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Sensual Travels. Gay Erotic Stories

Bruno-Bookserschienen am01.07.2013
Whether traversing desert sands, steamy jungles, or the urban playground: these are the erotic encounters of men willing to roam. Stories that pack a sexual punch, and carry with them the resonance and character of their locations. e writers in this book relive and relish their past adventures; for the reader, each chance encounter is something brand new, as fresh and exciting as it was on the day it happened years ago on a continent far away.

Michael Luongo is an award winning New York based freelance writer, editor and photographer, concentrating on travel, culture, human rights and other topics. His travel writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Advocate, and many other publications. He is the author of the story collection 'Between the Palms' and a novel, 'The Voyeur.'mehr

Produkt

KlappentextWhether traversing desert sands, steamy jungles, or the urban playground: these are the erotic encounters of men willing to roam. Stories that pack a sexual punch, and carry with them the resonance and character of their locations. e writers in this book relive and relish their past adventures; for the reader, each chance encounter is something brand new, as fresh and exciting as it was on the day it happened years ago on a continent far away.

Michael Luongo is an award winning New York based freelance writer, editor and photographer, concentrating on travel, culture, human rights and other topics. His travel writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Advocate, and many other publications. He is the author of the story collection 'Between the Palms' and a novel, 'The Voyeur.'
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9783867875493
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Erscheinungsjahr2013
Erscheinungsdatum01.07.2013
Seiten224 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse821
Artikel-Nr.2882661
Rubriken
Genre9200

Inhalt/Kritik

Inhaltsverzeichnis
- Introduction by Michael Luongo- An Eclectic Collection of Very Short Stories from the World Over by Jesse Archer- Sleep by Dallas Angguish- Water Taxi by Lawrence Schimel- Croatian Heat by Dominic Ambrose- Et Alors?/And So? by John Champagne- Fantasy Night Train to Estonia by Sebastian V.- A Gaijin in Gay Japan by Felice Picano- Last Bus to Riobamba by Simon Sheppard- You Want, I Come by David C. Muller- Michel by Don Bapst- The White Lie by Steve Dunham- London, 21 July 2005 by Steven Lavigne- The Cervantino Baby by Trebor Healey- Fest Noz by Jay Davidson- Bondage Tape in Budapest by Jeff Mann- The City of a Thousand Steeples by Jim Nawrocki- The Sodom and Gomorrah Show: How Not to Be a Sex Tourist in Bangkok by Alan Hahn- Boys' Town by Duane Williams- Les Deux Philippes by Michael Mele- Black Gold by Michael Luongo- About the Authors and Editormehr
Leseprobe



An Eclectic Collection of Very Short Stories from the World Over

Jesse Archer

Bunny Boy Takes the Carrot

Ludovic Duboc had a name as strong as his body. He was the biggest, beefiest hunk in all of Paris. By day he carried a gun, patrolling the streets as a French gendarme. On weekends he strutted another weapon-his indefatigable erection-onstage at the sex club Le Depot. Soon he would become porn star Virgil Sainclair, but on Thursday nights near the end of the last century, I was his bunny boy.

On Thursdays, the waiters at Le Krokodil hurriedly set up the tables, anticipating who we knew would be arriving. Virgil promoted the Bunny Boy night at Le Krokodil, and if we had finished our chores by the time he entered, like Cinderella attending the ball, we could follow him upstairs to watch him change. Virgil was an exhibitionist, and for good reason. His erect cock was said to be as big and hard as a day-old baguette.

Upstairs, Virgil stripped naked and I casually admired his manhood hanging soft, a forearm between bulging thighs. I daresay I knew one day I would feverishly need that cock, but for now I only admired it as I would a painting at the Louvre. He had asked me many times to go home with him, but I always laughed him off. I was too tight to consider taking that, too innocent to be a size queen.

Virgil smiled in the mirror as we watched him slather up his incredible torso with baby oil. He then lifted and dropped his mighty meat into the pouch of a G-string, zipped up his leather pants, buckled into a pair of black boots, and grabbed a stack of Bunny Boy flyers.

The other waiters pleaded to accompany Virgil in the flyer distribution, but I put on my ears and we left together, as always. All of the young Bunny Boy waiters had to wear white fluffy bunny ears. But because I was Virgil s chosen bunny, I got the only battery-operated pair. My ears lit up and blinked.

Together we promenaded the Marais district of Paris, handing out flyers to passersby and to the competition: the Banana Café, L Amazonial. Tourists giggled and Parisians stopped in their tracks to stare at the blinking bunny-eared boy beside the chiseled chest of Hercules. C est rigolo (It s funny), chuckled Virgil.

C est rigolo, I copied. I was his bunny boy, I didn t have to think. I looked up to Virgil s pectoral perfection glistening in the summer sun as we strode arm in arm past the Pompidou Centre and on to the Open Café. Alone, I might have felt awkward but with Virgil I was as electrified as my ears.

The promotion paid off, and Thursday night at Le Krokodil was the most popular in Paris. A DJ spun behind a tyrannical transsexual, Galia, who cackled obscenities into her microphone; the ringmaster in a Fellini circus. In the kitchen below, we bunny boys snorted lines of cocaine before surfacing to serve the savage crowds a menu of rubbery meat brochettes slopped over with a gloppy white sauce. French cuisine be damned-nobody was there for the food.

My ears twinkled as the lights dimmed and Galia s spotlight swung around to illuminate a pink and white six-foot-tall tiered cake. The full house buzzed, remixed Dalida blared from the speakers, and crowds formed in the street outside jockeying for a glimpse.

I helped roll the wooden cake to the center of the room.

