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The Young and the Hung

Contents

  1. Cover
  2. About this book
  3. About the editor
  4. Title
  5. Copyright
  6. Sharing Him
  7. A Long Hard Day
  8. Frighten the Unicorns
  9. Winter Voyeur
  10. Ray of Light
  11. Guys Like Him
  12. Puerto Rican Pounding
  13. The Matchmaker
  14. House of Representatives
  15. Sucking Up to The Boss
  16. Tropic of Cancer
  17. Diamonds in the Rough
  18. Just Right

About this book

These tales of lust are not for the faint-hearted: Be it an orgy with kinky twins, a blind date with a hot Puerto Rican, or a racy rendezvous with the most powerful men in the world — the hunks in these stories get to it without much ado.

THE YOUNG AND THE HUNG features stories of classic gay erotica at their most titillating, available in digital format for the first time!

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.

Sharing Him

by Matthew Rettenmund

Me and my buddies share everything.

When Andy gets paid (he strips at Rosebudz), he splits his tips with us by buying us all liquor all Saturday night; when Dave’s prude roommate takes off for the weekend, the pad’s ours to use like our own; and even I have something to contribute, something I enjoy sharing — it’s my ass, because I’m the only bottom of the trio. So I share a little hot and tight with the big and hard.

Recently, we found something new to trade amongst ourselves. Not something. Someone: Rich Esterhaus, a new addition to our weekend party circuit. We all met him at the same time, the only reason our trading deal ever came to pass. I mean, if any one of us had even met Rich alone, any one of us would’ve get him all to ourselves. But instead, we met at once at Rosebudz, me and Dave sitting at the bar, Andy dancing on top of the bar, naked except for a wringing wet Holiday Inn towel he clutched with no particularly adamant modesty at his hairy crotch. Andy’s an exception to the hairless rule with strippers, a big, bulky man who insists on keeping his expansive chest and heavy groin (and even the small of his back) as hairy as Mother Nature designed them. Whenever he danced and I was at the bar, we had this routine where I’d make a to-do about slipping him a fiver as a tip, then he’d squat a little and let me reach up under his towel (or into his jock, depending on what look he’d gone with) to play with his fat, hairy balls. Nearby customers would trip over their pencils to give Andy a five- or ten- or twenty-spot for the shot at groping nuts or prick or shoving five pale fingers into his hairy ass crack. Highly unethical for us to rope ’em in like that (I got to feel him completely up; they lucked out to make full contact before he swiveled coyly, richly away). But then, what sort of ethics do you expect from a professional stripper and his fuck buddy?

The night we met Rich, I was buzzed on good booze and a daylong marathon of getting mercilessly reamed out by Andy, who’d been unusually aggressive and horny after an ill-fated celibate quasi-relationship with a pious, college-bound Mexican boy who’d thrown him over for a fucking priest. Tipsy with alcohol and sexual pleasure, I was antsy to do the old five-buck scam as an excuse to fondle the fuzzy nuts I’d recently drained. Andy was scanning the bar for potential tippers. Dave? Oh, him. He’s the quiet one. I almost forget to include him in stories I’m telling, even in sex stories where he’s my partner. Solemn, bespectacled Dave (who, at 6’2” with transparent blue eyes, boyish bangs, and in possession of the longest non-female eyelashes in circulation, is actually the cutest one of us, and the most generous in bed) was just giving up on trying to engage a francophonic towhead who sat to his left. At once, of a sudden, we all three laid eyes on Rich for the very first time.

Rich is not Hercules. He’s not even Steve Reeves. He’s just a real good-looking guy with a little more chest than belly and little more shoulder than chest and a sweet, straight-looking face that belongs in a college track team group photo. In that wholesome, homespun way, Rich is very average to the eye, but there is also an extra something, a warmth and also a pleasing enigma, the familiarity and yet mystery you sometimes see in the posed faces in vintage family photos sold unceremoniously in stacks at flea markets. Since all three of us saw Rich plop down next to Dave at once, I knew he was about to be assaulted from every direction. But I knew, too, that I felt an intense need to share myself with this nice guy. Rich looked at me first, smiled nervously. I could see myself on my knees, his knees at my ears while my tongue lingered over his swollen prick, sucking salt from skin, coaxing sperm. He would smile with gratitude as I sucked him off, not smugness — this I could tell from the unpretentious pull of his lips at his teeth when our eyes met.

