Becoming ballsy

by Thomas Stevens

Troy wore a deep pink t-shirt and black jeans over an athletic expanse of body. His wide upper back, a weightlifter’s back, tapered to a butt like a couple ripe plums. His chest arced outward, stalwart as if on guard duty; when he turned, the tip of a nipple registered. His stomach was a short stretch of plain leading to stallion’s legs, tough, graceful, a glory to look at, say, as he played lacrosse, running to catch a ball in his stick head. Likewise a glory to look at was his hair, dirty blond hair that encased his head like the helmet of a centurion (I’d seen Ben-Hur).

In class he delivered comments to the American literature teacher in a baritone voice that projected lasting firmness. Once he said: “I was surprised that we’d be reading Huck Finn but now I see it’s the sharp contrast to My Antonia”—opening the palm of his right hand—“to the narrator, the voice of the narrator that is”—closing his palm—“the unforgettable point.” I saw his palm opening and closing and drank in his steady flow of words, and I wanted his unforgettable point, the one at the head of his shaft, grazing up my chest, my neck, my face, into my mouth…he doesn’t even see you.

“Any other thoughts?” our teacher was saying. “Going once, going twice…” “Huck was a bore!” I shouted out. “I was much more interested in Antonia’s fate—I mean—the fate she creates for herself,”—Troy had turned his dirty blond head, now he saw me—“given her strength and—resourcefulness.” I looked from the teacher to Troy still looking at me with his lake-blue eyes, still, resolute. “And Huck is not strong and resourceful?” the teacher said. “You got me there,” I answered, dutifully doing a sheepish grin. I was always dutiful.

On my way from early 20th c. American literature to AP French and No Exit, I felt a hand touch my shoulder, give it a squeeze, and release. Surprised, I turned my head. Then I stopped and turned around. I was facing him, the mesmerizing beauty of him.

“Uh…”
“Smart comment you made in there. On target. You should speak up more,—.”
“David.”

“Definitely speak up more, David. It was good to hear from you. Well, see y’around the campus,” Troy said, flashing a smile at me as he walked on, an effusive smile that colored his cheeks and enlivened his eyes. It was a smile that threatened to melt my defenses (such as they were) and harden my dick into a flagpole, flag aloft.
I did see him around the prep school campus, but he was generally in fervent conversation with one or two other guys, the same guys, whom I came to think of as his entourage. They were not unattractive; neither were they Troy. When he walked by without his entourage, he had a remote expression on his upturned face, as if something were calling to him from far away, and I dared not so much as say “hi”. Although I was not speaking to him, I was speaking up more in the American literature class, as he had urged me, that one time, to do.

I pointed out, “Though we hear a lot from Darl, it’s Cash who gets my attention. He’s the one who’s doing something constructive, making the coffin for his mother as she lies dying. Speaking of which, there’s something about his mother that’s always been dying, in the sense that she’s never been alive to love. I think Cash is alive to love.” I pointed out, “It’s ironic that it’s called the Brotherhood. I can’t imagine anyone feeling the love from this group. It’s like 1984. Or Animal Farm.” Referring to Orwell was leaping onto a limb, but my goal, Troy-propelled, was to speak up. And speaking up generated more speaking up—about Fahrenheit 451 and The Bluest Eye—a good thing to do, I told myself, and virtue is its own reward, I told myself, on my way in mid-April to Albert Camus and The Stranger…I felt a hand touch my shoulder, squeeze it, and release.
This had to be Troy. His summons, maybe to something more rewarding than virtue. Maybe not. Whichever, I don’t want it now, I told myself, and I kept walking.

“David.”
That voice, deep and level. I turned, but I kept walking. A little awkward to walk backwards, but not much.
“Troy, I can’t stop.”
“You’ve been able to stop, before.”
A matter-of-fact statement.
“On to French 3,” I said, turning, and walked off.

Troy didn’t follow me, but a rush of thoughts did—I hope that didn’t sound like “French me,” of course not, I don’t want him to french me, in my mouth or in my ass, methinks you doth protest too much, brain, brain, go away, come again in the next class. My brain didn’t come in French class. It didn’t come after class. A hand touching and squeezing my shoulder did.

I broke helplessly into a smile.
“Do you always say hello like that?”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“You first.”
I got an uncomprehending look that I assumed was disingenuous. I stood there.
“Well, do you always say hello—?”
“Only to the creeeaaam of the crop. Ok, you answer me.”
“Working in the garden. I promised my father—.”
“Too bad. Come on!” he exclaimed and ran off.
“Hey—.”
“Come on!”

