Homeboys Read online

  Homeboys

  Gay Urban Erotica

  Shane Allison

  Copyright © 2014 by Shane Allison.

  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 or recording, or by 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.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph:

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-067-4

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-079-7

  “Punks: A Transgression,” by Simon Sheppard, was previously published in Drummer Magazine in 1990.

  Contents

  Introduction: Snitches Get Stitches

  Elevator • Shaft Barry Lowe

  Punks: A Transgression • Simon Sheppard

  Cyber Thugs • Bob Vickery

  After the Dollar Died • David Holly

  Fat Faggot Offer Drugs for Sex • Thomas Kearnes

  Chicken or Beef? • Nick Marenco

  Warehouse Gang Bang • Logan Zachary

  2 Cute • Roscoe Hudson

  Paying for Protection • Brent Archer

  The Luv Brothers Gang • Landon Dixon

  Run for the Border • Michael Bracken

  Straight Dick • Timothy McGivney

  Tricked • Huck Pilgrim

  Street Meat • R. W. Clinger

  Banger • D. K. Jernigan

  Ganged Up On • Shane Allison

  Second Stall for a Blow Job • Derrick Summer

  London Nights • Bobby Starr

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Introduction: Snitches Get Stitches

  It all started last Friday night when I decided to take a short cut through Basin Street to get home. I was smashed from the eight Vodka cranberries I had downed at this hole-in-the-wall club on the north side of town. I knew on a Friday night, with the college kids being back in town, the cops would be out like love bugs, patrolling the streets for shit-faced drunks like myself, stumbling out of bars and clubs. Being that I was driving on a suspended license, getting popped by po-po was the last thing I needed. Basin Street is notorious for its drug and gang activity, and when I caught a flat driving through the infamous neighborhood, I felt my heart drop into my ass. Please, God, no, I thought. This is not happening. I often hoped that I would never break down on some dark street or dirt road on my way home, but that’s exactly what happened that night.

  I managed to pull into the parking lot of some old shut-down liquor store. These, along with fast-food grease pits, are all they’ll put on the south side of town while on the north side, they get high-rises, pricey, posh houses for the white elite, and cookie-cutter apartments for the college brats who descend upon Tallahassee every fall with silver spoons up their asses. So I get out and sure enough, the back tire on the driver’s side was flat. Why me? Why tonight? I kicked the tire, nearly breaking my toes in the process. I was too drunk for this shit. A flat was a problem since I didn’t know bupkus about changing a tire. My dad showed me once, but that was years ago, so I’d forgotten all the steps. I looked around and there wasn’t a car in sight, and all of the houses nearby were pitch dark. When I pulled out my cell phone to call my friend, Stevie, it turned out that I had zero juice left. Luck had taken a vacation tonight. I had no other choice but to change the tire myself, try to remember some of what my dad taught me. I got the jack and spare out of the back.

  As I worked to figure out where under my SUV would be the best spot to place the jack, this huge red Hummer blasting rap music pulled alongside me. The windows were black as pitch on the gas-guzzling tank. Three twentysomething men got out. Each of the trio was the size of a refrigerator. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were on steroids. The driver asked me what happened, as if it wasn’t obvious. I told him that I caught a flat on my way home, but I didn’t let him in on the fact that I didn’t know how to change a tire. One of them asked me if I was from the neighborhood. What did that have to do with anything? I told him I lived in the sticks, about half an hour away. My heart was racing like crazy and I was scared shitless. The driver of the Hummer informed me that he would change the tire for twenty dollars. I lied and told him that I didn’t have cash on me when really, I was carrying five hundred bucks that I had gotten from painting a couple of houses on Dupont Drive. I hadn’t gotten around to getting to the bank. I told them that all was cool, I had it handled. The three of them looked at me like I was a slab of beef. If a fight broke out, I figured I could take one of them, but taking on all three was doubtful. I was relieved when they got back into the Hummer and drove off. I could have used the help, yes, but these guys looked shiesty, crazy, and reeked of weed. They were football-player-build gorgeous, but they hardly looked trustworthy.

  After they left, I continued trying to change the bum tire. My thighs scraped against the rough, graveled parking lot as I tried to figure out where to position the jack. Suddenly, I felt hands grope my ankles and pull. Before I could put up a fight, one of the men grabbed me under my arms; the two of them tossed me into the air. The three of them had circled back somehow. They hooped and hollered as I struggled to get loose. The driver kicked through the boarded-up door of the liquor store. I tried to get away, but they had a stern grip on my arms and legs. The driver’s two thuggish friends bent me over the counter. The store reeked of mold, dust and rot. The driver patted me down until he felt my wallet in my left front pocket. He threw the five hundred dollars in cash to one of his buddies. They laughed, happy to get the money. He went on about how he couldn’t stand liars, and that I needed to be punished. His buddies laughed sinisterly as if the leader of their pack spoke in street code that only they were privy to. I was sure I was about to get the shit kicked out of me, beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead—and wind up on the front page of some local rag or on the eleven o’ clock news.