Then Dave extended his hand, received a comparable grin. Then Rich …

“Nice to meet you guys — Rich is the name …”

…spotted the white of Andy’s towel and he gawked at Andy’s beautiful body, which was nothing less than ‘The Thinker’ standing and straightening to stretch and gyrate and flex and arouse.

Within the hour, Andy’s shift over and his pocket fatter than even Rich’s promising, black-jeaned basket, the four of us were doing the egg thing at our favorite dive, 24 (an all-night diner, get it?).

Rich charmed us with his Midwest disposition and funny stories of being a closeted frat boy in Michigan. When he compared the state of Michigan to the shape of his hand, pointed to the thumb and said, “I’m from the here,” I felt my heart doing flip-flops. It’d been so long since I’d had a crush, a bona fide crush, I’d almost forgotten how much more exciting they are than plain lust. That Rich had only been “out” for a short time and confessed to minimal sexual experience endeared him to me even more; not like chicken appeals to a chickenhawk, not in a sleazy, cherry-mongering way. I found myself coveting Rich’s inexperience, planning how to start over with him, innocent again myself. Crazy.

Rich bravely gave all three of us pecks on the cheek (though Andy managed to slip him a hunk of lip, I noticed) before leaving us at 24. Andy and Dave were just as smitten, though if either had the alien romantic notions I was having, they were well-concealed under gutteral talk of virgin assholes and broncbusting.

We came to a group decision that I’ll always regret. But I was always a joiner (Man, it sucks to say so.). We always shared, and Rich would be no exception. Each one of us would seduce him singly, then we’d persuade Rich to join us in group fun, an old-fashioned gangbang with Rich doing double-time as a top and a bottom.

“Can your little ass handle three dicks going at it?” Andy asked lewdly, playfully pounding my arm. Dave’s foot had been stroking my inner calf all evening. After meeting Rich, these guys were climbing the walls. I knew we’d be in our monthly three-way soon.

“I’m always up for anything.”

Two hours later, I was sandwiched between two beautiful men; I lay with my upper body across Andy’s lower body, his erection gleaming, freshly slipped out of my mouth. Dave hovered above and behind me, his strong arms ramrod straight at either side of me, his lower body flush against mine. He was screwing me — literally. Dave only thrust occasionally — mostly he enjoyed swiveling his hips and swirling his buried dick around inside me, screwing with finesse. Nobody fucks like Dave — it just feels so sweet, like he’s doing it for you and not to you. Of course, he was really just having it the way he liked it best. If he had liked to fuck rough (like Andy loved to do), he would’ve.

“Mmmmm — you’re tight,” he moaned wetly in my ear. “Squeeze my dick — yeah, that’s right, that’s right, that’s it, there it is …”

I could feel my butt burning like I was going to cum and I went back to working Andy’s prong furiously, mouthing the head and then deeping it like I knew made him hot to cum.

“Suck me, suck me, suck me,” he chanted, his legs as far apart as nature allows, a forearm draped over his eyes, head thrown back limply on a pillow. “He likes taking big dicks on both ends, loves that big dick …”

“ …lovin’ it …” Dave joined in, “He’s lovin’ it all the way up his sweet ass — shit, he’s shooting it — I can feel his asshole twitch — “

“Yes fuck fuck fuck yeah yeah yeah!” I howled.

Man, it’s incredible to cum with a fat prick in your ass. I worked Andy’s meat with my fist until he shot all over my cheek, my lips. I was a wreck, just barely conscious of licking cum from the corner of my mouth when Dave tugged out of me and sprayed my sweat-soaked back.

We lay entwined, Dave sliding in his own semen on my back, my face buried warmly in Andy’s musky balls, his hands protectively cuffed over my ears.

