Best Gay Erotica 2005 Page 12

  The hair falls away easily, drifting to the floor and collecting on the surface of the bowl of hot water, and soon I am left with a clear, white surface. The sphincter seems to breathe in and out, or twitch. I want to thank Dr. Kruge for giving me this opportunity. I wonder what he will accept as a token of appreciation, and then I remember he is paying us for this and that I have a job to do.

  Dr. Kruge’s contraption is on a table by the far wall. It somewhat resembles a French baguette connected to a pair of binoculars by a pliable pink neon tube. I lift it, remarking on its weight, and heft it back to where Morgan’s arse is waiting.

  “This may hurt a little,” I say.

  “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” says Morgan.

  This is the guy who has fucked everyone in every position. Morgan once told me he pissed in a pint glass and played a game of cards with a Dutch prostitute to see who would drink it. This being Morgan, it was the winner who would drink it. He told everyone this, his mother included. She had laughed like a drain gurgling and said something about urine being sterile.

  “Will you?” says Morgan. “Tell them the fantasy, I mean?”

  “I won’t say anything,” I say. “I promise.”

  I rest the contraption by the leg of the chair for a second and take out of my pocket the small jar of lubricant Dr. Kruge had given me. I open it and massage the contents into Morgan’s arse with the tips of my fingers. I move them around and around the circle of his arsehole, and I want so much to push them inside, know this would make it easier for the larger object that is to come, but somehow I cannot do it yet.

  I tell Morgan to brace himself and then place the strap of the binoculars over my head and put the end of the “baguette” against Morgan’s sphincter.

  The baguette is about six inches long and probably six inches in circumference. I put pressure against it, pushing into it with my waist. At first the sphincter resists, the head of the baguette merely bouncing against it; but then gradually the sphincter opens up.

  I push the baguette in slightly, wait, and then push some more. Morgan groans softly and I hear a slight gargling from the tube attached to his penis.

  Gradually, bit by bit, the whole length disappears and I am in.

  My best friend at school had been Rosie Diamond. I thought I was in love with her. I was fifteen. I showed her my penis and she showed me her breasts and let me touch them. Then I introduced her to Morgan.

  “It’s love,” she said.

  “Look at these,” said Morgan.

  He had taken pictures of them together with his parents’ Instamatic camera. He standing up, Rosie Diamond on her knees.

  “Can I keep this one?” I had asked. It was the cum shot. Morgan had caught his sperm in midair flying toward Rosie Diamond’s mouth.

  “If you like,” said Morgan.

  Alone in my room at night I would often look at the picture. Sometimes I would imagine that I was Rosie Diamond, sometimes Morgan. I was never me.

  I take up the binoculars and place them against my eyes. I do as Dr. Kruge said. I adjust the focus by rotating a small dial between the eyepieces. For a second all is fuzzy discordant images: a severed breast, an arsehole smiling, a penis swelling from flaccid to erect. Then the image sharpens.

  This is Morgan’s fantasy.

  A bus is moving through an arid landscape. Cacti lean toward and away from a burning sun. The driver of the bus sweats under a Stetson hat, and the only passenger is an aging southern belle drinking a margarita from the end of a long straw. And Morgan.

  Morgan is at the back of the bus. He is wearing jeans. At the crotch you can see the outline of his knob, the material worn here, comfortable against its shape. Morgan appears to be asleep. His eyes are closed, his stomach rising and falling within his T-shirt.

  I am thinking that Dr. Kruge is wrong, that this is no fantasy, when the bus stops and I get on. It is me, dressed in a poncho and eating a Granny Smith apple. Morgan appears to wake up. We catch each other’s eye, something seems to flare between us, and I go and sit near him at the back.

  In dreamtime long periods can pass in an instant. It is like this now, looking into Morgan’s arse. The sun moves across the sky, the desert outside the window cools, the driver removes his Stetson and runs a wrinkled hand across his bald head. The outline of Morgan’s knob in his jeans remains a constant. This is the epicenter of the dream.

  At some point the bus stops for a comfort break and Morgan and I head out to the urinal together. It is a brick shed, four walls open to the sky above. Flies buzz, making patterns in the air.