Out of the cake popped lubed up go-go boys. The ensuing table top extravaganza incited the raving patrons to near riot, some so out of control they tried to stick wine bottles up the asses of the gyrating dancers. But they never manhandled the biggest go-go, the gendarme, the god among men: Virgil. He inspired some kind of reverence.

With an arrogant smile, Virgil swiped champagne bottles from the hands of patrons, and provocatively poured them down his broad chest. Gaping mouths shamelessly threw themselves between his legs to catch the bubbly flow careening through his overstuffed G-string.

I m moving to Los Angeles, thrilled Virgil at the end of that summer. I ve been contracted as a Falcon exclusive porn star! he said in French. His enthusiasm was not contagious and one bunny boy actually cried. The others swooned. I swung into action. That night when he once again suggested I accompany him home, I accepted. The rabbit was finally ready for his carrot.

We stopped and saluted an armed guard as we drove into the gendarmerie where he lived. Virgil held my hand the whole time, he didn t care what his comrades thought of his sexuality. Once inside his apartment, I scanned his walls stocked with gay porn.

I love ass, Virgil proclaimed. I was shocked, not only because my own ass quivered in panic, but because Virgil had spoken the sentence in English-a first. He was going to be a porn star in Los Angeles, he explained, so he must learn English. I didn t see the point, but I let it drop with my pants.

Virgil ate my ass for what seemed like an eternity. It was the first time someone had eaten me out like that, and I found it both curious and exhilarating to discover he really did love ass. Finally he tossed on a Magnum and pushed slowly into me. All my nerve endings screamed. I wasn t a virgin, but Virgil was not a man, he was a tripod. Ouch. Out.

I started to pull away, to make him stop. Then I thought of all those who dreamed of being in my position. So what if my asshole was going to self-destruct? Everybody wants to fuck a porn star. I would hold on magnanimously for the men who ogled Virgil, who masturbated to his image, for the die-hard fans who would soon be able to buy the plastic dildo replica of the 11-inch power cock now battering its way inside of me.

I gritted my teeth and bore him. I was the little bunny that could.

Two years later, in a dingy sex theater in South America, I looked up onto the screen to see the familiar face and chiseled torso that had walked Paris by my side. And the dick, that weapon of ass destruction, was now pumping into his costar, who took it with a grateful purr.

How I had changed in two years. I was no longer a bunny boy, no longer an innocent. I wished I could trade places with myself in time as I recalled the night I convinced myself I was taking his monster cock for all those who didn t have the opportunity.

Watching Virgil on-screen, I jerked off knowing full well I endured that painful fuck for nobody else at all. I took it all for me, selfishly.

The Great Repression

Escalades and Mercedes crowd the laneless chaos of Beirut, and the elite pay thirty dollars to sit at the beach beside their Christian Dior clutches. On Rue Monot, the showy chic center of nightlife, they speak French over native Arabic and claim their heritage not to be Arabic, but Phoenician.

Beirut wants to forget, and fifteen years of war seem to have vanished. My best friend Dan has to drive around to look for the evidence of destruction beneath a patina of decadence. At last we stumble upon the gutted remnants of a shelled-out facade.

Take a picture of my childhood, says Dan.

The war isn t the only thing glossed over. Despite being filled with homosexuals, Acid is not a gay club because homosexuality is illegal. The dance floor is monitored, and if gay activity is reported, the police will shut down the club. When I danced with Dan, a guard warned me not to touch him. He put his finger to his lips to explain: shhhh.

Cultural sensitivity is not my strong suit. I mocked his hush-up and circulated the dance floor to provoke anyone I could, just because I couldn t. The gay boys resisted my advances. They knew the rules.

Don t cause trouble, one said when I put my arms around his waist.

Trouble is the only way to change things.

Don t do us any favors, he said, retreating.

Two bouncers kicked me out, literally with their feet to my chest. Fucking Middle Easterners! I yelled to lump them in with other oppressors and terrorists, with Osama, Iran, Syria. All you know is violence!

The bouncers returned with handcuffs. You see why I left this country, Dan said as we ran to the car. I saw. I had already seen.

Dan s family owned a condo at the beach community Samaya, right on the Mediterranean. Every day I walked to the pool with a beach towel wrapped over my suit, around my waist. And every day the pool security insisted I remove the towel from my waist and carry it. Why? I demanded to know. Only girls are allowed to wear a towel like that, Dan translated their Arabic. Fucking Phoenicians.

The morning after my ejection from Acid, Dan left for breakfast with his parents. I headed to the pool alone but this time I carried my towel, unable to muster the energy to defy the rules and create another poolside scandal. I was beginning to understand why the boys at the club didn t want to cause trouble. Forcing change was exhausting and futile.

Hopping into the pool, I noticed a young man in the shallow end, his dark hair and bushy eyebrows accenting a perfectly sculpted face. His chocolate eyes squinted in the sun as he looked my way. I waded toward him. His name was Karl.

Karl told me that he was eighteen, that he spent his summers here at Samaya, and that he really liked the way his roll-on deodorant felt up his butt when he masturbated. Karl knew he was gay at thirteen, he said, but had never been with man. He dreamed about countries where you...


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Kritik
"'Sensual Travels' features a superb lineup of gay and bi men's literary voices examining erotic encounters in a rich variety of locales on six continents. Its strong underlying sense of the dynamic and transformational sexual turns that our journeys sometimes take makes this book not just fascinating but stimulating reading." [Quelle: Ron J. Suresha, author of 'Fur: The Love of Hair']mehr

Autor

Michael Luongo is an award winning New York based freelance writer, editor and photographer, concentrating on travel, culture, human rights and other topics. His travel writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Chicago Tribune, The Advocate, and many other publications. He is the author of the story collection "Between the Palms" and a novel, "The Voyeur."