20 )Spunk Rats

Spunk Rats

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Spunk Rats

ISBN: 978-1-60054-512-2

His and His Kisses

Cover art and design by Dawné Dominique

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Published by

loveyoudivine Alterotica, 2010

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Barry Lowe

SPUNK RATS

BARRY LOWE

Spunk Rats

SPUNK RATS

Tales of Sex and Obsession

spunk rat
(noun)

1. (Australian, New Zealand slang) An attractive person (usually male).
2. A male who seeks out semen, sometimes in dark and dingy surroundings.

Barry Lowe

HITTING THE ROOF

That’s the problem with using a builder, who is a friend of a friend of an

acquaintance who knows someone in the trade. But alas, our meager budget

extended only to the aforementioned friend of a friend of a… Sure, Jean, the head

honcho, Mauritian-born and cute as a button, and his workers were the stuff of

rough trade wet dreams and, sure, they skylarked about the house grabbing each

other in the groin area (what is it with straight men?), wolf whistling each and every

woman who passed by the site regardless of age, height, weight, skin color or even

suitability as a sex partner. But in the end, like the old adage says: You get what you

pay for.

We were now getting it in abundance. It was 3 a.m. when we heard the crash,

like the sound of a mudslide avalanching into the sea. Toby shouted, “What was

that?”

I’d heard it, too. But then things were always falling over or dislodging from the

wall in our creaking old residence. “Probably something that the builders didn’t

stack up properly and it’s fallen over in the rain,” I answered, turning over to go

back to sleep.

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

Rain? What rain?

When did that start?

We must have thought of it at the same time because neither Toby nor I bothered

to dress before tumbling over each other in our rush downstairs to reach the door to

the kitchen. Or rather, what was left of the kitchen. The rain was dripping through

the ceiling, which had collapsed under the weight of the sudden downpour.

Plasterboard, cement, building tools, and a few loose bricks lay scattered among the

sink, hotplates, refrigerator and dishwasher.

Toby cursed our luck, saving his worst for the incompetence of the builders who

had finished bricking up the wall to the upstairs extension, but, in their haste to

depart, had neglected to erect a tarpaulin over the section from which the roof had

been removed. Now the ceiling beams lay exposed like the bones of a deep fried

bream.

When I’d queried their actions, Jean had merely looked up and said, “Nah, mate,

not a cloud in the sky! She’ll be right, mate.” As it turned out, she was anything but

right.

Clearing this mess up was going to cost Jean dearly in wages. When he strolled

in the next day, late as usual, his attitude to the disaster was studied nonchalance.

“Nothing we can’t fix, mate,” he said without an ounce of concern.

I hate being called anyone’s mate, and to use the word in an obvious attempt

to invoke a non-existent friendship between us had me seeing red. “Won’t cost you a

penny to fix, mate,” he said as he could see my visible anger.

“Of course it won’t cost me a fucking penny! It’s your total lack of basic builder’s

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common sense that led to this debacle!”

The workmen snickered at their boss copping an earful.

“No need to go on like that, mate. I’m sure we can sort it out. Now, have you got

somewhere we can talk this over calmly away from the guys? No boss likes to be

made to look small in front of his staff.”

His attitude sounded so reasonable it made my temper outburst seem

intemperate. That made me even angrier.

The spare room, stacked high with furniture and bric-a-brac that would find a

home in the extension, was the only private place with the requisite privacy. There

was little enough space in which to sit or stand. I made the mistake of perching on

the edge of an upturned box. Jean towered over me. That was not going to

intimidate me.

“We could have your license for this,” I seethed.

He smiled maliciously. “No you can’t, mate. I don’t have one. You’d just get me

mate’s license and what good would that do you? He has a family to support.”

“He might kill you to save me the bother,” I said, half seriously.

“Look, mate, we’ll do you a brand new kitchen; your old one was a shithouse

anyway. Plus, you’ll get you’re upstairs extension put on. It won’t cost you anything.

And if you need new kitchen appliances, I’m your man.”

