Free Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen

what turns you on the most. None of that bikini shit.
    Steve wore red ones, with dark blue piping around the edges and the piss slit. You nicknamed him “Spiderman,” and it stuck, right to the end of your friendship. Tom, you know from your many secret missions to the laundry hamper for his dirty sweat socks, wore tight whites. Black boxer-briefs are your absolute favorite, though. They shift, becoming red with navy highlights. And then they’re white, plastered to Tom’s tight male flesh, and he’s urging you on, yours at long last, calling you, “Dude,” like he did in those other times. Just a regular guy, Tom was, with above-average good looks and nuts as big as baseballs—a man’s man. And this man belongs only to you on this night.
    You press your face into those tight whites, inhale his musky scent of balls, curls and maleness through a thin cotton filter. Only now, the man’s underwear is black again and he’s that actor you dream about. You gaze up and he smiles down at you, nods. Time slips further off its tracks as you draw his black boxer-briefs lower, exposing his thick pelt of dark curls, then his meaty dick, with its thick shaft covered in ridges and veins, gorged in blood, pink in color, verging on purple, the slit of its classic head leaking nectar. Finally, a set of stones, big and loose and ripe with scent, as you’ve always imagined, spill out.
    You lean forward, press your nose against the man’s balls, inhale. The underwear around his hairy ankles is again red with navy piping. You think about how, on that summer sleepover while you and Steven Ranley, your handsome buddy, were roughhousing, he wore those same boxer-briefs. He was Spiderman, your very own misunderstood superhero. Your dicks ground together, and you, thinking you’d been granted permission, seized hold of your hero’s cock. For a second or so, Steve allowed it. But after that, there were shouts and insults, and your friendship—what you hoped would go beyond simple buddy-buddy stuff—officially ended.
    Not so now. The only commentary he makes as you lick his sweaty briefs and draw the straining head of his cock between your lips passes in the form of groans. They’re deep ones, manly acknowledgment that what you are doing is not only accepted but appreciated. His taste ignites on your tongue, better than you ever imagined—and you’ve dreamed about this moment for so very long. Every time you took a dude home and sucked his dick, you half-closed your eyes and thought of him as Steve or Tom or that hunk in the commercial. Sometimes, yeah, Mister Hunt. When your tongue traveled into a hairy asshole or between toes or under armpits, you were worshipping someone else. A phantom. A bogeyman. Which is what you’re doing now.
    â€œOh, fuck , yeah,” he sighs above you, Tom once more. He could be running the bases or rubbing one out, you think— picking his toes or scratching his nuts, maybe fucking his wife, except they aren’t together anymore. She’s moved out west and he’s with you. His flesh tastes better than any you have known— or will again, you worry.
    You savor his balls, working behind them, your sniffs and licks growing steadily more rabid as you near the territory of his asshole. There is no greater intimate act of worship than going there, than worshipping a man’s hairy shitter, you’ve always believed. Sensing this, the man in black pulls you off his flesh, but only long enough for you to remove his shoes and to fully work down his pants and underwear. You catch a hint of hot, buttery sweat, that smell of a real man’s foot odor that flips toggles, pushes buttons—a primitive fetish written into your genetic code.
    â€œYes,” you gasp into the strange mix of energy and light flickering through your house.
    Tom-Steve-the Actor pulls you into the bed. He assumes a jaunty pose, with his hairy