Homeboys Read online

  Just pressing myself against him, my mouth and his locked together, even for a few seconds, was worth any price I had to pay. But he didn’t push me away. The moment he overcame his initial shock, he began to respond. His tongue pushed back and I allowed him into my mouth, sucking him gently, opening my mouth wide as he almost attempted to devour me, his hunger was so great.

  While he was grinding his body against mine, I felt his cock pressing into my own hardness. His kiss made me light-headed as my hand found the top of his jeans and undid the top button, then slid the zip down until I could get my hand inside his briefs. He gasped as my hand found its target. He was not the biggest I’d ever felt, though he was well endowed. He moaned as I took more of his tongue and saliva, fingering his balls and rubbing his shaft as he clasped his hands on my ass.

  I couldn’t have stopped even if my life had depended on it. I’d dreamed about Trig, jerked off to fantasies of Trig for so long there was no way I would give it up now that it was within my grasp. They say reality is never as good as the fantasy. Bullshit. Trig was better than I could ever have imagined.

  I slid his jeans down over his ass, and then pushed his briefs down under his balls so his cock sprang free. Much as I hated to leave his kisses, I slipped to my knees, engulfing his cock in my eager wet mouth. There was no time for foreplay here, this was a spur-of-the-moment passion, and I was determined to taste him before he changed his mind and reverted to the housing estate thug he was.

  His crotch smelled of sweat and salt and masculine funk. I breathed deeply as I took his thick oozing cock in my mouth. I wanted him to want me. I wanted him to scream his orgasm so loudly the entire building heard him. I wanted to give him the best blow job he would ever receive. I wanted him never to forget me.

  He writhed in exquisite agony as I took him into my throat, praying my gag reflex would take a holiday just this once. He leaned back against the wall of the lift, moaning his appreciation of my technique. I thought I could take a little time to appreciate his balls so I released his cock to concentrate on lathering his ball sac with my tongue. He held my head, attempting to insert his cock back in my mouth while I sucked each of his balls in turn. Only then did I satisfy his urgent demand for satisfaction. I took his prick so far into my gullet that his pubes tickled my nose.

  Flexing my throat muscles made him cry out until I released his cock in order to gasp for breath. I returned to my task determined to milk him dry. “I’m close,” he whispered.

  Whether he informed me as a courtesy, which I doubt, or because he expected me to spit him out and jerk him to final orgasm, I wasn’t sure. But I wanted to taste him and I sucked like a Dyson while he held the back of my head and spewed his cum into my gob. I swallowed those spasms that didn’t shoot straight down my throat, relishing every drop. I kept sucking until his cock was so sensitive he jerked in an effort to extract his prick from my mouth. Reluctantly, I let him go.

  Now would come the onslaught, the guilt, the name-calling, the violence. It would have anyway. At least now I’d got something out of it.

  His body skidded down the wall until his ass hit the floor. I was still on my knees so he looked me in the eye. “Is it always like that?” he asked.

  I decided to be cheeky. “If I like somebody.”

  He was impressed. I could see it in the way his body had turned to jelly. I sat back on my heels, praying the moment would last a little longer.

  “Mate, you’ve got a magic tongue.”

  I had to be careful what I said. Any misjudged joke, such as “Spread the word,” was likely to be met with violence. He wouldn’t want his gang members to know he’d just let a fag blow him, no matter how good it was. The only way to have sex with a fag was to force him with the utmost violence. At least I’d been spared that.

  Trig shook his dick before tucking it away. It was the signal our relationship was at an end. I stood, dusting down the knees of my jeans, offering him my hand to help him stand. To my surprise, he took it and, for a moment, our eyes locked. Then, abruptly, he turned away from me, jabbing the lift buttons with a force that belied his recent calm. The elevator shuddered back to life and we continued on our upward journey.

