Best Gay Erotica 2009 Read online

  She had a vendetta. I had a client.

  Steven Gutierrez was an architect, worked in a towering, silver-glassed building downtown. And it was well past ten by the time he finally strolled into the parking lot, jumped in his Pacific Blue Jag convertible, and raced away into the night. I followed him, parked a couple of cars away when he eventually pulled up in front of a trendy, strip-mall bar, as his wife had predicted. He leaped out of his luxury car and strode inside.

  I turned to Shawneece, my partner for the night, and told her it was time to go in search of the most dangerous game. I’d used her on a number of other equally sleazy jobs, and although she was a little too street for sophisticated Steven, I was confident that her big, brown eyes, tits, and rear-end would carry the day.

  “Paradise Motel on Kirkland, right?” she said, sliding her plush bottom out of my car and almost out of her leopard-print skirt.

  “Right. Room Seventeen. The one with the curtains that don’t close all the way.” The night man and I had an arrangement.

  I watched Shawneece’s jiggling buttocks as she tramped through the oak door and into the bar. Five minutes later, I was watching her jiggling tits coming the other way.

  “He don’t like girls,” she said, once she was back in the car.

  “You sure?”

  She looked at me; gave me a sad, knowing smile. “A lady can tell, honey—and so can I.”

  “Well, uh…okay,” I mumbled, pondering the possibilities. “Twenty bucks for your troubles, okay?”

  I dropped Shawneece off at her favorite street corner and then drove back to the bar. Betheldozer hadn’t mentioned anything about her hubby not liking cunty, but as I dredged up a mental picture of the missus, I sure as soft-on couldn’t blame the guy. I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands.

  I walked into the bar, and a half hour and two drinks later, I walked out with Steven Gutierrez. He was raring to go rearing, and I knew the place, so to the Paradise Motel we zazoomed. And while Steven was getting more comfortable and horny in Room Seventeen, I was working a deal with Fuckflop Farley, the soul-patched semiliterate who manned the check-in counter come the midnight hour. He would handle the infrared camera on the outside, while I manhandled the cocky cheat on the inside.

  Steven was lying on the bed dressed in nothing more than a shit-eating grin when I got back to the room.

  “You don’t waste any time,” I commented, admiring his creamy-white, muscular body; his pink, protruding nipples; his thick, uncut cock. He had a handsome, dimple-chinned face, and his dirty-blond, shoulder-length hair and big, blue eyes reminded me of Kent. My cock grew as hard as the City with the memory, and the stark-naked reality.

  “You’re wasting time,” Steven said, his dick twitching with desire.

  I doffed my duds and jumped on top of him, covering his hard body with my body, rolling my stiff seven-incher over top of his pulsing erection. I hungrily attacked his mouth, chewed on his rose petal lips, jammed my tongue in and plowed it up against his. And as the forty-something flamer joyously fought back with his own crafty tongue, I thanked my lucky stars that the well-paying job had become both personal and professional.

  We heard something rap against the window—fuck-up Farley juggling the camera, or his prick, too close to the action, no doubt—but I diverted Steven’s attention by pumping my hips, dry-humping the sweet-smelling hotty as we urgently frenched. We pressed lips, hips, tools, and tongues together for a torrid while longer, and then I licked and bit the hard-breathing hunk’s ears and chin and neck and brought my mouth down to his nipples.

  “Yes!” he groaned, fumbling with a name I hadn’t given him, his buff body undulating as I wet-kissed his nipples.

  He ran his fingers through my short, jet black hair, then threw his arms up over his head and abandoned his oh-so-edible body to me. I swirled my tongue around first one engorged nipple, then the other, before closing my mouth over his left nip and sucking on it, tugging on it, biting it. His blossomed buds were obviously supersensitive, because he whipped his head back and forth on the pillow and moaned long and loud as I tongued and mouthed this one.

  The foreplay had gone on long enough. It was time to eat meat—big, thick, cum-oozing meat. I swung around on the creaky bed-of-a-thousand-grunt-and-groan-sessions so that my knees straddled Steven’s head, so that my numbingly hard cock dangled dangerously just above his open mouth, and his own hardened member was in my hands, up against my lips.

