Gay Erotic Stories

Now I'm not gonna tell ya I really thought about what Bill was sayin'. I didn't. Didn't think about what it meant. Didn't wonder why he wanted to know. Didn't consider it meant messin' with a guy in the community who'd never done a thing to me instead of with a con who was kicked into my path by those self-righteous assholes that run the country. I didn't tell myself I wasn't queer or that I oughta be doin' a girl instead of a guy, even tho' I'd never even thought about doin' anything like that to any chick since I had Connie to fuck with. Or that what Bill was askin' me to do was worth prison, and that if I was caught it'd be my second strike. All I thought was, "You'll give me a car?" “An eighty-seven Malibu," said Bill. "My father's car. Low mileage. Runs good. He died a year ago and I just haven't gotten around to selling it. I'll sign it over to you if you'll show me how you did it...and let me videotape it all." Tape me?! Now that made me stop and think. It got Wayne goin', too. "Bill, are you out of your fucking mind?" he snarled. "Do you have any idea how fucking illegal that is?" "Only if you get caught," Bill said, right back him. "But if we play our cards right, we won't." That brought a big "huh?" from me. "What d'ya mean? It's one thing to do a guy in prison. The uniforms don't give a fuck what happens to any of us. Or in some back-assed state like Texas, where it's open season on fags. But grab a guy off the street in the community? In LA? He's gonna call th' cops." "Curt's right, Bill. It's better to leave that idea in fantasy land." "But what if he's someone who wouldn't go to the police?" Bill asked. "What if...once it's done...we gave him a lot of money and he chalked the experience up to being part of his business?" Wayne sat on the sofa's arm and talked to Bill like he was a kid that just got caught smokin'. "If you mean doing that to one of the boys down on Santa Monica, some night...come on, they aren't exactly what you'd call straight. And God only knows what sorts of diseases they carry -- AIDS, syphilis, herpes, you name it, they probably have it...and have done it." "I know, Wayne. Will you try and give me some credit, for once? I'm talking about hiring an escort." "Which raises the same issue about whether or not they're straight..." "Doesn't matter. Most of those guys swear they're hetero. But even if he isn't, if we hire him from one of those ads and we...well, tie him down and let Curt do his thing, it'd be a pretty damn good facsimile. And that's all I really care about -- watching him do it to someone who doesn't want to do it...and making him like it. All on tape." Wayne stood up, lookin' real pale. "I...I can't believe you're suggesting such a thing." "I can't fuckin' believe you wanna tape it," I chimed in, and not too happily, I'd say. But Billy boy didn't notice. "It'd just be for me," said Bill. "A one time experiment to prove your point...and taped so I can look at it as many times as I want and -- " “You're fuckin' sick," I snarled. Bill looked at me, point blank, and he got this expression on his face that...I dunno. Seemed simple and natural and scary all at the same time. "No, Curt," he said in a plain voice, "I'm fuckin' old. And I'm fuckin' fat. And the only way I CAN fuck, anymore, is to pay for it. As we saw, tonight. And I'm so fuckin' tired of that. And I'm so fuckin' close to being broke because of it." "Bill..." Wayne started, but he got cut off with a look. "You don't want to be part of it, Wayne, don't be. Go home to Kansas for a week. Back to a state where it's okay to send fags to jail for making love, and that happily tolerates a motherfucker who tells people to kill us. Go back to a place where the only way you can make contact with something male is to pick up a guy in the park who'll let you suck his dick, and then who'll beat you up and take your money, knowing you won't be able to go to the cops about it. Go back and try to remember why the hell you ran like crazy to get away from the kind of world." He clenched his teeth then looked back at me. "Curt, most of my sexual contact comes from my right hand. If that's how my life's going to be, fine. But I want something to make it worthwhile. And if that means messing with somebody who's been messing with guys like me, all the better. Now I'm offering you a car that's in good running order. One that's worth thousands of dollars. And all I want you to do is give me something back. You don't really have to rape a straight guy; one of the fake ones'll do. But I want to watch you do it...watch you make one of those obnoxious pretty-boy fucks your bitch and love it, so I can withdraw into my own little world and fantasize about doing it myself." "Fantasize?" I asked, believin' him about as much as I believed in anything. "Of course," he said. "I