Cherry on Top - 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Cherry on Top
TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680

A Better Fate than Wisdom copyright © 2010 by Lee Benoit,
Cooking Lesson copyright © 2010 by Miza Izanaki, Going
Home Again copyright © 2010 by Kiernan Kelly, The Ivory
Dungeon copyright © 2010 by Syd McGinley, Sweet Cherry, A
Hammer Story copyright © 2010 by Sean Michael, Stairway to
Evan copyright © 2010 by G.R. Richards, The Bad Boyfriend
Club and How I Left It copyright © 2010 by Tracy Rowan, My
Best Friend copyright © 2010 by BG Thomas, Green Carnations
copyright © 2010 by G.S. Wiley

Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-017-6
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this
book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as
provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address
Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: July 2010
Printed in the USA

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Table of Contents

Introduction – 4

Going Home Again by Kiernan Kelly – 5

A Better Fate than Wisdom by Lee Benoit – 34

Green Carnations by G.S. Wiley – 54

Stairway to Evan by G.R. Richards – 74

The Bad Boyfriend Club and How I Left It

by Tracy Rowan – 91

The Ivory Dungeon by Syd McGinley – 118

My Best Friend by BG Thomas – 139

Cooking Lesson by Miza Izanaki – 154

Sweet Cherry, A Hammer Story by Sean Michael – 170

Contributors' Bios - 198

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Introduction

Lots of things are better with a cherry on top, which is
exactly what we're bringing you in this sequel to the Cherry
anthology.

We've got first time lovers, we've got first time cooks, we
even have an infamous Dom discovering that side of
himself for the first time. Just like its predecessor, this
anthology brings you stories by Torquere veterans and
newcomers with that common cherry-popping thread.
Whether the lovers are new or committed couples, vanilla
or kinky, they're all trying something new.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride, with a cherry on top.

M. Rode

Cherry on Top - 4

Going Home Again

By Kiernan Kelly

Atlantic City, New Jersey
August, 1969

Summer would never be the same again, although Daniel
didn't know it at the time.

Waves sluiced into foam along the shoreline, the music of
the ocean competing with the buzz of transistor radios and
the happy shouts of swimmers. Sunlight dappled the water
silver, turquoise, and green; seabirds cried and swooped
low over the cresting whitecaps. The sand stretched as far
as the eye could see in both directions, blindingly white,
blisteringly hot, and speckled with seashells near the
water's edge.

Gaily striped umbrellas dotted the sand, towels and coolers
marking patches of territory claimed by beach-going
families. Children screamed and splashed, adults floated or
jumped the waves. Beneath the water's surface, small fish
darted between the waders' legs in silvery flashes.

The Atlantic City Boardwalk, capitalized in Daniel's mind
as any famous landmark like the Taj Mahal or Buckingham
Palace might be, cast its shadow along the beach for four
miles, its wooden planks suspended ten feet over the sand.
Shops and amusements lined its sunny stretch: the Wax
Museum, the Penny Arcade, and James' Famous Salt Water
Taffy among them. Rolling wicker chairs pushed by

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cheerful young men in shirtsleeves squeaked across the
boards. Wooden piers extended from the Boardwalk over
the sand and water like fingers: the Steel Pier with its
flashing lights, rides, and amazing Diving Horse; the
Steeplechase; and the Million Dollar Pier with its double-
decker carousel and sideshow attractions.

Like the inescapable ebb and flow of the tide, families
flocked to Atlantic City every year for summer vacation.
They baked on the sands during the day, skin browning like
a roast in the oven, marinated in suntan oil. Every night,
soon after the sun set and the temperature cooled, they
strolled along the length of the Boardwalk, eating freshly
roasted peanuts or licking cones of frozen custard.

It was late August, 1969. The nation was buzzing about the
Apollo moon landings and gay rights marches at Stonewall.
In a muddy field in upstate New York, Country Joe and the
Fish had played to a crowd of thousands of long-haired
flower children under the banners of peace and love, while
other boys, barely old enough to shave, were dying a half a
world away in the jungles and rice paddies of Viet Nam.

None of that mattered to Daniel, a nine-year old kid with a
fresh cast on his right arm, sitting on the hot sand and
looking longingly at the cool waves. All that did matter was
the fact that he was facing two weeks of total and complete
boredom, frying in the heat, tempted by the sounds and
smell of the ocean but forbidden to enter it courtesy of a
fractured ulna. Not even the nights held any promise for
him. The cool evening hours looked to be as dull as the
burning hot days. Unable to roll a skeeball, pitch a dime, or
toss a ring except with his weaker left hand, and forbidden
to ride the roller coaster or the Himalayan because of his
parents' fear that his injury would be jostled.

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Daniel pondered the unfairness of his fate as he got up and
walked along the water's edge, feet sloshing through the
foam that lapped the shore. He stopped every so often to
toe a particularly colorful shell, or to poke at the remains of
a jellyfish with a stick of driftwood, not really paying
attention to how far he'd wandered from the spot where his
parents lay baking in the sun.

The Million Dollar Pier stretched over the sands, extending
out onto the water. Cooler shadows beckoned under the
wooden dock, promising relief -- however small -- from the
burning rays. He hurried underneath and sat on the hard-
packed sand, looking up at the gaps between the boards far
overhead.

"Hi. I'm Tony Baranzo. What's your name?"

Daniel was startled to find that he wasn't alone under the
pier.

The boy looked to be Daniel’s own age or close to it,
skinny and dark haired. There was a smattering of freckles
across the bridge of the boy’s nose, and a narrow space
between his front teeth showing through a friendly smile.
He wore a swimsuit, the same robin's egg blue as his eyes,
and had a brightly colored, striped towel thrown around his
shoulders.

"Daniel Carter."

"What happened to your arm?" Tony flopped down on the
sand next to Daniel. Tony smelled like coconut suntan oil
and ocean brine.

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"Broke it. I fell out of the tree in our yard." It was an out-
and-out lie, but Daniel knew better than to tell anyone the
truth. Not even his mother knew how he'd really broken it.
His father did, though, and Daniel hated him for it.

"Cool! Was it a big tree? Was it, like, a hundred feet high?"

"Yeah, it was pretty big," Daniel said. "Are you here with
your folks?" It was a stupid question, Danny knew, but he
didn't want to talk about his arm. He couldn't. It was too
dangerous. He might slip up.

"Nah, my grandparents. They take me every year for a
couple of weeks in the summer. They live here. My
grandpa owns a pizza stand on the Million Dollar Pier. Are
you hungry? Want to go get a slice? I get all the pizza I
want for free."

Suddenly, there seemed to be a bright spot in Daniel's
dismal immediate future. He felt his depression lift at the
prospect of having a friend to share the boring hours. Of
course, Tony might not want to be his friend, not once
Tony found out that Daniel couldn't do anything
worthwhile, but at least Daniel would have company for a
few hours that afternoon. He smiled and nodded.

To Daniel's surprise, Tony didn't mind at all that Daniel
couldn't swim or go on the rides. He'd been perfectly happy
to spend time walking the beach or the piers, exploring the
shadows under the Boardwalk, and gorging on gooey pizza.
Each day, Daniel would wake, dress, breakfast with his
parents, and then run off toward the Million Dollar Pier,
where he knew Tony would be waiting for him.

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Tony's grandmother, a round woman who wore her long
gray hair woven into a braid wound tightly around the
crown of her head, loved Daniel on sight. Mrs. Baranzo
insisted that Danny call her "Nonna," and repeatedly
clucked her tongue, telling him he was too skinny. "Just
like my Antonio. Mangiare," she'd say, before slapping
another slice of pizza on Danny's plate.

Mr. Baranzo was a slender man with stooped shoulders,
who was mostly bald except for sparse gray hair circling
his shiny skull in a monk's fringe, and unfailingly wore a
white, tomato-splashed apron cinched around his narrow
waist. His hands were gnarled with age, but they could toss
a circle of pizza dough high into the air without ever failing
to catch it. Danny loved to watch him coax a pizza pie out
of a round lump of dough, flouring it, kneading it, turning
it, and finally tossing it with practiced hands until it was
transformed into a uniformly thin, circular crust ready for
the tomato sauce and cheese.

The days sped by much faster than Daniel would have
guessed when he first arrived. Before he knew it, he was
facing the last day of his vacation. His family would leave
for home the next day.

He wished with all his heart that he could remain in
Atlantic City with Tony and Tony's grandparents. The
knowledge that he couldn't had him in a dark mood.

"Hey, penny for your thoughts," Tony said as they walked
along the sand under the Million Dollar Pier. "You got real
quiet. What are you thinking about?"

Daniel shrugged a thin shoulder and dug his toes into the
warm sand. "Don't want to go home, I guess."

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Tony stooped to pick up a shell and chucked it into the
waves. "Yeah, me, either. Don't want you to go, I mean. It's
gonna be boring without you here. I don't leave for another
week."

"My father broke my arm." Daniel gasped, slapping his left
hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say it, but the
words had flown out of his mouth before he could stop
himself.

"What? You said you fell out of a tree. Your dad did that?"
Tony's blue eyes flew open wide. "On purpose? What did
you do wrong?"

"Look, forget I said anything," Daniel growled. He
suddenly felt angry at everybody and everything -- at his
dad for hurting him, at himself for not fighting back, at his
mom, even at Tony for having the sort of family Daniel
wished he'd had. "Go on back to your stupid pizza stand.
I'm leaving."

"Hey, don't get mad. I was just asking. My mom's whacked
my backside a few times with her wooden spoon when I
answered her back, if it makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't. It's not the same thing. Just forget it, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Sorry." Tony grabbed Daniel's good arm,
pulling him to a halt. "Don't go, Danny. Come on, I said I
was sorry."

Daniel tugged his arm from Tony's grasp, but he didn't run
off as he'd intended. He sat down on the sand instead,
pulling his knees up, resting his chin on his kneecaps. "I

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shouldn't have told you. I'm not supposed to tell anybody."
His anger washed away in a sudden flood of anxiety. "You
gotta promise not to tell."

"I won't. I swear." Tony sat down next to him. They stared
out at the water for a while, watching the seagulls. "What
did your mom say?"

"She doesn't know. She thinks I fell out of a tree."

"Maybe you should tell her."

"And maybe you should mind your own business!" Daniel
snapped. "I can't tell anybody. My dad said if I ever told,
he'd... oh, never mind. I can't tell, and that's all there is to
it."

"I'm glad you told me, then. That means we're, like, best
friends, right? Sharing secrets and stuff?"

Daniel felt his lips tilt in a smile, despite the unease still
twisting his stomach. "Yeah, I guess so."

Tony shifted on the sand, digging into the pocket of his
swimsuit. He pulled out a postcard and handed it to Daniel.
"Here... I bought this for you. It's like a souvenir." His
cheeks turned pink under his tan.

Daniel took the card. On the front was a picture of the
beach, showing the Million Dollar Pier. Two stick figures
had been drawn underneath it with a Magic Marker.
Written on the back of the postcard in carefully printed
block letters were Tony's name and address in Brooklyn.

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"See? I drew you and me under the pier. You can write to
me, if you want. I'll write back, too. Promise." Tony's smile
made his cheeks dimple.

Daniel wasn't sure what to say. "Okay. Thanks."

"You promise to write?"

"Yeah, sure," Daniel said, standing up, feeling better than
he had, lighter. "I promise." Somehow, he knew he would,
too. If there was one thing he needed in his life, it was a
friend.

***

Atlantic City, New Jersey
September, 1985

Daniel stepped off the train, lugging his single suitcase with
him. The smell he remembered from his youth hit him
squarely in the face, instantly bringing back with a startling
richness his favorite recollection from his youth. He was
nearly overwhelmed by his recollection of the ocean and
the taste of salt water on his lips, the Boardwalk, soft
custard cones, salt water taffy, and the riotous sound of the
amusement piers. They brought a smile to his face, and the
memory of one person front and center in his mind.

Tony.

The one thing Daniel had managed to keep with him
throughout his tumultuous teen years spent in a long string
of foster homes was the faded, creased postcard of the
Million Dollar Pier in Atlantic City Tony had given him all
those years ago. Tony had been true to his word,

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exchanging letters and photographs faithfully until ten
years ago, when Daniel's letters suddenly went unanswered.

When Daniel was emancipated, he tried to put his past
behind him and carve out a life for himself. His pen-pal
friendship with Tony -- or sudden lack thereof -- slipped to
the back of his mind. He figured it happened that way
sometimes. People grew up, drifted away.

It was almost a miracle he'd held on to the postcard,
keeping it safe and as intact as possible. It wasn't such an
easy task when you were being shuffled from foster home
to foster home like a cast-off piece of bric-a-brac sold to
strangers at a series of garage sales. Once, one of his foster
mothers had taken all the correspondence she could find
between Daniel and Tony and destroyed it in a fit of anger.
The postcard had been the only thing to survive her wrath.

Soon after he'd turned eighteen, he'd tried to find Tony, but
there was no one by the name of Baranzo living at the old
address in Brooklyn, nor did the current residents have any
information on Tony Baranzo. Daniel asked around the
neighborhood and found a man at the corner newsstand
who remembered the Baranzos. Tony's grandparents had
passed on, and his parents had moved to Boca Raton in
Florida, but the man didn't know what had become of
Tony.

Then Daniel met Stephen, and for a time he thought he'd
finally found a place for himself in this world, and someone
with which to share it. Daniel's vision clouded with a
memory of their last night together.

"Stephen, where were you?"

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"Out." Stephen's words were slurred, but there was no
hiding the irritation in his voice.

"I know that. Where?"

"Who are you... my mother? I said I was out."

Daniel could smell booze on Stephen's breath. There was
another scent clinging to Stephen's clothing. Cologne, and
it was neither Stephen's nor Daniel's brand. Daniel had
smelled it more and more frequently of late. His temper
exploded. "You always seem to be going 'out' lately, and
without me. You fucker! I won't sit by and let you cheat on
me, Stephen. Not anymore."

The fist came out of nowhere, without the slightest warning.
It knocked Daniel flat on his ass, and he sat on the floor
feeling stunned, pinpoints of light dancing in front of his
eyes.

"Fuck you!" Stephen growled. "I do what I want, with
whoever I want. I'm done with you and all the clinging and
whining. We're done. I'm leaving."

Before Daniel could gather his wits or even pull himself up
from the floor, Stephen had thrown his belongings into a
bag and slammed the door on his way out.

Just like that, two years of what Daniel had thought of as a
solid relationship were over, ended in violence.

Violence, Daniel thought, seemed to be a way of life for
him.

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Why did everyone he loved hurt him? He couldn't
understand it, but felt that it had to be his fault. He was
unworthy of love. It had to be. Every time he let himself
care for somebody, they hurt him.

Everyone, he realized, except Tony.

Maybe it was just that he and Tony hadn't been in the same
room since that first summer. Maybe, if they were together,
Tony would hurt him like everyone else had.

But maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't.

It was a hope Daniel clung to. He didn't have a current
address for Tony, and there was only one place he could
think of to start looking.

The last place Daniel had seen Tony, the one location that
held purely happy memories for him.

Atlantic City.

As soon as the lease on his apartment was up, he'd taken a
leave of absence from his job, packed a suitcase, put
everything else in storage, and bought a ticket on the first
train heading south.

He sighed and hailed a cab for the short ride to the
Boardwalk from the train station, even as he wondered
what the hell he was doing. Even if, by some miracle, he
found Tony, there was nothing to say that Tony would
remember him, or want to resume the friendship they'd
shared as children. He was taking a chance by trying.

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He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the
postcard. That summer was the one truly good memory he
had. It was worth a shot, he decided. The worst that could
happen was that he wouldn't find Tony, right?

No, he corrected himself. The worst that could happen was
that he would find Tony, but Tony wouldn't remember him
or want to be friends.

Wasn't there an old saying about not being able to go home
again? Nothing would be as he remembered it, not the
Boardwalk, not the piers, not the beach, and certainly not
Tony. Too many years had passed. Tony was probably
married by now, with six kids and a mortgage. Or divorced.

Or dead, for that matter.

No, not dead. Daniel refused to believe Tony could be
gone. He clung to the thin hope that he would not only find
Tony, but that Tony would be glad to see him.

He didn't care if Tony was gay or straight, married or
single. Daniel wasn't looking for love between the sheets.
He was looking for a friend.

That hope was all he had.

"North Carolina Avenue and Boardwalk, pal." The cab
driver's voice startled Daniel out of his thoughts. "You
want I should drop you off in front of Resorts?"

Resorts? Oh, yeah, Daniel thought. The Resorts Casino.
"No, this is cool. Thanks."

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Daniel paid the cabbie, picked up his suitcase, and headed
up the block toward the Boardwalk. The smell of the ocean
was much stronger than it had been at the railway station.
To his left, the towering structure of the Resorts
International Casino and Hotel loomed, casting him in
shadow.

He walked the short, wooden ramp leading up onto the
Boardwalk. Before him, the wide Boardwalk was alive with
people, although he quickly realized it was a different
demographic than he remembered as a kid. There were
fewer children here, fewer families on vacation. People
who came to Atlantic City now were more inclined to feed
quarters to the slot machines than breadcrumbs to the
multitude of sea gulls on the beach.

Taking a moment to gather his bearings, Daniel looked
around him. To his left was the Steel Pier, but its character
was different than he remembered. It was shabbier,
somehow, worn and tired. The Million Dollar Pier was to
his right, far in the distance. He began walking in that
direction.

Everything had changed so much, just as he'd suspected.
Most of the small shops and restaurants Daniel remembered
were gone, replaced by souvenir stores selling T-shirts and
cheap trinkets. He noticed that many other properties had
been demolished, and several tall buildings, probably
casinos, had been built in their place.

The beach looked narrower than he remembered it to be,
although he didn't know whether it was due to beach
erosion or the fact that he was much bigger than he'd been
the last time he'd been there. The ocean looked and smelled
the same, though. Waves rolled in as they had since

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Pangaea first broke apart, forming new coastlines. They
sluiced onto the sand as gulls flew overhead, riding the air
currents, their cries rising above the rumbling thunder of
the waves.

He realized the Million Dollar Pier had changed long
before he drew abreast of it. Standing on the Boardwalk,
suitcase in hand, he stared at the entrance, shock rendering
him motionless. The marquee proclaimed it to be the
"Shops on Ocean One." Developers had turned his favorite
pier into a mall! He'd wondered before whether the pizza
stand would be gone or if it remained, and if Tony still
owned it, but he'd never even considered the possibility that
the pier itself would be changed so drastically.

Go home, he thought, thoroughly dejected. Go home, and
forget Tony. Start over. Running all the way down here was
a stupid idea. He turned away from the pier's entrance and
began walking toward the next exit to the street. He'd grab
a cab, get on the train, and chalk the trip up to a brief lapse
in sanity.

Flashing lights in the window of a shop wedged next to the
lofty Caesar's Palace Casino caught his eye and froze his
feet. He stood stock still, as if he'd thrown down roots.

Baranzo Pizza. Serving the best pie on the Boardwalk since
1955.

A burst of excitement coursed through him. It was still
here! They must have changed locations when the pier was
renovated. He tried to calm himself. Maybe someone else
owned it now and kept the name because it was branded in
the area, or perhaps someone else in the Baranzo family

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had taken it over. Just because it retained the same name
didn't mean Tony was the operator.

Still, just seeing the name Baranzo lifted Daniel's spirits.
He hurried toward the door, slipping inside. He hadn't even
realized how hot it was outside until the cool air hit his
face, drying the sweat beaded on his forehead. The savory
smell of tomatoes and garlic made his stomach growl,
reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

The restaurant was long and narrow. Small tables dressed
with checkered plastic tablecloths were set against the wall
opposite the counter. He took a seat at an empty table,
shoving his suitcase underneath it. A waitress who looked
so young, he doubted she'd been alive the last time he was
in Atlantic City, handed him a laminated menu. She
cracked gum, waiting with pen poised over an order pad.

"Pepsi, and a couple of slices of pepperoni," he said
without even glancing at the menu.

"Be right up."

He touched her elbow before she could slip away. "Oh, by
the way, did you ever hear of a man named Tony
Baranzo?"

The waitress nodded. "Tony? Sure. He's in the back. You
know him?"

"I think I used to," Daniel said. His heart felt like it'd been
jumpstarted, banging wildly against his sternum. "Would
you ask him if he remembers Daniel Carter?"

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One razor-thin shoulder shrugged. "Sure. Be back with
your order in a minute."

It might not be him. It probably isn't him, Daniel thought as
he watched the waitress saunter away toward a door at the
rear of the restaurant. Lots of big Italian families often had
more than one child with common names like Maria or
Anthony. Feeling the need to expend some of the nervous
energy he felt building along with anticipation, he picked
up a paper napkin and began shredding it into tiny pieces.
He watched the snow of paper fall to the placemat and pile
up in small drifts.

When he looked up, a man was emerging from the back
room, wearing a white apron tied around his narrow waist
and a paper hat on his head. Daniel felt his eyes widen.
Older and taller, with dark scruff dusting his cheeks, there
was still no denying the identity of the man. Daniel would
have known him anywhere.

"Daniel? I'll be damned... Daniel!" Tony yelled from across
the room. His face split into a wide grin as he hurried
toward Daniel's table.

Daniel jumped up and met Tony halfway. Tony swept him
up in a rib-crushing bear hug that left Daniel gasping for
air. "Hey, Tony! Man, I was worried you wouldn't
remember me. You look good, man."

"You, too," Tony said. His eyes, the same robin's egg blue
that Daniel remembered, sparkled. He motioned to the table
and took the seat across from Daniel. "What are you doing
here? On vacation? Jesus, I never thought I'd see you again.
Why'd you stop writing?"

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Just as Daniel remembered, Tony spoke almost without
taking a breath, one word sliding into the next. "I didn't
stop -- you did."

"Nope. It was the year I turned sixteen. I wrote you every
week for almost three months solid, but you never wrote
back."

Daniel frowned, thinking back. When he was sixteen, he'd
lived with a foster family named Bruber. It was the year
he'd come out. They hadn't taken it well. His foster mother
had destroyed all the letters from Tony that she'd found in
his sock drawer, mistakenly thinking Tony was Daniel's
boyfriend. Had she made sure no other letters reached him
as well? "Shit. My foster mother must've thrown your
letters away before I could find them. I thought you
stopped writing to me."

"I wouldn't do that, man. We were buds, right?"

Daniel nodded. "I should've known. She was a bitch,
through and through." He gestured toward the counter. "I
see you took over for your grandpa. I was sorry to hear they
passed."

"Yeah, they died within a few months of each other when I
was seventeen. Pop ran the business until a few years ago,
and I took over when my folks retired. So, what have you
been up to? You married? Got kids?"

"Me?" Daniel looked startled, then realized he'd never told
Tony he was gay. He'd never had the opportunity -- the
letters had stopped soon after he'd accepted the truth about
himself. "No. You?"

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Tony shook his head. "Nope." His familiar grin returned.
"No time. I got a date with the pizza oven almost every
night."

"I hear that."

Just then a voice called out from the counter. "Yo, Tony!
The timer on the oven is playing your song again."

"Okay, Vito. I'm coming," Tony called back. He looked at
Daniel. "You got plans while you're in town?"

"Not really," Daniel said. "This was a spur of the moment
trip."

"Good. How about I talk Vito into closing for me and we
grab some dinner? Play some catch up? Where are you
staying?"

Daniel smiled. "Sounds good. I need to find a hotel room.
I'll meet you here, huh? What time?"

"Whoa, you don't have a room? That's going to be tough,
Danny. The hotels are booked because of the Miss America
Pageant."

"Oh, shit... I forgot about that. They still hold it in the
Convention Center?"

"Yeah. The parade is tomorrow, in fact. Listen, it's not a
problem. I've got room, if you don't mind a pull-out sofa."

Daniel shook his head. "I couldn't do that. I--"

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The waitress arrived bearing a plate of pizza and a tall glass
of Pepsi. She set both in front of Daniel, along with the
check. Throwing a gum-cracking smile at both men, she
left.

Tony swiped the check before Daniel could reach for it.
"Bullshit. I'll put your suitcase in the back until later. Eat
your lunch and go sightsee for a few hours. Be back about
six o'clock, and we'll head over to my place. I've still got
my grandparents' house over in Brigantine."

"Are you sure, Tony? I don't want to put you out."

"Don't insult me. That's what friends are for, right?"

Friends. They were still friends. Daniel felt a rush of
warmth and a feeling of relief fill him. He nodded and, not
trusting himself to speak, picked up a slice of pizza and
took a bite. "It's just as good as I remember," he said after
he finished swallowing.

"Damn straight. That's Nonna's recipe," Tony said. He
looked as happy as Daniel felt as he stood up and picked up
Daniel's suitcase. "See you tonight."

As Daniel finished eating, he realized people had it wrong.
Sometimes, he thought, you can go home again.

***

Tony's house was a tiny bungalow in the pretty shore
community of Brigantine, a block in from the shore. It was
so small that, to Daniel's amusement, Tony conducted the
grand tour without ever leaving the living room.

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"The kitchen is through there. That's the bathroom, and my
bedroom is through that door," Tony said, pointing to each
room. "The sofa opens up. I'll get you some sheets and a
pillow."

"Thanks, Tony. I mean it. This is great," Daniel said. He set
his suitcase next to the sofa.

"Are you kidding? I'm looking forward to reminiscing.
What do you feel like eating tonight? I would suggest
Italian, but Nonna would spin in her grave if I made you eat
anything but home-cooked, and pizza is sure as shit off the
menu."

Daniel laughed and took a seat, making himself
comfortable. "Anything is good. I'm easy."

"Good. I feel like seafood. Let me grab a shower and get
changed, then you can take a turn."

Daniel nodded, trying not to imagine Tony naked and wet
and soapy. His cock was already twitching awake, turned
on by the totally male scent of sweat and garlic Tony was
giving off. If he got a full blown hard on and Tony noticed,
he'd either have to think fast or come out. Oh, I know I've
got a boner, but don't let it bother you, Tony. I'm just gay
and fantasizing about you washing all those hot nooks and
crannies you own. Yeah, that'd go over well.

He picked up a magazine from the coffee table and
struggled to concentrate on the first article he found. It
wasn't easy, but he managed to get his cock back under
control.

Cherry on Top - 24

By the time Daniel dug out clean clothes from his suitcase,
Tony finished showering, and all of Daniel's hard work
went flying out the proverbial window. His body hardened
so swiftly he had to bite his cheek to keep from grunting.

When Tony stepped out of the bathroom, he was followed
by a cloud of steam and dressed in a skintight T-shirt and
worn jeans. He looked hot enough to fry bacon. The shirt
clung to his muscles, and his nipples were small, hard
points poking through the fabric. Short sleeves only
accentuated the curves of his biceps. His jeans were tight
enough to showcase the powerful muscles of his thighs and
calves, as well as giving Daniel a good idea of the
substantial package lying between Tony's legs.

"Is it hot in here?" Daniel muttered under his breath. He
swiped his forehead with one hand even as he sidled past
Tony into the bathroom. He didn't wait for an answer, but
closed the door and leaned against it.

God! His body felt like it was a walking ball of sexual
tension. He hadn't been prepared to feel such a powerful
attraction to Tony, or his body's reaction, and he had no
defenses in place. He turned on the water in the shower and
quickly adjusted the temperature, then stripped off his
clothes.

Daniel slipped under the hot spray and closed the clear
glass door, letting the water beat on the tense muscles of his
neck and back. He tried to relax, but after a few minutes it
became clear his plan wasn't working. His cock was hard
and aching, and the water droplets felt like pinpricks
against his engorged flesh.

Cherry on Top - 25

Knowing the only sure-fire way to relieve the tension was
to literally beat his body into submission, he grabbed a
bottle of conditioner from the shower rack and squirted a
healthy dollop into his hand.

He leaned against the cold tile, stroking his cock. He tried
not to think of Tony, but it was like trying not to think of a
pink elephant in a tutu. No matter how hard he tried, he
couldn't. He decided to let the daydream run its course,
although he felt guilty doing so. It was almost as if he were
betraying Tony's friendship, even if the fantasy was only in
his head. Still, maybe he'd get this infatuation with Tony
out of his system if he did.

Eyes closed, his hand making slick sounds as it slid over
his dick, Daniel didn't hear the bathroom door open.

"I've got a towel for you -- oh, God. Danny, I'm sorry. I
didn't realize you'd be..."

Daniel's eyes flew open, his hand freezing in place with a
fistful of cock. Tony was on the other side of the glass door
staring at him. Or, rather, at Daniel's dick.

Tony seemed to realize he was staring and turned his back,
but that didn't make Daniel feel any more at ease. It did the
trick on his cock, though -- his erection wilted like wax in
the sun. "Uh, thanks. For the towel, I mean," Daniel
muttered. He was mortified, but there was nowhere for him
to go. He was trapped in the shower stall, and Tony was
standing between him and his last shred of dignity.

"Yeah. I realized you'd need one. There are only hand jobs
on the rack. Hand towels, I mean." Tony stammered before
he fairly flew out of the bathroom.

