Monday, March 26, 2012

Better excerpt by Jaime Samms

In Jaime Samms' Better, getting better is about learning to live with the truth. Jesse Turbul, after filing charges that put his abusive ex-Dom behind bars, relocates across the country, hopes to escape his past—but, of course, it's never that easy. When Jesse meets third-year law student Aadon at the library where he works, their mutual attraction is instant and obvious.

Despite the sparks, they just can't seem to make it work. Aadon is mired in guilt over his inability to help his older brother, damaged by events far too similar to to Jesse's past. Jesse is stuck in his own desperate wish to forget the painful shadow that continues to threaten him and any hope of a happy future.

The only way to move forward is for Jesse to acknowledge he's broken and for Aadon to accept he can't make him better.

Dreamspinner Press (January 12, 2012)
ISBN-13 (ebook): 978-1-61372-343-2
ISBN-13 (paper): 978-1-61372-342-5


Jesse watched his date for a while, waiting for the blond head to lift. Only when Mike came to the table a few minutes later did Aadon look up. He glanced at Jesse, turned to Mike and placed his order, waited until Jesse had ordered and Mike had left before quietly excusing himself from the table.

Jesse waited a long time, much longer than it would take for Aadon to use the facilities, before following him.

The heavy restroom door swung open on silent hinges, and the peculiar smell of a bathroom trying too hard not to smell like a bathroom engulfed him. Jesse drew in a silent breath and stepped inside.

Aadon leaned on the counter by the sinks, his back to the mirror.

“I’m sorry.” Jesse tried to make the apology light, tried to see into Aadon’s shrouded eyes.

Finally, Aadon looked at him. “Why?”

“I got a little defensive.” He held up his hand, finger and thumb an inch apart, sheepish smile on his face.

Aadon stifled a groan. How could he be so fiery one minute, and this…adorable the next and not know how crazy it made him? He pushed himself off the sink and closed his hand around Jesse’s fingers, closing the space and kissing the fingertips. “Maybe that’s the point. As long as you feel you have to defend yourself around me, I have to be careful.” He closed his eyes, kept his lips pressed to his warm fingers.

God this was hard. He wasn’t doing Jesse any good, wanting him this bad, knowing he couldn’t—shouldn’t—and knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. He shouldn’t still even be with him. It was too much. He just wasn’t what Jesse needed.

Jesse felt the churning sensation in the pit of his stomach even before Aadon spoke again and yanked his hand free, mouth open, ready to fill the void before Aadon could speak. Before he could say what Jesse knew he was about to say. He was too slow.

Aadon took his face in both hands, tilting it up and looking into his eyes. “As long as I have to be that careful, this can’t work.”


“Because I don’t want to be careful, Jesse,” Aadon went on, overriding his faint protest, passing a thumb over Jesse’s lips and backing him up against a stall.

“Then don’t.” The words warbled out past Jesse’s pulse fluttering in his throat. He swallowed hard. “Don’t be careful.” Aadon’s toned body pressed his against the cold metal. The rush of fear and excitement mingled, and he knew he’d lost the ability to tell which was which. He didn’t know if he cared.

“If I’m not, I could do more damage than Anthony ever did.” Aadon’s palm caressed his cheek, his fingers slid into Jesse’s hair, and he kissed; a light strike of his lips and tongue, there and gone too quickly to capture, but expertly bringing him back down to where he could almost breathe normally.

The rush faded, and Jesse wanted it back.

He gripped the front of Aadon’s shirt, preventing him from moving away. “You’re not anything like Anthony, and I’m not who I was then.” He never would have demanded Anthony answer his desire like this. Kissing Aadon firmly, not hard or angry, just without compromise, Jesse closed his eyes, willed the other man to understand. He needed this so desperately. Needed to know he was wanted, desired. Needed to know Aadon could look on him as a man and not a shattered thing.

