#22, Sean Stark, was a loner.
When the rest of the hockey team arrived at the bus dressed the way they were expected, he was the only exception. A long line of handsome late-teen, early twenties tough guys dressed in white shirts, black ties, khaki slacks, and black dress shoes filed into the visitors’ locker room, and among them was one scrappy, six-foot-two hot dog with short black hair, a goateed chin, no mustache, wearing camouflage fatigues, sneakers, and an old ball cap.
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.
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...
Leo drove down Chickatawbut Road with the windows down and the radio up and a half-empty bottle of Budweiser between his legs. It was late in the day but still hot. People were up in the hills biking and hiking, maybe skinny-dipping up at the quarry.
The leaves on the trees had turned silvery inside-out, the way they do when there’s a storm coming.
“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?”
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