Cherry on Top - 26

A light went off over Daniel's head. Tony had acted
completely and utterly flustered, and he was sure he hadn't
imagined Tony staring at his cock when Tony first came
into the bathroom.

His arousal returned, but when he fantasized about Tony
this time, it was without a trace of guilt.

***

Dinner was an exercise in self-control for Daniel.

Tony was uneasy at first, probably feeling abashed after
being caught staring at Daniel in the shower, but after a few
drinks he loosened up. They reminisced about their shared
summer in Atlantic City and told each other about their
respective lives afterwards.

Daniel couldn't stop watching Tony. The way Tony's
dimple showed when he laughed, the way his eyes closed
when his lips closed over his fork, and the way his tongue
swept his lower lip after taking a drink were fascinating.
Daniel found himself in a constant battle to keep from
flirting openly with Tony.

Not here, he thought. Not in a public place. But when we
get back to the house, all bets are off. He was fairly
confident that he and Tony buttered their bread on the same
side, and couldn't wait to test his theory.

Back at the house, they sat on the sofa and turned the
television on, but Daniel's mind was not on the reality show
Tony tuned in. It was on the warm smell of man Tony
exuded, and the way his shirt clung to his pectoral muscles.

Cherry on Top - 27

Tony had some damn fine pecs, Daniel thought. He
couldn't wait to lift that shirt and get a better look at them,
and decided the time had come to broach the subject.

"Tony," Daniel said in a low, sultry voice. "Can I ask you
something? If I'm wrong, just tell me and I swear I'll never
bring it up again."

"Sure. Shoot."

"When you came into the bathroom while I was, er... taking
a shower, did you like what you--"

Tony suddenly bolt up from the sofa, startling Daniel into
silence. Sure, he knew there was a chance that he was
mistaken about Tony, but he didn't think Tony would react
so strongly. Tony was pacing back and forth, his face
crumpled into a deep scowl.

"Tony, look... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset--"

Tony spun to face him. "It was me! Okay? Fuck. I didn't
know what was going to happen. I just wanted you to be
okay!"

Daniel blinked, trying to make sense of what Tony was
trying to say. His fault? For what? Getting an eyeful of
Daniel in the shower? "I don't understand, Tony. So you
saw my dick. It's not a big deal."

"Huh? No, I'm not talking about the shower, for God's
sake." Tony thrust his hand through his hair. He looked
caught halfway between frustration and anger. "It was me,
Danny. That summer. I'm the reason you got sent to foster
homes."

Cherry on Top - 28

Daniel felt a cold finger trace his spine, making him shiver.
It had been shortly after returning from Atlantic City that
the first caseworker had shown up at the house. "What are
you talking about?"

Tony sank onto the couch next to Daniel. He bent over,
holding his face in his hands. "It's my fault, Danny. I
promised you I wouldn't tell, remember? I broke that
promise. I told my grandparents."

"Told them...?"

"That your dad broke your arm. Nonna went crazy, but
Nonno calmed her down. He said maybe it was an accident
or something. Nonna agreed, but she made him call the
state."

Daniel sat back against the sofa cushions, stunned. "They
sent a caseworker. After she left, my dad beat me black and
blue. He accused me of telling after he warned me not to. I
think my mom was scared of him, but the caseworker came
back the next day. I think my mom called her. The
caseworker had the police with her, and they took me
away."

"I'm so sorry, Danny!" Maybe it was only the booze, but
Tony had tears in his eyes. "I've felt so fucking guilty all
these years. I wanted to tell you in every letter I wrote, but I
couldn't bring myself to do it."

"My folks didn't want to take me back. I think my dad was
still furious that he'd been caught out and that my mom
didn't trust him not to hurt me if I came home. I went to see

Cherry on Top - 29

them once after I turned eighteen. Neither of them was
particularly glad to see me."

"If I had known the state would take you away, I never
would've said anything, I swear! I thought they'd just make
your dad stop hurting you. I'm so sorry, Danny."

Daniel thought he should feel angry and betrayed, but he
was too used to keeping his feelings buried. "Don't be. You
were only a kid yourself. Besides, most of my foster
families were okay. The last one was a little nuts, but at
least nobody hurt me anymore. I'm okay, now."

"You sure? You forgive me?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've got some issues, but they're not your
fault."

Tony rubbed his face, obviously uncomfortable with his
show of emotion. "Issues? Like what?"

Daniel shrugged. "Sometimes I just get the feeling that
maybe I deserve to be hurt. My dad hit me, and so did my
boyfriend."

Tony's head shot up, thunderclouds suddenly boiling in his
eyes. "Your boyfriend hurt you? Who is he? Where is he?
I'll fucking kill him. Nobody deserves to be hit, Danny."

Something broke through the numbing cocoon Daniel had
erected around himself. It was as if his entire emotional
façade had been riddled with cracks and, with Tony's
confession, had burst. Still, he was shocked to feel
anything, let alone the fury that soured his stomach and
brought the sting of tears to his eyes. He squeezed them

Cherry on Top - 30

shut. "Don't worry about him -- he's gone. But maybe you
can explain to me why everybody who ever said they loved
me has hurt me."

There was silence between them for a few moments, thick
and heavy. "I didn't," Tony said in a low voice. "Not on
purpose. I was only trying to help you, Danny, not hurt
you."

Daniel opened his eyes at the touch of Tony's warm hand
on his. "You don't understand--"

"No, Danny. You're the one who doesn't understand."
Tony's blue eyes were wet. "I've loved you since that
summer, Danny."

"Tony--"

"It's true! I tried to find you, Danny. The state wouldn't
give me any fucking information. I went to your parents'
house, but they didn't live there anymore. I even placed an
ad in the newspaper, hoping you'd see it. I never stopped
hoping. When you walked into the restaurant today, I
thought I'd finally lost my mind, that I was seeing things."

Daniel stared at Tony, unsure of what to say. Sure, he'd
been hoping to seduce Tony, but this shed a whole new
light on things. "We were only kids then, Tony. We've
changed. You don't know me. I don't know you."

"We can learn."

"It was your first crush, Tony. That doesn't mean--"

Cherry on Top - 31

Tony shook his head. "No. I've never felt like this about
anybody since, Danny. I love you. Or at least, I know I will
if you'll let me."

"Tony..."

"You said everybody you've ever loved has hurt you. I
haven't, and I won't. Give me a chance, Danny."

Tony leaned in toward him. His lips were slightly parted,
and oh, so tempting. Before Danny could stop himself, he
met Tony halfway.

The kiss was tentative, soft, and far too brief, but it stirred
Danny's body and did something odd to his chest
somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. They broke apart,
eyes searching the other's face for a hint of what the other
was thinking.

"Danny, I want more," Tony whispered. His fingers were
calloused but gentle, touching Daniel's cheek. "I want you."

This was the moment Daniel had sensed coming. He
needed to make a decision. He could take a chance and
possibly get hurt again, or walk away from the one person
who'd been his friend throughout all his troubled years. The
man who'd happily accepted Daniel back without question.
Tony was the one person who could not only hurt Daniel,
but completely devastate him.

Daniel looked into Tony's eyes, guileless and hopeful, and
knew. "Yeah? Me, too. If you're sure."

"Am I sure?" Tony chuckled. "I've only been fantasizing
about this for the last fifteen years!"

Cherry on Top - 32

Daniel's lips twisted into a sideways smile. "I hope I can
live up to your expectations."

"Don't worry." Tony's hand slid to the back of Daniel's
neck, pulling him in for a deeper, longer kiss that Daniel
felt all the way to his toes. "You're so fucking hot, there's
no way you can disappoint."

The bedroom was only a few short steps from the living
room, and about as typically bachelor as any Daniel had
ever seen. A queen-sized bed took up most of the room.
The only other piece of furniture was a four-drawer dresser.
The white walls were blank except for a New Jersey Devils
pennant pinned over the dresser. Light came from four
candlelight bulbs in the ceiling fan fixture.

Daniel snickered, standing in the doorway while Tony
hurriedly snatched odd pieces of clothing from the bed and
floor. "Tony? I really don't give a shit if your room is
messy," he said.

"I'm not usually such a pig. I was just--"

"Tony. Get naked. Now," Daniel ordered as he pulled his
T-shirt up over his head and kicked off his shoes. That last
kiss had pushed him over the edge. His body was strung
tight with need, and quite frankly, at this point, now that his
decision had been made, he didn't care if they had sex in a
dumpster, as long as they had sex.

Tony stood stock still near the foot of the bed, one hand
holding up a stray black sock, and the other a pair of jeans,
staring at him as Daniel shucked his pants and underwear.

Cherry on Top - 33

Daniel shook his head and walked over to Tony. Seriously,
the man had a deer-in-the-headlights look that would make
hunters cream in their bright orange pants. He decided the
only way to move things along was to take control of the
situation. He dropped to his knees and reached for Tony's
zipper. Without ceremony, he slid open the zipper and
yanked Tony's jeans and underwear down, baring Tony's
erection.

Tony's cock was thick and hard, rosy red and glistening
with precome. The musky smell of arousal filled Daniel's
nostrils as he closed his lips over it, one hand stroking the
stalk, another cupping Tony's heavy balls.

"Oh, God. Oh, fuck!" Tony groaned. His fingers slid
through Daniel's hair. "More like that, Danny. Suck me."

Daniel threw himself into it, sucking hard, flicking his
tongue over the tiny slit at the head. He massaged Tony's
sac, giving it a few gentle tugs.

"Please, Danny. Gonna come. Want to. Please!"

Daniel released Tony's dick, and looked up at him. "Come.
I want to watch you." He began jerking Tony's cock with
light, quick strokes, the way he'd want to be touched.

Tony's head snapped back, his mouth open in a silent cry,
and Daniel felt spurts of wetness. With a last shudder,
Tony's eyes opened, darkened by his orgasm. "You now,"
he said. "You, Danny."

"Lie down on the bed," Daniel ordered. Once Tony was
lying spread-eagle on the bed, Daniel straddled his
shoulders. "Suck me."

Cherry on Top - 34

Tony's mouth felt like wet, hot heaven. It was all Daniel
could do not to come quickly as Tony's teeth scraped his
dick's sensitive skin, and tongue laved the rounded tip. He
lost the battle for self control when Tony's fingers found
the crack of his ass and gently probed his hole. He pulled
away, jerking off, painting Tony's face with white streaks
of come.

"Fuck, that was good," Daniel sighed. He slid over onto his
back, lying next to Tony.

"And it only took us fifteen years to hook up," Tony added
with a laugh.

"I take it I didn't destroy all your fantasies?"

"Not even close. You were fantastic. Better than I ever
imagined. Of course, this was only our first time. I've got
fifteen years' worth of fantasies for us to re-enact."

Daniel propped himself up on one elbow. "First time?
Listen, Tony... I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship
yet. I don't want to destroy our friendship just when we
found each other again."

He found himself lying flat on his back in an instant, with a
pair of robin's egg blue eyes glaring at him. "Danny, if you
think I'm going to let you walk away from me, you're nuts.
You want to take it slow? Okay. I can do that. But please
don't tell me you don't want me because you're afraid I'll
hurt you. I can't accept that."

"It's not impossible, Tony. You might get tired of me. Or I
might piss you off, or--"

Cherry on Top - 35

Tony silenced him with a deep, long kiss. "Nothing you can
ever do would make me want to hurt you. You need time to
learn to trust me, for me to prove myself to you? Okay,
you've got it. I waited fifteen years for you; I can wait a
while longer. Just promise me that you'll give me a
chance."

Danny looked into Tony's eyes, and saw again the young
boy who'd promised to write and had been true to his word.
He saw the boy who had Daniel's best interest at heart even
then, when they'd only known each other for a couple of
weeks. He saw the man who'd tried to find him, and who'd
never stopped hoping they would see each other again.

And he knew he'd come home again.

Cherry on Top - 36

A Better Fate than Wisdom

By Lee Benoit

Sister City, 1978

1. Alex

Just another Saturday night, right? Alex could do this. He
knotted his polo sweater a little higher over his lemon-
yellow Izod and pushed open the door of the club. Not his
usual place, but he was here on a mission. The place
sounded just like he'd expected -- hard-driving rock and roll
played at eardrum-rupture volume. If that were the only
difference, he'd have been relieved. The usual round of
disco hits and mixes got a little tired after a year or two of
Saturday nights.

But no, Steamroller was dark, monochrome. No mirror ball,
no neon. The drinks in men's hands were monochromatic
on the beer-to-whisky spectrum, and the men themselves
were monochrome, too. Alex had never seen this much
black leather outside of Drummer magazine. Not that he
read Drummer. He was more a GQ type. Leather was just
so... rough. Not Alex's style at all. Nope. He was here on a
mission for the local gay rag. Alex suspected his editor had
assigned him this story as a joke, or maybe as revenge for
Alex declining his advances. Alex should never have shot
down his boss, but seriously, the guy was, like, thirty-five,
and Alex's ten-year rule wouldn't take the strain.

Cherry on Top - 37

So. Find old-guard leather guys and interview them about
their place in the New Gay Culture. Shouldn't be too tough
to do in a leather bar. Alex ordered a Cosmo -- it was the
wrong color drink, to be sure, and he ought to at least try to
fit in, not that a Cosmo was a usual accessory for his part-
time reporting gig. He was dressed to work, not to trick, but
even if he’d been dressed for a night out, that fitting in
thing was just not going to happen. The bartender gave him
a seriously grim look, but Alex stood his ground, right
down to his loafers, and the man mixed the damn drink.

Alex scanned the room, wishing he had a contact at least.
He considered going back to the bartender, but the guy was
scary and no mistake. Beefy older guys in leather held
court here and there, and younger guys paid tribute. The
stereotype was in full flower, that was for sure, with chest
harnesses and leather vests and -- oh sweet Jesus, were
those chaps? Tempting as it was to roll his eyes and
dismiss these guys, Alex had enough self-awareness to
know that his own brand of gay guy was a joke to these
men, too. Common ground -- that would make a good
theme for his article. Alex redoubled his efforts to find an
approachable port in this sea of leather and testosterone.

Oh, hello. Over by the dance floor -- if you could call that
dancing -- sat a leather-capped, mustachioed, hairy, burly
general of the leather legions. And with him was a denim-
clad demigod -- a lieutenant, maybe. The sidekick was dark
and brooding and -- oh, God, yes -- staring twin bottomless
holes right into Alex's soul.

Okay, that was a gross exaggeration. But the guy was
giving Alex a pretty thorough once-over. Contact! Alex
found his best smile, aimed it right back at the guy, and let
it lead him and his Cosmo across the crowded room.

Cherry on Top - 38

2. Bruno

"Fuck!" Sir guffawed as the little club clone made his way
over from the bar. "Looks like Dorothy took a wrong turn
down the rabbit hole."

No one teased Sir in public, but if they'd been alone, Bruno
would have called him on his messed-up allusions and
taken any lumps for it. Old man had one thing right,
though. Pretty boy was way off his home turf.

Bruno felt a flash of guilt for sending the kid the signal that
was bringing him over here. Sir wasn't exactly a welcoming
sort to outsiders. Hell, it had taken Bruno months of
haunting Steamroller to get Sir to notice him. Sir was what
any boy would want, and Bruno had been raised to set his
sights high. Licking jackboots probably wasn't what his
sainted father had in mind when he drilled that catechism,
but Bruno had gotten what he wanted.

So why was he ogling some honeysuckle nancy boy?
Bruno missed the kid's polite introduction, but gathered that
he was some kind of social critic for some kind of queer
'zine and wanted to interview Sir. Bruno got the feeling any
sir would do, and that was bound to piss off his particular
sir.

Sure enough, Sir took thoughtful sips of his single malt
while taking the kid's measure and cutting him down in one
fell swoop.

"Hear that, boy? Judy here wants my pronouncements on
the relevance of leather culture!" Sir laughed again, his
proud dome of a belly heaving and his eyes hard and

Cherry on Top - 39

pointed as drill bits. He turned those eyes on Bruno. "Why
don't you take him, Bruno? Give him the low-down."

The words sounded generous, like Sir trusted Bruno with
the responsibility of speaking for men like themselves. But
Bruno knew the language of Sir's body and tone. This was
a kiss-off. To the little reporter and to him. He glanced
around their part of the club, and his traitor heart sank.
Crossing the room toward them was Dan, Bruno's nastiest
rival for Sir's attention.

"Sir, I haven't even earned my leathers yet. Surely Dan
could give more accurate information. Especially about our
history." Bruno knew he was being catty, emphasizing the
last word as Dan reached earshot, but he didn't want to get
sent away on some fool's errand and leave the way open for
Dan. Sir wasn't all that constant in his affections, and
Bruno knew it too well.

Sir narrowed his eyes. "Go on, boy. Dan and I have
business to discuss anyway." He turned to the reporter with
a razored smile. "It was lovely meeting you, Alice."

Bruno wouldn't give Dan -- or Sir -- the satisfaction of
losing his cool, so he turned to the reporter and pointed
toward the back door. "Might as well talk in the alley.
Quieter." And he stalked away without a backward glance
at any of them.

The reporter caught up before Bruno had taken five steps,
apparently flowing like water around all the leathermen
blocking his way. Bruno was surprised to feel the guy's
hand on his arm and, when he whirled to growl, even more
surprised to find they were almost the same height. The guy
looked so little, talking to Sir. Height or no, he was still the

Cherry on Top - 40

prettiest thing Bruno had seen in Steamroller, and somehow
that thought gave him a thrill instead of a shudder. Go
figure.

"Alex," the reporter said.

"What?"

"My name. It's Alex, not Alice." The reporter cocked his
head and gave a queeny eyeroll, which Bruno answered
with as menacing a scowl as he could muster. It felt like
scowling at a daisy, though, futile and ridiculous. Not
bothering to dislodge Alex's hand from his arm, Bruno
continued toward the door to the alley.

"And I believe the Generalissimo back there called you
Boy? Surely that's not your name."

Oh, surely not. "Bruno," said Bruno, and slammed the back
door open. The summer smell of asphalt and garbage was
most welcome, if only because it meant Steamroller was
behind him, at least for tonight.

The soft hand ran up and down Bruno's arm, coming to rest
on his bicep with a flirty squeeze. "Bruno. Much better.
You can't possibly be anyone's boy."

Bruno would have blinked in confusion, but his eyes were
too busy bugging out. Was this guy for real?

Cherry on Top - 41

3. Alex

The air of the alley was warmer than that in the club, and
Alex tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid smelling
the rotty fug of the narrow, dark space.

"Interesting place for an interview," he said, and his voice
came out thin and airy. "You leather boys have the most
delightful sense of style."

"Knock it off, man," Bruno said. "You can't be that much
of a fairy."

Of course he could, Alex thought, but didn't say so. The
thin breaths he'd been barely managing to draw were stolen
by Bruno's looming nearness as the man invaded his space.
He backed up until he could go no further, his shoulders
flush against the bricks of the club's wall.

He was mortified to discover that his hips weren't likewise
braced, but rather leaned toward the thickness of Bruno's
body. "My, what a big boy you are," he camped to cover
his embarrassment at his own sluttishness. This Bruno was
most definitely not his type. The boys at the paper, or even
worse, the gallery that was his primary job, would laugh
their carefully-coiffed heads off if they could see him now.

Bruno was leaning closer, positively looming, and, oh, the
smell of him erased the stink of the alley. He smelled of
laundry soap, the aggressive clean of a guy whose mom
still did his laundry. Where that thought came from, Alex
had no idea, but it made him giggle. When he did, Bruno
eased back away from him and the alley smell rushed back,
making Alex gag lightly.

Cherry on Top - 42

Bruno didn't look at him, didn't apologize for violating his
space, didn't comment on Alex's reaction to his advance.
"Guess you'd better just ask your questions," he said.

Alex was so grateful not to have to justify his strange
reaction to this rough, slightly scary man that he replied
without thinking. "Why don't we do it at my place? It's
quieter and... cleaner."

"Sir won't be looking for me anyway," Bruno said as if to
himself. "Not with Dan there." He looked at Alex and held
out his hand, grinning wolfishly. "Sure, let's do it at your
place, Alex."

How nice his name sounded in the man's deep voice! Alex
didn't think twice about taking Bruno's hand until after he'd
done it. Something about Bruno felt safe. The feeling
surprised Alex. Surely he felt safe with his friends from the
club scene. His random hookups weren't as random as they
seemed, as his network of acquaintances pretty much vetted
any new attendee at their soirees and club nights. He's gone
home with strangers, of course, but they'd always been
strangers known to someone he knew.

No one he knew, knew Bruno. Alex was as sure of that as
he was that Bruno's mom did his laundry. Those two
thoughts should have cancelled each other out and made
Alex retract his offer. They could do the interview just as
well in a coffee shop.

But Alex left his hand right where it was, wrapped in
Bruno's big, warm fist, and led the man home.

Cherry on Top - 43

4. Bruno

Alex's apartment surprised Bruno. It gave off more of an
impoverished student vibe than the self-conscious urban
chic Bruno would have expected. And if Alex's one-eyed
cat was standard issue for the modern gay man about town,
Bruno was definitely behind the zeitgeist.

"He came with the apartment," Alex said, scooping up the
scruffy feline and cooing in its tattered ear. "We suit."

"No need to be defensive," Bruno said, laughing. "I have a
cat, too."

"I won't tell, promise," Alex said. "I thought you fellows
were supposed to keep decommissioned police dogs or
something."

"Nah," Bruno said. "Older guys keep boys like me. Boys
like me..."

"Live with their moms and have pet cats?" Alex finished.

Bruno shrugged. "Yeah, and work in our dad's barber shops
and live deep in the closet." Oh, shit. That was definitely
too much information. He looked around the small
apartment. No way out except through Alex.

"Don't worry, fella. Secret's safe and all that. So, how do
you want to do this? You could tell me your life story, or I
could ask questions, or whatever."

"How about you ask me your questions in the morning?"
Bruno said. What was he saying? Oh, fuck, Sir was going
to chew him a new one if this got out of hand.

Cherry on Top - 44

Alex grinned, and suddenly Bruno didn't give a rat's ass if
Sir got pissed.

"I have a feeling you might just answer all my questions
before morning," Alex said. He sashayed like a drag diva
toward the apartment's bedroom, laying it on thick.

Thick was Bruno's new favorite word. For the second time
that evening, he followed where Alex led.

Once inside the tiny bedroom, Alex unwound the preppy
sweater from his shoulders and whipped off his polo shirt
to reveal a smooth, pale expanse of skin. He looked
delicious and fragile, like zeppole on St. Joseph's Day.

Bruno's cock stretched out as best it could in the well-worn
basket of his jeans, but Bruno didn't make a move. He was
forced to admit that he didn't have the first clue what to do
next. If he was with Sir or one of Sir's friends, he'd drop to
his knees and drive them crazy with his mouth. But Sir had
never prepared him to take a boy of his own. Not that that
was what was happening here. Was it?

"What say we start with a kiss, big boy?" Alex crooned
from beside the bed.

Cherry on Top - 45

5. Alex

I'm such an idiot, Alex thought to himself as he skinned out
of his pants. He was camping it up like he would with one
of his usual club tricks. It was part ironic and part self
defense, and one hundred percent stupid if he wanted to
make it with Bruno.

Whatever leather dudes did together, Alex was reasonably
sure it didn't involve crooning and silliness. Bruno wasn't
quite what Alex had expected, but he was still a leather
man, right? Maybe it was because he was young, maybe
some other reason, but Bruno didn't have that hard edge the
type called for. Or maybe it was true, what Alex's editor
had said, that there really was a man behind every
stereotype, and all you had to do to break down barriers
was get to know someone.

Glancing across the room, Alex watched Bruno shed his
denim jacket. The white T-shirt he wore underneath was a
hair too tight -- or just right, Alex thought, and felt his
smile returning. Thick, hairy forearms led his eye up to
hairless, softball-sized biceps. Yum. The shirt's hem
disappeared behind a wide black belt and into those
insanely tight jeans. Man, they looked like Bruno had
sandpapered the crotch -- how else could he have faded and
softened the basket so it highlighted Bruno's rebar cock and
prominent balls? Oh, yes indeed, Alex was ready to get to
know Bruno, cock first, so he'd be less likely to say
something that would send Bruno running for the hills.

Then Bruno reached for his belt buckle, and Alex knew
exactly what he wanted next.

Cherry on Top - 46

Completely naked, Alex crossed the room hastily,
abandoning seduction for the moment and stopping just shy
of touching Bruno. "Leave them on? Please? I want--"

This close, Alex could feel the heat and catch the scent of
the man. Smoke from the club was fading, and that
bleachy, laundry smell he'd noticed in the alley was giving
way to the musk of horny man. The smell made Alex want
to seal himself against Bruno's body and just breathe.
Plenty of time for that, Alex counseled himself, which
wasn't true because Bruno would be gone as soon as they
both came. At least, Alex hoped they'd both be coming. If
he had anything to say about it, Bruno would be coming
really soon, down Alex's throat. Which was why he'd
rushed across the room like an honor student late for the
school bus.

Bruno hadn't said anything, just stood there watching. He
seemed to know what was on Alex's mind, though, because
he crossed those arms, really slowly, letting the muscles
flex all the way from wrist to shoulder. The movement
plumped up his pecs under the T-shirt, and Alex could
swear he saw the ridges of chest hair underneath. He
definitely saw the darker protrusions of Bruno's nipples.
Man, he wanted...

Just then, Bruno widened his stance, all slow and
deliberate, and canted his monster package toward Alex,
and Alex's mouth flooded with spit and need.

"What do you want, boy?" Bruno rumbled, and it was like
the sound alone strengthened the force of gravity in the
room and drove Alex to kneel.

Cherry on Top - 47

"I want to suck you. Then undress you and suck you some
more." Alex didn't wait for permission. He wrapped his
fingers around the warm leather of Bruno's belt and tugged
him closer. Bruno didn't break his stance but simply let his
hips angle even more sharply forward.

For some reason Alex thought that was the sexiest thing
he'd ever seen. His cock gave a surprised little lurch and
tried to deny gravity altogether.

But it would have to wait. That soft, soft denim over that
hard bulge called to him, it really did, in a deep dark
baritone that required an answer. Alex opened his mouth
and closed the distance. God, the smell of the man! Tide
and Niagara spray starch and smoke and musk. Alex found
the join of Bruno's balls and cock and pressed his open
mouth there, lipping the fabric like a hungry lamb until he
couldn't wait one more minute to taste flesh.

He reached up blindly and unbuckled the heavy belt, slid
the brass button through its hole, and dragged the zipper
down until the tab met his upper lip and he had to draw
back to get Bruno bare. The man's briefs were dazzlingly
white in the murky room, and there was a damp spot to the
left of the placket. Alex dove for that patch, adding his own
spit until he could mold the jersey to the broad head of
Bruno's cock. It was one of his favorite moves, and it
usually drove guys wild, so why wasn't Bruno--

Hands landed on Alex's hair, and though Bruno didn't say a
word or shift his boulder-like stance, Alex knew he had his
man. Oh, yeah. He used his teeth to draw the band of
Bruno's briefs down, pulling it out over the head of that
magnificent prick, letting the elastic drag a bit, and settling
it under the man's prodigious balls. The black hair there

Cherry on Top - 48

was silky and plentiful, and Alex spent long, happy
moments pasting it down with his spit before dragging his
tongue up -- and up and up -- Bruno's length and sucking
hard.

That got a response, and Alex pulled off long enough to
grin up at Bruno, still in his T-shirt. "Off," said Alex,
tugging the hem. "Can you go twice?" he asked.

Bruno's face was hidden within the fabric of his shirt, so
Alex couldn't see his expression when he growled, "Not
usually."

That was something to work on, then, but not tonight, and
where had that thought come from anyway? Surely this was
a one-off. If all Alex had was this one night, he knew what
he wanted. He gave one, final, fast, deep-throating suck,
just so Bruno would know what he was missing.

"Guess you'd better fuck me, then."

Cherry on Top - 49

6. Bruno

Bruno flung his shirt in the general direction of his jacket,
and hauled Alex up to face him. "You want me to...?"

"Fuck me." Alex crossed surprisingly buff arms and
regarded him primly. "Yes, I most certainly do."

Sir never wanted to be fucked, of course, and neither did
his friends. No one thought Bruno was ready for a boy of
his own, not until he scored his leathers, so a particular fact
about Bruno's experience had never been an issue. Alex
should know, though. "I've never fucked anyone."

"Ridiculous," Alex said, and reached around Bruno for a
mostly-full tube of KY jelly. "Look at you."

Bruno looked down his body, past his hairy chest with its
prominent nipples to his fuzzy belly and rampant dick
rearing up from its unruly coat of pubes. Maybe in Alex's
world a big, hairy bear of a guy was expected to top, but in
his world, well, no. At least, not yet.

Bruno worked on kicking out of his boots and jeans to buy
himself time. "You don't top, ever?" he asked Alex, hoping
there might be a way around this little snag.

