Best Gay Erotica 2014 Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Larry Duplechan.

  Introduction copyright © 2013 by Joe Mannetti.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,

  2246 Sixth Street, Berkeley, California 94710.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: Geber86/Getty Images

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-014-8

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for granting permission to reprint copyrighted material: “Steam Punk,” by Eric Del Carlo, originally appeared in Steam Bath, edited by Shane Allison (Cleis Press, 2013); “Five-Finger Discount,” © 2012 by Huck Pilgrim, reprinted (in slightly different form) from an Amazon Kindle Edition (2012); “The One in the Middle,” © 2012 by Dominic Santi, reprinted (in slightly different form) with the author’s permission from Middle Men, edited by Shane Allison (Cleis Press, 2012); “My Best Friend’s Dad,” by J. M. Snyder, originally appeared in Show-Offs, edited by Richard Labonté (Cleis Press, 2013).

  CONTENTS

  Foreword•LARRY DUPLECHAN

  Introduction•JOE MANNETTI

  The Power Man•LEE HITT

  Gambling with Harvey•TONY HAYNES

  Everybody’s Boy•LANDON DIXON

  The Piñata Conquest•BOOT LS

  Big Thick Dick and Double-Chocolate Bubble Booty•SHANE ALLISON

  Case Closed•K. LYNN

  Light-Rail•CALVIN GIMPELEVICH

  Five-Finger Discount•HUCK PILGRIM

  My Best Friend’s Dad•J. M. SNYDER

  Steam Punk•ERIC DEL CARLO

  The Chicken Coop•DAVID HOLLY

  A Port in the Storm•DILO KEITH

  Sticks and Stones•GREGORY L. NORRIS

  Hatfield and McCoy•JAY STARRE

  The One in the Middle•DOMINIC SANTI

  Art Appreciation•THOMAS FUCHS

  Coach’s Pussy•DAN CAVANAGH

  Everybody’s Doin’ It•DALE LAZAROV AND JASON A. QUEST

  A Walk in the Park•MAX VOS

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  FOREWORD

  I would not have imagined six months ago that I would end up editing Best Gay Erotica 2014, but now that I’m here, it feels surprisingly inevitable. The week before Thanksgiving, 2012, Brenda Knight (Publisher of Cleis Press) emailed me concerning an essay of mine, “Bigchest: Confessions of a Tit Man,” which had appeared in Muscle Men: Rock Hard Gay Erotica (Cleis Press, 2010), and which Brenda hoped to reprint in Best Gay Erotica 2013. I had “guest judged” BGE 2012 for Richard Labonté, editor of the series since 1995. When I asked why she (rather than Richard) had contacted me, Ms. Knight informed me that Richard had decided to end his run as editor of the Best Gay Erotica series.

  I have known Richard Labonté since the mid-1980s: he wrote the first (to my knowledge) review of my first novel (Eight Days A Week) in 1985, in In Touch for Men Magazine; and has been a long-distance buddy and Larry Duplechan booster ever since. I gave Ms. Knight permission to reprint my essay; and she, in turn, asked if I might be interested in editing Best Gay Erotica 2014. I invited her to phone me, and a few minutes of discussion later, I said yes.

  Which left me with some mighty big shoes to fill: Richard Labonté has edited shelves of anthologies for Cleis, including, of course, sixteen annual editions of Best Gay Erotica. Few could balance literary quality and sheer filthiness with such dexterity. Fortunately, I would not have to face this task alone. Before contracting me for this anthology, Cleis requested I send them a short list of candidates to serve as guest judge. Happily, my first choice was also the publishers’ first choice. Even more happily, that choice was another buddy of mine: LGBT activist, former erotic-video performer and current sexy hunk of man-meat Joe Mannetti. I’ve known Joe for over twenty years, having met him sometime in the early 1990s at a reading given at the now-defunct A Different Light Bookstore in the Silver Lake area of Los Angeles, where Joe had admired my writing and I had admired Joe’s amazing chest. We have been friends, and shared a mutual letch, ever since (I have long held that a bit of sexual tension only helps keep a friendship interesting).