  When we stopped at my floor, he neither looked at me nor issued a warning. I knew better than to go blabbing. Not that anyone would believe me anyway. Trig’s reputation was rock solid. I must admit there was a spring to my step as I walked along the corridor to my flat. I think I may even have hummed.

  If I expected my tormentors to leave me alone, I was sadly mistaken. If anything, their verbal abuse seemed to increase, spurred on undoubtedly by my sly smiles when I saw Trig lurking among them. To give him a little credit, he didn’t seem to join in the name-calling and he did prevent any physical violence. Still, the last thing I wanted to encourage was the attention of a closet case who liked man sex but then set about bashing his partner in public for his fagdom. My self-esteem had never been that low. Besides, I knew from experience that once tasted, forbidden fruit was addictive. Especially if that taste was part of your nature.

  I couldn’t expect that Trig would automatically come back to me. In fact, it was more likely he would seek to slake his sexual thirst off the estate—it was safer. Or else he was in a state of denial, damming his feelings until they threatened to overflow or burst through. I didn’t think for a moment Trig’s experimentation with me was based on a genuine emotional attachment, but I also knew it was more than mere curiosity. The way he kissed, the way he clamored for that male-to-male connection.

  The second time I met Trig on a one-to-one basis was a couple of months later when I was coming home late from my shelf-stacking job. I always kept to the shadows in case some testosterized kid was lurking, bored or drugged off his tree, just itching for a bit of ultra-violence so his life didn’t seem the total shit heap it was.

  I heard the voices before I got near enough to confirm it was Trig and his latest fuck chick, Angela. Everyone on the estate knew she had him by the balls, determined to get him down the aisle. He was a worthy catch. Unlike most of the men on the estate, he had a regular job. Prospects, Angela would call it. He was also a looker with a body sculpted by physical labor. He was perfect—as long as you didn’t know about his reputation. That was of little concern to Angela because hers was even worse.

  She headed a gang of local vixens who intimidated both sexes, particularly the elderly, offering protection from harassment and physical harm for a large slice of their pension checks each fortnight. She had no need to work, as long as your definition of extortion excludes “work.”

  She and Trig were arguing. They were notorious for their bitter feuds, which normally lasted for days and dragged in all other gang members who had to swear allegiance to one side or the other.

  Trig sounded exasperated. “I am not gonna marry you.”

  I so did not want to be involved in this discussion. I’d heard enough already of Angela’s pleading and whining to set my teeth on edge. It was the usual cause of friction between them. As I edged my way toward the door to my block, I must have dislodged loose stones because the sound of crunching gravel drew their attention to me. All I could do was look straight ahead and keep going as if I hadn’t heard a thing. It’s not like the entire estate wasn’t privy to what was going on; Angela had a voice like a foghorn. It carried for miles.

  Her voice dripped venom. “Well, if it isn’t the faggot,” she sneered. “Getting your rocks off in the dark, eh?”

  “Leave it, Ange,” Trig snapped. “This is about us.”

  Angela changed tack. “What is it with you an’ the faggot lately? You’re always defendin’ him. You in love with him or somethin’?”

  Something in Trig’s face must have given him away. Angela shrieked in triumph. “Oh. My. God. You fancy the little fag, don’t cha?”

  I’m afraid I’m a coward. I used the distraction as an opportunity to escape, to try to get into my flat and bolt the door as quickly and quietly as I could. Angela’s pa
rting shot to Trig was, “Well if you like him that much why don’t you marry the fuckin’ poof then? It’ll be legal soon. Is that what you’re waitin’ for?”

  I thought I was safe. The elevator door was closing, my breath was steadying, my heart was thumping less urgently. Then, fuck me dead, the fist burst through the small opening and again the doors leapt apart. His face was deformed into a snarl that threatened anyone in its path. That would be me. He turned his back to me, jabbing savagely at the floor buttons until the lift jerked upward. I would have to struggle past him to get out. I doubted I’d get that far.

