Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (5 page)

Now for the gear. “Don’t fight me,” you warn. Roughly you
wrench his thick arms behind him, binding his wrists together with a rolled-up bandana. You force a cock-gag into his mouth, buckling the wide black-leather strap around his head. You push lubed fingers into him till he’s humping the couch and whining.

“Ready?” you ask, rubbing lube over your excited prick.

“Ummmmm!” Dwayne groans, nodding. “Ummmm!”

You push into him slowly, giving him time to grow used to you. Then you grasp his big shoulders and give it to him hard and fast.

It’s the perfect angle, the perfect height. It’s ecstasy to be inside Dwayne, your flesh imbedded within his tight, wet heat. It’s one of the finest fucks you’ve ever enjoyed. You slap his buttcheeks, wrap your arms around his torso, tug his nipples and pound him harder still.

“Like this, boy? Like your Daddy’s dick inside you?” you growl, chewing an earlobe.

“Ummmm huuuhhh! Uhhhhmm huhhhh!” Dwayne nods and writhes.

You rock together, a brotherly rhythm older than history. The sight of him, so strong, so young, gagged and restrained… the tightness of his asshole…his excited squirming and muted moaning… Nothing so intense can last for long. In a few sweaty minutes, you grip his hips, bury your dick to the hilt and, with a baritone snarl, shoot inside him, spout after spout of your pent-up seed.

After a breather, you free Dwayne’s hands, slip a towel under his butt, push two fingers up his ass and work his prostate while he jacks himself. Gasping against the cock-gag, he shoots his pearly wad into your beard, stickiness you rub in, wanting his aroma to linger.

IV

You’re alone tonight, your partner Doug out of town on another business trip, Bob and Dwayne too busy with work to drop by. It’s sleeting outside, a raw December night. A candle burns on your Wiccan altar, before images of the Mother Goddess and the Horned God.

You lie on the couch, watching the wood fire, drinking kirsch. You’re a little nostalgic, remembering your youth, those years of deep loneliness with little erotic outlet, musing on the few men you’ve loved. Muscle-cub Thomas, two decades ago, whom you adored so insanely, whose loss was such agony. Your partner Doug, who for fifteen years has made safe spaces for you, enduring your erratic nature and inveterate inability to keep your dick in your pants. Bob, so sharp-witted and well read, probably the best Top you’ve ever known. And Dwayne, the sexiest submissive you’ve ever had the good fortune to rope and ride.

Thomas left you. Someday, Doug will too. And Bob and Dwayne as well. Who knows how, when and why? The changing circumstances of lives. Career moves. Geographical or emotional distance. Aging. Illness. Death. Everyone loses; everyone leaves. You’ve spent most of your adult life trying to harden yourself, to prepare yourself to face those facts. But tonight, warmly buzzed, sleet tapping the windows and the soundtrack to
Thor
filling the room, you feel blessed.

You pull out your cock and fondle it, thinking of Bob fucking you from behind, Dwayne’s gagged moaning as you mount him. A man knows he’s had a glorious sex life when the images he jacks off to are those made of memory, not fantasy. At fifty-three, to have such hot young men in your life? Lucky, lucky, lucky.

What was it W. B. Yeats said? “I shall be a sinful man to
the end, and think upon my deathbed of all the nights I wasted in my youth.” On your deathbed, here’s hoping you remember it all. Here’s hoping you celebrate your good fortune as you slip from the world, reliving the nights not wasted on solitude, decades savoring the beautiful bodies of men.

You come in your hand, wipe yourself with a Kleenex, and drowse on the couch. Near midnight, you close up the fireplace, whisper thanks to the images on the altar, blow out the candle and head up to bed alone.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Rob Rosen

I
t wasn’t that he was all that handsome. Though, to be fair, he was sexy as all get out. It wasn’t that he was all that built either, but he was, as I said, sexy. Heck, there was really nothing about him that would’ve normally drawn me to him, besides the fact that he was, well, sexy.

Oh, and he was my coworker, my supervisor, really. Forbidden fruit, which went a long way in explaining why I found him so friggin’ sexy.