don't have the nerve to do something like that. Not really. All I could ever do is jack off." He stood up and looked at me, face t' face...and I could tell he was right. He was bitin' the nail off his pinky, he was so nervous at even the thought. He'd be way too much of a pussy to ever really try it. "Tell you what," he said, "I'll make you a bet. You do it and you get him off, the car's yours...along with a thousand dollars. You don't, you give me a full-scale freebie." He was smirkin' then...and I started smirkin' right back. "On one condition," I said before I even realized I said it. Then I saw from the corner of my eye that Wayne was lookin' at me like I was sicker than Bill, so that made me even smirkier. "What's that?" Bill asked. "There was this fucker, my last year in high school, he got me sent to jail. If your boy could look like him, it'd give me somethin' t' fantasize about, too." "Revenge by proxy. I love it. What are the specifics?" "What's he look like? Taller'n me. Not as built. Short dark hair. That'd be close enough. Oh, an' one more thing." "What's that?" "His dick's gotta be cut." "Circumcised?" said Bill, smilin' ear to ear. "But of course." So I nodded and shook his hand and said, "Then set it up." And then I gave him my phone number and I left. It's funny, but after agreeing to that bet, somethin’ in me shifted. I didn’t really notice it, at first; it‘s like it happened way down deep and took its time gettin’ up to my brain. But lookin’ back, I can see how, when I walked home, I looked at everything different. And yeah, I walked all the way back to fuckin’ Hollywood. I will not in any way, form or fashion ride the fuckin’ bus. Fuckin’ ass-wipes who run the Metro system but ride to work in limos, they let the fuckin’ things get to where they’re disgusting. Old skanky buses that break down more than they work, spittin’ exhaust in through a two-bit a/c that ain’t good enough for a fuckin’ Honda, seats covered with gum and spit and ink and God knows what else, dozens of stinkin’ little "third-worlders" sittin’ side by side or standin’ forty deep, chatterin’ in some bastard-style Mexican crap, or big black bucks handin’ out attitude to anybody they fuckin’ feel like ‘cause they got no other way to be anybody. Me in with all them people yellin’ and fightin’ and all that shit, in a sardine can on wheels? Fuck, I knew real quick I’d kill somebody if I had to ride one of them fuckin’ things every day. So I did shanks mare to my jobs and anywhere else I had to go. Helped me blow off steam and kept me from gettin’ too close to any assholes. So that night, when I’m walkin’ home from Bill’s, feelin’ really good from the blowjob and the two-fifty in my pocket and the buzz from the beers. I dunno why, but it was like I’d never walked down Santa Monica before. All the buildin's were new. All the lights were bright and cheerful. All the traffic was steady and fun to watch. I saw this tiny little park at the corner of Crescent Heights and wondered when the hell they put that in. I passed under streetlights with big bright globes on ‘em and thought, "Ain’t that neat?" I saw how many trees lined the sidewalks, all for the first time. My whole attitude about Santa Monica changed. I always thought it was kind of a second-class street, the kind I’d always wind up goin’ down. Not like Wilshire. Wilshire, no matter where you are on it, it's got class. It's got attitude. Style, even. But Santa Monica always seemed to be...I dunno, sayin’ it was sorry for bein’ so full of potholes and for havin’ such narrow sidewalks and for bein’ so old and out of touch. Even when it passed through west West Hollywood, where it was split in half by trees, and when it passed through B-Hills and had a park on one side, it still felt sorry, still felt like it was back alley. But not no more. Now it wasn’t a crowded street in a too-big city full of five million languages; now it was a huntin’ ground...and I was a lion on the prowl. And the guys I’d pass? They were nothin’ but my dinner. I’d smile at ‘em, laughin’ inside as I thought, "He don’t know what I’m gonna do. What if I did it to him? Is he anybody I’d do it to? Or him?" Didn’t matter if they looked good or young or queer or anything, I had this new standard for smilin’ at my "fellow man" -- was he worth prison? So that's why I put those restrictions on Billy-boy. If I’m gonna risk a second strike, I want it to be somethin’ I’ll at least enjoy. And man, I have to admit, fuckin’ up some squeaky-clean white guy, especially if he looked a little like fuckin’ Anthony, made me happy. Now I ain’t gonna tell you I was really thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ caught. I wasn’t. Thought never entered my head. I mean, come on -- what "heterosexual male" in his right mind’ll admit to bein’ butt-fucked by an ex-con and