I figured, if curiosity hadn’t killed the cat, then boredom would have, and I ran after Troy who ran out the fiberglass double doors leading from French (and Spanish, German, and Latin) to the outside, specifically, a field in back of the school that led to poplar trees that lined a little river. Troy, lacrosse guy, was easily a faster runner than my un-athletic self, and soon he had disappeared from my view. Both baffled and stung, I ran faster toward the river. He had to be somewhere along it. Not quite. Troy was doing the sidestroke in the river. Naked.

“Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it!” he yelled at me. “Said Goethe, anyway! Come on in!”
I looked down at my dark blue button-down shirt tucked into brown chinos.
“You know what they say about he who hesitates!”

I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it over my head, slid off my belt and chinos, gray socks and loafers, and—yes, I thought, boldness—my black boxers. I ran into the river, kicking up water around me, and plunged forward into a breaststroke. I swam for a third of a second, maybe, when Troy caught my arm and pulled me back to shore, as if I were a dysfunctional dinghy.

“Here,” he said, in shallower water. “Here we can stand.”
He put his hands on my hips and flipped me, from flat and afloat, back to upright and standing. Something else, I sensed, was moving upright, but all I said was “I know how to stand,” or, rather, I started to say that, because Troy pressed his lips onto my lips and his hands onto my ass cheeks. If beforehand I’d ever been like chaste Daphne resisting lustful Apollo, I was like her no longer. I took Troy’s right hand and brought it to my ass crack. Right away, I felt a finger up my ass, then a second, and a third, like the barrel of a gun, a warm-blooded gun, sliding, pressing, relaxing me, slow like a massage at first—like a massage for my butt—then fast and deep, in, out, in, out, while his palm brushed my left ass cheek. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to sense anything else but his fast fucking motion.

Troy took my right hand and brought it over so that it was cupping his balls, then my left hand and brought it over so that it was gripping his dick.
“You know what to do,” he said.

I do? I do. I’ve got to. I buried my face in his smooth chest, the chest that before I’d only dreamed of, and I lapped it up and down, and licked and nibbled his right nipple; I stroked up and down his hardening shaft (I was getting my god hard!) and then covered his cock head with my palm (talk about the cream of the crop); I caressed his balls and followed it up with a squeeze like he’d squeezed my shoulder in greeting, firm so he felt my grip but not rough—and caress, then squeeze—caress and squeeze.
“You do know what to do,” he said and, taking his fingers out of my ass (alas), he twisted and bit hard into my nipples (yes).

I felt my body about to give way and fall back into the river, the brisk river currents, when Troy’s right hand slid down my torso and onto, lightly, my acute erection. I’d become erect fast, too fast to notice when it happened. My dick was really like a flagpole now, hard like aluminum, sticking up and about to spurt. The French phrase du calme suddenly came into my head, and it seemed that something like it had come into Troy’s head also, because he murmured, “Hold back, hold back,” as he slowly stroked my shaft.
Re-focusing on the mud on my feet, I held back. Detachment didn’t last. I gripped his thighs, hardened by the rigor of sports. I licked all over his chest, and his neck, and his ears, as if I were a dog licking its master.

“One more thing,” I said, low and fast into the ear I’d been licking, clasping the hand that was stroking me.
The hand stopped, followed by a courteous and curious “Yes?”
“I want you to—.” I stopped—I do?—I blurted, “—rub your dick against my ass. Cheeks.”

I felt my face cheeks go red. I sound like a porn movie. He’ll laugh at me. He’ll leave me here. He didn’t laugh or leave. He touched my face and smiled and kissed me. He did to me, gently, what I wanted him to do to me, and the rubbing motion of his dick against my ass cheeks sent torpedoes of ecstasy through me, and with a spasm I spurted and spurted and this time I did give way, and I fell back into Troy’s embrace.

Troy leaned over against my neck and intoned, in that baritone voice, that projected lasting firmness, “You are mine, yes, you sweet lovely boy, you are mine.

Thomas Stevens has been traveling through the genres for 36 of his 45 years. Recently he incarnated as a poet and self-published a book of poetry inspired by Joan Armatrading’s song “More than One Kind of Love.” Even more recently, after reading an anthology of gay male erotica, he decided to try his hand at writing gay male erotica. Resident of Roslindale in Boston, MA, Stevens commutes to an outdoor cafe in Boston’s South End to produce his writing.

