kind of look, those kinds of legs. Not like all those tall skinny black guys you see all over the NBA, but shorter and stockier, like what you’d see on a court in Jersey or upstate Pennsylvania...like what’s-his-face -- John Stockton on the Jazz. Yeah, that’s it -- he looked a lot like John Stockton, just not as scrawny. He stuck pictures of his girlfriend and a kid he had by some other chick up over his cot and wouldn’t go near anyplace where he could get taken, if he could help it. I heard a couple of guys once tried to grab him in the shower and found out he knew how to fight. Street fighting. That’s what landed him in there -- beating the shit out of some other punk who pulled some shit on him or stole his pot stash or some shit like that; I never did get the story straight...didn’t care if I did, either. Anyway, I already knew he was gonna be my next bitch. I figured I’d get him to trust me, then make him give me a blow job -- that’s all I’d wanted from these punks up till then -- and I’d make him happy to be givin’ it. But before I got ready, this one night he felt safe enough to undress where I could see him...and he had this round smooth ass. Like something a fag photographer’d take a picture of and put in a magazine. And he got me to thinkin’ about Connie. She had blond hair like this punk. Smooth skin. Nice tight little butt and round tits that were real as real could get. I loved suckin’ on her tits for an hour before I fucked her; made her pretty crazy, all set to go before I began pumpin’. Well that thought got me goin’, got me th’ biggest fuckin’ hard-on I’d had in months. It was the first time since I’d been in that I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Shit, I couldn’t even lie still my balls were so blue. But no way was I gonna jack off while this kid was still awake. So I lay there, as still as I could, waitin’ while he did his bedtime thing -- piss and brush his teeth and brush his hair. He always wore this ratty tee shirt and high school gym shorts to bed. He never said nothin’, just plopped on his bunk and went to sleep, about two seconds before lights out. And that’s what he did. And it took me about two seconds of strokin’ to get myself off, all without a sound...but it didn’t work. Man, this picture of Connie was so hot in my mind that night. I mean, I could see her...feel her legs wrappin’ ‘round me, feel her hands on my ass pulling me harder against her, smell her perfume as I sucked on her tits while I pounded away, hear her sayin’ "Faster, baby, please, faster." I wanted...needed to pump my dick into somebody just like I had her, so fuckin’ bad, right then. And I knew a half-assed virgin’s blow-job wasn’t gonna hack it this time. I finally gave in, pulled off my briefs and slipped off my bunk and looked at him, sleepin' there. He looked even more like a kid, lyin' on his side, mouth open just a little. I almost stopped...almost got back up on my bunk...but then he rolled onto his back and one of his legs got uncovered and I thought of Connie's legs and I dropped on top of him. My hand was over his mouth before he knew what was happenin’, and I had this plastic fork handle I’d ground down to where you could cut paper with it jammed against his neck. He started to fight me, so I dug it into him, a little. Cut his skin. He stayed still, then. "Be glad it’s just me," I said, real soft and mean. "I could let a dozen of ‘em in here to have you. Even make some cash off it." Then I took my hand off his mouth and pulled his shorts away from his hips. He was wearin’ some kind of briefs, so I pulled those away, too...no, I tore ‘em, really. "Don’t, man," he was whisperin’ over and over, "please. This isn’t my way. I’ve never done that --" "Shut up! You say one more fuckin’ word, this goes into your brain. You got me?" He nodded his head...and tears come out of his eyes. Little pussy started to weep like a girl. I didn’t cry when I got it front and back from three Mexicans my first time in, and I was lots younger than this little faggot, then. And that made me angry. I used my knees to shove his legs apart, then felt around for his hole. His dick was soft, all scrunched up, and he was shaking, he was so scared. I loved it...loved the strength it gave me...the power...the control. I used my free hand to put his legs up on my shoulders -- makin’ damn sure the fork was still stuck to his neck -- then I lubed my dick with some spit and put it right up to his hole. He began to struggle, again, but I cut him...not deep, just enough to let him know I meant it. Then I said, "Don’t say a fuckin’ word while I’m doin’ it, bitch. You grunt or scream or let anybody know I’m fuckin’ you, you’re fuckin’ dead." I slid into him like his ass was butter. He gasped, then grunted and groaned and tried to wriggle away, but I had him good. He had to really work at not cryin’ out and he wasn’t doin’ too good at it, so I yanked his shirt up and rammed it into his mouth and he bit on that to keep quiet. I already knew his pecs were round and solid, but there in the dark they looked a little bit like Connie’s tits, swear t’ God. I mean, like...like when she’s lyin’ back an’ they sort of flow to the sides...just not as soft...shit, I dunno how t’ describe it; I just thought of her when I saw them. So as I pumped in and out of him, I sort of used my free hand to play with his tits, like I would’ve with Connie’s. And this is exactly how I fuck Connie -- her legs in the air, my dick up her twat, me pumpin’ away...slow at first, then faster and harder as we got closer to the jolt. She said I could make her cum more than any guy she knew...and I know she wasn’t bullshittin’ me, ‘cause she’s a talker when she’s gettin’ fucked. Maybe that’s why I don’t want my punks talkin’ -- I like to concentrate and not have to listen to some bitch say "Faster, baby, oh, baby, faster, baby" and shit the whole time. Maybe that’s really why I jammed this pussy’s shirt in his mouth -- so he’d just keep quiet. Didn’t do one whole hell of a lot of good; he sobbed the whole time I was fuckin’ him. Not that I gave a shit. You’ll never know how good it felt, how much it was like bein’ with Connie, again...so much like it, without thinkin’, I started suckin’ on his tits like I would’ve on hers. He tried to twist away, but I cut him a little more and he stopped. And then he did somethin’ that almost freaked me out -- he started gettin’ a fuckin’ hard-on! I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. He couldn’t either. "What th’ fuck?" I said. "You a fag?" "No," he whispered. "I’ve never...never..." "Bullshit, bitch," I whispered back. "You like it. I can feel how you like it." "No, man...it hurts," he grunted back. "Please...get it over with." So I laughed and began strokin’ into him slower...and deeper, makin’ him really feel it. He was close to sobbin’ as he kept beggin’ me to end it. And I just kept on and on...and then I did something I’d never done before -- I stroked his dick. I dunno why I did it. Thought never even entered my mind. And I'd never done it before. But I could feel his wanger bouncin’ around under my belly, feel his balls brushin’ against my pubes, feel his tits were as pointy as Connie’s, almost...and he was whimperin’ that he didn’t like it when his dick was tellin’ me "bullshit" an’ suddenly I found myself puttin’ my free hand around his cock and pulling on it...like I owned it...like it was mine. He tried to stop me, but I smacked his face...then put my hand back on him and kept pullin’. He bawled even harder and begged me not to...so I smiled and pulled even harder on him. And then he jolted...and tried to pull away...but I had too good of a hold on him, and I kept strokin’ my dick into his ass and usin’ my hand to pull on his dick...and he bucked me...rammed himself harder onto my dick...and then he came. He shot a wad all over my hand...all over himself...and I felt his ass tighten around my dick in a way that made me want to stay there, it felt so...fuckin’...good...and then I shot my wad inside of him. He stopped crying, just looked at me in shock. All he saw was me smilin’ at him, but to be honest, I was shook up...‘cause I’d enjoyed it too fuckin’ much. First time I fuck a guy and it makes me feel as good as when I’m with a woman. It fucked with my mind, man, I’m tellin’ you...but I didn’t want him to see that. So I pulled out of him, used his shorts to wipe off my dick and crawled back onto my bunk and faked like I was asleep. I knew he wouldn’t pull nothing on me, but I played it safe, just in case...listenin’ for him to make any kind of a move. But all he did was stay in his bunk. There wasn’t another whimper out of him. The next mornin', it's like it'd never happened. I had him for the whole eight months he was in -- he got an early out -- and I fucked him every other night...and made him shoot his wad every time, too. It was too fuckin’ cool. Gave me this feeling of total control. But it also made me wonder if it was just him who got off on bein’ fucked, so I tried it out on any other guy who crossed my cell or I took a liking to. Didn’t matter if he was spendin’ his first night in or was a six year vet, if I wanted him, I took him the same way. And lemme tell you, all but one of th' fuckers shot his wad under me while I was fuckin’ him. All but one of the fuckers...but that one still got a boner and, for some reason, he got me to blow faster than the other guys. Anyway, that’s how I knew the fat faggot’s line was anything but bullshit. I knew exactly how to rape a straight guy. And I was findin’ I kind of missed it. That thought spooked me, so I sneered at Wayne, "You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about." Wayne looked at me like I was scum and nodded his little faggot head and sneered, "And just who the hell’re you -- ‘Masters and Johnson’?" I thought about punchin’ his faggot teeth down his faggot throat, for a second, then I got real close to him and whispered, "I don’t know fuck about this ‘Bastards and Johnston’ shit. But I know what happens to a guy when I fuck him, don’t matter if he wants it to or not." Wayne got white as a sheet, like I’d just told him I was gonna cut off his balls, or something. He wasn’t so gung ho on gettin’ hold of my dick, anymore...but Billy boy was. His eyes were on