GRAFFITI by Terry O'Reilly

GRAFFITI by Terry O'Reilly

Before the advent of the Internet, men looking to make sexual contact with other men would cruise rest stops, shopping malls, and parks. There they often left messages on the walls of restrooms hoping to meet someone of like interest.

Alan Daniels, a young Vietnam veteran, has recently been questioning his sexuality. He takes a chance and writes a note in the john of his local municipal park.

Handsome, sensual Tom Clarkson, a college student going to school mainly to avoid the draft, is intrigued by a new message he finds in the park bathroom.

Is Tom destined to spend another night indulging in meaningless sex, or could the note lead to something more? Only one way to find out ...

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



He was just about to leave the restroom when another message next to the mirror caught his attention.

Hey guy from the overlook yesterday. Can you meet me here tonight? 7:30?

Tom stared at the note and then read it again.

“Shit!”

* * * *

Sitting atop his usual table in the park, Tom was frustrated. Ten to eight, he fumed in his mind. Fuck, I rearrange my whole fuckin’ day for this guy and he doesn’t show.

Tom had met John that morning. The man had been horny and hot to trot. They had gone back to the motel. Even though John had sucked Tom’s pecs, usually a big turn on, Tom had been totally distracted by the prospect of seeing the overlook guy again. He knew he hadn’t showed John the best time but hadn’t given a shit. He’d perfunctorily took care of business, giving John a quick fuck and getting him off with a half-hearted blow job. Tom knew John was pissed at him, but Tom knew he wouldn’t see him again anyway so it didn’t matter. Once was Tom’s usual M.O., twice was pretty damn rare and a third round was unheard of.

Tom had called his boss at the bakery and told him he had a cold. That was a sure-fire way to get out of work. The old guy was really paranoid about getting germs on his precious buns and loaves of bread. He told Tom to take good care of himself and not to come back to work until it was completely cleared up. Tom couldn’t afford to miss too much work so he’d tell the old man he had allergies and it had turned out not to be a cold after all.

Tom had probably failed his political science test. What the hell was it about this guy? he’d asked himself, that he could upset Tom Clarkson’s plans. When sexy Professor Barry had said time was up, Tom hadn’t even finished the last question as he found himself staring out the window thinking about the overlook guy’s sweet smile and tight, sensual ass.

Tom checked his watch again. I even pass up two hot tricks here tonight for the bastard. Two very handsome hunks had approached Tom and suggested they’d really be up for including him in a three-way. God damn! Why did I pass that up?

“Screw this,” Tom said, getting up. Maybe I can find those two guys and get in on that action so the day won’t be a total bust.

As he turned to head for the path into the woods, Tom saw a red Mustang pull slowly into the parking lot. He waited. If this was overlook guy he’d let him know that you didn’t fool around with Tom Clarkson if you want to get it on with him. The car door opened and the man he’d been waiting for tentatively emerged. Tom stood with his hands on his hips getting ready to give the guy a piece of his mind.

The man approached. “Hi. I’m really sorry I’m late. I had to work overtime and ...”

Tom opened his mouth to let him have it, but what came out surprised him. “That’s okay. You’re here now and that’s all that matters.”

Who the fuck said that? Tom thought as he looked into the soft warm brown eyes staring into his. He felt his dick twitch and some other sensation that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time stole over him.

“I’m Alan Daniels,” the man said and offered his hand.

“My name’s Tom,” Tom said and then realized he had, for the first time in a long while, given his name to someone with whom he planned to have sex. But somehow that didn’t seem to matter. He took Alan’s hand and enjoyed the feelings the first physical contact engendered.

“Let’s go,” he said, still holding onto Alan’s hand and turning to head for the path into the woods.

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DIARY OF A SEX ADDICT by Scott Alexander Hess

DIARY OF A SEX ADDICT by Scott Alexander Hess

Witty, dark and explosively carnal, Diary of a Sex Addict chronicles a gay New Yorker’s month-long descent into a circus of anonymous hook-ups as he struggles to erase the pain of a failed romance and blot out the routine of a soul-numbing day job. Bizarre gang-bangs and fleeting attempts at celibacy are interspersed with visits to his wealthy and eccentric dowager aunt, visits which awaken lost memories of a chaotic youth.

Written in prose that is at once poetic and unabashedly lewd, the novel offers a glimpse into a forbidden fringe world of longing and debauchery that ultimately reveals the narrator’s fervent search for something to fill a profound emptiness.