forced to cum? Really...think about it. Just the fact that he shot his load would make any cop or DA wonder if that guy was legit or just got into something over his head and was freaked ‘cause his wife might find out and divorce him. And if the guys at work found out? They’d make his life hell. He might even get fired -- not for bein’ queer -- oh, no, that'd be illegal -- but suddenly his job ratings’d fall off and he’d get all these black marks and just have to be let go for "poor performance" or some shit like that. I mean, everybody knows it's still okay to hate faggots in this country. Just listen to any so-called "man of God" go on ‘bout it on Sunday mornin’. And look at all those two-faced cocksuckers who’ll tell you queers can change and they got proof when any fuckin’ idiot can see they’re lyin’ through their teeth. But hey, it's all in the name of God. Fuckin’ asswipes. They preach love and understandin’, but you take one fuckin’ step that's wrong and you’re marked for life in their eyes. You want any help from 'em? You gotta be what they want you to be. You gotta change into what they think is right. You gotta live like they tell you to fuckin’ live. And if you don’t? Just try and get ‘em to turn one fuckin’ hand for you. "I may be a Christian, but I do not believe it when Jesus says, visit the sick and those in prison and love they neighbor as thyself." Yeah, I know the Bible. Some of it. That fuckin’ chaplain that'd come by "County" thought he was gonna make me into one of his boys. "A soldier in God’s army," was how he put it. We’d sit together in his office twice a week, chattin’ about life and the meanin’ of God and all that shit. He’d quote verse and tell me where they were in the Bible. He even gave me a small one so I could look ‘em up. I started lookin’ through it, more and more, tryin’ to figure out what the hell’d gone wrong with my life. It's funny -- I started goin’ there ‘cause it gave me a breather from dealin’ with all the shit you got in jail. Dumbshits tryin’ to prove who’s got th’ biggest cock on a twenty-four-seven basis. Takin’ letters and pictures and socks and toothpaste from guys that're weaker than them. I mean, it's pathetic, takin’ fuckin’ toothpaste to prove you got a big dick. Some guys had cigs stashed away, or bottles of whiskey or bits of chemicals, and they’d swap ‘em for money or a blowjob. And sometimes a bunch of the "big dick" boys’d gang up on a new kid and bang him. And me? I was sick of it. Sick of fightin’ the little fucks off all the time when they wanted my shit. Sick of gettin’ into fights over if I gave one of ‘em a dirty look or not. Sick of always havin’ to watch my back in case the "big dicks" decided they wanted to make me back into a punk. That's why I never missed Reverend Tello’s little meetin’s. He was all about readin’ the Gospels and followin’ in the teachin’s of Christ and all that. So that's what I read. And what's really funny is, for about ten minutes I sort of believed in it. All the stuff about not judgin’ others and lovin’ thy neighbor and doin’ unto others like you want them to do to you. And I’m thinkin’: shit, I wish I’d been told all this shit. Y’see, my mom...well, she’s a slut who’ll do anything for a drink. Still is, pretty much. And I’m the bastard she didn’t want to have. But since she lived in this dinky-assed town in Wyoming and the guy who usually did her abortions’d been slammed into jail and the nearest legal clinic was in fuckin’ Denver, I got born. Too bad she couldn’t make it to Denver, huh? Anyway, we spent six years in that stinkin’ hell-hole of a town, with my mom turnin’ tricks at the truck stops for money for booze, and her mom makin’ sure I got fed and my diapers got changed and all that shit...till she keeled over from a heart attack that nobody -- not the paramedics or the E-R doctors -- believed was a heart attack till it killed her. I was five. By that time, I knew how to fix my own cereal and rip off milk from doorsteps and keep myself goin’ while mom slept off her drunks. We didn’t move to LA till the state tried to take me away. Fuckin’ bureaucrats and "Christian" folk didn’t give a shit about me till my grandmother was dead from takin’ care of me and my mom got preggers, again. Then, by God, they wanted to make fuckin’ sure I was raised right by foster families or some state agency that didn’t really give a fuck about me, either. Same for the kid my mom was carryin’. Fuckin’ hypocrites. They didn’t give a fuck about my mom gettin’ abortions till her usual guy cut too deep into some rich bitch’s scared little girl and she bled to death; then they ended the "illegal" practice everybody in town knew about. Those "good Christian folk" who turned my mom in, they wouldn’t take me in or any kid like me. No fuckin’ way. That'd mean practicin’ what they preached, and that'd