Erotic Flash Fiction: December in San Francisco

THE QUESTION WAS: HAVE YOU EVER SUCKED OFF MORE THAN ONE BLOKE AT THE SAME TIME?

It was December 2001 in a prison themed sex club in San Francisco. I was wandering around the fantasy locker room, wearing only a pair of short rubber chaps – with nothing underneath – when I was approached by a blond, fit, young man in tight blue jeans. He was topless. His muscled smooth chest and his masculine demeanour fit to perfection the American Beefcake stereotype. He got close to me and, looking at my uncircumcised cock, he asked with a smile: “Can I touch it?” I could not turn down such a polite request. One thing lead to another and soon he was out of his Levis & briefs, allowing me direct access to his beautifully shaped cock, balls and buttocks. We snogged and sucked each other off. We were soon joined by another boy wearing a white jockstrap. He was one of the handsomest men in the club and, as it turned out, also possibly one of the best hung. I suddenly found myself being the filling of a delicious sandwich. I kissed one boy, then the other. One of them attempted repeatedly to enter my arse. I gently refused. Then they kissed each other. I got on my knees. The task was probing but I finally, just about, managed to accommodate in my very small mouth those two massive cocks at the same time. I hardly touched myself but I came almost immediately. I got up, sweaty, and walked out of the scene, even if one of them kept pulling me towards them. When I looked back I just could not believe that those two beautiful men – who were now sucking each other off – had actually shown desire for me.

Erotic Flash Fiction: The same gay sauna in London (pt 2)

The dry sauna was empty. Two tiered wooden benches on the right mirrored two layered benches on the left. I sat on the right lower bench. I closed my eyes, lost in my thoughts, until someone walked in. It was a smooth slim man who sat opposite me. A second punter joined in: a grey haired man who took the left upper bench, above the first punter. He was followed by an athletic hairy man in his 20s, Mediterranean looking. The boy removed his towel, spread it on the bench above mine and sat on it with his legs wide open. Despite my best efforts, however, I could not get a good view of the boy’s genitalia: his knee was in the way and his arm cast a shadow.  It was getting sweaty. 

Then a bear walked in and sat right next to the younger hairy man. Opposite the bear, on the lower bench, appeared  a middle aged punter with a small blond moustache and receding hair. His gaze was focused on the hairy boy’s crotch. 

This boy was popular: a smooth blond jock took a seat on the lower bench just below him and soon was his hand going up the boy’s leg, slowly stroking his calf, his knee, his thigh, his thick pubic hair. Then his hand disappeared between the boy’s legs, starting a rhythmic up and down movement. The glans of the hairy boy’s penis appeared and disappeared between his thighs as he was masturbated by the blond boy. Most punters minded their own business but the balding moustachioed man’s stare was fixated on the boys. The hairy boy’s breathing pattern changed, getting faster and faster, his hands tightly clutching the edge of the bench. His upper body leaned forward and backward with jerky convulsions. As his breathing got faster and louder, the moustachioed man shouted: 

‘Are you going to come?’

 Everyone sat still. The blond boy pulled his hand away from the hairy boy’s body. 

‘Show some respect!’ the moustachioed man continued. 

The boys kept quiet but the bear bawled out: ‘What?’ 

The man with the moustache was relentless: ‘Aren't you ashamed?’ 

Timidly, the grey haired punter muttered: ‘This is a gay sauna…’ 

The reply was: ‘But you don’t have to do it in front of everyone! That’s what cubicles are for.’ 

He kept addressing the younger men. ‘Show some decorum! How can you possibly do this in front of everybody? ’ 

The dark haired boy mumbled something in a French accent. 

Mr. Moustache was outraged: ‘You’re not even English!’ 

The bear was dismayed. He asked: ‘Are you gay?’  

He replied: ‘Yes! But that doesn't mean I'm shameless. For fuck's sake! I have self-respect. And respect for others’. 

The bear stood up. ‘I give up,’ he said, ‘unbelievable’ and left. 

Everyone disappeared, one by one. I was left on my own again. I heard some shouting in the distance. When I got out, minutes later, the moustached man was nowhere to be seen on the premises.

Erotic Flash Fiction: A gay sauna in London (pt 1)

The techno remix of Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You" blaring out of the cheap tiny speaker above my locker was a not a good omen for a night at the sauna. As it turned out, the locker room was empty, the showers were empty, the steam room was empty. And the Jacuzzi was empty too. I splashed in, nevertheless, and sat on my own. Tired and stressed, I welcomed the bubbles in the whirlpool. Soon I was joined by an "older" gentleman - though probably younger than me - whom I found unambiguously unattractive. To my relief, he sat at a distance from me. We ignored each other. 

Another man joined us in a moment. He was younger, slightly hairy, with a fashionably beard.  I found this one more attractive, especially when he  took off his towel to enter the water. But I was dismayed when, with no hesitation, the younger man sat as close as he could to the older gentleman, without even looking at me. The men’s face expressions clearly indicated that something was happening under the bubbles. Something that was making the older gentleman uncomfortable; so uncomfortable, in fact, that he left the Jacuzzi almost immediately. The younger gentleman kept ignoring me.  To express my disapproval, I stampeded out of the Jacuzzi. 

