Excerpt from my gay erotic short story, "Hat Trick"

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Hat Trick,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.

Looking back on that blustery summer afternoon on Dead Man’s Pan, I now clearly see that our getting trapped by a sudden thunderstorm while skinny-dipping near the abandoned miners’ cabin was the perfect excuse the four of us needed to stroke each other off in our first circle jerk.

My granddad’s ranch, locked away high in the Rocky Mountains, extended over much of the broad plateau named Dead Man’s Pan back in the gold-rush days by tenacious miners and legions of pioneers migrating West.

With a waterfall cascading down a jagged outcrop of rocks and a deep pool only yards from its sagging porch, the dilapidated cabin unceremoniously called The Rocks by us was my favorite of several weather-splintered wrecks listing forlornly across the rugged landscape–each having endured for nearly a century and a half, with varying degrees of success, innumerable vermin infestations and Colorado’s long, harsh winters and warping summer heat waves.

“When’re you gonna lose that fricking hat?” Charlie Oleznik asked me, his face forever screwed up in a scowl that marred his handsome features.

“Leave him alone,” my buddy George Vaicek came to my rescue. He bumped into Charlie as we wound our way along a cattle trail through a thicket of trees and dense brambles toward the pool. The jolt slowed Charlie down just enough that he missed when he swatted at my canvas derby. “You’re just pissed he didn’t bring you one back from Chicago.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s all I wanna show off to the guys at the shop,” Charlie scoffed, grimacing when Vaicek suddenly turned around to face him and, walking backwards, pretended to pummel him with several quick blows to his bare, muscular chest and belly. “Knock it off, Vaicek. You’re gonna fall and crack your head open, and no one’s gonna care. Knock it off, man.”

“Vaicek, stop bugging him. We’re almost there,” I said, distracted by the fourth member of our group walking ahead of us.

Peter Gatford had graduated from high school that spring with me and, like me, planned on attending the local community college for two years before applying to one of the big state schools. Neither of us knew what we wanted to do with our lives. I didn’t want to work on the ranch, and I knew I didn’t want to drudge away my days as a suit, crunching numbers in some stuffy office building. Peter was thinking about taking Computer Programming to better his odds of landing a good job in California. He’d told me this plan earlier that week, as we lay exhausted on his bedroom floor, both of us stripped to our briefs, slick with sweat, and out of breath from the kind of wrestling we had engaged in most afternoons since becoming best buds. This time, in our haste to pin the other first, we’d knocked over his nightstand lamp, its bulb flickering bright blue before popping out with a hiss.

“I kicked your ass again!” I didn’t want to talk about his moving away. “And you’re the pud who was on the wresting team!”

“You weigh more,” he retorted, rolling his blue eyes when I mouthed the words at the same time he said them.

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Hat Trick,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.

Excerpt from my gay erotic short story, "The First of the Month"

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “The First of the Month,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.

Jason Morgan meant more to me than all of the autographed photos, shiny boxing statues, Global Middleweight Championship belts, and stacks upon stacks of memorabilia that crammed the dusty shelves of my trophy cabinet, its warped glass doors shimmering across one wall of the back-front room I seldom entered except to entertain exuberant, reminiscing relatives and former trainers.

He was beautiful and fragile-looking when he slept curled beside me at night, snoring softly, sometimes whimpering at the occasional daemon marauding through his dreams. 

His hand always slipped around my waist or shoulder, his hairy chest wriggling against mine, whenever I awoke just before dawn and, irresistibly, my hand crept across his pillow to lightly scratch his thick, cropped hair.

He was unmistakably a man not to rouse recklessly, his face flushed and the sinews in his neck writhing, when he was caught up in a heated argument with another bicycle messenger or, more likely, was earnestly negotiating a truce between rival bike services about to come to blows in the broad public square at Sansome and Sutter streets, its long, curving parapet the turf of dozens of handsomely disheveled, thick-calved messengers swaggering and lounging between dispatches.

Still asleep this morning, he lay naked on his belly in front of me, his muscular, hairy legs slightly spread, the sheet jumbled around his feet in the stifling heat rare even in late fall for San Francisco.

Peeling off my sweat-soaked gym shorts and jockstrap, I marveled at his massive calves and thighs. I straightened and flicked my clothes toward the overflowing hamper in one corner, as his astonishingly pale ass drew my attention, its powerful, twin globes covered by a dense forest of curly, brown hair that also climbed up his lower back in a fading triangle along his spine.

