M. Christian is the author of over 100 published short stories, in such books as Friction, Best Gay Erotica, Best American Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, the Mammoth Books of Erotica, and many other anthologies and magazines. He's the editor of over seven anthologies, including The Burning Pen, Best S/M Erotica and Rough Stuff (with Simon Sheppard). A collection of his gay short stories, Dirty Words, will soon be available from Alyson Books -- and a collection of his lesbian stories will be out sometime in 2001. Christian is also a columnist with Scarlet Letters, Venus or Vixen, Suspect Thoughts, and the Erotica Readers Association.
I'm not gay. Getting my cock sucked had quite an effect, but not that. And this is not one of those overly-enthusiastic denials thatconvicts more than it convinces. I mean it simply,logically, coolly: I had some realizations that night, but being queer just ain't one of them.
It was one of those parties, the kind we only seem to havehere in San Francisco. If your zip code begins with '94' then you might know what I mean; if you don't then ...read on. Down in the carpeted basement of a nondescript Victorian house, on piles of pillows and mattresses, a dozen queer boys (but in this crowd a slippery definition), a dozen queer girls (but in this crowd also a slippery definition), some punk, some hippie, some young, some old, some fat, some lithe. All fucking, sucking, licking, stroking, whipping, or getting beaten. Exceptional for some places; for '94 San Francisco, just another frisky Saturday night.
I'd been to many parties like this one. I knew most of the people. I'd fucked and licked and beat and gotten beaten at lots of parties such as this-- I'd just never gotten my cock sucked standing in the middle of a crowded room before.
Gay? Me? No venomous denial there, I'm just unabashedly straight. I wish I were gay sometimes, but the fact is boys just don't get me hard. Tits do, cunts do, cocks don't, beards don't. I've tried a couple of times, but without the female accessories it just doesn't work.
Well ... until that party, that one night in San Francisco.
So, anyway, there I was: naked except for a pair of bike shorts, smiling at all my friends, thinking about this pair of tits, that lovely slope of thigh, that pretty pussy over there ... maybe she'd want to do something, or maybe her -- when I felt a rather strong hand reach up from below and grab my crotch.
"Hey, Chris," my friend 'Paul' (name changed to protect ... well, anyway, this isn't his real name) said from where he lay, sprawled out on a gigantic gym mat. Paul was a good friend, tall and lean, with a tan that made him look almost wood-stained. He had a curly beard, long kinky hair, and a ring in his left nipple. We'd sit in the hot tub out on the deck sometimes and talk science fiction movies and comic books. Now he wanted to suck my cock.
"Come on. Chris," he said, flashing a brilliant smile up at me through the tangle of his beard. "Just a little."
I'm not gay; right, I said that. But did I mention that I'm also really, really shy? So there I was, my queer friend asking so politely to suck my cock; and suddenly I'm aware that my other friends are lying around in various states of arousal, covertly watching me.
I felt myself flame with embarrassment. What choice did I have? Turn my pal down, shame myself in front of my friends (who had never, ever given me a hard time about my -- sigh -- heterosexuality), or try something that, who knew, might even be pleasurable?
"I'd be honored," I said gallantly. Okay, what I actually did was giggle like a schoolgirl and hide behind my hands. But I didn't say no, so give me that much credit at least.
Bike shorts are easy to lose. A finger hooked in the top, a quick tug down, and my ass was bare, my cock free -- semi-rigid, starting to swell. There, in the middle of a crowded room, my cock started to swell. Paul reached up and put his soft hand around my cock and gave it a long, practiced stroke.
He didn't suck it at first. First he stroked it again, looking up into my amazed eyes, smiling slowly as it went from that soft, fat finger of tissue into a near-full hard-on. I watched him do this, my focus blurring from my churning emotions. My eyes darted from his pleased smile to the baby-dykes sprawled in each others' arms a short distance away; the fat, hairy man leaning against a distant wall like a Neanderthal Buddha; a pair of muscled boys, one earnestly feeding the other his fist, Crisco frothing around an asshole; and the chubby girl standing -- just standing -- in a corner, watching. I looked at their faces, then into their eyes. With a sudden shock like a 220 jolt I saw the colors of all of those eyes (green blue brown jade mahogany green) and I realized I was painfully hard.
There was a wet socket around my hard dick. Paul's mouth on the fat head of my dick, exploring with tongue and lips what he'd just seen, savoring my meat -- a connoisseur making appreciative noises. His strong fingers started caressing my swollen balls, gently squeezing, firmly pulling, skillfully twisting.
He was watching me. Staring at me. Lost in what was happening to me. Distantly, I looked at the others again: the chubby girl, the fat man, the two dykes, the two fag boys, and they looked back at me -- watching Paul suck my dick.
It felt so good. He had a big mouth so I wasn't afraid of teeth scraping my shaft or cockhead. Strong tongue, so it didn't feel like a flaccid, wet sock puppet jerking me off. And firm lips, like thick, plush fingers ringing my straining shaft. Good, oh yes, damned good.
But there was something missing ... something missing when I looked down at this guy sucking my cock. Something that seemed to drain the concrete out of my shaft, and lower my heartbeat.
Then I looked back up at the room. The two dykes were still wrapped around each other, one of them caressing the tits of the other, both sets of eyes on me. The fat guy was pulling at his sad little dick, staring intently at me. The two boys were stroking their own cocks, looking, looking at me.
I was hard, I was screaming, motherfucking hard. The come came before I was aware of it, before I recognized the cramping in my balls and the heavy propulsion of a tight, quivering orgasm. Right out there in public, right there down Paul's hungry throat.
The looks were enough, really, the looks in their eyes. But the applause was dessert. The clapping, loose and sporadic at first, became an intimate little crescendo.
It was then I knew what had happened. I knew I'd crossed over; I wasn't the same Chris who'd walked in the door. The me who walked out that night had seen the new face of his cock.
I wasn't gay. Paul was still a good friend and he'd done a wonderful job sucking my cock, but he was just the catalyst in my powerful moment of truth. What really got me off, what I really wanted, was all those eyes. Today I am an exhibitionist.
-- and now you may applaud. Please?
Copyright © 2000, M. Christian. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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