In a lot of ways, I love my buddies, but already I was setting up Rich in my mind’s eye as an alternative. Why lose hot sex and affection like this? Well …

“So who screws Rich first?” Dave asked from on top of me (and he’s the nice one).

“Me,” Andy said with swagger.

“Why you?” Dave asked.

“I have the biggest dick,” He laughed and nudged me with it playfully.

Rich.

Three days later, I had Rich alone in my apartment. I’d asked him over to help me pack. I was moving soon and needed a hand. But it was obvious when I spoke with him that I was interested. That he came over made it obvious he was, too.

“You have tons,” he observed of my scattered belongings. Rich had shown up in a red sweatshirt, matching (but just barely) cap, and faded jeans so worn the back pockets sagged outward loosely, making his sprawling ass seem a perfect bubble. He lifted his cap and scratched the side of his head through just-woke-up-and-pulled-on-this-cap hair.

“Yeah,” I agreed. I’m a pack rat, more out of boredom than sentimentality. “Let’s fill boxes.”

We worked for three solid hours stuffing boxes full of stuff to move, stuff to throw out, stuff to donate. I kept an 80s classics station on the whole time so our work was continually interrupted by mutual exclamations of recognition, frenzied dancing, and Boy George impersonations. Rich was so much fun that day, so “on” and infectiously cheerful. I couldn’t take my eyes off him — the always smile, the forever arms, the never-going-to-let-you-down. I wanted this spark plug, this little firefly in a strong, solid man’s body. I could smell his sleep-sweat from the neck of his sweatshirt. I kept fantasizing that my fingers were in his hair.

My time with Dave and Andy and a lot of other buddies like them has conditioned me to be aggressive. The tension in the room was palpable, our mutual glances meeting every couple of minutes.

“It’s getting hot, Rich,” I said, plainly manufacturing a situation. He looked up at me from where he squatted, taping up a box. “Why don’t you go ahead and lose the sweatshirt.”

He stared at me silently, his eyes so round and warm and ready. He knew. He knew what I needed. Slowly, he stood up — I could hear his back crack.

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, “That’d be great.” He pulled his sweatshirt up and over and off with a graceless but brief struggle. His chest was broad, his torso so thick and firm. He had a small, dark patch of chest hair between dark nipples, erect and probably tingling as sweat evaporated from them.

Quietly, he asked, “How’s this?”

I knew I looked aroused — I was so horny and liked him so much, I knew fucking with feeling was going to be incredible. My cock throbbed in my jeans, my asshole twitched in anticipation. Had to have it.

“It’s great,” I said, coming up to him, “You look great.” I reached up with both hands and squeezed his pecs, rolling the rock-hard nipples between thumbs and forefingers Rich groaned softly, leaned back a little with his hands in his back pockets.

Oh, that’s good,” he said shakily, “Do more — I like it.”

I felt up his entire upper body very deliberately, screwing a finger into his navel, pressing my palms into the curves of his furry underarms, gripping his powerful biceps with both hands, telling him what a big, hot man he was. He loved it, let me explore him at length, then took my head in his hands and brought our lips together for the most leisurely kiss. We gently chewed each other’s lips, sucked tongues up and down like you’d suck a cock, our cocks grinding together through our jeans.

“Suck me, “ he whispered, “Love my dick with your mouth …” I sank to my knees and undid his belt, unzipped, pulled my face into his crotch. “Suck me — I need it so bad right now …”

I pulled out his cock, its scent stinging my nostrils — unwashed, but salty-clean; I was blind with hunger for it. I immediately took it all, couldn’t wait, no time to spend on heading now, only time for fucking face. He held my head still and thrust his long prick in and out of my loving mouth, forcing it over my rough tongue.

“Oh, I could cum, I’d love to just lose it right now in your mouth …”

I took him out of me and kissed his belly. “No,” I said, “Save it up for my ass. I want you to fill me up.”

