Excitement

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 Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Down between their thighs, I watched their studplay: kissing mouths and licking tits and rubbing biceps; both pairs of blond balls beginning to swell, rolling and rising, left nut over right, then back again, with the dorsal veins on the underside of their almost-twin cocks growing thick with potency, both cousins totally into each other, talking dirty in short one-word grunts, saying, “dick,” “big dick,” “big blond dick,” “beat it,” “big fucking arms,” “sweat,” “dick,” “juicy hard dick,” “lick,” “suck,” “gonna take you on the mat, motherfucker,” “gonna cum,” “on his face,” “shoot it on his fucking face.” And they did, both cousins, locked in their embrace of arms and chests and faces, beating their meat over my face, squirting the loads of their young, blond ten-inch dicks into my mouth held open wider than a choirboy stuck on the fourth note of “O Holy Night.” I came without touching myself. I was eighteen too, remember, and this was summer’s end, and nothing, I was certain, would ever be this much fun again. Not even when we became grownups. We fell together into a pig pile of sweat and cum and cock. MacTag and Young Tag dozed with me sandwiched between them. The only sound was the buzz of the Coleman lantern and the crazed moth that circled it. I heard footsteps come the final three steps up the cabin stairs. The cousins’ two pairs of sleeping blond arms wrapped around my head kept me in traction. The footsteps, heavy even in Reeboks, stepped directly behind my head. I looked up over my eyebrows, and I gulped. It was Big Tag grinding his twelve-inch keeper in his hand. I could tell he was on the last ten strokes of cumming. He had been watching us all along. He raised his fingers to his lips to keep my silence. His fine big body arched back, displaying his massive cock, one hand working his nipples left and right. Then he stood almost at military brace, and with a silent tremor, holding in his cumshout, wanting to shoot the surprise of his load on the pair of unsuspecting, dozing blonds, gritting his breath, blowing air between his teeth, he shot the load of the father on his son, his nephew and me, thick blasts of cum splashing down on us three boys like hot rain in August. I don’t need to send you a fish-camp postcard. You get the picture. I have the pictures. Like, I still have them. In my head. In my dick. In my scrapbook. One picture in particular: the four of us, Tag and Big Tag and MacTag and me, standing nearly naked, our big dicks half hanging out of our Speedos, all in a line, with our arms around each other’s shoulders like we would always be best friends forever together.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  We were under way. The speedboat lunged forward with so much force that we were pressed back against our seats. Peter, Kevin’s seven-year-old brother, was in the rumble seat, his hair streaming under the rippling flag, his mouth open to scream with delighted fear, though the sound was lost behind gales of wind. He waved a skinny arm and with his other hand clutched a chromium grip beside him; even so, he was posting high as we spanked over someone else’s wake. Our own was thrown back from the prow. The night, intent seamstress, fed the fabric of water under the needle of our hull, steadily, firmly, except the boat wasn’t stitching the water together but ripping it apart into long white shreds. Along the shore a few house lights here and there peered through the pines, as fleeting as stars glimpsed through the moving clouds above. We shot past an anchored boat of fishermen and their single kerosene lamp; one of them shook his fist at us. The lake narrowed. Over to the right lay the nine-hole golf course (I knew it was there, though I couldn’t see it) with its ramshackle clubhouse and wicker armchairs painted green, its porch swing on creaking chains. Once a month we showed up there late for Sunday supper, our clothes not right, our talk too distant and forthright, the cigar a foul smudge pot set out to ward off the incoming social frost. Now Dad’s cigar had gone out and he stopped the boat to relight it. From our high windy perch we drifted down, engine cut to a mild churning. When the exhaust pipe dipped above water level, it blatted rudely. “Boy, I’m soaked!” Peter was screaming in his soprano. “I’m freezing. Gee, you sure let me have it!” “Too much for you, young fellow?” my father asked, chuckling. He winked at me. The children of visitors (and sometimes their fathers) were usually called “young fellow,” since Dad could never remember their names. Old Boy, who had been squinting into the wind, his head stuck out beyond and around the windshield, was now prancing happily across the cushions to receive a pat from his master. Kevin, sitting just behind my father, said, “Those fishermen were mad as hell. I’d’ve been, too, if some guy in a big fat-ass powerboat scared off my fish.” My father winced, then grumbled something about how they had no business … He was hurt.