Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Chuck put his hands on his knees like a retired farmer and levered himself up out of the chair. “I don’t know about you boys, but ol’ Chuck’s not taking no sloppy seconds.” I’d never heard before the expression sloppy seconds. Cursed as I was with an overly literal imagination—so that such stock phrases as motherfucker, pussywhipped and shitfaced took on horribly vivid pictorial detail for me—I couldn’t help seeing now a bruised and drooling indentation. For the first time my inchworm twitched, in response not to this damaged cloaca but to the idea of the five penises beside me, each a masquerader behind a domino of buttoned or zipped cloth, all mysterious and of an unknown girth, slant, heft, scent and hardness. I hotly envied the white whore what so obviously left her cold; I would have been content just to watch from her closet. Chuck returned to us surprisingly quickly but with a smile on his face and a huge transverse rod (that seemed worthy of its campus-wide reputation) in his trousers pointing up to the right of his belt buckle—one o’clock until it ticked down to two. As the second boy went in, Chuck wandered out into the other room, asked for a beer and got it and sat down to watch TV. He called me in to see something. I found myself sitting on the overstuffed arm of a chair covered with a fabric that felt like unshaved beard and suddenly there was a dimpled black hand on my knee belonging to the huge little girl who’d been dozing but was now contentedly half-awake and sipping a rum and Coke. “Want some?” “No,” I said. She breathed out a faint snort. “Don’ know why all you fellas go for that ofay bitch.” “Okay?” “Yeah, she a ofay cunt.” “Ofay means ‘white,’” Chuck muttered between mouthfuls of potato chips, his eyes drinking in a shootout on the screen. He cocked his thumb up out of his fist, sighted his way down his forefinger and fired at the television; his body was jolted to one side and he buried his head in his armpit for a second, played dead, sniffed, said, “Yuck, time for my monthly shower.” “Hey, honey,” the woman beside me was saying, “I got me a crazy little crib downstairs. Why don’ you and me party? Wanna party? That ofay cunt take ten bucks. I give it to you for eight. Eight for straight, ten for round-the-world.” “What’s that?” She hissed a goose giggle into her pink palm. When she lowered her hand she was still grinning. “Don’ you know nothin’? You kids sho ’nuff green. Round-the-world means I start at yo’ mouth and kiss you all round, top to bottom, round the world, with a long wait on your south pole!” Another hiss behind her hand.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  “Maybe I don’t really know how I’ll feel afterward, but one thing I know for damned sure. I’ll always want you for my friend, Daniel. You’re a habit, man.” “Yeah, but maybe I’m a bad habit.” “No way.” It got awfully quiet in the back of the SUV. Then he spoke again. “Course, you probably don’t want me for a friend now you know I’m qu—uh, feel that way about you. But I finally got it out in the open, and it’s been clogging up my insides for as long as I can remember. I just hope I don’t pay too big a price for opening my big mouth.” He stirred restlessly as I grappled for an answer. I could have ignored my raging lust and eased him away gently, but he deserved honesty. “No, Markey. You won’t lose my friendship. If you don’t know by now that I’ve got feelings for you, too, then I’m a better actor than I thought.” “You do?” he asked eagerly, those big eyes flashing ebony light like an otherworldly alien. He reached for me but lost his nerve; his hand fell into the space between us. “Yeah, I do. How could I not? You’re so fucking handsome…and sexy.” “I am?” The amazement was genuine. He had no idea how hunky he was. “So…so what do we do now?” “Markey, if you insist on this, then you’re going for one hell of a ride. When you come out the other side you’ll either be dazzled or revolted. Whichever way it is, I’m still available for friendship. I just hope you are.” I rose to my elbow and leaned over him. His eyes were huge, questioning, expectant. I lowered my lips to his, catching him by surprise. He drew a sharp breath. After a moment, he relaxed beneath my touch. Then he returned the kiss, his lips softening, his mouth parting, his tongue timidly exploring. In an explosion of breath, I ground my lips against his, glorying in the electricity of the moment. When I drew away, he came with me, holding on to my neck. He was halfway out of the sleeping bag, his naked torso exciting even in the semidarkness. On his knees, he rolled his jockeys down over his thighs. The shiny glans of an engorged cock caught the moonlight, a glistening pearl of precum at the slit.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  We stepped onto the balcony and plunked our drinks on the ledge. I stood between Daddy and Craig, and we wrapped our arms around each other’s waists as the bottom of the setting sun kissed the distant waterline. Sailboats, skiffs and fishing boats made their way to the local pier. A few het couples carrying blankets and small coolers passed below us, headed for the beach and hanky-panky, most likely. Daddy’s gaze trailed them into the shadows. “What was your most interesting experience as a masseur?” Daddy asked Craig. Craig replied without hesitation. “It was with a young married couple, both good looking. Sharp, too, judging by the way they negotiated my fee. I fucked her while he watched, then I fucked him while she watched. They had a camcorder going.” Craig paused for dramatic effect. “Then he fucked her in the ass doggie-style while I screwed him doggie-style. Quite the arrangement. I was actually pushing him deep into her.” “Probably work with three guys,” Daddy said. “Oh, sure,” Craig answered. He leaned over and placed his elbows on the ledge, stretched his lanky legs, and crossed his ankles. The dim light cast shadows among the ridges of his taut quads and hamstrings. I fumbled with my drink as I fought the urge to kneel between him and the railing, scratched knees and back notwithstanding, yank his suit down until his boner whacked me in the face, and service his big dick. Daddy stepped behind me, placed his palms on the ledge, and captured me scissor-like with his hips. Craig scanned the peaceful vista. “Beautiful,” he said. “I always enjoy this view.” We rested in silence as the sun slid farther below the horizon. “Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to see a green flash,” Craig said. Daddy lowered my thong. I forced my legs farther apart so I could feel the wet surface twisting the hair as he tugged away. Daddy lowered his own suit. His long, hard dick pressed into my buttcrack. “Ever see a blue flash?” I asked as I backed more into Daddy. “Nope, not lucky enough,” Craig answered. Daddy began a gentle pumping motion. “Very rare, even on a clear night,” Craig added. I gasped, not an announcement of gained scientific insight, but an appreciation of raw, rutting sex. Craig looked our way. “We should go inside,” he urged. “We’re not the only ones watching the sunset.” True, the balconies on either side of ours held chatty couples whom I hadn’t noticed. It was dark by now, and we went indoors without pulling up our suits. A gentle breeze wafted in from the ocean. “Let’s go into the bathroom, Sirs,” I suggested, hoping I wasn’t being too forward. “Okay, Sir boy,” Daddy replied. His grin would have shamed the Cheshire cat. They followed me into the bathroom. “Time for our shower. Will three guys fit in there?” Craig asked. “Not yet,” I replied. “Face each other.” “Well, well,” Craig said.

