Gay Erotic Stories

Saturday morning started out just like any other. The early morning sun fell across my forehead and its brightness activated my subconscious gray matter into action. I opened my eyes to the familiar stare of my cat—bright green eyes—focused patiently on me awaiting my arousal. At the first sign of movement, “Dildo” jumped off the bed and with a flick of his thick, flesh colored tail, he was off and bounding towards the sliding glass doors in eager anticipation of being let loose on the patio.

By now you can pretty much postulate on how the little bastard got his name. Dildo was entirely white with the exception of that big flesh toned tail! He really didn’t use it for much of anything, but it sure looked the part. But I digress; I got up and piloted myself to the patio doors, and let my little Dildo out.

By the time I’d showered and put on my Saturday-go-to-market get-up, a pair of shorts, T-shirt, and boat shoes, Dildo was finished pokin’ around on the patio and was staring through the sliding glass door—eager for breakfast or a healthy liter box donation—whatever suited him best.

I grabbed the coupon box, the store’s weekly advertisement circular, reached for the car keys and was off. On thing good about my apartment’s location—everything was close by. I could actually walk the couple of short blocks to the store, but then there was the walk back with the grocery load from hell, so I never really considered the healthy alternative!

Long ago, I’d learned that in order to get in and out of that “shopping mall with a deli” they call a grocery store, I had to hit the place early in the morning…before all the old farts got there and clogged up the shopping isles with their carts. They always moved with the speed of a sloth on Valium, and commiserated with their endless friends either to find out who was still alive—or what new ailment or pain had befallen them since last week’s meat and Metamucil foray.

I grabbed a shopping cart and headed in past the deli and bakery sections. Even though I’m not much of a breakfast person, preferring not to look at food until sometime nearing noon, the smells were invigorating, my nostrils flared—I was ready to shop! I fondled the vegetables and picked up what I though I would need (usually this was a lousy guess as most of the stuff rotted in the refrigerator bins—winding up as organic surprise a the next time I opened the crisper bins. Funny name, huh! More like cold compost cubicles!

Following the produce trawling, I headed for the meat of the matter! Found a nice steak and picked up some ground meat (always a safe bet), then headed for the fresh fish counter. Now I’m more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, but I just had a hankerin’ for some seafood. Guess I’d been watching the Discovery Channel a bit too much on cable, if it had been Animal Planet—I’d thrown ‘em back!

As I looked towards the seafood department attendant, I recognized Lorraine behind the counter. I’d known her pretty well in passing, as she usually was a checkout clerk—and a damn fast and efficient one at that—outpacing almost anyone! So if speed was the issue—she was the one to go to! I’d been thinking of something witty to rib her about being stuck with the fishes, when I felt a distinct bump coming from the left wheel of the cart. I traced the source and found myself staring at a guy who had a surprised and sort of irritated look on his face. Steel gray eyes met mine—apparently looking for at least an explanation if not an apology.

This is not the place where I go into lurid detail of all this guy’s physical attributes—I was too thunderstruck anyway! I couldn’t have told the difference between a salmon and a shrimp at that moment! I fumbled for some type of excuse and offered some sort of immediate apology—I have no idea what the hell I said—it probably was gibberish anyway.

Lorraine witnessed the whole thing and broke the silence (or at least the relative quiet of the store), “You tryin’ to kill off my customers?” she chirped out. She had that shrill, piercing voice that could only be compared with the feeling of tinfoil on gold fillings, or if she spoke softly, the scratching of fingernails on a blackboard.

“Are you all right?” I managed to sound both sincere and lucid at the same time. Jesus! What was I saying? Hell yes—he was all right—it’s not like you just ran over his foot with your car. Besides, the cart was nearly empty still! I felt my face flush and probably looked a fool. Now what do I say?

While I was skidding downhill, he retorted, “How ‘bout you leave my feet to myself? I’m kind of partial to ‘em and I’d like to keep ‘em around for future use.”

Now, I really felt stupid. I must have been in a temporary stupor while he spoke. My eyes focused and it jogged my memory. I’d seen this guy before—somewhere. Now this would really be stupid—what to say now? Something like, “Don’t I know you?” or “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” Or how about “ Stay put, I’ll try for the other one!”

