I spent five years working as a project manager on various shopping center construction sites, and the hard-working, hard-bodied guys I saw around me every day were the subject of some of my most intense fantasies. From the shirtless carpenters to the beefy laborers, there was plenty of guy candy.
Here are a couple of pieces from Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories by Neil Plakcy (Editor), just to whet your appetite!
Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories
Cleis Press (March 18, 2008)
ISBN-10: 1573443123
Excerpts:
from Demo Dogs by Dale Chase
The guy driving this massive yellow belching beast wears a short-sleeved chambray shirt which looks about to burst at the seams. Beneath his white hard had he's deeply tanned. Even at this distance I can spot a chiseled jaw and rugged good looks. As his dozer chews into the old house with slow, persistent attacks I think of him doing that to me, knowing there's gotta be a fat dick in those jeans. After awhile when the porch overhang has collapsed, he backs up, pauses, and looks my way. Still at the deck railing, I wave. He nods, then goes back to work.
Others drive Bobcats and clear the rubble he creates. Some glance my way but when they stop for what appears to be a morning break, the dozer dude comes up the path.
“You like to watch,” he says.
“Like to do more than that,” I reply because my dick is hard and I can see he's interested. “Why don't you come inside,” I suggest.
He nods, rubs his bulging crotch.
from Hazard Pay-Off by Landon Dixon
Blake was in his mid-twenties, muscular all over from lifting and planting and stamping pavers for a living, with short black hair and warm brown eyes. He filled his faded jeans tight and taut, round in all the right places, his cheeks looking hard as the stones he was setting down. And since it was so hot, the work so heavy, he had his shirt off, his chiseled torso gleaming smooth and pumped in the sunshine. The guy was actually a good half-foot shorter than I was, but then I’m a carrot-topped beanpole.
I ogled my boss’s rock-hard, glistening body constantly, my mouth hanging open and eating dust, craving to lick the salty sweat from his muscle-humped chest and rigid nipples. I strangled the handles on the dolly, yearning to finger the soft, perspiration-slick crack of his apple ass. And what with all my sweating and drooling, I was soon parched with thirst.
from Daniel in the Lyons Den by Neil Plakcy
Joe Lyons was so near I could smell the tobacco on his breath, and a faint trace of his cologne. Leaning over me to point something out, his face was so close I could have kissed him.
And gotten my ass kicked, I was sure. Joe Lyons exuded a sexy machismo, and I knew from the ribbing he got around the site that he was quite a cocksman. The ladies were allegedly lined up for a piece of his sausage.
And speaking of that, I looked down at his thighs and saw his meat outlined against the taut fabric of his jeans. It had to be eight inches long, thick as a salami. It made me even more nervous to squat there next to him, and I lost my balance, almost tumbling into the ditch in front of us.
He reached out and grabbed my arm, and I fell back against him. For a moment, he held his arm around my shoulder, and I nearly melted under the strength of his grip.
“You all right, peckerhead?” he asked.
“You bet,” I said, standing up.
from Constructional Voodoo by Logan Zachary
My eyes followed the drop of sweat as it rolled down the hairy chest that stood in front of me. The tight blue jeans absorbed it quickly in the summer’s heat. The huge bulge strained against the zipper and seemed to swell. I forced my gaze up into the eyes of the man at my front door.
“As you can see, we’re digging up the street in front of your house.” The man stepped to the side so I could see the road. His red shirt hung open all the way down to his furry belly button.
An innie.
“You may want to store some water, in case we need to flush the hydrants.”
I forced my eyes back up to his face.
He turned, and our eyes finally meet.
Deep blue. I wanted to dive in.
No words were forming in my mind or my mouth. All I could manage was a nod.
“Just thought I’d let you know.” The man took out a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned and tried to stick it into his back pocket as he walked down the porch stairs. The handkerchief missed, slipped out of his pocket, and landed on the top step.
from Ball Bearings by Rob Rosen
I walked further into my new home, into what would be my bedroom. The flooring boards were stacked to one side, perhaps two feet high. I placed one foot on the stack and squatted down several inches, pulling on my hefty balls as I did so, and still slowly working my seven, upturned inches, occasionally pulling down on the clamps, each time moaning as I did so.
Luckily for me, the clamps weren’t the only things the workers had left behind. On the end of the pile of wood sat a finishing hammer, its base as wide as my prick, as phallic an instrument as ever there was one. With my cock and balls and nips getting stimulated, why not my asshole, I figured.
I reached over and grabbed it, then looked around for some sort of lube. My answer lay in the almost finished master bathroom. On the sink sat a small tub of grease remover, the jar open, its white, gloppy filling beckoning me.
I dipped my hand inside, engulfing three of my fingers in the slick goop. The trio quickly found their way to their intended goal, gliding around and then slowly inside my puckered hole, lubing it up, stretching it out, getting it ready for the object that now rested on the soon to be installed toilet.
Once my asshole was adequately prepped, I spread a layer of the lube up and down my shaft, then reached for the hammer, also slicking it up before placing the wooden base flush against my hole. It was a unique way to christen my new home, and a welcome one at that.
The solid wood slid in and up and back, sending a shiver down my spine and a flush through my stomach. My asshole clenched then gave in to the pressure of the unbending tool. My cock thickened and instantly became slick with precome. I sighed, and slowly, rhythmically, fucked myself with the end of the hammer.
I was too preoccupied, or too far in the belly of my home, to hear the approaching footsteps, but I did, however, hear this: “Um, I think that’s my hammer you’ve got there.”
I froze, with half the tool buried inside of me, and my hand gripped tightly around my dick. My eyes, which had been shut tight in rapture, suddenly blinked open.
A man in denim shorts and a tight, white tank was staring at me, grinning as he stood there, arms akimbo. He was tall, lean, ruggedly handsome and, much to my relief, amused at my present state.
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