Read Online Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction by Emanuel Xavier Richard Labonté - Free Book Online
Authors: Emanuel Xavier Richard Labonté
Ads: Link
yeah. The ones with the wraparound zippers.”
The quick smile I got made my balls tingle.
“They’re over here.”
We take a short walk. He doesn’t even look at the stock on the rack, just sticks his hand out, lifts the hanger from its little hook, and presents.
“These are the ones,” he assures me. “You know where the dressing room is. Try them on again, and I’ll be back there in a minute.”
It’s just like the first time, only better.
With a bottle of water in my hand and sporting the rock ’n’ roll look that still gets guys thinking with their cocks, I hit the patio-cum-back room of one of the seediest gay bars in the world, and hit the jackpot. A buddy’s there, a guy I know even though I can’t remember his name, and he’s already working his crotch, just waiting for one green light, which I am more than happy to provide. Both of our dicks are out in minutes, and they are not alone. Guys stroll over and start blowing him, me, whomever. Guys are pulling on our tits, tickling our balls, licking our butts. He and I are staring each other down, making good old-fashioned porno faces.
Neither one of us is a Yeah, work that shaft, cocksucker dirty-talk kind of guy; we do it with our energy, which by now is bouncing off the grimy wooden slats which pass for walls around here.
I shoot; some guy takes it on the chin. The guy licking my ass backs away to watch. My friend a few feet away comes all over a chesty dude’s shoulder and we are all of us gone to seed.
“Hey, motherfuckers…” the bartender shouts through a tiny, barred window near his ice machine. “The sex club is down the street, you assholes. They charge twenty-five dollars; why the hell should I let you guys do the same shit here for free?”
We smirk, or chuckle quietly, or act all sheepish; we were starting to buckle up anyway. The questions was rhetorical and the lecture was halfhearted at best. The T-shirts for this bar carry a legend that reads: RUINING REPUTATIONS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS.
They know which side of their toast has the butter. People don’t come through the door of this bar for just a drink. They come to get their cocks sucked, or to watch someone else get his cock or ass worked over.
Still, it’s an interesting question. Money aside, why don’t we go to the neighborhood sex club?
Sex in a sex club: nothing could be more predictable. Sex in the back room of a bar—even a really seedy bar—that’s bad-boy behavior, outlaw activity, rebel stuff. It practically takes us back to prehistoric, preverbal, good ol’ days, as if me and my boyhood pal had just outrun a dangerous predator. We beat the beast and lived to tell the tale. How many times do we get to feel like that in the fucked-up America of the Twenty-first Century?
This is what I’m thinking while I put myself back together again. Zipping up, finishing my water, saying good-bye, grabbbing my backpack.
I get on my bike and start riding home, and it’s a whole three or four minutes before I start thinking about Dimitri again.
He has disappeared. Again.
Every time I start to fall for him, he vanishes in a puff of smoke. Stops calling. Stops emailing.
Everything comes to a grinding halt, only there is no memo announcing the fact. I have to figure it out for myself.
Slowly.
As the days go by.
On top of it all, those stupid, goddamn, black latex shorts apparently carry some kind of fucking curse. I didn’t get to wear them to the Fortress, because those Dark Nights are for Women Only. Some joker put it up on craigslist in the M4M category, who knows why. I also didn’t get to wear them to a leatherman’s soiree because I came down with pneumonia. When I recovered from that, I went back onto craigslist, but my year-old G-rated pics were not working for me. Coincidentally, a newly professional photographer had posted an offer for a free session in which someone could get hot new pics in two hours flat. He said he was just doing it to get more
The quick smile I got made my balls tingle.
“They’re over here.”
We take a short walk. He doesn’t even look at the stock on the rack, just sticks his hand out, lifts the hanger from its little hook, and presents.
“These are the ones,” he assures me. “You know where the dressing room is. Try them on again, and I’ll be back there in a minute.”
It’s just like the first time, only better.
With a bottle of water in my hand and sporting the rock ’n’ roll look that still gets guys thinking with their cocks, I hit the patio-cum-back room of one of the seediest gay bars in the world, and hit the jackpot. A buddy’s there, a guy I know even though I can’t remember his name, and he’s already working his crotch, just waiting for one green light, which I am more than happy to provide. Both of our dicks are out in minutes, and they are not alone. Guys stroll over and start blowing him, me, whomever. Guys are pulling on our tits, tickling our balls, licking our butts. He and I are staring each other down, making good old-fashioned porno faces.
Neither one of us is a Yeah, work that shaft, cocksucker dirty-talk kind of guy; we do it with our energy, which by now is bouncing off the grimy wooden slats which pass for walls around here.
I shoot; some guy takes it on the chin. The guy licking my ass backs away to watch. My friend a few feet away comes all over a chesty dude’s shoulder and we are all of us gone to seed.
“Hey, motherfuckers…” the bartender shouts through a tiny, barred window near his ice machine. “The sex club is down the street, you assholes. They charge twenty-five dollars; why the hell should I let you guys do the same shit here for free?”
We smirk, or chuckle quietly, or act all sheepish; we were starting to buckle up anyway. The questions was rhetorical and the lecture was halfhearted at best. The T-shirts for this bar carry a legend that reads: RUINING REPUTATIONS FOR FIFTEEN YEARS.
They know which side of their toast has the butter. People don’t come through the door of this bar for just a drink. They come to get their cocks sucked, or to watch someone else get his cock or ass worked over.
Still, it’s an interesting question. Money aside, why don’t we go to the neighborhood sex club?
Sex in a sex club: nothing could be more predictable. Sex in the back room of a bar—even a really seedy bar—that’s bad-boy behavior, outlaw activity, rebel stuff. It practically takes us back to prehistoric, preverbal, good ol’ days, as if me and my boyhood pal had just outrun a dangerous predator. We beat the beast and lived to tell the tale. How many times do we get to feel like that in the fucked-up America of the Twenty-first Century?
This is what I’m thinking while I put myself back together again. Zipping up, finishing my water, saying good-bye, grabbbing my backpack.
I get on my bike and start riding home, and it’s a whole three or four minutes before I start thinking about Dimitri again.
He has disappeared. Again.
Every time I start to fall for him, he vanishes in a puff of smoke. Stops calling. Stops emailing.
Everything comes to a grinding halt, only there is no memo announcing the fact. I have to figure it out for myself.
Slowly.
As the days go by.
On top of it all, those stupid, goddamn, black latex shorts apparently carry some kind of fucking curse. I didn’t get to wear them to the Fortress, because those Dark Nights are for Women Only. Some joker put it up on craigslist in the M4M category, who knows why. I also didn’t get to wear them to a leatherman’s soiree because I came down with pneumonia. When I recovered from that, I went back onto craigslist, but my year-old G-rated pics were not working for me. Coincidentally, a newly professional photographer had posted an offer for a free session in which someone could get hot new pics in two hours flat. He said he was just doing it to get more
Similar Books
