Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (23 page)

Oooh, like in a bad Las Vegas magic act, his asshole suddenly appears at the end of my finger. The skin feels so nice, the hair there so soft.

Well, one thing’s for sure, if we’re gonna fuck, I’m gonna be the one that fucks him. I’m negative so I’m gonna be total insta-top right? I’ll just feel more comfortable then. If I let him fuck me I might have to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and find the condom full of his cum and take it into the bathroom and fill it with water just to make sure that it didn’t have a leak. I’d rather fuck him anyway. I’ve really gotten more into my top energy lately. It’s really who I am, my deepest self, right? Ya know, now that I’m in my late thirties it’s where I feel my sex pull goes most naturally. Looking at all those spread assholes in the beaver shots in
Freshman
has helped too. Yeah, all I want to do is fuck that butt! But what if I start seeing this guy regular and sometimes it’s been a long day and I’m tired and I just don’t have the yang savings account to smack that butt and lift those legs and huff and puff and blow my load up his pussy-boy man-cunt hot hole of my desire? What will I do then? Be in the moment.

One finger. Two finger. Three finger. Four. (It’s like a song on “Barney.”) This is the way we open the door. Wait, since I’m pretty mostly probably sure that I’m still negative, maybe I can fuck him without a rubber just for a while. Wow, that’d feel nice. I would feel so bad, so naughty. I should be punished. I’m such a bad boy.

But what about that big
Wuthering Heights
mansion inside me that wants to put my cum in my lovers’ mouths and assholes? I want to get my boyfriend Alistair pregnant. Make a baby that will lead us queer people to freedom. I can’t believe I thought that. What about that part of me that wants to eat up that cum and stuff it up my butt?

Tim! You just met this guy, put on a condom and shut up
!

My cock is slipping into his asshole. That feels so nice. Hey, my brain is quieting down! I’m actually in the experience of fucking another man! I’m starting to feel pretty good about myself. I think I’m a pretty great guy. I’m proud of myself finding this sex with another man. I know if my Mom were here, she would be proud of me too.

My Mom appears inside of my head with gobs of leftover Tuna Helper dripping through her fingers. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, you dirty faggot son o’ mine that will never give me grandchildren?”

Oh god, I’m losing my hard-on! Quick, think of smooth-skinned eighteen-year-old boys in wet underwear splashing in the fountains of Trafalgar Square in London.

Ashamed, Mom? No, not for this. I’m ashamed it’s so hard for me to cry. I’m ashamed I shouted at that checkout person at SavOn’s when I bought all these clothespins! I’m ashamed I sometimes torture the men I love. But I’m not ashamed that I like assfucking. Mom, I’m pretty busy so would you please get out of my head?

We turn the fuck upside down. I see his chest and body, his face telling me that he likes being here. His dick is getting really big and red. Every second, it looks more like Bill Clinton’s face when he’s jogging. Does he want me to cum in him, inside the condom? I’m getting close. Maybe I should pull out. Should I ask him? I’ll just tell him. Then the ball is in his court. “I’m gonna cum!”

I’m gonna cum with bells and buzzers.

I’m gonna cum with my long curly hair.

I gonna cum with a fresh-baked pie in my hand.

I’m gonna cum with gratitude for your long legs.

I’m gonna cum with desire for the future.

I’m gonna cum with the memory of us in Fourth Grade.

I’m gonna cum with my eyes open.

I’m gonna cum with love for our bodies.

I’m gonna cum with my fear of death.

I’m gonna cum and I’m not gonna go a minute later.

I’m gonna cum…

I’m gonna cum…

I’m gonna cum…

I’m gonna cum…

I’m gonna cum…

I’m gonna cum…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sex had never been great between Geoffrey and Max. Their physical attraction to each other had been but it didn’t seem to translate to the right chemistry. Geoffrey may have been in his forties but his body was boyish and thin with soft skin and barely a hair on his torso. For Max, it was a perfect combination of the sex appeal of wisdom and a fantasy of a young university student.

