Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (6 page)

The room came with cable—only about fifty channels and most of the stations were crap, half of them showing images of the apocalyptic blizzard I was forced to wait out. I could order porn if I wanted, but not the kind I needed. Anxious and itchy all over, I worried about being stranded far from home and was boned up as a result.

The sun started to set, and I attempted to acknowledge my luck. How many of the nation’s travelers were stuck in airports? Worse, on highways stretching from Wyoming to Massachusetts? If the parking lot beneath my windows gauged the crisis accurately, a lot. Trucks with out-of-state plates were crowding together down there. One had pulled onto a strip of tar directly beneath my window and offered a view through its windshield. Two men, I saw. Tight bodies, masculine in their baseball caps and blue jeans. Just the kind of distraction I craved.

Unknown to them, I stripped out of my clothes and jerked off, eyes half-shut, my secret sin on the second floor of the airport hotel passing without witnesses.

I nutted and left my wad where it sprayed. Then I slipped into the shower—another of the luxuries I wouldn’t have enjoyed if I hadn’t seized the opportunity and taken the hotel room. I emerged from the bathroom, my flesh clean and smelling like green tea thanks to the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner provided gratis. I toweled dry and figured on an early night. I switched off the lights, cracked the window for fresh air, and again glanced down at my two clueless neighbors, the pair of dudes in the eighteen-wheeler parked directly under my rented room.

And I saw that, boned and horny like me, both men were passing around a stroke magazine, had whipped out their dicks and were strumming on their fuck-sticks, which stood at what I assumed were fullest mast.

As stated, I’ve always been good at seizing opportunities. With my heart attempting to throw itself into my throat, I pulled on a T-shirt, loose-fit black cotton shorts, and sneakers, no socks, and hotfooted it out of my hotel room.

My pulse beat a drum solo into my ears as I followed a sidewalk
around the front of the building to the back. Tracking the rangy palms, I made my way to the big rig parked under my hotel room’s window. My dick complained in my shorts, greedy for more of the attention I’d showed it not twenty minutes earlier. I followed the truck from cargo to the front passenger-side door. The window was partially down. Boldly, I approached the cab, jumped onto the side step, again reminded of the heat between my legs, and aimed my face into the open gap.

“Gentlemen,” I said.

One voice grunted a baritone, “What the fuck—?”

Another, closer, said, “Whoa, dude!”

Hands scrambled to tuck in and zip up in the bald glow filtering down from the rear lot’s streetlamps. I caught the scent of male sweat on my next breath, narcotic in its potency.

“No, please don’t stop what you’re doing. I noticed you from my hotel room, up there,” I said, aiming my thumb at the bricks and windows overhead. “I’m here to offer you my services, free of charge, no reciprocation necessary. And I’ve been told plenty of times that my services are top shelf, numero uno, fan-fucking-tastic, should you two handsome men be interested.”

“What?” the closest voice asked.

I opened the door. Both men protested with shouts. The dude closest released his meat and drew the door again shut. I heard the telltale pop of the lock snapping down, sealing me out.

I knew I’d have to plead my case, and so I did. “Dudes, you’re both out here, beating your dicks, when there’s a bona fide cocksucker right here, right now, willing to slobber his mouth all over your knobs. To lick the sweat off your balls. Hell, I’ll lick your hairy assholes if that’s what you want. And you don’t have to do anything except kick back and paint my tonsils in your skeet. So what do you say?”

Dead silence answered. In the sparse light of the dashboard
and the streetlamps, I absorbed what details I could: two rugged men, the sort I once described as being “country-cute”—normal, masculine tools whose worlds consisted of beer, pussy, sports and seeing to the demands of their dicks.

Dick Number One—I’ll call him “Merle”—had monkey ears, short dark-blond hair, a classic jaw. He sat closest to me, his hairy balls exposed to the night, his bone in his hand.

“Well, fuck,” Merle eventually grunted, and I caught the barest soupçon of Southern dialect in the pair of words, a twang that originated from somewhere between the Blue Ridge and the Bayou.

