Read Online Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen - Free Book Online

his chest and his muscled ass, but also his athlete’s legs and his balls, which hang loose and prominent beneath the no-less-spectacular front of his crotch, the outline and gravity of his dick pulling at your eyes. Clearly, that suit cost him some serious money—though it may end up costing you far more, you fear, unable to look away, almost unable to remember the otherworldly lights you saw up in the woods, in the sky, the flying vehicle at the source of those lights that wasn’t quite in the shape of a saucer.
    â€œAre you thirsty?” he asks, his voice a deep, familiar baritone.
    You’ve already got a glass of water in front of you, and try to not think there’s some hidden meaning in his question. Thirsty for something more? For him? One of his big hands absently scratches at the lump of his crotch. You steal another glance, feeling your lips curl in a smile. You’ve always gotten off when a >man—a man’s man—handles his nuts. It’s a ridiculous, straight man’s thing, like grunting or sniffing the toes of discarded socks to determine just how dirty they are, but it pushes all of your buttons in proper sequence as you fall deeper under his spell.
    That black suit material reminds you of outer space, a star map missing the stars. The buttons are planets and moons. His flawless white dress shirt is linear time, the thin black tie cutting through its center at a slightly bent angle, a tunnel to travel through. The shoes on his big feet are so shiny, so polished, they remind you of something that should be within easy grasp, but isn’t. Shoes. Leather, but not leather, not really. So shiny, so sharp, like the man in the black suit. A trace of clarity cuts through the fog. What are shoes but a method of transportation to get the wearer from Point A to Point B? A vehicle. Space vehicle , you think, your eyes falling into the glossy black shine of his shoes.
    As though sensing the raw emotions that threaten to consume you, the man reaches lower and scratches at his leg, an action that causes his cuff to ride up, exposing a hint of hairy shin and calf. He’s wearing dark socks, but the socks, unlike the rest of his attire, are frayed, and you catch a glimpse of ankle through the gaps. Thoughts of extraterrestrial spacecraft and what happened out on Sawyer Avenue retreat back into the ether.
    You remember Mister Hunt, your teacher, and that particular math class, way back when. Mister Hunt was an attractive man, a bachelor. In math class that day, he called upon you to answer a question, only you weren’t ready. Six times six? You were fixated on the image of his ankle, visible through a frayed sock, not the number thirty-six.
    You force your eyes back up. “You look familiar,” you say, your lips feeling flabby, flaccid, stung with Novocain. The sensation is like trying to talk while dreaming.
    The man grins, revealing a length of white teeth, the gesture more snarl than smile. All you can think about, apart from the miserable itch emanating from your erect cock, is how much he looks like Mister Hunt, and how desperately you want to kiss him on that beautiful mouth, surrounded by the prickle of five o’clock shadow at whatever time this is. There’s a clock on the wall behind the cash register, but it’s lacking hands. A calendar hangs beside the clock, though the days and dates are blurry.
    â€œHey,” he says, and repositions his hand on your knee. “You okay?”
    Electricity ripples through your blood and bone and over your flesh, the wave both icy and hot at the same time. You are drawn back to his eyes. He looked like Mister Hunt a second ago—or was that an hour? Now he’s Tom, the tall ex-soldier, ex-husband of an ex-best friend, that guy you fell madly in crush with for a few years, back in your midtwenties. Tom, who was always scratching at his balls, who played sports with his Army buddies, who, a couple of times, you