Alex squirted a dab of lube onto his fingers. "Not if I can
help it," he said. Then he turned and braced one arm against
the mattress, reaching around to probe his hole with his
slick fingers.

It was hairless and looked sweet. Bruno huffed out a breath
and grabbed Alex's wrist before he the man could touch
himself. With a thud, Bruno landed on his knees behind

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Alex and used both of his big, dark hands to prise Alex's
cheeks even wider. "Want to taste," he mumbled before
diving in.

Alex's reaction was gratifying, to say the least. He bucked
and squealed like a kid in Bruno's papa's barber shop
getting his first crew cut. Bruno didn't dig his fingers into
the flesh of Alex's hips the way he might have with one of
Sir's buddies. He didn't want to hurt the smaller man.
Instead, he chased that little hole around, getting in a lick
here and there, humming and slurping and eventually
laughing his ass off. Sex had never been so much fun.

Then he remembered what Alex wanted him to do, and he
pulled back a little, inciting a groan of protest from Alex.
Bruno needed a minute, though, so he took his time laying
openmouthed kisses all over Alex's rump and even letting
himself suck up a tiny mark. The sight of the love bite
made his dick lurch. "You sure you want me to?" he finally
said.

Alex turned to look at Bruno's face. "You don't want to?"

Alex looked so uncertain that Bruno rushed to say, "It's not
that. It's just, you like it?" Bruno tried to keep the
incredulity out of his voice, but knew he'd failed when Alex
turned all the way to sit on the bed, bracketing Bruno's
body with his long, smooth legs.

"I do. You don't, I take it."

"That's just it," Bruno said. "I take it. I take it like a man,
and you don't seem the sort."

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"I'm not." Alex's mouth would have been a firm line had he
not been sucking Bruno's soul out his prick minutes before.
"I am the sort that likes a good fuck with a handsome man.
I more than like getting fucked. It's not something I just
'take.' So relax, would you?"

Bruno leaned in to steal a kiss from the swollen lips. "Not
likely. I don't want to hurt you."

Alex kissed him back and playfully poked Bruno's puffy
nips before angling down to suck on them.

"Aah!" Bruno grunted and arched. His nipples were his
Achilles' heel.

"You're a big old teddy bear," Alex said around his fleshy
mouthful. "You wouldn't hurt a bee for honey. You won't
hurt a boy for hiney, either." He leaned back to display his
lean, silken torso and his wet, heavy cock. "Unless you
leave me hanging, big boy."

The sight of that sweet bod offered up just for him made
Bruno's decision for him. This time, he reached for the KY
himself and dolloped his fingers. "Just remember, you
asked for it."

"No, baby, I begged for it, just so we're clear." And with
that, Alex clambered higher up on the bed and presented
his ass to Bruno.

Bruno wasted no time, especially once he found how
yielding Alex's hole was to one finger, two, three. Alex was
making the most amazing, wanton sounds and clawing
peaks in the bedspread.

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"Now," Bruno warned.

"Better be," Alex warned back.

And Bruno glided home. Alex didn't speak at all after that,
and even his noises lost their voice, becoming nothing more
than ragged, sharp-edged gasps. Guiding Alex with a hand
firmly in the small of his back, Bruno tried different angles
until he found one that made Alex shudder with every
thrust and sob with every withdrawal. All the angles were
good for Bruno, and he was glad he'd jacked off in the
shower that morning because this would have been over
well before he followed Alex's advice -- relaxed -- and
discovered that he really, really loved to fuck.

"And you're really, really good at it," Alex said a few hours
later, after they'd collapsed in a sweaty, spunky pile and
napped until dawn. "You should definitely fuck me again.
Stay for breakfast?"

Sister City, Present Day

"That breakfast was the first of many." Alex buttered his
scone and smiled affectionately at his lover.

"How many mornings after are there in thirty-two years?"
Bruno returned the look and winked at the kid behind the
bakery counter.

"You guys are too much," little Sammy said with an
admiring grin, and poured them their twelve-thousandth
morning coffee.

Cherry on Top - 53

Green Carnations

By G.S. Wiley

"'The only thing worse than being talked about is not being
talked about,'" Lord Anthony Rothesay said between stiff
lips.

"Oscar Wilde." James Rivest dipped his paintbrush into a
smudge of black on his palette. He daubed it onto the
canvas in front of him, into the shadow of Lord Anthony's
family robe. "You needn't worry about standing still for the
moment."

"I've met him, you know." Lord Anthony visibly relaxed,
rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms.

"Indeed?" James had seen Wilde only once from afar,
dining at the Savoy with an impenetrable coterie of
beautiful young men. "What is he like?"

"Taller than one would expect."

James wiped the paintbrush on a rag and squinted at his
work. "Not much longer, my lord," James assured his
subject. "I just want to get the colors right."

"Of course, of course." Lord Anthony nodded and stilled,
his back straight and his eyes fixed on some point over
James' shoulder. "Walter tells me you usually paint children
and dogs." This was Walter Dorans, the mutual friend who
had introduced James and his latest subject.

Cherry on Top - 54

"Not by choice." If he'd had a choice, James would have
liked to be the next Michelangelo, painting inspirational
scenes to last generations. But the market for generations-
lasting inspirational scenes was small, and the market for
sentimental portraits of wide-eyed children and droopy-
eared spaniels was seemingly endless.

"I don't know. Seems like they could lend a portrait a
certain gravitas if they were done right." Lord Anthony
smiled. "Perhaps that's just what I need. You could throw in
a mastiff or two here." He gestured beside him. "Might
make people think I'm a man not to be trifled with."

"I'm certain nobody thinks that, my lord."

"You clearly haven't met my brother."

James laughed aloud. He glanced up from his canvas to see
Lord Anthony looking back at him, his astonishing blue
eyes meeting James'. James licked his lips and looked
away. "If you continue to distract me, my lord, you will end
up with a portrait that is talked about for all the wrong
reasons."

"I have my doubts about that," Lord Anthony replied. "As
soon as people see I've been painted by the great James
Rivest, they're bound to think I'm someone important." It
was flattery, and idle flattery at that. James still felt his
cheeks redden under the weight of the compliment. "You
know," Lord Anthony went on, "it might do me some good
to be seen with you in public. How would you feel if I
asked you to dinner? Depending on how much I like the
portrait's progress, of course." He winked.

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James swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It was not his
nature to flirt in the shameless way of Walter and some of
their other friends, but Lord Anthony was a very handsome
man. As Walter had promised, James had felt an attraction
toward him from the moment they met. Walter was always
devilishly astute when it came to such matters. "I would be
tempted to consent," James replied. "Depending on how
much you like the portrait's progress. Of course."

Lord Anthony roared with laughter. James returned to his
work, his heart beating faster beneath his artist's smock.

***

"He is entirely perfect for you," Walter Dorans had said, as
he and James sat in a little bohemian teahouse in
Bloomsbury. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray in front of
them. The entire place had a smoky, incense-and-tobacco-
like smell to it. "Lord Anthony Rothesay." Walter repeated
the name, rolling it over his tongue like he was savoring a
fine port. "Absolutely gorgeous and just the kind of man
you like."

"Is that right?" James sipped his tea. At the next table, a
small group of very intense-looking young men were
engaged in a heated debate. From the snippets of
conversation James kept catching, it seemed to be on the
subject of Catholicism, one of the favorite topics for a
clientele such as this. "And what kind of man is that?"
Walter was a very dear friend, but since he had met the
American expatriate Jasper Wentworth, whom Walter
called his "heart's true mate," he'd been insufferable about
trying to introduce James to eligible men.

Cherry on Top - 56

"Older, but not too old," Walter explained. "I think he's
about thirty-five." It was a good beginning. James
appreciated the downy beauty of youth as much as the next
man, particularly if the next man happened to be Walter,
but at twenty-nine, he was rapidly losing patience with its
callowness and self-serving attitudes. "He's divorced, but
that was so many years ago, the scandal has very nearly
died down to nothing. Most people aren't even aware he
was ever married. He's the brother of the Marquess of
Aldershot," Walter paused, as if to give James time to
recognize the name. "And he loves your work."

James raised his eyebrows. "What has he seen?"

"Lady Bosanquet showed him the portrait you did of her
granddaughters. He thought it was marvelous."

"Then I cannot commend his artistic taste."

"James." Walter shook his head indulgently. "You are too
modest. The portrait is a triumph." It was, in fact, a
pedestrian study of eight blonde girls of various ages and
temperaments forced against their will into matching
diaphanous dresses and hair ribbons. The sittings had been
a nightmare for all concerned. "If you are not yet
convinced, I can only tell you again that Lord Anthony is
exactly your kind of man." He emphasized the last word.
James knew what he meant.

James was open minded. He had friends of all social
statuses and backgrounds, and he liked to think he could
find something of value in just about anybody. When it
came to lovers, however, he was extremely picky. In affairs
of the bedroom and affairs of the heart, James wanted a
man who was a man, strong and powerful, who could care

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for him and dominate him and overwhelm him in the best
possible way. It was why James and Walter had never
succeeded as more than friends. "Two green carnations,"
was how Walter described them, "each in search of a
prickly hawthorn bush to call his own." Walter had
evidently found his "hawthorn bush" in Jasper Wentworth
and had taken it upon himself to find a corresponding one
for James.

"I know you are cautious," Walter went on. "So you needn't
jump into anything. Lord Anthony's interested in giving
you a commission."

"A portrait?" Not, James hoped fervently, of a snub-nosed
Pekingese or a red-faced infant.

Walter nodded. "Of himself in his family regalia. If you
take a liking to one another, who knows where it might
lead?"

"Perhaps to more commissions." Lord Anthony doubtlessly
had friends with just as much money and just as little sense.

Walter rolled his eyes. "I had thought of something a little
more romantic."

James shrugged. "I suppose we shall have to see."

Despite himself, James was excited when Lord Anthony
came into the studio for the first sitting. James was always
excited to begin a new painting. When the subject was as
handsome and alluring as Lord Anthony, the task was even
more pleasant.

Cherry on Top - 58

Lord Anthony didn't say much at first. Like most subjects,
he thought he had to sit immobile for hours, that the
slightest twitch of a finger or shift of position might ruin
the entire portrait. James focused on his work, sketching
the outlines of Lord Anthony's admittedly fine figure in a
rich red, ermine-trimmed cape and thigh-high leather boots.
At the second sitting some days later, James was able to
exchange a few words with Lord Anthony. By the third
sitting, when Lord Anthony invited him for dinner, James
was beginning to think there might be some remote
possibility of Walter being right.

Lord Anthony waited in the sitting room adjacent to James'
studio while James changed into something more suitable.
He selected a dark green jacket and matching velvet
trousers from his wardrobe and ran a silver brush through
his hair, which was longer than most men's without being
outlandishly bohemian. James placed an embroidered hat
on his head and paused for a moment, wondering whether
he ought to add a green carnation, the symbol of the
aesthetic movement and of a gentleman of certain tastes
and temperament. He decided against it. Walter's
assurances aside, he did not know Lord Anthony well
enough to anticipate how the other man might react.

In the sitting room, Lord Anthony sat on the low ottoman,
peering at the collection of a hundred stuffed birds in glass
cases.

"I inherited them from my grandfather," James said, lest
Lord Anthony think he had gone out and shot them all
himself. "I use them in my paintings on occasion."

"Lovely," Lord Anthony said. "I'm a keen hunter myself
when I'm out in the country. Don't know if I could shoot

Cherry on Top - 59

one of those little jobbies, though." He pointed at a tiny
blue tit posed on a thin twig. "Certainly not after a few nips
from the hip flask." He stood. "Shall we?" Surprisingly, he
held out his arm. James took it and walked with him down
the stairs to the street.

They went to the Palace Hotel in Piccadilly. The staff
recognized Lord Anthony at once and, with much bowing
and scraping, led him and James to a table by the window.
Outside, hansom cabs bounced along the streets in the
sickly yellow light of the gas lamps, their wheels thumping
rhythms on the cobblestones.

"The lamb is excellent," Lord Anthony said, as James
unfolded the menu. "As is the foie gras. The best I've had
outside of Paris."

"Do you go there frequently?" James had toyed with the
idea of moving to Paris when he was younger. A man, a
would-be poet named George Pickering, had kept him in
London, and by the time the affair fizzled out, James no
longer possessed the wherewithal to uproot his life.

"I lived there many years ago, when I was a much younger
man. It was where I met my wife."

James looked up. He had not planned to mention Lord
Anthony's long-ago scandal. It was hardly a topic for casual
conversation. "She was a dancer," Lord Anthony continued.
"Still is, as far as I know, although I would suspect she's
getting a little long in the tooth for it these days."

James didn't know what to say. Before the awkwardness
became unbearable, Lord Anthony smiled brightly. "Your

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man Dorans must have told you how much I liked your
portrait of Lady Bosanquet's granddaughters."

"He mentioned it, yes."

"It's a wonderful piece. All the portraiture skill of a George
Frederick Watts combined with the all the artistic soul of a
Millais. I felt that I knew the girls simply by looking at
their pictures."

James found himself blushing again. "You are too kind, my
lord."

"Not at all. And you must call me Tony." The waiter
appeared at his elbow. "I'll have the onion soup and the
lamb, and a bottle of... shall we say the '88 burgundy?" He
glanced at James, as if James was in a position to agree or
argue. James nodded mutely.

"And you, sir?" The waiter turned to him.

"The same, please."

The waiter left again, working his way through the tables
toward the kitchen. The restaurant was busy, alive with
soberly dressed men and tastefully dressed women.

"I adore art of all kinds," Lord Anthony went on, as if they
had not been interrupted. "Well, as long as it's good,
anyway. As boringly middle-class as it sounds, I have to
admit a particular fondness for the Old Masters. Da Vinci.
Raphael. Michelangelo." He sighed with evident
contentment. That was the same way James felt when he
looked upon a Michelangelo in a book or on a postcard.
"I've been to the Sistine Chapel three times."

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"I have never seen it." It was James' burning ambition to do
so. He always promised himself that as soon as he sold
another painting or won another commission, he would let
his flat for a few months and go. But he was not
independently wealthy like many in his circle, and money
always seemed to rear its ugly head at the most inopportune
moments.

Tony raised his eyebrows, evidently surprised. "Oh, my
dear, but you must. It's endlessly inspiring even to a
hopeless amateur like me. I can only imagine what you will
be capable of producing once you've stood beneath the
ceiling. We'll go together. I was planning to return to Italy
myself sometime in the next year or so." Tony reached out
suddenly to where James' hand lay on the snow-white
tablecloth. Tony placed his over top of it. Startled, James'
first instinct was to pull away. He quashed it. Instead, he
glanced about, but no one seemed poised to report them for
public indecency. No one was even looking in their
direction.

"That's a very kind offer, L... Tony."

"I hope very much you will take me up on it. There has to
be a first time for everything." The hand squeezed and then
withdrew as the waiter arrived with their wine.

The evening passed quickly. The food was good, as
promised, and the conversation was better. Tony and James
talked about France and Italy, about art and poetry and
plays. Tony had an unexpectedly biting wit, and several
times during the course of the meal he beckoned James
closer to impart some whispered gossip such as, "Do you
see Mrs. Carnahan over there? She's divorcing her husband

Cherry on Top - 62

on the grounds of non-consummation, and they've been
married ten years!"

After the dessert, the brandy, and the coffee, Tony and
James stepped out onto the street. James' stomach was full
and his heart was fuller. Tony hailed a hansom cab and,
when they were safely ensconced inside, James threw
caution to the wind and took Tony's hand in his. Tony
seemed pleased. He held James' hand until the cab pulled
up outside the house.

James licked his lips, anticipation mounting as he turned to
his new friend. "Will you come in for a cup of tea?"

James had never offered a more blatant invitation. It was
far more than most of his men friends usually required, but
Tony smiled and made no move to alight from the cab. "I
had better not. But I very much look forward to my next
sitting on Thursday." He raised James' hand to his lips. He
kissed it, once, then squeezed it and released. "Good night,
my dear James."

James blinked, unsure whether he was meant to feel
disappointed, embarrassed, or charmed. He was still
wondering when he got out of the cab and watched it
disappear around the corner.

***

"So how did it go?" Walter burst in the next morning, as
was his wont, while James was still at breakfast. The
landlady Mrs. Phipps followed behind, waving her arms
and squawking in outrage. James gave an apologetic shrug.

Cherry on Top - 63

"How did what go?" James asked, once Mrs. Phipps had
huffed out of the room, mortally offended, as always, at
Walter's lack of manners.

Walter pulled out a chair and helped himself to a piece of
James' toast. "Theodora saw you dining with Lord Anthony
Rothesay at the Palace last night."

"Who on earth is Theodora?"

"A perfectly charming young lady of my recent
acquaintance. She's divorcing her hideous old brute of a
husband. Ten years they've been married, and he's never
laid a finger on her. Poor thing thought that was usual." He
shook his head sadly. "Still, at least she's come to her
senses. Oh, my God." Walter's smile evaporated in an
instant and his eyes grew saucer-wide. "He's not still here,
is he?" He looked about the empty room wildly. "I didn't
mean to interrupt. I can be on my way in half a tick, just
say the word."

"He's not here."

"Oh." Walter looked relieved and then disappointed in
quick succession. "Why not?"

"We had a lovely dinner," James replied. At least, James
had enjoyed it. He'd thought Tony had as well. "He brought
me home, I invited him in, he declined."

"Oh," Walter repeated. He frowned, clearly as confused by
such an action as James was himself. "Perhaps he is a
gentleman. Or perhaps he is shy."

Cherry on Top - 64

"Perhaps." Or perhaps he wasn't interested in men, or in
James in particular.

"Would you like to come out with Jasper and I this
morning? We thought to take a turn of St. James' Park and
perhaps lunch near Whitehall. There's an American lady
poet doing a recitation at Mrs. McGarrigle's tea room.
Jasper is quite keen to hear it."

"That sounds dreadful, but thank you for the invitation."

Walter sighed. He reached out and placed a hand on James'
sleeve. "Don't worry, James. All will be well." He gave
James a parting kiss on the cheek and was gone, leaving
James with his toast and marmalade.

***

James awaited Thursday with a mixture of anticipation and
trepidation. He worked on Lord Anthony's portrait, along
with two or three others he was in the process of
completing. On Thursday morning, he donned his paint
smock, arranged his hair in the mirror, and waited.

Tony arrived a quarter of an hour early, carrying a small
package wrapped in brown paper. He smiled when James
let him into the studio. "Good afternoon, James." Tony held
out a hand. James took it, expecting a friendly handshake.
Tony kissed his hand, then passed him the package.

"What is this?"

"A gift. For you." Tony removed his jacket and took his
ermine robe from its hook behind the silk dressing screen.
While he changed, James unwrapped the paper. It was a

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small book, with the title "A Little Italian for Travelers"
printed on the cover.

"Do you like it?" Tony stepped out from behind the screen,
fastening the antique robe around his shoulders. "It will
come in useful when we make our trip. Some of the locals
have a smattering of English, but on my last holiday, I had
a devil of a time finding someone who understood 'a cup of
tea with cream and sugar, please.'" He laughed and got into
position.

"It is a very thoughtful gift." And a very puzzling one.
James set it aside. "Thank you," he said. Nothing else
seemed appropriate. Tony smiled, and James took up his
palette.

Tony told stories while James painted, about his travels in
Italy and his family home in Hampshire. "It's a terribly
drafty old place. I swear my brother and his wife only filled
it with children in the hopes of warming it up a little. What
of your family?"

"None to speak of." James' mother had not survived his
birth, while James' father was a carpenter who had gone to
his deathbed never forgiving James for not taking up the
family craft. James had two elder sisters, both married with
a slew of offspring. James had not seen them for years and
did not even know where they lived. "Walter Dorans is the
closest I have, as sad as it sounds."

"Walter is a fine man," Tony replied quickly. "Jasper is
quite devoted to him. He is very charming, although rather
too American for my tastes." James knew exactly what
Tony meant. Jasper was very American, all big teeth and
loud, grating voice, but he and Walter adored one another.

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As usual, James quickly lost track of time. Tony stood
obediently still, and by the time James looked up the sky
was darkening. "I've finished for today." James wiped his
brush on a nearby cloth and stood back to admire his
progress. Tony stepped off the dais and came around,
resting a hand on James' shoulder.

"Remarkable." Tony shook his head, awe in his voice. "I
cannot begin to fathom the depths of your talent." He
sounded sincere. He always sounded sincere. That was
what made it so difficult for James to judge his intentions.

James half-turned, which nearly put him into Tony's
embrace. Tony, several inches shorter, looked down for the
briefest of moments before leaning in to kiss him.

It was soft and unhurried, and the sensation sent a jolt of
lightning through James' body. His body was filled with the
familiar urge to be swept away, to be taken over, to feel the
hard length of Tony pounding into him as they both rode
waves of ecstasy. James clutched Tony's robe in his hands,
luxuriating in the thick fur between his fingers, until Tony
stepped back and gently disengaged his hands.

"Tony..." James did not know what to say.

Tony shook his head. "While you are painting the portrait,
you are technically in my employ, are you not?"

"I suppose, but..." That had never stopped James before. He
did not make it a general habit, as such, but he had dallied
with subjects on more than a few occasions, and he had
desired none of them as hotly and fervently as he suddenly
desired Lord Anthony Rothesay.

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"I have no desire to seduce a man who may feel he is in no
position to refuse me. That is a habit of my brother's, and it
was a habit of my father's. It would be against my nature to
emulate them." Tony smiled. Before James could reassure
him, Tony embraced James again. "When the painting is
done and our transaction completed, it will be my pleasure.
And yours, I hope." Tony's smile grew mischievous. The
sight of it sent another tremor of lust through James.

James stepped back, trying to regain his breath while Tony
changed clothing. Tony kissed James again before he left, a
sweet expression of courtly devotion. James didn't know
whether he should feel flattered or insulted at Tony's
explanation.

***

James was not the type of artist who insisted on dozens of
sittings for his subjects. Three were usually enough for the
basic work to be complete. Once the sittings had finished,
he usually took between a fortnight and two months to put
the finishing touches on a portrait. Lord Anthony Rothesay
had offered him some additional motivation to finish, and
within a week he was able to inform Tony that the painting
was ready for viewing.

He sent the news via letter, and then he waited. He tried to
occupy himself with the other works in progress, one of
Mrs. Beadsley's English spaniel and another of the two
young Misses Cavendish. In truth, he spent more time
pacing back and forth, glancing out of the windows that
gave onto the street and hoping to catch a glimpse of an
approaching cab, than doing any actual painting.

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The one time a cab did appear, James' heartbeat increased
in an instant, his face blushing and his hands practically
trembling with excitement as he watched the door swing
open. Walter stepped out. Jasper, resplendently American
in a shining purple cravat and red rose boutonniere,
emerged behind him. James locked himself in his studio
and called through the keyhole that he was working.

Finally, just as James began to fear he might go as mad as
the lily-white heroine in some romantic poem, Tony came.
He was dressed in tweeds and had a worried look on his
face when Mrs. Phipps showed him in. "I'm dreadfully
sorry, James, I only just received your letter. Some friends
invited me for a weekend in the country, and you know
how it is with friends. They simply won't take 'no' for an
answer." James knew. Avoiding Walter and Jasper's tedious
invitations was at times a very strenuous occupation. "So
where is it?"

Some artists viewed their paintings as their children, as
extensions of themselves, and as such were heartbroken
whenever their work met with the slightest criticism. James
was not among this group. His paintings, particularly those
commissioned by others, were work. He did the best job he
could on them, but once they were out of his hands, James
didn't care whether they were praised or reviled or used to
light a fire to warm the hands of the penniless beggars on
the banks of the Thames.

This time, it was different. James felt a twist of nerves as he
unveiled the portrait. For a long moment, Tony was silent.
James resisted the urge to search his face for some hint of
emotion. At long last, Tony let out an ungentlemanly
whoop and pulled James into his arms.

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"You, my dear, are a genius. I've never looked so well in
my life." James was about to protest that Tony was far
more handsome in the flesh than on any canvas when Tony
stopped the sentence before it began. He pressed his lips
against James', sliding a tongue between them and lapping
into James' mouth when James let it slip open.

Tony's strong hands came around James' back, nearly
lifting him from the floor. James clung to the front of
Tony's jacket, feeling himself harden in an instant when
Tony took James roughly by the shoulders and crushed
their bodies together. James was left with a panting,
breathless desire to be filled. A corresponding wildness in
Tony's eyes led James to believe he was in a similar
position. James led Tony through the forest of paint-stained
tablecloths, easels, and canvases to the cramped bedroom.

Tony began to undress as soon as James shut the door
behind them. James leaned against the door, savoring the
sight of slowly revealed flesh. Tony's body was pale, his
little pink nipples nearly obscured by a thatch of dark hair.
When Tony unfastened his trousers and released a large,
flushed cock, James couldn't help himself. He fell to the
floor and crossed the small intervening space on his knees.
James wrapped his mouth around Tony, reveling in the
sound of Tony's groans in his ears and the feel of Tony's
hand weaving through his long hair.

James would have been content to stay there, but Tony
clearly had other ideas. After a moment, James felt warm
hands on his shoulders, and Tony pulled him up until they
both sat on the edge of James' messy, unmade bed. Tony
kissed him again, leaving James short of breath, his head
pounding. "Take me," James murmured, then hesitated, a
little taken aback at his own forwardness. Still, that was

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James' wish. He was almost dizzy with desire for it. He did
not know how to react when Tony said, "I had something
else in mind."

"Oh?" James blinked. Men like Tony never had anything
else in mind. They wanted to have him as much as James
wanted to be had. It was practically a law of nature,
untested in James' experience.

"Please, James." Tony's voice was hoarse, infused with
naked pleading that made James' own cock twitch.

He swallowed. "I've never... I mean, I haven't..."

"Never?" Tony didn't sound incredulous. He sounded
pleased.

"No," James admitted. He'd never felt the urge to.

"Are you sure?" James asked. The last thing James wanted
was to go into this only for Tony to regret it. Tony nodded,
sweat forming on his shoulder blades. Pushing his own
nerves aside, James reached for the little bottle of oil he
kept amidst the dust beneath the bed.

James had never envied his lovers their pleasure. He
doubted anyone, even the men who sweated and puffed
above him, their faces red and their eyes rolled back in their
heads, could receive as much pleasure as James felt with a
strong man over top of him and inside him. Now, that
belief was about to be tested.

James swallowed hard and faced the challenge head on. He
prepared Tony carefully, encouraged when Tony writhed
and gasped beneath his hands. Perhaps, James thought, this

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would not be so bad. And perhaps, if James gave Tony
what Tony wanted, then Tony would be happy to return the
favor.

Drawing on the hazy, lust-sodden memories of his previous
encounters, James positioned himself. His heart was
beating so loudly by this point that he was certain Mrs.
Phipps could hear it downstairs. He hesitated, frozen in
place, until Tony glanced back. "Don't worry, my dear."
His smile was unsteady and his eyes were unfocused, but
James did not think that was due to fear. "A first time for
everything."

Indeed. James returned the smile and sallied forth.

It was unlike anything James had ever felt before. He had
never known such heat or such tightness. For an instant, he
was afraid he might spontaneously combust, leaving a little
pile of cinders behind. Instead, James groaned in time with
Tony and heaved forward, thrusting into his willing body
again and again.

James could not compare the pleasure of this act to the
pleasure he received from the other. The sensations were
related but unique, like oil painting and watercolors, and
both had their own distinct advantages. Perhaps I ought to
try watercolors more frequently. It was his last coherent
thought for some time.

James' ecstasy spiraled higher and higher. When he reached
his peak, flashes of white appeared behind his eyes, and he
gripped Tony's shoulders hard as he came.

Hours or perhaps mere minutes later, James opened his
eyes to find himself lying on his back, Tony's head resting

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on his narrow chest. James' hair felt damp, beads of sweat
still lingering on his skin. The room smelled stuffy. James
contemplated getting up to open a window once he was
able to move again.

"Hmm." Tony made a contented noise, his throat vibrating
against James. "You're certain that was your first time?"

"Quite sure." Although at the moment, James couldn't think
why he hadn't done it much, much earlier.

"I suppose it should come as no surprise that you are as
talented at this as you are at everything else." That was
hardly the case, but the mere fact that Tony would say so
brought a fresh wave of elation to James. He wiped a hand
across his over-warm forehead.

"Perhaps that is due to inspiration more than any innate
skill," he suggested with a smile.

Tony laughed, his breath gusting over James' sweat-
dampened skin. "In that case, I am doubly eager to bring
you to Italy." He kissed a spot on James' chest.

James embraced him, wondering hazily how it was that
Walter Dorans knew him so much better than James did
himself, and how much more insufferable the man would
be to live with once Walter knew his matchmaking was a
resounding success.

Cherry on Top - 73

Stairway to Evan

By G.R. Richards

"Eww... how can you eat that stuff?" Kenzo asked, tossing
his black hair out of his eyes. He flipped the page in his
graphic novel as Evan pulled a steaming bowl of ramen
from the microwave. "It's nothing but salt and MSG."