A soft groan welled in Aadon’s throat and spilled out into Jesse’s kiss. It was so good. So sweet, and held so much conviction. It was, finally, too much to resist. He answered it, tongue stroke for tongue stroke, slowly wresting control of the kiss from Jesse as he pinned him between his hard body and the cold metal of the bathroom stall. His big hands cupped Jesse’s head, his body an immovable weight against him, soaking in Jesse’s heat and desire, keeping him still and contained.

Jesse couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and his fingers tightened to fists in Aadon’s shirt. This was exactly the kind of mindless surrender he’d always craved. Exactly what Anthony had never once given him. Because Anthony had never asked for it the way Aadon was doing with his firm, gentle touches and his warm hands, possessive, but not hard or hurtful. Jesse let go of that last bit of control and felt his head impact the stall wall with a soft thud. His hands relaxed, his body heated and melted to conform with Aadon’s, and he opened that last little bit to feel Aadon’s tongue sweep in and possess him.

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Monday, March 19, 2012

Longhorns excerpt by Victor J Banis

Longhorns by Victor J Banis is a bawdy love story set on the Texas plains. Longhorns ranges from hard riding action and sex as hot as the blazing Texas sun, to lyrical descriptions of the Old West. New MLR Press edition.

MLR Press (February, 2012)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-593-6 (print)
978-1-60820-594-3 (ebook)


They were herding cattle, out on the range, when he first showed up, late of an afternoon.

"Looks like we got company," Red said.

Les looked in the direction Red was staring, toward the far horizon, where a distant speck gradually formed itself into a cowboy on a brown and white pinto.

Visiting strangers weren't common on a round up. It had never happened to him personally, but Les had heard tell of a time or two when that had meant trouble of one kind or another for the herders—rustlers, they said, or bandidos, though a lone rider wasn't likely to be much of a threat with a dozen or more cowboys gathered around.

Still, he broke off working with the boys and strolled out to meet the stranger as he rode into the camp in a cloud of dust. Les wore his six shooters on his hips and he did not draw them, but he hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt, where he could get to them quick if he needed to, and if there was a faster draw in Texas, he had never met him. The cowboy jumped off his pinto, hitched his pants up, and swaggered over to where Les was standing.

"I heard you was herding some longhorns, thought you might could use an extra wrangler," he said in the way of greeting, extending his hand. "My name is Buck."

"Mine's Les." Les shook his hand and looked him over. The boy wore an old shirt, worn but clean, and those new pants, dugris, that had come up from the Bahamas—but the fellows called them dungarees, and said they were way more comfortable than the old-fashioned woolies—and he had a fancy looking pair of snakeskin boots on his feet, white, with curlicues of black and green. He wasn't more than eighteen years old, maybe nineteen, his skin already leather colored from the Texas sun, and he stood only five foot nine inches, ten at the most, fine boned and small built, but wiry. He had a piece of string under his chin to hold his faded gray Stetson, but the hat had fallen behind and his hair reached almost to his shoulders, a tangled mass of wayward curls as black as obsidian. His eyes, in the fading light, were nearly as dark. An old fashioned Winchester long rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he wore a Colt on one hip, and a Bowie in a leather sheath on the other. Despite his size and his youth, he had a cocksure air about him, like a man who has just wrestled the puma and is waiting for you to send in the grizzly.

Les himself was six foot three, broad of shoulder and chest and narrow of hip, his long legs bowed outward, like a pair of parentheses that contained his cowboy history within them. A life out of doors had etched fine lines around his mouth and eyes, and bleached his fair hair almost to a whiteness, but the thatch of it on his chest was reddish yellow still where his shirt hung open. He looked exactly like what he was, a long time cowpuncher who was man enough for just about anything that might come up, and damn well knew it.

"You Indian?" he asked the newcomer.

"Half," Buck said. He seemed unembarrassed by the fact, though not everybody around these parts took kindly to half-breeds. "Daddy was a trader, leastways so I always heard, but I never knew him. Mama was a Nasoni. A Nasoni princess, she used to claim, but she didn't live no royal kind of life, seemed to me."

