Gay Erotic Stories

“What the hell are you thinking..?” Cathy, a trusted friend and former counselor asked me. “You know it’s too early for you to even be thinking about building a relationship with someone. It hasn’t even been a year yet…” “I know, I know.” I looked past her, avoiding her eyes, possibly, out the window of the beading shop she owned and ran, onto the rainy Oregon street outside. She knew me so well, understood the ins and outs of recovery way better than I. She had years of abstinence from drugs while I’d only a year and a few days clean and sober before my little lapse---over a month ago. There were things about me even Kathy didn’t know. Things I couldn’t easily tell her, if ever. “I’m not really thinking of a relationship. I just want somebody to…” Our secrets are what keep us sick, they drilled us while in residential treatment, Our secrets are will kill us… Be that as it may, I didn’t know how to talk about Elexi in anything other than as a fiction, an imaginary character. This huge influence in my life and I’d only referred to him on paper to another drug counselor as a creation of my fevered adolescent sexual fantasies. Incubus, Latin Incubare, Incubate, one source read, 1] a ghost or demon that lies on sleeping persons for the purpose of sexual intercourse. 2] A nightmare. 3] Anything oppressive, burdens. Incubi and Succubi—feminine—are sexually obsessed ghosts or demons that take advantage of and amplify sexual fantasies… “Have you contacted County Mental Health yet?” Cathy asked, pressing as though still a counselor instead of the friend she had become since I’d graduated last year. “No.” The traffic outside cut plumes out of the standing water on the street. “I got their answering machine. Winter must be a busy time of year for them. I’m not all that sure it’s what I need anyway, Cat.” “You’ve gotta follow through on this, Mark. You know how you get.” She stepped into my field of vision again, an ample woman with a caring face and a volume of coppery hair. “Your dark side’s been coming out again lately, hasn’t it?” “Yeah.” I was geared to be as real as possible with her. “It’s really obvious, looking at my artwork. You should see the painting I’ve been working on at home.” Cathy’s pause betrayed a certain feminine curiosity. “Is it…phallic?” I nodded as a customer came through the door. She patted me on the arm. “What you need is love, Mark, not sex.” She went to greet the incoming business as I picked up my backpack and headed for the front door. “I’ll be in touch, Cathy. I promise. Thanks.” “Behave…!” she cautioned by way of goodbye. I smiled a little grimly, going out into the light rain, never knowing whether I’d come back or ever see her again. Elexi… He’d become ever present, invisible yet a part of my every waking thought, breath, encounter. I walked to the downtown transit bus station, helplessly surveying each male I passed for sexual potential, from the polished preppy college kid to the scruffy homeless dude with the sign saying, WILL WORK FOR FOOD… I’ll give you a job… the silky voice echoed in my head. Still, I walked on. How do I explain Elexi? I can’t, really. I don’t know whether he’s a ghost, a demon, someone I manifested out of my own mind and soul until he became real inside of me, like a split personality, or something else altogether beyond my understanding… I’ve had time and reason to research the possibilities of that question, believe me, hoping that knowledge was, indeed, power. Back in the summertime, right after I’d gotten out of treatment, there he’d been, watching from a higher position, perched silently on a wall in the park like some magnificently handsome gargoyle, as I walked the length of Skinner’s Butte Park. I’d seen him, not knowing it was him---Elexi has so many forms, is contained in so many men, seeing through their eyes, seeing through mine, using them as he uses me---until he called my name out loud. “Mark….” the lean, tanned man with close-cropped dark hair and piercing blue eyes said, just as I was close to giving up on finding the one I’d come to meet. “You must be Mark…?” (“Thou shalt worship the man’s body before you. All men’s bodies are mine…”) I had been living with a changing cast of about thirty other male addicts for longer than three and a half months, containing my mental and physical reactions as at least a bisexual man in order to receive the treatment I so desperately needed. There had been one close incident in all of that time, when another openly bisexual, a blonde youth named Brian, had climbed up into my bunk at bedtime with his shirt off and a book in hand about children and their sexuality. He was a sexual child himself, it seemed to me, yet he understood what he wanted. Looking back, I know I really wanted to reach out and caress this fucking beautiful kid, who’d described me rather romantically as “the dying