On my way to the dry sauna, I bumped into the third  customer of the night, an exotic creature I would have never expected to find at this establishment. Long black hair and high heels, stockings, black shiny knickers and a feathery bolero falling over the pale flat chest, she batted her long eyelids seductively at me with a shy tilt of the head as she walked past. 

Up and down the corridor to the dry sauna, marched an athletic man in red Speedos. He stopped opposite the facility and looked through the little square window on the door. The corridor was dark and the light coming from inside the sauna made it look as though he had the face of a scary monster, grotesque and distorted. Or was he wearing something over his head? As he stepped back and my eyes got accustomed to the poor lighting, it became obvious that he was wearing a Mexican wrestler's mask. Red. Matching his Speedos. He approached me, stared at me and asked mysteriously: 

'Is that Turkish?' 

I shrugged. 

'Or Swedish?'  

I made a mental note: it was early October. April 1^st was long past and we were more than three weeks away from Halloween. 

'Or is it a Finnish sauna?' he continued. 

He was serious. I shrugged again and entered the sauna. Luckily, he didn't follow.

Erotic Flash Fiction: September in Chicago IL

Chicago IL, September 1995:

What Didier heard the young super-model – Cindy Crawford? Elle Macpherson? – say on TV, while he was changing in his hotel room, puzzled by the legal jargon in the ominous police notice in his pocket, shattered but safe: “In Europe everybody is naked! On the seaside in Italy and Spain. In France! People just don’t bother with swimming costumes. They’re all nude! Everywhere!”

What the blond police officer shouted, an hour earlier, inside the constricted lift, as Didier and all the others queued in our way out of the station house, causing the scraggy inmate in front of Didier to chuckle with knowing approval:  “Mind who’s behind you. Watch your asshole! It’s tight in here.”

What Didier thought the Puerto Rican police officer had said while he was taking his finger prints, joking in Spanglish about the beaches, the ‘playas’, ‘les plages’:  “The bitches! You like the bitches in France?”

What Didier thought to himself as he stood unable to pee into a toilet bowl in full view of the dodgy looking inmate in the second cell he was put at the police station:  “This rough guy is probably thinking I am gay.”

What his mixed-race companion inside the first police cell said after Didier explained to him why he was there: “For that kind of thing you go to San Francisco, buddie! You don’t do that here in Chicago!”

What the fat police officer handcuffing him in Grant Park said as he found a copy of Burroughs’ “The Naked Lunch” in Didier’s belongings:  “Just because the book says ‘naked’, you gotta get naked?”

What Didier thought earlier in the day when he saw the huge police car driving across the lawn, flashing lights on and sirens at full volume, speeding to reach him at the park spot where he was lying naked, face down, reading, in a sunny afternoon: “This is just like a Hollywood movie!” 

Erotic Flash Fiction: August in Formentera

I had missed the last bus from Besó stop, the one by the swanky new eatery next to the beach. I had wasted valuable time at the entrance to the restaurant, where angry beach goers, who had not made it to the guest list, argued loudly with the door whore. I gathered they were impatient to join the parade of Ibizaesque VIP wannabes at the restaurant terrace, sipping speciality mojitos concocted by the most beautiful baristas from Brazil. Or so the reputation went. I was starving and knackered after a long day exploring the northernmost beaches of Formentera, so I was disappointed to hear the restaurant did not serve dinner. I was not looking forward to a 20 minute walk to my apartment, along a deserted road with no scenic attractions. On my birthday. But I had no choice and walked on. Only isolated taxis and police cars interrupted the quietness of the road - not counting the infrequent outbursts of bling and laughter from mopeds driven by Italian teenagers. I was still far from my apartment when the sun set all of a sudden and dusk took over. I heard music from the other side of the road. I turned my head to see the silhouette a long outdoor table delineated against the entrance to a dimly lit farm house. In front of the table stood a man and a woman. The contours of their bodies shone smoothly against the dim light, betraying complete nakedness. I stopped and retraced my steps. If found myself staring at the shiny bare buttocks of the man. He was broad shouldered and tall. I cannot remember how long I stood there before the man turned slightly towards me, revealing the profile of an over-sized erect penis. It bent slightly inward in a way that reminded me of the phallus sticking out of the bronze statue of a satyr I once saw in the Archaeological Museum in Athens. I doubt, however, that the phallus in front of me was Greek. It was most likely Roman. Italian, at  least. And his athletic owner surely looked younger than the bearded satyr. The back light glinted on the wine glass he was holding in his hand with Bacchic pride. His other arm reaching towards his female companion. I think I heard laughter. Giggles. And the music and chatter from the radio. The woman seemed to embrace the celebratory mood. But I remember her only as an elusive silhouette in a blurred lively dance. The man’s profile was better defined. And, no matter how tall he looked, his male assets still struck me as distinctly disproportionate. There was no traffic now and I was tempted to cross the road to have a closer look. Would they mind my presence?  Would they welcome me as a spectator? Were they aware of me? Alas, I did not dare. I stayed on my side of the road and continued walking back to my apartment, on my own.