"Nasoni? Don't believe I know that tribe," Les said.

"North east Texas, was where we come from. Gone now. Mostly died out the last century, or swallowed up by the Caddo, except for a few of us stragglers here and there." Buck said. "Texas is a Nasoni word though. It means friend. Guess that's why I'm so doggone friendly." He grinned again and looked Les up and down. Something about the way he looked at him made Les oddly uncomfortable, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced down.

"Them's fancy boots," he said, his eyes settling on them.

"Thanks. I traded a fellow down in Galveston for them," Buck said.

"Must have given him something pretty special," Les said. "For a pair of boots like that."

"Mighty special, to tell the truth." Buck winked when he said it, and Les felt his face color slightly, and decided that he wasn't going to follow that subject any further, just to be safe.

"You new around here?" he asked instead. "I don't recall seeing you about San Antone when I been in town."

"Come from Oklahoma, but I been down Galveston way for a spell. Just come up from there. I was looking for some work, and fellows I met on the trail mentioned your name, said you was herding and that I should ride out to find you. Mighty glad they did, now that I set eyes on you."

Which Les thought was an odd thing to say, but he glanced past the kid just then for a moment to where some of the boys were working on the makeshift corral, and his attention was distracted. "Best make that fence a little higher, Red," he called across to his Segundo. "From the look of them clouds yonder, appears like we might get some weather tonight."

When he looked back at the newcomer, Les found Buck's eyes down, an intent expression on his face. Les looked too, and realized Buck was staring at him, staring right at the bulge of his crotch.

"What you got on your mind, boy?" Les said sharply.

"I was just thinking," Buck said, seeming not to mind at all that he had been caught with his eyes where they were, "'bout some of the things them sailors taught me down in Galveston. Things I had never even heard of back in Oklahoma. I tell you, them sailor boys is truly something. I got me a fair education, is sure."

"Well, they ain't no sailor boys here," Les said, doubly annoyed because they had been herding cattle out here on the prairie for several weeks now, and his prick, on the alert for any prospects, had took instant note of the attention it had gotten.

Still, one of his cowhands, Rex, had taken a fall a couple days before and broken an arm and had to ride back to the ranch—you weren't much good one-armed on a round up, and a man who couldn't work was a man who was in the way—and Matt had come down with a bad case of the trots and couldn't stop shitting, and that had kept him in camp for two days now. They had been a bit short-handed to begin with when they had set out; so the plain fact was, he could use an extra hand, and out here, there wasn't much to choose from.

"I reckon you can stick around for a day or two, see how it goes," he said. He glanced down at those fancy snakeskin boots, not a speck of dirt on them, and added, spitefully, "I'm guessing you can ride okay. We got no room here for sissies."

"Well, now, seeing it's you, and now that I have set eyes on you, I would surely love the opportunity to show just how well I can ride," Buck said with a flash of teeth in his sun-leathered face. "I got the time, if you got the inclination, and that big old patch of mesquite over there looks private enough to me."

"I expect I'll see you on your horse soon enough," Les said, hoping without much hope that he had misunderstood the suggestion.

"Oh, a horse, well, I guess so," Buck said. He turned and started toward his pinto, his shiny spurs jingling, but he looked over his shoulder to add, "I can ride them, too, case that's what you meant."

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Monday, March 12, 2012

Sapphic Planet excerpt, from an anthology edited by Beth Wylde

Welcome to Sapphic Planet, a literary realm where women are free to love one another without fear of prejudice or reprisal. Inside these pages you’ll discover nineteen stories written specifically to tease and titillate your senses.

From a frolic in the rain with a Bathing Beauty, to a concerned sibling showing his sister some Brotherly Love, and everything in between. Whether you’re in the mood for steamy romance or unrequited lust, we’ve got a story guaranteed to satisfy your cravings.

This anthology showcases just a fraction of the talent from the writers of Sapphic Planet, a group specifically created for authors and aspiring authors of quality lesbian literature.