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  For moments, he stands in the twilit area; exhibiting his body, making sure, as always, that he is clearly seen. Look. There's a black solitary outline in the depths of the pier. Jim moves farther into the shadowed world. The sand, untouched by the sun, becomes wetter. His eyes adjust totally. Beyond, the tide rises. Swoosh! Swoosh. Swoosh! Swoosh. Sounds echoing in the dark. Through slits left exposed by boards fallen in diagonal patterns on the sand, shafts of light penetrate like cold knives. Jim moves fully into exile country. Just as he knew, there are many other outlaws here. At least six shadows materialize into bodies as they glide closer like hypnotized birds. Against a pole, two men are pasted to each other. Muted sighs and moans blend with the lapping sound of the ocean beyond. Knowing that a loose circle of ghostly figures is focusing on him as he stands in a pocket of dim light, Jim pulls out his cock as if to piss. Quickly, a tall slender young outlaw holds Jim's cock. Almost as quickly, a short, tightly sculpted, goodlooking youngman, completely naked, trunks in his hand, is licking Jim's sweaty chest. The moist tongue slides down Jim's stomach, encloses the cock still held by the tall one. For seconds only, Jim inches farther into the dim-lit cave within the darker cave, so that his gleaming body being adored will be visible like a pornographic photograph. Moving back into the shadows, Jim reaches down and grasps the blood-flushed cock of the youngman sucking him. It feels like an extension of his own. Now both Jim and the naked youngman stand, cocks pressed together in one thick shaft, which the tall one sucks. Other shadows cluster, watching, forming other intimate groups nearby. The tall youngman licks Jim's balls, the tongue explores his buttocks. Swiftly turning his body around, torso bending forward, back to Jim, the naked youngman parts his own buttocks, inviting Jim's full cock to enter the waiting asshole. With his finger, Jim feels the tiny knot of flesh, locating the entry for his cock. The tall man thrusts his tongue into the crack of Jim's buttocks. The naked youngman reaches back, guiding Jim's cock into the saliva-moistened ass. But now Jim's not sure he wants to fuck. A switch has been touched, loosing an electric sexuality; he does not want to end the scene with orgasm—not yet; his flexing muscles are riding on the kinetic motion of the earlier workout; he will require much more than these moments’ sextime. But the firm round ass grinds, insisting. Jim lets his erect cock touch the puckered point of entry, and then slide up against the crack, mixed sweat lubricating cock, ass, pubic hair.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  It was not desire as he understood or remembered it, exactly, not a desire to have sex with Sophie or to see her naked, but he wanted to reach out and touch her and be touched by her. He wanted to feel her against him. She had a perfectly tranquil expression, and he felt he might tell her anything about himself if only she might ask. Under them, the porch boards were cold and drafty. Sophie shivered and looked toward Charles, severing the moment. “Charlie said you proctor exams.” “Yeah—for the university. It’s only a few days a week, though.” “That’s cool,” Sophie said, and Lionel rolled his eyes. It was the kind of thing you said when you were pretending not to find someone boring. They’d retreated to the inane chatter of dinner parties at last, the shuffling of banal bits of information like so much unwanted food on a plate. “What do you do?” “Oh, I dance. Since I was five. It’s like the one thing I’m good at. Absolutely no money in it, but hey.” “That’s a real thing. Dance. Like, an actual real thing in the world. That’s art.” “Sure, yeah, thanks,” she said. “Actually, Charlie’s a dancer, too.” “Is he?” Lionel asked. Suddenly, the body made sense. “We’re in the grad program.” “How long have you been together?” “Maybe eight months, something like that? I’m bad at this.” She crinkled her eyes and shook her head a little. Charles was looking at them over his shoulder. Sophie waved at him, but Charles shook his head and turned back to look out at the yard. “That’s a long time,” Lionel said. Eight months was forever. A whole life could change in eight months. Or end entirely. “Is it?” Sophie asked. “It doesn’t seem that way. But I guess time flies.” “Yeah. Unless you want it to.” Sophie looked at him sideways. “What are you trying to say?” “Nothing. Well, nothing about you two, anyway,” Lionel said. Sophie watched for a beat longer, and she seemed to make up her mind about something. She said, “He was right. You are hard to talk to.” Lionel felt a frisson then, pleasure and discomfort rubbing up against each other. He hadn’t registered it before, when she’d said that thing about proctoring, but he realized now that they had been talking about him. Lionel ran through what Sophie had said and done since coming to sit next to him, trying to find the subtext. But he found nothing. Just the jangle of her voice, and the warmth of her body next to his under the blanket.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Markey fell atop me, sending his thick erection down my throat. His cry of pleasure conjured images of another cock, a fat, throbbing column of living flesh I would never again be privileged to take. With a sob, I threw him on his back and examined him. He was larger than Beet…everything that mattered was measured against Warren Borak…but not as thick through the root. I tongued the slit and slipped my lips over the bulbous crown, slowly riding the shaft to his groin, burying my nose in his clean, black bush, drawing cries of astonishment from his cherry lips. I slowly climbed the pole, keeping up a slight suction as I reached the end. Then I tongued the underside down into his testicles. His legs spasmed before opening to my touch. I took the stones in my mouth, testing their firmness. Innocence, I thought. This was what innocence tasted like…firm, strong, clean, pulsing, exciting…fucking wonderful! “Oh, Daniel!” he moaned as I moved a hand over his lean chest. “Oh, man! Oh, Danny! Oh…oh…oh…” I came off him and licked my way to his chest with his excited cock throbbing against my chest. He shivered when I licked a nipple and groaned when I nipped the other. His breath came raggedly, his chest heaved. A fine sheen of sweat on his forehead shone in the gloomy truck. “Do it again,” he begged, his broad hands on my shoulders, pushing