Straight no more, p.1
Straight No More, page 1
Contents
Introduction: Welcome to the Sexual Netherlands · Winston Gieseke
Playing It Straight · Mike Hicks
Rite of Passage · Joe Thompson
The Man with the Tiger Tattoo · Vincent Lambert
Ports in a Storm · Natty Soltesz
The Other Side of the Fence · Russell Clark
Lake Montauk · Brett Lockhard
As an Arrow · Rob Rosen
Under Pressure · Gregory L. Norris
Flipping Out · Adam L. Stuart
One-Eye Spy · Landon Dixon
Harry Does Hollywood · Pink Rushmore
Things His Wife Never Did · Ryan Field
Adam and Evening · T. Hitman
Rugby · Roger Willoughby
About the Editor and Authors
About the Book
More Hot Books
Introduction: Welcome to the Sexual Netherlands
Just what does it take to get into the pants of a straight man?
There’s a line in Mart Crowley’s play The Boys In the Band in which one of the characters comments on another finally having his way with his straight crush: “With the right wine and the right music,” he says, “there’re damn few that aren’t curious.”
But while that sentiment may be true for some, it does not reflect the stories in this collection. Sure, there may be alcohol involved—or music—but these characters are “curious” for other reasons.
Many will say that a man who has sex with another man isn’t, by definition, “straight,” but those making this argument are likely confusing sexual orientation with sexual fantasies and sexual behavior. And these are far disparate concepts. What separates the latter two from the former, say psychologists, is the ability to evolve. While your fantasies and behavior are likely to change over time, your orientation isn’t.
In my mid-twenties, I was a volunteer for the Southern California HIV/AIDS Hotline, and after counseling each anonymous caller on safer sex methods or helping him or her find a nearby testing center, we were charged with the task of asking them a few statistic-gathering questions. But rather than inquiring if they were gay, straight, or bisexual, we were instructed to word the question this way: “When you have sex, do you have sex with men, women, or both?” For those having gay sex on the down-low, posing it this way was meant to remove the shame from their answer. After all, this was a non-judgment zone: We weren’t asking them to label themselves—we just wanted to know who they fucked.
While a discussion on the issue of so-called identity politics is far too word-intensive for the introduction to this book, it’s interesting to examine the various reasons a straight-orientated man might turn hetero-flexible and unzip for another man.
For example, a recently divorced guy could find himself adrift and not knowing which end is up until a benevolent gay man helps him find his way by offering an enjoyable no-strings-attached arrangement. Such is the case for strapping mechanic Frank Bertoli in Ryan Field’s “Things His Wife Never Did” and recently unemployed Vince in Russell Clark’s “The Other Side of the Fence.” Or the scenario could involve two friends—one straight, one gay—who seize a seemingly isolated opportunity to get closer, like the characters in Joe Thompson’s “Rite of Passage” and Adam L. Stuart’s “Flipping Out.”
Then, of course, there will always be the hetero-leaning married (or coupled) guy who, for whatever reason, chooses to stray from the heterosexual lifestyle (proving, once and for all, that being straight truly is a choice): Perhaps he isn’t getting his rocks sufficiently off at home, as suggested in Vincent Lambert’s “The Man with the Tiger Tattoo” and Mike Hicks’ “Playing It Straight.” Or maybe he’s in an über-evolved relationship with a woman who isn’t threatened by a little dabbling, as evidenced in Rob Rosen’s “As an Arrow” and Pink Rushmore’s “Harry Does Hollywood.”
And let’s not forget those, like young Spencer the Peeping Tom in Landon Dixon’s “One-Eye Spy,” who are just plain curious about everything relating to sex. Or studs like Connor in Brett Lockhard’s “Lake Montauk,” who are just so empirically hot that it seems no one—straight or gay—is immune from their sexual charms.