Setting the bowl at Kenzo's table, Evan said, "At thirty-
three cents a packet, my budget made the choice for me."
He thought all Japanese guys loved ramen -- was that
racist? He shouldn't make generalizations, not even in his
mind.

"Yeah, after taxes, it's practically a volunteer position
working here." Kenzo chuckled as he snacked on a sliver of
red bell pepper.

Evan hadn't noticed the plastic container Kenzo had hidden
behind his book. "What have you got there?"

Kenzo seemed reluctant to give up his secret. He lifted his
graphic novel out of the way at snail's pace. "Want some?"
he asked, pressing the colorful tray of fresh carrots,
cucumbers, pepper slices, and mushrooms across the table.

By the tentative look on Kenzo's face, Evan could tell it
was an empty offer. Still, Kenzo's food was so colorful
compared to Evan's beige soup, and it had been so long
since he'd eaten his veggies, he couldn't resist. He snapped
a carrot between his teeth, never expecting it to be so

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flavorful. "I should pick up some of these. How much did
they cost?"

"A dollar twenty-nine for the bag." Kenzo smiled
sheepishly. After disclosing the price, he didn't seem so
concerned about Evan eating his food. "But you know what
I'd buy if I had the cash?"

The door to the lunchroom swung open, and a belly as big
as a house poked through, followed closely by its owner.
Dropping a stack of files on the next table, Tanisha swung
open the door to the fridge.

Evan turned to watch her. "Don't tell me you're working
through lunch."

"God, you sound just like Kelly," she chuckled. "Girl won't
even let me wash the dishes -- says I should stay off my
feet so I don't stress the baby." When Tanisha opened the
lid on her lunch, the air filled with the sharp scent of
vinegar. "Word to the wise," she went on, taking a forkful
in her mouth. "Kelly made me bean salad for lunch, so
you'd best steer clear for the afternoon. I'll be farting Dixie
all day long."

"Nasty," Kenzo laughed as he sucked an entire mushroom
between his lips.

Turning back to the conversation Tanisha's grand entrance
had nipped in the bud, Evan asked, "What were you going
to say you'd buy if you had the cash?"

"Oh," Kenzo coughed, with a mouth full of mushroom. "A
gym membership. I really want to start working out again."

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You really need to start working out again, Evan thought.
Pursing his lips, he gave himself a mental slap on the wrist.
Without seeing Kenzo naked, Evan was in no position to
judge. Oh, great! Now he was picturing Kenzo naked --
sapling arms and legs, narrow shoulders, nothing but dark
little nipples sticking up from his undefined chest, birch-
pale skin, and a shock of dark pubic hair at the apex of his
thighs. In his mind, Evan tried not to downplay the
potential length or girth of Kenzo's wang. Who knew? It
could be huge.

"You should do the stairs," Tanisha said as she shoveled
beans into her mouth. "That's what I did for exercise until I
got busy."

"Busy?" Evan laughed. "Is that lesbo-code for knocked
up?"

She tried to swat him with a file folder, but her big belly
prevented her from leaning in close enough. "Busy with
work, you little jerk-ass. At lunch hour, I used to change
into running shoes and workout gear, and I'd climb the
stairs all the way up to the top floor and back down again.
Up and down. It's great cardio, and it's free."

"Hmm," Kenzo cut in. "Up and down, it's great cardio, and
it's free? What are we talking about, again?"

With a shy smirk, Evan considered the benefits of working
up a midday sweat. "Not a bad idea. We could bring in
weights to carry and kill two birds in one. Why don't we try
it out a couple days a week?"

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"I'd show you how it's done," Tanisha offered as she rinsed
out her dish. "But these days I can barely waddle, let alone
climb twenty-five flights of stairs."

"Twenty-five?" Kenzo shuddered. Tapping his finger
against Evan's arm, he said, "You might have to carry me
part way."

***

Even in high school gym class, Evan had never felt
comfortable changing clothes in front of other guys. He
figured they'd be looking at him the way he'd look at them -
- watching their broad shoulders roll as they tore out of
their T-shirts, ogling their naked boy bodies, drooling over
their tight asses. Not that Kenzo would be inclined to lust
after his squat frame and pimply back, but he felt bashful
nonetheless.

The moment Evan stepped out of the stall, he caught sight
of himself in his green track pants and charity run T-shirt in
the mirror and started to step back in. Nearly ten years
later, and he was still that gym class nerd. The only thing
that kept him from retreating into the stall was the sight of
Kenzo in tennis whites. Those shorts rose up nearly to the
top of his thighs and his polo shirt would have been a better
fit on an eight-year-old girl.

"What's with the socks?" Evan chuckled, pointing. They
came just short of Kenzo's knees.

Kenzo didn't seem to take the insult to heart. "What? I don't
want my calves to get cold."

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"And the shoes?" How he wished he could be less catty, but
old habits died hard.

"What? High-tops are in style again."

With a satisfied grin, Evan parked the tote containing his
work clothes on top of Kenzo's gym bag under the sink.
They'd be safe there. The washroom door had a punch lock.
Anyway, they didn't see much riffraff on the tenth floor.

They decided they'd start at the bottom and work their way
up. Walking down stairs wasn't exactly taxing -- it made for
a good warm-up. When they reached lobby level, they
tapped their rubber-coated hand weights and wished each
other good luck.

"You'll need it," Evan added, taking off up the staircase like
a thickset Olympian. By the second floor, Kenzo and his
long, lanky legs shot past. By the third floor, Evan lost
sight of his friend. When he reached the sixth floor landing,
trudging all the way, he found Kenzo perched against the
wall and panting like a dog in the sun.

"Man," Kenzo said, tapping his blue and green weights
together. "I am seriously out of shape!"

"You're out of shape?" Evan tried to laugh, but it came out
like a wheeze. "At least you ran all the way! I walked the
last two flights." A pang shot across his side, and he
pressed it with his weighted fist to temper the pain. Though
he sucked in breaths again and again, he never seemed to
get enough air into his lungs "God, exercise is painful!"

Kenzo nodded his head. "Yeah, nice idea to race to the top.
I say we walk it from here."

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"Agreed." Evan didn't move. Neither did Kenzo. "In a
minute." They both slid to the floor, pressing their backs
against the glossy beige wall. The stairwell was
surprisingly clean. It seemed to see little use.

Sitting close enough for Evan to feel his raging body heat,
Kenzo lifted his weights -- left, and then right, green, and
then blue. "I can't believe Tanisha could climb all these
stairs..."

"Wait a sec," Evan interrupted him. "Why's one of your
weights an eight and the other a ten? You don't have two
the same?" Evan turned the numbers on his own weights
away so Kenzo wouldn't see they were both fives.

When Kenzo didn't say anything, Evan looked up to meet
his sly gaze. "Oh, I have two the same," he finally relented.
Setting his eight-pounder to stick up between his legs,
Kenzo rubbed the end like he was teasing his cockhead. He
traced his fingers down the grip and stroked it like a hard
shaft. In a wistful tone, he went on, "It's just that my right
arm is already so much stronger than my left. Why do you
think that might be?"

Was that a come on? No, couldn't be. Why would anybody
come on to Evan, let alone someone who saw him every
day and knew what a nerd he was? Caught in a trance,
Evan fixated on Kenzo's impeccably trimmed fingernails.
He shook his head and tried to laugh. "I hear ya, man! The
salami ain't gonna slap itself." His voice sounded weak and
unsure. He cleared his throat as Kenzo leapt to his feet.

"Come on," Kenzo said, setting one high-top on the next
step. "We've only got an hour for lunch."

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Pressing his hands down against his weights, Evan eased
onto his feet and bent to crack his back. "God, this is
ridiculous. I feel like an eighty-year-old man!"

Kenzo waggled his eyebrows, and played on words. "I
generally steer clear of GILFs, but suit yourself, man."

“GILFs?”

With a nod, Kenzo chuckled, “Grandpas I’d Like to Fuck.”

"Aw, that's sick," Evan said, following Kenzo up the stairs.
He pumped his baby irons, wishing he'd brought bigger
ones. Suddenly, he felt like he needed to impress the guy
he'd worked with for months. "There's no grandpa in the
world I'd like to fuck."

"Yeah, right," Kenzo laughed. "I bet you love the silver
daddies."

An image flashed to the fore of Evan's mind -- John, his
chest a mat of shining silver hair, stretched out naked on
the bed. Beckoning. A blissful Wednesday afternoon of
servicing the daddy, of taking all John had to give. A kiss
on the forehead before he went home to his wife and two
daughters. John was nobody's grandfather, but he was no
spring chicken, either. Evan had loved him. Too much. It
had to end, and it did end. Still, Evan had loved that body.
Evan had loved that cock.

Evan realized he hadn't responded to Kenzo's joke. It was
too late now. Flustered, he forced a chuckle. "Daddies.
Yeah." He looked straight ahead as they carried on up the
stairs.

Cherry on Top - 80

"On the other hand, a good fuck is a good fuck, no matter
what the guy looks like." Kenzo seemed to be backpedaling
now, making reparations and trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah." It seemed strange that Kenzo would comment on
other people's looks. He was respectably cute, but neither
he nor Evan would be appearing in the next beefcake
calendar. As far as Evan was concerned, they were in no
position to judge.

Silence always made Kenzo fidget -- Evan had noticed that
in the lunchroom. "Hey," Kenzo said with a high-pitched
chuckle. "What's the weirdest place you've ever fooled
around?"

"Uh..." Sex wasn't Evan's favorite topic of discussion. He
felt shamefully inexperienced when forced into detail.
"You go first."

"Okay," Kenzo said, pumping his weights to his chest. He
puckered his lips and screwed up his eyebrows like he was
thinking really hard and he wanted Evan to see it in his
face. "The library bathroom was pretty bad."

An inadvertent smile broke across Evan's lips. "God, I must
be the only gay guy in the world who hasn't had sex in a
washroom stall."

"The library bathroom was a girl," Kenzo amended. "That
was university. We worked there part time... well, until
somebody reported weird sounds in the bathroom..."

Evan's heart thumped against his ribcage. "Oh."

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"Let me think of a weird one with a guy," Kenzo said as
Evan bowed to tie a shoelace. "Oh, I know -- back when I
worked in a movie theater, my manager and I were closing
up one night..."

A weight tumbled out of Evan's hand, and he caught it with
his foot before it could hit the next stair. As he picked it up,
an ache in his gut brought him to the swift realization that
he didn't want to hear the rest of this story. He didn't want
to picture Kenzo with other guys, or even other girls. With
the intrusive laughter of a drunk guy at the movies, Evan
said, "Do you sleep with all your co-workers?"

Kenzo hopped two stairs and stood tall on the landing,
extending his arms so Evan couldn't pass. He smiled
widely. "Only the cute ones."

Evan's laughter was nervous this time. "Well, there goes
my chance."

"What?" Kenzo cried, like he couldn't believe his ears.
"You're one of the cutest guys I've ever seen!"

"Don't bullshit me," Evan chuckled, brushing off any
possibility Kenzo could be serious. "I do own a mirror, and
it doesn't do me any favors."

Exhaling a sharp breath, Kenzo maintained his
commanding stance on the landing. "Listen to me -- this is
not bullshit: when I first started working here, back when
Sunil was on staff..."

Evan smiled at the thought. "See, now he was cute." Cute
and unattainable.

Cherry on Top - 82

"If you think so, maybe he was, but that's not the point.
When I started here, I'd met you once and I couldn't
remember your name. I asked Tanisha, 'Who's that cute
guy?' and she said, 'Sunil,' and I said, 'No, not him, the cute
guy.' And she gave me this weird look and she was like,
'What, you mean Evan?' Do you see what I'm saying?"

With a hollow chuckle, Evan replied, "Yeah, Tanisha
doesn't think I'm cute."

"You're missing the point." Kenzo shook his head. There
was an irritated ring to his voice Evan had never heard
before. "The point is that I thought you were cute. I still
do."

When he looked up to meet Kenzo's tense gaze, Evan's
heart stopped in its tracks. After a moment of wondering if
he'd died and gone to heaven, it started up again, inflating
with every beat. He felt warm all the way down to his toes.
The beads of sweat collecting under his arms had nothing
to do with their workout. He felt at once nervous and
ecstatic.

Courage streaked through Evan's muscles, driving him up
the stairs. Pressing Kenzo against the wall, Evan kissed him
full on the mouth. He met with no resistance. Those thin
pink lips gave up their guard. Teeth opened up like pearly
gates to let his tongue pass. Kenzo's mouth tasted hot and
fresh, yet Evan abandoned it to kiss his neck.

"Do you know how long I've waited for this?" Kenzo's
voice was tattered silk, frayed at the edges but always
smooth.

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Evan couldn't keep himself from poking fun -- the scourge
of the unworthy. "Another on-the-job conquest, am I?"

Shaking his head, Kenzo pressed Evan's shoulders away
with his weights. "No," he said. "No, Evan! Can't you take
anything seriously?"

One chance, and Evan's stupid reaction was ruining it! He
backed up a step, placing his weights on the floor like a
hostage negotiator setting down his gun to convince the
criminal he was safe. "I'm sorry," Evan said. Standing very
still, he gazed up into Kenzo's glistening hazel eyes. "I
don't generate a lot of interest on the meat market. It's hard
to believe a guy like you would be interested in me."

"A guy like me?" Kenzo opened his mouth like he was
going to say more, but then laughed instead. He set his
weights on the floor next to Evan's. "Seriously," he went
on, leaning against the back wall. "You can't tell me you've
never fooled around in the workplace before."

With an eager smile, Evan closed in on Kenzo. "Are you
kidding? I've never fooled around outside my bedroom!"
He suppressed the fleeting images of afternoons with John.
Married men played it safe -- no sense in getting caught.
Evan had a comfy mattress in secure surroundings. Evan
drew excitement from their shared sense of deceit and
wrongdoing. They looked no further.

"I don't believe it," Kenzo said. With a flirtatious smirk, he
tossed shining black bangs away from his eyes. They fell
right back, and he tossed them again. "You've seriously
never gotten laid outside your bedroom?"

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"Well, okay," Evan amended. "In the shower, too, a couple
times."

Kenzo giggled like a schoolgirl. "But never outside your
apartment?"

"I know -- ha ha, laugh at the virgin," he said, rolling his
eyes.

But Kenzo wasn't laughing. His eyes blazed. His gaze grew
so intense Evan hardly knew what to expect. "Want to try
something new?"

Without warning, Kenzo grabbed him by the shoulders and
turned his whole body around until Evan's back was
pressed to the wall. In what seemed like one inexplicable
motion, Kenzo drew down Evan's green joggers and pulled
off his T-shirt.

"What are you doing?" Evan seemed both to whisper and
cackle at once. "What if someone comes by?"

When Kenzo's gaze drizzled down Evan's sweating skin, he
turned instantly silent. He stood staring at Evan’s naked
body. Tossing his hair from his eyes, he said, "Aren't we
naughty? No underwear. I like it."

"Well, I forgot to bring an extra pair, and I didn't want to
wear sweaty Jockeys all afternoon." Evan said absently as
Kenzo used his damp T-shirt to tie his hands behind his
back. "What are you doing? What if they catch us?"

"They who?" Kenzo asked, dropping to his knees in front
of Evan. At least Evan could comfort himself with the
thought that most of his pimples were on his back side.

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"How many people have you seen the entire time we've
been climbing these stairs? None."

Evan's cock surged visibly when Kenzo ran his fingernails
up Evan’s thighs. And what could he do to stop it?
Nothing. Well, he could easily wriggle out of the T-shirt
securing his wrists. But did he want to stop it? Hell, no.

Pressing his shoulders back against the wall, he leaned his
ass against his hands. His ensnarement only added to his
feeling of rapture as Kenzo traced firm fingers up to Evan's
stomach, and then down his shaft. He trembled, sensing the
tides rising in the blood of his body. As Kenzo stroked him,
his cock grew in those pleasure-giving hands. His skin
jumped when Kenzo leaned in to kiss his belly. Bite.
Nibble on flesh. Evan tossed his head back and looked up
at a neutral ceiling. It was like nobody had ever been in
exactly this place before. They'd be the first to leave their
imprint on the memory of this space.

But panic shot through the bliss as Kenzo's mouth
approached his cock. "Wait," Evan pleaded in a voice that
seemed to come from outside himself. "I'm all sweaty and
gross."

Kenzo shot him a teasing glance. "You say that like it's a
bad thing."

Without another word, Kenzo sucked his cockhead into a
warm waiting mouth and closed soft lips around it. Evan's
spine grew straight as train tracks as Kenzo inhaled his
shaft, all the way down to the base. He felt taller than he'd
ever been. He could feel Kenzo's nose brush the amber hair
above his cock. The tenderness of the moment wasn't lost,

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even as Kenzo went at him like the world was coming to an
end.

Everything felt uniquely intense -- unique because every
move was Kenzo's orchestration, and intense because
Kenzo never seemed to do anything half-heartedly. When
Kenzo sucked his cock, it went hard and fast. When he
wrapped his long fingers around the base of Evan's shaft,
he gripped it hard. He held it steady as he flicked Evan's tip
with an eager tongue, lapping the pre-come like honey
straight from the comb.

The sounds emanating from Kenzo's throat lifted Evan to
yet a higher level of arousal. Every high-pitched squeak
and low-pitched moan made his cock feel bigger and his
arms feel stronger. Evan writhed against the wall until his
T-shirt became loose around his wrists. He caught it as it
started to fall and pulled on the ends to tighten up the knot.

Stroking Evan's cock base to tip, Kenzo sent his tongue on
an exploratory mission. When those pink lips sucked the
flesh of Evan's sensitive ball sac between them, Evan
cringed with shame. "God," Evan whispered, "You don't
have to do that. I must taste like ball-sweat!"

"Oh, yeah, you do," Kenzo growled, licking up the center
seam with a wide and wet tongue. "You taste like sweat,
and I love it!"

Evan's muscles surged as Kenzo sucked his balls into the
hot mouth one by one, and then both together. Evan
gasped. His body threw itself back against the wall in fits of
pleasure. The joy was violent. He felt like a giant had
picked him up off his feet and slammed his shoulders into a

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rock. Kenzo sucked on his balls until Evan's knees went
weak. "God, I can't stand it. I can't stand."

Evan was sure he couldn't support himself anymore, but
Kenzo wouldn't get out of his way to let him sit down.
Pressing Evan's hips against the wall, Kenzo licked from
his balls all the way up his shaft. Kenzo’s tongue burned
white against Evan's throbbing cockhead. The heat sizzled
the blood in his veins as he struggled to stay upright. Kenzo
sucked him. Running a fist up and down Evan's shaft,
Kenzo trapped Evan's tip in the suction of his hot mouth.

Inside his running shoes, Evan's toes tingled. The sensation
rose past the jogging pants tossed down around his ankles.
The muscles in his bare calves shook. His thighs trembled.
When Kenzo took a ball in each hand and squeezed, that
was it for Evan. His balls pumped his come out through his
cock like icing through a pastry bag. Kenzo swallowed,
making 'mmm' noises like Evan's jizz was the best thing
he'd ever tasted. He trapped Evan's entire spent cock in his
mouth, sucking through the aftershocks, and reverberations
resonated through Evan's orgasmic body. When Evan
couldn't take any more pleasure, he tried to back away, but
of course he was trapped between the wall and Kenzo.
"Please," he begged. "No more. It's too good."

If Evan didn't feel like his shoulders were pinned to the
wall, he would have fallen on his ass the second Kenzo
backed away. Sitting on the floor, butt resting on his high-
top sneakers, Kenzo gazed up at him with eyes full of
wonder. "Now you can't say you've never fooled around
outside the bedroom."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Evan teased.
Slipping his T-shirt from his wrists, he put it back on -- its

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fresh wrinkles gave it a tie-dyed look. He pulled up his
pants before sliding to the floor across from Kenzo. "Thank
you."

Kenzo's gaze held Evan's with the insistence of cat's eyes.
For a while, they didn't speak. They explored each other's
depths without moving a muscle.

"You know what else?" Evan said, though he hadn't wanted
to admit it. "I've never done this with someone my own
age. That's another first."

Nodding, Kenzo held out his hand. When Evan placed a
palm in Kenzo's, Kenzo gave it a squeeze and rose to his
feet. "A good first?"

In the time of John, which now felt long ago indeed, Evan
thought he'd enjoyed their arrangement. It had given him a
sense of dirty pleasure, knowing they had a secret
understanding even John's wife didn't know about. Maybe
he even put himself on a bit of a pedestal -- he was
attractive and desirable enough to be someone's boy toy.
But did those feelings get him through the lonely nights,
when he wanted John at his side? No, schadenfreude never
helped ease loneliness. The only cure for loneliness was in
knowing a relationship could take him forward into the
future.

"A good first," Evan said, nodding as Kenzo pulled him
upright. "The first of many?"

Kenzo grabbed Evan's weights and handed them over
before picking up his own.
Though they hadn't yet reached the top, Kenzo and Evan
turned on their heels and headed back down. The hour was

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almost up. "In every day, there's a lunch hour," Kenzo
assured Evan. He tossed his bangs back and wriggled his
eyebrows. "And in every lunch hour, there's a stairway to
Evan."

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The Bad Boyfriend Club and How I Left It

By Tracy Rowan

I have no common sense when it comes to love. None. Zip.
I know this because my taste in men, while good on the
surface, is just rotten in every other respect. But see, they're
not all bad guys, I'm not saying that. For example, take
Timmy, my first boyfriend, and that lasted all of about a
year when we were in eleventh grade. Oh, my god, Timmy
was gorgeous. Every girl in the school had their panties in a
twist over him, but anyway, I digress Eleven months and
two weeks of that year were spent sending each other
soulful notes in class, taking long walks, and talking about
the spirituality of our love.

Almost a year to the day after we met, just before we
started our senior year, I had a bad case of blue balls from
all that soulful talking and the occasional chaste kiss, which
was a big deal with us. Because y'know, our love was pure.
That's what Timmy liked to say. "Our love is pure,
Edward," he'd say, and I'd nod and wonder why he never
called me "Eddy" like everyone else did. But, y'know, that
was Timmy.

So I invited him over to the house because my folks had
taken my little brother and sister to the amusement park one
last time before school started, as a kind of bribe to be good
for at least the first fifteen minutes of the new school year. I
took him up to my room and gave him this speech about
how the depth of my love was such that I didn't think I
could survive if we couldn't just once become one.

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Yeah, I actually used the phrase "become one." It seemed
like the right thing to do. And, by golly, it worked. We
were suddenly kissing and tearing at each other's clothing,
and I realized I was finally gonna get laid by the love of my
life, this six-foot, blond, blue-eyed hunk of burnin' love
who was mine, all mine. I got him out of his jeans and got
his cock in my mouth and mine in his and we were going at
it like our love was also really, really impure, and then the
fucking doorbell rang.

It was just the UPS guy dropping off a package for Mom,
and I told Timmy that, after I scraped him off the ceiling,
but I promise you I have never seen anyone dress that fast
in my life.

"I knew I shouldn't have come, I knew it. This was wrong,
we were wrong, we're going to be judged for this,
ohgodohgod," he said as he wrenched his clothing back on.
He didn't even give me the chance to argue the point, but
was out the front door in under two minutes.

Never mind, I told myself as I jerked off in the bathroom.
There's always tomorrow. I got him horizontal once, I
could do it again.

But it didn't happen because Timmy never spoke to me
again, except when he absolutely had to in school or at
parties and stuff. He got himself a girlfriend who was as
blonde and pretty as he was, and apparently they went at it
like monkeys. He married her the day after graduation. The
impurity of their love caught up to them in a really concrete
way. Their daughter is a stunner, though, so I suppose some
good did come out of it. He cruises the bars occasionally,

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but I don't talk to him unless I absolutely have to, which
would be, like, never.

I took a leaf from Timmy's book and got myself a girlfriend
for a while. She was another cheerleader type, and chummy
with Timmy's girlfriend, but it ended badly when I decided
that I might as well be getting sex from someone and ended
up disgracing myself in front of her. She told all her friends
how I couldn't get it up and she figured I must be a queer.
Let me tell you, that's a rumor you don't want going around
your twelfth grade class, because it gets you all the wrong
sort of attention.

A lot of the bully boys thought they'd get their jollies
picking on me, and discovered that this was a queer who
could bust heads better than they could. (My old man,
who'd been a Marine, decided that if I was going to be gay,
I'd have to learn how to defend myself.) And then some of
them came creeping around afterward and tried to get in my
pants because yeah, some of the biggest bullies are queer,
too, though they won't admit it.

I'd like to say I sent them all packing and told them that
until they got their heads on straight (so to speak), they
weren't getting any from me, but the flesh really is weak. I
ended up having a fantastically torrid affair with one of the
guys on the baseball team, who wouldn't even look at me in
public. I figured that at least I was getting laid, so I should
probably just shut up and enjoy what I was getting.

In college, I had a string of boyfriends who were pretty
much losers of some sort. I dated a guy who was a gay
activist and spent more time worrying about telling
everyone we met that we were a couple than he did actually
doing something about it. I dated a guy whose major was

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gay studies, and he spent a lot of time analyzing what it
meant if I wanted to fuck his ass, or he wanted to fuck
mine, or whose dorm room we did it in, and I have to tell
you he was more depressing than the closeted, Jesus-freak
boyfriend I had for three weeks between high school and
college.

I had a boyfriend who hit me. Once. I told him that if he
ever did it again, I would take him apart. He didn't listen.
Yeah, that ended badly. But then I got a guy who wanted
me to hit him! What is wrong with people, anyway? I don't
get that. We were in bed one night and he said "Hit me!"

I said "What?"

He said, "I want you to hit me." So I gave him a slap. Not
hard, but enough to be kind of sexy.

He said "No, I really want you to hit me. Just knock shit out
of me and then fuck me senseless." And that's when I think
I must've broken Timmy's land speed record for getting
dressed and getting out.

There were some others; trust me, they don't bear talking
about.

Into this vast wasteland walked Denise, a girl so fucked up
that she loved it that I was gay and wanted us to be together
forever in a pure marriage of the mind and heart. (What is it
with this purity stuff?) I tried being nice, and then I stopped
being nice and started avoiding her.

She sent me e-mails about her undying love for me. Then
she sent me e-mails saying that she would die if I didn't
love her back. Then she promised to kill herself if I didn't

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get back in touch with her, so I sent all of them to a
counselor at the school, who phoned her parents, who didn't
believe that we hadn't slept together even though both
Denise and I told them we hadn't. Turns out she was still a
virgin, so that pretty much ended their finger-pointing.
Yeah, I'm not too good at women either.

It was about that time -- my junior year, for anyone who is
all about the timeline -- that I swore off love for good and
sex for the immediate future. I went into therapy to find out
what it was about me that seemed to draw all the loonies
and freaks. I mean, I hope they're all okay, it's not like I
hate them or anything, but dear god, I am not equipped to
deal with this sort of craziness. I just want some good sex
and someone to cuddle with afterward.

I didn't get many answers from therapy, except that it
seemed to me that I was probably better adjusted than my
therapist. I'd tell you more, but I figure the doctor-patient
confidentiality should work both ways.

After about a year of therapy and celibacy, around the time
I was getting ready to graduate with absolutely no idea
what I was going to do with a degree in history, I decided
that I was tired of having sex with myself and went out
looking for someone who could at least make me feel like I
was having some kind of sex life. I was careful, I used
condoms, I did all the right things. And I thanked them and
left right afterward. It seemed to work. I got the a la carte
sex without all the sides of crazy I'd been served in the past.
And when my family asked if there wasn't some special
guy, I'd say, "I'm too young to settle down just yet. Give it
time."

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I also got a job working for a realtor, learned the business,
took all the courses, and eventually became an agent
myself. It really wasn't what I had intended, but then my
whole life was Not What I Intended, y'know? If I had
nothing else, I had a job I enjoyed and a good sex life.

I went on that way for about five years, occasionally
allowing myself to get a bit more involved and regretting it
later. By then, I'd begun to think that it was probably me,
that I just didn't have it in me to have a normal relationship,
which was a pretty hard pill to swallow. To be honest, it
was kind of depressing, and I thought about going back into
therapy, but even that hadn't worked out the last time. I
wrote myself off as a no-hoper who would pretty much be
alone forever, and thought about getting a dog.

At this point, the experienced reader will know what's
coming. The rest of you, just sit back and let it wash over
you.

One afternoon, Mom called me at work and said, "Honey, I
have a client for you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You remember my friend, Mildred Wingate?"

"Sure."

"Well, her son just moved back here from... oh, it was
somewhere in Africa, I think."

"What the hell was Don Wingate doing in Africa?"

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"I don't know, missionary work? No, wait, Mildred told me
he was teaching."