  Thank you, Joe, for doing so much of the heavy lifting—fortunately, you do have the shoulders for it. Thanks also to the writers whose stories appear here, and to the many fine writers to whom I finally had to say no thank you. Thanks to Jason A. Quest for his eye-popping artwork. And thanks to Cleis Press (namely, Felice and Brenda) for taking a chance on a newbie. I’ve given it my best shot, and as I’ve said, I had some mighty big shoes to fill.

  Larry Duplechan

  Los Angeles, California

  INTRODUCTION

  Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often.

  —Mae West

  Those are words to live by, from an iconic woman who really knew how to live.

  My name is Joe Mannetti. I grew up in New York before heading out west to spend more than two decades living in Los Angeles, California, pursuing the limelight of Hollywood. My journey to the land of all that glitters included coming out as a loud and proud gay man, which led to connecting with the Bear and Leather communities, which led to entering several contests and winning five Bear titles (including Mr. International Daddy Bear 2009), which led to more than a couple of nude pictorials, which led to a brief career as a performer in the “jizz biz,” which led to here. Of course, there were a few other accomplishments along the way. But, truth be told, it’s the sex that sells. When folks remember me, it’s usually for all those naked photo spreads in which I bared all, and those Bear vids in which I did it all—or had it done to me. That’s probably what prompted my L.A. bud, award-winning and prolific author Larry Duplechan, to ask me to guest-judge Best Gay Erotica 2014. I was flattered, and I welcomed the opportunity to embrace the celebration of raw testosterone, kink and masculine sexuality that the stories you will read here reveal on every page.

  In this book, we present a tasty assortment of short tales that revel in the smells, sounds, shapes and sensations of men enjoying sex with other men. We start out with a sweaty encounter initiated by a power outage in Lee Hitt’s “The Power Man,” followed by a game of cards that leads to the most exciting gamble two men can enjoy winning together in “Gambling with Harvey,” by Tony Haynes. Landon Dixon takes us on a hedonistic journey with a man who knows how to please everybody he services in “Everybody’s Boy,” then comes a kinky game filled with enjoyable torture as Boot LS shows us the ropes in “The Piñata Conquest.” Shane Allison gives us a preview of coming attractions at the porn shop in “Big Thick Dick and Double-Chocolate Bubble Booty.” And there’s more manly mischief from authors K. Lynn, Calvin Gimpelevich, Huck Pilgrim, J. M. Snyder, Eric Del Carlo, David Holly, Dilo Keith, Gregory L. Norris, Jay Starre, Dominic Santi, Thomas Fuchs, Dan Cavanagh, Dale Lazarov and Max Vos; and ace comic book artist Jason A. Quest. Each contributor invites us to explore every ripple and nipple, every grunt and groan of men getting it on with other men and enjoying every musky moment of it. These nineteen stories give you a chance to escape into the world of man-on-man hotness. Larry and I hope this collection has something for everyone who digs men and the intimacies that they can share together.

  In deciding which selections to insert between the covers of this latest edition of gay male erotica, I used a scale
suggested by our studly editor: one-to-five stars (for literary merit) and one-to-five boners (for sheer nastiness). Every story included here gave Joe a rise, and that’s why every one of them made it inside—the book. I invite you to allow them to penetrate your innermost fantasies, and enjoy the release that going there produces. I know I did.

  The experience of man-on-man sex is as diverse as the men who engage in it. It can be sweet and hot with someone you know and love, but, as some wise soul once stated, “Even with someone you don’t know, it can be wonderful!”

  So here’s to all the tricks who turn out to be real treats, the hunks who enjoy exploring their horniness and the studs who celebrate gay sex. My own journey of sexual freedom has connected me to most of the good things and even the highest achievements, professionally and personally, in my life. As I went from contest winner to pin-up, porn performer to writer, and on to actor and even LGBT outreach advocate, the power of sex has always been there guiding me. It still inspires me, and I hope you will allow it to inspire you. As another iconic sex symbol once pointed out,

  We are all born sexual creatures, thank God, but it’s a pity so many people despise and crush this natural gift.

