Your erotic stories

I always knew of the man who lived in the house at the end of the dead end street as the Creeper. His real name was Mr. Manson, and I thought that his first name was Barry or Barney or something like that. The word around the school was that he liked boys, and from the time I was in elementary school, to the time I was a senior in high school, I was warned by other kids to stay away from his house.

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The day of The Dance finally came. Actually, come to think of it, it was not a dance at all! It was just a huge party that was held annually at one of the mansions in the neighborhood and everyone was invited to it. Nobody knows when the exact date of The Dance was. Hell, none of us knew who the organizers were because the mansion where The Dance was held had no records of any owners, dead or alive.

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"Why don't you and Clancy go fishing," my dad said. The five of us, Uncle Ted, Aunt Bessie, Clancy, dad and me were finishing our afternoon tea in the farmhouse kitchen after unloading the fourth load of hay for the day. The new corrugated iron shed was a quarter full of hay and that was all there was room for. The rest was taken up with the farm machinery. The few horses dad still kept were in the old split log barn, which had seen better days.

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8===> Discovering a surprise neighbor in the freshman dorm Ben leaned up against the door frame of the entrance to his dorm room and took in all the insanity going on in the hallway. One incoming freshman after another was busy dragging boxes and laptops and stereos and suitcases down the long corridor in search of the specific room that would be their cramped quarters for the next nine months. All the confusion, scurrying around, and bumping into each other was like watching ants at a church picnic.

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As the family wagon pulled into a small truck stop in the middle of nowhere, Jack's father turned to him and his mother. "Who else is hungry? " They had been driving across state to visit family and were now heading back home again. The problem is that it's a long drive and Jacks iPod ran out of battery a long time ago.

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Mark and I had been conversing for a couple of weeks via e-mail. We had met on a sports related message board and were both bitching about some of the recent trades. That changed when Mark told me he was going to send me something in the next e-mail. It turned out to be a picture of his cock.

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"Hey, Kev!" my sister called from the other room. "Telephone, Kev." I slid my tv dinner in the stove real quick to keep it warm and wiped my hands before padding over to the phone. "Hello," I said into the receiver while carrying it into the kitchen with me. "You ready?" asked a familiar voice, a voice I'd been dying to hear for almost 7 months now. "Raymond?!" I exclaimed. "Shit, I can't believe it's you!"

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One warm Saturday morning in June I decided on a shopping trip to Birmingham, a drive of around 60 miles. The journey, which I had made many times before, was pleasant and uneventful in the sunshine. On arrival I parked my car in the open-air public car park, threw my jacket into the boot and walked towards the road leading up to the shopping centre.

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I travel the world quite a bit because of the job I have. Recently I was with a group of seven in West Africa meeting with some people about a consulting project. One evening, we went into a remote village to tour around. Our hosts thought it might be a good idea if we were to stay overnight because the villagers were anxious to put on a show for us. They also encouraged us to sleep in the village so we would not have to travel four hours back to the city in the dark.

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As I stood with the rain slowly soaking through my coat, I wondered not for the first time if coming out as gay might not have been such a good idea after all. If only I'd kept it to myself, I reasoned, then Siân would never have bullied me into going with her to the city's annual Pride festival.

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