Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (20 page)

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Scamander resumed command of our hand motions before we crossed the point where orgasm became inevitable. He reclined onto his back, elevated his legs so high that we could see his dark hole in the crack between his dark-skinned buttocks, and gripped his cock shaft with his right hand. Using only a fingertip, he performed a circular motion under the head of his cock. He pressed hard, so his finger did not slide over the surface, but shifted the skin.
 
When the rest of us had reclined in a circle, Scamander ordered, “Move nothing but your fingertip. Keep your body still.
 
This peculiar stimulus left my cock blaring for deep kneading. I had trouble keeping my finger on the spot because my dick kept bucking. The intense pulsation traveled down the shaft and rippled up my stomach. Phaeax raised his hips, but Scamander admonished him. “Don’t give in to it, Phaeax. You do not have permission to ejaculate. Not until I give the order.”
 
The torment increased exponentially. The god was summoning my fluids; I had to spurt for him. I thought that I could not stand the torture for another second.
 
“Let us squirt for the god now,” Phaeax begged.
 
“Not yet,” Scamander commanded.
 
Unbidden, a moan escaped my mouth. I was convinced that another game would ruin my dick forever. “Now, please,” I gasped, making Teucer giggle.
 
Scamander shook his head. “You boys are going to ejaculate when I say so. Not before. Now do as I do.”
 
To my delight, Scamander latched on to Lyktos’s cock. He gripped it hard, squeezing it like a piece of citrus. Lyktos grabbed Asterius’s cock, Asterius did the same with Teucer, and Teucer seized hold of mine. The effect was phenomenal—my heart leaped up and I felt the semen rising in my dick. I was so far gone in lust that I gripped Phaeax’s cock and squeezed unthinkingly. The thrill of touching a cock that was not my own made me gasp. I was hardly aware that Phaeax had laid his hand on Scamander’s penis, thus completing the holy circle.
 
Releasing his squeeze, Scamander drummed the side of Lyktos’s cock with his fingers; then he slapped Lyktos’s dickhead with his palm. The movement traveled around the circle.
 
“That hurts…so good,” I blurted, swatting Phaeax’s dick. The words had whooped from my mouth.
 
Scamander rose to his knees and pushed toward the center. We did the same, and each boy started fucking the fist that gripped his dick. Not one of us lasted ten strokes.
 
“I’m going off like Charybdis,” Scamander said. His cock was bucking in Lyktos’s hand, and a thick squirt of his jism splattered onto Teucer’s forearm and even decorated his stomach and chest. Meanwhile my own pelvic muscles were contracting as an intense orgasm rippled up my cock. I felt the squirt that shot out the back of Teucer’s fist and hit Asterius directly on the mouth.
 
Lyktos continued to shoot his juices, which creamed me from groin to chin, and even though I was simultaneously humping Teucer’s fist and milking off Phaeax with my own, I saw Teucer’s boy stuff splattering onto Scamander’s wine-dark and glistening skin.
 
It was the longest orgasm I’d ever experienced. As Lyktos’s sticky semen slid down my stomach, my own continued to squirt. Our bodies were tingling squirting masses of bucking flesh, and the mad spasms went on.
 
In the fullness of time, our orgasms stilled and our mighty contractions ceased, we fell in a heap, drenched with semen. My body slid wetly across the skin of my friends and the scent of our spent semen rose to my nostrils. We rested for a while before we departed from the Masturbaria and crawled back up the tunnel.
 
“Well done, lads,” Nausitheus offered, examining our sticky bodies. “The Holy Eternal Powers are pleased. The Dolphin God accepts your sacrifice.”
 
 
So, once again in the holy Masturbaria, my three friends and I tormented the cock to our right, and enjoyed the hand to our left. Three months had passed since the afternoon of our initiation. My parents had been overjoyed by my acceptance. My mother had risen socially, and my father had prospered economically. My own reward had been quite different.
 
Though he was a greater believer than I, Lyktos was my best friend. As his hand flogged my penis, I thought again about the afternoon he had kissed me. It had been the only time our lips and tongues had met, but I knew that the potential was great. In the future, he and I would do more things together, exotic things, some that would have been acceptable only to the worshippers of Sirius or the followers of Baal, of whom we had heard tales. For the meantime, his hand pounded my cock, and as his thumb and forefinger massaged my foreskin, I felt the semen rising from my balls. My cock grew heavier, even as I pounded Phaeax’s thick erection with all my strength.
 
“Oh, Androgeus,” Phaeax groaned. “Oh, that’s good. Think what Dreros missed today.”
 
“Think not of him,” I groaned as the semen rose higher. The tingles emanating from deep beneath my foreskin grew into earth shakers. Suddenly, I was a believer. I shrieked, “Oh, size-less ones, oh, maker of whales, oh, behemoth, oh, leviathan. I fly to you.”
 
The lightning of the Titans blasted in my brain. I was the persistence of Cronus, the light of Hyperion, and the water of Oceanus. My hand flogged mightily on Phaeax, giving him no reprieve, no relief from the sexual ecstasy he must endure, while Lyktos forced me to come.
 
“This is for the Playing Porpoise, Androgeus,” Lyktos howled as the first powerful spurt arched from his penis, flew over Asterius’s head, and splattered against the frescoed wall of the Masturbaria. “The god summons your holy joy. Your fluids join with his, and with ours.”
 
That was true, for we were all ejaculating. Three months of practice had given us the ability to orgasm and ejaculate as one. Proud we were of our skills and our timing, though we knew that the god accomplished the miracle through us. Our bodies joined with his magnificent existence. Explosive streamers erupted from us as crescendos of increasing pleasure disrupted our cells.
 