  Morgan and I stand side by side and as Morgan is pissing I look down at his cock. He holds it one-handed and doesn’t shake it before flipping it back into his pants. Back on the bus I take the seat next to him.

  Night comes and the southern belle reaches up and flicks on her minispot. She opens a large, hardback novel. Something by Barbara Taylor Bradford, I see.

  Morgan spreads apart his legs so his thigh is touching mine and he pulls a zip-up fleece across his lap. On the bus I am wide awake, as I am here in this room, my eyes pressed against the binoculars.

  In dreamtime outside the bus, the desert is silent. I watch as I stretch my hands up in the air and bring them down on Morgan’s lap. I can feel his cock there, beneath the layers of material. It is hard now. As is mine.

  Morgan moves his own hands under the fleece and he is undoing the top button of his trousers and lowering his zipper.

  I push my hand under the zip-up top and run my hands down Morgan’s stomach. I find the waistband of his underpants and I slip my fingers under that too and brush against the tip of Morgan’s cock. He groans gently, sleepily, or with desire, and I move my hands further down and grip the shaft more tightly.

  At the front of the bus the old driver scowls into a wing mirror. The southern belle turns the pages of her book. I face forward and so does Morgan and my hand is moving up and down.

  Morgan cums quickly, inside his underpants. I feel the cum slide down over my hand and my hand stays there and I fall asleep and like the end of a film the image flicks flicks flicks and is gone.

  “That is your fantasy?” I say to Morgan, standing away from the binoculars. I am stunned. This friend who has done everything thinks of me!

  “Can you get that baguette out of my back passage?” says Morgan. “It hurts like fuck.”

  Gently I pull back the baguette and watch as it slides out of Morgan’s arse. There is a residue of lubricant there and, boldly, I scoop it up on my fingers and press it to my lips.

  “It can be my turn now,” I say. Then I echo Morgan’s words. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “I already know your fantasy,” says Morgan, and he tells me to go and pick up his underpants. They are the ones he has been wearing all week. I stretch them between my hands and gaze at the map of stains.

  “That is just a fantasy,” I say unsurely.

  “Sometimes you can make your fantasies come true,” says Morgan. I look at him and our eyes lock.

  I think, Maybe Morgan is right and maybe he isn’t. I am not sure exactly how fantasies relate to the way we lead our life.

  No bother. You only live once. I take a step toward Morgan.

  My Place

  Alpha Martial

  There’s always a moment when I think about murder. It’s not important. Like the moments when you fancy a smoke even though you know you gave up years ago, it soon passes. But I think it’s something about the light in this place in the early evening—especially in the wintertime—that mingles with the complete peace and lack of noise. It makes me think of death, but in a nice way—someone else’s death, someone who means nothing to me but for their trophy value. Preferably someone who would die for me willingly if given the choice.

  One of the problems I’ve always had is that I don’t like bloody human tissue. Making small traces over flesh with a sharp blade—just enough to create little drips and draw a wince from the boy—n
ow, that’s sweet. I love my delicate equipment, but the idea of outright gore doesn’t do much for me. I remember too vividly the time my sister had her thigh ripped open by a dog when we were young; I think that’s the problem. That, and the crash at which I was a witness. Sinews and that disturbing and mysterious whitish goo that explodes from beneath the skin…it’s upsetting to think we’re all made of that. I’ve no desire to see it again.

  As for other methods, well…guns aren’t sexy other than the shape and the shine. Shooting someone has to be the coldest and least satisfying way; besides, the gore is probably as bad, contrary to the movie romance. There’s no point in poison. Electrocution kind of appeals… but to take it to death? I don’t think so; there’s no begging at that point.

  Whatever. The fact is that if I killed the boys, I wouldn’t get to see their faces on screen later and say to myself, You carry me inside you. Instead I might be in jail. Or, worse, I might have to see them become some Jim Morrison–esque martyr-legend. As it is, they always sing my praises afterward; I’m pretty good at judging who’s bought the myth enough to protect me, come what may. There’s an endless stream, thanks to that. It’s a game and I’m always aware of that, even as I sometimes ponder breaking my own rules. The thing is, I’m not sure I’ve ever won the game; I dream of the perfect opponent, but they’ve all turned out to be charlatans so far. And now I’m hoping….