“Very generous. I suppose the mark up on the new appliances will be enough to

take you and your family around the world. Twice.”

He looked hurt for a moment then smiled. “I don’t charge mates any extra.

You’ll get it all at cost.”

My mind had already begun ticking over. Yes, Toby and I had discussed getting

a new kitchen. So, I smiled and relaxed.

“Good. See we’re gonna get along just fine.”

I really didn’t like his superior attitude even at the price of a new kitchen.

“We are going to be considerably inconvenienced.” I pouted.

“And I’m sure we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement over your

inconvenience.”

I was genuinely surprised at his placatory attitude. “Such as?”

“Well now. I’ve seen you looking at the boys while they work.”

I was going to remonstrate with him, but he interrupted.

“I know you’re fucking gay, mate. All I had to do was look at your collection of

DVDs and books. Anyway, there’s two of you and you’ve only got one fucking bed.”

“So?”

“So, I might be able to persuade the boys to wear a little less on the job. Give you

plenty of material to feed the fist later on.”

I sneered. “I don’t think so. I don’t get off on voyeurism.”

He smiled. “More an action man? I thought you might be, so I took the liberty of

thinking this might go some way to making up for the discomfort.” So saying, he

pulled down his overalls and hauled out his hardening black prick snaking through

his glistening foreskin. It was a mouth-watering eight inches: not too big and

certainly not too small. I looked up at him.

He was a good-looking man. His tank top hugged his muscular, curved chest,

his arms like black logs of muscle. He could have crushed me to death in them.

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Obviously, the building trade kept him in good nick because his stomach was as

hard as his cock. His butt rode high and round. He took my stare to mean I was

willing. He grabbed the back of my head, guiding it on to his cock. He allowed an

intake of breath then he pushed all the way, hitting the back of my throat into my

wind pipe. I choked. He reamed my face. I spluttered loudly as drool foamed and I

lost my breath. I pushed him away, gasping loudly for air. I heard laughter from the

workers.

“What about…” I asked, nodding in their direction.

He laughed. “You want them, too? They’re pussy guys. But, maybe…”

“No, what I meant was how do they feel about this?”

“Oh, that. Mate, they don’t care. As long as they get their pay packet at the end

of each week, they don’t give a shit where I sink my cock. If it keeps the client happy

and off their backs it keeps them happy. They know it comes with the territory. I’m

feeding it to half the people I deal with,” he boasted.

“I suppose this will find its way on to the bill somewhere.”

“Nah, mate. This part of the job is for pleasure.”

I chowed down on his cock again while he rode my mouth and throat like he

was born in the saddle. He liked the sloppy gag drool puddling down my chin as I

attempted to match him stroke for stroke, my tongue licking the underside of his

shaft. My eyes watered, my throat was raw…

He leaned over, opened the door to the room and yelled, “Hey, Spud!”

“What?” came the response.

“Get in here.”

I tried to pull away, but he held me tight against his wiry pubic hair, his balls

choking off my air passage. Spud turned up at the door, surveying the scene, then

nodded in my direction. “You’re choking him.”

Jean let me breathe then handed Spud, a cute young dark-haired youth about 19,

his mobile. “Give Tony a ring, his number’s in the phone, and tell him to get some

tarpaulins over here ASAP. Don’t want a repeat of last night.”

“Got it.” Spud turned to go. He watched me sucking Jean’s cock for a moment

then asked, “He any good?”

Jean nodded. “Mmmm. You want a go?”

“Tempting,” he said. “The girlfriend won’t go down on me. But I’m a pussy

man.”

Jean grinned. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I can see what I’m missing, you pervert.” Spud laughed and walked away to

phone.

“Gonna get him some day soon,” Jean said as he fucked my face in a way that

made me realize he was fantasizing about the young apprentice.

He hauled me to my feet, ripping down my jeans and spinning me around

before I could complain. Then he bent me forward. He spat in his hand a few times

and greased my hole before I felt his spit slimed cock at my ass entrance. I prepared

for the worst, but he slid in easily as his cock was so covered in gag juices. I was not

prepared, however, for its entry so far into my asshole. I grimaced, attempting to

push him back, but he was persistent and remained embedded deep inside me.