  I begged them to let me go, told them that I wouldn’t go to the cops. They grinned like they couldn’t hear what I was saying. I braced myself for an ass-whipping before leaving it in God’s hands. I awaited their brutal act of punishment until I felt my T-shirt being ripped from my body. It was the driver. His buddies called out his name as they cheered him on: Chico. Chico yanked at my shorts until the clasp popped free. I had an idea as to what was about to go down. These punks were going to take my ass. I watched them watch Chico. I heard the rustle of clothes, a zipper being undone and the sound of Chico spitting in his hand. Before I could utter a word of protest, I felt his dick being slipped inside me. The pain was slight, though it’s been a while since I last got fucked. I didn’t want to let on that I was secretly enjoying this, so I started yelling, begging Chico to stop, but he kept fucking me, laying some serious pipe. I could feel Chico’s balls slapping against my ass. I’ve had my share of experiences, but nothing this freak-nasty. To be fucked in a liquor store; a first time for everything.

  Chico fucked me for almost half an hour before he spewed. I wanted more, and that’s exactly what I got when Chico traded places with one of his homies: “Dash,” I heard Chico call him. These guys didn’t know that I was a pornographer, a slut who passes his ass around like a bowl of stuffing at Thanksgiving. I grimaced at the thought of big-dick Dash working my ass over. Chico mentioned that my mouth was the only hole that wasn’t being used. As Dash fucked me, going on about how Chico had done a good job of looseni
ng up my asshole, their buddy pulled down his shorts and allowed his dick to pop free. I pretended to object, yelling “No!” and “Help!”, but Chico said that no one could hear me and even if they could, no one would care, and even if they cared, they knew better than to come snooping around when they saw his red Hummer.

  Chico’s buddy kissed my lips with the tip of his dick. It was a cock that had to be a good ten inches. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to take it, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. Although I secretly wanted to taste his meat, I had to play hard to get so I clenched my mouth shut. Chico demanded I open my mouth. Dash’s dick felt so good up my ass. Chico told me that I could make it easy or hard if I didn’t do what he wanted. When I pried my mouth open, the punk slid his sweat-salty dick in. I clamped my soft lips around the dark shaft. He rested his hand under my chin, causing my head to tip up just slightly. The odor of sweat emanated from his balls. Chico took his dick out and started jacking off as Dash fucked me from the back and their buddy face-fucked me from the front. This beat getting beat up, yet to be fucked to death…wouldn’t be so bad. Chico and Brick, as I heard Dash call him, took turns fucking my mouth as Dash pounded my ass. I think they used me for almost three hours because it was going on 4:00 a.m. when they spunked. Cum ran out of my mouth. I could feel it running down the back of my thighs, and out of my ass too.

  Only then when they were done having their way with me did they let me up. What cum I didn’t spit out, I swallowed. I knew my butt would be sore for days after the hot, primo fucking I had gotten. Dash took my ID. Chico warned me that if I went to the cops and told them what happened, they would find me. “Snitches get stitches,” he said. The three punks had hauled ass, leaving me spent and used.

  Ever since that night, I have frequented Basin Street as well as other rough hoods in search of the thugs, bad boys, rednecks and homeboys of my small town in hopes of being used for sex, of coming across that red hummer so Chico, Dash and Brick could give me another go. Until then, the cutting-edge stories that grace the pages of this anthology will have to tide me over and hopefully make you, the reader, seek out your own homeboy to tangle with under the sheets.

  Shane Allison

  Tallahassee, FL

  Elevator Shaft

  Barry Lowe

  For a few seconds there I thought I was safe. Then a hand thrust into the narrow space between the closing elevator doors, cutting the beam, and they sprang apart like startled children. I took a deep breath, ready to flee.

  I never understood it: he both terrified me and turned my cock hard, hard as life on this council housing estate. Hard as it was for me to forget the taunts, the hard-assed graffiti scrawled across the brick wall outside my flat, hard as the steel blade that sliced me open when my tormentors got tired of my passive resistance. The passive resistance wasn’t a Gandhi-like conscious decision, it’s just that I wasn’t very brave or strong. Especially when there was a gang of them.

  I had been released from hospital ten days before, after two weeks flat on my back while my council flat lay at the mercy of my tormentors. I knew I’d be lucky if there was anything left of it. My scrapheap furniture would be stolen or else broken up, there would be disgusting accusations scrawled across the walls and shit smeared on the curtains and windows. Oh, yeah, they’d done it before. While I was at work as a lowly paid shelf stacker. It’s all I can get. I’m not the brightest spark in the lighter, though I’m trying to do something about it. I’m going to night school to try to graduate high school. That’s a major scholastic achievement on this estate.

  Get me: scholastic. That’s what comes of education.

  Normally I walk up the nine floors, but that day I had no energy. My side still hurt, the bandages tight, making walking a slow and awkward shuffle, so stairs were totally out of the question. However, I was feeling good. I’d totally nailed the exam, which meant I’d caught up with all the work I’d missed while I recovered from the attack. The physical wound had healed but I was still a nervous wreck around the estate.

