- About this book
- About the editor
- Fireball — by Alex Corey
- Teaching Daddy’s Boyz — by Dominic Santi
- First Shave — by Jameson Currier
- Bringing Roger Home — by Gilles Packer
- The Yellow — by Michael Lassell
- When the Cat’s Away … — by Lawrence Schimel
- Friday Night at the Lik-It Lounge — by Don Shewey
- Fourteenth Street — by Chris Leslie
- Miles high — by Will Leber
- Rear Entrance — by Adam McCabe
- Fixtures and Fittings — by David Evans
About this book
There’s one thing only that these boys have in mind with their horny shaving games, sexy spanking by a strict daddy and ravenous adventures in New York’s clubs. Get ready for a wild ride!
ROUGH AND READY features stories of classic gay erotica at their best, available for the first time in digital format!
About the editor
David Laurents is the editor of numerous anthologies of gay erotica, including Southern Comfort, The Young and the Hung, Feeling Frisky, Rough and Ready, and Overload. His anthology The Badboy Book of Erotic Poetry was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. He lives in New York City.
Fireball — by Alex Corey
When I wake up in the middle of the night to take a leak and close the window, I feel like I’m lying in the middle of a gigantic playpen. A tit clamp pokes me in the back and there’s a handcuff still clasped around my wrist, and when I stand up, the metal cock ring I’m wearing slides off my dick and rolls around on the floor like yesterday’s loose change. Ken groans and shifts in bed, sheets and the cuff keys clutched in his right hand. His shoulder glows pale green in the clock-light, the numbers 3:27 drifting in the darkness just beyond him.
In four hours he’ll be dashing up and down the basketball court at the high school, coaching a team of hoop-obsessed hopefuls before their first morning classes.
In four hours, I hope to be back home, safe in my own bed, catching up on the loss of yet another night’s sleep. In the interim, Ken will have roused me to a filling breakfast of poached eggs, toast, and some fake sausage links he gets from the local veggie co-op. As I droop over the plate and try to focus on the comics or weather in the paper, Ken will dart about the kitchen like a bee between blossoms, finishing off his lunch time sandwich with sprouts or peppers, checking the dog’s water dish, and licking stamps to go on the morning’s batch of mail.
With guys like Ken, I have a hard time balancing the dull details of daytime existence with the savage throes of night-time insanity. A week ago I had been living my life on Main Street USA, a normal citizen with strong yet modest desires. I knew where the boundaries were, and though I might have skittered up alongside them once in a while, I didn’t dare cross. Now, wincing from the soreness in my cock as I take a leak in Ken’s apartment, I worry that I may have gone so far beyond the line that I couldn’t even find it with a map.
It’s like when I was nine years old on a lakeside vacation with my family. My big brother challenged me to a swimming race in Lake Superior, and in my efforts to best him, I slipped under the float-ropes that marked off the safety zone. When I finally stopped, I was treading water nearly a hundred yards from shore. With the waves lifting and lowering me, I couldn’t even spot the zone markers. The lifeguard, a crew-cutted college student we kids had nicknamed Tex on account of his ten-gallon hat, was blowing his whistle and waving his arms, yelling in his cowboy drawl for me to swim back to shore.
I froze right there in the water, still a bit winded from the race. The sight of Tex there on the shoreline, his tanned and oiled torso glistening as though he had just stepped out of the water, held me transfixed. I waited for him to kick off his sandals, take off his hat, plunge into the lake and swim out to my rescue.
For me, it was the defining moment of a dreamy homosexual youth: his hairy muscled forearm tucked under my chin, my thin shoulders pulled in tight against his chest, my loose hand fluttering up against the fabric of his bright orange swim trunks and feeling the sway of his cock as he sidestroked through the water.