I turned and was about to walk away, back to my hotel room where I planned to act out in my fantasies what I had hoped would take place here in reality, when the second dude, the one I’ll call “Brian” after the fact, barked, “Wait.”

The two dudes conferred through a series of grunts and sideways glances, straight-man diplomacy. The verdict was delivered wordlessly in the click of the door unlocking. My heart up-tempoed its racing cadence. My dick reacted with a surge of pins and needles that rippled outward in concentric waves, engulfing all of my flesh. Smiling, I entered their world, a temporary visitor, a tool to be used by a couple of hot tools with only one intention: to suck their cocks.

Brian—he reminded me of another score from my past, a man whose dick I was lucky enough to worship over the course of one sweltering summer—dropped the stroke rag covering his junk, exposing a beaut wreathed in damp folds of foreskin.

“Nice,” I said, and scooted over Merle’s legs to the space between them.

“Shut the door—and then your yap, cocksucker,” Brian said.

I thought about
yessiring
him. Instead, I fondled his balls,
one to my left, the other to my right, and leaned forward, taking Brian’s uncut stick between my lips. The incredible tang of funky foreskin broke across my taste buds. Brian’s dick pushed its head up from the fleshy folds and matched my sucks by attempting to dive down my throat.

“Aw, shit,” he moaned above me.

In the growing darkness, I made out the cushioned cot wedged behind the front seat for sleeping, the official papers in plastic clipped to the visor, the rich male scents that infused this insular universe, big enough to accommodate a pair of attractive, horny cavemen and the cock-lover lucky enough to be welcomed in to pleasure them.

“Don’t hog his mouth, dude,” Merle said.

Smirking around Brian’s dick, I thought about the other man’s choice of words, detached myself, but only to ease over and show Merle a similar affection. His bone stood straight up, meatiest at the middle of its shaft, lots of veins. On the downward plunge, I caught the full ripeness of his nuts, a smell that has always stoked my arousal. My dick, pinned at an awkward angle against the seat, demanded some attention, too—only that’s not why I was there, or what the encounter was about, so I ignored its complaints.

I tugged on Brian’s nuts, sucked Merle’s hairy dick down to the root, careful to attend to his sac as well by using my chin. Merle moaned in approval. I don’t take this whole dick-lover thing lightly, and showed both men my seriousness of purpose in actions rather than words.

Back to Brian, with his dirty-blond brush cut poking out from the bill under his ball cap, the scruff of a few days’ worth of growth on his handsome mug, the scent of his skin and the last dregs of deodorant slapped on untold mornings earlier. A real man’s smell. I couldn’t have wanted more.

Well, perhaps to lick the sweat from between the toes of their big, booted feet, to eat what I assumed were hairy assholes, sweaty and muscled, as deep as my tongue could go. Only those were dreams for later. I had been granted access to cocks and nuts alone, and wanted to make the experience memorable for all the right reasons to the strangers boned up and dripping nectar in my face.

I sucked harder, working Merle up to the precipice before switching back to Brian and his magnificent foreskin. His juice tasted stronger; the pair of dicks being jerked in my hands and gulped down my throat wouldn’t take long to bust. I wanted to prolong the fun, even focused on sucking Brian’s hairy bag before he ordered me back to his dick. I swallowed his thickness. He was close. So close.

“Hey,” Merle protested.

He grabbed the collar of my shirt and drew me back to his half of the front seat. Merle’s dick grew steely on my tongue.

“Greedy fucker,” said Brian.

I moaned around Merle’s cock, noted that the rest of his body was tensed, like his dick, and readied for the prize. The first salty-sour blast of jizz struck the roof of my mouth. Half a dozen thick spurts followed. I gulped down Merle’s wad, doing my best to contain every drop. The handsome fucker was still squirting when Brian yanked me off his buddy’s dick and maneuvered me back onto his.

“Fuck, your slop’s getting all over my cock, dude,” Brian said.

From the cut of my eye, I saw Merle’s face, soaked in sweat. He pumped on his meat, still stiff and dripping the dregs of his orgasm. I made a mental note to clean him up properly after making Brian shoot.

