Thursday 31 December 2015


Good evening. My name is Ernesto Sarezale, Erotic Award winning poet based in London (UK), and this year I am starting a new little literary  project: Erotic Flash Fiction 2015.  Each month I will be flashing at you a new installment of "erotic flash fiction".

In my favoured interpretation of this exciting modality of "short short" narrative, each piece will be less than 500 words long. Sometimes as short as 70 or 80 words. Short but sexy. 

We start in January on the upper deck of a London bus. In February we find ourselves at the Gents in a pub in Brixton. March takes us all the way to South Beach in Miami. April takes us to a different type of beach in the Miami area: Haulover Beach. May finds us in the seaside outskirts of Rome, in Lido di Ostia. In June, we find ourselves in the dark in Barcelona. July gets sweaty in the North of London. August witnesses a Dionysian scene in the Balearic Island of Formentera. September finds us in a park in Chicago on a sunny day. October and November are also hot and sweaty in a gay sauna in Central London. In December the temperature rises in a prison-themed sex club in San Francisco.

Thursday 10 December 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: December in San Francisco


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.

Wednesday 18 November 2015

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.

Tuesday 15 September 2015

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 1st 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.

Monday 14 September 2015

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!” 

Saturday 22 August 2015

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.

Wednesday 8 July 2015

Erotic Flash Fiction: July in a London Park

It was too hot to sleep that night. I just had to get out of bed. I grabbed my keys and left the flat in search for air. As I went down the stairs, I wondered if any of my neighbours would also be awake at 3 in the morning. On a Wednesday. I opened the front door carefully. I looked left and right. When I saw there was no one outside, I came out, slipping my keys under the pair of briefs that I had rolled around my left wrist – in case an emergency forced me to put something on in a hurry. That was all I had on me. Apart from my flip-flops. I walked along the pavement, trying to avoid the CCTV camera on my left and the speed enforcement camera across the road. I crouched behind a parked car when a 43 bus drove past. Far in the distance I saw a street cleaner walking down towards me. Boldly I crossed the street and entered the park opposite my house. It was a nice sensation, walking past the trees, feeling the gentle breeze over my naked body. I stopped to take on the air. I noticed a human figure coming in my direction from the other end of the park. I retraced my steps, trying to hide among the shadows of the trees. I was hoping the person had not spotted me. It was a young man, not older than 20, wearing a baseball cap, a white t-shirt and denim shorts. He walked on absentmindedly. But as soon as he got close to me, he slowed down and stared in my direction. I froze. I was apprehensive but, to my surprise, I did not feel scared. His gaze was fixated on my genitals. He was panting. Then he looked up at my face and started to unbutton his shorts. He dropped them and flashed his chunky cock at me. His skin looked strikingly pale in the moonlight. He moved forward, getting very close to me. Before I knew it, I had a condom rolled over my erect penis. He massaged it with lubricant and turned around to offer me his backside. Stage fright made me lose some of my stiffness. ‘Push,’ he said. But, as much as I tried, I could not fully penetrate the boy. He was disappointed. He put his shorts back on in a hurry and disappeared. Without a kiss. I was left shaking. I slipped the condom off and ran towards the road. And then... as though we had previously coordinated it, a fox crossed the street at the same time as me a few meters away. A car drove past. And then another. I couldn’t care less if they had seen me or not. But, as I went up the stairs to my apartment, I wondered if any of my neighbours would also be awake at 3.30 in the morning. On a Wednesday. In a very hot July.