Sapphic Planet
CreateSpace (February 26, 2012)
ISBN-10: 1466479086
ISBN-13: 978-1466479081

Excerpt from Licked by Jodi Payne

I'm the first to admit that I'm jaded. I've been around the block a few times and I'm hard to please. When I scan a dance floor I'm looking for a real woman. Her body is a factor, but it's not everything. I like a decent rack. I like to see something that makes my mouth water, who doesn't? I love a good ass. In fact, her ass is even more important than her tits. But if I have to pick a deciding factor, one particular thing that must be perfect regardless of the packaging, it's her eyes. Her eyes will tell me what I'm really in for. I look for experience, for someone whose mind is on my body, whose hands can read my goose-bumps like Braille. Someone who looks as if she can play me like a concert pianist masters Rachmaninoff. I want a woman who isn't going to rush. I willingly give a lover all night long and I expect her to use it.

So yeah, of course I laugh at the baby boi who suddenly slips her hand into mine and tugs me into a space between the gyrating bodies that's just big enough for two. Not at all the overture I'd been expecting. I mean, look at her. She's adorable, sure, with her neon-blue-tipped faux-hawk and her black sneakers. Her fresh face is set with dark almond-shaped eyes that I find alluring, and harder for me to get a read on than most. Boi, you might have that hard, hot look and you're definitely into me, but you can't be a day over twenty. Show me your fake ID.

She's quick to smile, another common curse of the young. Gutsy little thing though, I'll give her that. Her body is telling me she wants me to dance, and she moves closer.

I find it difficult to get into at first, rubbing hips with this little top-dyke in the making. She even has a harness on underneath her button-flys. She threads graceful fingers through her belt loops, grinding that dildo strapped across her bush into my hip. Say, little boi, does your mother know that you bind your chest? Does she know you suck clit? Does she know you pack cock under your tight blue jeans?

Will mommy let you stay out past ten?

She's a smooth dancer. She moves easily, freely, and though we're all moving to the same unrelenting beat, it seems as if she is creating one all her own. I let my eyes and hands travel over her slender body. She hasn't given me her name yet, or said anything at all for that matter; she just dances, and once in a while she gives me a knowing look that seems far beyond her years. I'm intrigued and I return her wily smile, giving her permission to make her move.

You think you can teach this old dog a new trick, dyke boi? Bring it on, sweetheart. Show me what you can do.

Her hands slip around my waist and up my back. No, not just up my back, but under my shirt and against my bare skin. She flattens her fingers over my spine. They're cool, and seem to mock the slowly building heat of the moment. It's a clever move, suitably forward. It speaks of intention, and I'm pleased but surprised to discover that she's not fooling around. Chalk another one up for the kid.

I'm suddenly aware of scrutinizing eyes on my back and I turn around, spotting several trend-addicted young women congregating at the bar; mostly high femmes and fag dykes. The mystery resolves itself before my eyes. My desire-induced fog lifts and I find myself the unwitting object of a school-boi dare.

“Are those your friends at the bar?” I ask, lowering my lips to the boi's ear to be heard over the music.

She nods.

“I see. They put you up to this?” I pull away and grin knowingly at her. I played this game once too and I remember how to win.

“No!” she protests, vehemently enough that I want to believe her. “No. I want you. I put myself up to this.”

“And they...?”

“They said they didn't believe you'd do it.”

Well, well. Break my unbreakable heart. She wanted me, from way over there at the bar, and her catty little girlfriends told her she wasn't worthy of me. It takes a lot of moxie to risk humiliation in front of one's friends. This little top's got courage. She deserves to win this one.

“Let's give the ladies something to chew on,” I suggest.