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night out.

by *Miss Theresa*lips

“pure evil,” she said. “pure evil. i dont even know what i am going to do with you.”

she had me pinned up against the wall, so i had some ideas. i had one hand in her hair, guiding her, helping her in any way that i could, and the other on the bookshelf next to me. it was like some demented version of Twister- only instead of “Right foot- red, ” it was “Right hand-wall. Left hand- lover’s head.”

she had her mouth on my pussy and was hellbent on making me cum. obviously, this wasnt a problem. i just wasnt sure how this little mid-dinner fuck happened. the evening started off innocently. a little dinner, a little schmoozing, a lot of wine, you know, apretty standard friday night in pittsburgh. and then she walked in. the air was smoky but soon became electrified. now, i’m not talking romance novel-electric. or cheesy porn- wannabe-electric. i mean, ELECTRIC-ELECTRIC. all smoldering and hot in my pants- electric.

was it her? was it the wine? was it my constantly overreacting libido? who knew? it didnt much matter, because i wanted her. and i wanted her badly. more than that- i wanted her mouth on my pussy. not a bad way to start a night, right?

and then another SHE walked in.
and my night got even more interesting….

my headboard.

by Brenna Campbell

she took to fucking me, her arms bracing her up. i always loved the way her shoulders powerfully moved, showing me that she could keep control of both our bodies as she fucked me senseless. she moved on me and moved on me as she watched my fingers, two of them now rubbing my hard clit. all was lost as i built up my rhythm and it combined with hers. making sweet love in fairytale land was done. she was fucking me now and fucking me hard. the bed was moving under us, and the sound of the headboard striking the wall always made me hornier. it indicated that fun and games and playing was over…. i was being fucked and i was going to be fucked until i came. she watched my fingers circle my clit, although she seemed to be having trouble focusing as she was lost in the insistent burning in her own cunt.

she fucked me, and the headboards banged out our fucking. fuck, fuck, fuck. bang, bang, bang. my cunt clenched, clenched clenched. and the toy hit that spot over and over and over. i watched her watch me and her eyes squeezed shut with every thrust of her. her body was positioned so that every thrust of her moved her pussy onto my body, causing her to gasp every time our bodies hit. the headboard clunked out our passion and the banging got faster and harder. her pussy struck my body making her move the toy faster in my cunt. she twisted and plunged it in and out, until all i could feel was pleasure wasnt sure if it was in or out.
i had reached that point on the hill where i was ready to come, wanted to come and i knew she was there too. it was all fucking now. hard and fast. all pleasure. all fucking. all all all. her body moved, her pussy struck, the vibrator stretched my cunt, the toy hit, my fingers stroked, my clit buzzed, my mouth bit, her luscious breasts moved over my face, my tongue rolled on her nipples. we yelled out. “OH FUCK OH FUCK OH MY FUCK!”
“oh oh OHH!”
“I LOVE HOW YOU FUCK ME! I LOVE IT!”
“I LOVE IT!”
The headboard banged and banged and banged and she kept on fucking me
she kept on fucking me
her pussy collided onto my body
my pussy was stretched
my clit was so hard
i was ready
she was ready
the headboard hit faster
my whole mouth was at her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple
the headboard hit harder and harder
her body fucked
my body fucked
my fingers rubbed over and over the spot
my clit throbbed and felt her body hit onto mine
i screamed out
my head tilted back on the pillow
her mouth went to my nipple and
her body moved hard
my clit was hard
her clit rubbed hard
her body swallowed my body swallowed her clit my clit to her body moved the bed moved the headboard struck
her mouth never left my body
my mouth found her body time stopped and it happened
we came together
in a fountain of explosive fireworks of ice and passion and lust and her body and my body and we came together and the room smelled of fucking and the candles flickered and my cunt clenched and the toy stayed in my cunt and her cunt clenched and the butterflies started circling my clit was pulsing and pulsing and the headboard stopped and i was moist and flowing and my cunt felt, just felt like i had come and exploded and i wanted to lick her pussy and feel her move her fingers in and out and the vibrator moved out as my fingers stopped and her tongue licked my nipple and her body stopped and i moved my hand to her ass and squeezed fingers that were juicy and sticky from my cum and her cum was on me and it was good.
we breathed together
hard and fast
but slowing
slower
slowing
slowing.
slowly, together.
she fell onto me, her shoulders winning the good battle of my body and her body and the headboard and the wall.

Voicemail Message 233

by Jonathan Rentler

placed at 1:15,
to listen press the star key:
I imagine the ocean raw in September.
Names, not necessary,
but stamped indicting all.

No Chris,
I’m not asking to come down anymore
or up eleven stories to find you
craving a strip-down-dance-wrestle-sex
(sober though).
To lie then on your floor while you descend
to cocktails and friends,
“They’d bore you Jon.”