me back down his torso. I laughed softly as I tongued him all the way down into his curly bush. I held his bucking cock steady and went to work in earnest, washing the big glans and bobbing up and down on the shaft rhythmically. But it was another cock I took down my throat. A familiar shaft, a loving, comfortable column of flesh. I moaned his name in my head… Beet! Beet! Beet!” “Ohhh, Daniel! I…I didn’t know it would be…be so…so good!” Finally, I began to discern differences. This column was longer, harder to take to the root. The aroma was different, the verbal entreaties not so gruff, the hands cradling my head more gentle. Beet slowly departed, bestowing a crooked smile on his successor. Then, as his thinner, younger baritone vocalized his ecstasy, it was Markey I was pleasuring. I clasped his buttocks and pulled him up, lifting him off the floor of the vehicle. With a groan, he thrust his hips, driving his big cock into me, coming with a mighty roar and a geyser of tangy cum. The force of his contractions drove gouts of semen down my throat, almost strangling me. For a moment, I thought he had gone into convulsions. His body thrashed in my hands. He whined as he tried to force himself farther down my throat. Then he suddenly collapsed back onto the sleeping bag. Had he not been gasping desperately for oxygen, I would have feared he’d died of his efforts.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  A carload of young flamers skidded to a stop alongside me a few miles farther up the road, but that wasn’t my speed, and I gave them the wave by. Then a white van pulled off onto the shoulder, and I jogged on over to it. NEW DEAL MINISTRIES was stenciled on the side of the vehicle, and a man of about fifty or so was behind the wheel. He looked kindly, with his beaming brown eyes and wavy, graying hair. He had a ripe, full mouth and an angelic face, a slightly chubby body dressed in black pants and jacket and a clerical collar. “Need a lift, my son?” “Sure do,” I responded, licking my lips. He started in with the preaching soon after we’d exchanged names. Father Todd was part New Age and part Old Testament, counseling me on the roads that led to righteousness and the paths that led to damnation. I stopped his proselytizing with a quick kiss to his fine mouth. His lips were soft and lush, wet from talking. He stared at me, his eyes registering official shock and condemnation, something deeper and darker in behind. “Danny, I’m going to overlook that as—” I kissed him again, harder, longer, speaking in tongues inside his mouth. When I broke away this time, he was panting, his face red. I told him to pull over to the side of the road so I could fuck his ass in the back of the van. He’d had his lust frustrated for too long. He jerked the wheel over to the right and stomped on the brakes. The first bench seat in the back was as good as any pew to worship at the man’s ass. And he had a ripe, round one—smooth, pale, fleshy cheeks that quivered warm and willing under my groping hands. I smacked one, then the other, and they blushed, Todd groaning and arching his butt up at me on all fours on the seat. The windows were tinted just dark enough so that the cars and trucks whizzing by couldn’t see me baptizing the holy father’s ass with my palms. I spanked him so hard that he rocked back and forth, whimpering. I was punishing him for his transgressions, and the greater transgression was yet to come. I unzipped, pushed down my jeans and pulled out my cock, crowding in behind Todd’s upraised bottom. I smacked his ass with my dong, the crack of cock-flesh against butt-flesh filling the stuffy confines of the vehicle. I bent my head down and clutched his buttocks up and bit into the right one, then the left one. The guy really did have an amazingly meaty ass, and I just couldn’t get enough of it. When I licked his crack, he almost jumped right out the window.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  He rocked back and forth in his straight-backed chair. He shot his hand up in a menacing Sieg Heil —but only to reach back to scratch between his shoulder blades, a difficult feat for someone so muscle-bound. As I sat beside him (I almost said within him, so totally did he surround me) I became more and more feeble. He’d stride up and down the small room, kicking the baseboard of each wall when he reached it as if to protest the insult of such a small cage for such a mighty lion. Before I met him I could have imagined someone huge and stupid and taciturn; I could just as readily have pictured a brilliant tiny chatterbox, bald pate and soft curls fringing it, a midget dynamo who read everything and played the cello when depressed. But a giant with calluses on his palms at the base of each finger, someone who breathed in a conscious, voluntary way as I tentatively recited my lesson and who stood and folded a huge paw over his jaw before delivering a judgment about my performance—such a man was so new to me that he confused me, he thrilled me. One winter Friday afternoon at four he didn’t answer his door. Desperation seized me. I hadn’t realized how devoted to him I’d become. Our sessions didn’t call for devotion. I’d simply show up, obey his commands and sink into a desire to please him that could only have been called devotion. But things didn’t go that far, there wasn’t the absence necessary for adoration until that afternoon when he didn’t open his door. For some reason I was convinced that he was inside but in bed with his girl friend, that lithe, tiny woman in the black swimsuit whom the Herr Professor had held so effortlessly aloft last summer, a simple smile on his face. He was in that bed which, when pulled down, no doubt filled his whole room and there he was heartily rolling on his tiny but acrobatically receptive partner. Soon enough it would be time to push the bed back behind its white doors, to gnaw on a sausage and quaff a beer and then, in his lordly way, open the door to his ridiculously young pupil. I didn’t knock very loudly because I didn’t want to break his concentration or rhythm; the only question was had I calibrated my knock so as to indicate my presence but not to annoy him? And yet—what if he wasn’t at home at all? What if he had forgotten our lesson? As long as I thought his closed door was barring me from those deep invasions of a fragile body, just so long was I content to stand in that shabby, windowless corridor. Waiting for my teacher was no burden to me (wasn’t Hesse himself teaching me the value of a patient apprenticeship?).

