Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (5 page)

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Authors: Unknown

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His burly body fell onto my bony frame, and his lips replaced the hand smothering my mouth. He kissed desperately, he stopped jacking me, he grabbed my thighs and pulled my legs far apart. He fucked and fucked and my toes spread, my feet spasmed, everything spasmed, and he fucked me and fucked me and kissed me and kissed me. With every fuck my ass lifted into the air, higher and higher off the bed. His balls slapped my ass, his red hairy trail pricked my balls and cock. I went over the edge. I growled into his mouth and he fucked me and his fingers dug into my thighs, my calves, my feet, between my toes, sending jolts of pleasure from my toes to my loins and up to my brain. The first surge out of my cock was the Best. Sensation. Ever. Cum splashed his chin and beard. He rammed back in, impossibly deeper. More spurting cum dropped onto my face, my neck, my chest, my stomach, oozed out of my cock onto my balls. I had never cum so hard. I couldn’t feel his cock anymore, just thrusting pleasure and bliss. His muscles tensed, he gasped and whimpered, and his orgasm flooded my ass, contained by a condom but oh, so hot. He shuddered, muscled arms shaking at the release.
 
My Viking fell against me. I gasped at his monstrous weight. He panted into my neck. His hands scratched up my sides, across my ribs. I was so sensitive I jerked, and after-cum pearled out of my slit. His hair blanketed my face and he kissed around my ear. His mouth came to my cum-covered lips and lapped and his tongue fucked into my throat again. I tasted my cum now, and gagged, and he laughed into my throat and wiggled his softening cock out of my ass. I groaned when it slipped out.
 
I was plundered. Conquered. He could have planted a flag on me. He scratched his chest and pulled off his cum-filled condom. The scent of his sweat mixed with the tang of our cum made me drunk again. He tossed the condom. He hobbled on his knees again, up to my chest, and pressed his sticky softening cock to my lips. I licked it clean, sucked it dry, tugged on it, slapped it against my lips. He eased away and rested his ass lightly on my stomach, making sure not to put all his weight on me, looking into my eyes. Even soft, his cock was a python, definitely a shower. It flopped onto my chest. I met his gaze. By now, beams of sunlight were pouring through the window blinds, illuminating his pale, sculpted, gleaming body. He was drenched in sweat. His fiery hair stuck to the sides of his face. He smeared it off.
 
I watched him with something more than lust. I was still panting, my skinny chest rising and falling against his beastly balls and cock. He lifted one knee away from me and grabbed me by my sides and turned me so my head rested on pillows. He fell down on his elbow and brought his other arm over me, his hand cupping under my back. His hair fell on my face again. He pressed his nose and forehead against mine and ran his other set of fingers across my chest. I was lithe against his warrior body. I didn’t deserve the gentle treatment, his tender touches. He lightly kissed my lips, in stark contrast to his feral passion earlier. I wanted to fall asleep with his warm grizzly face against mine. We locked together, just breathing. I brushed my foot against his, and he slid his against mine, holding it down, letting his big toe run up the center. This tickled and I gasped and he laughed.
 
I slept in his arms until we heard noise in the house. He got up, walked naked to the bathroom, told me to join him, and I did. We showered together, then ran a bath and lay together in the hot water. There was nothing sexual. We were too spent. He held me from behind in the cramped tub and slicked my hair back and played with how it curled down my neck. He ran his hand around my neck and felt my sharp Adam’s apple, my scraggly goatee. It tickled. I mouthed one of his fingers. We talked. He was on the college team, offensive line: number 65. He had recently broken up with his girlfriend, a cheerleader. Typical. They never had sex. She wanted to wait until marriage. Stupid. Even if I had the luxury of marriage—fuck you, Proposition 8—we’re only this young for so long. “Nineteen happens once,” I told him. “Twenty happens once. Eventually you regret what didn’t happen, rather than what did.” His arms pulled me tight against his chest and his lips came to the side of my face at those words. I turned to meet his lips and we kissed. I loved the feel of my spine against his muscle. I said I’d go to his games even if I didn’t know a damn thing about football. I didn’t want to tell him that I loathed football. He promised special seats.
 
When we were done and he dried me, I found my clothes in the mess of his room and we went to explore outside the bedroom door.
 
In the living room, the survivors of the night were strewn about the trashed house. It was a disaster. My Viking’s hands, Jake’s hands, rested on my shoulders. We were surveying a devastated land. “Rock” appeared from behind the kitchen counter looking like shit. His eyes were red and puffy. He slapped his face. We helped gather the bottles and red cups. I tried to pull one plastic cup off the counter; the top half ripped off and the bottom half stayed stuck—bonded to the surface, no doubt, by the nasty trash-can punch that had spilled everywhere. Rock came over and slapped my ass.
 
Jake looked at him and smirked. “He’s had enough of that.”
 
“I bet,” Rock said. I tried to suppress a smile, stealing glances at Jake, reassured by his apathy to Rock’s response. I couldn’t tell if this was joking or serious.
 
We continued to clean house. The last of the partiers finally left, and soon after Jake gave me a ride back to campus. As we neared the main entrance, I told Jake he wouldn’t be allowed to drive me to my dorm: the parking Nazis would turn us around. But the attendant recognized him. She smiled, said “Go Tech,” and waved us through. I was astonished. I was figuring out just whose arms I was getting into.
 
We approached the shit hole that was Branch Hall. Home. In the parking lot, I wasn’t sure what to do. Kiss him? Give him the man pat? He grabbed my face and neck and answered for me. He kissed me hard, tongue and all. He ran his hands through the hair under my beanie until I was out of breath. Then he moved to my neck. Kissing, sucking, biting. I groaned and snuck my hand up his shirt, pressing against his hard abs, pushing my fingers down to the brim of his jeans. I wanted to leap over and straddle him, pull my pants and boxers down, let him fuck me right there again. His aggressive nature inspired me.
 