Then I noticed he had a quizzical look on his face too. He recovered and spoke first, “Hey guy, you kind of make it dangerous in the neighborhood!”

Yeah! It clicked all of the sudden. I’d seen he and his wife (or girlfriend) moving in to the apartment complex a couple of weeks before—two buildings over, second floor—their apartment faced the pool. I apologized profusely.

“You carry insurance on that thing?” He broke into a wide, toothy grin.

“Sorry, I guess it’s just too early in the morning. I just live a couple blocks away and I guess I’m not totally functional yet.”

“I thought you kinda looked familiar. The Colonnades, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there for a couple years now. They just built this new store and I guess I’m not too used to the layout yet. Sorry about your foot, man.” I apologized again.

“Hey man, I won’t break” he chuckled. (Man, o’ Manischewitz! He wasn’t just whistlin’ Dixie! This dude was built like a brick…okay…brick shitter!

“Yeah, we just moved here three weeks ago tomorrow.”

My momentary brain fart evaporated when he said the word “we…” Yeah, that’s right he’d had company…and a couple of other guys that were helping he and his wife unload too. Oh well, hell of a way to meet a new neighbor.

His face broke into a broad smile and he extended his hand, “The name’s Marshall. Pleased to meet you.”

I reached out and shook his hand, “Mine’s Brian, Brian Curtis.”

With that, out chance meeting was declared a truce, and the ordeal with the cart relegated to history. Marshall took two steps to his grocery basket and added, “Well, see ya ‘round sooner or later, I suppose.”

“Yeah, probably so. See ya later, dude.” I kept my eyes peeled on him has he strode down the produce aisle, headed in the direction from whence I had just come. His back had a nice “V” to it, tapering fiercely from his broad shoulders. My eyes traveled down a bit lower…what an ass on that man. It just kind of hung there pushing through the gray gym sweat shorts he had on. The legs were equally muscular…calves for days!

“You want somethin’ today, or you goin’ fishin’?” Lorraine’s squeaky voice interrupted my all too obvious gaze.

“Err, I guess I’ll just stick with the beef for today.” I fumbled. I was pretty sure Lorraine had caught me cold. She just smiled and winked at me and confronted her next customer. I then thought of the pun I just made. I didn’t let on, said nothing more and with a slight waive of my hand, I put some distance between us and turned down the first available aisle. Shit—I was in the baby food section!

I finished my shopping and headed home. I unpacked the bags and put stuff away, fixed a quick sandwich, grabbed a couple of magazines and headed for the pool. I picked out a chaise lounge that was near the gate and faced directly west—best sun and the best view of all the comings and goings. I settled in and began reading my first magazine.

I hadn’t even finished the first article when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter walking my direction. He was straight (my original mis-judgement) and had a Thai wife, Chue (or something like that). She never said much, which was just fine as her English really sucked. He had figured me out and knew my story, but it didn’t bother him—he just talked my ear off anyway. His conversations usually revolved around his computer IT work and programming and his wonderful sex life with Chue—like I mentioned—she sucked, so both my interest and understanding was limited—but I feigned interest anyway for a while.

Peter began with the small talk, and I exchanged pleasantries for a while, but rarely looked up from my magazine. Eventually, Peter got the idea that I was intent on reading rather than talking, excused himself, and headed for the shallow end of the pool. (This was another reason I chose this particular spot.)

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, just the normal sun lizards, and by mid-afternoon the complex’s rug rats were noisily splashing and running around the pool deck, only to be yelled at by their parents. Usually, by this time, I’d had enough sun and would vacate the pool deck—avoiding the little noisy bastards. Today, I stayed a bit longer, possibly thinking I might catch a glimpse of Marshall and his wife if they came to the pool. Such was not the case.

I finished the second magazine and headed for my apartment. I pulled a frozen pizza out of the icebox and headed for the bedroom to watch TV. Dildo picked up on me instantly and followed me, leaping on the bed before I had the set on. I soon got involved in the college football schedule, flicking channels and games. Yeah—I love football, but mostly just the college games. I don’t really get into the NFL action too heavy, but I like the Dolphins.