Standing there naked in front of the toilet, the hard stream of urine churning the water in the bowl, I experience something of an epiphany: the image of Ken first approaching me in a Minneapolis dance club, blond hair spiky with gel and sweat, white shorts slung low enough to reveal the first half-inch of kinky pubic hair, right hand reaching up to catch the red plastic whistle that swung wildly around his neck. When he blew it, he pointed at me and said, “Moving violation. Dancing without a partner.”
Without further conversation, we danced together, letting the thudding drums of jungle house push us closer and closer to one another. He smiled at me and flexed his biceps, lifting his arms up above his head so I could lose myself in the slick sculpted hollows of his underarms. The thin silver rings threaded through his nipples glinted with the colors of pulsing strobes, yellow, red, yellow, red. Even stretched out like that, his body looked stocky and solid, the firm build of a rugby player or a middle-weight wrestler. Thin blond hairs covered his upper body, thickening past the navel.
We could have done the make-pretend humping thing there on the dance floor, but I usually left that for the frat boys from college, cloaked as they were in the fog of youth, alcohol, and a smoke machine. With Ken grinding away so close to me, his dusky bitter smell fending off the whiff of mineral oil and designer colognes, I wanted more than staged sex. I wanted full freedom to pull that waistband down every inch of his thighs and legs and lick the sweat drops clinging to the tiny hairs on his balls. Like those pearly beads of sweetness, I wouldn’t want to let go when the music stopped.
Somehow Ken sensed I was a man of spontaneous fantasy, but he must have also sensed that I rarely brought those fantasies into the light of day or even the dark of night. For that reason, when he left me to retrieve the drink he had left behind “at a table of friends,” I assumed that my little reverie had ended and didn’t expect him to return. Thankful for at least a glimpse into the wilder life, I headed toward the coat check and, from there, stepped out into the damp autumn night.
Minutes later, as I walked down the street toward my car, Ken came running after me. When he realized he wouldn’t be able to catch up with me easily, he blew his whistle, stopped traffic in the intersection, and sprinted across to meet me on the far corner. He laughed and let out a little whoop.
“Aren’t you a fast one to fly!” he said, then held out his hand. “My name’s Ken.”
He paused and watched as two souped-up Chevies revved through a yellow light. He was still shirtless, the whistle now dangling behind him, and I thought I saw steam rising off his shoulders, though perhaps it was just a trick of the streetlights. His nipples had tightened in the cool air, the thin rings dangling from the pushed-up tips.
“Anyway, you’re Tony, right? Tony Hodgkins? Mankato High School before your parents split and your dad and you moved to St. Paul …”
“Yeah,” I said, surprised. “You’re Ken …?”
“Kenny Morris. Actually Kendall Morris. All the kids used to call me Ken-Doll. On account of the blond hair.” He reached up and tussled his hair, leaving the wet spikes pointing every which way.
“I don’t remember,” I admitted. “I was probably too — “
“You like sports?” Ken asked. “Games?”
“Yeah, some. I was on the hockey team one year,” I said, indirectly referring to my stint as a warm-up coach, a position I had hoped back then might bring me closer to Frank, our Canadian goalie.
“No balls, just a puck. You play with a puck. Hey look, I know maybe this is way too fast for you, but please please please let’s go over to my place?” Ken begged. “Well …”
“First let me go back and get my shirt,” he said. “You’re not gonna dash off again, are you?”
In my mind I imagined armies facing off against one another, one side waving the tattered flags of truth, the other the beautifully unfurled banners of fantasy. “No,” I replied.
“Great. Don’t move.”
By the time Ken returned with his white T-shirt in hand, truth had long since surrendered to fantasy.
“Did you like marbles when you were a kid?” Ken asked that first night. He pushed open the door to his apartment and flicked on the lights. As we stood in the kitchen, I thought back to my past, trying to match his suggested image of marbles with any of my childhood memories.