"Teaching? Don Wingate? Jesus, those poor kids." I
remembered Don. He was a gangly, buck-toothed character
who wore horn-rimmed glasses, dressed like a scarecrow,
and was perpetually bewildered by life. He'd been a few
years ahead of me in school, and I can honestly say that he
got picked on more than I did. I think I even rescued him
from an ass-kicking once. He was brilliant, but apart from
academics, he was a total loser.

"Now, be nice."

"Okay, so what is it he wants? Someplace to live?"

"He wants a house."

"Well, you've called the right man."

"Oh, Eddy," she said in that Mom-voice of hers.

"Have him phone me, Mom. Gotta run."

"You'll be nice, won't you?" she said as I made kissing
noises and said "Bye, Mom, bye-bye!" and hung up.

God. Donald Wingate. I started looking for cheap houses
with lots of electrical outlets for his computers.

After a couple of weeks, I'd convinced myself that absent-
minded old Don had simply forgotten that he wanted to buy
a house, so I'd stopped looking for likely properties. And
then, of course, he called.

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"Hi, Don," I said. "Long time, eh?"

"No kidding. How've you been keeping?"

"Just fine. You?"

"Same."

"So I hear you want a house."

"I guess."

"You guess? So you're not sure?"

"My mother has decided I want a house. I might as well
look at some and make her happy, and who knows, I might
find one I like. Nothing too big, Eddy, okay? One bedroom,
one bath is good enough. Though I'd like a nice kitchen."
He said it as if he was looking for some kind of approval
from me, like I was going to judge whether he was worthy
of granite and stainless steel.

"I can certainly find you some places, but you might want
to think about the future, Don. Any chance you'll be getting
married down the line?" Because the geek girls were sure
to be lining up now that Don was back in town. Yeah,
okay, that was mean. Forget I said it.

He sighed. "Probably not, and anyway, that's not a reason
to buy a big house, is it?"

"No, it's not. You're right."

He gave me a couple of target areas and his price range,
and I asked him when he'd be free to look at the properties.

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"Any old time," he said. "I'm not working right now."

That didn't bode well for him getting a mortgage, but I
didn't say anything. We could drive off that bridge when
we came to it.

After hunting through stacks of properties, I found six that I
thought he might like. I arranged to meet him at the first
one, a bungalow in a nice residential area, at nine the next
morning.

I waited on the front porch, sitting on my notepad because
you never sit on concrete if you can help it. Even on a hot
day. At twenty past there was no sign of Don, and I started
wondering if he was coming. I checked my phone for
messages and decided to give him ten more minutes before
I phoned him or left. At about nine-twenty-five, I got up
and brushed myself off, figuring I'd go sit in the car. As I
got to the sidewalk, I noticed a jogger heading my way, and
he was something fine. Couldn't hurt to just wait a couple
of minutes more for Don, I thought, and stood there
watching this tall, tanned runner, wondering if I tripped
him would it be the start of a beautiful romance.

Then he stopped in front of me and said, "I am SO sorry,
Eddy. I got turned around and ended up heading west
instead of east. I've lost my city legs. And I haven't gotten a
new cell phone yet..."

"Don?" Oh, no, it couldn't be. This vision was not Don
Wingate. This was some joke being played on me.

"This isn't the best way to get off on a good foot with your
real estate agent, is it?" He extended his hand and I shook

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it. It was warm and firm and a little sweaty. I nearly
swooned.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh... oh, yeah, fine. I was just a bit worried. Did you run
here all the way from your mom's house?"

"Yeah."

"But it's, like, miles."

"Three. Well, four this morning because I'm an idiot. Can
we go inside?"

I escorted him into the house and started the real estate-
speak which is basically terms like "hardwood floors,"
"granite countertops," and "two-car garage," held together
with a few simple verbs.

"Floor's not level," he told me after walking across the
dining room.

"Really?" I walked in his path, and sure enough, there was
a noticeable dip right in the center of the room. "That's not
good," I observed, marking it down in my notes. We
continued on out to the tiniest kitchen I'd seen in a long
time. He peered out the back window.

"I could enclose the porch, I guess, and knock this wall
down. Or knock down the wall to the back bedroom and
pantry and make it bigger that way."

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The bath was tiny, too, as was the front bedroom. We went
down to the basement and discovered that not only wasn't it
finished, the floor was still dirt.

"This really isn't what I had in mind," he admitted. "It's an
awful lot of work."

"No, I see that. Wow, I'm sorry. I thought it'd be a bit
larger."

"Hard to tell until you're in it, I suppose. Anything else to
show me?"

"Oh, yeah, I think there are some better ones in the batch.
Come on, I'll drive. I won't make you run to the next
place."

Now understand, I'm a good realtor. I can usually hit the
mark pretty quickly with people, but for some reason, the
six properties I'd picked out for Don were like the real
estate version of The Eddy Keenan Bad Boyfriend Club.
They were awful! One had a mousetrap on the stove and a
bag of garbage sitting on the kitchen floor. ("How could
they have mice?" Don wondered out loud.)

One looked like hoarders lived there, and I even saw a
mayonnaise jar of yellow liquid sitting on a bedside table in
that place. "I don't even want to think what that might be,"
Don said as we stared, slack-jawed with horror at the
bedroom.

The fourth one literally had a hole in the roof covered with
a tarp. Don just blinked at it and said, "You're kidding,
right? What's next on the list, a hovel?"

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I was so embarrassed. "I swear it's usually not like this. I'm
really sorry I hadn't visited any of these before. Look," I
suggested, "let's go have a bite of lunch, and we'll skip the
fifth house which I also have not seen, and we can go view
this condo I picked out. I've seen it, and it might be just
what you're looking for."

He looked skeptical. "Condos aren't..."

"I know, but just humor me because I've done so well for
you so far." That made him laugh, and he agreed.

Over lunch, I asked him about Africa. "Where were you?"

"Zambia, teaching at a technical college."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not? It was a decent job, they can use
help with their technical sector -- did you know they're the
only country in Africa to manufacture cell phones?"

"Um, no. But you don't have a cell phone?"

He laughed. "I did, and it was a good one, but it got stolen
by a baboon. You don't argue with baboons. So,
somewhere out in a Zambian national park, a flange of
baboons is dialing Alaska on my dime. Eh, I needed to get
away for a while. Personal stuff. What about you?"

"Well, I got out of college with a degree that was pretty
much worthless unless I wanted to try to teach somewhere,
which I didn't really, so I went into real estate. It's a good
job. I enjoy it."

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"I get that."

"Really?"

"Sure. It's sort of neat to be able to go into someone else's
home and look around at the way they live. At the very
least, it reassures you that you're reasonably stable and
well-adjusted. And tidier than you think you are."

That made me laugh. I was surprised that I was liking Don
as much as I was. It wasn't high on my list of expectations.
"Y'know, I remember you as being very different."

He smiled wryly. "Oh, yeah, you remember Nerd Don. I've
changed a bit."

"So what happened? If you don't mind my asking."

"Oh, he's still in here. Nerd Don has just learned to put on a
good front. It happened when I went out to Oregon for a
job. I was working for a tech firm, which I figured would
be safe because I'd be working with geeks like myself, but
most of them were not all that geek-like. They looked like
ordinary people, and I was feeling really out of place. I
went to my boss and told him I had rethought the job and
wanted to go back home. Are you going to have dessert?
Because they have cannoli, and I haven't had any since I
went off to Zambia."

"Sounds good." He flagged down our waiter and ordered
cannoli and coffee for two. "So anyway," I prompted.

"So anyway, he asked me what the problem was and I tried
to explain, but it kept coming out all wrong, like I wanted
to go home to be with my mommy and daddy or something

Cherry on Top - 103

like that. It was just nuts, I was going to pieces right there
in his office because for me the fitting-in part is..." He
sighed. "See, you probably don't understand this, but I had
never fit in anywhere, not really. I'm really smart and
socially inept..."

"You're doing pretty well today, Don. Seriously, you're
about as socially ept as anyone I've ever met."

"It's brilliant camouflage."

"And as far as being an outsider, I do get it. I've known I
was gay since I was about ten. I fit in at school about as
well as a turd in a punchbowl."

His laugh was big and genuine, and I realized that I was
happy that he was laughing at my joke. And then I felt kind
of sick because this was the last thing I needed, to fall for a
straight guy. It would just put the whipped cream and
cherry on the top of my hot fudge sundae of stupid
mistakes. "So what happened?"

"I was lucky. My boss took pity on me and said: 'Look, let's
see if we can't help you fit in a bit better, okay?' Turns out
he'd wrestled with his own inner geek and won. He showed
me a photo of himself in high school, and it was like
looking in a mirror. He taught me how to dress, he taught
me how to talk to people, he took me out and taught me
how to behave in public. It was an intensive course in being
like everyone else on the outside."

"And on the inside?"

"Well, it's amazing how much that can change when you
stop seeing other people through distorting glasses. You

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behave better, they treat you better. It's a social contract.
That, and falling in love."

It was said with such off-handedness that I nearly missed it.
I was dying to ask, but I settled for "So things got a lot
better?"

"Yeah. I started fitting in, people seemed to like me. I had a
good life. And then the boss died at forty-seven of some
congenital heart problem."

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it was very sad. He'd left the company to the
employees in his will, and as far as I know, it's still
humming along. It made its IPO a couple of years ago, I
guess."

"So why didn't you stay?"

He got an odd look on his face and seemed to be about to
say something, but then dessert arrived. By the time the
waiter left our table, his expression had changed, become
more guarded.

"I guess what I mean is I wonder why you left what I
assume was a terrific job at a place that you actually owned
for a teaching job in a third world country. Admirable
though that might be," I added quickly.

"I needed a change. So tell me about this condo. How big is
it?"

Nice segue, I thought. "About fifteen hundred square feet,
which I know is bigger than what you say you want, but it's

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well within your budget, and it has a kickass view of the
local park."

"I'm keeping an open mind. And if there are no mousetraps
or jars of suspicious liquid lying around..."

"It's completely empty and has been for three months,
which is why the price is so good. The owner had to move
and just wants to be done with all the fees and
responsibilities."

"Are the fees stiff?"

"No, but I expect he finds it annoying to be paying for
something he's not using."

Don was very quiet on the way over to the condo, and I
imagined all sorts of things from bad memories to some
inadvertent offense I might've given him. But once we got
there, he brightened up. He liked the condo, loved the view,
and fell head-over-heels for the kitchen with its stainless
appliances and dark cherry cabinets. "This is great," he
said, kind of stroking the huge refrigerator. I had to look
away because it was having a definite effect on me.

"Let's look at the rest of the layout." I showed him the first
of three bedrooms. "This is the smallest. It would make a
great office or guest room, and there's a Jack and Jill
bathroom it shares with the other bedroom." We walked on
through a nice, though rather plain bath to another small
bedroom.

"This is a lot of space," he murmured.

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"I know, it really is. But that does give you some
flexibility."

"I suppose. Let's look at the master."

It was a good-size room, the floor covered wall-to-wall
with some unfortunate carpet. He made a face, and I
reminded him that there was good hardwood under all the
carpeting in the house. "It won't be difficult to take up. I'll
even come and help you."

"Really?" He turned and smiled. "Why would you do that?"
His damn eyes were so green and beautiful. But there was
something in them that unnerved me. While it wasn't a
great idea to fall for a straight guy, it was even worse to fall
for one who had weird issues like, oh, say, coming on to
gay men for a joke.

"Because I'm a nice guy," I told him. "Let's take a look at
the bath; I think you'll love it."

I was right, he did love it, with its big tub, separate shower,
and discreetly partitioned-off toilet. And carpeting. "Why
in the name of all that is holy would anyone put carpet in
the bath?"

"It was big twenty years ago," I explained. "The owner is
an older man who never did much updating after his wife
died.

"Ugh. Still, as you said, it should be easy to take up." He
walked back to the master bedroom and closed the curtains
on the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Well, that doesn't keep
out much light, does it?" he asked. "What's the exposure on
this side? North, isn't it?"

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"Yes. New drapes won't cost much." I felt as if I was
babbling. When he came up to me and put one arm around
my waist, I said, "And you can get blackout drapes if you
really want it dark in here." He cut me off with a long,
achingly sweet kiss.

"There's something I haven't told you," he said, his mouth
so close to mine that our lips brushed when he spoke.

"I think I can guess." Somewhere during the tour of the
condo, it had fallen into place: his boss had become his
lover. When he died, Don hadn't been able to stay where
there were so many memories, so Don went halfway
around the world to forget. It all made perfect sense.
"You'll tell me if I'm guessing wrong?" I asked as I drew
him down to the floor, feeling grateful for the carpet, no
matter how ugly. "If you neglected to tell me that you're not
really interested in buying real estate, for example?"

"That's not it," he said, unbuttoning my shirt.

"Or if you forgot to tell me that you're actually looking for
a farm?" My hands were shaking a little, but I managed to
slip his T-shirt up over his head and off.

"Nope, that's not it, either." He lay back and let me place a
line of kisses down the center of his chest.

"Lift," I told him as I pushed his shorts down. "A jock.
God, that turns me on," I told him. "It's like high school
gym class." I put my mouth over the white cotton and wet it
down so that the contour of his cock showed clearly
through the thin material.

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"Condom?" he asked.

I groaned. "It's not part of my realtor's kit. You?"

"I hadn't planned on getting laid today."

I flopped down onto the floor beside him and laughed.

"Y'know, I used to give the condom lecture to my classes
about once a week. AIDS is endemic in Africa, so when
you have a captive audience, you talk to them constantly
about safe sex, hoping to raise their awareness. And yet
here I am without one. That's how you know Geek Don still
lives inside my head. Utterly oblivious to any form of
reality known to man. To be fair, though," he said, rolling
over and raising himself up on his elbow, "I hadn't expected
that you'd turn out to be such a hottie."

"You think I'm a hottie?"

"Eddy, I haven't had sex in four years by choice, and in less
than four hours you've got me almost naked on the floor of
an empty condo, kicking myself for not having protection.
Yes, I would say that you're a hottie."

"We can still... you know."

"I know." He leaned in and kissed me again. "And there's
something so good about even being able to kiss you."

Maybe so, but I have to say that the feel of his hand on my
cock was more what I'd been thinking about. And his cock
in my hand. A long, slow session with, yeah, a lot of
kissing and more sweetness in an hour than I can remember
in the whole of my sex life put together. Oh, and a

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surprisingly intense orgasm for a hand job, because Don
Wingate? So completely my type he could have been
created from my specs.

No, I don't make a habit of having sex in the houses I'm
trying to sell; thanks for asking.

So, all this kissing and affectionate lovemaking, it scared
me a little. Not enough to sell him the condo and get out of
his life, but enough that I knew I was holding back, and so
did he. But he didn't say anything about it. I did sell him the
condo, though, and he bought it with cash, a legacy from
that first, dead lover. True to my word, I came over and
helped him get that ridiculous carpet torn up.

"I'm sort of fond of it now," he admitted as we worked.
After his closing, we'd come over with champagne, pillows,
a blanket, and plenty of condoms, and made love all night
on the floor of his new master bedroom. It was just too
nice, too wonderful. Don was the nicest guy I think I've
ever known. So of course I turned it into a problem,
because I understood problems, they were my natural
métier. I worked in relationship snags the way artists
worked in oil or watercolor, painting broad swathes of
paranoia. I was waiting for the big fuck up, the mistake that
would send me running out of his life forever.

"Y'know, I think maybe you should move in with me," he
said one night over dinner at our favorite restaurant, an
Irish pub that served great burgers and Guinness on tap.
The alarm bells went off immediately, and I started talking
about something else, I don't remember what. "You think
it's a bad idea?" Don asked.

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"Um... well, not as such, no. But it's sort of sudden." Did I
neglect to mention that we'd been sleeping together for
almost eight months by that time? Yeah, well, it wasn't
sudden at all, and saying it out loud made me feel like a
complete horse's ass. "Well, no, I don't mean sudden so
much as unexpected." It wasn't unexpected, either, but I
made believe it was. And that's when I got what I was
waiting for, the flash of temper that I admit I deserved, but
which was enough for me to grab hold of and make into a
problem.

"Unexpected? Eddy, we've been lovers for months, you
know how much I care about you."

"Could you keep your voice down, please?"

He sat back in the booth and stared at me. "No, I don't think
I can make anything about myself much smaller for your
sake, Eddy. I did that for years; I'm not going to go on
doing it just to try to win you over."

"I have to work in this community," I hissed at him. Inside
my head, a little voice was congratulating myself for
turning the relationship into what I was used to. Unstable
ground at last!

But there wasn't a scene. I'd expected one, if not at the
restaurant, then afterward in the car or at his place, but he
didn't even invite me in. He just said, "Night, Eddy," and
walked away. Another rousing success. It was what I was
expecting, after all, and it was a relief, like when the other
shoe drops, but I felt odd in a way I'd never felt before, as if
I'd kicked a puppy or stolen money from a Salvation Army
kettle at Christmas. I didn't feel vindicated or justified, I
felt downright wrong.

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I decided to go have a few drinks, maybe dance, maybe
even have sex with a stranger. Because I was a free agent
again. I hit one of the bars near my place, and who should I
find there but Timmy. My first love, my first
disappointment. Oh, what the hell, I thought, let's just go
for the worst night ever.

"Hey."

He looked surprised. "Hi, Eddy."

"How you doing? Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm good, thanks." He was staring at me like I might whip
out a stiletto and stab him to death or something. "Uh, so
how are you?"

"I'm okay. Been better. How's the family?"

"Oh, you know..."

"No, actually, I don't. Listen, Timmy," I began, not even
quite knowing where I was going with this. "The thing is
I'm sorry the way things turned out between us." Wow,
why was I saying this? But once I started, it was like the
truth just kept pouring out. "But you really, really hurt me,
and it's made me feel like I'm not good enough. All these
years, I haven't been good enough for anything better than
the crazy people and the one-night stands, and I didn't
realize until I saw you standing here just now that I don't
know what I did wrong that day. Will you please tell me?"

He stood there, just staring and shaking his head. "No,
Eddy, you didn't do anything wrong. I was scared."

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"Yeah but that was one minute out of all that time we spent
telling each other how much we loved one another. One
minute. And you never even looked at me again. You never
even made eye contact. Was that whole year a lie?"

"No!"

"Then what did I do?" I begged. "I've gotta know. I mean, I
know pretty much why the others didn't work out. I picked
them all, and they all were exactly what I thought they'd be.
That's all I thought I deserved, Timmy."

"I couldn't live like that."

"Like that? Like what? What was I asking? I wanted to
make a life with you, but you went off with whatever her
damn name is and now you're looking for sex in bars."

He turned away and said, "Just leave me alone, Eddy. I
can't do what you do. I'm not brave like that."

After he walked away, I didn't feel much like drinking or
dancing, and I sure didn't want sex. Not with a stranger,
anyway. I went out and walked around a little, trying to
clear my head, get rid of the icky feeling I had that there
was something under all this unhappiness that was trying to
come out, and if I could just get to it, just understand...

There's an ice cream shop near my place, so I walked on
over and took my time looking at the available flavors. An
elderly man ordered a cup with a single scoop of chocolate
and two spoons. "My wife likes the chocolate," he said to
me as the girl fixed his order. "Me, I like a fruit flavor
better."

Cherry on Top - 113

"Why don't you get one of each?"

He shrugged. "We don't eat as much as we used to, and it's
not really good for either of us. So next time, maybe
strawberry. Or chocolate." He smiled. "Sixty-one years in
November. The secret is to let her have chocolate if she
wants it." He paid and carried the cup off to the table where
his wife sat. They took tiny bites of the ice cream and
talked together quietly. I watched them and understood
something about myself.

"What can I get you?"

"Um... a pint of the peppermint stick, please." I paid and
walked back home quickly, got in my car, and drove over
to Don's place. He was still up.

"I like chocolate ice cream," I told him as I walked in. "You
like peppermint."

"I do know that."

"I brought peppermint, not to make anything up to you but
because I know you love it, and I love you. Don, I will
always bring you peppermint ice cream because I love
you."

He laughed. "And I love you, too, Eddy, and not for the ice
cream, either."

"I want to live with you," I told him. "I want to spend the
rest of my life with you. I've never wanted that before, not
with anyone."

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"Well, your boyfriends before this..."

"Don, they weren't that bad. Look, get a couple of spoons
because we need to eat this, and I need to explain."

We ended up cross-legged on his bed, sharing the pint of
ice cream, and I told him the absolutely true story of my
love life.

I never loved Timmy. I learned that when I stood there and
tried to get him to tell me that I was good enough, that he
loved me and he'd fucked up, that he was sorry, sorry,
sorry. But the simple truth was that I didn't love him. Yeah,
he'd hurt me, but we were kids, they don't even begin to
understand what love is about. Instead of moving on, I held
on to that hurt for a long time. I was the one making the
bad choices, and whenever I managed to choose someone
that I might have been happy with, I pushed and found fault
and made him miserable until he lived down to my
expectations, and I could just walk away.

"Feeling sorry for myself is something I'm comfortable
with. Being happy? Not so much. Say something?"

"I don't get wanting to be unhappy. When Adrian died, I
couldn't stop crying. I cried for days. I thought I was losing
my mind and ended up going to my doctor to get something
that would make me numb so I wouldn't feel what I was
feeling. That's why I went to Africa. I needed to get away
from myself and all those memories. I don't understand
someone chasing unhappiness."

"I thought I wasn't good enough to love. I thought that's
what Timmy was telling me, and all the others in those first
couple of years when I was trying to figure out what it was

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all about. Tonight I went to the ice cream shop, and thought
about loving you, and it seemed to me that if I wasn't ready
to eat peppermint ice cream for the rest of my life, I wasn't
trying hard enough to be a good boyfriend. So I bought
peppermint and came here to tell you that I have never,
ever loved anyone before I met you, Don. You're my first."

That made him smile in that shy, happy way he had when
something touched his heart. "I've never been anyone's first
before." We shared a peppermint-flavored kiss, and he put
the carton down on the floor beside the bed.

Somehow it felt just like the first time. Like what the first
time should have felt like without any sort of fear or
reservation between us. I felt almost like a virgin that night
because no one had ever owned my heart the way Don did.
There was no negotiating, no bargains, no sense that there
had to be some kind of sexual reciprocity or there would be
something out of balance. We couldn't be out of balance if
we tried. Not now, not ever, I hoped. I promised myself
that if I was ever angry with Don, I would go buy some
peppermint ice cream and we'd talk. Because I loved him.

A week later, I moved into the condo with him. We became
the cute gay couple on the block. Our neighbors waved to
us when we walked our dog. Yeah, yeah, we got a dog.
And a cat. We were so domestic it made my eyes roll back
in my head.

Every once in a while, I see Timmy. I feel kind of sorry for
him, but also grateful, because it was seeing him in that bar
that made things click into place. He and I both tried to
deny who we were; he denied his body, I denied my heart.

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I survived. I got through it. And I've learned to love
peppermint ice cream.

Cherry on Top - 117

The Ivory Dungeon

By Syd McGinley

"Mike will be coming to dinner tomorrow, boy. He'll be
bringing his new boy to stay for training. I want full dinner
service, but you and the boy may have boys' servings in the
kitchen after you've served coffee. I've written a menu for
you to make."

"Yes, Sir. Do I need to prepare a room for the boy?"

Dr. Rønne smiles at me. "No, boy. Prepare one for yourself.
Mike's boy will take over the foot of the bed for the next
few weeks. You may use the freed up time for studying for
your finals. Dr. Suravk told me you had a B at midterm in
his social science stats class."

I hide an intake of breath. Dr. Rønne is already looking
back at his grading, so he misses the sulky expression that I
couldn't quite smother. I pick up the book I'm working from
and return to recording the bibliographic data. I peck away
at the keyboard, trying to disentangle whether I'm more
hurt by the exile from the bedroom or the disappointment in
Dr. Rønne's voice over my grade. As usual, my owner
knows what I'm thinking.

"Boy. It's just training, and you need study time. You'll be
back in my bed as soon as finals are over. Your degree is
important."

"Yes, Sir."

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"Don't get pert with me. Have you prepared your next
semester schedule for me to approve?"

I sigh. "Yes, Sir."

I'd been hoping that he'd not ask just yet, and the new boy
had raised my hopes that he might be at least a silver lining
of distraction. Now there is no way Dr. Rønne wouldn't not
notice that, once again, I have attempted to avoid the
computer literacy class he has deemed necessary. And
worse, I've listed Renaissance Literature as an elective.
Hell, I'll take anything to avoid another social science class.

I've dutifully completed all the pre-reqs to major in
anthropology next year, so I can become his research
assistant after I graduate, but I need a term for my soul. I
need words that transcend. The end of this academic year is
going to be rough when I have to declare a major. One of
us is going to have his nose out of joint.

Dr. Rønne picks up the fees that my grants and scholarships
don't cover, so he does have a real say in what I study. And,
he's my owner. I've agreed to be his twenty-four/seven. I
don't get to choose. Not unless I invoke my walk-away
option. But, shit, I'm not sure I can be a social scientist. I'm
drawn to literature. Poetry explains man, I'd tried saying,
and he'd laughed. Poetry makes excuses for man, he'd said,
sounding extra Scandinavian as he did so. Science explains.

"Let me see it."

Crap. I pull out the planning grid from the registrar.

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He grunts. "Well, you do need a Liberal Arts elective. And
fencing class will tone your thighs. The others meet your
program requirements. Good enough. You will take the
computer class in summer school."

I blink. That was easy. Perhaps he's feeling lenient since he
knows I'm a little jealous about the new boy.

Fuck. I'm a lot jealous. This year of living with Dr. Rønne
has been calm for me -- despite the beatings and service. Or
perhaps because of them. My life is stable. Disciplined. Dr.
Rønne has shown me that you can live the life of the mind.
You can be a strong man and care about ideas. Studying
and working. No television. No endless music. I relish it.

I'm not stupid. I don't think Dr. Rønne is my new father.
For a start, getting beaten and fucked throws that idea right
out. And I get more respect from the man who has me
scrub his john and suck his cock than the one who raised
me.

But I am getting the role model I need.

I enter five more bibliographic records into Dr. Rønne's
research database and move to my next task. He keeps me
busy with housework and assisting in his research, but he's
more than fair about time for me to study. And I get one
extracurricular activity per semester as well as time to
exercise. It beats working the third shift at the diner and
sharing a dorm room.

I have no right to be jealous or possessive. My owner is a
trainer, and I'm lucky to have been taken on by him. Others
pay him for what I am getting. Falling asleep in his class
and attracting his attention was my lucky lightning strike.

Cherry on Top - 120

"Boy," he says softly. "Don't crash around. I know you
don't like Mike, but sulking changes nothing."

I blink. Mike is not the problem. I bite my tongue. Perhaps
it's better that Dr. Rønne thinks I'm reluctant to serve his
friend than my revealing my doubts about his career plans
for me or my petty jealousy about sharing him with another
boy.

"Sorry, Sir."

He's right about one thing, though: I have been clattering in
the kitchen. I rinse the spinach for the salad while the
tomato sauce I've been so noisy with simmers. It's my easy
standby dinner that Dr. Rønne tacitly allows every so often
-- and especially the day before a service dinner with other
Sirs attending. Spinach salad, eggplant parmesan, and
seasonal fruit for dessert. Good, simple food.

I get my headspace back for dinner service. This is my last
evening alone with Dr. Rønne for a few weeks. I should
take advantage of it. He's goddamn hot, and I'm looking at
a stretch of being second banana. Or, worse, servicing
Mike. I don't like him. He's a big old leather daddy bear.
That part's fine. The part I don't like is how fussy he is. He
picks at every little thing and won't leave a boy alone to
work.

I groan. I'm going to have to help this boy, Chris, out. Mike
is a micro-manager supreme. He and Dr. Rønne are both
members of a local leather chapter, otherwise they'd never
have crossed paths. Dr. Rønne doesn't approve of tattoos or
overt leather displays, and Mike is covered in ink and
wears a leather vest under all circumstances. To be fair, he

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is a tattoo artist who has a sideline as a leatherworker. Dr.
Rønne, as I know to my cost, has several of his handmade
whips.

They are, now that they've met, great friends. Mike snipes
at Dr. Rønne for being an ivory tower academic, and in
return Sir makes jokes about Mike's man cave of a home.
Mike has visited more than once, and my ass was left all
the rawer, inside and out, for their friendship. It behooves
me to like and assist Chris.

Dr. Rønne laughs. "It does, boy. You've spent too long
without company if you're muttering to yourself."

"Sorry, Sir. And, yes, Sir. You're the first person I can..."

Dr. Rønne cuts me off with a ruffle to my hair and
dismisses me to the kitchen to have a sandwich.

Tomorrow night's chance at leftovers is a real treat. My
owner says boys regularly eating the same food as their Sirs
or cooking for themselves makes them uppity. In Dr.
Rønne's house, I live on cold cuts and cereal. He's not
unkind or foolish, though. He puts a generous amount on
my school cafeteria account, so I have hot lunches during
the week. But it is cafeteria food, and cooking food I can't
eat is a torment. I'm constantly aware of my status, and I
know that's just what my owner intends.