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  One of the women, who’d fallen asleep in front of the television, had to be prodded awake. As she waddled past us on tiny, high-heeled slippers, the soles engulfed by her fleshy feet, she rubbed her eyes, protruded her lower lip and made a fretting sound. So massive and quivering were her breasts and hips under the slip that the garment seemed to be the body of a vaudeville horse which at least two people were inhabiting. At the same time her physical grandeur did nothing to diminish the impression she gave of being a little girl, an impression heightened by the sass with which she planted a fist in her hip and asked nastily, “Seen enough?” We nodded. She said defiantly, “Good. I goan back to mah TV shows.” The other black woman, the one who’d been knitting, kept her glasses on and the embryonic maroon sweater in her hand as she sleepwalked past, counting stitches, never looking up. Hers was also an ample, indoor body of seraglio proportions but her face seemed older, thinner—in fact, she was a dead ringer for our white dietician at school, if a ringer is a racehorse entered under a false name and posing as another, less successful one. (Horse, dog, inchworm—nature takes her revenge on stories from which she’s been excluded by smuggling herself into them under the guise of imagery.) “Well?” the white woman said. “Is that it?” Chuck asked. She smiled a not especially pleasant smile and said, “There’s always me,” with an edge to the always to suggest how long she’d been in harness, how weary of the road she’d become. “I’ll take you,” Chuck said. His voice didn’t crack, he didn’t soften the blow of his words with a giggle, nor did he drop his eyes. He knew exactly what he wanted. “Yeah, me too,” each of us said in turn on a descending scale of confidence ending with my whisper. “Then come on,” she said, walking away from us and unzipping her dress in a single gesture. She paused at her bedroom door and glanced back. The dress had somehow evaporated into just a wisp of teal-blue smoke in her hand as she tossed it aside. There she stood, door open and behind her a shaded floor lamp dangling fringe; her naked body looked pale as a night moth and as powdery. Her pubic hair had been shaved into a black rectangle. Her legs were ropy. She went in and disappeared from sight. The sound of running water could be heard and a cat’s paw of steam stretched out into the bedroom to bat at a ball of cold air. A cricket chanted in the radiator. (Teal, moth, cat, cricket—the chorus of animals chirps and twitters, ready for its entrance into the enfeebled, cicatrized world.)

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  “Serves you right,” Hartjes said a little more pointedly than he meant, but then, to make up for his roughness, he stroked Simon’s foot, passing his palm back and forth along its length, up to the ankle and then down, pressing with his palms to get at the stiffness in the sole. Simon leaned back in his chair and let Hartjes work on his feet. The kitchen was quiet except for the crackle and snap in the wood-burning stove and sometimes the sound of Simon’s bones popping. Hartjes felt own his body loosening up, could feel himself growing closer to Simon the longer he touched him. The opening of Simon’s shirt, the blue flannel unbuttoned, sagged like the tongue of some loyal animal and revealed the smooth, pale white of his throat and chest. Hartjes wanted to want him, the same way he wanted to see the rise and swell of Simon’s chest, the firm clench of his stomach, and to feel hot all over with need and the slick, gathering wet that sluiced the glide into desire. He wanted it all, yet what he felt, what he really felt in the seat of his body, where his soul nestled and hummed, was the companionable happiness that came with friendship. But he could see hunger in Simon’s eyes, hunger and other things, other shapes of feelings that he wanted to ask Simon about but couldn’t bring himself to. Simon put his hand to his own throat and worked the shirt open more, ran his hand up his neck and to his mouth and then back down through the shirt, popping the buttons open so that his white undershirt showed, and then lower into the front of his pants, like he was searching for loose change. But Hartjes just kept at his feet, his thumb between the two toes, clean and white, and his fingers on the heel, making the foot arch, bend until he could feel the tendons stretching. He sank lower in his chair, spread his thighs, and let that brace him. Simon groaned and grunted and sometimes lifted his hips or shivered as if he were cold. Hartjes gripped Simon’s ankle and held it as tight as he could. And then he let go, and Simon, having slid low in his chair, seemed to surface in himself, his eyes glossy, his breath ragged. It had been enough for him to watch Simon abandon himself. It had been enough to cause it, to see it, to be a part of Simon’s desire, so that even if Hartjes could not bring himself to want it, he could at least enjoy the sight of Simon wanting, needing. He was hard. They both were hard, but what was to be done for it? Let it rest, he thought. A thick blue vein throbbed at the base of Simon’s throat, pulsed when Simon swallowed. His chest was red. His throat was red. He was watching Hartjes, and Hartjes watched the animal part of Simon submerge itself into the icy pool of higher brain function.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Jason grinned, stepped back and leaned against the back of an old, boxy Volvo. His T-shirt rode up revealing a trail of crisp dark curls that rose from beneath the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “Nice,” Steve said. “It gets even better.” Jason’s voice was soft but deep, pitched to his audience with the precision of a stage actor. “I bet it does.” There was a long pause. “I believe it’s your serve,” Jason said. “I want to fuck you,” Steve said. “Well, that kind of serve’ll win you the game every time, Steve.” Steve’s office was old but large, with bookshelves, leather chairs, and a worn leather sofa that faced a huge antique desk. Jason looked around, switched on a Tiffany lamp on a side table and picked up a framed photo of Penny. “Married?” he asked. “Separated,” Steve said. “She’s beautiful.” “Yes.” Steve stood next to the edge of his desk watching the boy like a man who had invited a gazelle into his living room. “You’re not separated,” Jason