  Just as I’m examining the sunset through the pale amber of my Jameson’s, there’s a slight noise. Casey’s waking up, or just dreaming a nasty dream, maybe. When I look around, sure enough, I can see his left hand twitching feverishly. I started out the usual way, cuffing his wrists separately and suspending each from on high—just so that his knees were almost dragging on the floor but not quite. Midway through the first night, however, he started making such a racket that I couldn’t sleep so I gave in and strapped him up by the shoulders and just cuffed his wrists behind him. It’s been almost three days now and, this afternoon, he finally passed out from exhaustion. Most of them sleep the second night—resigned to what’s happening, I suppose. It’s not as though they don’t get a break for their tired limbs; all the while I’m busy with them, they’re supported and they can always stand up when I’m not. But I knew, from his very first mail, that Casey was going to be the supersensitive type.

  That was the main attraction, to start with; I’ve become very bored with boys who come over all repulsed and then, too quickly, pretend to be playing along with me—whatever they think that means. It’s all bluster, simply play-acting. Some of them make a point of feigning pleasure whilst others quite evidently enjoy it, no matter how I step up the pain. I don’t need that; I have Adam to satisfy the part of me that wants a constant with whom to enjoy occasionally rough consensual sex. Meanwhile, he has his own things to do and he’s never begrudged me mine…safe down in my place. He’s never even been here.

  I had it designed especially. Most of the house is just an old minichâteau, classic in the style of the southern French Compte of yore. I had it completely gutted and done out, then worked on this part. It’s quite cleverly designed because you can’t see the dome from outside other than from the air. The house is on top of a hill. Not that many people come here, anyway. I do my business in England still. Press, etc., come to my respectable Islington pad. Anyway, half the dome is windows, a semicircle that allows natural light to saturate the place from dawn till dusk. In the dark side of the circle lies all my equipment, including the enormous mirror in front of which Casey is presently hung.

  The light is a golden pink, even without my whiskey filter. I noticed it last night, though he was thrashing about so: his skin is perfectly complemented by the color. I didn’t actually find myself attracted to him in the least before I got to know him. He’s the stocky rocker type—tattoos and piercings all over—so he’d usually have been instantly interesting to me; it was just his coloring that put me off. Yet having had the time to browse his body, I find it quite special. He’s almost freckly, but not quite. His skin doesn’t have that translucent, redhead’s quality about it, but rather a porcelain-type fineness. Better still, when I examine it, he flutters his long, fair lashes closed in exquisite but completely pointless protest at my touch. Better yet, when he gets particularly upset, he tosses his head back a little, sending his tremendous mane of golden curls cascading even further than normal down his tensed spine.

  Casey’s beautiful, I’ve decided. One of the best yet.

  He confided to me, in his mail, all about his upbringing; he was raped by a stepfather over a period of two years before running away from home and becoming a drug addict and prostitute in New Orleans at the age of fifteen. A classic tale, especially for a rock star. But there was something so terribly credible about him… and now that I’ve met him, I don’t doubt it. I can’t imagine him lying about anything, let alone something like that. Earnest, is the word. It’s delightful. So when he said he’s sat and pored over my words for literally hours on end, whilst, before, I was dubious, now I think maybe I’ve found the Real McCoy. He looks up to me in a way that I’ve never thought possible before, I now realize; there’s always been something missing from the others.

  I wrote back to him straightaway. He seemed to be looking for something—some kind of fatherly reassurance on his chosen path. I’m just a poet; I never pretended to anything else, and I never claimed the moral high ground, either. He wanted me to be some kind of mentor; I wanted to explore him. It’s a type of exchange. “…I never felt truly confident in myself, despite the fact that I’m just a singer in a rock band (so I shouldn’t need qualifications, I mean). I always felt myself cringing in the dark, alone. I always wanted to finish school, in truth. It means a lot to me and it will never stop smarting that I didn’t get through it and get my college degree—at least. I feel a constant need to prove myself, intellectually. It’s embarrassing because I feel it showing sometimes…as though my fly is undone but I’m holding two drinks.”

