Best Gay Erotica 2012

FOR JORDAN Rafaelito V. Sy

“One thing my films always have is ass eating. Make sure you guys do that.”

No problem, I thought. Gladly, I thought.

“Have some dialogue to start the scene.”

What? This is porn. I’m not supposed to think, much less think about conversation. I asked, “What sort of dialogue do you want? What’s the scenario?”

He looked peeved, the director did. Not a bad-looking director to be having sex in front of, though—salt-and-pepper hair, military cut; features that were chiseled and boyish; hazel eyes that indicated his impatience to get the scene started. I would’ve expected more direction since that was his job. He fucked me once, too, days after the first shoot I did for him. He had called me to his studio, where I climbed a ladder to his loft. I stripped butt naked. My body was still brown from the tan I had gotten for the shoot, pumped as always from my four-day-a-week workout. He dropped his pants—that was all, didn’t take off his shirt or anything else. I lay on my back on his unmade bed and raised my legs. He clamped his hand around my neck. I saw wooden walls, a wood ceiling, a wood floor.

Everything was wood, wood painted black; and white, white sheets, white pillows.

He spat on his prick, shoved it up my butthole, closed his eyes, ejaculated into my gut and told me to get dressed and get out. That was fine with me because that was exactly what I wanted from him. The beautiful thing about us men is that we can get in touch with our animalistic side and not feel like shit about it.

You were in that first video with me, Jordan, you and another guy, some mean, lean soldier dude with a blond buzz cut. I was on all fours on a lazy Susan built for a body. The two of you were spinning me around, taking turns plugging my mouth and my fuckhole, raising my legs over my head, standing with your hard cocks inside of me, hammering mercilessly.

What a duo you and the other top made, Jordan. You: six-one; early thirties; bodybuilder’s hard, thick physique blurred by reddish-blond hair; pierced nipples and ears; cleft chin. Him: six feet; midforties; swimmer’s build; a biohazard tattoo to the left of his navel; eyes blue and intense as the deep sea; a lean and long cock challenging your thick manhood. And me: five-seven; age somewhere between the two of you; black hair and black eyes; a twenty-nine-inch waist; muscular pecs; brown skin. The two of you tagging me was enough to get my mouth going: “Slam it up my nasty butthole… Ravage my filthy whore guts… Heat up my insides with your gnarly man juices…” When the video came out, a brochure wrote of our scene: Most bottoms just lie there. But this Asian is one aggressive fuck who calls the shots.

Now we were cast together again, one-on-one this time, the scene set in a bar in a sordid district of San Francisco where trannies loiter the streets at night, drug deals run rampant and police cars patrol every block. You were playing the role of a bartender and I was playing the role of the last patron, revving up to get twisted once again with each other in front of the camera. You were standing behind the bar. I was sitting on a stool across from you. A black frame bordered a mirror behind you. Another mirror covered the length of the wall behind me. Liquor bottles lined glass shelves. Black leather covered the stools. The floor was a checkered black and white. It seems that wherever there’s raunch, there’s black. One is synonymous with the other—dark, depraved, the depths of carnality contrasting with the uplifting white of love.

Once again, I would’ve expected more direction from the director. What I got was the director huffing and telling me, “You’re the last guy in the bar. Go from there.”

What I got from you, Jordan, was unexpected, too. You weren’t entirely there when you first walked into the bar. You didn’t look at me or say hello. You didn’t hug me. We had done one video together before this, but our history went beyond that. You used to come to my home, share my bed. You would fuck me, yes, and sometimes, the best times, we would lie together and kiss, kiss and talk, fully clothed. We didn’t just explore each other’s bodies. We explored each other’s mouths, each other’s faces. That was how I got to know the softness of your cheeks, the warmth of your neck against my lips, the way you kissed. You liked to bite my lower lip, softly, and then gently slide your tongue into my mouth and wet my own with your saliva. I liked to kiss your eyelids, feel your lashes tickle my chin, rub our noses together as a child does when discovering for the first time what it means to touch another human being. And in those kisses, you revealed yourself to me: you lost your father and your brother in a car accident when you were nine; together with your mother you loved to plant flowers that drew butterflies and hummingbirds to their color and bees to their nectar; you once rode your motorcycle naked across the Palm Springs desert to bask in the kiss of the sun, the caress of the sand.

The day of the porn shoot, you were distant, not the distance of a stranger, rather the distance of someone leaving without saying good-bye. You were cutting me off and I didn’t know why. Perhaps you had a reason. When two guys hook up over the Internet, that’s all it’s supposed to be—a hookup, one night of instant gratification, sometimes several nights of repeated gratification if the connection’s right. Nothing more. That was how it started out between us. But at times we stumble away from the groin and plummet into the messy pit of the heart. Such is the emotional dynamite when chemistry simmers.

You’re the last guy in the bar. Go from there.

You took two shot glasses from under the bar and filled them with vodka, one for me, one for you. We downed our drinks. You burped cockily into my face.

Me: Thanks for the drink. Where is there to go at a time like this? I’m fucking horny, man.

You: It depends. What are you looking for?

Me: Someone like you.

You: You might not have to go far. Take off your shirt.

Me: Now your turn.

You: Fair enough.