And last but certainly not least, there are those simply curious to find out if it’s true what they say about a man knowing best how to work a man’s equipment. This is likely the case for the horned-up college student in Natty Soltesz’s “Ports in a Storm” and the oft-obsessed-over Ray in Roger Willoughby’s “Rugby,” both men with monstrous endowments who are secure in their heterosexuality but want to know what it feels like to be worshipped by someone who truly loves to worship.
Whatever the reason—at the end of the day, it’s just sex, plain and simple. Which means that for the men featured on these pages, it doesn’t always have to be about personal gain, power, commitment, or procreation. Because after all, sometimes people have sex just for the fun of it.
Winston Gieseke, Berlin
Playing it Straight
Mike Hicks
The bartender slapped the pair of Rolling Rocks down in front of us so hard they both spit out a wad of foamy head. The thick liquid dripped down the sides of the long-necked bottles just like—
“Either of you guys need a glass?” he barked.
“Nah, we’re fine,” Chuck said.
We clinked bottles and were almost through the first chug when a loud bang coming from the corner by the pinball machine startled us. It was followed immediately by an outburst of profanity that began and ended with “Jesus fucking Christ!” The bar went silent as everyone looked in that direction.
Woody Cwiklinski was jumping up and down, shaking his fist. Looked like he’d tilted again and forgotten how hard that knotty pine paneling is. The flannel-shirted crowd gathered around the pool table cracked up laughing, and the bar’s atmosphere shifted back to Friday-night normal. Chuck and I went back to our beers.
“Thanks for coming out for a drink tonight,” he said.
“No problem.” I resisted saying something like “my pleasure” or anything else that might be taken the wrong way, not being sure yet what the invitation was about.
This being 2009, I could get away with being the only openly gay steelworker at the Clearfield Mill—but this also being small-town Pennsylvania, the boys from the mill didn’t usually ask me to socialize.
“I don’t get to go out after work like this too much,” he said.
“Yeah? How come?”
He chuckled. “Old ball-and-chain back at home.” He started nervously peeling the label from his bottle.
“Oh, I see.” I took another swig.
“But this weekend I’m a free man. Cindy and the kids’re spending three days with her mom in Altoona. I’m all by myself.” He cleared his throat and repeated it like maybe I hadn’t heard. “I mean, won’t nobody be at home but me.” He flashed a smile. Only then did it dawn on me.
I felt like an idiot for not catching on sooner: Chuck was a classic example of what I call a CSG: curious straight guy. He had all the telltale signs. They’re usually married. Check. Unlike the standard heterosexual, they’ll often start getting friendly rather than standoffish as soon as they find out you’re gay. Check. It usually leads to a simple “Hey, let’s go out for a beer” moment that conveniently coincides with the wife’s absence. Check. In a little burg like Clearfield, your usual CSG is a guy who got hitched to his pregnant high-school sweetheart at 18. He’s never had a decent blow job in his life and he’s heard that gay men know how to do it right. Blame it on the Internet.
“Yeah,” he repeated, like there was some chance I hadn’t gotten it the first two times. “Nobody at home this weekend but yours truly.” He took another gulp. I could guess the next line. “Say, I got a couple six-packs in the fridge.” He said it like it just occurred to him, not like he’d been planning it from the moment he knew Cindy’d be away. “Whataya say we head over to my place and empty a few there.”
There it was: the Moment. It happens at some point with every CSG. It’s your chance to let him know he’s barking up the wrong tree, that you’re not in the business of servicing horny straight men. All I had to do was say, “Thanks, buddy, but I’m too damned tired tonight,” and he’d back off and never try it again. No mention of sex. No loss of face for him. Conversely, all I had to do was say, “Sure,” and I’d be guaranteed to have his prick down my throat within fifteen minutes. I weighed the pluses and minuses.
“Sure,” I said.
He grinned like a kid who’d just found the key to the candy store. A “kid” with a soft, brown beard, fifteen-inch biceps, and a warm smile that would melt pig iron.
He downed the rest of the bottle in a gulp. “You can follow me in your car,” he said as he hopped off the stool.
“OK,” I said. Each of us left a fiver on the bar, and we headed outside to the parking lot.