“Yeah,” He lifted me up and turned me around, holding me flush with his body, rubbing his cock on the seat of my jeans. I tilted my head back and slipped my tongue into his mouth, more turned on than ever. I was going to have the fuck of my life. I lost it —

“I want you up me now,” I begged, dropping my jeans and bracing my hands on my knees. I thrust my hairy ass back against his hot prick, feeling it throb on my cheek.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he grunted. I could hear him spitting to moisten his dick. “I wanna slip it right in …”

“Yes! Do it all the way in …” His cock pierced me, just sluiced into me with no resistance, my sphincter trained so well to take that big dick.

Together, “Yessss …”

I almost fell forward from his eager thrusts, full-body slam-slam-slams as he sent himself all the way up me again and again. I couldn’t talk, my teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

“I’m going to —” He slowed and I felt that fullness, that incredible burn as he shot his nut in my bowels. It was terrific, the hottest fuck, and his kisses on the back of my neck as he slumped forward, exhausted and panting.

“You’re the best,” he said through a satisfied grin. “I want you to cum for me.”

“Fingerfuck,” I said, and he replaced his slowly shrinking penis with a pair of stiff fingers. He fucked me to the knuckles while I beat my meat with abandon, wriggled my ass on his fingers. When he started doing big circles and I heard the wet smacking of his fingers in my asshole …

“I’m coming, yeah!” I shouted, tears in my eyes it felt so great!

“Yeah, shoot it, cum,” his fingers unrelenting in their thrusting as my asshole gripped them for dear life.

We cleaned up, kissed, slept.

I woke up in love, kissing and stroking Rich’s chest again. I could not share him with Dave and Andy — no way. I needed Rich all to myself.

“Andy was so right,” Rich said dreamily. I froze, the sound of hope drowning. And then Rich crushed me, oblivious. “You do have the best ass.” He hugged me close, but my face was flushed, I was hot, tried to move away but he thought I was playing and held me firmly.

“When did he say that?” I asked, my ears ringing.

“Two days ago at his, you know, that little crash pad of his.”

Where he fucked me, the unspoken.

Since then, Dave’s had his crack at Rich, too, and we have regular three and four-ways, just buddies trading a little meat for some of the best sex anyone’s having. I like it a lot, it feels great, it’s incredible to crawl into a bed full of gorgeous men and suck any available cock, feel each cock sliding in you and each load skipping across your face or into your guts.

But I find myself seeking Rich’s parts in the tangle, extra-thrilled when it’s his I’m sucking or taking in the ass. And I’m still not satisfied, you know? Crazy.

A Long Hard Day

by David Evans

Matt Prosperau had opened his LIVING SPACE estate agency in Islington thanks to a bequest from an uncle and although he had been operating remarkably successfully in the twelve months since he broke away from the partnership where he had finished his training, at the beginning of the week in this story, he was really desperate. Not that he had any problem selling. Rather, Matt’s problem was not having enough properties to sell. Matt could have sold snow to eskimos. Eskimos there were a-plenty; right now, what Matt really needed was more snow.

Matt was just thirty-two and he’d been doing pretty good. But, he reminded himself, he could always be doing better.

At the end of this long, hard day in November, Matt sat at his desk, at the end of the day and ran his strong hands through his thick, dark hair. He stretched his bicep-heavy arms upwards and of course made his white, white shirt stretch agonisingly tightly across his wide chest. At six-three, Matt was the proud owner of some pretty decent real estate in the shape of his own body but, as with the best of prime properties, the famous body wasn’t for sale, however much it might have come in handy in the past when clinching a deal.

Matt stretched his long rower’s legs under the desk and what no one could see, not even Peter, his assistant, was that Matt’s other current problem was a raging hard-on that had been building all day. Sitting and watching the local guys walking by outside had finally got to him. Of course, if he caught their eyes, however much he turned away, Matt knew a lot of guys would grin at him as they passed by, raising an eyebrow, licking their lips as they looked at this god of estate agency sitting behind his plate glass window helplessly unavailable and very much at work.

LIVING SPACE dealt with sales and rentals of studio and one and two bed apartments, and occupied a small office fronting Upper Street, a few hundred yards of which in any direction north or south furnished some of the best LIVING SPACE in London. Shops, restaurants, bars, pubs, clubs, shopping … In fact, all the things a gay boy needs to make life sweeter. And dealing in smaller properties, Matt’s clients all seemed to be singles and a lot of those were the new gay men of the post-Lib age.