Taking my balls in one hand and gently pulling them out from between my muscular thighs, I swallowed dryly, enjoying the sensation of stretching my sweaty scrotum confined all morning in the tight pouch of my jock.

I recalled with growing excitement the previous night when I’d carefully turned him over to face away from me on the bed, my rigid cock sheathed in the velvety, tight warmth of his ass, and we’d finished fucking on our knees.

Grunting and careful to move as little as possible inside him, I was kneading his narrow, brown waist for some time, desperate not to ejaculate first, when he groaned loudly, rearing up to clutch the headboard with one hand, and slammed his hips back into mine.

Like most serious bike riders’ torsos, his upper body wasn’t nearly as developed as his legs. I massaged his lean back and kissed his wide, square shoulders surprisingly powerful from daily pulling at handlebars made grueling by the City’s steep hills.

When he suddenly bellowed at the headboard, I felt the walls of his ass clench around my hard-on, and I knew he was coming.

I flung my broad, hairy chest across his back and grabbed his fist firing up and down his erection, his pungent semen spurting like buckshot over the tangled bedspread.

I came listening to the heavy splattering of his load, excitedly extending my chin over his neck to bite his earlobe, as my stomach muscles contracted hard and held my hips firmly against his creamy white ass. The rippling ferocity of my orgasm nearly overwhelmed me. I was convinced, as my nuts unloaded round after round, that I’d later discover the finger-like tip of my condom bulging to the bursting point with my semen.

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “The First of the Month,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.

Excerpt from my gay erotic short story, "Anything But Everything"

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Anything But Everything,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.

Ted Vanhagen was naked and sporting a full erection the first time I saw him. He was holding a complicated-looking tripod in one hand, as he strutted around the furnitureless room set ablaze by a network of long-legged lights strategically arranged around him.

He was leanly muscular and a head taller than me. He had a broad back, pale ass and hairy chest and abdomen. His brown hair was cut almost as short as his well-groomed beard. He wore wireless glasses. His brown triangle of pubic hair looked luxuriant and untrimmed, his pale scrotum nearly lost in the thicket. His cock was straight and longer than mine. It waved tight circles in front of his pale hips, as he paced the room.

I was rock hard by the time I slipped out of bed. I always sleep naked, so there we were: two naked, horny men separated by two windows and a narrow alley of overgrown weeds.

He put the tripod on the floor, kicked wide its legs and raised its neck a few feet so it was even with his chest.

He looked around him some more, then dragged the tripod this way and that until he liked where it stood.

I walked up to my window, my fist firing up and down my throbbing cock, and was still a bit stunned a handsome man was naked and aroused in a room that had until now been vacant the ten or so years I’d rented my studio off Valencia Street.

I’d expected some hipster younger than me to eventually buy the neighboring Victorian.

This man was probably twenty years older and hotter than hell. He pinched one of his nipples and used his other hand to pull on his scrotum, as he stepped around the tripod and stood sideways to me.

My heart was pounding wildly in my chest. My load was rising fast.

When he released his nipple and took hold of his rigid cock, I let out a loud moan.

I knew what I had to do.

“Oh, my god!” I moaned, furiously jerking off, as I whirled away from the window, nearly trampled a floor lamp, switched it on, and jumped back to the window.

He was frozen, one hand still cupping his balls while the other gripped his member.

He slowly turned to face me.

I pressed my forehead to the window.

“Oh! Oh!” I cried at him, my stomach muscles contracting hard, as I shot my load all over the glass.

It was an amazing orgasm.

At first, I didn’t realize he’d dropped his hands to his sides.

He still had a full erection, but something had changed in his face.

He was a statue until I’d fully unloaded. Then, he walked out of the room.

His lights went out a second later.

I was more than surprised: I was offended. How dare he not think our encounter was as hot as I did!

“Wait. I just came in front of a straight dude,” I said aloud, still holding my softening dick, and looked at my semen oozing down the window.

I felt weird.

I turned off the lamp and got in bed.

The studio was always freezing in December.

The bed was still warm. I lay back and pulled the covers up to my chin. I pulled on my member to get out all my sperm.

“Huh,” I said to myself, massaging the cum like lotion over my belly. “That was weird. And hot.”

If I’d known how much hotter it got after that, I probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep so fast.

This is the first 500 or so words of my short story, “Anything But Everything,” which appears in my collection of six gay erotic stories available here on Amazon. It's free with Kindle Unlimited.