  He has the cutest way of expressing himself—and he’s right; he’s bright. It shows. But so does his insecurity. I can honestly say that my lack of formal qualifications never occurred to me as a barrier to what I felt driven to do artistically. Maybe it didn’t occur to Casey either but he seems a lot more chewed up about it, in a general life attainment sense, than I’ve ever been. Maybe it’s partly an American thing, too. I came from a good family but just couldn’t be arsed to toe the line; in England, that’s almost normal. Class is about breeding far more than letters after your name. I fully admit that I’ve been able to achieve fame almost solely because I had the connections—and Father didn’t want me to “come to nothing.” Maybe that is the same in the States, judging by certain presidents, but I’ve a feeling there’s more pressure on kids to attain, academically. And if you’re a kid from the wrong side of the tracks in the first place, the gap between you and the elite is bound to feel vast.

  The light’s fading. I’ve found myself staring at him again, hanging there…golden pink. I feel an overwhelming desire and I have a feeling I can fulfill it without risking anything. I unstrap him, supporting his sturdy form, and he lets out no more than a sigh in his slumber. I drag him, backward, to the chaise longue and lay him out, spreading his full-muscled thighs over the end. He cries as I push inside him. I never even had to think about preparing myself, or him; just thinking about him makes me ready and he’s so moist up there from the last time…

  …and to take him gently now….

  I could have done it in the first place. I could have wined and dined him and watched the faux-shocked expression flit across his face before he acquiesced, as I know he would (as he said he would). But to take him gently after….

  When he arrived, he looked like a giant orchid, transported to colder climes than those to which it was native and likely to wither as quickly as such. He’s not especially tall, like so many stars, and stocky, as I said. But some Americans—particularly those from the central states, I’ve found—don’t
need size to make them come across larger than life. He’s one such. I greeted him as he made his way from the taxi, up the dry grass path, a khaki holdall flung over his shoulder. He smiled so beautifully that all misgivings I’d had about his looks were gone; he was so transparently giving… and so transparently mine.

  I have a little cabinet of various medications I can use to subdue them if they look likely to struggle. I’m a young guy still, and fit, but all the same even someone of Casey’s stature could probably floor me given the urge. I slipped him a downer in his whiskey and Coke (he’d asked for Jack) and watched his clear blue eyes start to glaze over. He was talking about how much he’d looked forward to coming here, even started talking about how he’d never really had the chance to see the landscape when he’d been on tour around here, how much he still wanted to learn about and experience the world and all the different beauties it had to offer. I know the feeling. But anyway, he was just getting on to how much I meant to him again—and I wasn’t about to contest his reasoning—when he started to have trouble propping his chin on his elbow.

  “It’s really good of you to invite me down here, Ant, but I think I’m gonna be really impolite and fall asleep on you…I don’t know why I’m so tired….” I smiled at him and reached out to touch his workmanlike hand.

  “Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you your room.”

  And I’d brought him up here. He was still aware enough to register the leather straps and the mirrors, the lack of any bed-like normalities. I steered him toward the biggest mirror, stood solid behind him, chin resting on his shoulder. His lids were becoming very heavy by that stage. I kissed his hair for the first time. He started to lean into me and I could feel the power almost gone from his muscles. I began to pull his clothes from him; he’d left his jacket downstairs so there was only the Black Sabbath T-shirt on top. I felt his breathing stop as I unbuttoned his jeans and let them slip to the ground. A pair of black designer boxers remained. I buckled his wrists in the shackles directly on both sides of the mirror, just at the right height so that he could stand and support himself with his arms perpendicular to his body. Restrained, he was breathtaking—something Christ-like about him. I kissed into his warm neck, took time to examine the designs on his chest and arms, the little cupid just below his belly button contrasting with the scary fantasy images on the rest. Meanwhile, he stared at me via the mirror with increasing difficulty.