  I swarmed kisses all over his bulbous cockhead, slurped slime from his yawning slit, my lust ablaze. I excitedly stroked his throbbing dong with one hand while I juggled his furry balls with the other, and he gave as good as he got, engulfing the tip of my pulsating pole in his warm, wet mouth and pulling on it. He gobbled up more of my cock, then got the good old sucking rhythm going, moving his head up and down as I pumped my hips, his mouth and tongue sliding easily back and forth on my dick; his hot, humid breath steaming around my saliva-slick shaft.

  “Fuck, yeah, baby, just like that!” I yelped, before spitting on his meat and rubbing the wet into his foreskin. I earnestly hand-cranked him, while I popped his swelled-up hood in and out of my mouth, breathing in his ballsy scent, my head spinning and body shaking with the delightful smell and taste of him—and with the man-made miracle he was working on my dong.

  We stroked and sucked and tongued each other’s flaming cocks for a good, long, wet while in our mano-a-mano sixty-nine position, until I felt my cheeks being spread apart and a wet mist hit my itchy butthole. The damp feeling was quickly replaced by a far better feeling—Steven’s fingers sliding into my chute. The guy obviously came prepared, and I was always prepared to cum.

  “Yeah, finger-fuck me, baby!” I screamed, as Steven sank two of his digits into my man-catcher and continued to suck on my cock.

  I rotated my tingling butt on his fingers, reveling in the sinful sensations his impudent pokers and pouty lips were eliciting. He slammed his fingers knuckle-deep into my gripping, dripping bunghole, filling me up, then began plowing my ripe anus with his digits. My body got all hot and heavy, my legs trembled out of control, and I struggled to maintain my mouth-hold on his dick, as the pretty boy banged away at my back-door and spanked my cock with his tongue.

  “I’m gonna cum!” I shrieked into his penis, all too soon. I frantically churned my hips, fucking his mouth like he was fucking my ass. Then I was jolted by fiery, all-consuming orgasm.

  My cock exploded and I rocketed sizzling semen deep into Steven’s mouth and down his throat, my sweat-dappled body coursing with sexual electricity. I blasted that well-hung horndog full of my rubbery man-goo, and he swallowed as much as he could, all the while valiantly bum-fucking me with his fingers even faster than I could spurt spunk down his gullet.

  When I finally calmed down, I refocused on Steven’s unfulfilled need, and with his digits still plugged into my butt and wiggling around, I again attacked his lovely cock with my mouth and hands. I slapped his shaft and knob with my playful tongue, sucked up and down on his prong, his foreskin sliding along with my lips, and squeezed and fondled his balls.

  “That’s it!” he hollered in no time at all, and his cock pulsed hot, salty cum into my sucking mouth, just about drowning me in his jizz.

  I gulped as fast as I could, ecstatic to receive a much-needed protein shot which served to salve some of the bitter feeling from my breakup with Kent. For the first time in a long time, I left work that night with a good taste in my mouth for a change.

  I slapped the full-frontal glossies of Steven and me onto my desk in front of Mrs. Bethel Wojakowski-Gutierrez.

  “What’s this shit?” she bleated, tearing my triumph asunder. “I wanted pictures of Gutierrez fucking a woman! Not another fucking guy!”

  “Yeah, but…this is even better, isn’t it? I mean, you can really discredit—blackmail—your husband now,” I spluttered.

  “He’s not my husband, shit-for-brains! You believed that story just because we share a l
ast name? You idiot! I’m as queer as folk! Steven Gutierrez is my opponent in the State Assembly election! In the Laurel Heights district—the one with the huge gay and lesbian population! I’d heard he was dabbling in heterosexuality, and you were supposed to prove it—to discredit the bum!”

  I gaped at her fat ass as it stormed out of my office, along with my five-hundred-dollar fee plus twenty dollars for expenses. Politics was an even dirtier business than the gumshoe racket. First by my boyfriend, then by my own cock: I’d been dicked two days in a row.

  Someone was going to pay, I mused bitterly—someone had to pay. A certain heart-stealing, sword-swallowing, blond-haired bottom boy instantly sprang to mind. My thoughts—and dick—hardened. Kent—my Kent—was about to get the sweaty throat- and ass-reaming of his life.