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Monday, March 5, 2012

September at Esplanade excerpt by Roy Kirby Chaudoir

September at Esplanade by Roy Kirby Chaudoir is set in September in the 1980s. It is a fictionalized story based on the personal journals of a promiscuous gay man. This is story follows a young man's unlucky life and psychiatric hospitalization and begins with him "indentured" to the man who signed him out of the psychiatric hospital. The protagonist has multiple sexual encounters, and even tries to form a loving partnership with someone new, but realizes that he's never lived "free" and with responsibility only for himself so he backs away from the promise of love a relationship might bring in order to face his own true self. It is a story of a confused process towards individuation.

September At Esplanade
Lulu Press (December 13, 2011)


Chapter 4 “Road Trip to Biloxi”

The Apollo Arcade Intensity

The Apollo Arcade was a pretty worn place. It wasn't dirty. Well, it wasn't dirty like a park bench isn't dirty, when in fact it is probably full of pigeon droppings, hand germs, dropped food particles, all sorts of things on it but since it is a park bench you have some low expectations about just exactly how clean you would expect it to be. In reality, the Apollo Theatre in Biloxi was probably only cleaned with a push broom to get the paper wrappers of candy and potato chip bags, cigarette butts, and ashes pushed to places where a dustpan and garbage can could catch the mess. It wasn't the kind of place that had the floors mopped, and the floors were a sort of concrete floor, but the surface of the floor was so traffic worn that it seemed like a public sidewalk, only dimmer. In the dimness shadowy people seemed to scurry from area to area. There were untold hallways that wound off in a labyrinthine framework off of the main room. These halls were constructed of booths and within each a small projector screen was built into the wall, and you got in your little booth, alone or with one or two others and watched two bit's worth of a porn flick. Once the door was closed you'd do whatever it is you had come there to do. There was cruise tension in the air, so if you wanted to play the hunter-like game, it could be just like cruising in a sex park. I felt arousal from this cruising around, and endorphins kicked in and I began seeing flashing lights over every one's head.

There was no guarantee that the vice squad wasn't there in force, patrolling the large arcade, but the "let's take a chance" atmosphere seemed to bring out the danger lover in me, and forbiddance and sex always make the game more fun for me. Only, I'm with Sandy and I have to be more aware of how I act. There was one other factor that ate into my judgment. Just before we got inside the Apollo Sandy offered me a little paper tab with "windowpane" LSD on it. I took it. I had been told by my psychiatrists not to do hallucinogens. I had really taken a lot of mushrooms in the past, and still had some at home, but I knew I wasn't wound too tightly and feared I might show my craziness. Nonetheless, I took the acid.

At first we each had two rolls of quarters, and we'd been together kissing and doing it for the last day or so that we were relaxed enough to let each other go in a booth alone. It seemed Sandy wanted me to be his, and only his, but that he was not rushing me into anything like an exclusive relationship. Only, somehow being "lovers" or on our way to being "lovers" gave us some new feelings about control and possessiveness towards one another. It seemed not okay for some reason to let some other stranger suck your cock when your lover was right there with you. It was funny in a way but we got booths next to each other and thought we were being discrete and safe by letting our dicks go through the holes in the walls, the glory holes, and sucking on one another's cocks but what we didn't know was that eyes from the other adjoining booths were peeping in the other glory holes and watching us doing each other. It was a big turn-on for several voyeurs, and it made them more bold and horny in relation to us so when we came out of our booths, we found a group of six guys outside, one obviously masturbating and two watching him and the other three with hardons in their pants waiting like midnight cowboys against the wall watching for a sign from me or Sandy that we'd like to go in a booth with one of them. It began really fast to be an almost orgy scene and we found it confusing for a moment. I was beginning to hallucinate happily, too. Everything seemed so busy and crowded suddenly. It seemed I needed to be alone, and I told Sandy to go off on his own for ten minutes and I would too. He seemed okay with the idea, but I could tell he was worried about me. I wasn't. I was on some sort of animal control, and it felt good. No matter how I try to deny it in my everyday life, I really don't like to be logical and some craziness seems right for me. I am intuitive. I am scattered, too. I prefer living without a plan.