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  “You fuckin’ little Size Freak.” MacTag said it in the appreciative way a big-hung guy says a line like that when he knows he’s on to a cocksucker who won’t waste his time sucking down anything less than eight inches. Believe it or not, some cocksuckers won’t do big dicks. Or can’t. Or worse, tongue-and-lip only the tips like most of those lipstick dollies do in straight suck films. Go figure. MacTag, faster than I could think, picked me up, throwing my legs over his shoulders, just like that statue of ancient wrestlers, hanging my head upside down facing his big juicy dick. “Suck it, fuck-face!” he said. He knew from the walls of Fort Cobb I liked to hear bullies talk nasty. “Suck it! Or I’ll bodyslam you to the fucking floor.” Upside down, I took the flared head of his cock into my mouth, figuring its circumference more than seven inches. He bounced me on his shoulder with one hand, banging the back of my head with the other, kind of dribbling my noggin like a basketball down on his rod. He was teaching me a whole new sixty-nine. Then he flipped me up over his shoulders and swung me in full-circle airplane spins. God! He was strong. His dick stuck out, proud of his performance. Sex-wrestling turned him on. Suddenly he raised me, pressed me, by the sheer strength of his upper body to arms’ length, high in the air, above his head. I whipped my dick. This was new! This was sexplay! This was what the big boys do! Then like the surprise thrill on an E-Ticket ride in an X-rated park, he slam-dropped me like a feather to the floor. As crazy as it was, everything seemed in slow motion. He threw his big thighs across my chest, took one of my wrists in each hand, stretched my arms out and slid his drooling cock across my pecs and toward my face, where he buried it headfirst in my mouth before starting the snake’s slow slithering down my throat. Everything felt awful comfortable. I realized I wasn’t on the hardwood floor. I was pinioned on a mattress on the floor. MacTag was a class act, but how did he do that? I heard a loud slap. The kind of slap one strong flat palm makes striking another when two men slap five. “Tag team!” MacTag said. “Tag team!” Young Tag said. I tried to say, “Oh, shit,” around MacTag’s pumping cock. Young Tag had been napping in one of the upper bunks while MacTag read. He’d tossed the four single mattresses to the floor. “Tie this on,” he said to MacTag. He handed him a camouflage-green bandana folded to a headband. “We’re the Blond Mercenaries,” Young Tag said. “We got plenty between us because we got twenty inches between us! Whoa!” “He wants a full nelson,” MacTag said.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  “Come in,” I said in a seductive tone. “But first turn off the bathroom light.” The door opened. “Holy shit!” Craig exclaimed. Daddy chuckled. “Guess we belong on the bed.” I crawled over to the dresser and pushed the start button on my iPod. Disco music filled the room. I grasped the footboard and slowly rose as I leaned back, knowing full well that they could see the amorphous reflection of my flexed back muscles in the mirror. Daddy and Craig were embedded in the pillows, hands across their chests. They applauded when they saw my bare chest and Daddy’s surfer shorts. I lowered the waistband until the top of my red thong peeked out, and rubbed my taut abdomen. “Take it off, take it off,” they yelled. I pulled my shorts back up. I did a full turn and grabbed one of the six-foot-tall bedposts, humped it in time to the raucous beat, and lowered my shorts. I caressed the crotch of my thong; the outline of my cock cage was clearly delineated. I pranced, stepped out of the shorts, and threw them a kiss. I did a half turn, leaned my bare ass into the footboard, wiggled it, slid back to my ersatz pole, pulled myself partway up, locked my legs around the slippery wood, and gyrated. The applause was deafening in our small room. Finally, I hopped onto the bed and seductively lowered my thong, which I kicked into Craig’s face. I stood motionless, hands on hips, in a bulging black posing strap, its thin white strings climbing over the natural curves of my hips and disappearing into my buttcrack. More applause accompanied hoots and hollers. I did a backflip off the bed, landed on my feet, and finished my performance with a wild dance, replete with turns, kicks and sidesteps. The music stopped as I did a split, legs flat on the floor, with my disembodied shit-eatin’ grin above the headboard. There was no immediate applause. My audience was too busy wanking. I turned up the room light a tad and disappeared into the kitchen. I returned naked, except for my cock cage, with three cans of soda. Craig and Daddy slid apart and I slithered between them. “Great show, my beautiful boy,” Daddy chuckled. “Yeah,” Craig said. “Such a beauty.” We drank in silence. Daddy raised his index finger to his chin. “On your knees boy, facing the headboard,” he ordered. “Yes Sir!” Daddy fluffed the pillow between me and the headboard. “All right if Craig fucks you?” he asked. “Er, yes, Sir,” I replied, not wanting to appear overeager as my cock stiffened again. “Good! And I’ll fuck Craig. Okay?” “Okay.” Both men put on rubbers and Craig lubed my hole while Daddy greased Craig’s. There was some finger poking and prodding, but not much was needed for two hungry, greedy cavities. I was glad for short, smooth fingernails. Craig and I spread our legs.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  He let a small silence grow as I sensed some of the hero worship leaking away. Then, “How come you went for the SEALS?” “After boot, I got caught up in the spirit and put in for BUD/S training.” “How was it?” “Hell,” I said simply. He grinned into the dying flames. “How about Hell Week?” “Hell on steroids. You thinking about becoming a tadpole?” That brought a quick frown and another swig from the bottle. “Naw. Not cut out for it. Wouldn’t fit in,” he added enigmatically. I left it where it was, and we sat around languidly nipping at the beer, me relating carefully selected bits and pieces of the last ten years while the night slipped away. I even told him a little about Beet. “Beet? How’d he get a name like that?” “His last name was Borak, and that’s Polak for a beet farmer.” I tried to bleed the emotion from my voice. “He was a great guy.” “Sounds like he was your bud. You know, your pal.” He paused before adding. “Special.” “Yeah, he was. I mustered out and turned mercenary with him. That’s how special he was.” “Guess guys get close like that when they’re living and fighting together.” “It happens,” I allowed. Had he sensed our true relationship? “You ever kill anybody with your hands?” Another one from out of the blue. “Yes,” I answered quietly. This was getting a little intense. “How did you do it? Cut the guy’s throat?” I shook my head mutely. “Then how? Show me.” He looked stricken. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get so personal.” “If I show you, I might get carried away.” I tried for some humor. “That’s okay,” he responded. “I absolve you in advance.” “You might, but the law won’t. Stand up,” I ordered, my voice a little sharper than intended. As he rose, I slipped away from the fire and melted into the trees. A second later, I heard him call to me. “Daniel? Where are you, man?” I silently circled the camp. From his occasional shouts, I judged he was growing nervous. This wasn’t the way he had planned for the game to go. Understanding he would shift his stance continuously to watch for me, I eased behind a fat water oak directly to his left. When he turned to check another direction, I slipped up behind him and threw my left arm around his throat. My right thumb pressed gently against his carotid. He gave a strangled gasp and started to struggle, but quit when I pressed harder. His artery pulsed wildly beneath my thumb. “That’s the way I did it,” I whispered with my lips against his ear. I eased the pressure but was loath to release him from my embrace. He leaned against me in relief. “You scared the hell out of me, man. But…but it was sort of exciting, too. I didn’t even hear you. I knew you were coming, but I never heard a thing.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  When a good-looking summer-camp director who stands six-four and weighs in at a solid 225 spreads his jock-thighs across my chest while the morning sun spotlights the blond hair on his pecs and forearms, I know, like the joke about where the two-thousand-pound canary can sit, that any man that much larger than life can, if he wants, sit on my face and pedal my ears till the cows come home. I worship big dick and Big Tag loved adoration. His cock played my vocal chords like the devil plays fiddle. “You want it, huh? You little cocksucker.” Beat me, daddy. Eight to the bar. Obviously, father and son, probably playing “tag” together, had pillow-talked about me behind my back, and that’s always the best kind of talk. Besides, I’d read some of the graffiti written on the walls of Fort Cobb. Big Tag spread my jaws and drill-pumped me inch by inch, working deeper, bringing tears to my eyes and choking sounds to my throat. “Your throat’s too tight too soon,” he said. He worked me loose so he could go deeper. Six inches was easy to handle. I slurped him like a pro. Inches seven and eight came harder, but not that hard. Early that summer his son had broken the deep-cherry back in my throat where a hard cock exits down and out the back of your mouth and passes through the first gate leading to your guts. I worried about inches nine through twelve. Like, could I swallow that much cock? I’d never quite got fully impaled on his son’s ten-incher; but then Young Tag was rougher getting his nut. Big Tag was smoother, more experienced. He talked dirty to me—I’m a sucker for verbal sex—almost hypnotizing me, fuck-talking, building my passion for the triumph of swallowing his total manhood down to the root. He was so intense a talker he convinced me to go for it, to dare to take it. He slipped me inch nine, then pulled out, real slow and gentle, and immediately drove back in, knocking off inch ten, surprising me, smiling a small sneer that curled up under his bushy blond moustache. The sweet blond hairs of his crotch were still two inches from my face, and I knew he wouldn’t shoot till my nose was buried in his groin, and he was in me a foot deep, his full twelve inches. My own cock was bouncing fast in my hand. Big Tag, who always kept a neat pinch of Copenhagen under his lower lip, turned and spit slow sweet tobacco drool down on my dick. “Beat your meat,” he said. “You’ll find room for my last two inches in your own cock. When your own cock gets cock-crazy, you’ll let me in.”

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  What I was doing in those spring months was once again steeling my social nerve. I was becoming popular—not in a big way, of course, but as a bit player. I started smoking cigarettes in order to join the Butt Club, a coterie of fascinating disreputables who’d obtained parental permission to meet for fifteen minutes after lunch and dinner and for half an hour before bedtime to smoke. Serious athletes, admired prefects, good school citizens—they all looked down on us. We were not square, we were bums, hoods, bad characters. One small windowless room in the basement had been set aside for our regrettable hobby. Someone pinned up the famous nude calendar pose of Marilyn Monroe on the cinderblock wall, but even her maraschino charms looked bilious under the low-wattage green bulb screwed into the ceiling for “atmosphere.” I had never been bad before. Of course I’d been intolerably wicked or maybe just sick in sleeping with other boys and men, but those transgressions were secret and solitary. Now at last I, who’d always been considered obedient, even docile, was rubbing shoulders with guys who were about to flunk out, who got drunk and totaled cars, who knocked up girls, who got into fistfights with their dads, who stole motorcycles and went off on joy rides, who had created such chaos at home they’d been banished to Eton. These boys accepted anyone at all so long as he was a smoker and a failure. Here came the hell raisers who sneaked off campus after lights-out, who downed a quart of vodka a day and nodded off in class, who faked medical excuses to get out of gym, who went weeks without showering (“Give us a break”), who jerked off in the back of class to the amazement of their neighbors (“Yuck”), who farted and popped their zits in assembly (“Ee—yuh”), who bought term papers from brains or beat the brains up, who in one case seduced a master’s wife (“Neat”), in another a fat Latvian wash-up girl with greasy braids on the kitchen staff (“Barf”).