  TEMPORARY

  Tulsa Brown

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m going to take these heels off.”

  The dishwasher looked up. He was short and broad, dark as French roast coffee, muscles hard as an iron gate.

  “I don’t give a shit, man.”

  He laid a hair’s emphasis on the last word, maybe to let me know he wasn’t fooled by my red satin dress and the oak-brown hair that swept past my shoulders. Yet I distinctly remembered him looking when I’d waltzed from the dressing room to the club’s little stage, a few hours ago. His head turned so fast his vertebrae crackled.

  And he was still staring. I slipped off one pump, then the other, dropping five inches to the kitchen’s cool floor. The man was taller than me now, and I felt the vertigo thrall of fear and excitement. I loved to be looked at but I couldn’t read his steady, nailhead eyes. I’d guessed wrong before. Terribly wrong.

  I set the black patent shoes on top of the stainless-steel counter, spiked heels lined up, weapons if I needed them. It was 3:00 A.M. and we were the only ones left in the place. The dishwasher snorted and turned back to his work. I braced myself for my own—scraping and sorting. It was hard to imagine that a few hours ago people had been whistling for me, hooting and stomping on the floor, and now I was scraping their half-chewed food into the garbage. My stomach roiled. Show business, I thought with a grimace.

  “How come you’re doing dishes if you’re a star?”

  The words jarred me. The man’s lip lifted on the edge of a sneer.

  “Well, it was a charity event. Everybody pitches in. The others waited on tables and took tickets.”

  “But you got this.”

  Laughter lurked under the words. My hand went to my hip. “Yes, I did. And guess what, Einstein: tonight I’m going home and I’ll never have to see this shithole again. I bet that you do—every single day.”

  His nostrils flared. “It’s just temporary.”

  “So was income tax!”

  For an instant we glared at each other. Then he seized an arm-breaking tray of dishes and hoisted it over to the sink, biceps straining his kitchen whites. I turned with an abrupt flounce, breasts swaying. I’d been performing with four others over the last six months, doing drag shows for charity benefits and the occasional gay bar gala. We usually worked for tips, but on bad gigs—like this one—we had to “assist the staff,” too.

  “We’re making our names,” Carl, our MC, said over and over.

  “I already have a name,” I’d snapped at him. “And if somebody doesn’t write it on a check real soon, I’m dumping this trailer-park talent show.”

  “Trailer park!” Carl snarled. “I’ve done Vegas!”

  “So I heard—on your knees.”

  I thought he’d smack me, but his eyes suddenly narrowed. “It’s not a bitch contest, darling. There is no prize.”

  That’s when I started getting the crap jobs, yet he didn’t dare cut me loose. I was a singer, a torch. The others only lip-synched, but I really sang, steel-note cries of longing that pierced the smoky haze. Up on the stage, blazing like a satin flame, I could hold the entire room in my palm—the men’s desire, the women’s envy. And in that instant my feet didn’t hurt, and the four hours of shaving and waxing didn’t matter. The bit of flesh strapped down tight between my legs no longer existed. I was Ashley Laine, a woman flying, not falling.

  I won in other ways, too. When Carl walked out into the crowd, to fluff up interest and stroke a man or two, everyone laughed. That’s because he looked like what he was—a hefty TV squeezed into his aunt’s castoffs. He was six foot two in flats and wore a thrift shop Doris Day wig. Pure plastic.

  I was different. I strolled into the audience like a long-legged sylph, and the air sizzled. Tonight I’d put my foot on a big man’s chair, between his legs, the patent leather toe just millimeters from his bulge. He was a burly trucker type, the kind who swore he’d never come to a place like this. In the dazzling glare of the spotlight, I let the red satin slide to the top of my thigh. I could hear his excited, quickening breath, feel his eyes scour my body—nipples, naked leg, my succulent painted lips. He was enthralled. I drank Carl’s envy from across the room.

  There is a prize, darling, I thought.

  A clatter of pots made me turn. The dishwasher was still at the sink, jaw set, big shoulders moving with the precision of anger. Frayed male pride. I was sorry for what I’d said.