  If the state of my flat after being confined to a hospital bed had been an exam question, I would have got a High Distinction.

  Sure, the police and the counselors and the others in authority had clucked their concern like chooks in a wired enclosure, especially to the local press, but they disappeared pretty quickly once the spotlight focused on something more compelling and I slipped into the computer as just another statistic.

  I managed to salvage the mattress, but it stank of piss and contempt. Still, it was all I had to sleep on until I begged, borrowed and cajoled a few items from charitable organizations. The cleanup I did myself, determined I would never allow the bastards to drive me out of my home. Not that I had a choice in the matter. It was my home come hell or high water because there was simply not enough public housing to go around. The waiting list was years and there were unlikely to be any vacancies in the near future just to move one pathetic faggot because he was constantly harassed. I had to make the most of it—or live on the streets.

  Then I made the mistake of getting in the elevator. I cursed myself for the damn fool I was when Trig broke the beam and the doors opened, the evil grin on his face as he saw me sufficient for me to take a chance on getting out. I mumbled, “Excuse me,” as I attempted to brush past him but he stuck out his arm, successfully corralling me inside as the doors closed.

  Trig was one of the ringleaders on the housing estate and it was one of his gang who stabbed me. I wasn’t sure who exactly had done the deed as it had all happened so fast. They surrounded me, each of them egging the others on until someone stuck me with a blade. It was an act of bravado, I’m sure no one had actually meant to kill me and when I went down and the blood flowed, they ran off. By that stage, I hadn’t cared much. I prayed to whatever god looked out for me to just let me die, end my misery now, but he or she was not listening.

  Eventually, someone called the paramedics but not before a number of my neighbors had walked past and ignored me sprawled on the pavement. It was that sort of community. Nobody wanted to get involved.

  Trig stood facing me, his back to the lift door, as the creaky old metal box began its slow ascent. He examined me like some alien disease under a microscope, his brow furrowing as I stood facing him, not flinching under his threatening gaze.

  If he thought he could intimidate me, he was wrong. My time in hospital, close enough to death as the blade had narrowly missed a number of vital organs, had given me a taste of what was to come and I no longer feared it. I wasn’t going to go out of my way to encourage it, but I would face my fears and conquer them. I didn’t break eye contact with Trig.

  He was the first to speak. “You didn’t rat on us?”

  It didn’t require an answer. Of course I didn’t. I told the police I was jumped and had no idea who my attackers were. Lie. I could name every single one of them, but I knew if I identified them, I would surely end up dead the moment I set foot back in the area. I’m not stupid. It was the code of the estate.

  “You really a fag, mate?” he asked. His voice was quizzical rather than belligerent.

  Faggot was a generic term he and his ilk used to label anyone on the estate who didn’t meet their exacting standards, regardless of the accused one’s sexual inclinations. There was no point denying it. It had taken me long enough to come to terms with it myself. Working class boys were not expected to have those sorts of feelings; it just wasn’t done.

  Either way I answered was gonna be bad. If I denied it, he could verbally harangue me or physically assault me for the remainder of my journey. If I admitted it, he’d have to do something about it.

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  He reached over and jabbed his finger on the stop button. The elevator lurched to a halt between floors. I couldn’t expect anyone to come to my rescue as the lifts were breaking down all the time and people just shrugged and used one of the other two that were still working, assuming someone had reported the breakdown.

 
I tensed, but he made no move toward me. He did, however, block my access to the control buttons. We were stuck here for as long as he wished. “Shit, no kidding. You’re really a fag? You like, take it up your shitter?”

  What the fuck?

  “Yeah.”

  “No way, dude. Don’t it hurt?”

  I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

  “Ah…you got a boyfriend or something?”

  “Nah.”

  God, I hope he doesn’t notice I’ve got a boner. All this talk has got me hard.

  Trig was quite a piece of work. Tall, blond, built from his work as a laborer on the wharves. In his midtwenties. His biceps bulged under his T-shirt. His pecs were a work of art. His ass was sculpted under his denim jeans, and his package was… He noticed me staring. My mind had stopped because I saw he was sporting wood. He made no attempt to hide it.

  The air seemed to have been sucked out of the elevator. His breath was almost as labored as mine.

  “What’s it…um…what’s it…” He had real difficulty getting the question out. He took a deep breath and blurted, “What’s it like?”

  “What’s what like?” I asked.

  He’d opened the floodgates, so the rest of it came comparatively easily.

  “You know…”

  But I didn’t.

  He sighed at my stupidity.

  “What’s it like to kiss another guy?”

  I’d expected anything but that. There’s only one sort of man that asks a question like that—a curious man. So, even if it was the last thing I ever did…I closed the distance between the two of us and pasted my lips to his. He was so startled he opened his mouth in surprise and my tongue rammed its way home. His mouth tasted of cigarettes and beer, but I didn’t care. I knew the moment he came out of his shock, I’d be shoved away, pummeled by his fists until I couldn’t stand up. Oh, it was so worth it.