Ken tossed his shirt onto the back of a chair, held up one finger, then darted into the room on the left, which I guessed to be his bedroom. A minute passed, allowing me to realize that I was still technically standing in the doorway, not quite yet inside. Then, from the darkness of his bedroom, one clear glass marble rolled across the carpet and skipped onto the linoleum floor. A swirled black and yellow shooter followed. They ricocheted off the underside of the far cabinet, one skittering across the floor to hit the trash can before stopping, the other rolling toward the dog’s water dish.
“Come on in; don’t be shy,” Ken called to me. I thought a moment, comparing the chilly air outside with the promise of comfort and warmth inside, then obeyed Ken’s command.
As I pulled my arms out of the sleeves of my jacket, Ken stepped in front of me. He unbuttoned my shirt, and at the same time worked his sneakers off with heel and toe. Once my chest was exposed, he turned his fingers over and touched his knuckles to my breastbone, then lowered his hand, feeling the hair give way to my smooth rounded abdomen, one knuckle dipping into my navel and resting there a moment before continuing down to the beltline.
Rather than undo the buckle, Ken pulled on the waistband and smiled at me. Five cool marbles dropped down, trapped in the pouch of my briefs, nudging against my swelling cock and warm, still-sweaty balls.
“Round things really interest me,” he said. He reached one hand behind to cup my butt, then groped down deep in the front with the other to feel for the marbles slipping between my legs. He rolled them around up against the back of my balls, lightly massaging them along the thin strip of sensitive skin stretching between my scrotum and asshole. My head tipped back and my mouth opened automatically, and just as I expected to feel the first marble push up and inside me, Ken released his grip and stepped back to look at me.
We were both only dimly lit by the light spilling in from the kitchen, but I’ve come to rely on indirect illumination to cloak a number of my own perceived body flaws: too dark and somewhat sunken nipples, a raised appendectomy scar, and a seemingly random patch of hair sprouting obstinately on my left shoulder.
Ken’s body, on the other hand, seemed intended for museum lighting to enhance the curve of full-contoured muscles made smooth by sports, not rough and veiny from pumping iron. In that half-light, his shortness and unkempt haircut recalled a childhood full of tree-climbing and fort-building, a boyhood spent entirely and shamelessly shirtless.
Ken bent sideways and reached over to the bed, lifting a medium-sized paper bag and spilling its contents onto the covers. Hundreds of marbles clacked and gathered in the folds, some spilling off to hit the wall or radiator covers. He reached out to me and guided me forward by the hands.
Beside the bed, he unhooked my belt buckle, pulled down the zipper on my pants, and confidently reached around back to slide them down across my thighs and shins, leaving the underwear on. He scooped a handful of marbles off the bedspread and once more pulled on the waistband of my briefs, filling them with sparkling crystal agates and cats-eyes. He cupped his hands and worked the marbles around my cock and balls, listening as glass ground against glass, kneading the hard balls into my tightening flesh.
He guided me down to the bed and I lay back flat. Hundreds of tiny fingertips massaged my shoulder and back muscles as Ken moved me back and forth across the marbles. His jeans came off in one rehearsed gesture, and when I reached up to fondle his own flesh-packed pouch, I felt three or four marbles in there as well.
Ken straddled me and rolled marbles down my breastbone, trying for a hole-in-one in my navel. He tucked a small shiner up and under the top lip of his own, then guided my hand to feel the hard roundness embedded under the fold of skin in the middle of his abdomen. With four others in each hand, he rolled circles over and around my nipples, coaxing them up and out of hiding.
“I challenge you,” he whispered. He ticklishly slipped his hands along my sides and tucked the marbles up under my arms. “Hold them there,” he said, releasing them into the warm hold of my armpits. “Don’t let them go.”
With my arms held tight to my side, I felt the small globes warm and moisten as Ken turned me over, the rolling fingertips of one hand now running across my chest and stomach. A couple of minutes later I felt him try to enter me and clenched slightly, slowing him, nearly dislodging the marbles he had placed.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered with assurance. “It’s on and it’s lubricated.”