I rebelliously sneak a breaded eggplant cutlet and some
sauce into my sandwich and add some slices of cheese.
God, it's good. I want to bolt it down, but I chew slowly.
Dr. Rønne rarely comes into the kitchen while I'm eating
and cleaning up, but I stay alert. I don't want to be caught --
I'm not acting out to provoke anything. I know myself

Cherry on Top - 122

better than that. Yeah, I'm pissed about the new kid, but I'm
hungry and I want to make one fucking decision for myself.

I get the kitchen scrubbed down and prep myself for bed. I
gargle mouthwash to get rid of any betraying food scents.
Dr Rønne is still grading, so I grab my stats book and sit by
his feet. I did get a B, but it was a mercy one -- 79.5
rounded up -- and I'd gotten lucky on some of the multiple-
choice answers. If I'm going to pull an A, I have to really
get my head around this stuff.

I can do practical math. I can do a budget and build a
bookcase. And I never once totaled an order wrong on the
days I covered for wait staff at the diner. But what the hell
is this standard deviation shit all about? I snigger a little.
How can a deviant be standard? I'm sure not.

I flip to the start of the chapter and begin again. The
overview makes sense, but then they start throwing in
Greek letters. There's a freaking giant sigma in the middle.
Damn. Why the hell would you square something and then
square root it? Oh wait, add them up in between. Then
divide by something else. Then square root. I groan.

Dr. Rønne is watching me.

"Doesn't come easy, does it, boy?"

"No, Sir."

"You'll value it the more when you get it," he says mildly,
and turns back to his papers. I'm too dispirited to glare.

An hour later, I've worked several samples correctly. But
I'm just following steps. I don't get it. I read the next

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paragraph. Bessel's Correction. What the fuck? They have
to correct it? And I've just spent all this time on it? Man. I
shut the book. Gimme a page of Latin instead. Or a sonnet.

"Bed," says Dr. Rønne. "If necessary, I will hire you a stats
tutor."

I squirm internally as I follow him upstairs. I hate feeling
dumb. Serves me right for asking why a university needed
a writing center. That was my first punishment beating
from Dr. Rønne. How dared I sneer at anyone trying to
improve?

I turn down the bed for Dr. Rønne and take his clothes as
he undresses. I fold them and then place them in the
laundry hamper. That's a weird rule, too, but I don't mind it.
It's strangely soothing to drop the neat piles in, and laundry
day is like an archeological dig of our past week together.
Nicely stratified, and sorting the wash loads is easy.

My owner stretches out and watches as I strip. I give the
cushions on the floor a questioning look, and he laughs.

"No, boy. In the bed. Do a good job and you can sleep here,
too."

I grin. I hate the floor at the foot of his bed. I feel so put in
my fucking place there. I know enough to be grateful that I
have been granted a room to sleep in while the trainee is
here. What's really hard is sleeping on the cushions while
my owner fucks another boy in the bed.

Dr. Rønne likes to kiss and tease and play in bed. He thinks
it's funny that I don't like being silly, and he's always trying
to get me to lighten up. He plays fair, though, and if I even

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hint at being taken too far by something he's doing, he
backs off. He finds it hilarious that I can take a whipping,
but was reduced to weeping and safewording after a few
seconds of tickling. Although he was amused by the
contrast, he nodded solemnly when I said tickling a
ticklephobic counts as torture in my opinion. He's promised
that I'll never under any circumstances be tickled.

He still won't stop kissing and hugging, though. The fact
that I don't like it isn't enough grounds. I slide into his arms
and suffer through some tenderness. He runs his hands over
my ribs.

"Still so skinny."

I bite back a snide remark about how three hot meals a day
would help, and squirm in his grasp. I reach for his prick
and work his foreskin back and forth over his cock head. I
love that he's uncut. It's a bonus part of having a foreign
owner. He feels sorry for American boys and their naked
pricks.

I bend forward to suck him.

"Just for a little, boy. I want your ass tonight."

I hide my huff with a kiss to his slit. Getting fucked is
something else I'm not wild about. I fill my mouth with
cock and ponder. There's a lot recently that I don't like
about this, and even though I willingly serve Dr. Rønne,
I'm not in love with him.

But, damn, I love sucking cock.

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Yow. Dr Rønne has pulled me back up by my hair and is
rolling me onto my back. Crap. It's going to be a face-to-
face fuck with my knees by my ears.

He's generous with the lube and I moan despite myself. My
dick rolls back and forth on my belly, and Dr. Rønne palms
it briefly.

"Safeword, boy."

I tense. For just a fuck? Well, it's better than being tender, I
guess.

"Whorfian Hypothesis."

"Good boy. Hold tight."

My recurrent irritation at not even having chosen my own
safeword gets me through the first penetration. I hate that
feeling. Dr. Rønne said I had such a weird vocabulary that
he wanted to be sure I was safewording and not going all
smart undergrad on him.

"Hard and fast," says my owner, and leans down for a kiss
before he settles into pounding my ass.

I sorta like fucking. I always come. But getting fucked feels
like a hard workout: hot, sweaty, ridiculous looking, some
exhilaration, and feels great when it stops. Just like when I
work out, I cling to believing in its long-term payoff.

I press my palms flat against the bed and put my back into
pleasing my owner.

Cherry on Top - 126

God, he's taking forever. By hard and fast, he did not mean
over quickly. I could safeword from exhaustion by the time
he shoots deep into me. He roars and rests heavily on me.
My own orgasm came and went a good five minutes ago,
and now I'm worried about my hamstrings as they stay
stretched. Dr. Rønne's sweat drops into my eyes and I yelp.

"Stings, Sir."

He rumbles a laugh, props himself up on one elbow, and
wipes my sticky face.

"Good boy. Don't fuss if Mike wants to stay over tomorrow
night, okay?"

My heart can't plummet anywhere -- I'm still full of my
owner -- but, shit.

"I never fuss," I say with all the dignity my literal and
figurative position can muster.

***

I've done my usual Saturday whole-house clean, spent my
two study hours on my Latin translation and writing my
weekly letter to Mom, served lunch, and now I'm preparing
the guest room. For myself. It's bitter, but Dr. Rønne has
said I can take all my books there and consider it my study.
A room just for books and thinking. Luxury!

Since I'm not being punished by this visit, Dr. Rønne has
sweetened the pot by saying that when I pass the computer
literacy class this summer, he will pick me out a used
laptop from the school's surplus store.

Cherry on Top - 127

I sigh. I'm wrestling with the idea that, while I will miss
sucking Dr. Rønne's cock, I'm not at all bothered by Chris
getting the fucking duty.

I grimace. I have to get through the evening with Micro-
Manage-Mike, and there's the possibility that my new study
space will be where I spend the night serving him. I shove
the bed back against the wall and pretend it's not there. If I
face the other way, I can see a room for just my mind. I
could get territorial about it.

I see Dr. Rønne's car pull in as he returns from the grocery
store with what I need for dinner. My owner has vetoed my
learning to drive until I graduate. Based on the few lessons
I had with Dad, I really don't mind at all. In fact, I conclude
sneakily, it's fewer potential chores to be assigned. I really
hate shopping.

I amble down to the kitchen. There's no need to hurry.

"Aw, fuck."

"I beg your pardon, boy?"

Dr. Rønne has set the brown paper sacks on the table and is
pouring himself a beer.

I compose myself and start to unpack. "Nothing, Sir, but
did you change the menu?" I hold up the asparagus as non-
accusatorily as I can.

He chuckles. "Forgive me, boy. I was tempted by the
produce display. Surely steaming some asparagus for a
starter won't overly complicate your work?"

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I shrug. I won't be sucking my owner's cock anyway, and if
Mike does want to use me, he's an ass man. It'll only be the
new boy who gets asparagus cock.

I put the salmon in the refrigerator. Dr. Rønne has chosen a
fiddly menu: salmon en papillote with julienne mix of
carrots, red peppers, and fennel, served with wild rice. And,
apparently, asparagus. It's a bit frou-frou in my opinion, but
it should taste good. And he's bought a selection of
Häagen-Dazs ice creams for dessert.

I spend the afternoon muttering as I julienne vegetables and
practice folding the paper packets. Holy hell. The paper has
to be cut into a heart shape. I study the instructions to see if
that's some faggy designer idea or not. Good job I checked.
It's necessary to make the folds that stop the steam from
bursting the paper. I sigh. I miss the diner. Hash browns
and cheese grits are more my speed. I roll a fennel bulb
around and ponder how the hell you evenly chop such a
weird shape.

Having prepped the dinner as much as I can, I go to shower
and shave. Dr. Rønne has specified full service while Mike
is here. That means silence, barefoot, commando under just
shorts, and a collar. At least I don't have to shave my body
hair. I buckle on the collar and scowl in the mirror. I hate it.
I know Dr. Rønne plans on offering me a long-term one
when I graduate.

If I stay.

Shit. Where did that come from? I run a finger under my
collar and feel wretched. Disloyal.

***

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Chris is a mousy kid. Shy and a little chubby. He's probably
a few years older than me. Dr. Rønne calls him Mike's cub,
and I do laugh at that. He sets to kitchen scutwork right
away as I cook. If I set anything down for a second, he
grabs it and washes it.

I growl. "I still need that knife."

"Oh. Sorry. Sir gets antsy if..."

I sigh. "Yeah. Your Sir..." I pause. Criticizing an owner sits
wrong, but Chris needs to know that he's not the hangup
here.

Chris grins. "Sir is a fusser."

I snort. The boy knows his owner. And he's cute when he
smiles. I feel a stupid urge to help him in his quest to be a
better boy.

Chris gives me a sweet, sideways look. "I wish I could help
Sir relax more. I -- uh -- feel bad that he can't trust me
alone. He has to work so hard while I serve him."

We trade looks. We both know that Chris is being driven
nuts by Mike supervising too much.

"I'll let Dr. Rønne know how you'd like to improve." I fold
the last paper shut over the salmon and vegetables, and pop
the tray in the oven. "He's very good at knowing what
needs to be addressed."

Dinner goes smoothly. The asparagus is delicious -- so I
suppose, since Mike and Dr. Rønne empty the dish -- and

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the salmon has cooked to a fragrant perfection. When the
paper packets open, Mike growls like a big old grizzly
hooking his dinner from a stream. Chris goes pink with
mirth when I tell him that, and he can hardly eat his own
portion.

To my infinite relief, Mike leaves after dinner. He rumbles
something about not making it harder on his boy than it has
to be. I have my suspicions that he's leaving to stop himself
from kibitzing at my owner.

I stretch out in my bed and revel in the privacy, comfort,
and crisp, clean sheets. I can read in bed and sprawl as I
wish. I can faintly hear Chris weeping as Dr. Rønne beats
him, but it's a soothing backdrop to my decadent solitude.

***

The next few weeks are bittersweet for me. I have less
work to do, and very few sexual duties. Chris is doing all
the housework -- really well -- and all I have to do is show
him Dr. Rønne's preferences.

He's also spending every night with my owner. Studying
statistics isn't made easier by the extra time. I still don't
understand it, and I'm distracted by trying to process why I
really don't seem to mind that my owner is with another
boy. I'm not jealous now that Chris is actually here -- that
brief spell in anticipation seems to have been it.

I'm finding a quiet satisfaction in watching Chris get things
right. I even like cosseting him after he's been beaten. His
ass bruises so beautifully. I get hard while I rub ointment in
for him, but that must be because I haven't come since he
arrived.

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Just when I think I'm going to go mad with blue balls, Dr.
Rønne makes it worse. He's training Chris to hold off on
his orgasms, and guess who gets the task of sucking Chris
until he's on the brink and then stopping? Chris and I both
give Dr. Rønne the stink eye the first time he orders us to
stop.

He guffaws.

"What a silly pair of sulky boys. Chris, it seems my
beatings are not deterrent enough. Boy, get my riding crop.
Let's see if taking his punishment from another boy does
the trick."

I suspect it will. Chris has already flushed red with
humiliation and lost his hard on. I, on the other hand, am
still rock hard. I flex the crop. I've handled it before, since
Dr. Rønne usually sends me to fetch it when I screw up, but
I've never had the chance to swing it.

Chris is sniffling before the fireplace, but is obediently in
position. Dr. Rønne has kicked back on the sofa with a
glass of scotch.

I give the crop an experimental swish. Dr. Rønne nods.

"Go ahead, boy."

Holy shit! Chris' sweet rump ripples under the blow and he
groans. I caused that! My dick twitches. Hell, I even love
the motion of my arm, and the vibration back up the crop as
I hit Chris again.

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His ass is rosy, and he's weeping steadily when I finish. I
forget my place and pull him into my arms and tell him he's
a good boy.

"He is," snaps Dr. Rønne. "You, on the other hand! Get in
your corner."

I let go of Chris and feel a stab of ice in my chest. Damn
him! I pivot on my heel and march to the corner. I kneel,
facing the wall, and fight the rage.

"Make sure he doesn't leave his position, Chris. No talking,
either of you. I'll be in my study."

The foul indignity of having Chris watch me kneel must
surely be worse than being beaten by me was for Chris.
And I'm not even sure how I've pissed Dr. Rønne off quite
so much. He knows the corner is what I hate the most.
Yeah, I overstepped by comforting Chris, but that wasn't so
bad. Perhaps he could tell how much I liked beating a boy?

He comes back in an hour and doesn't say a word to us
about either of our misdemeanors. If anything, he seems
almost conciliatory to me. I feel an odd little ember glow.
Dr. Rønne knows he was unfair!

The evening is peaceful enough. Chris makes dinner, and I
even get an unprecedented bowl of soup as I study. My
stats exam is in the morning, and Dr. Rønne wants me
rested. I'm resigned to getting a high B at miraculous best,
but he still thinks I'll pull an A. Honestly, my perfect gpa
going is bothering me more than the beating I'll get.

My Latin exam is in the afternoon, but I feel fine about
that. The grammar is a snap for me, and I've drilled

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endlessly on the vocabulary. I even like doing the prose
translations. I could be a Classics major in a heartbeat. I
doodle as I run through a conjugation. Right. There's no
way Dr. Rønne would countenance that! I look at my
doodle, and gulp. I scratch it out fast, but I know what I
wrote: Non amo te. I do not love you.

***

We all pile into the car together in the morning. Dr. Rønne
is giving an exam, and he's sending Chris to swim and then
grocery shop. I'm to meet them in his office after my Latin
exam.

My stats exam is worse than I thought it would be. I make
the fatal mistake of starting to think about the fucking ideas
instead of just plugging and chugging the techniques. I
second guess my answers and erase half the sheet. I feel
physically ill. I have never done so badly on any test in my
life. I send a baleful look at Dr. Suravk. He and Dr. Rønne
don't seem to have any qualms about sharing my grades.
I'm screwed. I fill the rest of the bubbles in randomly and
leave.

I stomp around in the quad for a bit to break my mood, and
then I bum a cigarette from some of the goth kids hanging
out by the flagpole. I sit on the steps and smoke. Dr. Rønne
is going to be mad if he smells it on me, but I need some
fucking autonomy.

What the hell is wrong with me? I'm so antsy. Dr. Rønne
and I agree about the importance of discipline. I take a drag
on the cigarette and stub it out. I only needed to remember
how much I liked nicotine, not to actually smoke. I have
self-discipline.

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"Shit," I mutter. I don't want to be on the receiving end of
anyone else's discipline. I may need Dr. Rønne's support,
but I don't want an owner anymore. I am trapped.

I brush my jeans off and go to my Latin exam. I know I ace
that one.

Dr Rønne attributes my quietness on the way home to being
tired from the exams, and sends me to bed early. I
appreciate the aloneness, but it rankles. I consider jerking
off, but breaking Dr. Rønne's rules just because I'm angry
sits wrong. But, shit, I feel as if I've been sent to my room.
I flop on the bed and think. There's a day of reckoning
coming. When he gets my stats grade, I may as well tell
him I don't want to do the anthropology major.

***

I'm finished for the semester, but Dr. Rønne has all his
grading to do. He's gone out to his campus office to work.
So long as we get the chores done, Chris and I have a day
to ourselves. Chris defers to me even though we are alone.
He even gives me sweet, under his lashes looks as we
work. It gives me shivers. I go outside to mow the lawn.
The boy is pushing my buttons.

I'm nearly done when he comes trotting out with a glass of
iced tea for me. Oh, fuck. He's serving me.

"Don't," I snap. "Chris, don't."

He looks crushed. "I want to please you."

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"Staying in your role would please me." Crap. He's not
taking that how I meant it. He's flirting openly now.

"Dr. Rønne won't be home until four. We could..."

"No! Damn it, boy. Get in the house!"

He sucks in his breath. "You are just like them!" He
trundles back into the house. I want to laugh -- bear cubs
are not built to flounce -- but I'm too horrified by my
reaction. Maybe I am a Sir? I snort. I'm nineteen. Sirs are
graybeards!

***

Dr. Rønne doesn't help the situation. He's tired from
grading, but in a good mood at having wrapped up his
semester. He leans back in the sofa after dinner and tells me
and Chris to try the oral training again. Getting intimate
with Chris isn't what I want after his pass earlier, but I feel
a wicked twist in my belly. He gets one killer blowjob from
me, and the little slut weeps when Dr. Rønne calls time. His
cock is red and slick with my spit and his own excitement.

Dr. Rønne had chuckled as he saw how enthusiastic I was.
My own cock is rigid and painful from not coming. I've
kept his damn rules.

"Boy. You've served well since Chris joined us, and you've
studied hard. Since I'm tired, why don't you service Chris'
ass for me? Mike wants him beaten and fucked daily."

Chris wails. "No! Dr. Rønne. That's not fair!"

Cherry on Top - 136

I snort. There's nothing more guaranteed to ensure my
owner will do something. "Sir? I've never fucked an ass
before."

"Then it's time you learned. Chris -- get yourself ready and
report back."

I'm trembling. Nerves and desire. I'm terrified this won't be
as good as I've hoped. Dr. Rønne sure seems to like
fucking. And, oh, yeah, my cock is pretty thrilled to have
Chris point his rump at me. My owner kneels next to us and
offers hints. Thank God it's not Micro-Manage-Mike next
to us, or Chris and I would both be in trouble. Dr. Rønne
suggests I finger fuck Chris a little.

Oh, man! He's so hot and tight around my finger. I want to
thrust and make him moan. Dr. Rønne says something
about fisting, and I gasp. I've had his hand up my ass, and it
was too fucking trippy for me. Wonderful, but too much.
But getting my hand in this sweet, tight tunnel? Oh, hell. I
can hardly imagine what it's going to do to my cock.

Chris is whimpering and rocking his hips. I blink. He's
happy about this now he's past the indignity. I cup his balls
and work my finger.

"Oh!" he yells. "Yes!"

I give my owner a look, and speak softly. "Is the boy
allowed to come when I fuck him?"

Dr. Rønne laughs. "Why not? But one of you blows me
when you're done."

Cherry on Top - 137

"Me!" I say hastily. I want my owner's cock in my mouth.
But first, there's an ass waiting for my prick.

Chris' hole yields perfectly when I push against it. The
resistance is so fucking sweet, and he's like a furnace
inside. Chris groans and starts to pump his ass. He weeps
and begs as I fuck him. My spine is melting. God, all the
things I hate having done to me are making Chris bloom.
And I love doing them to him.

"Slut," I hiss. "You like this, huh, boy?"

"Yes! Oh, Sir! Please!"

Dr. Rønne slaps Chris' face. "There's only one Sir in this
room."

Chris whimpers, but keeps bucking his hips. Damn. I may
not be a Sir, but I know I'm not a bottom. This is so much
better than getting fucked.

Chris screams as he comes -- maybe my nipple twist was
too much -- but he's aglow and still panting when I feel my
come shoot deep into his belly. Oh yes. That's home. Deep
in a boy.

I crawl over to my owner to blow him. The knowledge that
I want a boy, not to be one, weighs on me, and my soul
cracks a little as he ruffles my hair as he thrusts, and
mutters, "You're a good boy, Johnny."

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My Best Friend

By BG Thomas

To Angel, who pointed the way.

Jesse Campbell was the most popular guy in school, and he
was also my best friend in the whole world. Ah, Jesse...
Tall and stocky, with a muscular chest covered with a mat
of fur as dark his deep brown eyes and shaggy hair. We met
in high school, and I think I fell in love with him instantly.
He was just so damn gorgeous and manly to my barely
pubescent eyes. He was everything I ever wanted to be and
thought I never could be.

Unlike me, he was also very popular, and I was never sure
why he let me pal around with him. I was just glad he did. I
hung at his heels like a puppy. The reason I finally got
popular at all was Jesse made it clear that if people wanted
to hang with him, I was part of the deal. He didn't care
about the games high schoolers played. He didn't care if he
was popular or not. He didn't need to prove anything and
everybody knew it, and so, everybody wanted to be around
him.

I wasn’t a big sports fan, but when he joined the football
team, I never missed a game, not once. I even snuck out of
the house when I had a temperature of over a hundred. He
sure was shocked to see me in the stands, and I am so glad I
went because he won the game that night, single-handedly.
He gave me a good punch on the shoulder after, though.

Cherry on Top - 139

"What were you thinking?" he said. "You sick and all!" He
helped get me home and somehow my mom never knew.

I liked to write stories, and Jesse encouraged me all the
way. It's why I write today; I feel that every character and
world and story I create, I do it for him. He’s found his way
into more than one as well. But this is the first time I’ve
actually told his story.

We did everything together: meals with each other’s
families, homework, movies on Saturdays at the dollar
theater. We’d go for walks or campouts out in the woods
behind his house, and sometimes we’d skinny-dip in the
pond at his grandmother’s. It was growing up and watching
our bodies change that made things begin to happen in my
head.

I began to realize that my feelings for Jesse went beyond
what the other guys felt for him and much closer to what
the girls did, and that I wasn’t interested in girls at all. I
began to have sexual dreams about him. This all left me
very confused, and I didn't know what to do. And as much
as I tried not to, whenever I beat off, it was Jesse -- his
smiling face, his chest, his cock -- that filled my mind when
I came.

A year after we graduated, I finally accepted I was gay. I
could deny it all I wanted, but it changed nothing. I liked
men. And most specifically, I liked Jesse.

Jesse knew I was going through something, but I wouldn't
tell him what it was. I couldn't. I couldn't take the chance of
losing his friendship. And while I wanted more, what I had
was better than nothing. I’d read stories about gay men

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falling in love with their best friends, and those tales almost
always seemed to end in disaster.

Yet Jesse was determined to find out what was wrong with
me. So he got me drunk and managed to get a distorted
version of the real truth.

I told him I thought I might be "bisexual."

I could tell he was very startled, despite the fact that he
regained his composure quickly. "That's cool, Mike," he
said, "You like sex with dudes as well as girls, huh?"

Then I had to admit that I'd never had sex with a guy or a
girl.

"Hell," he said, "let's take care of that, then!"

My heart leapt into my throat! Was he going to...? But,
alas, he was not suggesting what I'd hoped. He decided he'd
get me laid with a female.

"That way we'll know for sure," he informed me.

And so we fucked his girl. He took me over to his
girlfriend's house and told her she had to let me fuck her.

She wasn't too happy about the situation, but she relented. I
understood. If Jesse had been fucking me on a regular basis
and then given me the same ultimatum he'd given her, I'd
have fucked anyone and anything. Which was what I was
doing, wasn’t it? I'd do anything to stay friends with Jesse,
including fuck a female.

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That was the first time I had ever seen Jesse with a hard on.
It was incredible. I knew mine was about average at six
inches, and he was at least a couple of inches longer. It took
all my self-control not to fall on my knees and beg him to
let me suck it, or to leap on the bed and scream, "Forget her
-- fuck me!"

I almost came just watching him, his huge uncut cock, his
hairy ass bobbing back and forth, and the occasional
glimpse I got of his asshole. It was incredible. It wasn't sex
with Jesse, but if there was a next best thing, that had to be
it.

The problem of course, was that as soon as he was done, I
had to fuck her.

Jesse stepped aside and I took his place and I immediately
lost my hard on. I couldn't help it. I was looking at her, and
her body was just... wrong! For me, that is. Instead of
strong, fur-covered pectorals, she had large, round breasts.
Instead of a furry belly, hers was smooth and pink. And
there was no large, hard, uncut cock waiting for mutual
pleasure, but a triangular patch covering the mound of her
sex. All I could think of as I climbed in between her legs
was that she was not Jesse. I looked at her face. It was very
pretty, but not the rugged, razor-stubbled, handsome face I
loved so much. But before we could do anything, there was
the problem of my sagging equipment. I began to stroke it
frantically, trying to get it hard again, but nothing was
happening.

Finally, I heard Jesse whisper, his breath hot in my ear, his
chest hair just brushing my back, "Relax, buddy, you can
do it." I felt his still-hard cock and crotch hair touch my
ass, and that was all it took. My cock reared up to a

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hardness that almost hurt, and I did it. I fucked a girl. Hell,
I fucked the hell out of her! But then, I couldn't come. It
felt okay, but she wasn't a man.

Then Jesse moved to my right side and gripped my ass
tightly in one hand and began to stroke his huge dick with
the other. And that put me over the edge. I was surprised at
just how hard I came.

We dressed, and he gave her a little kiss and thanked her. I
mumbled something myself. The look in her eyes.
Something passed between us, and I couldn’t help but think
that she knew. She knew.

As he drove me home, I was feeling that I'd proven myself
to Jesse when he said, "Didn't work, did it?"

"Huh?"

"You still want to get it on with a dude, don't you?"

"I... Jesse..." I couldn't believe it! Hadn't I done well
enough?

"It's okay, man."

"Jesse, I... Why do you think..."

"Hey, guy, I was there, remember? Looked like you were
having a little trouble getting into it at all."

"I was nervous... It was my first time. You were watching.
My dick is so much smaller than yours..."

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"Guy, you don't have to make excuses with me." Jesse
turned his car down a street several blocks before mine and
into his apartment complex. "I'm your friend. That's why I
got you laid. I just wanted you to at least try a girl." He
stopped the car and got out. "Come on, Mike, you need a
beer."

I didn't say a word. I just got out of his car and followed
him up the flight of stairs to his apartment.

When we got inside, he turned on the stereo and
disappeared into the kitchen. "Get comfortable," his voice
echoed back from the kitchen.

I plopped down on the couch and kicked off my tennis
shoes. A moment later, he was back in the room with some
beers. He handed me one and, sitting next to me, opened
his. "You've never done it with a guy?"

I couldn't look at him, but shook my head.

"Can I ask you why you think you'd like sex with a man?"

I wanted to shout, Because I'm in love with you, but I didn't.
I didn't say a thing.

Jesse slugged back his beer and opened a second.

"Well, you tried it with a girl and didn't seem to like that. I
guess you need to try it with a dude, huh?"

This time I couldn't even nod. I just sat there. Was he going
to make me fuck some male friend of his while he
watched?

Cherry on Top - 144

There was a long time where neither of us said a word.
Finally, looking down at his feet, Jesse said, "Look, I don't
want to put you on the spot or anything... so be honest...
but, would I be okay?"

I froze. I couldn't believe what I'd heard.

"I mean, I don't know if I'm your 'type' or if you'd feel
funny, us being buddies and all..."

"No," I practically shouted. "I mean... Jesse! I can't believe
you would..."

"Would do what? Have sex with you? You're my best
friend. I love you, man!"

"Wouldn't it gross you out?"

He reached out and grabbed my chin. "Look at me."

I did, and what I saw there was so amazing. There was so
much caring in his eyes. I wanted to cry. And then he
leaned forward and kissed me. Just lightly at first, but soon
he was kissing me hard, opening my mouth with his,
tangling his tongue with mine. Blood was rushing to my
face and there was a deep pounding in my ears. He pulled
away.

"Geez, Mikey! You sure know what you're doing!"

"I... I..."

He smiled, and I swear I could feel my heart melt. "You're
scared to death, aren't you?"

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"Yes," I whispered.

I saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and then he
whispered back, "Me, too." He stood up. "Come on." He
grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet and led me into
the bedroom.

This can't be happening, I kept thinking, it can't!

"Lie down," he instructed.

For the second time that night, he undressed in front of me.
Only this time, it was for me. He really put a show, too. He
pulled off his sweatshirt, very, very slowly, unbuttoned his
jeans, pushed them down, and pulled them and his gym
socks off. Then he stood before me, and his cock, which
was half hard, jumped up slightly as he slowly pulled off
his underwear.

My heart was pounding so hard.

He stood there before me, beautiful and naked, hands held
at his side. "Is this what you want, guy?"

I still couldn't talk, but I didn't have to. He climbed onto the
bed next to me. He kneeled back on his heels, placed his
hand down on the tremendous tenting in my trousers and
gently squeezed. My God! He was touching me. He was
touching my cock. "Yes," he said in a low voice, "no
hardon problems now..."

My cock pulsed in his grasp. His was rising more, the head
beginning to peek from the foreskin.

"Tell me what you want."

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"I... I..."