said, stepping closer to Steve. “No.” “But you’re unhappy.” “Yes.” “And yet you stay.” “A guy makes a vow,” Steve said, looking away. “A guy’s got a good heart,” Jason said. Steve turned back and looked at him in silence; the hair on his arms stood on end. “What?” he asked. “Nothing. Sorry. I’m always bringing down the mood of the room,” Jason said. He touched Steve’s cheek, turning his face gently so that their eyes met again. “We don’t have to talk about the outside.” Steve swallowed audibly and then blushed under the intensity of Jason’s silent gaze. “I sound calm when I’m nervous. It’s annoying,” Jason said. Steve let out a short snort of laughter. Jason let his hand drop from Steve’s face and walked over to the sofa. He dropped onto the seat, sitting back with his arms draped along the tops of the cushions. His legs were spread wide at the knees with a nonchalance that brought Steve’s cock back to attention. He could see the outline of Jason’s cock growing beneath the denim. “How old are you, Jason?” “Why?” He grinned. “You worried?” “No, no. It’s not that, it’s just that…” “I’m twenty-three.” “Grad student?” “MFA.” “Theater?” “Writing.” “Oh.” “Yeah, that’s what my dad said when I told him.” “You seem older,” Steve said. “You’re a charmer, Stevarino.” “Preternaturally calm, insightful, articulate—” “Trying to make up points now?” “—beautiful.” “Beautiful?” Jason looked embarrassed for the first time since they’d met. “Beautiful.” “I guess I don’t think of myself that way—” “Oh, come on, Jason.” “No, really. Beautiful doesn’t really resonate with me.” “I find that hard to believe.” Jason shrugged. “It’s more about attitude. I like a big, rugged older man: someone whose soul has a little heft; someone whose body has some thickness to it; someone who knows what he’s doing; someone who’s not afraid of himself.” There was a challenge in his eyes now. “Is that you, Steve?” “That’s me.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  “You’ve sure taken care of yourself,” I said. Not only was Pop Tingle well-muscled with a defined chest, rippling abdominals and powerful buttocks, but he had a thick cock, which his thin swimsuit did nothing to conceal. Mr. Jack grinned at my surprise while Pop Tingle inspected me from head to toe. “You were right about his ass, Pop Tingle,” Mr. Jack said. “The new Bottom packs his shorts.” Pop Tingle’s cock was stirring in his swimsuit. I watched with fascination as it lengthened and stretched the fabric. “Bring the anal lube, Jack-Off.” Mr. Jack rushed from the room. Pop Tingle’s cock was getting harder. He pulled off his swimsuit so I could watch his dick engorge. At that moment, I realized two things. First, Mr. Jack was the old Bottom who had graduated to jack-off servant, and the new Bottom, me, was about to get his ass fucked. For some reason, I accepted the situation. When Pop Tingle ran his hands over my ass, feeling me up outrageously, I didn’t protest. His lips brushed my ear. “Do you know why I picked you, Bottom?” he asked. I knew. At times my bountiful bubblebutt had been the bane of my existence. I got teased about it while I was still in high school, and I’d had hundreds of offers for it while I was living on the street. The other boys had told me I had a good thing going if I only had enough sense to use it. Of course, those same boys had no sense themselves. They were taking street drugs, even drugs to grow their breasts and make themselves more girlish. The chemicals those kids poured into their bodies would have given everybody in China a howling harelip, but they made their money by pleasing men who wanted ladyboys. I’d seen fourteenyear-old boys with budding boobs and shrunken testicles. Pop Tingle was undressing me. He removed my sneakers, then pulled down my shorts. “Cute,” he commented, fingering my thong. “I’ll tell Jack-Off that you’ll be wearing thong underwear exclusively. Your swimsuits too.” He kissed my ass just below my tramp stamp. By then, Mr. Jack was back with the anal lube. Pop Tingle pulled down my underwear. Leaving my crop top in place, he ordered me to climb onto the couch and lean over the back. Wondering why I was obeying him, I dropped onto the couch, pressed my knees into the cushions and leaned over the back. My heart was thundering. I had never been fucked, not in all my time on the street. Pop Tingle didn’t mount me right away. He rubbed his hands over my butt, caressing, squeezing and moving ever closer to my crack. “I’m going to make you a bottom,” he whispered in my ear. “Right now, you don’t know what you are. I will teach you. I will be a father to you, and I will remake you in the image I desire.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  All of the stories in Hot Daddies are about men in relationships. That wasn’t the intention. But anthologies, within the boundaries of good storytelling, good writing and an editor’s acumen and taste take on a life of their own. No one-night encounters here, then—the Daddies and the sons are in it for the long haul. Richard Labonté Bowen Island, British Columbia IN HIS TIME Jamie Freeman The chandelier in the foyer was still swinging in the wake of Penny’s furious departure when Steve decided to go to the bookstore. He looked down at his hands, still shaking from the fight-induced adrenaline, and mentally counted back in time. How long had it been? Four years? No, longer than that. Had it been five? He sat on the sofa, letting the urgency build until it propelled him in the direction of his shoes. He slipped his feet into his Nikes and walked over to the hall mirror. He was lean from running, but his severe eyes and close-cropped, conservative beard played tricks on his eyes. Most of the time he liked the beard, thought it made him look roguish and rebellious, but tonight when he looked into the scratched antique glass, his father’s stern visage stared back at him. He considered going upstairs to shave; he considered kicking his Nikes back into the closet, maybe sinking into a whiskey sour and watching the Rays with his feet up on the coffee table. Indecision made him shift from his right foot to his left. Five goddamn years. It had been five, not four. He pushed his left toe against the back of his right shoe, testing his resolve. He glanced back into the mirror; a blond forelock dropped in front of his steely blue eyes and his father was gone. His face was handsome and still, timeless as the frozen photograph of an aging movie star. He blinked. Go, go, go. Just go. He hurried out to his car. As he backed his old Mercedes out of the driveway, he waved to Mrs. Alexander, who was pruning the azalea bushes that separated their yards. She waved back, flashing an inquisitive smile that made Steve snarl with annoyance. Her pursed lips and tightly knitted brow told him she was making note of his rapid departure. She glanced at her watch and her smile grew broader. He grimaced, knew she would hold this little nugget of information close, clutching it to her venomous breast until she could release it into the credulous hands of his wife, perhaps over iced tea or lemonade or homemade lemon squares, served on her verandah under ceiling fans that stirred hot air redolent with smiles and floral perfume and pettiness.