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  I put my hands on their shoulders and nudged them closer. They pressed into each other and linked hands. I grabbed a gigantic white towel and swiped their backs simultaneously. They moaned and groaned when I wiped their asses and legs. I paused. Then I knelt and buried my face in Daddy’s crack. “Jesus,” he said. I burrowed deeper and used my teeth to tug on a few hairs. I ran my tongue around his hole and pushed in as far as possible, which wasn’t too deep since he was standing, but I did my best. My efforts were appreciated, judging by Daddy’s purring. I withdrew, uttered a slow “Yummy,” licked my lips, and crawled around to Craig. I went to work on his muscular ass. At last! I nibbled each orb and did my best to make him purr as well. I succeeded and stood. “Now for the front. Face me,” I ordered. They followed instructions okay—for Daddies. I wiped their chests, pinching a nipple or two through the fluffy towel. Then I squatted and blew on their dicks as I daubed their crotches and worked my way down to their toes. “Feels great,” Daddy said. “Yeah,” Craig added, “real good.” Their dicks reflected their delight. And their asses looked fantastic in the mirror. I tossed the towel to one side. Daddy looked me in the eye. “Kneel,” he ordered. I opened my mouth and took his dick. I could tell he wanted to pee before he got real hard. “I know you can take two dicks, boy. But can you take two pissing dicks?” he asked. “Christ almighty,” Craig said. I pulled the edge of my mouth as far wide as I could with my index finger, and Daddy guided Craig’s dick into me. I clamped down softly. Daddy put his arm around Craig’s waist and Craig followed suit. Then Daddy started. Just a few drops. Likewise, Craig. Daddy’s flow increased and so did Craig’s. I held my head back, throat open, and gulped as fast as I could. Finally, my eyes must have bulged, ’cause Daddy said, “That’s enough, let’s finish in the toilet.” I sank back on the floor, their piss sloshing in my stomach. They shook their dicks and stared at me. “Great job, boy!” Daddy said. Craig concurred. “Water?” Daddy asked. “No, thanks,” I answered and licked my lips. My cock cage pointed straight up. “Stay in here until summoned,” I said in a mock gruff tone as I scampered into the bedroom and closed the door. I didn’t know what they’d do, but I sure knew where I was headed. I donned an outfit and oiled my body. An enormous mirror hung above the breakfront that stretched along the wall facing the king-sized four-poster bed. I lit an emergency hurricane lamp, fluffed up four bed pillows, and doused the overhead lights. An eerie, seductive glow pervaded the room. I crouched in the corner.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Downstairs I undressed by the colored light of the glass-brick bar and, wearing just a T-shirt and jockey shorts, hurried into the dark dormitory and slipped into my cot. Nights on the lake are cold even in July; the bed had two thick blankets on it that had been aired outside that day and smelled of pine needles. I listened to the grown-ups; the metal vents conducted sound better than heat. Their conversation, which had seemed so lively and sincere when I had witnessed it, now sounded stilted and halting. Lots of fake laughter. Silences became longer and longer. At last everyone said good night and headed upstairs. Another five minutes of moaning pipes, flushing toilets and padding feet. Then long murmured consultations in bed by each couple. Then silence. “You still awake?” Kevin called from his bed. “Yes,” I said. I couldn’t see him in the dark but I could tell his cot was at the other end of the room; Peter was audibly asleep on the cot between. “How old are you?” Kevin asked. “Fifteen. And you?” “Twelve. You ever done it with girls?” “Sure,” I said. I knew I could always tell him about the black prostitute I’d visited. “You?” “Naw. Not yet.” Pause. “I hear you gotta warm ’em up.” “That’s correct.” “How do you do it?” I had read a marriage manual. “Well, you turn the lights down and kiss a long time first.” “With your clothes on?” “Of course. Then you take off her top and play with her breasts. But very gently. Don’t get too rough—they don’t like that.” “Does she play with your boner?” “Not usually. An older, experienced woman might.” “You been with an older woman?” “Once.” “They get kinda saggy, don’t they?” “My friend was beautiful,” I said, offended on behalf of the imaginary lady. “Is it real wet and slippery in there? Some guy told me it was like wet liver in a milk bottle.” “Only if the romantic foreplay has gone on long enough.” “How long’s enough?” “An hour.” The silence was thoughtful, as though it were an eyelash beating against a pillowcase. “The guys back home? Guys in my neighborhood?” “Yes?” I said. “We all cornhole each other. You ever do that?” “Sure.” “What?” “I said sure.” “Guess you’ve outgrown that by now.” “Well, yeah, but since there aren’t any girls around …” I felt as a scientist must when he knows he’s about to bring off the experiment of his career: outwardly calm, inwardly jubilant, already braced for disappointment. “We could try it now.” Pause. “If you want to.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt he wouldn’t come to my bed; he had found something wrong with me, he thought I was a sissy, I should have said “Right” instead of “That’s correct.” “Got any stuff?” he asked. “What?” “You know. Like Vaseline?”

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  “Bad, bad girl,” said Lo comfortably. “Juvenile delickwent, but frank and fetching. That light was red. I’ve never seen such driving.” We rolled silently through a silent townlet. “Say, wouldn’t Mother be absolutely mad if she found out we were lovers?” “Good Lord, Lo, let us not talk that way.” “But we are lovers, aren’t we?” “Not that I know of. I think we are going to have some more rain. Don’t you want to tell me of those little pranks of yours in camp?” “You talk like a book, Dad.” “What have you been up to? I insist you tell me.” “Are you easily shocked?” “No. Go on.” “Let us turn into a secluded lane and I’ll tell you.” “Lo, I must seriously ask you not to play the fool. Well?” “Well—I joined in all the activities that were offered.” “Ensuite?” “Ansooit, I was taught to live happily and richly with others and to develop a wholesome personality. Be a cake, in fact.” “Yes. I saw something of the sort in the booklet.” “We loved the sings around the fire in the big stone fireplace or under the darned stars, where every girl merged her own spirit of happiness with the voice of the group.” “Your memory is excellent, Lo, but I must trouble you to leave out the swear words. Anything else?” “The Girl Scout’s motto,” said Lo