  “What’s your name?” I called over the noise.

  He didn’t look up. “What the hell do you care?”

  “Oh, don’t tease me. I know I’ve been naughty.”

  The last word caught him by surprise and he glanced over, grinning in spite of himself. After a moment he pulled out of the water and started toward me, wiping his hands on a towel.

  Closer was better. His whole upper body swayed when he walked, a sailor’s big-armed swagger that made me catch my breath. There were amethyst highlights in his sienna skin; his lips and big palms were startlingly pink. The part of me flattened by the spandex panties began to thicken.

  “Tell me yours first,” he said.

  “It all depends. If you’re not a cop or my mother, I’m Ashley Laine.”

  His smile broadened. “Rory Park.” He thrust out his hand and enveloped mine, a dark nest enfolding a pale little bird.

  I squeezed back. “It would seem there’s a Park at the end of the Laine.”

  He laughed abruptly, surprised again, a flash of white and wet pink that gave me a flutter. Damn, this was looking good.

  “So, if this career is only temporary, what are you on your way to?” I said.

  “Oh.” He pulled away. “There are lots of possibilities. I’ve got lots of prospects.”

  He began to wander through the narrow aisles, his back to me. There was something about his knotted shoulders and the way he trailed his fingers along the stainless-steel counter that made my chest tighten.

  “Are you on parole, Rory?” I asked quietly.

  He looked back at me, chin tilted up, not exactly a dare. “You got a dick under that dress?”

  My heart leapt into a trot but I held his gaze. “The last time I looked.”

  Rory smiled ruefully. “Yeah, me too. Last time I looked.”

  Great, I thought. Another Mr. Right-cum-felon. Yet I felt a strange sense of relief. This was the kind of news I usually got late in a relationship. Way too late. I turned to my dirty trays again and dove into the task with brisk energy. Finish up. Go home. Wang off if you have to.

  But Rory didn’t go back to his sink. He settled across the counter from me, leaned forward on his arms in a hard-sculpted, masculine trapezoid. “Hey, you’re really something, you know? If I saw you on the street, I never would have guessed. I’m not queer or nothing, but you’re pretty hot.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut, but he’d jabbed at an old, tired wound.

  “Guess again—I’m not gay, either.”

  “What?” He pulled back, then grinned. “Ah, you’re shittin’ me.”

  I straightened, flushing.

  “Here’s a telegram for your thick male brain: It isn’t always about sex. It isn’t about what you stick where and into wh
o. I’m a female who happens to have a male body—for the moment. You understand temporary, don’t you, Rory?” I flipped my long hair with a toss of my head. “I’m not in drag, I’m…in process.”

  His gaze dropped to my breasts, to the bullet-firm nipples pushing against the silky fabric.

  “So those are yours?”

  He reached out—he was going to squeeze me like cantaloupe. I smacked him away so hard my own hand sparkled with pain. His eyes widened, a dark flash of lust and anger, and my heart leapt. I thought he might grab me across the counter.

  Bang! Bang! Someone pounded on the heavy metal kitchen door, the one that led to the alley.

  “Richard! Are you in there?” a voice called.

  Oh, god. The voice skewered me like an icicle. “Don’t open it,” I said.

  Rory glanced at the door, then at me again, bewildered.

  “Richard, don’t screw with me, bitch! Carl nailed you. I know you’re in there.”

  I reeled with the nausea of betrayal. I’d made some mistakes in the past, and I’d been running from this one for months. And Carl knew it—that asshole!

  “What the hell is going on, Ashley?” Rory hissed.

  “Don’t do anything. I’ll check for another exit.”

  I hiked up my skirt and sprinted away, dodging around the club’s tables. I reached the front door and yanked on it. Damn! It could only be opened with a key. By the time I was back in the kitchen, Rory’s hands were on his hips, his broad chest puffed with anger.

  My ex was kicking at the door now, a terrifying rattle. Thank god it only opened from the inside.

  “The front’s locked,” I panted.

  “Look—does he pack a gun?”

  “Not…always.”

  “Shit!” Rory whammed the counter with the flat of his hand and the dishes jumped. Bad news. My ex renewed his assault on the door.