"You must have fantasized about this. Jerked off over it.
What'd you want to do when you finally had a man naked
in bed with you?" He took his other hand and cupped my
chin again so I would look into his eyes. "Here he is,
buddy. What do you want to do?"

"I, I want..."

"Yes?"

"I want to suck your cock, Jesse."

"Then suck it, baby."

He moved his hand away, and before my eyes his cock
reared the rest of the way up, and the foreskin peeled back
to reveal the deep purple-red head of his cock. Slowly, a
pearl of clear liquid formed at its tip. "Go on, Mike. This is
for you. Taste me, baby. It's okay."

I leaned forward, touched the wetness with my fingertip,
and looked up at him.

He grinned and nodded. "Go ahead..."

I touched my finger to my mouth and tasted Jesse.

"Well?" he asked.

"Sweet!" Then, taking the base of his cock in my hand, I
leaned forward and took his hard flesh into my mouth.

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My God. How can I find the words to describe what it was
like? It was wonderful. It was fabulous! I had Jesse's cock
in my mouth. It was so thick. And hot. I had never
imagined that it would radiate such heat. The head was so
smooth. And the smell... I shoved my head forward, trying
to take as much of it in my mouth as I could, but only
gagged.

"Easy, baby, it's not going anywhere, I promise. Take your
time..."

So I did. There were so many sensations going through my
head as I began to give my first blowjob. So much to feel
and taste and smell. The magazines, the straight porno
films, years of masturbation, nothing had prepared me for
this. I was sucking Jesse Campbell's dick!

"God, that feels good, Mikey." His words brought a
powerful moan from me, and, hearing that, he began to
encourage me with gentle words. "Yeah, Mike. That's nice.
Back and forth... Nice and slow... God! Your tongue is
magic! Suck me, buddy. This is really beautiful."

'Beautiful.' Imagine. He thought what I was doing was
beautiful.

All the while he was squeezing and stoking my jeans-clad
hard on. Suddenly, I felt him pop open my pants and pull
down my zipper, and my white-covered erection was
pushing up through the opening. His hand moved under the
elastic band of my underwear and grasped my naked dick.

I stopped sucking him. "No, Jesse! You don't have to do
that! I wasn't asking you to do anything!"

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"Shh, don't say anything!" he commanded, and pushed me
back onto the bed and climbed between my legs. To my
utter shock, he freed my cock from the tangle of jeans and
underwear. "We're best friends, Mike. And I want this first
time to be right for you." He looked down at my throbbing,
straining dick and said, "I want to do this." With that, he
bent down and sucked the head of my cock into his mouth.

Electricity shot through me, and, completely involuntarily,
my groin arched up, pushing more cock into his mouth. His
hands shot under my ass, and he pulled me up inside him.
Suddenly, I felt the most incredible pleasure I've ever felt,
like a powerful force that started in my head and slammed
its way down my spine. I was going to come. I tried to pull
away, but Jesse only held me harder. "Jesse" I yelped, "I'm
going to come!" But he wouldn't let me pull out.

I came. The come shot through my swollen cock and
exploded in Jesse's mouth. I heard him gag once, but he
still didn't pull away. I came and came and came until I
thought I would come to death, and finally, I stopped, and
my rigid body and dick went slowly limp in his arms and
mouth.

He let me slip to the mattress and sat up, looking down at
me, a smile on his lips. "That was incredible, Mike! I
hardly did anything!"

"Oh, Jesse! Why did you do that?"

"Because I love you, man!"

"But Jesse, don't you see, you proved that by letting me
suck your cock. You didn't have to suck mine!"

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"Have to? Oh, Mike, I, I... I said I love you, baby!" He
reached down and easily pulled me into his arms. "I love
you."

"Jesse, what are you saying?"

"You heard me," he whispered.

"I don't understand. You're straight. You've got a
girlfriend!"

Jesse pulled back and I saw that he had a strange look on
his face. "Mike," he said very quietly, "I have to tell you
something." For the first time since I met him, I saw
something that actually looked like fear in his eyes. "I...
you're not the first guy I've ever had sex with."

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. "What!?"

"A couple of years ago, I was driving home from a concert.
You were out of town with your parents on vacation, and it
was a group I wanted to see with you, and I was so
frustrated. Then, out on this dark road in the middle of
nowhere, I saw this hitchhiker and I stopped and picked
him up... and... We had sex."

"Jesse..."

"It was really hot. I couldn't believe how hot it was! And all
through it I just kept thinking about how it would have
been better with you. He even looked a little like you, and I
bet that’s how it happened. It scared me. I wanted to tell
you, but you're my best friend, and I didn't want to take the
chance of losing that. So I haven't been with a guy since."

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"Jesse, you're gay?" I asked, stunned.

"I'm yours..."

"This can't be happening."

He hugged me. "It's happening, Mike."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because you've always treated me like I'm a hero! I was
afraid if you knew that your hero... about the things I was
feeling, I'd lose you."

I couldn't believe it! He was feeling the same things I'd
been feeling. "Jesse. I've been in love with you since I was
thirteen!"

He shook his head. "Hell, Mike, why didn't you ever tell
me?" He laughed. "Oh, Mikey, when you told me you
thought you were bisexual, geez, you don't know what that
did to me. I had to back up. I had to make sure. And when
you didn't like my girlfriend... God... I knew the moment
had come, but I was so afraid when I asked you if you
wanted to have sex with me that you'd say no and..."

"I can't believe you're saying this," I exclaimed.

"Haven't you ever noticed that you're the only person that I
care about?"

I sat there for a moment, and just like that, it all became
clear. How had I never seen it before? It was like
something had been lifted from in front of my eyes. He

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really hadn't given a shit about those high schoolers. He
cared about me.

"Jesse," I said, "I love you!"

He pulled back and looked in my eyes. "I love you." In a
moment, he pulled off the rest of my clothes and kissed me.
Then he lifted my legs high in the air and buried his face in
my crack.

"My God!" I shouted, my hands pounding the mattress,
"Oh, Jesse!" More miracles. Jesse was licking my hole and
God, I was opening up to him.

After several minutes, he spread my legs and let them fall
on either side of his waist. "Now," he said, "I'm going to
fuck you."

How could a dream come so true, I asked myself as he
positioned himself against my asshole and slowly pushed
the head of his cock into me. It hurt so bad, yet so good,
and abruptly my sphincter opened and let him in. He began
to thrust very slowly in and out of me, allowing me to
adjust to my very first fuck. To my surprise, the pain
slowly vanished, to be replaced by a pleasure so intense, it
made everything else that had come before seem like
nothing. He fucked me like it was the most important thing
he'd ever done. Not the slam-bam way he'd fucked his girl,
but long and deep and slow and caring, letting us both love
every single inch.

He never looked away until, finally, the last moments when
his pace suddenly sped up. Only then did he squeeze his
eyes shut, his cock driving in and out of me, as he fulfilled
his own needs. He came. He shouted and shook and cried

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out and then I was coming, too! White cream was firing
into the air between us before it arched back and fell on my
face and chin. He collapsed on top of me.

After a long moment, he kissed me.

"I love you," we said at exactly the same time, and then
began to laugh. We kissed. And soon, we were making love
again.

I haven't spent a night alone since. Not even when I go on
book signing tours. He broke up with his girlfriend, and we
were both pretty surprised when she didn't start a fight with
him. She even called me up and wished us luck.

It wasn't long before everyone found out. But it was cool.
See, Jesse doesn't care what anyone thinks about him.

Except for me.

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Cooking Lesson

By Misa Izanaki

Fen glanced at his watch as he stepped out of the elevator
and headed toward his apartment. It was nearly nine in the
evening, which made him late, very late. Usually, he was
out of his office and home by six, seven at the latest, but
not today. Fen rubbed his neck with a growl. Work had
been particularly hellish today, but at least it was over with.

Werewolves were never meant to work at desk jobs, even if
it was in the main office of a zoo. There was just too much
damned paperwork for Fen's wolfy brain. Sure, Fen had
been born and raised human, but there was still a lot of
wolf in him, and that wolf hated being cooped up in an
office all day. What else could he do, though? The zoo was
one of the few places that gave Fen the flexible hours he
needed but still paid well enough to keep him and Loki
living comfortably. It also helped that no one there seemed
to mind the furry lupine ears that peeked through his hair,
or the tail for that matter. Fen's co-workers just though they
were body mods and never gave them a second thought.

Either way, it was good to be home. Fen just hoped his
lover, Loki, wasn't too angry at him for being late. Loki
was a sweet boy, but Fen's pretty lover was also restless
and had a tendency to get himself into trouble if he was left
on his own for too long.

"I'm home!" Fen opened the door and dropped his keys on
the small table in the entry way. He had expected to be

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tackled or at least assaulted with questions, but no one was
there. Fen glanced around the empty living room. "Loki?
Sorry I'm so late, but I swear they were trying to bury me in
paperwork today."

There was still no answer, which was odd. Loki had been
there when Fen had left that morning, and it wasn't like him
to go wondering. Fen's lover never left the apartment by
himself. Well, he had once, but that had been after a
particularly bad argument, and had ended with Loki getting
picked up by Animal Control and spending a few hours at
the pound. Fen sighed. Things like that were bound to
happen when you brought a wolf-born shifter to the city.
Loki had spent most of his childhood running wild in the
forests near Mt. Rainier and moving to Seattle had been a
big change. One he was still getting used to.

Fen's keen ears picked up the sound of someone
rummaging through the refrigerator. Ah, maybe that's why
Loki hadn't heard him. Poor guy must have been starving.
Fen peeked into the kitchen, only to see the back half of a
lean black wolf sticking out of the fridge.

"Loki?"

"Fen, you're home!" The wolf bounded over, his tail
wagging happily, and almost bowled Fen over. "I was
getting worried."

"And hungry, I see." Fen looked past Loki's furry ears to
see a crinkled and bloody piece of butcher paper lying on
the floor.

Loki glanced away with an almost guilty look in those
pretty silver eyes. "I didn't know when you were coming

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home, and I didn't want to get picked up by the dog catcher
again, so I -- I ate the steaks you bought yesterday."

"It's all right, love." Fen knelt down and smoothed Loki's
soft, dark fur with his fingers. "I should have called or at
least made sure that you had something for dinner."

"So, you're not mad?" Loki sat beside Fen and gave him a
hopeful look. It was hard to stay mad when Loki made sad
puppy eyes at him. Not that Fen was that angry to begin
with. He could always buy more steaks.

"No." Fen tugged on one of Loki's ears teasingly. "I am
wondering why you're in wolf form, though."

"Raw meat tastes better when I'm a wolf." Loki nuzzled
Fen's cheek affectionately. "I don't like it as much when I'm
human. And since I didn't know how to cook them, I
figured that it would be easier if I shifted and ate them as
they were."

"You could have called me, you know."

"I didn't want to bother you at work."

"Loki." Fen kissed the top of Loki's furry head. "You're
never a bother."

"No, but you probably would've run home, and that would
have gotten you in trouble at work." Loki's ears drooped
unhappily. "And I don't want you to get in trouble because
of me."

"You're far more important than work, love." Fen looked
his lover in the eye. "You know that, right?"

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"I know." Loki nodded unhappily. "But I shouldn't have to
depend on you for such simple things."

Fen sighed again and gave those dark ears a scratch. Loki
had always been very independent. At least, he had been
before he followed Fen to the city. Poor guy, their whole
living situation must have been driving Loki crazy, and Fen
had never realized it. The only question was, how Fen
could fix things before they got worse?

Fen's ears perked as an idea popped into his head. It was a
small step, but it might help, if Loki agreed to it. "How
about this, then? You shift back to human, and I'll teach
you how to cook. You know, so you won't have to resort to
eating raw meat again, next time I'm late."

"I don't know. You know what they say about teaching an
old wolf new tricks." Loki hung that dark shaggy head. Fen
didn't miss the nervous look on his lover's face. Loki had
always been a little uneasy when it came to doing things in
human form.

"Twenty-three hardly makes you an old wolf, love." Fen
nudged Loki's muzzle up. "Besides, a cooking lesson or
two might do you some good."

"I don't know. Cooking seems very... complicated."

"It can be, but I'll be right there to help in case you get
stuck." Fen gave Loki an encouraging smile. "Come on,
love, it'll be fun."

Loki seemed to think about it for a few seconds before
nodding in agreement. "Okay, but teach me things that you

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like to eat. That way, I can make you dinner sometimes."
He sighed, his ears and tail drooping a little. "It's about
time I did something to earn my keep, right?"

"Loki, this isn't about earning your keep." Fen wrapped his
arms Loki's neck and buried his face in his lover's fur. "I
know how independent you are, and I just want to help you
get a little of that back. Feeding yourself is the first step."

"I can feed myself just fine."

"Love, eating raw meat or out of the garbage doesn't
count."

"Okay, okay, I get the point." Loki rested his chin on Fen's
shoulder with a sigh. "Where do we start?"

"Shift and grab an apron." Fen pushed himself to his feet
and headed to the large bookshelf in the living room. "I'm
going to find us something to make."

Fen pulled one cookbook off the shelf, then another. He
wanted to find a simple, tasty recipe with basic ingredients
that he usually kept around. Fen could have taught Loki
something from memory, but he figured it would probably
be easier for Loki if there was some sort of reference
material.

After flipping through both cookbooks and a binder of
random recipes that he had collected over the years, Fen
settled on the Beef Tomato recipe that a friend had given
him. It was basically a beef stir fry with tomatoes in it,
cooked in a savory and slightly sweet sauce. It was quick,
easy, and very tasty, especially over hot rice.

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"I found the perfect recipe to start with." Fen stepped back
into the kitchen and almost dropped the recipe sheet. "Are
you read-- Wow!"

Loki had shifted into his human form and was very naked
beneath his apron. Damn, that was sexy. Loki always
looked good. How could he not with that lithe body, pretty,
boyish face, and lush tail attached just above Loki's pert
ass? Something about that apron, though, just made Loki
all the hotter. The hint of pale skin and the potential of
what was hidden beneath the heavy cotton made Fen
hungry in a very different way. How the hell was Fen going
to teach Loki anything with all that distracting him?

"What's wrong?" Loki cocked his head to one side, and his
ears perked with interest.

"Nothing," Fen had to resist the urge to drag his pretty
lover off to their bedroom. "You know you're supposed to
wear something under the apron, right?"

"I suppose, but I thought it would be more fun this way."
Loki slipped closer and snuggled against Fen's side. He
glanced up, and Fen could see the disappointment and
worry on his face. "I can get dressed if you want."

"N-no!" Fen kicked himself mentally for ruining the
moment. Distraction or not, Loki was perfect as he was. "I
like the idea." Fen slid one hand down Loki's bare back and
gave that perfect ass a squeeze. Lots of things were more
fun naked. Why couldn't cooking be one of them? "And I
like the way you look in that apron."

"It would be even better if you got out of your clothes, too."
Loki nipped at Fen's shoulder with an eager grin.

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There was no arguing with that. Fen tugged off his shirt and
pants. He did leave his boxers on, though, since he didn't
have an apron to protect his more sensitive areas from
splatter. That definitely would not be fun. "Is this better?"

"Oh, I think so." Loki licked his lips and ran his hands over
the hard muscles of Fen's chest. "I've always liked you
better without clothes."

"Just remember, we're cooking first." Fen tapped his lover
on the nose. "Anything else will have to wait until after
dinner is done."

"I know." Loki nipped at Fen's finger teasingly. "What do
we do first?"

"Get a red pepper, the celery, a chunk of ginger, and the
tray of stir fry beef from the fridge." Fen gave Loki's butt
another pat and pulled an onion and a couple of tomatoes
from the basket on the counter.

"Okay, now what?" Loki came back with everything Fen
had asked for. He carried the veggies and meat in his apron,
which gave Fen a good look at Loki's long legs. What were
they doing again? Fen shook his head; teaching Loki like
this might be harder than he'd thought.

"Fen!" Loki whapped Fen impatiently with his tail.

"Sorry." It was hard to pry his eyes away from all that
tempting flesh Loki was baring, but Fen managed. He took
the meat and ginger and tossed the onion and tomatoes into
Loki's apron with the other produce. "Can you wash those
for me?"

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"Will do."

While Loki was busy at the sink, Fen pulled out a cutting
board and a knife and set his wok on the stove. He opened
the pantry and fished out a bottle of soy sauce, a box of
corn starch, and a few other things they would need.

Loki set his freshly washed items on the counter beside
Fen's cutting board. "Maybe I should be taking notes or
something? I'm not going to remember all of this."

"Don't worry, love, that's why we have a recipe." Fen set
the laminated sheet in front of Loki with a grin. "This
should tell you everything you need to know."

"What's a 'tbsp' or a 'tsp'?" Loki studied the recipe, tracing
over each ingredient with his finger. He gave Fen a
confused look. "You didn't tell me that I had to learn a new
language to do this."

"That's a tablespoon, which is this." Fen fished his
measuring spoons out of the silverware drawer and held the
tablespoon up. He did the same with the teaspoon. "And a
'tsp' is a teaspoon, which is this one."

"Ah, okay." Loki blinked at the recipe again. "I suppose the
'c' is for cup?"

"Exactly." Fen nodded approvingly. Loki was doing pretty
well for someone who had never cooked in his life.

"Got it." Loki carefully measured soy sauce, sherry, and a
bit of sugar into a small bowl. That went into a plastic zip-
top bag with the meat.

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Loki watched in curiosity as Fen chopped the garlic and
ginger and tossed them in with the meat and marinade.
"How can you cut things so quickly?"

"All it takes is a sharp knife and a little practice." Fen
gestured for Loki to take his spot in front of the cutting
board and handed his knife over. "I'll show you."

Fen guided Loki through peeling and cutting the onion,
cleaning and slicing the celery and red pepper, and
chunking the tomatoes. With his hand over his lover's, Fen
guided Loki's knife strokes and showed him how to cut
everything into even pieces.

It was also a perfect opportunity to press against the warm,
velvety skin of Loki's back. If there hadn't been a knife
involved or the potential for onions and tomato all over the
kitchen, Fen would have said to hell with dinner and
pushed Loki against the counter for a quick fuck. Loki
probably had the same idea running through that pretty
head, given the boy was taking every opportunity to rub
against Fen's chest and groin.

Despite the distractions, they managed to get everything cut
and ready to cook. Oh, once dinner was done Fen was
going to carry Loki off to the bedroom and fuck him silly.

"Okay, love, what does the recipe say to do next?" Fen
carried the meat and veggies to the stove and turned the
heat on.

"Um, two tablespoons of oil go into the pan, and then we
brown the meat." Loki glanced from the recipe to the wok.
He set the paper down and dripped some oil into the pan.

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Once the oil seemed hot enough, Loki dumped the meat in.
His ears flicked, and Loki took a nervous step back as the
oil popped and spit.

"Now, you have to watch the meat and make sure it cooks
but doesn't burn." Fen fished a wooden spoon out of
another drawer and handed it to his lover. "Make sure you
stir it around, too, so it cooks evenly."

"I can do that." Loki poked at the meat with the spoon. "I
think."

"Good," Fen needed something else to focus on besides
Loki's gorgeous backside. They weren't going to make it
through the cooking lesson otherwise. "I'm going to get
some rice going." He grabbed the pot out of the rice cooker
and poured two cups of rice into it. Water went in to the
proper line, and Fen set the pot back into the cooker along
with the lid. "I'll show you how to work the rice cooker
later. It's pretty simple."

"Sure." Loki nodded and poked at the beef again. "I think
the meat's done."

"Hmm? Oh, right." Fen grabbed a plate and helped Loki
dump the meat onto it. Once the meat was out, the onion,
celery, and pepper pieces went in with a bit of salt. "Now
we cook these."

Loki kept an eye on the veggies while Fen threw together
the sauce. They cooked the veggies until the onions were
soft, and added the beef back to the pan along with the
sauce and tomatoes.

"Is that it?" Loki eyed the bubbling mixture cautiously.

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"It has to simmer, but that can wait." Fen turned the stove
off and slipped his arms around Loki's midsection. He
pulled his lover closer. "You're far more tempting right
now."

"Mm, what did you have in mind?" Loki glanced over his
shoulder. Fen could see the eagerness in those pretty silver
eyes. He felt it, too, as the soft fur of Loki's tail brushed
against the straining bulge in his boxers. Oh, if that wasn't
an invitation, Fen didn't know what was.

"Bending you over the table, for one thing." Fen purred and
nipped at Loki's pale neck. "Riding that sweet ass of yours
came to mind, too."

Loki turned in Fen's arms so they were facing each other
and grinned mischievously. "It sounds like you'd rather
have me for dinner instead of the food we made."

"What can I say?" Fen lifted Loki up and carried him to the
kitchen table. He leaned closer and nipped at his lover's
throat. "You're tastier than anything I could ever make."

"Mm, sounds like you're in love." Loki wrapped his arms
around Fen's neck and lapped at his cheek. "Or in heat,
maybe both."

"Both, I think." Fen set Loki down and tugged the apron
over his head. He knelt down and nuzzled Loki's lean chest.
"It's hard not to be horny with you around, my pretty little
wolf."

"Now you're just teasing." A bright blush colored Loki's
cheeks as he fingered one of Fen's ears.

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"I mean it, Loki, you're beautiful and very sexy." Fen
trailed warm, nipping kisses down Loki's flat belly. He
moved lower and flicked his tongue over the tip of his
lover's cock. "And, like I said, very tasty."

Loki moaned and lifted his hips. Loki was very sensitive,
and Fen loved to take advantage of that. He knew exactly
where to lick and where to nibble to bring Loki to the edge,
and it was fun for him, almost as fun as mating... almost.
He licked at Loki's prick again before swallowing his lover
down. That dragged a soft whimper from Loki's throat, and
those lean fingers tightened in Fen's hair. Fen grinned
around Loki's cock. It definitely sounded like his lover was
enjoying himself.

"Fen, I'm going to come if you keep doing that." Loki
tugged eagerly on one of Fen's ears. "A-and I don't want to,
not yet. I want you in me, first. Please, Fen."

"Okay, love." Fen couldn't refuse Loki anything, especially
when his lover pleaded like that. He pushed himself to his
feet and patted Loki's hip. "Roll over for me, and I'll be
right back."

"Where are you going?" Loki hopped off the table and
leaned over it with his ass in the air. He glanced over his
shoulder and eyed Fen with curiosity.

"Just grabbing a little lube, that's all." Fen snatched a bottle
of oil off the counter and held it up for Loki to see.

"Olive oil?" Loki cocked his to one side. "I thought you
were going to slick me up, not make a salad."

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"Funny. See, I knew you had a sense of humor in there
somewhere." Fen wiggled out of his boxers and ruffled his
lover's dark hair. "This will have to do, unless you want to
wait while I fish the lube out of the bedroom."

"No, it's okay." Loki settled with his stomach pressed
against the smooth surface of the table and his head
pillowed against his arms. "I don't think I can wait that
long."

"So impatient." Fen flipped the cap of the olive oil with his
thumb and dripped the slick stuff against his lover's velvety
skin.

"Can't help it, you make me so needy." Loki lifted his tail,
giving Fen easy access to his more sensitive parts. "I want
to feel you."

It was tempting to just slide his cock into Loki's tight body,
but Fen had more patience than that. He wanted to take his
time and get Loki nice and slick. He rubbed the oil between
Loki's cheeks and eased two of his fingers into his lover's
ass.

Loki moaned and pushed back against Fen's hand eagerly.
Damn, Loki was so tight and hot around his fingers. No
matter how many times they had sex, the feel of his lover's
body and the sexy sounds Loki made always got to him.
Fen licked his lips and wiggled his fingers, making Loki
moan again. Oh, there was nothing better.

Fen leaned closer and nuzzled Loki's back, all the while
moving his fingers in and out of Loki's ass. "Ease up, love.
You need to relax or I can't fuck you."

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"I'll try."

"Oh, much better, love." The grip on Fen's fingers relaxed,

and he slid them out of Loki's sweet body.

"Good, now fuck me already, I'm tired of playing." Loki
gave Fen a long and needy look.

"Is this what you want?" Fen rubbed more oil onto his cock
and slid it teasingly against Loki's slick skin.

"Fen!" Loki growled. Fen could hear the desperation and
the need in his lover's voice.

With one slow thrust, Fen pushed into Loki's ass. Slick heat
pulled Fen in and rippled around his prick. Fen closed his
eyes and took a calming breath. If he wasn't careful, Loki
was going to make him come right then and there, and
where was the fun in that?

"More, please..." Loki seemed to have other ideas, though.
He rocked his ass back, riding Fen's cock.

Fen took the hint and started to move his hips. Together,
they found a rhythm, Loki meeting each thrust of Fen's hips
with a push of that sweet ass. Fen leaned against Loki's
sweat-damp back and nipped at his lover's neck. His fingers
slid over a pale hip and wrapped around the slim length of
Loki's cock.

"Are you going to come for me, love?" Fen whispered as he
nuzzled Loki's ear. He slid his hand over Loki's eager
length and flicked his thumb over the tip.

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Loki bit back a moan and nodded. Those pretty silver eyes
were closed, and those slim hands were clenched against
the edge of the table. Fen could see the pleasure on Loki's
face. His lover was lost in the easy friction of their bodies
grinding together. Oh, that was so good. Fen picked up the
pace, fucking Loki hard and deep.

That must have pushed Loki over the edge. He tossed his
head back against Fen's shoulder and his body tensed and
rippled around Fen's cock.

Oh, damn! Fen slammed his hips forward one last time and
howled as he came. He couldn't help it, not with Loki
milking him like that. He braced himself over Loki, panting
and trying to catch his breath.

Loki rolled onto his back and smiled up at Fen. "I think I'm
going to like these cooking lessons."

"I told you it would be fun." Fen grinned back. He stood
and turned the stove back on. "Come on, we can get
cleaned up while dinner simmers."

"That would be good." Loki hopped off the table, his tail
wagging contentedly and followed Fen toward the sink.
"I'm all sticky."

"I know, love." Fen ran a dish cloth under some warm
water and cleaned himself up. He rinsed the cloth again and
wiped the come from Loki's skin. "How's that?"

"Much better." Loki snuggled against Fen's chest. "So, how
long before dinner?"

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"Not much longer." Fen stirred their food again. "Are you
hungry again already?"

Loki stood on his tip-toes and kissed Fen on the nose.
"What can I say? Cooking seems to stir up my appetite,
especially when I do it with you."

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Sweet Cherry, A Hammer Story

By Sean Michael

Rafe had read the same page forty-two times and hadn't
comprehended a single fucking word.

Hell, he wasn't stupid.

He wasn't.

Really.

Mostly.

Rafe chuckled at himself and stood, stretched. Hank was
still in Macroeconomics, so he had some time to himself
with his laptop and his favorite stories and his left hand.

He had the files password protected and hidden -- files with
names like Tommy's Boy and Hand to Ass and Binding
Billy. He knew they weren't your average reading, but...

Well.

They were damned hot.

Especially now that he'd seen the club -- The Hammer.
He'd come home from that horrible, stupid night drinking
with his cousin Mike and all his frat brothers and started
Googling.

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It had taken a while, but he'd found things. It was real.

A real BDSM club-thing. With shows and Dom Days --
which, what did that mean? -- and beer and food and...

He slipped his hand in his shorts and started rubbing, just a
little. He'd gone by three times, just to sit in the
Laundromat and stare. Look at the men coming in and out.
They looked older and wealthier and fine. Really fine.

His cock filled easily and he groaned, imagining someone
looking at him the way he'd seen those men looking at each
other.

Oh, god. He kept jacking, mouth open, thoughts of history
papers and Tudor England and finals the furthest thing
from his mind.

God, he wanted to... He wanted someone to...

Oh...

He came, quick and hard, just from a handful of wishes and
a bunch of fiction. He was so lame.

Rafe chuckled and went to clean up. Lame, but he had the
cleanest fucking laundry on Earth, didn't he?

***

Bobby sat at his usual table and surveyed the club. He
nodded whenever he caught anyone's gaze, and tried not to
sigh. Same old, same old.

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He almost hadn't come tonight, but at least at the Hammer
he knew the food was good and there was always the off-
chance that an exciting or innovative show would follow.
He had a second glass of wine while he waited for his
dinner to arrive.

He overheard two servers chatting as they cleaned the table
next to his. "...did you see him? He's there again,
pretending to read."

"He's got to have the cleanest clothes on Earth." The little
blond chuckled. "I keep expecting him to get the balls to
come knocking."

"You think he will? He's pretty enough, I guess..."

How curious. And precious little seemed curious to him
these days...

"He should. He's been out there staring for three weeks
almost every night."

"Three weeks?"

"Must be a student."

Well, Bobby had to admit it; he was intrigued now.

Who would watch the place for three weeks and never
come in? It was a contradiction -- that patience and staying
power versus the lack of bravery needed to come in.

"Must be." The server smiled over at him, nodded. "Your
meal should be out in just a few moments, Sir."

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"Thank you, lad." It was one of the reasons he kept coming
back instead of going elsewhere -- they took good care of
you here.

