Gay Erotic Stories

zumoz@hotmail.com Mean Ol’ Mark was a phenomenon. I never gave him much thought, but every time I saw him pass, which was rare, I would fantasize about him sexually for extended lapses-sometimes hours. The following day, the fantasy would fade like a weak echo in a cave and I would forget about him for weeks. I’m not really even sure how I came up with the name Mark-I assume it was a nickname that I gave to him in the shadow of my unknowing. He had a barrel chest with wavy brown hair between his breasts, round shoulders and thick powerful arms, some people even said that he once boxed professionally and he sure seemed that way by the way he walked and by the way he always scowled. His nose was slightly crooked and his teeth were chipped. He worked in a sweatshop in Manhattan and was always coated in soot and perspiration. I think I saw him smile once and it struck me as odd, to see his usual dourness eclipsed by a moment of humor. Mark must have been in his mid-thirties and I wasn’t sure if he had a wife or not when I met him. The hoodlums who hung out on the corner didn’t know much about the sort of lifestyle I lived, they took it for granted that I had a wife or girlfriend tucked away in the tall apartment building in which I resided, in the Bronx. The boys would always wave or slap me some kind of ‘high five’ and would watch my back as I went down the street, keeping a good eye on me, making sure nobody tried to mug me or give me shit. Mark lived in a nearby building, but I couldn’t ascertain which one. I always saw him while I ate my greasy weekend breakfasts and lunches at a Greek restaurant by the elevated train station. If I saw him, my stomach, my innards, would get tense. Bolts of sexual excitement hurtled through me like electricity every time I saw him in his work clothes, whether they were soiled or dirty. Whenever I saw him, it was through the muted theater of the huge glass windows of the Athens Restaurant. I was only able to hear the train rumble by and it mixed with the sounds of the Greek family who ran the restaurant, clinking dishes, Greek shouting. Mark, would at times appear on the street, talking like a dummy without the voice of a ventriloquist to some of his neighborhood acquaintances, other Italian working class men who got me hot as well. He always used his hands to accentuate his point of view and I guessed him to be part or completely Italian. His posture was a turn-on too, he always leaned slightly forward and walked with a slight limp. He spoke to other Italians or Jews from the neighborhood, but I rarely saw him talk to Spanish or Black folks. He chewed gum often and I never saw him smoke. If he drank at all, he either did so at home or at a bar other than the corner tavern which was dangerous and affectionately dubbed ‘The Morgue’ by the local drunks. One day I was visiting with a friend in a nearby building. My friend, Tony was an Italian boy with very obvious, yet closeted, homosexual tendencies. I think he was quite religious which I kind of found to be a turn-on, being a heathen of course. Tony was a pretty boy with two older brothers who were dangerously handsome. They were from a simple Italian family, both parents were born in Italy and the men were all stunning--even the uncles. They all stood under six feet and were hairy. Their forearms, their chests, their faces, everything on their body seemed to have that luscious Mediterranean hair on it. The oldest brother, Nick had a habit of pinching the head of his penis liberally whenever he wore sweat pants, which was almost always. I remember a time when he caught me admiring his hairy navel as he lifted his shirt for some unknown reason. He winked at me and turned away, but I still doubt that he had me figured out. When I was about ten or so, Nick would give me rides on the back of his Vespa. One time in the hot New York summer, Nick took me to the supermarket on his bike and he was shirtless. I clearly remember the feeling of holding him close to me, my skinny little arms wrapped around his belly and feeling the teenage hair on his belly button or getting a nice wash of his armpit musk whenever the breeze would afford me the pleasure. Or accidentally touching his shoulder blades with my face whenever the Vespa would slow down or pick up speed. There were occasional, yet dangerous, accidental sweeps of the hand along the crotch or along the biceps, but never enough of them. Those days still give me hours and hours of ‘ideas’. And now, a lot older, I was entertaining his younger brother, who was also gorgeous but who wasn’t responding to me at all, and who I’m sure was the most eligible of the three brothers. Tony got drunk and passed out on his couch shirtless after doing two hours of Lou Reed imitations. I tried to wake him up twice to tell him I was leaving but he wouldn’t move, his chest heaved up and down from a night of too much beer guzzling. I felt him up liberally while he dreamt in a half coma, I’d wanted to for years. I took out his cock and sucked on it for a while but it went nowhere. It was a lovely specimen, it never did get hard and it was thick at the base. I stuck my nose in his fragrant armpit and tried to masturbate, but the inspiration to continue never found me. I left Tony and his hairy chest on the ugly brown couch and left, headed towards the elevator at the end of the hall. Through the diamond-shaped glass in the shaft door; I could see the elevator coming down. I was on the twelfth floor. The age-old machine stopped and I crawled in. At around the eighth floor, it stopped abruptly and made a whining kind of sound, like a power failure had possessed it. I sighed and waited a few minutes before I decided to ring the emergency button. Once I rang the emergency button, I stood back to see if anyone would hear me. A man immediately appeared through the small portion of glass that I could see through. His feet were visible, he wore