Helping Matt in the office was his assistant Peter, the brother of a girlfriend whom Matt had been persuaded to take on to train even though in the evenings, Peter sang with a band. THE WEATHER was a Camden-based fourpiece of the emerging drums ’n’ bass genre. Blonde, punky Peter in his always-black polo’n’jeans rig provided a natural foil to Matt’s elegant, suited executive image. They made a good team. Had they neither have known the other for as long as they had done, Matt and Peter might have spent most of the day fucking instead of working.

As it was, they had a great working relationship, Matt at thirty- two, felt more like an uncle to his twenty-three-year-old street-wise assistant and was very much aware that there was a lot he could be learning from Peter in return. Ten years is a long time in politics, but in the life of a gay man in hurry-up London, the age difference between Matt and Peter was enormous. And Matt liked to keep up. Style, music … younger men. Peter’s band, THE WEATHER, wasn’t a gay band, as such. It was just that the twenty-five-year-old Twins, two of the butchest looking guys who’d ever come out of music school, had always shared everything in their lives, from their instruments to their writing to their … It set the mind ablaze. THE WEATHER was a swirling phantasm of a band, attractive to straight and gay alike. Not only Peter but even more so the individually unidentified Twins … All three young guys had looks and attitude that regularly stopped traffic.

When the Twins finally stopped trying to fool themselves as well as the girls they dated, into their lives had walked Peter Bach. They had both wanted him; Peter couldn’t make up his mind and so … Why should he? The Twins could paint, write, compose and dream up sex stuff which Peter found himself more than willing to try. And Peter’s mind was no less venal than his Twins. They all three lived in a bright new age where information had become ammunition and, with this arsenal, these boys blazed modern sex on all fronts out of every available barrel.

Matt, no stranger to such horny mindsets himself, surreptitiously stroked his hard-on beneath his desk; today, Matt’s was one of those hard-ons which just wouldn’t quit and he had to consciously force his mind off the subject of fucking, which currently weighed on his more-than-active mind even more heavily that the shortage of available apartments. At the end of another hard day, Matt had found himself thinking about forcibly re-arranging some guy’s legs for maximum thrust and penetration. If only there was a guy to hand? Only last night, once again as horny as hell as he always was at night, he’d slipped onto the Heath, still in his business suit after a late evening appointment, and shagged some kilted guy across a fallen log just off the main heath road.

The headlights of the passing cars had shone through the trees enabling Matt to take even more pleasure from the look of hard-working concentration which creased the guy’s face into that familiar silent yell of pleasure ’n’ pain. Matt’s hard-on now really ached as he remembered how easily the young guy had let him spread his legs over the rough bark of the dead tree, of how the young man had begged him not to stop, pleaded with him not to pull out as he’d cum …

The telephone rang.

“Last one today, boss,” Peter announced as he picked up. “Hello, Living Space. Yes. This is Peter Bach. Oh, yes. Sure. Right. Lemme put you onto Matt Prosperau. Sure, sure … Oh, really? Well, that’s good of them. Yes. I understand. I’ll tell them you were the connection, sure.” Peter clicked the line to neutral before buzzing the call through to Matt.

“Someone called Doug Halprin. Friend of the Twins from school. They recommended him. Needs to sell his place or rent it very quickly. In Canonbury, okay?”

Matt nodded and picked up as Peter put the line through.

“Hi, Matt Prosperau here … Sure … Very interested, yes … When would be convenient? I could do … Hey, how about now? … Number? … Fine. See you in ten minutes? … Right.”

“Sounds cute,” Peter opined with a knowing hike of his eyebrow as Matt grabbed his portable phone and jacket and headed for the door.

“I know the street he lives on very well and he has one great property,” Matt replied soberly, “and at the moment I can handle that. Cute would be just icing! See you tomorrow and thank your guys, would you?”

And Matt was gone. Into the November night.

Whether it was the Twins who were the reasons which made Gary Beecham decide to come into the Living Space office was a moot point. He had been following them down the street from where they had both parked.

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