Soon my stomach was growling and I got off my duff and threw the pizza in the oven, then kept up with the TV. That night I watch my normal routine programs, the news, then put in a porn video in the DVD and whacked off. The video action I’d seen before, and the guys were damn good, but I found myself thinking about what’s his name…Marshall. Oh well, to the matter at hand—and that’s the operative word! Ahhh. Shit. Yeah. (Okay, it was fun) I strode to the bathroom, wiped off my stomach and chest and hit the hay. As usual, Dildo was by my side with his motor running. I think the damn cat’s gay! He’s fixed anyway, so what’s the point?

Sunday morning came all too early…I awoke to the customary loud thump of the Sunday paper thrown with special ‘care’ from the front end of the hallway to my end. When the boy got the pitch just right, it’d land without bouncing and the plop would echo in the hallway—as was the case today. The noise of course jolted “Dildo” from his catnap too, and before I could put on a pair of shorts, he was stationed at the patio doors, wanting to soak up the morning view from the terrace.

I retrieved the paper and settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of OJ. I flipped through the paper and threw out most of the advertising junk, sorting out the TV Guide and the coupon sections. I’d long ago learned to address the coupons first—before Dildo wanted to come back inside. If not, he’d pester me to death and took great pride in batting the cut coupons around the room. He also had a weird fascination for the pointed end of the scissors—they were just the implements to scratch his itch. Good thing he didn’t comprehend the danger of scissors or what I’d often contemplated doing with them after he’d screwed around with my coupons!

By 11 AM, I’d gone through the paper, had what ever I’d rescued from the frig for breakfast, and it was warm and sunny enough to head for the pool. I grabbed my magazines and towel, and set off for my Sunday ritual. This particular morning I’d not bothered to shower yet (what was the point, I’d just get sweaty at the pool anyway), and my hair was…to be kind…unkept at best. As I approached the entrance gate, I heard the sound of the weight bars of the leg press crashing down. I looked in to see who was working out (what self respecting gay guy wouldn’t?). There in the flesh was Marshall, legs swollen and sweaty.

I looked just beyond him, and there was Peter…the poolside pain in the ass. For a guy who was married, he sure was lookin’ at Marshall’s workout! Peter’s eyes caught sight of me and he waived. This in turn caught the attention of Marshall who then looked my direction too and nodded. Shit, my hair!. I acknowledged them both with a “thumbs up” and pointed poolside.

As soon as I got settled in my customary spot, I dove into the water. I’d probably look better with wet hair than the rat’s nest I’d entered with. I did a couple of laps (if you could call them that—in an apartment sized pool), got out, and began reading this week’s news magazine. About 30 minutes later, I hear a familiar voice—Peter. Man I’m just not going to get through this article either. Then another voice—which upon looking up—I found to belong to Marshall. Now this was worth being interrupted—any day!

Peter became his chatty self, “Brian, this is Marshall…Marshall, this is…”

“We’ve already met” interjected Marshall. He had on what was the tightest form fitting excuse for gym shorts I’d seen. His bare chest was still sweat covered from his workout and his tank top was thrown over one corner of his broad shoulders. Sitting up in the chaise lounge, my head was at crotch level—and what a sight to behold. Just mark it sold! You show me a gay guy who say’s he’s not a size queen—I’ll show you a liar!

“Oh, you guys already know each other.” Peter confirmed with a knowing wink. I was instantly worried—the stupid bloke’s goin’ to blow my cover and screw everything up from the start!

“This seat taken?” Marshall asked, pointing to the adjoining lounge chair.

“No, it’s still early and the field’s wide open—no reserved seats here!” I responded, keeping a concerned eye on Peter. Marshall dropped down his gym bag and tank top and set about removing his gym shoes. Peter was in the act of laying dibs on the next lounge (thank God I was on the end and he couldn’t flank me on the other side), when a shrill pitch voice with a Thai chatter cut the air. Saved by Chue...there is a God!

Fortunately, Chue always liked the opposite shallow end of the pool. Peter just altered his plan and followed her like a little beer bellied puppy dog. I was relieved and thinking that I’d just dodged one potential land mine when Marshall spoke as his backside made contact with the chair’s plastic strapping.

“Man, that guy’s kinda’ weird. I was tryin’ to get in some sort of a legs and abs workout and he just kept talkin’ and lookin’ at me. He was kinda getting’ on my nerves and screwing up my concentration.” Marshall complained.