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  I fucked him the first night and every tutoring session thereafter. Oh, we did the tutoring but always in languid discussion after sex, me petting and playing while he went on about his ambitions. He had genuine creative talent and I did encourage him to the fullest, but there was always desire involved. I needed him and within this saw how Carl had needed me, and I took a measure of satisfaction in assuming that role, as if Carl were inside me now, cheering me on or at least nodding with approval. I was guiding a boy into his destiny while the boy freed me from grief. It lasted three and one half months. Cody ultimately spent more than tutoring sessions at my house and we started having daylong sexual wallows that were a true awakening. As my house is well fenced, we ran naked outside until the weather drove us indoors where we coupled before a roaring fire. During this time Cody blossomed as a writer, displaying remarkable originality along with strong command of language. His father was a railroad man who liked to read, so Cody had grown up at the library and been encouraged in words and thinking, but his father had also rejected the gay boy, so there was anger grown alongside the talent. Cody was one of the few young men I encountered who was able to channel one into the other by way of writing. That he didn’t write about fathers and sons mattered little. His anger was on the page, not specific but fuel nevertheless. It spilled out like flaming gasoline and I couldn’t get enough. And then one day when I expected him at the house, he didn’t arrive and I phoned but got only his machine. At first I left playful inquires as to his whereabouts, saying I was ready and waiting, but these soon deteriorated into demands. We had plans, he was expected. For two days he was a no-show and then there he was in class and I was tipped over and unable to right myself, struggling through the hour. For the first time Cody asked no questions, offered no comments. He sat slouched in his chair, taking no notes, looking like he’d been roughed up more than usual. He knew what he was doing to me. He knew I loved him and he sat there and allowed me to stew in those awful juices. “Mr. Morse, may I see you?” I called out as any professor might at the end of class. He dropped back down into his chair and let the room empty. Neither of us spoke at first. I hoped he might initiate some apology but when none came I went to him and asked in as light a voice as I could manage, “What’s going on?” “What do you mean?” he said, like he hadn’t a clue that anything had shifted or more, that he’d done the shifting. “I expected you Sunday. We had plans.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  My visitor relaxed with his hands behind his back, probably resting on his gorgeous butt. His posture reminded me of a hunk leaning against a lamppost, but there was no pole to support him, just firm muscle. He slid into a seductive pose from which the slightly concave curvature of his torso emerged. I’d heard that some guys have eight-packs, but I was more than grateful to worship the six-pack hunk appraising me. A furrow ran from his pecs to his navel, bisecting his torso, and heightened his abs. I puffed out my chest. “Aloha, I’m Craig.” His voice was a perfect fit to a perfect body, a resonant baritone, secure in cadence and measured in tone. He knelt on his haunches and held out his hand. I didn’t hesitate, drawn by his humongous biceps, and reached over to him, expecting a bone-crunching grasp, but was rewarded with a firm yet tender, almost enticing grip. Was I reading too much into this encounter? Well, he did approach me. Now what to do? I felt like a fisherman who had snagged a marlin almost too large for his small boat. Craig was about ten years older than my twenty-five. Let him take the lead. This aloha business still felt strange, but I went for it anyway. “Aloha, I’m Jim,” I replied, and smiled. I breathed deeply and drifted into his salt-water aroma. He wasn’t trailing seaweed, but he sure did smell like the ocean, with a hint of sweet brine, a fragrance. I longed to lick him dry, linger at the pleats of his chest muscles, lick his pits and burrow between his asscheeks. My mind conjured an image of him staked out on the hot sand, four limbs pulled taut, struggling, straining, his dick pointing to the heavens as I stroked myself into a glorious release.… “Boy Jim, I gather,” Craig said, looking at my glistening collar of polished stainless steel links secured by a padlock. I nodded. Craig glanced at the torso-shaped indent in our blanket. “Where’s Daddy?” “Taking a leak.” “He’s got himself one hell of a good-looking boy. Cute, and a great body.” “Thanks.” “You’re a few inches shorter than me, and wiry like a male model—not the beefy Charles Atlas type, more like someone from Physique Pictorial. Where did those muscles come from?” “I’m a gymnast.” “I could have guessed. With a little weight lifting thrown in to keep in tone?” “Yep.” “Like bench presses, flys, pullovers.” “Yep.” Craig waited. “And a few more,” I offered with a shrug. “Curls, raises, and crunches and sit-ups. And yoga to keep limber.” I paused, then added, “Looks like you’ve been through the drill.” “Yeah, but you’re something else. Wish I had my camera.