We eased up and he held me by my goatee and said, “We’re having a second-week-of-classes party next weekend. You’re coming.”
 
“I would hope so,” I said. He looked at my lips like he wanted to kiss again, but I hid my eyes and reached for the door handle, coy and tired. I belonged to the Viking and I liked it. Number 65 had me. I shut the door. He stared at me. I walked to my keycard entrance, achy, sore, hungover. Happy. The West Texas sun hurt my eyes. I turned back and watched his jacked-up truck speed out of the parking lot. My heart pumped. I turned and kept walking. Until it hit me, everything that had just happened.
 
Holy fucking shit.
 
SUNDELIN
 
Alana Noël Voth
 
 
 
 
 
 
S
undelin Ross weighed one hundred fifty pounds wet. He was five foot nine. I know that now from his driver’s license, by the way, because I looked once. Behind his back, I grabbed his wallet and looked.
 
Sometimes I stared into the bottom of the coffee cup he served me and saw myself as one of the grounds floating in a sparse pool of liquid leather. His coffee was dark and strong. His eyes were blue. He worked in a coffee shop, one of those cute guys who took your order. His hair was caramel brown. He took orders from other people. Meanwhile, I made a list of things Sundelin would order me to do.
 
Stand on one leg outside the shower stall while I jerk off and don’t touch your dick, that’s final.
 
Stand outside the shower and wait until I stick my ass out then clean my hole with your tongue.
 
Suck my cock so you gag, that’s nice.
 
Eat my come off the linoleum floor.
 
Hold my cock while I piss.
 
Clean my toilet.
 
Wash the dishes with a plug in your ass.
 
Put the dishes away and then pop the plug out and wash your dirty ass smears off with hot water.
 
Okay, so the list went on. I imagined Sundelin telling me to crawl across the floor on my hands and knees, remote control in my mouth. Probably, Sundelin Ross, Cute Boy of the Universe, would watch something like
The Wire
, Omar and Dante making out, Omar killing someone, and I’d squat next to the couch with the remote in my mouth. Sometimes, he’d say something like
Lick the lint off the carpet
, because he was a neat freak, or
Go get the plug
. Then Sundelin would tell me to stand in front of the TV blocking his view and facing him while I stuck the plug in my ass and then squatted while clenching my hole like a kid trying to hold in a fart in church.
 
By the way, I’ve never been to church.
 
And I’ve never been with a dude before.
 
Also, I don’t know where I got my ideas.
 
Video games? Marilyn Manson? Gay porn?
 
I’ve actually only watched straight porn. That’s what my mom and stepdad had when I still lived at home: porns with dicks and cunts, dicks and tits, dicks and bungholes, just dicks all over, dicks doing anything, dicks, dicks, dicks.
 
By the time I was twelve I knew I liked dicks. I liked the dudes who had them. I liked chicks too, of course, in a nice way, you know, like friends, but dudes, man, they made me nervous. Dudes made me sweat. With dudes, it was a test. I wanted certain dudes to like me.
 
I wanted them to like me a whole lot: know what I mean? Thus my fantasy life began, in which, due to video games, Marilyn Manson, and probably violence on television I began to imagine dudes having sex with me, dudes loving me, dudes telling what to do, dudes touching me on the cheek, dudes humiliating me by pissing in my mouth or something.
 
Oh. My childhood was normal. I wasn’t abused as a child. My childhood was a fairly quiet one on the outside, you know, everything sweet and typical, unless you stared through one of my pupils like a telescope and viewed my fantasy life close up. No, maybe not. I’d feel pretty weird about that. I guess I would, unless Sundelin told me to tell you. Okay, so then I’d do it, I’d spill the beans, bend over, and show you my asscrack.
 
Right now, I’m eighteen and in college and taking this writing class, and the teacher said we’re supposed to keep a journal, and it isn’t anything we have to share.
 
Well, I fucking hope not.
 
What would the damn teacher say? Hey, what if the dude was a flamer? In fact, he looks like that gay writer, Stephen Elliott. Except wait. That guy isn’t gay. At least I don’t think he is, but man his book
Happy Baby
just about killed me. One time he wrote something like,
I’ve eroticized my childhood abuse
. But since I wasn’t ever abused I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with it. I should be a case study, especially lately. I’m definitely obsessive-compulsive.
 
For a while, the most I did was show up at the coffee shop where Sundelin worked. I’d stand at the counter and order black coffee, as in straight up. He had a nice way about him, Sundelin, polite and attentive, and he remembered people’s names too, except mine.
 
“You again,” he said this last time I stood at the counter like a dork thinking,
The guy already knows I’m a dirty-minded virgin
. Well, not exactly a virgin. There was one time in a backseat with a trumpet player (me, I had a clarinet mouth, said the band instructor, curl your lips and blow) but the entire incident isn’t worth mentioning.
 
“What’s the problem?” I said. “Plenty of people come here all the time.”
 
And then I didn’t look at him at all. I pretended to study the menu although I’d obviously order black coffee straight up.
 
“Yeah,” Sundelin said. “But not all of them are here every day secretly wishing I’d fuck them.”
 
“What?” I pretended complete and total ignorance. Obviously I blushed. Obviously I looked over my shoulder in case anyone stood behind me to whom I could say,
This guy is nuts.
 
Sundelin smirked, and really, the guy had a smirk about him that was sexy. “C’mon,” he said. “You’re inexperienced, not stupid.”
 
I shrugged. And then I said, “Well, right, I’m not stupid.”
 
“That’s what I said.” Sundelin put a black coffee straight up on the counter in front of him, between us, and then he looked at me. “There you go.”
 

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