  —Marilyn Monroe

  Here’s to embracing that natural gift. Enjoy!

  Joe Mannetti

  Connecticut

  THE POWER MAN

  Lee Hitt

  My power is out. I’m not sure exactly when it happened. Or how. I’m not even sure what time it is now. Judging by the beam of sunlight streaming through the slit in the thick curtains, my guess is that it’s daytime. I pull back the curtains and squint through the glass. Looks like the power lines outside my house went down. Some lie limp on the street, others sag powerlessly from the lines or from branches. They must have been blown down by heavy winds. The yard is wet from the night’s pounding rain, but the pavement already looks dry. Just looking at the street, I’d never know it had rained.

  I click on the battery-operated radio. They say it could be days before the power comes back on. Then the radio dies, the voice first becoming crackly, then dimming to a distant whisper and finally fading to silence altogether.

  I shuffle into the kitchen to make coffee, and flick the light switch. Nothing. Oh, that’s right: the power is out. It’s so easy to forget when the power is out. It’s usually always there, readily accessible. Flick a switch and let there be light.

  Then one day, it isn’t.

  There won’t be any coffee today, either, I realize as I turned the knob on the electric stove top. No heat, no coffee.

  I go back into the bedroom. Stupidly, I flick that light switch, too. I have to stop doing that, flicking switches and hoping something happens. But we’ve all been conditioned to do it, to think we have power over the power.

  After drawing the curtains tight, blocking out all the light, I burrow under my blankets and go back to sleep.

  I wake up sweaty and emerge from my cocoon of blankets hot and horny. The air conditioner has been off for who knows how many hours. I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. Its face is blank. I could have been out for days. I have no idea. It doesn’t matter though. I’m horny. At least I can control that.

  That’s the beauty of working from home. I get to do what I want, when I want. Well, most of the time, anyway. Without power, I’m not going to get much done. I can work from my laptop when the power is off, but then I’m on a time limit. The little meter in the corner of the screen counts down the hours until blackout. It’s too much pressure.

  I find my vibrating butt plug, a plump little purple number, in the dresser’s bottom drawer. Lying on my back atop the sweaty sheets, my knees against my ribs, I squeeze the firm rubber digit into my eager hole and flick the switch. Nothing. It just sits there, lifeless, protruding from my asshole like a little purple cork.

  Using rechargeable batteries in my anal vibe doesn’t usually pose a problem. Only today I can’t recharge them. Today, it’s out of my control.

  A sharp crack in the yard startles me, and I scurry to the window with the purple plug still up my ass. I stick my head between the thick curtains and look through the window.

  There are men in my yard.

  The power lines are no longer on the ground, no longer dangling from leaning poles. I hope the power comes back on soon. My whole day has been thrown off. Once my routine is screwed up, the rest of my day is shot.

  Someone knocks at my door. I pull on a robe and shuffle down the hallway. The thin carpet feels scratchy beneath my bare soles.

  It’s the power man. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are sweaty. His everything is sweaty. A dark U-shaped stain drips down the front of his chest. A wet circle blooms under each armpit. I glance down, quickly, and see a faint dark shadow between his legs. I look back up and see that his eyes, electric blue, haven’t left my face.

  “I was wondering if your power was back on,” he says through full lips and a thick beard.

  “No. It hasn’t come back on yet.”

  “We’re not sure what the problem is. We’ve fixed the lines. Everything looks good outside.”

  “Must be a problem inside,” I say.

  “Must be.”

  A pause. Near-tangible quiet hangs in the air, like static electricity.

  “I’ll have to call someone to look at it, I guess,” I say.

  “I can take a quick look,” he says. “If you want.”

  “Sure, sure, come on in.”

  He steps inside.