I resumed sucking Brian’s uncut beaut, aware that his good
pal’s load coated the inside of my mouth. Toyed with his nuts. Reached over and fondled Merle’s. The stink of sweat and foreskin intensified.

“Oh fuck!” moaned Brian.

His dick plowed my face and rewarded me with the treat my mouth worked so hard to claim. I swallowed down Brian’s seed. A sheen of perspiration fogged over the inside of the windshield. I moved over, gave Merle’s dick one final suck, until he pushed me away.

“Enough of that—get out, cocksucker,” he grumbled.

I brushed my tongue over both men’s tightening balls one more time, filled my lungs with their masculine stink and straightened. “Yes, Sir.” Licking my lips, I reached for the door handle. “Thanks, studs.”

I stepped out of the truck and closed the door.

“I’ve got a room upstairs, Two-Nineteen,” I said through the window gap. “If you need a hot shower, or you want to sleep in a real bed tonight—or you want me to worship your bodies from head to toe—give a call upstairs. I’ll be there.”

I wandered back into the warm night, my bone metronoming with my steps. The walk to the elevator felt miles long, but the taste of their sperm kept a smile on my face. I settled onto my bed and jerked my dick, reliving the insane details of my encounter with two hot strangers. I nutted almost immediately.

Just after ten, the phone in my hotel room rang.

BORN LIAR

Eric Del Carlo

S
ultry Mardi Gras, the French Quarter nighttime electric with erotic mayhem. New Orleans, pre-Hurricane Katrina, already a sweet crumbling ruin where the damned go to drink and carouse. It is a place out of time, outlaw and carnal. Fantasy mixes with booze, and everybody is invited to the bacchanalia that ensues. This is the modern orgy. Frantic energies are unleashed during the mad festival. Bourbon Street chokes with a groping, grappling humanity. Flesh is bared. Strangers kiss and fuck. No restraints, no rules—

Aw Christ, gimme a break, will ya, Eric? You’re a writer, and you’ve written a lot of porn on top of all that cool science fiction. You’ve been at it for decades and have had some real success in the speculative fiction field. But this story—
this
? Shane Allison, editor of many erotic anthologies, wants you to submit a true-life tale from your own porn-tastic past.

Are you up for that?
Snicker.

Let me try that again:

Are you brave enough?

I think so. I don’t talk much about myself when I’m promoting some writerly accomplishment of mine. Hell, I don’t even have my hometown listed on my Facebook profile. Because, I figure, who cares? As for what I do and have done with my cock—well, maybe some reader
is
curious about that.

But let’s look at that grandiose opening paragraph again. There’s some nice wordage there: “outlaw and carnal,” “frantic energies.” It reads like my fiction, flirting with purple prose. And there is the problem this project poses for me. Look at the very first word. “Sultry” is a great word when you’re writing erotica. It’s evocative and suggestive. (“Torrid” is a good go-to term as well.) But Mardi Gras, while subject to lunar whims and not bound by a set calendar date, usually falls during February or March, not in the scorching heat of summer. New Orleans has chilly winters. It can be jacket weather during Mardi Gras. So it’s unlikely to be
sultry
. Yet that’s the word I immediately stamped onto this piece, wanting to set the lustful mood by adjusting the temperature just so.

I have had published dozens and dozens and dozens of porn-centric tales. Novels too. Under a slew of names, including my given. I know what I’m doing. But the real question, the one perhaps we both have to answer, is…can I be trusted to tell the truth?

I will give it a go.

Let’s see what happens.

The following is a true story. But it’s still a story.

There was a girlfriend on hand, but she only serves here as a scene-setter. We had moved together to New Orleans shortly after Mardi Gras the previous year, so I’d had nearly twelve months of living in the city, soaking up the general decadence
and boozy ambience, and was only now getting around to my first Fat Tuesday.

It was customary for the locals to scorn Mardi Gras. It is, beyond doubt, a loud obnoxious jubilee that fills the fabled French Quarter past any sane capacity with drunken revelers. If you live and work in the Quarter, you are almost obligated to hate the influx of frat boys, the parades, the inconsiderate carousers pissing in every doorway.