Max, on the other hand, was thick: solid neck and shoulders, a jutting chest covered with salt-and-pepper hair, and barrel-shaped thighs.

“You make my throat dry,” Geoffrey told Max the first time they had sex. He was often given over to extravagant statements; he was an ad man who wanted to write novels.

The words didn’t make sense to Max but the context did. Kissing was good. In fact, it was excellent: the shape of their mouths a perfect match; they would take turns naturally, licking the outside gums of the other, sucking on the other’s tongue, nibbling the other’s bottom lip. They lost themselves in that motion.

But the first weeks, unusually, Max couldn’t come. He couldn’t explain why, but he liked Geoffrey so much that it made him nervous. It short-circuited the simple order of being aroused, sexual play, and a burst of semen from the tip of one’s cock.

“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Max and Geoffrey admitted that if this is the way sex was going to be between them, it might be a problem.

“I like some sort of equality. It’s not just about me wanting you to come. It’s that I think you’ll be more satisfied if you’ve had an orgasm too.”

“But I don’t mind.”

Max was telling the truth but Geoffrey was unconvinced.

 

 

The problem of orgasm (or lack of one) didn’t last but instead changed into something else. It was Geoffrey this time, and at first he thought it was mental. It was the first time that his combination of antiretroviral therapy was failing and though his doctor advised him not to over-worry, he found it an impossible state, like failing to clear your mind when meditating because you are thinking the whole time about clearing your mind. So Geoffrey thought it was stress that was causing a pronounced lack of sexual drive. But after weeks, when the doctor assured him that the new medication regimen was working, he wondered if the dip in his libido could be due to his new meds.

He knew that Max was frustrated and he knew that only months into a new relationship was not a good time to draw away from sex. But he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. He and Max would masturbate together; they would kiss too. But the level and intensity of lovemaking was underwhelming.

When they came back—desire, energy—the problems were resolved only for a time. Each of them was like a singer who didn’t have time to warm his vocal chords properly before a performance. He sings his way through stumblingly but the orchestra plays its final notes before he can find his way. They were never in synch.

“Have you talked about it?”

Geoffrey was seeing a counselor. He’d never done it before but he’d worried about things not working with Max. He didn’t want to quit therapy unless he knew he’d put in a good effort. He was too old to give up too easily and a relationship that had only lasted a year seemed trivial. Plus he couldn’t be certain that the problem wasn’t something deep-seated and invisible to him but an issue that came from him rather than being mutual.

“Well, what would you like him to do? Really. Is there some situation that you can describe, some way that you would like him to be when you’re having sex?”

He liked this counselor. He liked the questions that poked and prodded and made him think and talk or come to sudden revelations like this one:

“I’d like him to take charge. I’d like him to throw me onto the bed and make love to me instead of me making love to him.” Geoffrey thought about big, strong Max: the odd juxtaposition of his size, and his gentle disposition. Was he hoping for something that Max just couldn’t give?

 

 

Sex was easy, Geoffrey told himself, though the truth was that it was plentiful, but not simple. Still, it could be found in saunas and sex clubs, in cruising grounds, in the locker rooms of swimming pools and gymnasiums. But someone to fall asleep with, someone to lie beside, and someone whose arms in which you can awake—how often do you find that? Geoffrey thinks that he’s found quite a lot of sex in his forty-some years. But partners have been few.
Trade-offs
, he thinks.
Everything is a trade-off
. In this case, the items are sleeping together and having good sex. If he was challenged on this, he would have to back down. They did have sex. They sometimes had good sex. Sex and sleeping together were not opposite things. In fact, they were quite complementary. So he would have been forced to clarify: in this relationship, what was important to him was waking up in Max’s arms, the intimacy of shared sleep, falling asleep to his partner’s breathing. Really hot fucking wasn’t something that could be expected or demanded. Maybe, in the end, it wasn’t even that important. At least that’s what he told himself.

 

 

It was Max who was frustrated with the sex. But it was Geoffrey who decided to end the relationship.

“Are you happy with this?” he’d asked angrily one morning. They’d snarked at each other for days.