be a real inconvenience. So they tried to get me dumped onto the state. We split in th' middle of the night with some trucker who just loved my mom's mouth. And then, when I was nineteen, I got dumped out into the world. I couldn’t go home; my mom and her latest husband told me there was no fuckin’ way they’d let me back in; I was too "out of control" and I might be a bad influence on my twelve year old brother I had nobody else to hold onto, just a few bucks and the address for a halfway house in Silver Lake. So I grabbed a Greyhound and headed there. I figured Tello’d help me get a job and get my life goin’ right. But he didn't do shit. Didn't make one fuckin' call. Didn't return calls when I gave him as a reference. Was always "in a meetin'" when I tried t' call him. It's like I didn't exist anymore. For a while, I thought I'd done somethin' t' piss him off, but I couldn't figure out what. I mean, I was workin' a regular job at a burger joint for min-wage. I stayed in the halfway house. I dropped doin' drugs, complete. Then this kid named Mario who used to be in County explained it to me. "Out of sight, out of mind," he said. I didn't get it, so Mario gave me the A-B-C. "You ain't around him no more, vato. He's like this lifeguard that'll save ya from drownin' then throw ya back in the water to make ya learn how to swim. He thinks he did all he had to while you was inside. Now it's up to you to make it...even if you can't swim." God, I felt like a dumb fuck. But I ain’t one, now. I’m not "educated." My grammar sucks and my two-plus-two’s are about as basic as you can get. But I ain’t stupid, not no more. I know how to take stuff that I need and not get caught. I know how to get the stuff I can't take without bein’ caught. I can do whatever I got to do to keep myself goin’ and not worry ‘bout it till it's done, if then. I guess you’d call that bein’ an animal, but if that's how you’re treated, that's what you get to be. And so, there I was -- walkin’ down Santa Monica, smilin’ at the faggots who looked me over and whistled and made their faggoty little comments and shit -- and I’m thinkin’, "Dream about it, cocksuckers. I don’t need you right now. I’m in control, asswipes. I’m king of the fuckin’ world." I didn’t think about it then, but lookin’ back I can see that's when I felt what it was that I really needed -- power. Control. Strength. No matter what you call it, makin’ another guy do what you want him to do when he’d never want to do it on his own -- that's the best feelin’ in the world. I felt it with my first punk, when somethin’ behind my heart started racin’, somethin’ deep inside me that said, "Fuck drugs, fuck booze, fuck worries forever. Right now, you are the master. You are in control. You are the man, and you ain’t nobody who can get pissed on." And here I was about to get it -- again. I can't really get across the joy I had as I walked down the street. The feelin’ of my jeans and shirt against my skin, not rubbin’ but whisperin’ against my thighs and pecs and tits and ass, makin’ me feel like I could cum without a thought. The cool night air, the breezes whipped up as busses and cars whipped past me in the opposite direction, the sounds of silence over long stretches of the street, where the cars and trucks and busses were stopped at one corner or another...it all added to it. I was startin’ to feel...I dunno, light headed, almost drunk. I passed the "pink" part of Santa Monica and headed into the red-light area, passed tired lookin’ kids waitin’ by bus stops in hopes of makin’ fifty bucks for the night. Most of ‘em looked like the junked out runaways that they were, but some of ‘em were still kinda fresh. And as I passed ‘em and they glanced me over to see if I was gonna be their next John, I’d think, "I could take you back into an alley and make you give me what you charge for, no problem." And it'd give me a jolt that shot from behind my heart and into my balls and spread over my thighs to make me even crazier. Then I passed Highland and zigged up to Sunset, since my crib was up near Franklin and Cahuenga. That brought me past the "A Club", this huge white Old Hollywood building with a hundred pool tables and where beer cost five bucks, and I saw these sleek neat Young Hollywood guys in their clean pressed shirts and hundred dollar jeans bouncin’ in and out of the place, all tryin’ to look hot for these tiny Hollywood sluts who had zero interest in ‘em unless they had cash enough to buy ‘em more than a leaf of lettuce to eat. I stopped across the little side street and watched these guys laughin’ and clappin’ each other on th’ back and actin’ like a bunch of frat boys and I thought, "I could wipe those smiles off your faces, punks. And I’d have the best time of my life doin’ it." Then one of ‘em headed right for me: A big blond buck with perfect