Inspired by the transgressive works of the Marquis de Sade, Dennis Cooper and Bret Easton Ellis, Diary of a Sex Addict blends wry humor, elegant language and graphic sex to offer a novel that is “relentlessly erotic and divinely written” (Richard Labonte, Bookmarks).

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EXCERPT:
Note: contains sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



December 7

So I’m fucking his face, I mean really fucking it. Long harsh thrusts that take in all my anger -- the lousy job, the rattling bank account, the lost boyfriend, the twelve hundred dollar Manhattan rent -- all the rage I keep sunk in my desperately shaped-up little gym ass. I’m rage-shoving it easily into his mouth. It’s all I can do not to say “take it fuckhead,” because I know he’s dying for me to say it and I want to but, honestly, the look of his big white eyeballs and lips and fat dog-like slobbering tongue is almost enough to get me off.

We’re ten minutes into it, on the floor of my kitchenette, and I’m flagging a little, speaking in hushed tones because my studio shares a wall with the apartment of a sweet twenty-something couple. Through the wall I can often hear them chatter about Pottery Barn and Cheerios. I imagine they will hear me yell “Suck my white cock with your hot black lips.” So I whisper it and he -- let’s call him Bing -- Bing seems to really like my softer tone. But I can see his knees hurt. I touch his shoulder as he groans in what I think is pain.

Bing’s skin is slick from an elegant mix of dewy perspiration and funky Ethiopian oil. Of course it could be baby oil for all I know, but I imagine it more exotically. Truth is, I know squat about Bing. We typically talk as he exit-dresses, never before. During our second fuck, it came out that he was a jeweler by day, a painter by night. Disappointing, because I had fantasy tagged him as a 22-year-old brain-damaged drug dealer on parole.

Bing has shifted, panting, with my cock in his mouth. He’s losing momentum as he lifts his knees and leans back on his haunches. I am meant to follow, to stray forward to keep our fifteen minute rush of wild sex moving. Because in too long a pause, the whole delicate fantasy collapses. I do lean forward, but hesitate, realizing Bing’s knees must really ache. I wonder if I’m being cruel or a bad host, which opens a peep hole into my bland, non-sexually charged thoughts and in milliseconds I wonder if the floor is clean enough to be kneeling on and if Bing could ever replace my ex-lover and why this sex right now is so mind-numbingly hot and so much better than the rest of my awful day.

I tilt my head back and for a split second glimpse, on my kitchenette wall, a yellowed image of the exploding USS Shaw battleship. Scrawled in the image’s corner is Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. I need to take it down at midnight and put up my dead mother’s advent calendar, something she did religiously on this date when I was a kid. The calendar kicked off her three week build to Christmas. My father, also dead, served in WWII, which is why they hung the Pearl Harbor thing in their kitchen the rest of the year. The advent calendar is cheerful and has little gifts that stick onto days of the week. This whiff of nostalgia is having a dreadful effect on my hard-on.

If I linger here, I will fall dangerously close to the sex death spot of uber-realness. Before my cock slackens and melts out of the side of Bing’s mouth I thrust mega-hard and speak loudly the lines we both love: “Suck it! Love the white cock! Say you love it, fucker!” And he does say it, and I cum as expected. Not “in your fucking black mouth,” but safely on his soft cheek, a few drops on his shoulder as he falls back and then. Bing leaves.

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NAKED: MUSINGS FROM A BROKEN HEART by Willem Schutte

NAKED: MUSINGS FROM A BROKEN HEART by Willem Schutte

“From within perfect darkness I have learned to shine."

Heartbreak can leave even the strongest of men scarred. Like Icarus, I too flew too high and fell. That downward journey tore the fibre of my being and shredded my soul. The gauntlet of love should never be underestimated.

However, I had to get up again and rise like a phoenix from its proverbial ashes. And like a phoenix, I took to flight!

This is a poetic account of the journey I had to go through and a tribute to becoming a better man regardless.

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EXCERPT:

Dark Skies

I took a walk in the clouds
And all I found was thunder
The promises of perfect beauty
Were lies and twisted truths
Designed to make me wonder
And there was nothing I could do
As the echoes ran right through me
But to follow those distant drums
Bewitched by their fury
I glimpsed the setting of my sun
And I couldn't help but fall apart
As I listened to the beat of my broken heart

All I found was thunder

* * * *

Redefined

Killed my heart in a glass cage
for all the world to see
And while the blood was dripping
lost the better part of me
So now I'll paint my future
in crimson crusted lines
For this broken boy isn't lost
he's merely redefined

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