  “At least it’s a little cooler in here,” he says. He looks around the dark room. Keeping the curtains closed keeps the temperature down. The room is lit only by the corona of light around the edges of the curtains, and through the slit in the middle. The power man’s pupils dilate, adjusting to the dark.

  “Do you want some water or something?” I ask. “You look pretty hot.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” he says. He takes off his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm. The dark hairs on his arm stick down in a dark streak, plastered with sweat.

  As I fill a glass with water and a few misshapen, half-melted ice cubes, he unbuttons the top button of his shirt. Then the second, exposing a white undershirt. It’s soaked through with sweat, almost clear. Thick chest hairs push against the fabric.

  “Here you go,” I say, bringing him the glass of water. Beads of sweat are already starting to condense on the outside of the glass. He takes it and downs it in one deep swallow. He wipes the cool condensation from his hand through his short hair.

  “Do you want another?” I ask.

  “If I have another, I might stay in here all day. I should go check out your fuse box.”

  I lead him to the fuse box, in the laundry room. “I’ll leave you to it, I guess,” I say.

  “It’ll just take a minute,” he says. “You can stay here.” He punches the latch with his thick index finger, popping it up, and yanks the fuse-box door open.

  The laundry room is small and stuffy. I haven’t put a curtain on the small window high up on the wall. A rectangle of light, bright and hot, shines on the dryer. I rest my hand on the metal surface of the dryer: it’s so hot, I snatch my hand away quickly.

  I can smell the power man, his musk mingling with the scents of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. I like his scent better. I wish I could wash my clothes in his scent, wash myself in it.

  I twitch under my bathrobe. I turn away from him, facing the dryer, and act as though I’m straightening the bottles of cleaning supplies on the shelf. I undo the tie of my bathroom and retie it, strapping my stiff dick to my stomach.

  “You’ve blown a fuse,” the power man says.

  I turn around, speechless, my cock throbbing against the bathrobe tie.

  “I don’t think that’s the whole problem, but it’s a start. I’ve got a spare in the truck. Be right back.” He places his hot hand on my waist and sidles around me to exit the laundry room. I slump against the corner of the d
ryer like a horny fifties housewife. But the dryer isn’t on. The power is still out.

  He’s gone for a long time. He’s probably not coming back.

  In the kitchen, I fill another glass with water and ice. It sits on the counter, waiting for the power man to return.

  A wet ring spreads on the counter. I run a finger through the moisture on the countertop and run a cool fingertip across my forehead.

  The door creaks open. The power man lets himself back in. The smell of his wet musk precedes him, this time mingled with tobacco smoke. He must have taken a smoke break.

  “This will only take a minute,” he says, and brushes by me. He ignores the glass on the counter, the wet ring puddling across the laminate.

  My dick goes soft and slips out from under the bathrobe tie. It hangs powerless between my legs.

  I can hear him clanking around the laundry room, and I crane my neck to get a better look. He produces a screwdriver from the belt around his waist and fiddles with something, pops out the fuse, replaces it. Just like that. With his thumb, he flicks the heavy switch on the fuse from left to right.

  Nothing happens. He flicks the switch from right to left. Left to right. Still nothing.

  He grunts. “I don’t know what the problem is, man.” He comes back into the kitchen. He has the dead fuse tucked into the palm of his hand. “Is that for me?” he asks, tilting his head toward the glass of water sweating on the counter.

  I nod.

  He sets the dead switch on the counter and picks up the glass of water. Again, he downs it in one gulp, this one slower, though. Deeper. I pick up the dead fuse as he drinks and flick the switch back and forth. Click. Click.

  “Flicking that’s not going to fix anything,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. Droplets of water cling to his beard.

  Before I can turn around and hide it, my cock rises up, right between the panels of my bathrobe. Its exposed head, a clear bead of juice clinging to the tip, points right at the power man.

  “That’s not going to fix anything either,” he says.

  I go red and turn away from him, reaching under my bathrobe and again tying my cock around my waist.