rhapsodically, “is also mine. I fill my life with worthwhile deeds such as—well, never mind what. My duty is—to be useful. I am a friend to male animals. I obey orders. I am cheerful. That was another police car. I am thrifty and I am absolutely filthy in thought, word and deed.” “Now I do hope that’s all, you witty child.” “Yep. That’s all. No—wait a sec. We baked in a reflector oven. Isn’t that terrific?” “Well, that’s better.” “We washed zillions of dishes. “Zillions’ you know is school-marm’s slang for many-many-many-many. Oh yes, last but not least, as Mother says—Now let me see—what was it? I know: We made shadowgraphs. Gee, what fun.” “C’est bien tout?” “C’est. Except for one little thing, something I simply can’t tell you without blushing all over.” “Will you tell it me later?” “If we sit in the dark and you let me whisper, I will. Do you sleep in your old room or in a heap with Mother?” “Old room. Your mother may have to undergo a very serious operation, Lo.” “Stop at that candy bar, will you,” said Lo. Sitting on a high stool, a band of sunlight crossing her bare brown forearm, Lolita was served an elaborate ice-cream concoction topped with synthetic syrup. It was erected and brought her by a pimply brute of a boy in a greasy bow-tie who eyed my fragile child in her thin cotton frock with carnal deliberation. My impatience to reach Briceland and The Enchanted Hunters was becoming more than I could endure. Fortunately she dispatched the stuff with her usual alacrity.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Somehow I was picking up the sound of sex. I was always on the alert for it, I studied boys as they came out of one another’s dorm rooms, I lounged on other guys’ beds during free time, always in expectation of a held glance, a missed beat, but I never heard a single hint. Now I was hearing something—tentative to be sure, but something real. “These jazz guys?” I said as I struck the final chord. “Yes?” “Some of them are oddballs, right? No offense, Mr. Beattie. I mean, the jazz world’s pretty progressive, right?” “Yeah. We say hip.” “Is this Bugs hip?” “How do you mean, exactly?” I smiled. The clock hands refused to move. “No, how do you mean?” Beattie repeated. He was also smiling. “Well, I was just wondering why you were putting him up in the parents’ suite instead of at your own house with your wife and kids.” Mr. Beattie’s eyes widened rhetorically; he wanted me to see them widening. “Boy,” he said, shaking his head, “you’re wild.” He covered the next beat by miming playing a saxophone. His fingers ran up and down imaginary keys and his cheeks swelled. He closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels. “Seriously,” I said, breathless and exhilarated but only in my capacity as spectator; as a performer I was beautifully calm. “Chuck says that marijuana—” “Sh-h-h!” Mr. Beattie hissed. “Don’t go talking that shit. That’s real bogue, man.” “Sorry,” I said, “Mr. Beattie.” “So what did you want to know?” His smile had migrated back and now he was wailing one more long note on his imaginary sax. “I just wanted to know if it’s good for sex.” “Is it—? Well, yeah.” He laughed. “Yeah. I had you pegged all wrong. I thought you were the Little Lord Fauntleroy type, but you’re hip. I like the way you just truck right in.” He mimed driving a truck. He took a swerve, then pressed down on the brake, glided to a halt, switched off the key, pulled it out, twirled it once and pocketed it. “Just as neat and simple as you please.” Very deliberate, now: “Yeah, kid, it’s great for sex. Next question.” I played a C-major scale. “Are you going to make me do all the work in this conversation?” “Possibly.” He grabbed his crotch, then looked down at his white hand, the white of cooked ham, gave it an extra shake and, as though satisfied with his test, smiled. “You’re a good kid,” he said, releasing himself. I could hear the football team shouting as the guys entered the athletics building next door; that must be the thunder of their cleats on the stone floor just inside the double doors. “Say you and Bugs are listening to music or something and you’re all alone in the parents’ suite and nobody’s around, because it is real isolated after all, and say you smoke some—” “We get high. So go on.”

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  My father, my mother and the woman who’d eventually be my stepmother took turns giving speeches, although my father was mostly silent unless prodded into murmurs by the women. My mother was saying, “If she is the one you really want, then far be it from me to stand in the way of your happiness, yet if I might speak in my own behalf …” The complex sentences with their unfamiliar locutions sometimes tripped my mother up, as though she were a debutante in her first long dress. Everything about the conference seemed dramatic—the late hour, the formal tone, even the notion that something momentous could or should be decided all at once. Soon my sister and I, sitting in the bleachers of the dark stairwell and peering down into the brightness, had sworn our own complicity by dissembling: both of us were excited by the prospect of living in a new city and shedding our difficult father, but we both pretended to be grief-struck. The real excitement, of course, lay in learning that a life could be changed and that one could enter a brand-new, better world (“I shall move wherever the children will have the cultural and eductional advantages of a major metropolis,” our mother was saying). That a life could be changed posited the still more thrilling notion that one had a thing called a life , a wonderful being that was growing silently inside like an infant. How its body would be formed and what its temperament would be like would surely remain unknown—along with the color of its eyes, the cubits of its height and the beauty of its face—up to the moment of birth. Until I heard the three adults discussing their lives and our lives (“I cannot lead my life in this way,” “The children have their whole lives before them”) I had never suspected that I’d been impregnated with this “life,” this tragic embryo. The divorce, for me, was primarily an accession into self-consciousness. It was also a deliverance from my father. Since he slept all day, I seldom saw him. But sometimes my mother would say, “Your father’s awake. Why don’t you go in and rub his back?” Reluctantly I’d enter the bedroom, in which the drawn curtains stained the late afternoon light. On the bed, face down, lay my naked father under sheets, like a sea monster beached and sick in a tide pool of foam. The mingled smells of night sweat and stale cigar smoke awed me; I toddled out and told my mother he was still sleeping. “No, no,” she said, smiling and guiding me back in.