“Yeah, he can sort of get on your nerves.” I agreed, “Usually, he’ll talk my ear off while I’m trying to catch up on my reading. But he usually gets the idea and leaves after a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I botherin’ ya?” Marshall was suddenly aware of my magazine.

“Hell no. Not at all. I was kinda hoping that I’d run into you anyway.” Oops, that’s not really what I’d wanted to come off saying. “I mean, I still feel bad about nailing you in the store yesterday.”

“No harm done. It didn’t even affect my leg sets.” Marshall added, “Who’s the Chinese chick?”

“Actually, that’s Chue, his wife. She’s really from Thailand. Peter kept telling me he was married to a Thai girl, but I’d never seen her until he actually brought her back about two months ago. She doesn’t say much; actually she’s kinda hard to understand anyway.” I explained. “Speaking of wives, where’s yours?”

“Wife? I don’t have no wife!” Marshall emphatically announced—perhaps a little too strongly, and then realizing to whom I was probably referring, clarified, “Oh, I bet you mean my sister!”

“I just assumed…err I mean I saw you all movin’ in to your place while I was here at the pool. I just thought she was your wife or girlfriend or somethin’.” Hmmm—not married—his sister…do I want to pursue this?

While I was trying to decide (pronounced, working up my nerve whilst checking the calibration of my gaydar) Marshall continued, “Yeah, she’s my little sister. She followed me down from Michigan. She’s got a new airline job and she starts training next week. The job’s in Miami and she’s just staying with me here until she passes the training and finds out where she’s going to be based. If she’s based in Miami, she’ll get an apartment and hopefully a roommate there.”

“I’m sorry. You guys make a great looking couple. I guess good genes must run in the family.” Ooops, probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Thanks, man. Yeah, Marcy’s goin’ to make a mighty fine catch for her partner.” Marshall added.

I was processing this—what was “for her partner?” I must have had some weird type of look on my face, because Marshall just let it out… “Marcy’s her own special brand of person…she’s kind of a free wheeling spirit. She kind of…you know…real liberal…she kinda plays both sides…kinda bisexual, I guess.” Marshall was now looking down at the pool deck. “But, I’m her big brother and I love her just the same!”

“Boy, he sure had that right!” I was musing to myself. Those red gym shorts did nothing to disprove that.

Marshall sat down and got comfortable…a task I was finding increasingly hard to achieve. Thank GOD for the magazine in my lap! He started with the obligatory small talk, and I was becoming impressed…Mr. body by Fisher really was apparently a nice guy and had a good head (okay, I already pretty much knew that). We kept talking and I completely forgot about the magazine article…and the passing time.

Suddenly, an impatient female voice interrupted our chat, “Hey, fat boy! You’re supposed to help me with hanging the pictures! You forget? Who’s your boyfriend?”

Marshall was instantly red-faced and fumbling for a recovery. “Ugh…Curtis, this is my sister, Marcy. Marcy…”

“Yeah, I’ve got ears too… Hi! Glad to know you! Sorry about being kind of a bitch, but he’s promised three days in a row…to get the pictures off the floor.”

“Hey, no problem. I understand. You got everything you need? I’ve even got a level if you need it.” I offered.

“Actually, that’s something I don’t think we’ve got.” Marcy responded, her tone much more subdued and friendly.

“Well, it’s yours if you need it!”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, sun time’s postponed—after all we’ve basically got the whole day yet. I’ll fetch the level. Anything else you need? An extra hammer? I’ve got some extra picture hangers left over from doing my office.” I caught myself and stopped right there…was I sounding like a decorator?

“We live right up there…#216” Marcy offered.

“He knows…he watched us moving in.” Marshall chirped up.

“Really!” Marcy shot me a knowing look.

Time to retreat. “I’ll just get the stuff and drop it by. You can use it as long as you need to.” By now I had bounded out of the chaise and was intent on gathering up my shit and removing myself from her presence. As I left the pool gate slam shut I overheard Marcy…but just barely…

“Fat boy…new boyfriend?”

Walking back to my apartment, I was trying to figure out her sense of humor…or choice of words meant. What the hell did “boyfriend” mean? For that matter what the hell was “fat boy?” Shit, if Marshall was “fat” it sure as hell was in all the right places!