I peeked into a booth, ignoring the men in the hall giving me signals to come with them, and then I saw him. He was actually an ugly skinny black man. I peeked through a glory hole in my booth and I see a black guy with his shirt unbuttoned hanging out and his chest and stomach and pubes exposed and he was jacking off to the sights of two white guys fucking in the porn flick on the small screen.

I'm really hallucinating now. For some reason this kind of ugly guy turns me on. I think he looks really hot, but in the dim light all I can see is the shape of his face, chest and stomach, and cock. He's working himself.

I confessed all this into my journals, but never to anyone in person yet. It gets steamy to recall this. I am totally psychotic on the acid. I think acid effected everything thought this whole episode. On LSD I'm so much more sexually driven.

This dark skin black guy about mid-thirties, skinny thin, almost just bones and skin, his face pocked from year's ago acne--one of those adults who had bad acne as a teenager and it scarred his face, actually so ugly that it was beautiful, and I felt this rush of heat grow in me and I slipped my dick into the glory hole in his booth and when he sucked it felt electric. I thought I was going to be sucked off in a flash it was so hot. I dropped down, and eyeball to eyeball asked him, "Can I come in?"

"No! Wait a second!" He stood up, buttoned his shirt and left the room. I was about to flip out I felt so rejected and this heat of passion was not cooling off. I didn't have time to react, but was standing up and turning around when in my booth door this dude rushes in, pops his shirt open again, and we go belly to belly, kissing, and it feels like our skin is literally flaming with fire. We set upon one another voraciously, like two vampires.

"You're burning up you're so hot...." I told him as our stomachs touched and my t-shirt was pulled behind my head. My jeans were unbuttoned and my long five inches, or short six inches seemed longer than seven as he worked my dick with his hand then his mouth.

"Stop," he said. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Sure," I said.

"Then button up and let's go across to the other side of this joint. It be safe over there."

Not exactly sure of what is happening, I zip up, button up and hand in hand we cross the gloomy space between what appear the populated side of the arcade to an older part of the building, and water was flowing in through the roof, and there was standing water on the floor. We splashed our way into this rain soaked booth.

"In here," he said and pulled me into a booth. "Put some quarter in the machine. Ain't nobody gonna fuck with us in this dump."

The floor was unbelievable, I almost knelt down to suck but realized we had to stay off our knees or the water on the floor from a big leak in the ceiling could get us totally wet—a storm of rain and what sounded like some hail had been pelting the metal roof for the whole time we were in the maze of baths, and anyways, I couldn't kneel and he couldn't' and we stood, our shoes in almost a half inch of water. Other guys opened the door to come join us but seeing that we were standing in water up over the edges of our shoe soles they guys shut the door and backed out.

I am not believing how hot this black man is, as things progress, and his kisses were so erotic I was shaking from the excitement.

Then he turned around and dropped his pants to his knees and leaned forward on his hands and arms offering his bare ass to me, his look spoke to me

“Fuck me."

He is bending over with his hands on the seat of the bench, and shoving his skinny ass and legs out and says again more forcefully, "Fuck me!"

I shoved my cock into him and almost passed out with pleasure. He had thick greasy lube in his ass and around the pucker of his asshole. I pushed my cock into his hole it seemed like he began contracting and loosening his sphincters such that his ass was like a mouth hotly sucking my cock. I was sure I'd never had sex this hot in my life before. The rain roared on the metal roof, dripped into the booth, and now and then the door popped open and we'd slam it, and I'd put a quarter in the video machine, and I pumped until my brains shot out of the end of my cock. I saw lights going off in my mind.

I kept pumping him hard and he kept the ass action on me so hard that I was really fuckin' fucking, and I couldn't break away if I'd have wanted to. I was coming again a second time soon.

When I shot in him like ten spurts, emptying the cum from within in me so much that I felt an exhaustion overtake me, he turned and put his arms under my armpits and stopped me from falling to my knees in exhaustion and he held me up, pressed me against the wall with his body, and with one hand took my hand and licked my palm and put it on his dick and I began jacking him off and it was exciting him extremely. This was decadent beyond belief and the heat of it was beyond anything I ever knew.