Like funhouse mirrors propped
on the backs of Fates,
through a shot glass smashed,
I sit on your white plank throne
watching the crash of someone on my shores.

He, Jim, brings his “kids,” an ark of pets.
A bed of leashed lizards,
collared dogs, one cockatoo perched,
a meth boyfriend in the back spare room
found living in his Toyota.
Another stray. “But no,
he hasn’t fucked me in three months;
he’s more of a roommate than anything.”

Jim calls nightly
much like I once did to you.
Oh what a strain!
I don’t want you, I whisper
as you I’m sure did.
You don’t want me, chanted secretly
down telephone lines to New Orleans.
When threatened
like a bitch defending her runt of a pup
he slanders your name.
You’re the bronzed knight
on a tarot pulled
when he’s confronted
with my plot-less metaphors.

Jim,
I’ve been led to the water’s edge
but fail to jump in.
I’m the one who takes off.
When anyone calls me
more than once a week
I freak.
I hull up planks
and drag my anchor aboard.

I unearth the stringy roots
used to leave faint impressions
like disappearing tracks
of sandpiper feet
on coastlines shifting.

“But (sob) Chris (sob)
the way you (sob) chased (sob)
and Chris (sob) strung (sob)
asshole (sob),”
said sans his Southern twang
and queer wit.

The bedroom puns are lost
sunken in the sags
of forty something skin
on a bed somewhere
in the French quarter.

Jon,
in the beginning you harped
on disappointment,
the careless handling
of others by others.
Setting bulbs of poison oak
laying tracks
of Venus fly traps,
whistle blowing breaths
stored early on.

The words flowed
from your pitcher lips
like honey wine
hornets still in twitching.
Wishing just wishing,
Chris would be the exception
to the spouted.

An earthen concoction buried deep
where Adam and Steve
did first meet.
Love caught at the base of the trunk.
The seed steeping
into a swirling sap
cupped in a jar of clay.

For Chris and I
to find one day
lapping up
till death parts.

But Chris,
your home is in the news;
all alarms and sirens’ whine.
A Philly nymph
bought a one way ticket
for a one way swim
left her waitress skin
to skim
atop sea foam,
surfacing at your feet.

In Atlantic City there are syringes
in with the summer waders.
Washing up are bags of fat.
Rotting like jelly fish sacks,
they burst beneath your ATV wheels
penetrating sun shades.

You blink in AIDS
and Old Age.
They follow Fear
to the optic nerve-ways
to your starfish of a brain
its legs tangled, tucked,
curled like the fingers
in the fist of a stillborn.

Cupid had in his party
the avenging angel
of Love unrequited,
When it’s not reciprocated,

Enter Anteros
a face of knotted teary sleeves
a dagger always drawn,
never sheathed.

He just arrived
so don’t pick up.
Just let this ring
leave me to a voicemail slot:

Hear this.
Hear me.
I cannot help if
I don’t feel the same for Jim
as I do for you Chris.
(I hope your listening.)

The blade lifts
with a familiar scent,
the crust of someone else, recent
in the last few hours.
Grains of sand fall
from the clenched god’s hand.
As he lays me down, I ask,
“You didn’t happen upon,
the death before this one,
a condo where a lifeguard slept?”

A nod and I float
on my stomach,
arching my back as it slides in sharp
its Chris
its Chris
its Chris
but its not.

-Jonathan Rentler is an actor and writer currently grappling New York City.
One eye always cast over his shoulder towards the golden coast.

endlessness.

by *Miss Theresa*

wanting to consume you.
i want you to feel me feeling you.
the intense heat that radiates from all points-

i want to taste you.
i hunger for all that is you.
i want it as i want you.
now.

my fingers move over your body as you glow,
warm in the moonlight, the candlelight, the light that radiates from you-

i bite your nipple and fear that it’s too much
tho wanting to bite harder-

i wish to hear you
i hear your breath becoming shorter and
i press into you-

i want you to call out my name
i want words to escape those delicious lips
i want those lips to part my lips to
lick my clit to suck my sex

your fingers to my mouth and i suck you-
enjoying you
and all of you.
anything you give me.

those fingers fuck me in all of the ways that i want you to
in all of the ways that you do.
in the ways that only you know how to.
the way that i want no other to.

fuck me.
just keep fucking me.
i get lost in you.
with you

i have never felt this way before
-not so hot for-
-not so fucked by-
-not so in love with-

anyone
not anyone
ever.