I retrieved the level and decided to just grab the whole damn toolbox—just in case. Besides—overkill never really killed anyone, right?”

Just as I was presenting myself at their apartment front door, it swung open from within. “Fuck you too, lesbian!” “That’s just fine with me…why don’t you go fuck your new boyfriend!”

Marshall nearly mowed me down at the doorframe. He caught himself at the last possible second and brushed my left side. He red-faced and he sported an intensely angry look. “I, I’m sorry man. The picture hanging’ll have to wait. She’s being a real bitch and I’m outa here!”

Marshall’s body was now shaking with what was probably a combination of anger, frustration and embarrassment. “Look man, I’m sorry. I apologize for what you just heard. She gets crazy sometimes. That’s kinda why she moved down with me. She and her lover back home really got into a bitch fight and were sluggin’ it out big time. Her other half, Sandy had to have 19 stitches! She just got our number and called Marcy up just now. That’s what set her off!” He was still shaking and had sort of a crazed “deer in the headlights” look, apparently not knowing what to do or say next.

“Hey, no problem. I’ll just drop the toolbox back at the apartment. Why don’t you walk back with me. You can see where I live and meet my cat.”

“Great, might as well. Anything to get the hell away from that enraged pussy! What’s your cat’s name?”

Oh brother, what timing. “His name’s “Dildo”.

Marshall just about choked on his words, “Dildo? Ya gotta be kiddin’!”

“Nope. See, I gotta live with a tempermental pussy too!”

“This I gotta see!” Marshall was now laughing.

We strode back to my apartment and I opened the door. True to form, Dildo was caught in mid-bound towards the doorway. “He’s more like a dog—he loves company, but watch out for the white hair—you’ll be covered with it. I’ll ditch the toolbox in the storage closet on the patio. Make yourself at home.” I turned and headed for the patio doors.

When I returned, Marshall and Dildo were sitting on the sofa, with Dildo rubbing contentedly against his black tank top. “Nice apartment you’ve got here! Looks like you’ve got just about anything! You play?” Marshall looked at me and then at the piano that took up conspicuously too much of the living room.

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ve played for years. The thing fit much better back up north in the house. It’s hell trying to stuff your crap into a one bedroom apartment, coming from a big house.” I apologized.

“You mind?” Marshall got up and was heading in the direction of the piano.

“You play too?”

“Yeah, but not for a couple of years. Don’t have one now. It was kind of foisted on me when I was a kid.” With that said, he sat down and started playing. What burst forth was a nearly flawless rendition of some show tune, the name of which I couldn’t place.

“Where did you learn to play like that? You’re really good! I said as I went over and propped up the piano lid.

“You’ve got a great piano here. It sounds really fine!”

“I’ve had it for nearly 20 years, but it doesn’t get used very much. Usually, by the time I get home, have a couple of drinks and think about playing it, it’s too late and I don’t want to bother anybody.”

Marshall finished the piece, then spun around on the bench, to face me. “Here, you play something!”

“Maybe later” I nervously responded, “I’m not that good, like you!” Good lord, here was a good-looking stud, well built and with a surprising intellect and talent too! “Can I get you something to drink?”

“After that shit back there? Hell yes—make it a triple!” Marshall’s expression changed back to an embarrassed and apprehensive look. “Hey, I’m really sorry about Marcy. She gets carried away and tends to explode a lot. Actually, I don’t really know who’d have the guts or nerve to live with her. And to think she’s going to be a flight attendant? She’d better work for Aeroflot!”

“I’ve got beer, scotch, or how about a gin & tonic?”

“Yeah, the G&T’s just fine!

I poured us both one and purposely made Marshall’s a bit on the heavy side. He found this out when he took a healthy gulp, “Jesus, this is more like jet fuel.” Within the span of about five minutes, the drink was gone and I was attentively refilling his glass. We shot the shit for a good hour, and during that time he had two more drinks—four to my two.

Suddenly, Marshall changed the subject, apparently feeling both the effects of the gin, and more comfortable with me. “Bet you’re wondering what Marcy meant…you know…what I’m sure you overheard.

I didn’t say anything, and just sat there suddenly nervous regarding what was to follow, not knowing where this conversation was going.