untied brown leather boots and his steps were heavy, like a mythical giant’s. “Is there anybody in there? Hullo?” He banged on the glass so hard that I jumped back, fearing it would shatter on my face. ‘Well who do you think rang the bell dumb shit, of course there’s someone in here’, I thought to myself. “Yeah, just one person in here, I’m all right though. How do I get out?” I wished I hadn’t gotten drunk. Soon I would have to pee. “I’ll go get a crowbah. Stay where yew ah kid.” The mammoth man stomped away. His heavy New York Italian accent was full of compassion and power, hopefully he wasn’t very bright. I wondered what he looked like. A few moments later the elevator moved, it jerked around and went up a half-story. I got the feeling that it fixed itself, that the power returned to it. It went up to the flight where I saw the man’s feet-the door rattled open and there he was, mean old Mark, dirty, glistening with summer sweat and scowling in a dirty black tank top. Boner number two set in. I got the feeling it would be another blue ball situation. “Are yew okay kid? I think I fixed it. Good God, ya coulda been there fah daze if it wasn’t fah me.” “I guess so. It just started moving, maybe it lost power for a while. Thanks again, man.” “You going down?” ‘I’d love to go down’, I thought to myself again. “I suppose so. That’s the way outta of here isn’t it?” He stepped into the small elevator atop heavy footsteps. He was drunk, I suddenly caught a whiff of whiskey or scotch. It was strong and I almost felt more drunk as soon as I smelled it. At about the second or third floor, the elevator stopped again. “Shit!” Mark punched the thin metal wall and dented it. As soon as he did the lights went out and before I could ask a question he had me pinned against the wall and he grabbed me by my hair. His weight was astounding on me, I was completely captive under it. His rotten kisses were alcohol-tinged and he stunk like a hard working man. At first, I found the stench to be nauseating, but eventually the feeling of his well-built body erased any sensation of disgust. He pulled away in the darkness and cursed at himself in Italian, said something Catholic. I froze in the darkness, hoping he wouldn’t strangle me to death for reciprocating his advances. He grabbed at me again, it was still dark, but this time he forced my head down to his crotch. I heard a zipper rip open and I could almost see his nearly-deadly sex member lurking for attention. It was the largest I’d ever seen up to that time, I felt his balls in his underwear, and they drooped low. I immediately sucked the prong as furiously as I could, his body odor was reminiscent of a filthy subway reek, but I relished every taste of it. There was even a dash of urine odor in his trouser lining. I assumed he didn’t shake himself off too well after pissing. The elevator showed no sign of moving at all, it squeaked slightly from the movement that we created from within it. His cock oozed pre-come liberally into my mouth, I could feel it slicking down my throat and mouth. Mark never spoke during the entire ‘job’. He repeated the same Italian words, I can’t remember them, but his voice was low and almost vulnerable as he grunted and heaved and grabbed the sides of my head tightly, until I felt a warm discharge of semen running down my throat and into my stomach. After he came in my mouth, Mark climbed up through the escape hole of the elevator and lifted me out after him. It was dark and filthy up there, like the blow job was. I thought this to be a rather heroic gesture so I thanked him. I felt like a Puerto Rican Lois Lane. “Thanks, Mark.” “My name ain’t Mark, it’s Frankie.” I was so embarrassed I could have fallen back into the stalled elevator. My fantasy name was wrong. “Thanks, Frankie. Are we gonna pry that door open before this elevator starts moving with us on top of it?” “Yeah, hold on.” ‘I’d love to hold on to that thing again’, I thought. Frankie worked the door out of its resting place with a strong twist of his small crowbar. We spilled into the hallway through a two-foot high opening between the elevator shaft and the third floor door. The hallways were dark, people were stirring about with candles in hand. I thanked Frankie and told him I had to go home now, check in with the family. Bullshit. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in closer to whisper a question in my ear. “What we did in da elevatah tonight, you like that stuff, huh?” “Yes. I do. I like it a lot. Did you?” “I did. Would ya’…?” “Would I what?” I tried to keep my voice down. “If I gave you my phone numbah would you come ovah and have dinner sometimes? A beer?” “Sure, Frankie. By the way, my name is Israel.” “Oh yeah, I didn’t even know ya’ name.” His hands shook as we met officially. I could still smell his pits in the still, humid air, his jism was still fresh in my mouth and I wanted more. “I think it was very nice of you to try and help out when I was stuck in there. I’ve seen you on the street before. White Plains Road.” “Really? I’ve nevah seen ya’ before in my life.” I wanted to invite myself up to his apartment, but something told me not to. I wanted to take a shower with him, experience him without the grime, a different taste. I was starting to forget what he felt like. He thought to himself while I thought about him and my unattended needs. My erection crawled against my leg like a snake as he held my shoulders and repeated his phone number over and over again so that I would call him. I left down the staircase, disappointed. I immediately forgot the number anyway. I never saw mean old Mark again but there was a rumor in the neighborhood that somebody killed him over a dispute involving a woman in Brooklyn. Some nightclub drama. Sometimes, when I’m swallowing my greasy lunch or breakfast, wiping my oily lips with a cheap paper napkin at the Athens Restaurant, I think I see him, but it’s always someone else.