On a sudden whim he took out a piece of paper and wrote
"Join me. Bobby" on it. Folding it, he called the server
over.

"Please, take this out and give it to the Laundromat
watcher. Don't read it, just hand it over."

"The little dark guy? Yes, Sir. Should..." He got a quick,
clever little smile. "Should I wait for an answer or just tell
Jeremy to let him in, Sir?"

Oh, the little shit.

He shook his head and waggled a finger at the lad, enjoying
the cheekiness. "Just tell Jeremy to let him in."

"Yes, Sir." Quick as a flash the kid was gone, ass wiggling
away. The lad might be fun for a night or two of playing if
the watcher didn't take up his invitation.

Bobby shook his head at himself and actually chuckled.
He'd just invited a man to join him, sight unseen. Now, that
wasn't boring.

His food arrived before the waiter had returned to the club
and Bobby dug eagerly into his braised buffalo. He hadn't
enjoyed a meal this much in ages.

The huge Texan bouncer came over when he was about
halfway through, hovering. "I'm sorry, Sir, but there's this

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kid with a note from you and a duffle full of laundry. He's
not dressed approp... Xavier asked me to make sure you
asked for him."

"Have Xavier store his duffle and then bring him over to
my table, please. I'm sure we can forgive his lack of
appropriate dress for one day, hmm?"

The big Texan smiled and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Sir, not my
call, but I'll speak to the boss immediately."

He watched the interplay between Xavier and Jeremy, then
Jeremy and the little one at the door. Brown and lean, sharp
features -- Bobby was intrigued.

Then he was given a chance to watch as the man walked
over to him. Jeans, T-shirt, little black goatee, and button
eyes -- he approved.

"I... Are you Bobby?"

"I am. And you're the boy from the Laundromat." He
pointed to the chair across from him.

"I am. Rafe. Rafael. Nice to meet you." The man sat,
looking over. "Thank you for your invitation."

"I thought it was time you actually came in, instead of just
watched."

Those thin cheeks pinked. "It's pretty obvious that it's
exclusive. I didn't mean to pry. I... I wasn't trying to
interfere."

"But you wanted in."

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Look at that pretty face.

"I did. I wanted to know, you know? If the things I read
were true."

Bobby raised a hand and got the waiter's attention. "We'll
continue our conversation in a moment -- what would you
like to eat?" he asked Rafe

"Oh, I don't... I don't even know what the options are."

"Are you hungry for a full meal, an appetizer or a dessert?"

"I... Just an appetizer would be fine, thank you." He could
see the discomfort Rafe's face, the hint of worry.

He gave Rafe a smile and then turned to the waiter. "Can
you tell us the appetizers for tonight, please?"

"Of course, there is a shrimp cocktail, a lovely fried
mushroom and an antipasto plate with olives, cheeses and
marinated vegetables."

"I'm allergic to shellfish, I'm afraid."

"So noted. Which of the others would you like?" He leaned
partway across and murmured, "I'm partial to the fried
mushroom."

"That's fine with me. I'd be happy to share."

"An order of the mushroom and a glass of white wine,
please."

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Once the waiter had gone, Bobby turned his attention back
to Rafe. "So, Rafe, what exactly are these things you've
read about?"

"I... Well, this is a little awkward, huh? Because what if I'm
completely wrong and this place isn't what everyone says it
is." Look at that smile.

Bobby chuckled. "You could always wait until the stage
show begins. Or you could be brave..."

"I read a lot, on the internet, about things people did
together, things men did." Those black eyes weren't afraid
at all. "I didn't think it was real. I thought it was all stories.
Then I saw this place."

"And do you want them to be real? Do you want to be one
of these men who do these things you've read about?" He
wasn't going to put Rafe out of his misery.

"I don't know. I mean, it's exciting fantasy material, but it
may not be cool in real life. I'm intrigued enough, though."

Bobby grinned. "It is cool in real life."

"Yeah?" He got a smile back, the look fascinating and
alive. "Then I'm lucky you invited me in."

He thought perhaps he was the lucky one, but he wasn't
going to disabuse Rafe of his beliefs. "So tell me, what
most fascinated you?"

"About here?"

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"About here, among the things you read."

"I... I think that it's so unusual, so outside the norm, so
incredibly sexual. I mean, some of the things I read about
made me nervous, but mostly they just made me randy."
God, talk about open.

"How much sexual experience have you had?" He had to
know.

"You mean with this? Or with men? Or with just sex?"

"Yes."

"Uh. Well..." That blush got deeper. "Zero. None. And, uh,
well... I dated a girl for three years, but nothing happened."

"We're you using her as a beard or were you just
confused?" Because there was nothing wrong with his
gaydar, and Rafe pinged it hard.

"I have this religious family, man. They said that being gay
was like being possessed. I thought it was just God testing
me. Then I got out."

"I'm sorry." Families could be so messy. Nasty.

"Oh, I'm not. I mean, they just don't get it. My cousin is in a
fraternity here; he's been calling me a faggot for twenty
years. It wasn't a huge shock to them."

"But this might be." Bobby made a hand motion to
encompass the whole place. "The fact that you're here at
all, that you're as intrigued as you are."

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"I don't think I'll probably ever go, 'hey Mom, I get off on
submission. Pass the peas'."

Bobby laughed, delighted. "So what made you horny,
Rafe?"

"I'm a twenty one year old, Bobby. A stiff breeze can do it
for me." They laughed together, the sounds mixing well.

"How about what you want to try out first? If it's real, of
course."

"Well, honestly I just... I don't know. I have to tell you, I
don't do skeezy very well." Those black-black eyes met his.
"I was at Charlie's, that gay club, and tried to do the whole
blow job in the bathroom thing and I couldn't do it."

Bobby raised an eyebrow and looked around the place
before returning his gaze back to Rafe. "Does this place
look skeezy to you?"

"No. No, that's why... That's why I watched."

"There are rooms here, if you were interested in trying
something out." He leaned forward, holding Rafe's eyes. "I
can assure you they are far from skeevy."

"I... You mean you, with me?" Rafe stared at him, looking
a little shocked.

Before he could answer, the pretty little waiter came back
with Rafe's wine and mushrooms.

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Bobby waited until they were alone again. "Why so
surprised? I know you didn't come to try the mushrooms."

"No. No, but... I'm not very... Sexy, maybe? And you, man,
you're really intense."

That answer surprised a laugh out of him. "Sweetie, trust
me, you're sexy."

"You think so? I mean, God, that sounds all weird and
fishing for compliment-y, but, no one's ever thought so, so I
thought maybe I was screwed."

"Wouldn't that be not screwed?" He winked and went back
to his half-finished dinner now that Rafe had his food as
well.

He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve this sweet,
curious virgin, but he certainly wasn't bored anymore.

Rafe cut one mushroom, carefully sliding it over toward
him. "I promised to share."

"So you did." Instead of spearing the half-mushroom with
his fork, he leaned forward and opened his mouth, waiting
for Rafe to feed him.

"Be careful. They're warm." Rafe brought the fork to his
lips, eyes focused.

He held that gaze as he wrapped his lips around Rafe's fork,
and he tugged the mushroom off and licked his lips.

"Mmm." Oh, that was a fine sound. "Are they good?"

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"Yes. Have one." He took his own fork and speared the
other half mushroom, holding up for Rafe.

Rafe leaned forward, lips open. Oh, God. What a natural.
He could just imagine that sweet mouth wrapped around
his prick.

"How is it?"

"Luscious. A hint of garlic, red pepper. I'll have to
remember this."

"Do you cook?" It always surprised him to find out people
cooked. Probably because he didn't do it himself.

"I love to cook. That's the biggest suck about being in the
dorms. No kitchen."

"Fascinating..." He cut off a bit of his buffalo and offered it
over. "What about this?"

Rafe tasted it, then frowned. "It's... gamier than beef, isn't
it? It's amazing. Is it... elk?"

"Close. Buffalo. That's quite the palate you have."

"Buffalo. Dude! That rocks." How on earth hadn't someone
grabbed this... joyful man?

"It does." And to think, fifteen minutes ago he'd been bored
and despondent.

They ate, talking about simple, easy things. Rafe was

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clever, happy, focused on him and eager to listen. It was the
most enjoyable dinner he'd had in a very long time.

By the time they were done, the stage lights had come up
on a man on a St-Andrew's cross, arms and legs bound with
rope.

Bobby got them both shifted so they were sitting side by
side, his arm across the back of Rafe's chair. "Here's your
chance to see that this lifestyle is very much for real."

"I... It's okay to watch, huh? It's not rude to stare?"

Franz came out, one of Goodfellow's floggers in hand.

"Sweetie, that's why they're on the stage, hmm? So people
will watch, get off on the show." He let his fingers slid on
Rafe's shoulder. "This should be good, too. Ben is a slut for
being whipped."

"Does someone love on him after?"

"Franz will. Most of the scenes here are performed between
committed pairs."

"Oh. Oh, good." He got a smile. "I wanted that part to be
true."

"Oh, it's true. Subs are cherished, Rafe." He slid his fingers
along one sweet cheek.

Those dark eyes went wide, the skin there soft, smooth. So
lovely and so innocent.

It was his lucky day.

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Then the show began, the flogger landing with a deep thud
across Ben's back.

Bobby kept his eyes on Rafe.

Ben moaned and shifted, then began talking, begging Franz
for more, thanking Franz, letting them all hear his pleasure.

Rafe looked fascinated. Aroused.

Bobby spoke into Rafe's ear. "Are you imagining yourself
in Ben's place?"

"No. Yes. Maybe?" Rafe turned his head, their mouths
almost touching. "I want to feel as happy as he sounds."

"That's an excellent goal." He let his free hand drop to
Rafe's thigh.

"Bobby, I..." The soft voice lower. "I've got a woody."

"I was hoping you did." He slid his hand slowly toward
Rafe's crotch, drawing the touch out.

"That's cool here?" He could feel Rafe vibrating.

"Ben and Franz would be disappointed if you didn't." He
found Rafe's erection, his hand closing around it through
the man's jeans.

Rafe's eyes went wide, lips forming a perfect 'o'.

"Sweet," he murmured against Rafe's ear.

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"You'll make me come. I... I haven't..."

He grabbed a napkin from the table, handing it to Rafe
before returning his hand to the surprisingly large prick
pushing at Rafe's trousers.

"I..." Rafe swallowed hard, staring at the stage.

Bobby popped the top button of Rafe's jeans and slipped
his fingers in, searching out the hard heat. He waited for
Rafe's protest, but none came. He found a thick, solid prick,
heavy and hard as nails.

He rubbed the tip and then slipped his hand in deeper,
circling that heat. He kept his eyes on Rafe's face. Rafe
looked at him, pretty eyes wide. He watched them as he
began to stroke, wondering how many it would be before
Rafe came.

"Oh, my God." Rafe went bright pink, breath coming
quickly.

"The name's Bobby," he murmured, teasing gently.

"B...bobby. Bobby, I'll... Right here."

"That's what the napkin's for, sweetie." He moved his hand
a little faster.

"Thank God the lights are low..."

He chuckled, leaning in to blow gently into Rafe's ear.
"Come on, Sweetie; it's okay to let go."

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Heat spread over his fingers, Rafe shaking and whimpering
softly in his chair. He could smell Rafe, musky and sweet.

"I... I can't believe I did that..." Oh, no. No shame. No guilt.

He pushed the napkin into Rafe's pants, cleaning both
Rafe's cock and his own hand. "You see that man three
tables over with the sandy hair? His lover is underneath the
table, sucking him off. And that couple there, necking?
That's what this place is for, hmm?"

"Oh, that felt so good." Rafe relaxed against him, breathing
hard. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He was hard, aroused. "So that was
your first time with someone else?"

He got a single nod, those eyes searching his.

"That was just the beginning, sweetie. Would you like to go
to one of those rooms I was telling you about?"

"I would. I would very much. With you."

"Oh, yes, I meant with me." He smiled and did Rafe's jeans
button back up and then stood, holding out his hands.

Rafe reached for him, the act as natural as breathing.
"You'll have to tell me if I'm doing this wrong."

"So far you're doing everything right." Very right. Bobby
hadn't been this turned on in a long time.

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"Oh, good. It feels easy." Rafe fit against him, sweet and
solid.

"There's no reason for it not to. This place... well everyone
knows what they're here for, yes?"

He led them to the bar, getting a key from Xavier, who
must have seen him coming, because the man just handed it
over, eyes twinkling. Rafe nodded, offered Xavier a smile.
Bobby didn't stop to chat or introduce Rafe properly or
anything -- he was eager for the first time in so long, to get
to their private room.

His hand fit on Rafe's hip, the lean body almost bony.

They were in room three, and he unlocked the door,
holding it open for Rafe.

"Thank you." Rafe went in, looking at the simple, elegant
sofa, the freshly made bed, the low lamplight. The toys
were in the chiffarobe, so the room looked innocuous, like
a pleasant hotel room.

He watched Rafe look around, the slender body drawing
and holding his gaze.

"It's nice." Rafe turned to look at him. "I don't know what
to do next."

"How about a kiss?" He held his arms open.

"That sounds imminently doable." Rafe chuckled and
stepped close, letting him feel the length of that sweet body
for the first time.

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Groaning, he lowered his head and brought their mouths
together, the hair of their goatees rubbing. The kiss was
clumsy, but eager, sweet as spun sugar. He moaned softly
into it, their lips vibrating, leaving a tiny tickle. It made him
smile and he was almost chuckling as he opened Rafe's lips
with his tongue.

That was a dear, gentle sound, and Rafe stepped closer. He
put his hands on Rafe's back, starting with the shoulders
and sweeping slowly down, all the way to Rafe's ass.

Rafe was thin, lean, but that little ass was like a pair of
bubbles, pushing into his hands. He loved the eagerness,
the instincts -- Rafe's body knew what it wanted, even if
Rafe himself didn’t. There wasn't an ounce of fear, either,
just a pure, simple joy that turned him on.

He squeezed Rafe's ass as he deepened the kiss, pushing his
tongue into Rafe's mouth, and tasting that joy. Rafe fed him
little sounds, tongue tentatively sliding against his, then
growing more and more confident.

Bobby pulled Rafe tight against him, letting Rafe feel the
strength and heat of his need. The little gasp he got was
satisfying as hell. He slowly led Rafe to the couch, sitting
on it and drawing Rafe down with him, all without
breaking the kisses they shared.

Rafe's hands slid down his stomach, exploring him
carefully.

"Yeah, sweetie, touch me." He wanted that mouth, but he'd
take Rafe's hands to start with.

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"You're so warm. It's so different, than kissing a girl..."

"I should hope so." He took Rafe's hand and slid it down to
lie over his crotch. "Very different."

"Yeah. Can I... Can I see?" Rafe's fingers slid and explored,
petting him.

"Yes, please." The words came out as more of a groan, but
he spread his legs and pushed his hips toward Rafe.

Those long fingers carefully opened his fly, eased his cock
out of his boxers, the fingertips dancing over the shaft.
Groaning at the gentle touches, he stayed still, letting Rafe
look and feel to his heart's content.

"You smell good. So many people don't." Fingers wrapped
around the crown of his cock, tugging gently.

"How do you know that?" God, his voice had gone deep
and husky, the sweet touches affecting him more than he'd
thought possible.

"I live in a dorm. There are lots of stinky people."

Oh, that was funny. Chuckling, he pushed gently with his
hips, sliding his prick through Rafe's hand. "I bathe," he
murmured when his chuckles had faded away.

"You do." Rafe's nostrils flared. "And you use milk and
honey soap."

"That's right..." Rafe had an amazing nose. "I'll have to try
a different one for next time."

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"Mmm. Next time." One fingertip slipped over his
cockhead, rubbing gently.

"Fuck, that's nice." For someone who'd never done
anything with someone else, Rafe had good instincts.

"Good. I jack off a lot. I know what feels good to me."

"What's a lot?" He thought maybe a good first step for Rafe
would be not allowing him to jack off. A test.

"Uh. Every morning. Every night. Sometimes during the
day, if I get all stressed out."

His eyes were half closed as Rafe worked him, but he
watched the lovely face closely. "What would you do if you
couldn't?"

"Hmm? I don't know. I mean, it's how I wake up, how I go
to sleep." Those cheeks were pink.

He wrapped his hand around Rafe's, sped his movements a
little. "You know a little bit about how this works from
your reading, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, a little." Rafe watched their hands, his cock,
fascinated.

"You're a sub, I'm a dom -- you know what that means?"

Rafe nodded. "You're a Dominant - that can mean a lot of
things, but you make the relationship move."

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"That's right. And I want you to not play with yourself until
tomorrow night when we meet again."

Rafe groaned, a dark spot appearing on the man's pants.

"Don't worry; you'll come one more time before you go
home."

"Okay." He got a nod, those eyes fascinated and focused
and right there. "You trust me not to?"

"I'll know if you have or not. And if you have and try to
pretend you haven't? You'll be punished."

"I'm not big into lying." Rafe's hand squeezed, distracting
him.

"Good. Although punishments can be fun."

"What kind of punishments?" Their hands moved faster.

"Span... spanking. Keeping you from coming. Tying your
hands behind your back. Doing my laundry." He figured
Rafe had to be good at laundry.

"I'm good at laundry. The idea of spanking scares me a
little."

"Yeah? Are you hard?" He pushed Rafe's thumb across the
top of his cock, groaning.

"God, yes. Aching."

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"Then we'll have to see just how scary it is." He moved
their hands a little faster. "Do you want to suck me?"

"I never have, but I want to try. It looks so... so hot, so...
intimate?" Rafe stopped, rolled his eyes. "You have to
think I'm an idiot."

"I think you're charming and sweet and very, very sexy."
He cupped Rafe's cheek with his free hand, thumb opening
Rafe's lips. "You can suck me if you want. All you need to
remember is no teeth."

Rafe's tongue lapped at his thumb, so hot. "Do you have a
rubber?"

"For sucking?" The room came fully equipped, if Rafe
insisted. Most men didn't, not for sucking.

Or perhaps it was just that membership at the Hammer was
exclusive and there was testing available once a month.

"I... I don't know. I just... Isn't that normal? I'm sorry, I'm
very new at this..."

He tousled Rafe's hair. "Hey, easy, sweetie. It's entirely up
to you. In my experience most men don't for blow jobs.
And I can assure you that I'm clean. But if you're more
comfortable using one, that's your prerogative, hmm?"

"Okay. Would you... I mean, if you were me, would you
feel comfortable?"

"I don't give many blow jobs, though I admit -- I'll make an

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exception for you. And no, I wouldn't use a condom." Of
course Rafe was a virgin. "I am not, however, a virgin."

"No. I didn't expect you to be." That thumb slid on his
cock, over and over.

He groaned, the heat in his belly increasing at that touch.

Rafe lifted his hand up, licking the clear liquid away.

"Fuck... tease."

"No. No, just curious. Honestly." Rafe leaned down, tongue
pressing, so softly against his slit.

His eyes wanted to drop closed, but he kept them open,
eager to watch as that soft tongue sent pleasure shooting
through him.

The touches were feather-light, gentle little licks and
careful kisses guaranteed to drive him mad. He spread his
legs a little farther, more to keep himself from humping up
into Rafe's mouth than anything else.

"Sweet Rafe..."

"Mmm." Rafe's hand kept moving, fingers sliding down to
cup his balls, so carefully.

"You've got good instincts." When was the last time he'd
enjoyed a blow-job? It didn't matter -- he was enjoying this
one.

The man's smile burned through him, then the tip of his
prick was taken in, so carefully sucked. He made a garbled

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sound, his whole body going tight with the effort not to
thrust, not to just take that sweet mouth like he wanted to.

That swollen, pretty mouth popped off his cock. "Did I hurt
you?"

"What? No, no, sweetie -- that was a good noise." He
tousled Rafe's hair. "You could do it harder, even.

"Harder? You don't let me hurt you, now."

"Sweetie, unless you're using your teeth and biting, it won't
hurt." A demonstration was obviously in order. After he'd
gotten off.

Rafe chuckled, "No biting." Then that mouth wrapped
around his cock again, the suction fierce and hot.

"Fuck! Yes!" His hips snapped, sending his cock deep
before he managed to back off and let Rafe have control.

Rafe sucked hard, both hands wrapped around his shaft so
he couldn't push too deep. He slid his hands into Rafe's
hair, fingers curling around the silky strands. Rafe kept
working, sucking and licking, even as Bobby could tell his
jaw tired.

"Play the slit with your tongue."

Rafe hummed, licking and lapping his slit, the sensation
tickling.

"Harder," he growled, wanting to finish before Rafe's jaw
gave out.

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Rafe pushed harder, tongue fucking his slit.

"Fuck! Yes!" His hips bucked, his hands holding Rafe's
head right where it was as he came, spunk pouring from his
cock.

Rafe gagged a little, gasping, blinking randomly. "I. Oh."

He stroked Rafe's cheek. "Mmm... very nice."

Rafe pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, hands shaking
as he cleaned his face.

Bobby tugged Rafe up into his arms, finding that the man
fit perfectly curled into his side. "So what did you think of
your first blow job experience, sweetie?"

"It was intense. You taste better than I expected."

"What had you expected?" Every man tasted different,
though Rafe should have had an idea from his own spunk.

"I expected it to be more bitter. Less sexy."

"It's not the same as tasting your own at all, is it?" God, the
things he could teach this sweet man.

"No. No, not at all." Rafe leaned into him, breathing hard.

"Getting is far better than giving."

"It was good, knowing you liked it."

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"There are men who've turned it into an art form. I'm not
one of them, but I can still make you love it."

"What... what do you like? I mean, sexually."

"I'm partial to intercourse, sweetie. Long and slow, quick
and hard, up against the wall."

"Oh... Does it hurt?" Those hands landed on his belly.
"Sometimes I read that it's terribly painful, sometimes not."

"It's like the teeth in the blow-job -- it can hurt, but if you
do it right, it's mmm-mmm."

Rafe chuckled, "Good to know."

"You don't need to worry -- I'm very good at it." He tugged
Rafe closer, his prick trying to fill again as they talked
about it.

"Are you? What else do you like?"

"Most of the things we do here at the club do it for me to
some extent. Having a sweet young thing in my arms?
That's pretty fucking good."

"Ah, now the truth comes out. I have to make sure not to
age." That laughter was happy and teasing, warm.

He leaned in to kiss Rafe, taking that laughter in. Rafe
tasted like him. Fuck, that was hot. Groaning, he took the
kiss deeper, bending Rafe backward. Rafe leaned,
whimpering into his lips, cock hard between them.

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"Time to further your education," he murmured, pushing
Rafe so he was lying back on the couch.

"I'm a good student."

"Not too good, I hope. I'd like to think we'll need to
practice. A lot."

That laugh pushed into his lips, Rafe's beard tickled at him,
hands slid over his shoulders.

"Open your pants and take yourself out. Stroke it a few
times for me."

"I. Okay. Okay." Those cheeks went a rosy pink, Rafe
sliding down his zipper.

He loved that slight shyness, the way Rafe pushed through
it.

Rafe's prick was cut, surprisingly thick, the veins heavy.
Groaning, Bobby leaned in and traced them lightly, almost
teasing. Rafe's hand worked with his, sliding up, working
the tip.

"Nice." Leaning in farther, he traced the veins again, this
time with his tongue.

"Oh..." Rafe went perfectly still, watching him.

Looking up to watch Rafe's face, he batted away Rafe's
hand and took a swipe of his tongue across the tip.

"Oh..." Rafe arched, hips bucking. "So hot."

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Rafe was the hot one, but he was going to take the
compliment happily. He wrapped his lips around the head
of Rafe's cock and sucked, tongue sliding back and forth
across the head.

The lean hips sawed up and down; the pretty, heavy cock
spread his lips wide.

So sensual. He still couldn't believe Rafe hadn't been
snapped up by anybody yet.

He let Rafe in deeper, let the sweet movements take his
mouth. He could feel Rafe's cock start to swell, drops
splashing on his tongue, faster and faster. It wouldn't take
long, not Rafe's first time getting blown.

He pushed his hand down into the boxer's, finding and
rolling Rafe's balls. Someone liked that little ache, body
going tight, rocking into his lips as seed pulsed into his lips.

He swallowed Rafe down, enjoying the taste. It was salty
and more sweet than he'd have expected.

Rafe blinked down at him, swayed. "I. You. Wow."

Smiling, he slid up to lie half on, half next to Rafe and
patted his cheek. "You're welcome." Bobby had to admit,
he felt very smug. And very not bored.

"I..." Rafe reached for him, pulled him into another kiss.
"You taste like me. Bobby, please. Tell me we can do it
again."

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He smiled, licked Rafe's bottom lip. "Again and again,
sweet boy, until you scream."

Nope. Not bored at all.

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Lee Benoit
Before dawn and after dark, Lee Benoit is a writer of gay
fiction, some contemporary, some speculative, some
historical. During the daylight hours Lee is a professor of
sociology, and round the clock a two-spirit, single-by-
choice parent of two.
http://www.leebenoittales.com/

Misa Izanaki
Originally from Hawaii, Misa has been writing since she
was twelve. She has a fondness for cats, squirrels, and
anime. Most of her stories come from her muses, the
constantly evolving group of pretty anime-style men who
live in her head, and she is constantly poking at them for
new ideas. When she's not writing, Misa can be found
painting war game miniatures or trying in vain to catch up
with her backlog of comics and books.

Kiernan Kelly
Kiernan Kelly lives in the wilds of the alligator-infested
U.S. Southeast, slathered in SPF 45, drinking colorful
tropical, hi-octane concoctions served by thong-clad cabana
boys.
All right, the truth is that she spends her time locked in the
dark recesses of her office, writing gay erotica while
chained to a temperamental Macintosh, drinking coffee,
and dreaming of thong-clad cabana boys.
Sigh.
Kiernan's webpage is: http://www.kiernan-kelly.com/

Sean Michael
Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of
Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice,"
Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing
his immense gourd collection and fantasizing about one day

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retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by
horseshoe crabs. While collecting vast amounts of vintage
gay pulp novels and mood rings, Sean whiles away the
hours between dropping the f-bomb and pursuing the kama
sutra by channeling the long lost spirit of John Wayne and
singing along with the soundtrack to "Chicago." Check out
Sean’s webpage at http://www.seanmichaelwrites.com/

Syd McGinley
Syd McGinley writes the Dr. Fell series and other gay
fiction. Syd is a Sexuality Studies program advisor and
English lecturer who fled Thatcher’s England in the late
1980's, and has lived in the American Midwest since then.
Frying pan and fire comes to mind. Visit Syd at
www.sydmcginley.com and Dr. Fell at
www.inlocodomin.com.

G.R. Richards
There's a reason guys growl for G.R. Richards Erotica. You
would never know it by the love of public television
documentaries and great food in high-end restaurants, but
G.R. Richards pens some of the world's steamiest guy-on-
guy stories. Be on the lookout for Richards' two hot
Christmas stories, *Ivy League* and *Vintage Toys for
Lucky Boys*, from Dreamspinner Press, *Devil's Eyes*
and *We the Bus People* from Torquere Press, *The
Brothers of Hogg's Hollow *from Amber Allure, and *A
Descent into the Mailroom*, a gritty BDSM office menage
tale from eXcessica Publishing. Richards is also a
contributor to *Rainy Days and Mondays *(Torquere
Press) and many upcoming anthologies including
*Someplace in the World *(Torquere Press), *Men at
Noon, Monsters at Midnight *(STARbooks), and *Skater
Boys* (Cleis Press).

Cherry on Top - 199

http://www.grrichards.webs.com/

Tracy Rowan
Tracy Rowan has done office work, sold books, made and
sold all manner of arts and crafts, taught beading, edited
tech manuals and been a long-term caregiver. But the
thing she's found most difficult and therefore most
fulfilling is writing. She lives in a craftsman-style two flat
on Chicago's northwest side where she and her housemate
spend a lot of time planning the garden, hanging with their
friends and laughing a lot.

BG Thomas
B.G. Thomas lives in Kansas City with his husband of over
nine years and their fabulous little dog. He sees his
wonderful daughter just often enough to miss her when she
isn't there. He has a romantic soul and is extraordinarily
lucky to have many friends.

He loves science fiction & fantasy, horror and romance and
has gone to SF&F conventions his entire adult life, and
been lucky enough to meet many of his favorite writers.
He has made up stories since he was kid; it is where he
finds his joy. In the 90s, he wrote for gay magazines, but
stopped because they wanted all porn without plot.

Excited about the growing same-sex romance market, he
started writing again. He sent out a story and was thrilled
when it was almost immediately accepted.

“Leap, and the net will appear,” is his personal philosophy.
“It is never too late,” he states. “Pursue your dreams. They
will come true!”

Visit his web site at: http://bgthomas.t83.net

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GS Wiley
I'm a writer, reader, teacher, traveler, sometime painter and
semi-avid scrapbooker who lives in Canada. I have a
fantastic husband, who indulges me in all these pastimes,
and makes a mean omelette while he's at it. Visit me on the
web at http://wileyromance.googlepages.com

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