Check out this excerpt from A Good Man Is Hard To Find, one of the many monitor-melting gay erotic stories the Inner Circle has in its library:
Juan, though he had been warned not to, took the shortcut anyway.
It would run him past the scary house, as he used to call the penitentiary by the river when he was a kid, a morose fortress wrapped in barbed wire and accented at its four corners by guard towers.
I’m in agony — feeling Daddy come in my mouth, I’m making an asymptotic approach towards orgasm. Closer and closer I come, the sperm rising in my tubes, precum literally dripping from my cock … yet the closer I come the longer the distance seems, like the long vistas between you and the horizon.
But I can’t be angry. Not at all.
The first time I masturbated thinking of a man, I was barely a teenager. I’d masturbated before, but I never really understood why – it was just a feeling contained in myself. I’d push myself into my mattress and consider the strange, warm feeling. Waves up my chest and in my spine, a peaceful feeling afterward. It was unrelated to anything but me.Read More...
Daddy’s stream vanishes suddenly, cut off as sharply as if he’d twisted the knob on a spigot. Daddy’s hardon imitates mine precisely: bobs up out of his hand, rigidifies hard and rampant. An erect father.
Sperm churns in my balls. I feel adrift in a sea of potentialities, where draughts of fantasy and reality mix in equal measure. My hand pulls back on my cock, revealing my cockhead nested red and hot in the folds of my foreskin.
Daddy stirs out of his slumber. He kicks his rod and it drops into the water. He leans over the edge of his boulder, pulls it up dripping beside him. “Damn,” he says, eyes blinking rapidly. “Fell asleep.”
“Ain’t nothing happening,” I say. I stand up to the symphony of popping knees.
“Caught anything?” Daddy sits upright, rubbing his eyes. His chest hair drips sweat.
“If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology,
the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.”
– James Baldwin, The Price of the Ticket
Howard Carter, astonished after shining a torch light upon the treasures of Tutankhamen’s tomb, could only form three words: “Yes. Beautiful things.” Opening up the Nightcharm Vault, I know exactly how he felt.Read More...
“Where ya headed, sarge?” The scruffy-assed two-striper dispatch driver doesn’t even look at me when he speaks.
“NinetyRow. It’s the only pig goin’ on “The Pad” tomorrow and I hear tell it’s been out in the sun all day”. Jeez. I hate when they do that. Could be 130 degrees inside.
“Hey — radio MaintenanceOne and check if power and a/c carts are runnin’ out there, willya?”
It’s a weakness: I love older men.
I can’t help it. I just know the grizzled dude in that “Most Interesting Man Alive” beer commercial is an incredible fuck. Those ads for male hormone treatment in which men in their twilight years are transformed into bulging muscle monsters with younger gold-digger girlfriends should have me thinking “Bullshit!,” but all I can do is grab my groin and think “Lucky whores!”
I deeply want to be sexually harassed by a boss who looks exactly like silver fox John Slattery, a total hog who paternalistically slaps my ass with a gritted sneer before telling me to get him a Pellegrino.
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