I leaned across the bar and kissed you, and it was as though we were on my bed once more. Maybe I wasn’t losing you after all. You closed your eyes. Our lips parted. You gently probed my mouth with your tongue. I lowered my head to your chest and buried my face in your pecs, teased your nipples with my teeth. And I sighed. I’m so much smaller than you, Jordan. When you embraced me, your entire body ate me up in one greedy swallow. I glanced sideways. At the opposite end of the bar, across the pool table where the light was dim, the director was watching, arms crossed over his chest—a shadow. He wasn’t huffing. He wasn’t peeved. I didn’t detect niceness from him, either. I saw something more, something better. I saw a man who understood the euphoria and the pain of male bonding. His eyes met mine. In his eyes I could read his thoughts: This is too sweet for porn, too caring, too loving. But it’s fucking beautiful.

You walked out from behind the bar, over to me, had me balance on all fours on a stool, yanked off my jeans and my boots—I almost toppled off the stool—and shoved your face between my buttcheeks and licked and lapped and kissed and sucked, wet me up for penetration with gobs of spit.

Then it was my turn.

You lay spread-eagled on the bar, on your stomach. Your ass was as round as sculpted marble; your thighs were half the size of my torso; your hole was twitching for my attention—the stuff of fantasies. Then again, you’re a big name in the industry. I didn’t know that until one night you told me your “other name”—your nom de porn. The day after, I Googled that other name. My computer screen popped up with page after page of your alias, video credits and pics.

Of all the pics of you growling at the camera over your shoulder while showing off your fuzzy buttocks, stroking your glistening cock, flexing your rippling muscle, my favorite is this—you in a T-shirt of Popeye flexing his biceps while clenching a pipe, your face beaming with a smile. You’re gorgeous when you’re naked. The whole world knows you’re gorgeous. But when you smile, you’re perfect.

Later, on the phone, you laughed and said, “Yeah. I’ve been around for a while.”

Now, lying before me, was the unreal deal, the other you. I parted your buttcheeks with an eager tongue, shoved it as deep as I could, relished the taste and feel and smell of your moist insides. My nose was wet from the perspiration on your asscrack. You had been riding your motorcycle all day, and I felt the heat from the cycle seat on your butt, tasted your manly muskiness. You turned your face sideways, toward mine. I could see you puckering your lips and I could hear your oohs and your ahhhs.

And then the fuck: you rolled over on your back and I stood on the bar. I lowered my asshole onto your fat eight-incher. Your Prince Albert was lubed with precum.

“Rip me up, man,” I said as I rode, slowly at first, and then building momentum so that I was slapping my asscheeks against your groin.

“You want it?” you teased.

Fuck, yeah, I want it. For always. I’m your bitch. Forever.

You shoved me from behind onto the bar, doggie-style, fucked me harder, then pushed me down so that I was flat on my stomach and the weight of your manly frame was on top of me. I was losing myself in your warmth, your muscles, your spit, your sweat, your tears, your piss, your butt skank. I fuck with other guys. You fuck with other guys. We’re dude sluts and that was what brought us together in the first place, a pair of goddamn manwhores.

That afternoon, though, nobody else mattered.

I tightened my sphincter.

“Ahhhh!” you yelled. You fucking yelled. Your cum gushed out of your pulsating cock, filling my bowels with its hotness. But you didn’t stop. You pumped some more, and kept pumping.

There it is, now—an instant between us videotaped for posterity, a testimony of my absolute surrender to your manlove. What the world will never see are the private nights when you possessed me. Once the sun rose and you walked out my door, you probably never gave me a second thought. But for the hours when the rest of the world was dead to us, when the only two people alive were you and me, you would look at me with your gorgeous smile—part mischievous imp, part tender lover—and I never doubted the sincerity of your pleasure in feeling yourself one with my muscle, with my body, even with my soul. It was always my pleasure to let you inside of me, as deep as you wanted to go. Whether you were gentle or whether you plowed away, it was my honor to move with the rhythm of your body. Yes, my goddamn honor, because it was you I was letting into the most private, sacred crevices of my inner being. You, Jordan, you.

I wasn’t losing you. Not entirely. We met from time to time after that shoot. A year later, you took me for an evening ride on your motorcycle. The helmet you made me wear had all sorts of piggish trash scribbled on it: CUM DUMPSTER… RAW ALPHA-SLUT… JOK FUCKER… BUTTHOLE BUDDY…

It was autumn. If it was cold, I don’t remember. We weren’t wearing jackets, just flimsy T-shirts. I asked, “What do I hold on to? You?” You said, “That’s pretty much it.”

As I wrapped my arms around you, you raised them higher so that my hands were on your chest, and you squeezed your fingers around mine, goading me to pinch your nipples throughout the ride. Streetlights were shining like gold under violet water. Friday night revelers crowded outside of bars, distant as onlookers gaping into a fish tank. That was how it felt in tandem with you, whizzing past strangers as the wind carried your voice toward me. It felt as if I were soaring on the crest of a wave.

We continue to meet. But it’s always touch and go between us, and often our meetings start with a text message from you, out of the blue, a text message following weeks, months, of silence.

You: Hey big guy, what are you up to?

Me: Good to hear from you. At work right now. This weekend?

(That weekend…)

Me: Hey, Jordan. Love to get tribal with you.

You: (silence)

Me: Love being your porn whore.

You: :)