artist.” What I did instead, which took a lot of strength, was to gently ask him to return to his own bed before either of the other two roommates came in. I basically disobeyed the will of Elexi with that show of resistance, but to give in would have been to sacrifice my life as surely as if I’d contracted AIDS. Brian didn’t complete treatment himself, as it turned out, the heartbreaker returning to his heroin addiction and getting busted for solicitation, what he did to maintain his habit. Elexi would have him, one way or another. Brian wasn’t the only addict in treatment I’d been drawn to; the house was full of “bad boys,” some out of prison, black, white, another who had been a prostitute when he’d been fourteen and showed his dick off to me more than once, now in his thirties. I never let myself get close enough to give it the treatment it deserved, though we talked about it, again because it would have lost me my bed and any chance at recovery, but all that will-power left me totally hurting for something more than a much-needed jerk-off. “Yeah, I’m Mark.” I answered the tall blue-eyed stranger. I knew him by two different names through our Internet communications. Why he was so cagey with his real identity didn’t matter, so much as the tan, lean look of the dude. “You’re Tom, right?” “Yeah. My van’s over the rise there.” We walked; at one point, I turned and gave him the most openly unabashed look of smiling anticipation; he returned my grin. Gleaming sunshine poured over us through the tall trees of Skinner’s Butte. Elexi is a nature-deity, a primal force of the earth and sky… Inside the van, which was a relic from the 70s, complete with gold-tinted windows allowing us to see outside while we got busy without anyone observing our acts, we stripped naked and embraced upon hastily arranged blankets. Tom---I shall call him Tom---displayed a fine body, which I rightly told him was beautiful. I was breathless already; it had been so long since a male was presented to me for the pleasure of it. In contrast to his, my physique is more mesomorphic, thick chested, broad shoulders, heavily muscled legs, apt to gain either muscle or useless fat all too easily. Both of us bore the hair of men on our chests, yet one essential difference between us I found most compelling and exciting: Tom’s back was ornamented with a sharp blue tribal tattoo. Dead center between and including his shoulder-blades was one of those Polynesian, Tahitian or other Pacific Asian designs I personally admire a great deal, yet cannot wear. My roots are Celtic. If, someday, I should acquire any such body art, and for now I have none, it will reflect that Irish heritage. I came together with Tom. I worshiped Elexi through him with all the pent-up need I accumulated in almost four months of abstinence. I tasted fuck, kissed buttocks, and inhaled pit deeply. I greedily received him in my mouth as Tom lowered his hard cock repeatedly into my face, fiercely locked arms and legs around his tattooed back as he took me like a missionary, my lips and teeth paying homage to the skin of his strong, bare left shoulder. One further detail intrudes upon my memory of that event; it has Elexi’s unwritten signature all over it, one that I make it a point to offer as warning. While lying on my back, taking him into me, clutching passionately to this unknown entity’s torso as if to make certain of his reality, I saw above me in black felt pen ink on blue metal a poem, or part of one. The words in full I can’t recall; they matched the ink and writing on an interior sidewall, which read, disarmingly, ‘fuck assholes,’ but the ceiling’s words sounded decidedly, unsettlingly, ritual---may even have included the word ritual---but it was the word blood I saw. Too late, if it really mattered to me, I asked simply, “You aren’t gonna kill me, are you?” He only laughed, grinding into me, and said, “No….” Finally, on hands and knees, I mindlessly enjoyed being pistoned like a bitch in heat from behind until he came. I licked his bare feet and sucked on this smiling stranger’s toes after all of that, my ass glowing for what would prove to be days following. We praised one another before dressing, and I all but fell weakly out of the gold van as he dropped me off closer to the downtown station. That was months ago. I thought at the time that if I never again paid tribute at the altar of another man’s flesh, that potentially dangerous encounter would have been a high note on which to quit. The trace of his ghost is still in my machine, however; Elexi resides throughout the Internet; he owns the adult bookstores more possessively than whatever person’s signature is on paper, rules the wooded parks by night or day; he walks the highways. He guides my fingers over the letters of the keyboard, compels me to tell you his name. (I am Elexi; you are mine…) To Be Concluded--