He climbed into the seat of his pickup. “It’s just about a mile,” he said.
I got in my car and pulled up behind him. His black Chevy ground out of the gravel lot and headed right on Main Street. I kept him in view as I trailed behind.
Don’t get the idea that I’m a pushover for CSGs. Fact is, I generally discourage them the second they start getting “friendly.” It’s not that the sex isn’t hot—it’s just that they’re usually consumed with guilt after they cum, which spoils the fun. Then nine times out of ten, they uncomfortably avoid your gaze for the rest of your life. It’s not worth it. Not usually, that is. Chuck was able to break though my CSG r
There’d been a locker room and shower in every steel mill since the union made it happen in the sixties, and most of us took advantage of them before heading home after a shift. For purely cleanliness reasons, of course. In fact, I’d gotten pretty good at keeping my eyes to myself when I soaped up—until the day Chuck and his swingin’ sirloin strolled up to the shower head next to mine.
I swear to God, it had to be eight inches completely soft. And thick enough to be scary. A single vein began somewhere in the thick pube forest and branched in two about halfway down, at which point it disappeared. The head bulged under the foreskin. A bonus half inch or so of the fleshy sleeve dangled from the tip.
To be honest, it wasn’t just the cock, either. Chuck was a line machinist. Those guys lift heavy steel parts all day. They’re always buff, but Chuck was the most tightly defined of all of them. A walking anatomy lesson. The cooperation of triceps and biceps was demonstrated every time he soaped up his hairy chest. When he lathered up his hair, you understood about deltoids and what that anterior, middle, and posterior thing was all about. When he bent over to pick up the soap, there was a revelation about the connecting point between glutes and hamstrings. We worked the same shift, so I saw that shit every day. I got good at sneaking peeks while “not looking.” Then I’d go home and jack off thinking about him.
He pulled up in front of a neatly appointed double-wide mobile home with a cedar deck along the side. A woman’s touch was evident in the potted plants hanging from the awning in their macramé hangers. I pulled in behind Chuck, got out, and followed him up the steps. He pushed a tricycle out of my way and fumbled in his pocket for the key. The aluminum door swung open. He hit the light, then turned the dimmer switch down to the lowest setting. “C’mon in,” he said. I followed and shut the door behind me, wondering how much bullshit posturing we’d have to go through before getting down to business.
Not much, it turned out.
He turned to face me, taking my right hand in his and bringing it to his crotch. The son of a bitch was already erect. I let my finger travel up and down the impressive length and girth through his Levi’s. He unbuttoned the first couple buttons, then looked up at me, shyly, like after all the setup he was maybe changing his mind. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I never done this before, buddy.”
He recoiled slightly when I put my mouth to his ear, but then relaxed. “Leave it to me, then,” I said.
I dropped to my knees and finished undoing his fly, then worked the pants down to his thighs. The boner was packed left in calico boxer shorts, with a wet spot already happening at the business end. I thought about working the monster out of the slit in his shorts but decided it’d be too much effort with a dick that big. I stuck an index finger in each side of the elastic band and yanked it down. The prick hit me in the eye.
“Sorry, bud,” he said.
“Not a problem,” I replied and rocked back onto my haunches for a better view. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that big that was also so beautifully proportioned when erect. Thick as a baseball bat. Head like a Prussian helmet. The foreskin still covered about half of it. I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around the shaft and pulled back to expose the glans. It glistened with his juice.
I planted my lips right on the tip of the head, then kissed my way gently down the top of the wide shaft all the way to his pubes. Straight guys sometimes don’t like that—they’d rather you just got right to sucking—but he didn’t seem to mind at all. If anything,
it seemed to make him surge. His bush smelled of Brut. He’d thoughtfully splashed a bit on in anticipation of his “date.”
I then lifted the turgid organ and sloppily licked my way up the tender underside all the way back to the enormous tip.
He husked out an “Oh my God,” and put a hand on either side of my head. I strained my lips over the bulging head of his cock and tasted salt.