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  “So what’re you gonna do to me, Steve?” “I’m gonna make you scream so loud, the security officers from the next building are gonna come running in here with their guns in their hands.” “I like the sound of that.” Jason leaned back and rubbed his cock through his jeans. Steve slipped off his running shoes and discarded his socks. “Keep rubbing yourself,” Steve said. The boy’s hand moved and his breathing became louder. Steve dropped to his knees between Jason’s spread legs, taking Jason’s feet in his hands and easing off each of the loafers with a gentle tug. His hands explored the warm muscles of the boy’s feet, massaging the soles through the soft cotton. He peeled back the socks and held his left foot in his hands, running his fingers lightly along the instep, fingering the hair that curled along the bridge and delicately punctuated the toes. Jason leaned back into the cushions and let his arms fall loose at his sides. Steve inhaled the exotic fragrance of Jason’s sweat, touching the tip of his tongue to the soft underside of the boy’s toes. Jason looked up in surprise, his foot jerking involuntarily. He laughed, whispered, “Ticklish,” and melted back into the cushions. Steve licked along the length of the boy’s sole, memorizing the ridged contours and the tangy taste of him. Jason moaned softly, turning his head from side to side, but keeping his eyes closed. Steve sat back on his heels, hearing the crackling pops in his joints as he stood. Jason looked up at him with soft, curious eyes. His hand rubbed lazily along the length of his cock, tracing the contours through the denim as he watched Steve. Steve reached down and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, peeling it up across his firm belly and muscular chest and pulling it over his head. He tossed the shirt at Jason, who let it land with a muffled slap on his face. He inhaled deeply, groaning before he pulled the shirt from his eyes. Steve stood in front of him in his loose cotton running shorts, tented by his rearing erection. Jason’s eyes scanned Steve from head to foot, taking him in with growing excitement. Steve let his own hands caress his chest, brushing his nipples and drawing Jason’s eyes to the marbled perfection of his forearms, his collarbone and his flat stomach. He rubbed the head of his cock through the soft cotton of his running shorts, which were damp now with sweat and precum. “Come here, boy,” Steve said. Jason sat forward on the couch. “Take it out,” Steve said. Jason reached out and grasped Steve by the hips. He leaned forward to cup his mouth around the hard, cloth-covered cock, blowing a gentle stream of superheated air through the cotton. Steve shuddered and took a half step forward.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  At night I’d pull the covers up to my chin in the cold and listen to the momentary gust of laughter outside as a master and his wife bade farewell to another couple after a late dinner (“Thanks, Rachel.” “So long, Hal”). Car doors slammed. A cold motor struggled to turn over. Success. Lights on. Motor in gear. Final farewells. Then a handkerchief of brightness was drawn across my ceiling, next the magician pulled a beige out of the white, a gray out of the beige, finally black from gray. On that ultimate cloth I tossed the dice: I began to meditate. I threw back the blankets, took off my pajama top and, shivering but determined to master mere flesh, sat cross-legged on my cot. I knew nothing of bonafide Oriental procedures, but I made up my own from scraps of information I’d gathered here and there, overheard table talk at the banquet of bliss. Not limber enough to hook my feet over my thighs, I contented myself with a drooping lotus and pressed my hands together in my lap, thumb tip to thumb tip, second joints of my fingers united (the “people” inside the “church” of a more Christian childhood game). I proceeded to regulate my breathing through my nose, careful siphoning off of aerial fuel, and while I concentrated on its flow my eyes turned upward and inward to the roots of my eyebrows until my eyes ached and I feared that they’d stick there, that I’d stay cross-eyed for life. Nor could I help wondering how I’d look to an observer, drugged lids over white crescents. Much as I focused on my breathing my thoughts would nevertheless rub against homework or hyperspace off into a new dimension and start drifting down to pinkish-red pubic hair, or they’d curl like a morning glory around the simple picket of a noise in the hall (whose footsteps?). As long as I gave myself commands to breathe I could almost exclude distractions, as though I were pressing a door against an invader, but then the ghost of an idea would float right through the door, I’d become distracted, soon the door was swinging wide open on its hinges, a hog was sniffing the floor for food, all was quietly, bucolically lost and whatever was vegetative in me had engulfed whatever had been vertebrate—which in any case had begun to ache and arc in response to the tropisms of the flesh.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Kevin may have been cocky, but he wasn’t one of those suave country club boys. He wasn’t well groomed and I don’t think he thought about such things; he didn’t date girls yet and he wore clothes unironed out of the dryer until they got dirty and his mother threw them back into the washer. He still watched cartoons on television before an early supper and when he was sleepy he leaned against his father, eyes blinking and registering nothing. His seven-year-old brother, Peter, was a nervous boy, morbidly eager to be just like Kevin. As my father barked commands, Kevin and Peter and I secured the Chris-Craft to the dock and covered it with canvas. We climbed the many steps up to the house, Old Boy blazing the trail, then darting back to urge my father on. The house was brilliant with lights. Kevin’s parents had bumped me from my upstairs room, the place where last week I had read Death in Venice and luxuriated in the tale of a dignified grown-up who died for the love of an indifferent boy my age. That was the sort of power I wanted over an older man. And I awakened to the idea that a great world existed in which things happened and people changed, took risks—more, took notice: a world so sensitive, like a grand piano, that even a step or a word could awaken vibrations in its taut strings. Since the house was built on a very steep hill, the basement wasn’t underground, though its cinderblock walls did smell of damp soil. There were only two rooms in the basement. One was a “rumpus room” with a semicircular glass-brick bar that could be lit from within by a pink, a green and an orange bulb (the blue had burned out).