It was a gay-owned, gay-run office in the heart of the Castro, so the fact that I unabashedly flirted with him wasn’t that shocking, or really paid that much heed to. He flirted right on back, but only to a point. And it was that point, that line drawn in the scorching hot sand, that made me want so desperately to cross it.

I’d routinely hug him good morning, run my fingers through his thick mane of black hair, stare with abandon at his mesmerizingly blue eyes that sparkled under the office’s fluorescent lights.
All this he allowed. It was obvious he enjoyed the attention, the hugs especially. No kisses though. He’d turn his head when I’d try, when we were alone together, in the basement, in a private office, in the parking lot. Hugs, fine, but nothing more. I could squeeze the fruit, but I couldn’t pick it or take a hungry bite.

It was exasperating, at times frustrating. It killed me to have him so close, so ripe for the picking, and yet so seemingly far away, unattainable. But it was fun, too, an adventure of sorts. Like I said, sexy. And it continued for months and months on end.

Until fate at last stepped in.

Or flew in, really.

Our office was a franchise, and all the other franchises were meeting down in San Diego for a conference over a quick weekend. We’d all be going, but I didn’t give it or him or
us
any more thought than normal. I mean, the confines of our office would be taken away, but the less tangible confines would still be in place, the fruit just as forbidden, even out of its usual environment.

Then again, we didn’t drink alcohol at work.

And we didn’t have rooms with beds across the hall from each other at work.

In other words, the fruit was suddenly in picking distance.

Oh, sure, I flirted with him as usual, sat next to him at dinner, rubbed my leg against his leg, but with no thought that it would come to anything. After all, it never had before.

Then came the drinking, the hotel bar, those blue eyes of his so tantalizing, dazzling.

“I’m going up to my room,” I told him hours later, the night drawing to a close. “Come by for a hug good night.” The last part was whispered, a warm breath breathed into his ear.

He shrugged and smiled up at me as I rubbed his neck, eyelids
fluttering when I ran my hands through his scalp. “’Night,” he replied, his drink still in hand, nothing more beyond that friendly lone word.

I patted his shoulder and took the elevator back to my room, not giving it much more thought beyond that. I got undressed and brushed my teeth. I was tired from the long day. Still, when the knock eventually came, I was instantly wide-awake.

I opened the door in my shorts and T-shirt, and was greeted to a wide smile. “One quick hug,” he told me, arms outstretched.

I grabbed his hand and pulled him into my room instead. “Come on. A hug in here won’t kill you.”

My heart raced as I shut the door behind us and pulled him in tight, the hug returned in kind, as it always was. Only, when I went for the kiss, his head didn’t turn as it had every time before that. And then, suddenly, I was kissing him and him me, the whole forbidden thing still there, but dissipating fast. It was gone completely when my hand reached down and cupped his crotch, the stiffy beneath evident, more so when I unzipped his fly and it sprang out.

He broke the kiss and nervously stared down. “Good night, Rob.”

No way was he getting away that easy, I thought, so I pushed him onto the bed. “Yup, it’s gonna be a fun one all right,” I told him, shucking off my T-shirt. “Now get undressed.”

He lay there staring up at me, legs dangling over the bed, cock rigid and pointing up to the ceiling. “We can’t,” he replied, voice raspy, hands moving to push his prick back in.

I quickly straddled him, pushing his hands behind his head. “Fuck that,” I told him, another kiss placed, harder this time, lips mashing together as I felt him cave beneath me. When we at last broke for air, I added, “Get out of the clothes, dude.”

He didn’t object this time, and I watched in anticipation as
he undressed, my coworker’s body revealing itself to me, one button and zipper at a time. He was pale and super-hairy, chest covered in curly down, belly too, pink nipples jutting out from an average chest above an average tummy. And yet he was even sexier than I’d given him credit for, perhaps owing to the fact that the fruit was now mine for the tasting.

His shoes got kicked off, pants pushed down, underwear next. He had dancer’s legs and calves, way more muscular than his torso, equally as hairy and pale. His dick was on the short side, thick with a wide head, his balls huge.