Applying suction, I started going down, getting a gentle shove of assistance from him when it was time to get it past my gag point. The intense pressure of the huge dick down my throat quickly morphed from discomfort to pleasure and then to extreme pleasure, intensified by the knowledge that I’d really gotten him all down. Before I knew it, my nostrils were stuffed with wiry crotch hairs fragrant with cheap cologne.
I started blowing him in earnest, moving rhythmically up and down the bone with my lips tight, deep-throating every few strokes and in between stroking the excess of his shaft with my hand.
“Oh … sweet … Jesus,” he whispered. I have a theory that CSGs invoke the Lord’s name when they’re getting blown more than they ever do in church.
I didn’t want him to cum standing. I let the cock slip from my lips. “You wanna sit down for this, Chuck? Might be a little more comfortable.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” He walked over to the sofa and flopped down on it, the saliva-glazed beef stick remaining at full attention. He kicked off his shoes and pants as I got up from my knees, then slipped off his shirt to reveal the full glory of his upper body. I stopped in my tracks to take it in. After this, I wouldn’t have to look away in the shower.
I pulled off my shirt and quickly whipped open my fly to free my own erection. Chuck pulled his foreskin up and down over the tip as I came slowly toward the place right between his splayed thighs. I figured it wouldn’t take long to finish him. It was just as I started to squat to get back to work that he did something that took me completely by surprise: He grabbed my cock.
He regarded it with a look of fascination. There was, of course, a good chance he’d never seen another man erect, and the size may have surprised him (I’m a grower). Figured I’d let him explore. He took his free hand and put a finger in the drop hanging from my slit, then rubbed the slime around the head. He looked up at me. I arched an eyebrow.
He whispered, as though that were necessary. “Would you mind if I gave it a try myself, buddy? Just for the hell of it? I’m curious what it’d be like, that’s all. Maybe I won’t like it.” This wasn’t really standard CSG behavior.
“You sure you wanna do that, Chuck?”
His tongue was already on it as he nodded assent. He licked every bit of sap off my plum, then sucked it into his mouth and swallowed me, gurgling and slurping as he went. The suction of his soft lips was perfect. He took hold of my nut bag just firmly enough to stimulate it but not hard enough to hurt. He massaged it as he worked the entire length of my dick down his gullet and held it there, swallowing.
He’d done this before.
It’s true that some guys have a natural talent, but not like that. Chuck was a seasoned cocksucker—one who wanted me to think he was an oral virgin.
I decided to play along. “Good job, Chuck,” I moaned. “You’re doing it great, buddy. Just be sure to watch the teeth.” Like he needed any instruction.
His lips stayed tight around my wrench as it disappeared and then emerged from his trap. He gave it a sloppy tongue-flourish each time he reached the head, re-lubricating his whiskered lips with the cocktail of his spit and my pre-cum. He squeezed one nut and then the other, back and forth as he chowed down. He was getting me close surprisingly fast, but I wanted it to last longer.
I yanked out with a pop and got down on my knees between his legs. His drip was running down the underside of his cock like syrup. I licked it off while he squirmed and moaned. He seemed to like it, so I kept it up, treating his organ like a monster popsicle, starting at the head and not missing a spot on my way down to his nuts. When I got to the bottom I decided to keep going. I let my tongue rove over the thick-skinned sac, stroking him softly with my hand as I sucked the left nut into my mouth and savored it.
“Jesus fuck!” he observed breathlessly.
I popped it out and took the other one. Taking both at once wasn’t an option. His breathing got heavier yet. I let number two slip out in the hopes of refocusing my attention on his cock, but he didn’t let me. I felt his hand pressing on the top of my head. He was pushing me down further. I gulped in disbelief. No straight guy ever wants that. No truly straight guy.
I resisted for a bit, just to make sure he was serious. He raised his legs, and his hairy crack split open to display the pinkest of little puckers. A smooth little clearing in the forest. It looked almost wet. I dove on in.