  He turned suddenly, smashing his fists into the walls of the elevator either side of my head, his face so close to mine I swear I could smell his hunger. I dared not breathe as he simply stared into my eyes as if searching for something that he thought was hidden there. I kept mum.

  “Well, would ya?”

  My throat was so constricted in terror I couldn’t answer. Would I what?

  He must have read the question in my eyes.

  “Like she said, would ya marry me?”

  WTF?

  I didn’t need to think about it. “Yes,” I croaked.

  This wasn’t the time to go into the fact that we hardly knew each other, the fact that he smoked and I’d sworn I would never go into a relationship that included an ashtray, or that the likelihood of me and him even getting together, let alone marrying, on this estate was on a par with the chances of Jupiter colliding with Mars.

  His whole body relaxed when I gave him my reply.

  “Why?” he asked.

  I hit the button to stop the elevator this time. If he wanted to talk, this was about as private as it got. I’m sure Angela would be gathering her gang of harridans to make an assault on my flat at this very moment. I didn’t want to be there, especially not with her boyfriend, when she arrived.

  If I was going to get personal, I was going to be comfortable. I sat on the floor. He paced a while longer then sat opposite me. He asked again.

  I shrugged. “Lots of obvious reasons. You’re hot. Great looking, sculpted body, dick of death—”

  “How’s my dick compare to other guys?”

  “Bigger than average.” It was only a small lie.

  “Go one.”

  “But besides that, I think you’ve got potential. You’re intelligent.”

  He made a dismissive sound at that.

  “Yes, you are. You got dreams; you got the chance to escape from here. I knew that when I heard you and Ange tonight.”

  “She don’t wanna move. Her family’s here.”

  “She been here so long, she don’t smell the shit no more,” I said.

  He looked at me like I’d said something deep.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But you smell it, don’t ya? It clogs your nostrils. The stinkin’ smell of desperation and small dreams gets in your clothes, in your hair and in your mind.”

  For Trig, this was waxing lyrical.

  His foot touched mine. It wasn’t an accident.

  “Would ya come with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  I would, too. My exams were over. I was free.

  “I got a transfer at my job. Pay’s good. I could look after ya till ya got set up like.”

  “That’s what the argument was about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  He slithered over to where I was and put his arm around me. “I can’t get ya outa my mind. What is that, eh?”

  I thought it was a bit early to mention the L word.

  “I give great head,” I joked. “But wait till you try my ass.”

  “How about right now?”

  He bear-hugged me into a kiss, his desire obvious. As I began to undo his jeans, a jar of Vaseline fell out of the pocket. It had never been opened.

  “Oh, shit.” He looked at me as if expecting the worst.

  I laughed. “You came prepared.”

  “Is that okay?”

  I replied by way of standing to shuck my jeans, kneeling on all fours and wiggling my ass at him. “I dreamed of this so many times,” I said. “Of you plowing my ass.”

  He undressed even faster than I had. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and slathered my hole liberally, then greased his pole. He pushed the head of his prick against my sphincter and then pushed.

  I saw stars for a moment, but I knew the pain would subside once he got into his rhythm.

  “Fuck me, Trig.”

  He slid his cock all the way in.

  “Oh, fuckin’ Je-zus.”

  I could tell from the timidity of his technique he was trying not to hurt me, but he was taking so long my knees were feeling the strain.

  “How about I lie on my back, so I can watch your face as you fuck me,” I suggested.

  After the necessary adjustments, he pushed my legs onto his shoulders and sank inside my guts again. I watched him as he tried out various different angles and strokes, then found one to his liking, concentrating on that.

  “Dude, your ass is so fuckin’ hot.”

  I drew his face down to mine and kissed him deeply as he pounded my butt. When we broke the clinch in order to breathe, I panted, “I’m not made of glass. You can fuck me as hard as you want.”

  Now that he had the go-ahead, he plowed me like he did in my dreams. This was better than any fantasy. I’d make the most of it because his invitation to go away with him might evaporate as surely as the sun would dry out the stale piss on the concrete steps at the front entrance to the building.