I released the pressure inside and felt his shaft push slowly along the first inch or two into my belly. The head of his prick nuzzled an always unexpected ecstasy with each subsequent slow thrust. I strained to look back over my shoulders, already aching from the pressure of holding the marbles, and I watched as Ken arched back toward the ceiling, hands spread across the small of my back. When he opened his eyes and caught me smiling up at him, he reached his hands back and stretched like a gymnast, every muscle on his body taut with streamlined beauty as he slid himself deeper and deeper into me. I pushed back against him in counter-rhythm, tickled by the wreath of hairs around the base of his cock as it brushed against my butt. I was amazed that he had gone so deep, that the full length of his rigid dick now writhed inside me.
Upper arms still pressed to my side, I stroked my own stomach, grabbing up a handful of the marbles as I did so. With my other hand I reached down and pulled my erection up against my belly, certain that I could feel the skin of my stomach swell with the poke and prod of Ken’s cock as he shoved harder inside of me.
He was painfully deep when he came, his tight breathing now a series of gasps and yelps, and down inside I could feel the repeated explosions as spurt after spurt of his jism pumped into the condom. “Fuck YOU!” Ken called out in triumph, his voice so cracked with pleasure that I couldn’t help but laugh. He bent over on top of me as the shivering aftershocks subsided. Then came the slow deflation of the erection, soon unsheathed of both asshole and condom, and the still-dripping tip of his cock left to rest against my lower back.
Ken draped himself slowly along my back, stomach first, then chest, the two cool circles of his nipple rings touching down lightly against my shoulder blades. He stretched his arms up over my head, unleashing the mixed smell of sweat and semen and letting it swirl down around me.
After a few more shudders and the deepest, most satisfied breathing I had ever heard, Ken turned me over and lifted my hand away from my cock to caress it with his own. Elbows held tightly against my sides, I reached up to brush the tips of my fingers along the tight plates of his abdomen. I felt for the lip of his navel and explored inside, surprised to find a nub of flesh deep within like a hidden nipple. I longed to let my tongue work around it, to lube it with spit before taking it between my teeth for a nibble. As I flicked and pinched the little flap, Ken pressed his lips against mine and slid the wedge of his tongue between my teeth, making way for what felt like the smoothest marble of all.
As he quickly repositioned himself, I felt the marble heat up inside my mouth and realized that it was actually a piece of candy, a red-hot fireball.
The cinnamon taste brought back images of days on the porch with my boyhood friends, killing time until the ice cream truck made its afternoon rounds in the summer. I recalled laughing one time when one of them bought a broken Jimmy Cone on a particularly hot day. As fast as he tried to eat it, the ice cream melted quickly and dribbled out of the bottom of the cone. Finally he gave up eating from the top and stuck the bottom of the cone into his mouth, sucking out the sweet vanilla cream.
As though reading my mind, Ken gripped the shaft of my cock and slid his lips around the head, his tongue licking the tip before he started sucking for more. With his mouth still wrapped around me, he reached behind me with his left hand and lifted me up. Then, with his right hand, he slipped what felt like six huge shooters one at a time up and into my asshole. He held them in there, his fingers pressing and massaging, reaching back around with the other hand to squeeze the base of my cock and stiffen my erection even more.
His tongue played along my shaft with deft precision, as though he knew exactly where each nerve ending lurked beneath the skin. Meanwhile, my mouth heated up, sparkling from the sting of the fireball. Ken’s fingers prodded around the rim of my asshole, letting the marbles work their magic inside. My dick stiffened inside his mouth, just a suck or two shy of orgasm.
Ken stopped and held me there, my crotch arched up into his face, every muscle in my body fired up for release. I could feel his mouth work its way into a smile as he let my cock loose, leaving it to stick up like a wet spindle in the cool air. I shuddered, helpless underneath him, not yet sure if I was going to come or not, caught in that moment between the booming launch of a firework and the glorious blossom in the sky.
