Gay Erotic Stories

DONE. eb Moroccan night Paris 1954 You don't feel old; others define you as such. You only see it in the eyes of the teenagers at the entrance of the disco or when you are cruising the park by night and they go away after a close, cold look. Nevertheless, the night when the gate of sexual delight opened is present as if it were yesterday, with all the odours, the crazy whispered words, the tactile souvenirs. I was eighteen in that August of 1954. I attended a language course on Boulevard St. Michel, and I was granted an accommodation in boarding facilities of Lycée St. Louis, vacant during the summer holidays. In the evening, I was loitering on Boulevard St. Germain. It was the epoch and the ambience of the existentialist philosophers: Julette Gréco, Boris Vian and Sidney Bechet; but also Jean Cocteau, Gérard Philippe and so many unforgettable artists. In 1945, "Les amitiés particulières" had been published and had subsequently opened so many minds, showing that love between boys can be true and pure. At night, I was sitting on a bench opposite Café de Flore, and I never grew tired of the movement of the street and the crowd there. Young Arab boys were walking around with a basket and sold peanuts to the people sitting on the café terraces. Mansour, who wanted me to call him Marcel, was from Casablanca. He was an extremely friendly and a beautiful boy, with a skin like milk and glossing black curls. At the time when the waiters began to pile up the chairs, his job was over and he would go home; but several times he would sit down on my bench and we would have some friendly chat without any particular topic. So it was that night. Suddenly however, he said, "Je suis pédéraste.” My heart began to beat: so that was it! I knew about it because the boys in school joked about the faggots and their silly way of walking and of speaking, but I never had dared to inquire let alone to go further. It must be said that 10 years after the fall of the Nazi felons not all their unlawful laws had been cancelled, so that the police, with their infamous efficiency, continued to pursue such horrible crimes as man-to-man love. So, I do not know why, I always went away when the topic came up. Was it fear or insane fascination? Anyhow, it is impossible to be indifferent. I told Mansour that I did not understand that word. He took a ball pen from his basket and a piece of paper from the ground, and he wrote "pederace.” Now, in Gymnasium I was studying Ancient Greek, so I laughed and corrected on the paper that word to "pédéraste,” derived from pais, the young boy, and erastes, the lover. Now it was Mansour's turn to laugh: "So you know what I mean! Come, I'll show you something." He rose and we went to the hotel where he was staying. On the way through deserted Paris he took my hand and placed it on his pants where I was surprised to feel a hard boner, and he moved his hand over my butt; he seemed to love that. But when I took his hand, he withdrew it abruptly, and when I put mine on his hard buttocks, he slapped it. I tried to understand that difference. In Greek, “homos” means "the same.” The hotel, near St. Eustache, was one of the mean places where immigrant workers used to stay. Silently, we went up to the fifth or sixth floor and entered a dark room. Mansour told me to make no noise because there was somebody else sleeping, and he turned the key in the door. In the dark, he laid me across a bed and dragged my pants with his naked foot down to my ankles. My heart was beating in frenzy. So this was now the moment to enter that world. The boy took entire possession of me by kissing me deep in the throat. It was the first time that I was gratified with such a warmth and so much tenderness by a man. He was not at all in a hurry, and I got excited just as when a stranger called me by my first name and looked straight into my eye: I became aware of my existence, of my individuality. In the street, in school, in family you are a just a shadow passing by (Mother excepted). After a long while, he turned me around on my belly. I realised that he spit in his hand and he penetrated my ass, filling it entirely. And now he began to fuck me, to fuck, to fuck hard and hot. The first strokes hurt, but then the hard engine was slipping deeply in and out. That was wonderful, feeling a Man and his wood-hard love. After a wonderfully long time he panted faster and faster on my neck, his strokes became quicker and harder. Then he stopped, his dick quivered and I felt it hot inside. He quickly withdrew, and I had the frustrating feeling of sudden emptiness. Now he switched on the light, a naked bulb on the ceiling. The room was occupied by some beds, and I saw three other men, Algerians or Moroccans, who woke up, twinkling their eyes and showing a stupid look. Mansour went to the hand basin and washed his dick and his belly thoroughly. He told the men a funny story in Arabic; he and the other men laughed a dirty laugh. And I was standing there in front of these primitive fellows, in my shirt, which I felt was too short, a Bavarian college boy from a totally inhibited, Catholic environment where you had to confess "Father, I have committed dirty things" - "Alone, with a boy or with a girl?" This was a way of putting young boys' noses into things they had not asked to know. Next morning in school, the wise boys would give the details. Eeeh, what a shame! Nobody had ever seen me naked; I never had sex with a girl. And now that! I placed my hand on my private parts, but Mansour passed his hand tenderly under my arm across my breast; he kissed me on my neck, and with the other hand he drew my shirt over my head. Suddenly, he pressed my elbows together in the back, put his knee there and exhibited my naked body and my erection to the grinning men. This was the moment of the liberating breakthrough. Now I will do anything; today I will be a dirty slut and do anything, anything these men will ask or force me to do. It will leave no scars and no traces on me; nobody will ever know about it. Next week I will sit again on my school bench, an insignificant schoolboy with nickel glasses and neatly combed hair parted to the left. Mansour switched off the light and pushed me on another bed. The man, lean, with thick Afro hair and a thin, upward-curved penis, turned me on my belly and slipped into my hole. Now I knew what was going on, and that was a good feeling, too. When he had finished, I had to go to the toilet and he led me down the corridor, completely