teeth and perfect hair and still perfect shirt, even after hours of playin’ pool and downin’ beers. He looked like he probably played football in college, tight end or half-back or somethin’ that called for speed and agility, but he wasn’t keepin’ himself up. He still had broad shoulders but they couldn’t hide the gut he was startin’ to get. But he was wearin’ these blue jeans that made his ass look inviting...and when he turned away from me and headed across Sunset towards a side street, I followed him. I dunno why I did, I have to admit. Nothin’ hit me in th’ form of a thought as to what I was gonna do. I just saw how happy he looked, and how easy his life'd been and how perfect it would be from then on...so I followed him, watched him jaunt towards this three year old Dodge parked halfway between two street lights, watched his ass move under those jeans. Even th’ way he walked screamed at me how happy he was, and I knew I had to kill that walk. I dug in my pockets for somethin’, anythin’ I could use for a weapon to make him come with me. Shit, all I had was a fingernail clipper. But it had a file...and the file was sharp...and if I held it right, he’d never know. I mean, if a guy believes you can cut him, you don’t really have to be able to, right? He "beeped" off his alarm and got to his car and opened his door and I was about to make my move when I heard, "Hey, Chad!" behind me. I went cold, but I didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate, just kept walkin’ right by him as I heard somebody run up to him and chatter loudly, "I’m comin’ with you. Rob’s got too much shit in his back seat." "Fuckin’ wastoid," I heard Chad say. "What you wanna bet his crib’s the same way?" "If it is, I’m ejecting." I heard two car doors slam and the car roar to life as I kept headin' down the street. A second later, they zoomed past me, radio blarin’ with some second-rate rocker’s rendition of "Relax" and turned left to go back to Sunset...and I dropped to my knees. I mean, I was shakin’ like you wouldn’t believe. Like I was scared....but I wasn’t scared, that's what's so freaky about it; I was pissed off that he got away. Really fuckin’ pissed. I wanted to chase that fuckin’ Dodge down the street and fuck Chad’s fuckin’ buddy, Rob, in the ass and in th’ mouth and rip his fuckin’ dick off and shove it up his ass for helpin’ him get away. Then I wanted to do the same to Chad for being lucky enough to get away. I leaned against the wall of this ratty old buildin' and sat there, tryin’ to shut the anger down, but I couldn’t. I could feel myself drownin' in it. I don't remember standin' up...but suddenly I was half-walkin'-half-stumblin' back to Sunset. I don't remember seein' a clock, but somehow I knew it was after one. I heard music...I remember it bein' like jazz, but I don't know what kind or what the song was or anythin'; it just fed the mess in my brain. I remember there was a bar on this side of the street, some kind of club with a courtyard, and people were laughin' and chatterin' inside. It fed the mess, too. I wanted t' head on, go home t' Connie, but I felt sick...my stomach was churnin'...and if I'd moved, I'd have blown, so all I could do was lean back against that buildin' right at th’ corner of th' side street. Then I heard somebody walkin' towards me. Heavy feet. One set. Prob'ly boots. Prob'ly a guy. I looked around and could’ve sworn it was daylight, the lamps were so bright. Dunno why I noticed; it didn't matter. I didn't look up till I knew he was passin' me...then I grabbed him from behind and slung him against the wall and pressed my file to his throat and snarled, "Shhhh...shhhh, not a fuckin' word. Not a fuckin' word." I shoved him down to this sort-of alley -- my arm tight around his neck, the file diggin' into his skin -- then slammed him against this dumpster. He was tryin' to say somethin', but my arm was too tight. "Shut up," was all I could say...could snarl, really. Before he knew what I was doin', I'd yanked down his jeans and shoved myself inside him. He almost yelled, but it got caught in his throat. I had so good a hold on him, he couldn't even call for help. Then I did to him what I wanted to do to Curt...I mean, Chad. Shit, it was perfect. Made everything good, again. And when I was done and the guy was lyin’ on the ground, chokin’ and moanin’, I kicked him in the back and walked away. And when I finally got home, I woke Connie up and fucked her, too. Shit...shit, that guy...t' this day, I couldn't tell you what he looked like or how old he was or even for sure that he was a guy instead of a girl. I just remember that when I had control of him, it felt right...felt good. So...fuckin'...good. He was mine...and I did what I fuckin' wanted with him...and he couldn't do a fuckin' thing about it...and I couldn't wait t' do it, again.