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  To the degree that he was not concerned with his past he was interested in me, since I could talk to him about everything except sports. I don’t mean to suggest we had a great, flourishing friendship (that kind of friendship came later, with another teacher and his wife). But Mr. Pouchet and I did go to church together. At Eton we were expected to attend services every Sunday, ordinarily those conducted by our own Anglican chaplain, an overgrown boy of startling good looks, great prowess as a skier and no imagination who lived on a strangely easygoing, joshing basis with Our Lord. The matey tone of Eton forbade preening of any sort; the chaplain, true to form, acted as though Christ had been putting on airs and needed to be brought down a peg. When forced to relay some real stunner (And then, on the third day, He arose from the dead), the chaplain would widen his eyes with mocking astonishment (Oh, come now), and after he had finished speaking, he’d snicker skeptically (God only knows how he pulled off that stunt). Mr. Pouchet was too discreet to complain about the chaplain but I’m confident Pouchet, a good Catholic boy, found chapel every weekday morning insupportable enough without having to submit to the longer Sunday sermon as well. He and I happily slipped away to services elsewhere, semi-anthropological field trips in his old car to a Greek Orthodox church one week, Roman Catholic the next, Baptist the third, a spiritual smorgasbord I found to be a natural continuation of my earlier sect-hopping. Mr. Pouchet had very full lips the color of raspberry ice when it’s still in the carton, before it’s licked lighter, and slightly protruberant eyes as liquid as a spaniel’s. His skin was very thin and olive and his mustache, though shaved close every morning, appeared as a black band by noon, nor did it grow close to his lip but well above, the sort of narrow, absolutely horizontal dash a child might charcoal in on Halloween. His chest was hard and covered with swirling, soft, lustrous black hair from his stomach up to his shoulders; his nipples were small and almost purple. His belly, ridged with muscle, stood out as a distinct zone, tucked in betwen the arc of his rib cage and cupped by his pelvic bones—the shape of a turtle’s shell. Those famous legs were surprisingly lean. They were not the massive machinery I would have anticipated. As a naive materialist, at least when it came to men, I missed the carnality of limbs that could perform so astonishingly. Where did the strength come from? When he was at rest, where did the speed go?

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  The man who asked him about the three-way is very attractive—and Jim is instinctively sure they're not cops. He will reciprocate with him, but he can't see the other clearly. So, to protect himself, he says, “I could get into it, but I don't do anything, myself.” The second man leans forward—he's equally attractive as the first. “You've got a gorgeous bod. Can we follow you?” Yes. 4:24 A.M. The Apartment. Before dawn. Immediately, they're in the bedroom. All naked. Lovers from San Francisco, the two have lean bodies, sensual faces. From the pocket of his shirt, the taller of the two, both dark, brings out two amyl ampules—poppers—and a metallic inhaler. Jim lies back on the bed—two mouths lick his body; it awakens completely. He flexes on the bed, sending blood rushing to his muscles. Hard naked bodies shift about him. The tall man's cock is inches from Jim's mouth, and Jim is tempted to take it between his lips; but at least for now he wants to indulge the one-way expression of desire for him by the two. He stands over them, legs spread. The shorter of the two men pops the amyl ampule, holds it up to Jim, the chemical odor holds him tightly, seals these moments of wild sex. He can hear the blood pumping in his head. The sex scene seems bordered, like a photograph, for close observation. The others sniff the ampule stuffed into the inhaler. Standing, Jim directs the two heads to the areas of his body he wants explored by the eager tongues—flexed biceps, flexed pectorals, tensed stomach, tensed thighs, calves, cock, balls, ass. Now he lies back on the bed, and the glued mouths move with him. Each of the two is alternately jerking his own cock, the other's, Jim's. Now both mouths meet at Jim's genitals; the lips of one pulling lightly at the pubic hairs, the other's eating the head of his cock. The amyl encloses the scene even more tightly. Like the others', Jim's cock is hard, hard. He stretches on the bed. The two others flank him, head to feet. They suck his cock and balls, their lips and tongues touching over Jim's groin. Now Jim's mouth receives the tall man's cock, then shifts to the other's, back to the tall man's, now the other's. He leans back, body stretching, ending for now the reciprocal acts. Now the taller poises his ass over Jim's straining cock, and the shorter man directs Jim's prick into his lover's ass. Jim enters it. The man raises and lowers his ass on the sliding cock. The third man holding the cock in place, Jim and the other shift their bodies on the bed. The tall man now lies on his back, legs held wide open by his lover into a wide-flaring V. The shorter man licks Jim's ass. Jim pumps easily, pulling out his cock all the way, pushing it in again, out, in.