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  I vanquish the saboteur: “But when I'm caught up in the beautiful hunt, I know it's the most exciting experience in the world—and at those times I wouldn't trade it for any other.” 12:35 A.M. Montana Street Hanson Avenue. A SENSE OF loss, unshaped defeat because of the earlier lack of connection in his apartment pulled Jim back to the streets—and the youngman he was with is also here again. The cars in this area have increased. Jim is about to get out when he sees the cops flashing their lights at cruising cars. The hunters scatter. Two not quick enough are being hassled by the cops. Jim drives into the park. No cars in the lot—the cops must have been through. But hunters who climbed the hill may be along the paths. Yes. There. Across the road and by the stone grotto stands a man, shirt open. Jim gets out. Now both men stand looking at each other from across the road. Like cats, Jim thinks suddenly. Neither will cross to the other's quickly delineated turf. Now defiantly, Jim removes his vest, stands shirtless, challenging the other. The other removes his shirt, challenging Jim back. Still, neither crosses to the other's side. The memory of the dark youngman he just went home with is still too fresh on Jim's mind. Again feeling cheated by the deadlock, he drives away. The shirtless man stares after him. 12:47 A.M. Sutton Street. Although it's past midnight, for Jim it's still Friday; the night will not end until he goes home to sleep. Before dawn. Along lower Hollywood Boulevard, transvestites defy the threatening streets. Jim drives to a subway tunnel connecting one side of the street to the other; these underground tunnels recur throughout the city, for pedestrians to avoid heavy traffic. A man stands like a dedicated sentry by the tunnel's mouth. His eyes search Jim's passing car. Seeing Jim park, the man hurries down the steps of the subway tunnel. Jim walks to that corner, stands by the railing at the top of the tunnel. Glancing down, he sees the man in the fan of smothered light at the bottom of the steps. The man touches his own groin and runs his tongue over his lips. Jim descends into the murky tunnel; the faint odor of cum permeates the air. The man slides down against the wall. On it is engraved the crude drawing of a giant cumming cock. Jim offers his cock, the other sucks it. Now chemical, electric signals go out into the street. Silently, another outlaw, alerted, enters the tunnel. In the stifled light, the man blowing Jim doesn't pause. The youngman entering already has his cock out.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  I pulled his mouth closer and kissed him. He reciprocated. We couldn’t stop. I encouraged his hands to explore my body, and then I sucked his fingers while staring into his eyes. He looked like he was in heaven. “Wanna make your Daddy real proud? Fuck him and show him what a man you are.” His voice cracked. “Really? You want me to fuck you?” “Of course. But first I’m gonna get you nice and hard.” I gave him a quick kiss on the lips before I slid down to my knees and took his semihard cock into my mouth. “Wait, wait.” “Why?” “I have to go pee.” “So?” I encircled the tip of his cock gently and brought my hands upward to his pectorals. I slowly rubbed the muscle of his chest in circular motions. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he whispered. He struggled to stay soft enough to pee. I slowed the pace of my hands and he slowed his breathing. His eyes were closed. I stopped moving altogether, my mouth steady around the tip of his cock. Finally, after what seemed like forever, his piss warmed my mouth and throat, a tentative trickle at first, before he let go a flood of golden nectar. I didn’t lose a single drop. My boy needed to know how special he was. He pulled out his limp cock. “You okay, son?” I asked. “Fuck. That was like the greatest feeling in the world.” “Good! I still want to make you cum a third time.” “Are you for real?” “I told you I wanted to make you proud, right? It’s your turn to make me proud.” I returned to his cock, which plumped up nicely in almost no time. Ah, the joys of youth! He babbled about how hot it was to let go of his piss like that, how he’d never done that before, how he’d seen online clips of guys doing that, how he was too afraid to ask to try it— “Stop right there, young Mr. Martinez. Don’t ever think that I’ll judge you differently because of your kinky fantasies. In fact, I’ll probably indulge the ones you know and teach you more!” “Yes, Dad. Thank you, Dad.” “Good!” I resumed sucking his cock, but he pulled away. “What?” “I wanna eat out your hole.” “Thought you’d never ask!” I took his place against the wall. I wasn’t prepared for the intense assault. There was no foreplay; he was all tongue-inasshole. If his fast and furious rimming was any indication of his thrusting style, he was gonna ride my ass hard. It was going to be so easy for me to open up my hole for him; I had had forty years of all sorts of cocks and toys pushed up my back door. Rico gasped at how responsive my ass was to his lips.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  They’d become friends right away, decorating their tiny dorm room, figuring out how to share the only closet and the personal items they’d brought from home—Kathy’s clock radio, Jane’s foldable clothes dryer. Every night Jane diligently hand-washed her heavy wool socks in Woolite along with her bra and underpants and hung them on her wooden clothes dryer. Kathy collected her laundry for a week before using the washing machine in the basement of their dorm. Now, with finals coming up, they were studying, Kathy wrapped in the hand-knitted afghan her mother had made for her, Jane in her flannel robe. “That was fast,” Jane said. “Where does he go to school?” “Okay, promise not to laugh?” “Promise.” “He’s a senior in high school but he’s coming to Syracuse next year, assuming he gets in.” Jane just looked at her. “He’s mature for his age. Actually, we’re just a few months apart because he has a winter birthday and mine is November. So I want to get home for break after finals to see him again.” “You better make your reservations now.” “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to my cousin Phil. He’s Steve’s best friend. We’ll have fun.” “Where am I supposed to get the money to fly?” “I’ll bet my dad would spring for your ticket,” Kathy said. Her father was an orthopedic surgeon. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask your dad to pay for me. I can take the bus.” “But that would take all day, and another day getting back.” “That’s why I might not come.” “That’d be a disappointment.” “You’re going to see a boy. You don’t need me around.” “But it’s more fun when you’re around.” “Thanks.” “Wish me luck,” Kathy said. “I’m going to call home now.” “Good luck.” Kathy went out to the pay phone in the hall to dial her parents. [image "Elizabeth Daily Post" file=Image00015.jpg] [image "Elizabeth Daily Post" file=Image00015.jpg] PELHAM GIRL HAS BEST POSTURECites Muscular ControlJAN. 