Erotic Flash Fiction: June in a gay club in Barcelona

OK. So you are wearing shoes. And that’s all! Ha, ha. I guess you have to wear something, right?  Nice I bumped into you here. I like the fact that you have no clothes on. Apart from the socks and trainers, that is. Lovely. It is a bit quiet tonight, isn't it?  Ah, you’re not from here? Just visiting, I see. But you speak Spanish, right? Of course. Yes,  I’d say the atmosphere is a bit weird here tonight. I think it’s because of the festival. The music festival: SóNAR. Apparently everybody is there. Yeah, that’s why Barcelona is so packed this weekend. No, it’s not the typical Saturday night here. There’s an unusual vibe. But, anyway, I like the fact that you are naked. Amazing. So they let you walk around like this? I never heard of anyone getting naked in this club. I am glad they allow you though. Well, you have a pretty cock, so why the hell not letting it all hang out? Nice pubic hair too. Have you ever been to Boyberry on a Thursday? No? Me neither. Apparently they have a nude night on Thursdays. Everybody is naked that night. I should go along one of these weeks. I love your moustache, by the way. You have nice hairy buttocks too. And lovely lips. So funny that I bumped into you here in the darkroom. You smell vintage, retro. But nice. I see: it’s the wax on your moustache. It reminds me of my grandfather – when he kissed me. It's nice, I like it. You were at the dance floor earlier, weren't you? OK. So it was you, indeed… Erm… hmm… I am going to tell you a story that is going to amuse you. You see. The thing is that… I am blind. I have 5% vision in one eye and I walk with a stick.  When you see me outside later, you will see me walking with a white cane. Anyway, my friend told me you were at the dance floor. Dancing naked. He is here now at the back of the maze, fucking with someone. He's not my boyfriend; we are just friends. So he told me you were naked but I couldn't see you. And I wanted to see you. I was wondering what you looked like. So it's a nice surprise I bumped into you here.I can see what you are like now, here in the dark room. As I say, you have a lovely cock. I like your thick bush, your little bum. Your chest. Beautiful lips. Yes, that's why I was feeling your legs all the way down to your feet earlier: to see if you were wearing shoes. I am not sure I would go naked myself though. But I love the fact that you do it. I'm lifting my t-shirt for you now. Feel free to stroke my flat hairy stomach. Can I kiss you again?

Erotic Flash Fiction, March 2015: At a gay strip joint in Miami

It was Sunday night at TWIST, prime gay complex in Miami beach. After ordering a caipirinha at the courtyard bar, I headed to the strippers’ shed. The place was busy. Semi-naked muscled boys in skimpy underwear mingled among punters of mixed ages. Only a handful of the customers were women. Apart from the spotlights on the podiums where the strippers danced, the room was dimly lit. On the microphone, a drag queen from Colombia described in English the sensual virtues of the go-go boys. In the shadier corners, one could spot the odd semi-naked dancer rubbing his buttocks against the crotch of some fully clothed older customer. As part of the “private dance”, it looked like the punter was allowed to stroke the boy’s muscley chest and nipples, his flat stomach, his tight belly, his strong thighs… but hands always stopped at the crotch. I never saw a punter feeling a dancer’s genitals, not even over the briefs. And the briefs never slipped down...

During a break, the Colombian drag queen made her way to the bar and stood next to me to order a bottle of water. She got talking. Apparently that night they were hosting an amateur stripper competition. Needless to say, nothing indicated in the way she addressed me that she thought of me as a potential contestant. From what I gathered, the competition was really a public audition to recruit new dancers for the venue. I asked casually if the competitors would have to get completely naked. She turned all thoughtful and weary, as though she was about to make a shameful confession. ‘Oh, no. Unfortunately, not. You can’t show cock here, sadly. We don’t have the right license. This venue doesn’t want to charge at the door. And only venues with a cover charge are allowed to show full nudity.’ Or something along the line. This explanation would have sufficed as far as I was concerned, but apparently she felt obliged to go on and on about the ins and outs of venue licensing, cock showing and male go-going in Miami. ‘I wish, I wish!’ she stressed, ‘I wish we could show cock!’ When she found out where I was from, she switched to Spanish. She told me about her experience performing in Gran Canaria, getting lost in the dunes of Maspalomas and how much she liked Serrano ham. ‘That’s the salty stuff, isn’t it? I love it!’

She returned to her hosting duties: ‘This is Eduardo, 26 years old. He arrived from Caracas just a couple of weeks ago. He likes playing football. Look at his huge strong thighs.’ On the podium, Eduardo lowered slightly the top of his red briefs, revealing his trimmed pubic hair and the top of his limp penis, which he covered up again almost immediately while teasingly shaking his hips. He dedicated a wide, frank smile to his potential dollar-bill-shoving admirers.