“I guess this is as good a time to tell you, I’m sort of a “switch hitter” too. Don’t get me wrong…I really like girls…but I can get psyched up by a guy too. I guess you’d say I’m kind of bisexual…you know…buy and I’ll be sexual”. He tried to make a lame joke of his confession.

“Hey, I have no problem with that. A good looking guy like you, I’m sure you can bring out the best in any beast—man or woman.” Okay, my wit can do with a dusting off and a spit polish. “I’m just sorry I was in the wrong place at the right time. I’m not embarrassed; you shouldn’t be either.”

“Actually, I’m not. I saw you checking me out in the grocery store…I saw you staring at me when I left the seafood counter…you know…the mirrors behind the produce. Then when I turned the corner, I saw you head up the baby food aisle.”

Now, I was the one wearing the red face—I felt my face blush. “Okay, you win. You’ve got me cold.” I relented. If confession is good for the soul…I was now on my way to heaven, so I might as well enjoy it.

“So, I would guess you’re in to guys too.” Marshall broke into a friendly smile, then stood up and took a couple of steps in my direction.

Besides being blown away and fair game at being knocked over with the proverbial feather, I was desperately fumbling for the right words. “Well my friend, I guess you’ve pretty much got me pegged.” Then recovering a bit I added, “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Marcy might have had the right idea.”

With that said, Marshall came face-to-face, and then planted a short kiss on my lips. “And what if I was?”

“I’d have no problem with that either!”

I felt Marshall’s right hand slide around my hip and plant itself in the small of my back. He was drawing me to him. He kissed me again—soundly. I kissed him back. His searching tongue pried open my willing lips; then searched my mouth and was soon doing battle with my tongue.

He tasted of gin…what a tonic! He smelled musky, of manly sweet sweat—apparently from his earlier workout. My nostrils flared and I just drank it in. I could feel his breath and his chest heaved against mine as he tightened his grip with his other hand. I ran my hands under the back of his tank top, feeling the ripples of his muscles. He squirmed a little, flinched briefly, and then ground his crotch against mine. There was no doubt now—he was rock hard. Instantly, I had the same problem.

A floating cat hair brushed against my chin and stuck there on contact. I pushed Marshall away briefly to remove the offending strand. “Damn cat! I told you you’d get covered with white hair! Just take a look at your tank top!”

“No problem, I can fix that right now!” With that, Marshall crossed his hands and grabbed the base of his tank top and in one fluid stroke, ripped it from his body. “There, that’s better isn’t it?” he teased.

“Yeah, you got a point there alright! Actually—two of them.” I winked as my fingers found both of his nipples—they were erect to the touch. This caused Marshall to involuntarily flex his chest muscles. My eyes drank it in. He stood before me—a virtually perfect specimen of manhood clad only in gym shoes and a postage stamp sized pair of red gym shorts that were stretched smooth—giving them that “painted on” look.

Marshall’s hands grabbed my t-shirt and while I watched him kick off his shoes, his hands whisked off my top. His one-eyed monster fell from grace and snaked out the right leg of his shorts as he kicked off his right shoe. What a sight to behold—it was huge! “Damn, that thing’s as big as Dildo’s tail!” I declared.

“Now I know how he got his name!” Marshall taunted.

“Actually, you don’t. He’s really named for a friend of mine from San Antonio whose dick did it compelling justice. And so he was stuck with it.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting stuck with it.” Marshall cooed as his hand trailed its way to the pole that tented by shorts. (God—take me now!) “Nice. How ‘bout you show me the rest of the place?”

“Never look a gift horse in the mouth!” (And I use the word “horse” accurately) I gave Marshall a push towards the hallway. “Take a quick right. Sorry, the bed’s not made up, it’s kind of a mess.”

“Probably not as messy as it’s gonna’ be!” Marshall’s hand was pulling me forward with him. The red nylon was visibly wet and was crawling up the crack of his ass cheeks. His words echoed in my ears. “I wouldn’t mind getting stuck with it.” He was right…that bed was going to get torn up something fierce.

“Hey, I bet I know how you got the name “fat boy!”

Marshall just laughed, “Really!” He leapt onto the bed, pulling me on top of him.