10 — The annual Posture Queen award at Barnard College was given yesterday to Miss Marjory Schulhoff of Pelham, N.Y. Freshmen were judged on the basis of carriage, poise and ease of movement, both walking and sitting. Miss Schulhoff, a prospective art major, was also queen of the Columbia College rush last fall. She attributed her success to sleep, good food and mus cular control. “Exercise alone won’t do it,” she said. “I know plenty of football players who walk like apes.” “You know,” the newly crowned Posture Queen added, “I’d feel better if it was an academic award.” 10 [image "image" file=Image00005.jpg] [image file=Image00005.jpg] MiriUsually, January was the longest month, dragging on and on, the weather cold and dreary, school routine and boring, everybody’s noses runny, their throats sore. But this January everything was different. Mason called Miri every night, sometime between nine and ten o’clock, whenever he got a break at the bowling alley.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  Actually I was toying with the idea of gently trickling across the Mexican border—I was braver now than last year—and there deciding what to do with my little concubine who was now sixty inches tall and weighed ninety pounds. We had dug out our tour books and maps. She had traced our route with immense zest. Was it thanks to those theatricals that she had now outgrown her juvenile jaded airs and was so adorably keen to explore rich reality? I experienced the queer lightness of dreams that pale but warm Sunday morning when we abandoned Professor Chem’s puzzled house and sped along Main Street toward the four-lane highway. My Love’s striped, black-and-white, cotton frock, jaunty blue cap, white socks and brown moccasins were not quite in keeping with the large beautifully cut aquamarine on a silver chainlet, which gemmed her throat: a spring rain gift from me. We passed the New Hotel, and she laughed. “A penny for your thoughts,” I said and she stretched out her palm at once, but at that moment I had to apply the brakes rather abruptly at a red light. As we pulled up, another car came to a gliding stop alongside, and a very striking looking, athletically lean young woman (where had I seen her?) with a high complexion and shoulder-length brilliant bronze hair, greeted Lo with a ringing “Hi!”—and then, addressing me, effusively, edusively (placed!), stressing certain words, said: “What a shame it was to tear Dolly away from the play—you should have heard the author raving about her after that rehearsal—” “Green light, you dope,” said Lo under her breath, and simultaneously, waving in bright adieu a bangled arm, Joan of Arc (in a performance we saw at the local theatre) violently outdistanced us to swerve into Campus Avenue. “Who was it exactly? Vermont or Rumpelmeyer?” “No— Edusa Gold—the gal who coaches us.” “I was not referring to her. Who exactly concocted that play?” “Oh! Yes, of course. Some old woman, Clare Something, I guess. There was quite a crowd of them there.” “So she complimented you?” “Complimented my eye—she kissed me on my pure brow”—and my darling emitted that new yelp of merriment which—perhaps in connection with her theatrical mannerisms—she had lately begun to affect. “You are a funny creature, Lolita,” I said—or some such words. “Naturally, I am overjoyed you gave up that absurd stage business. But what is curious is that you dropped the whole thing only a week before its natural climax. Oh, Lolita, you should be careful of those surrenders of yours. I remember you gave up Ramsdale for camp, and camp for a joyride, and I could list other abrupt changes in your disposition. You must be careful. There are things that should never be given up. You must persevere. You should try to be a little nicer to me, Lolita.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Some of this emphasis on political correctness, which visited the gay community a good decade before it beset the rest of America and England, was a useful corrective to unexamined prejudices, but gay writers often perceived gay critics as narrow and Stalinist. Of course gay writers were enjoying the benefits and prestige and excitement of being spokesmen for a newly emerging culture, but they were reluctant to have their freedom as artists trammeled by the same readers. One solution was to insist that gay critics did not speak for the general gay reader. In any event, this early clash between critics and novelists eventually developed into a much larger split, with gay academics and queer theorists on one side and the gay creative community on the other. In the 1980s, when queer theory was the most lively intellectual trend in the States, this split appeared particularly dramatic. Contemporary gay novelists were overshadowed by more glamorous queer theorists, who ignored them. When I wrote A Boy’s Own Story I was resolutely hostile to any external censorship. I had then—and still have—a philosophical devotion to the truth and a conviction not only that it will set us free but that it is in itself desirable and preferable to all comforting lies. For me this conviction is both moral and quasi-scientific, an urge to study social phenomena and intimate responses that have never been identified before. Every writer is grateful to have new subject matter; in the 1970s and ’80s gay public life and gay inner life were two previously underrepresented themes in fiction. Older gay fiction had sometimes looked at the underworld of Decadence or had shown isolated gay individuals or couples, but the privilege of the new gay fiction was to show the full range of gay experience (gay athletes, gay ranchers, gay businessmen) and of gay culture, especially in the ghetto. Larry Kramer’s Faggots, for instance, depicted gay friendship circles, whereas a gay novel of the preceding decades would have shown nothing but a romantic if doomed gay couple living outside all society. I had just written States of Desire: Travels in Gay America, which looked at the lives of many real gay men scattered across America. That book had been an attempt to show that gay men (at least the urban white males I met) had more in common with the heterosexual people in their region than they did with gays in general. It also attempted to detail the wide variety of values, goals, and jobs in gay America; we weren’t all just hairdressers or ribbon clerks in San Francisco or New York. The implicit burden of the book, I suppose, was to look at the new gay machismo, the birth of clone culture.