At length, we crawled back out the tunnel, bade farewell to the priest Nausitheus and the temple attendants Scamander and Teucer, and breathed in the brisk air that blew from the wine-dark sea.
 
“I’m hungry,” Phaeax complained.
 
“Yes,” Lyktos affirmed. “Holy masturbation has that effect. Once drained, we must eat to replenish our fluids.”
 
“Let’s go to my house,” I urged, knowing that my parents would gladly host my friends. My friendship with Phaeax¸ Lyktos, and Asterius had brought great benefit to our family, and I knew that my mother had ordered a great banquet of roast lamb, preceded by the fruits of the sea, and followed with spiced vegetables, and a pudding of millet baked with citrus. Lyktos’s father’s best beer would accompany the meal, and after we ate, we boys should be ready to submit another blessed offering to the great god of the Dolphin Temple.
 
WAR AND PEACE
 
Simon Sheppard
 
 
 
 
 
 
S
o why the fuck should I care about
War and Peace
, anyway?” Dirk asked me.
 
“Because…” I said, popping open another beer, “because it’s a classic of world literature, that’s why, and it’s about man and his fate.” I swigged down some more Heineken. “Or something.”
 
“Not convincing,” Dirk said, and threw the very thick book across the room at me. “If it’s so classic,
you
read it.”
 
“I did. In high school.”
 
“I fucking hate you, genius,” Dirk joked.
 
It was spring of my sophomore year at Berkeley. Dirk and I had been squeezed into a little apartment on Durant Street all semester, and I’d come to enjoy his teasing. I was sorry that next year he’d be going back to Holland. I’d never known a Dutch guy before. Where I grew up, a little town in the Central Valley, there were white guys, Latinos like me, a few blacks, and that was about it. Berkeley was different, a Mecca for students from all over the world. The previous semester I’d been living with my girlfriend, Sarah, a neo-neo-hippie type I’d met in poli-sci. But we broke up—me being insufficiently groovy, as it turned out—and I’d needed a place to live. In a university town in the middle of America’s toughest housing market, I needed a place to live
bad
. So I’d answered an ad tacked to the student union bulletin board and ended up moving in with Dirk. It was just a crummy studio apartment, but Dirk was running out of money, I needed a place, and so we figured we could stand each other’s company for a few months.
 
Dirk was blond, handsome, smart, and funny. And tall—six five, although he assured me that back in Holland, he was just average height. We were jammed into close quarters, but I wasn’t looking to find another girlfriend, not until I’d fully gotten over Sarah, so I figured that I could probably do without privacy. I also figured that if any girlfriend of mine met Dirk, I’d be in trouble; the big, blond guy had all the makings of a pussy magnet. With a great accent, to boot.
 
And that, apparently, was how things were. Shortly after I moved in, Dirk started spending nights out. A lot of nights out. I’d wake up, look over at his bed, still not slept in, and know that the Dutchboy had gotten laid again, the lucky bastard. But whoever she was, Dirk was pretty cagey about her. I never met his girlfriend, or even saw him around campus with a woman in a couple-type pose.
 
It wasn’t till early May, when we’d come back from a Green Day concert at the Greek Theater and we were still pretty stoned, that I found out why.
 
“So who is she?” I asked, over a slice of pepperoni pizza that had just come out of the microwave.
 
“She who?” asked Dirk.
 
“Your girlfriend,” I said. “The one you’ve been seeing.”
 
Dirk took a gulp of beer. “It’s a he,” he said, seemingly unruffled.
 
“What? Who is?”
 
“I’ve been seeing a he, not a she. His name is Scott. My boyfriend Scott.”
 
I didn’t know what to say. I finished my pizza and left the apartment.
 
Walking down Telegraph Avenue, I told myself I wasn’t pissed off because Dirk was gay. After all, it was the twenty-first century, and even back in my hometown, there’d been guys—a few guys—with the guts to be openly queer. San Francisco was just a BART ride away, and there were lots of gay guys at Berkeley, some of them my friends. I didn’t have a problem with any of that. No, I was pissed off because Dirk hadn’t told me the truth. Or so I told myself.
 
The next couple of weeks around the apartment were kind of tense. No outright hostility, but avoidance and awkward silence. I stopped lounging around in my underwear. Whenever I took a shower, I made sure I was dressed before I walked out of the bathroom. I started wearing sweatpants to bed. If it had been possible to find another place to live, I would have. I spent less time at home. Dirk spent most nights out. And we never talked about his love life.
 
Not until that night he threw
War and Peace
at me.
 
“I fucking hate you, genius,” Dirk said, jokingly.
 
I picked Tolstoy off the floor.
 
“Hey,” Dirk continued, “are you mad at me?”
 
“No.”
 
“You are, aren’t you?” He unfolded his tall, lean frame from the chair.
 
“Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?”
 
“I’m not gay,” he said, looking down at me slouched on the futon. “I’m bisexual. Most people are bisexual, you know, if they’d just relax and admit it to themselves.”
 
“Uh huh.” I’d heard
that
before.
 
“Listen,” Dirk said in that deep, Dutch-accented voice of his, “are you afraid that I’m attracted to you? Or maybe you are afraid that I’m not?”
 
“Jesus, my roommate sucks cock,” I said. “What do you want me to say?”
 
Dirk smiled. “I do it rather well, too. Or so I’m told.”
 
“I don’t want to know,” I said. “I’m going out for a walk.” But as I walked through the warm California night, I found myself thinking about Dirk, blond, handsome Dirk, kneeling, with his mouth open. Sucking some guy’s dick. And I found myself wondering how that mouth would feel on me.
 
 
It was two weeks later. I was lying on my futon, drifting off to sleep, when I heard Dirk’s key in the lock. He walked in without turning on the lights and threw himself onto his bed. I heard him sobbing in the darkness.

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