“Finally,” I said with a chuckle, the kiss repeated and repeated again as I slid out of the remainder of my clothes, both of us naked now and grinding together. “Took you long enough.” I spanked his cock and patted his balls with the palm of my hand. He moaned and arched his back, so I spanked and patted again, the moan louder this time.

And suddenly the fruit was all that much sweeter, more exotic.

I grabbed his hands and held them down behind his head with one of my forearms, the kiss replaced by a bite on his lip, a sharp smack across his hair-covered chest. The moan got joined with a long, low rumble, louder as I pulled and tweaked on a nipple. “Fuuuck,” he exhaled as I gave it a turn and a torque.

I retracted my face and stared into those mischievous pools of blue. I hawked a loogie and spit it down on his face. He smiled up at me and licked off as much as he could. I hawked another as his smile rose ever northward. If his body was surprising, this new turn of events was doubly so. And so I thought of what I wanted to do to him next, to see of him next.

“Get on all fours, dude,” I told him, releasing his hands as I hopped off, eager for the second act.

He flipped over, legs wide, the holy trinity revealed: cock,
balls, hole. This was his sexiest moment yet, when his most private parts were exposed to me, offered up, an image that would be burnished on my brain as we sat next to each other day after day at work. Only I would ever get to see this side of him, the others offered nothing more than face and hands and clothes, paltry alternatives at best.

I pushed his hairy, meaty cheeks apart and took a deep whiff of his hole before diving in for a lick and a bite and a slurp, all while I yanked on his mammoth balls, until his cock went from hovering horizontal to taut vertical.

“Mmm,” he groaned, my tongue diving in, followed quickly by a spit-slick index finger, its shorter neighbors joining the fray a moment later, all three digits buried to the hilt. He moaned again, and my free hand came crashing down on his left cheek, then the right, vivid red quickly splashing across all that glorious pale white.

With fingers still entrenched, I maneuvered myself between his legs, sliding beneath him as his mouth found my cock, while his thick prick pushed down into me, musky crotch grinding into my face as his balls bounced against my forehead.

I’d imagined sex with him before that night, of course, but never did my imagination equal the reality of all this. Never did I think that my fingers would be caressing the smooth muscled interior of him, that he’d be straddling my face with his cock, that he dug being used and abused and spit on and spanked.

“Fuuuck,” he moaned, yet again. Funny, I’d heard him curse at work, but it’d never sounded anything like that before. “Slow down. Close.”

I slowed down and then popped my fingers out. “On your back,” I told him. He sighed and rolled over just before my hand came down, slapping his chest and belly, his cock swaying as he grunted, body quivering in apparent delight.

My lips found his, my fingers again working their way inside of him. His back arched as he grabbed his cock and I grabbed my own, pumping himself in time to my strokes. When he sped up the pace on his tool, I pulled my lips away so I could watch him come, a final image to be forever stored under the forbidden tab.

Moments later, I got my wish, his cock shooting a steady stream of white-hot spunk that landed in thick gobs on his hairy chest and belly. At the sight of it, the smell of it, my own cock spewed a huge load that joined his before dripping over his sides and onto the sheets below.

He blinked and stared up at me, the blue never before so blue. Again he kissed me, softer this time, our bodies pressed up tight together for the very last time.

He didn’t spend the night, nor did we have sex again beyond that.

Because once the fruit is no longer forbidden, it seems, the hunger for it disappears completely.

Go figure.

KEEP ON TRUCKING

T. Hitman

I
confess. This is what happened that night:

Circumstances found me flying out west to Los Angeles for work. Right as the freelance assignment wrapped, a late March storm that shut down the heartland barreled east, and flights home suffered a similar domino effect. I saw the writing on the wall and smartly booked one of the last available rooms at the airport hotel. On the second floor, it wasn’t much, but the bed was far more comfortable than a patch of floor on the concourse, though its view of the parking lot and a few rangy palms struggling to survive in the sunbaked landscape wasn’t exactly scenic.