At last Ken resumed his manipulation of both cock and asshole with his hands, dragging the head of my dick across the ridges of his abs, pulling the threaded marbles loose only as I let myself go all over his stomach, a huge and joyous load of jism that burst from me like a finale.
The immensity of my orgasm from the night before still had my balls feeling tight, and my insides were hot and loose from being fucked so thoroughly. Somehow, those sensations had given me not only the idea of buying Ken a gift here, but the courage to do it.
Truth be told, I’d never been in anything that could be called a sex shop, unless you count the Victoria’s Secret outlet my mother once brought me to as a kid. There the smell of perfumed lace and powder made me sneeze; in the Hot Stuff store, it was the mix of latex and oil that overwhelmed me as I stepped through the curtained door.
The clerk granted me privacy, and looked up from a magazine only after I’d said hello. He had long curly brown hair that spread over his shoulders, and a mustache that turned down at the corners of his mouth, giving him a serious look even when he smiled. He wore a black leather vest, no shirt, and I was surprised that his chest, unlike his face, was hairless. When I glanced at him and looked a little closer, I could see that one nipple (and maybe the other, too) was pierced through with a small gold barbell replica.
I stopped above a glass case filled with a number of small clamps and chains. “Looking for anything in particular?” the man asked.
“I’m actually shopping for a friend,” I told him. “Someone who likes toys, so I thought, you know. I’d bring home something new and fun.”
“What’s he got?” the clerk asked, supplying the pronoun I’d been avoiding.
I hesitated, not sure if marbles actually qualified as sex toys. “I’m not sure yet. We kind of just met.” I looked up from the case, my eye drawn once again to his nipple. “What about those?” I asked, pointing at the miniature barbells.
“These? These are brand new.” He reached down to pull at them slightly, and for a moment I considered that he might have intended for me to grab hold and inspect them. “Just got them in a few weeks ago.”
I paid cash for a new pair and had the clerk wrap them in some black paper he kept behind the cash register. When he dropped the box in a paper bag, he reached onto a counter behind him and dropped something else into the bag. “A little surprise,” he said. “For the gift-bearer. No charge.”
When I was back inside the safety of my own car, I opened the bag and looked inside. There in the bottom, nestled up against the box with the barbells, a wrapped red-hot fireball triggered an instinctive reaction in my mouth.
I waited until after our scheduled dinner at his place to bring out the gift. Ken looked stunned when he opened the box, then smiled. “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked.
“You’re next,” he said.
“Not me with my nipples,” I said. “Maybe we can convince one of your all-stars to work as a stand-in.”
Ken lifted the gold studs out of the box, then held them out to me. “Here,” he said. “Take them.”
He dropped them in my hand, then pulled his T-shirt up over his head. Even though he did this with perfect nonchalance, the sight of his wrestling coach chest caught me off-guard. He stood up and came over to where I sat at the kitchen table.
“You put them on,” he said. He crouched into a sitting position on my knee, his left nipple turned toward me.
I looked at the barbells and twirled one end to pull the tiny weights off the bar. Then I reached up and took his nipple between thumb and forefinger, pulling it ever so gently as I pushed the bar through the tiny hole. The process gave me a slight chill; I had never before been a fan of body piercings, but Ken’s had seemed so natural, so unified with his entire personality. His dark pink nipples stood erect and ever at attention, craving adornment. As I screwed the weights back on, I considered how pliant his flesh was, how willingly it lent itself to play.
Ken raised a hand before I could start on the right nipple. He stepped around me into the bedroom, opened a drawer, then returned.
“This ought to add a little flavor to the festivities,” he said.
He showed me a roll of Life Savers, unwrapped the top of the package and flicked out the first one, cherry red. He picked it up off the table and reached for the remaining barbell, which I had unscrewed and readied. Pulling the tip of his nipple through the center of the candy, he poked the barbell rod through and secured it in place.