naked but at that hour nobody was supposed to be there. When I had relieved and washed myself, he hugged me and kissed me deeply. I think he would not have done that in front of his roommates. Back into the room, the man shoved me on the other side of the bed. There was a kind of truck driver, a heavy and unshaved fellow who seized my dick and my balls and drew me to his side. I felt how his penis was growing, and he turned me over and invaded me from the side. When he was done what I had felt by his strokes becoming faster and faster, his penis remained there motionless for some minutes and then he began a second round. That time it lasted a bit longer. With my slippery and extended hole, I became hornier and hornier, and responded to his attacks. My stallion began to laugh and explained to me in French that little Mansour with the innocent look brought them from time to time a French schoolboy curious for a discreet threesome and whom they deflowered in a very delicate manner -- “doucement, doucement” “sweetly, sweetly” -- but that he never had brought a boy with such a deep hole, such a perverted slut who requests eagerly the strongest strokes. He said that in a friendly, almost appreciating way. The other man in the bed, the one with the Afro hair, complained that the bed was shaking from all the humping and that he was getting again a hard-on, as my fucker whispered into my ear. In the dark, he searched for a towel, withdrew his penis and cleaned it and my butt. Then he rolled me over his belly into the arms of his comrade, whose hot and curved penis I rediscovered with delight. That one began immediately a very hard speed fuck, and it did not last until he began a rabbit gallop with ah's and oh's. With a sigh, he collapsed, as did I. But there was no rest. A rough hand seized my neck in the dark and dragged me, half on the floor, into another bed. That was the fourth man, a hairy gorilla, whom I took for a load carrier from Les Halles, the central market. His calloused hands went up and down my back from me ears to the foot soles. This was no striking; it was thrashing. Then his rough hand went behind my balls into the crack - he avoided my penis - and he tried to pinch my breast. And all time he whispered like a madman, in French and with wine-loaded breath, "Oh, what a beautiful girl, oh what a skinny girl, I want to bite your lollos, give me your cunt, I want to swim in your cunt..." With that, he tried to pinch my nipples. I found this to be stupid. I bit him in his ear and whispered that I was an educated college student, that I was studying Latin and mathematics, and that I was a man with a penis and that I could fuck anybody who accepted that. That drove him crazy: he tore my arm to roll me on my belly and inserted his hard stick into my butt. I felt it deep inside, but my back entrance had been largely widened and greased. He did not stop that ecstatic hot whisper into my ear, “Oh, that horny girl, oh that wet hot fuck hole…” Fortunately, he was so excited that he did not take long to come to the final race, withdrew his stick, stopped for a moment and then plunged in again up to the root of his balls, whereupon I jumped against it. And all the while he scratched my back with the fur on his breast. At last he arched his back, drove his stick to the deepest bottom, remained motionless and then collapsed on his side. He fell asleep at once. Dawn was coming through the window. Mansour rose and accompanied me reluctantly down to the entrance of the hotel. I wanted to kiss him on the cheek, as comrades do, but he pushed me back. "Fous le camp - drop it, get lost.” Paris at the blue hour of dawn has quite a particular ambience: strong odours of rotten fruit and the remote sound of metal cans; nobody in the streets except some beer vans, Algerian green grocers and skinny cats. I had some difficulties in walking, because the scum ran from my butt down my legs, but I finally I arrived at the Lycée without being seen by the staff and I took a hot shower. In the evening, I saw Mansour again on Boulevard Saint-Germain and I hastened towards him, so happy and so grateful. At that moment, he took a banana from his basket and showed it around him: "That's what she wants, the little whore." He explained something in Arabic; all his comrades looked at me with roaring laughter. I ran away. Two street corners further a little boy from that group, a very handsome Kabyl boy with milk-white skin and fresh cheeks who also sold roasted peanuts from his basket, caught up with me and crowed, "If you give me 1000 Francs,” (that was about 5 dollars at that time, which was a lot of money) “I will fuck you in your arse. And if you add another 1000 Francs, I will give you to my three brothers. The oldest one is forty; he is married and very strong." Too much is too much. Despite of all that happened I knew that at the age of 18 I did not need to pay, but that I rather got paid (this fact helped me considerably later when I did my studies at University). So I told that boy if he'd give me 50 francs (something like a dime) I would fuck him there in the dark behind the church, but that this would hurt. He became very angry and yelled he was not a homosexual, and he ran away cursing, fortunately for me, in Arabic. The trauma of Mansour's treason persists to this day. I only understood many years later in Tunisia and Morocco how the Arabs despise the passive partner as effeminate and as a worthless slut. It happens certainly that an Arab accepts surrendering himself to an intimate friend if there is no European tourist available, let alone about girls: there are none. But he is lying motionless as a plank and shows that he does not enjoy the fuck but is just giving his comrade some relief. Neither he nor the other consider themselves to be gay, just like our schoolboys who go jerking side by side or mutually masturbate in the central warming cellar, just considering it to be fun, like a dirty joke. This first night of mental liberation has marked me for my life, even if I married later. Concomitantly, I always tried to submit myself to three or four men, preferably Arabs or black Africans. All this had begun with Mansour in Paris long, long ago, but I have not forgotten one moment of that hard night. Today, Mansour lives certainly again in Casablanca, a wrinkled old man who throws perhaps sometimes a hidden glance on the neighbor's little son. Despite his treason, I always feel aroused and grateful to him. Comments: moran_nl@yahoo.com