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  They had met at a series of informal consciousness raising groups on the MIT campus, where attendees had gotten to talking about their frustrations with their male doctors. These physicians, they complained, were condescending and couldn’t be bothered to answer questions about their bodies. Finally, they had a safe space to open up about their concerns: What really happened to their insides during pregnancy? Why were they so miserable each month before getting their periods? And was there a trick to enjoying—like, really enjoying—sex? The group, which was eventually whittled down to twelve women, made a list of topics and started researching them. They wrote up their findings in a booklet, published by the New England Free Press. The first print run of Our Bodies, Ourselves was 1,000 copies, and it sold out quickly. Another printing followed. After they sold over 200,000 books, major publishers started calling. In 1973, Simon & Schuster published an expanded version of Our Bodies, Ourselves , which covered everything from menstruation to abortion to postpartum depression. The illustrated tome, which included detailed drawings of the female anatomy and encouraged women to examine their vulvas and feel inside their own vaginas, was a phenomenon. Even the informational books written for children were getting less stuffy. Where Did I Come From? , published in 1973, was the Age of Aquarius update on How Babies Are Made , featuring colorful, cartoon-like illustrations. Unlike the 1968 Time-Life staple, Where Did I Come From? scraps all references to the birds and bees and skips right to the important part: naked humans. The book features pictures of two doughy, average-looking adults in the buff, and walks young readers through their relevant anatomical differences. Living up to its promise “to tell the truth,” it spends five full pages explaining the process of sexual intercourse, making reference to erections (“the man’s penis becomes stiff and hard”), ejaculation, and orgasms. The latter was especially daring, a break from popular wisdom that health education for kids should gloss over the part where sex feels good. This book, while sticking with the idea that heterosexual intercourse is necessarily procreative, broke new ground by acknowledging that sex isn’t just “special” and romantic—it’s pleasurable. “When the man and woman have been wriggling so hard you think they’re both going to pop, they nearly do just that,” author Peter Mayle explains. “All the rubbing up and down that’s been going on ends in a tremendous, big shiver for both of them,” which the book then goes on to compare to “a really big sneeze.” Where Did I Come From? is often silly, as when it describes sperm as “romantic” and illustrates the point with a drawing of a googly-eyed, tadpole-like creature draped over a heart, sniffing a rose and decked out in black tie. “There’s some joy and fun in that book,” said Cory Silverberg, author of a series of gender- and family-inclusive sex ed books, including Sex Is a Funny Word .

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  “It can’t always be easy, having for your mother this national expert on the private, and often sexual, feelings of teen-agers,” she continued, with Randy tersely confirming: “Sometimes Judy and I disagree.” The entire world, it seemed, needed Judy’s advice, yet her own kids wouldn’t come to her, though at times their unhappiness was obvious. “During a particularly rough time for our family my daughter, Randy, confessed to someone else that she wasn’t telling me the truth about how she was feeling because she sensed that I only wanted to hear that everything was wonderful,” Judy wrote in Letters to Judy . “Well, everything wasn’t wonderful and Randy found a way to let me know—by acting out her feelings.” By the late 1970s, Judy was a twice-divorced single mother stuck in a Southwestern city so that her children could graduate high school. She was also one of the hottest authors of her generation. Everything wasn’t wonderful, but some things were. And even Judy couldn’t deny that after four decades of people-pleasing, she was finally letting go. Chapter Seventeen Fame “One day, there’s going to be Judy Blume tampons.” On the night of Friday, January 6, 1978, Judy became TV-movie famous. The screen adaptation of Forever aired on CBS. Set in idyllic San Francisco instead of the East Coast suburbs, the cinematic version otherwise hewed closely to the novel: high school seniors Katherine Danziger and Michael Wagner meet at a party and spend the months leading up to graduation falling head over heels in love. Katherine was played by Stephanie Zimbalist, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of Efrem Zimbalist Jr., a sixties-era small-screen star who helmed the detective shows 77 Sunset Strip and The FBI . A then-unknown actor, a Bay Area native named Dean Butler, played Michael. Butler, at the time a handsome, blond twenty-one-year-old, wasn’t familiar with Blume or her books when he got the script. But once Forever was on his radar he picked up a copy of the novel. “The book struck me as incredibly candid,” he said. “I mean, one of the big deals in the book was what Michael’s name for his male anatomy was. I had never seen anything like that at twenty-one.” He approved of the sequence where Katherine went to get a prescription for birth control. “My mother was on the board of directors of Planned Parenthood in the Bay Area. So I was completely in sync with that idea.” He and Zimbalist “felt safe with each other,” Butler said, which was important because the script featured its fair share of love scenes. Unlike Blume’s book, the movie was cautious around its presentation of teen sex and sparing in its language—this was for national television, after all. Butler and Zimbalist’s Michael and Katherine engage in breathy, dimly lit, horizontal makeout sessions and exchange snippets of just-vague-enough dialogue. “Oh come on,” Michael says in an early sequence. Katherine shakes her head no. “Why not?” he goes on. “Not yet,” she answers.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  I said sure. I dashed down the hall to tell my mother, who in a rare domestic moment had a sewing basket on her lap. Her glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose and her voice came out slow and without inflection as she tried to thread a needle. “Guess what!” I shouted. “What, dear?” She licked the thread and tried again. “That was Tom and he arranged a date for me with Helen Paper, who’s the most beautiful and sophisticated girl in the whole school.” “Sophisticated?” There, the thread had gone through. “Yes, yes”—I could hear my voice rising higher and higher; somehow I had to convey the excitement of my prospects—“she’s only a freshman but she goes out with college boys and everything and she’s been to Europe and she’s—well, the other girls say top-heavy but only from sour grapes. And she’s the leader of the Crowd or could be if she cared and didn’t have such a reputation.” My mother was intent upon her sewing. She was dressed to go out and this, yes, it must be a rip in the seam of her raincoat; once she’d fixed it she’d be on her way. “Wonderful, dear.” “But isn’t it exciting?” I insisted. “Well, yes, but I hope she’s not too fast.” “For me?” “For anyone. In general. There, now.” My mother bit the thread off, her eyes suddenly as wide and empty and intelligent as a cat’s. She stood, examined her handiwork, put the coat on, moved to the door, backtracked, lifted her cheek toward me to peck. “I hope you have fun. You seem terribly nervous. Just look at your hands. You’re wringing them—never saw anyone literally wring his hands before.” “Well, it’s terribly exciting,” I said in wild despair. My sister wasn’t home, so I was alone once my mother had gone—alone to take my second bath of the day in the mean, withholding afternoon light permeating the frosted glass window and to listen to the listless hum of traffic outside, in such contrast to my heart’s anticipation. It was as though the very intensity of my feeling had drained the surroundings of significance. I was the unique center of consciousness, its toxic concentration.