When we walked across the room, I sensed from the men in the arcade that they did not approve of this black and white sex but it turned them on, too. But they were afraid to come in on us the way we acted.

I was jacking him off and he was about to shoot when he put his hand on his asshole and got it greased, then shoved two fingers between my legs, shoved me hard up against the wall, and from in front of me his long cock reached between and through my soft inner thighs, under my balls, and his penis penetrated just into my second sphincter, and he began putting it in and out of me and it felt so hot. He began to moan, and was going to pull out, but I squeezed him against me and felt him cumin' inside me.

We had to keep pumping quarters into the machine to play like we were watching the movie but we were blind somehow in an erotic cloud of a haze that made me think of Prince, the artist, and the song he had put out with the movie, "Purple Haze." The LSD was painting things rose and yellow colors swirling in a deep purple field.

I felt like this dark skinned beauty of a man had brought me into an atmosphere as strange and wonderful as any I'd ever seen or been in, and his body scent, the musk or perfume of his natural body scent magnified my arousal. I began getting hard again as he kissed me and I pulled on his cock but then he pressed me gently but firmly against the wall with my back against the wall and only his arms behind my waist holding me tummy tight to his, still taking my weight off my feet and let my thighs rest on his standing thighs, me leaning against to wall for balance and him pushing up under my balls so fine, so fine...that I melted in his arms, and he pumped gently, but he was spent, and me too. Apparently knowing I couldn't have taken his long cock from behind like he took my relatively small cock--his twelve would have split me open--he had fucked me from in front. We were done. We didn't want to stop, but we were limp now. I held his mushroom head so trying to milk him of any residual cum, and his circumcised big cock was so pleasurable to hold. I just wanted to sleep with him all night. He had fucked me like I'd never been fucked before. His super curly hair acted like Velcro for my white cum, and he rubbed my cum into his pubes to show me he loved it.

We'd forgotten about the video and some guy barged in with another guy in tow and said, "You fuckers can't hog this machine all night."

"We're just leaving," I said and laughed, and my nameless lover laughed too, and when the other guy saw he was black he said the nastiest thing, using the "N" word against my friend and me a "luvah" of the "N"...but this guy and his fuck mate were both twice our sizes and we got out of there as fast as we could.

My black partner whispered into my hear, "You are the best. Don't go near that guy, though. He hurts guys when he is finished with them."

I was about to pick up the conversation by whispering into my nameless black partner's ear when I realized he was splitting for the door. The rain was pouring on the ceiling, and I guess he felt it was a good time not to be trapped in a southern theatre, which was seemingly beginning to fill up with rednecks.

I tried to call after him to wait. I wanted to get a name and number.

He was gone. I saw him look at me like a ghost from the doorway. He was standing in the Apollo's purple neon light and rain was pouring on his head and face, and his chest an stomach were still exposed and water ran down his torso in rivulets. I saw him mouth the words, "I love you."

I did the same thing, "I love you!" He put on some shades, even though it was night, and pulled his collar together at his neck as the door of the arcade closed and then, I stood there unsure of what to do. I got my shirt and pants neater, and then I realized I was letting the guy get away and I ran to the front door, and out into the night, there were twenty or more cars and pickup trucks in the parking lot and he was no where to be seen. I went out to the side of the highway to look in both directions, and there he went, running in the rain, almost two blocks away, small against the shiny wet pavement from the street lamps, and I felt an emptiness I had only known as a boy ,an emptiness when I felt lost and afraid, this black man whose name I never knew had evoked in me something that had been dormant. He possessed a vital life force I needed desperately.

One of the reasons they called me schizophrenic at the hospital some times was just what was going on now. I began running down the street chasing this guy. I couldn't catch him. He turned a corner, and when I got there he was gone. I walked up to the first house I saw and even though it was early morning, about two a.m or later. Irrationally, I rang the door bell. I was going to ask for him. No one answered. I went to the next house and knocked. Then I realized I was being crazy. I looked to be sure no cops were around, and I ran back out of this sleeping neighborhood and to the Apollo Arcade.

