Your erotic stories

"What do you think of him," I asked, pointing to an older man with a combover. "He looks like he won't spit on our food." "Ugh, I hope not. He looks like the kind to talk about his grandkids to us for twenty minutes and then forget to take our order."

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I'd gone to the kitchen in Jay's apartment to get myself a sparkling water from the fridge—we couldn't drink what we'd really like to drink during the performance season—when his doorbell rang, and he let his landlord in. I just stayed out of sight in the kitchen, because I knew this was going to be unpleasant and I didn't want the landlord, who I'd heard was a real ass, to get the idea that I'd moved in with Jay after Dalton died. Which I hadn't, and I didn't think there was any chance Jay would let me.

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"My name is Nario. You are Mr. Armstead?" "Yes. I was expecting my uncle." "He could not come. I am his boy." Yes, I'll just bet you are, I thought. But then he clarified, if not enough to make a difference to me. "I am his houseboy. Welcome to Naples, Mr. Armstead." "Call me Harry, Please. Is it far from here to Positano?"

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I kicked my feet in Tim's pool, splashing my wife, Kim, and me with cool water. I leaned back, closing my eyes, soaking in the warm rays of the hot Arizona sun, recalling last weekend's events. Kim and I had had one of the hottest sex sessions of our marriage, and it was mostly due to her. "You got two ways you can go; jump him immediately or take the slow route. It will be up to you and how he responds to whatever you do to him," Kim had said.

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A week before Christmas, I ducked into the fifth floor men's room. It served as temporary reprieve. The first among twenty or thirty things I could invent to occupy myself while avoiding the remainder of the company Holiday party two floors below. One other occupant was in the room. He barely registered on my eggnog-addled brain. Most years I managed to escape the compulsory merrymaking by being unavoidably detained somewhere else on company business. This year I was unavoidably detained in Los Angeles.

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My car came to a stop below the front of the house and I just sat there. It had been a long day and I was tired and not ready for the chaos I would find inside. Instead I sat there in the car and lay my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes for five minutes of peace.

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"What's for dinner? Lamb chops, I hope. You do those so well." "Of course, if that's what you want, Ely. If that's what you want, than that's what we'll have." He's got no taste buds left, I think. What does he care if it's lamb, pork, or shit? Note to self—while I try to keep my voice from having the sarcastic edge Ely had complained about of late. Of course we don't have any lamb chops in the house. I'll have to go to the market.

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Something changed in my life when I looked up and saw him. A beautiful young man in vest and jeans, sun shining and lighting his body as it hip-jerked with laughter. Tanned shiny muscles, soft but strong. Tight flat stomach, He knew he looked good. He pushed his body forward, he displayed his muscles, he turned easy and relaxed. His jeans were deliciously tight, bewitching. But I could see something else.

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*** This is a fictional story of a scenario that I think is all too real for most gay and bisexual men, even in this day and age. Too often, I think we forget that we're all just confused, lost people bumping into one another in life, and that doing so often has a long lasting effect on each other. I didn't want to spend too much time here going over relationship dynamics, just the lingering beauty in a moment, even if casts doubt and question in our hearts. Hope you enjoy it ****

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It was Friday at Two and I had Jack on top of me again. I could feel his large demanding penis filling my pussy, drawing the juices out of my flesh on each slight withdrawal, and then pressing down tight into my ever wetter channel. I know that I should be tired of all this and that I should be glancing at the watch on the wrist of the arm which was stretched around his neck, but Jack was such an expert.

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