fire. He leaned over and said, "How do you know? Have you done time?" I took this long dramatic pause then nodded and said, "Twice. Once in juvie. Once at Mid-State." "Were you raped in prison?" he asked. "Do I fuckin’ look like some faggot could fuck me if I didn’t want him to?" I sneered, then I winked at him. He was hooked. He’d pay me three hundred easy to hold him down and tear off his undies and ram my cock up his ass. Little pussy. Wayne had to sneak over to the other side of the bar to get his voice back. "Okay, so you had a few experiences in prison. Big deal. It’s different, in there. Men don’t have any other outlet." I laughed. "You been watchin’ that piece of shit "Days of our prison lives" on fuckin’ HBO, ain’t ya? Connie used to watch that shit to try and figure out what I was goin’ through. It’s so fuckin’ pathetic. Like some cornball out-of-touch ‘artiste’ knows the first fuckin’ thing about life really is." "Connie?" Bill asked. Oops...shouldn’t’ve dragged her into it. So I smiled and said, "My ex. Dumped me when she found out I’d...oh, done it with somebody besides her...and my right hand." "I don’t believe you," said Wayne. "Maybe you forced yourself on a couple of fresh kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the realm of empirical research." "Speak English, you fuck," I said. "He said your experiences don’t count -- " "I know what he fuckin’ said," I snapped. "I ain’t a retard. But he’s usin’ fancy words to hide the fact that he’s full of shit. All of it’s full of shit. ‘Empirical’ research. What the fuck does that mean? That some computer wuss went out and asked a few questions of all these different guys and decided he knew what the fuck he’s talkin’ about, when some other wuss’d ask the same questions of a bunch of different guys and come up with a different answer? You wanna know what my ‘research’ told me? When I fuck a guy, I can make him cum. Don’t matter if he’s queer or straight or old or young, don’t matter if I grab him at night or in the day, don’t matter if he knows me or never seen me before, don’t matter if he trusts me or tries to keep away from me -- when I get my dick up his ass, I can make him cum." "Oh, please," said Wayne. "It’s impossible. Some men would be too afraid to experience even an erection, let alone an ejaculation." "And who told you that?" I asked. "Newsweek?" Wayne gave me this look back, swear t’ God, if we’d been in prison, I’d of smacked him. It was sort of a "I know what the fuck you’re up to" look that starts fights and gets guys knifed in the back. Then it was gone, this "Whatever you say" kind of manner takin’ over with him. It set off this alarm in my head, not loud...but there. And suddenly I’m wonderin’ if these guys think they can get me drunked up and tied down and used like some piece of shit whore off Sunset or some other trick they'd talked into comin' home with 'em. Maybe they'd even grabbed a guy off the street and used him. I mean, I know it’s happened. I met this one guy at Mid-State, he did it to a few fags over in Houston. Grabbed ‘em off the street in the queer district, tied ‘em down in the back of his van and fucked ‘em, then dumped ‘em out a few blocks away. They never got a good look at him; all they usually had was the color of the van. And even when one or two of ‘em told the cops, they never came looking for him. He didn’t get caught till he pulled it on some fag in San Francisco. He was seen kickin’ the half-naked guy out the back door of his van and was chased down by a bunch of pissed off queens. Even then, he figured the only reason he got put away was ‘cause the guy’s dad was one of those "I’m proud of my gay son" types and was a judge; no cop or D.A.’s gonna piss off the man who might handle their next case. So he got "eight to twelve" and has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. "Like that means shit," he told me. "If this’d been Texas, I’d’ve got off with probation, at worst. An’ you think when I go back they’re gonna give a shit what I do to a bunch of queers? Shit, no. Not with Republicans running the fuckin' place." So I’m thinkin’, "Maybe they think they’re gonna pull this crap with me. Maybe that’s what this is all leadin’ up to. It’d be funny to see what’d happen... see these two middle-aged faggots try that shit. That’s when I smiled and looked at Bill and said, "Fuck, ol’ Wayne ain’t much fun, is he?" "It’s been a rough year for him," said Bill. He’ll loosen up with a couple more screwdrivers." Then he gave me a look and added, "You know, we have the makings for all kinds of drinks, at home. It certainly wouldn’t take up so much of our ready cash." I got the hint. "We’ll buy you drinks as long as you want, but if you want some money from us, there won’t be as much left." So I smiled and gave off a good long stretch that showed off my pecs and said, "So long as you got decent beer in the fridge, I’m happy." "How ‘bout an ice cold Beck’s?" he said. And that was the magic word -- Beck's. That was the word that made me figure, "Let's see what happens with these two fucks." That's when I smiled at Bill and he smiled at me...and all three of us left.