  But while he blew his spunk deep inside me and I jerked my cock until I squirted my load all over my belly and chest, I had my fingers crossed in hopes that his proposal was genuine.

  Punks: A Transgression

  Simon Sheppard

  I’d heard of this author, S—, but not read any of his work. So when he gave a reading in a bookstore on Castro Street, I plunked myself down in the second row of folding chairs, drawn by S—’s reputation as a writer of intelligent pornography. And by a rather soigné publicity photo of him looking gloomy in black leathers.

  S—’s story was about being gang-fucked by a band of skinny young punks. Promising enough. But the story left me cold: just plain smut, nothing but who-put-what-into-where. By the time the last featureless, Mohawked youngster dumped his hot load down the (presumably autobiographical) narrator’s throat, I had hit the road.

  Riding my motorcycle through the chilly San Francisco night, back to my place in a still-gritty corner of the Mission District, I began to wonder why S— seemed unable to convey why being raped by a bunch of pierced postadolescents might be an appealing notion to some of his readers. Why, in other words, it was such a hot idea to me. The threat, the groveling, the allure of untamed, smelly youth, all that good stuff…

  I sat down at my keyboard, certain I could write a better piece about the thrill of being trampled beneath Doc Martens. But all my efforts came up limp, the arc of the story too predictable. I began to sympathize with S—.

  Though the impulse to write about rampaging punks dwindled rapidly, my fascination with the possibilities of the actual scene only increased, ripened into obsession. Night after night, unable to sleep, I jacked off to fantasies I spun out for myself in exquisite detail.

  Three o’clock one morning, after I’d wiped up my cum, I wrote out a post for a prominent gay-sex website. Seemed unlikely that any skinny punks in their early twenties would want to gangbang me, but maybe it was worth a shot. I was surprised, no, shocked, then, at the number of eager responses that filled my inbox mere moments after the ad appeared.

  I’d never met with any of them, my respondents. They’d agreed, all seven of them, to get together at a spot I’d suggested and then come over and fuck me, hard and nasty. I went into my garage, leaving the door just slightly ajar, and busied myself with some 2:00 a.m. motorcycle maintenance.

  “Hey, man.”

  I hadn’t even noticed him slipping into the garage. He was young,
bleached blond, cute, not at all punkish. And he was alone.

  “How you doin’, man?”

  “All right.”

  He closed the door behind himself. I smiled. He didn’t smile back. He didn’t smile at all. “Hey man, gimme some money.” Just my fucking luck. Here I’d set myself up to be gang-raped, and I was about to be mugged instead.

  “Listen, my wallet’s in the house. I only have a couple of bucks in my pocket. You can have them.” I held out a few wrinkled bills. “Just go.”

  “Gimme the key to your bike, man.”

  “What?”

  “The key to your bike. Give it here.”

  “Hey, I’m expecting some guys. They should be here any second. Just take the money and go, okay?”

  “Give me the fucking key, man!” Christ, he had a knife in his hand. I reached for the socket wrench. He kicked it away. The knife was against my ribs. He reached into my pocket and grabbed the keys, lightly brushing my dick with his knuckles on the way out. I’d always figured there was simulated fear (which was hot) and there was real fear (which was not). But here in the midst of the genuine article, my cock began to stir.

  “Now take your clothes off.”

  “What the fuck do you…”

  “I don’t want you chasing me out into no street, man. Strip.”

  I undressed down to my briefs, which had developed a telltale bulge. He flicked his knife at my crotch. “Underwear, too.”

  I was naked, scared shitless, standing in front of a mugger with a knife. And I was developing a roaring hard-on.

  “You fucking faggot piece of shit.” He spat in my face.

  I wanted him to leave. I wanted the pretend-punks to show up. I wanted him not to be so goddamn cute.

  There was a banging on the garage door. “Kev, what the fuck are you doing in there, man? C’mon, man, lemme in.”