I knew I was going crazy and needed to stop, find Sandy, and write in my journal about this later, so I made a mental note to write about this the next day in my journal beside the pool.

I felt something like an earthquake in me. I wondered in that moment if I would ever feel this solitude leave me, a dense and thick feeling of aloneness that was more drenching than the rain absorbed me and made me little, weak, and small.

I cursed myself for not getting a phone number because I had every intention in the world of getting his name or address, but our meeting was sudden, our time together intense, and our departure instantaneous. True anonymity. An authentically spectacular anonymous sexual encounter! It seemed sacred to me. Later I wrote about him, and it stayed true my whole life that he remained the best fuck I ever got and gave. I wanted him. I truly wanted him, this anonymous rather ragged creature. He could easily have been homeless. I could readily have given him a home.

I came back into the building from the rain, in the lobby, walked along the counter in the front areas where they sold condoms and dildos, and lube, and magazine and movies, and then there was an open door into the sex theatre. I'd buttoned up and then I saw Sandy coming out of the arcade labyrinth and we made eye contact and rushed into the movie theatre where there were men of all sizes and colors pseudo-outdoors camping and the camp tables and other props had the purpose of being a set for every kind of homosexual position in sex that you could imagine two's and three' and four's to be in. He and sat next to each other and giggled a bit, still stoned, and he said, he didn't think he would go alone in the Arcade again because he met some guy that was like a cop who was hassling the customers, and I only mentioned that I'd watched a video in a booth and some guy tried to suck me. I felt I couldn't tell him how hot the sex I had was with the black guy. I really wanted to get up and follow that man again, but not then, not later that evening, not the next days nor even in the years to come when I hit this place alone, never did I ever see the best fuck I ever had in my life again. No one knew I visited the Apollo theatre. I continued to sneak over to it for years, until it burned down.

I never saw the man again but I never forgot how hot his body was and his ass was like double delight. I thought later that probably he was with fever of some major degree to have emitted that much body heat, but I didn't know, and all I remember was the faintest outline of his body and pockmarked face and the suction of his lips and ass.

I was enthralled. I was enchanted...with another man, and there I was sitting next to my "new lover" wondering about all these relationships and the ties that bound one man to another in some semblance of exclusivity. And my ass was titillated, somehow electrified by the guy's fucking of me with the head of his long cock and his shaft sheathed in my external flesh and him in me. I developed a fever that night, and the next day I seemed to have some flulike symptoms, fever, upset stomach, burning eyes, but I was much more "lovesick" than physically sick. Whatever the fever that man had, I had it now, and I was glad to be burning up. It was like being in his wet sweaty arms, and I never wanted to stop smelling his odors. Our odors.

This was not the way the Gay world presented itself in New Orleans. This was a sex theatre where men went to meet men.

Did I feel like I belonged in the gay world? Not really. I believed I belonged in the sexual world, not gay, but homosexually sexually making it with men, not playing at marriage or imitating straight couples and all the rituals those couples go through.

I made a note in my mind to bring this up to Sandy when the time was right. It was a delicate subject: relationships.

Sandy and I sat in the movie theatre for about twenty minutes. Then from boredom and the stupidity of the sex movie, I began to get sleepy and needed something to drink or eat.

"Sandy," I said with my head on his shoulder, he seemed so much older than me suddenly, "Can we go? I'm tired?"

I heard myself sounding like his little boy and it seemed appropriate but it also scared me to think I was beginning to fit into a special role with him, beginning to acquire expectations he'd put on me, no matter how much he was open to Bert being in the bed with us while Linden was in bed fucking Drew, I knew he was being patient as a strategy.

I wanted to be free. It was a scary realization, that I didn't want to be property of Sandy, not property of anyone's at all.
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