“How do you like it?” he asked.

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“Just fine,” I said.

“No, fucker. You like it rough or gentle?”

Common sense told me to say gentle because my throat was still sore from its

earlier battering. “Rough,” I heard myself say.

He grunted. “Good.”

I felt his low-hanging balls slap against my thighs as he rammed his piston

home.

“Shit! Too rough, too rough!” I cried.

“Listen, pussy,” he whispered, “you can never have it too hard! And don’t ever,

ever try to humiliate me in front of the guys again. You won’t like what I’ll do to you

if you do.”

He pulled his cock out of my ass, grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me

upright, and shoved me out the door. In the wreck of a kitchen, in full view of his

workers, he pushed me down on my back on a waist high slab of concrete and lifted

my legs in the air.

“Hold these, Spud,” he ordered. Spud pulled my legs back as I bent my knees

for more comfort, exposing my asshole all the more. Jean massaged his slick cock

then crashed into me, continuing to ream my ass. He changed position slightly to

scrape my innards to give his cock greater friction. In time I felt less pain, squeezing

my sphincter around his battering ram to match his action.

“And this, motherfuckers,” he yelled at his men, “is what is waiting for you if

you screw up again like you did yesterday. Got it?”

They all mumbled their agreement as he plunged deeper into my chute,

crushing his body against me. Most of the workers went back to their jobs, some

with the beginnings of tumescence in their shorts while others stayed to watch and

hurl obscene encouragement to their boss.

“Lucky you’re not a woman,” he whispered. “Or unlucky, depending on your

point of view.” Then he yelled, “This is one motherfucker of an asshole,” as he

pummeled me. I flexed along with his strokes although my legs were aching as Spud

held them secure. I noticed a damp patch spreading in the front of his shorts. He

moved uncomfortably as I probed with my fingers and found his balls. He gasped

quietly because he was attempting to hide his excitement. I licked my lips as an offer

but his face just registered confusion. One of the workers, an overweight middle-

aged guy flopped his prick out, beginning to work it with his hand. His fellow

carpenters and brickies whistled in derision.

Jean pushed three of his fingers into my mouth. I sucked greedily. “This guy

needs it bad, guys. Give him a go while we’re on the job here; you won’t regret it. If

he gives you any trouble then just pass him over to me. If I’m not here, then I expect

you to take full advantage of what’s on offer.”

There was a lot of grumbling about pussy, but I could see one or two of the guys

would eventually pluck up the courage to visit me privately. I was hoping Spud

would be one of them.

With a roar that filled the house, sounding not unlike the collapsing tsunami of

bricks and mortar the night before, Jean blasted his cum inside me, shuddering with

every jet spurt. The overweight guy let fly with his load not long after shuddering it

across my chest and on to my face. He quickly zipped up and went back to work.

Barry Lowe

Jean pulled his slimy cock out of my ass, rubbed it over my face smearing his

workman’s cum and ordered me to lick it clean. I tongued the greasy shaft and balls,

sucking every trace of man juice from his massive weapon.

Jean put his arm around me and lifted me to my feet so I could get dressed.

“That’s enough excitement for one day, boys,” he said to his workers. He then

turned to me. “Hope that makes up for any inconvenience you suffered, mate.”

I smiled at him. “Our inconvenience will be ongoing.”

“As will your compensation,” he replied, patting my ass.

Spunk Rats

BUMMING A FAG

Banished to the fire stairs for a cigarette in the middle of winter seemed like

cruel and unusual punishment to me. But I had reckoned without Damian. My

house proud and health conscious boyfriend, Toby, had unilaterally decreed there

was to be no smoking in our apartment or even on the open air balcony. It shows

you how much I was trying to make this relationship work that I agreed to take my

filthy habit outside. But what seemed like an okay concession in hot summer months

seemed suicidal in the depths of winter, and I had taken to smoking, strictly against

the building rules, on the fire stairs in an effort to stay warm.

That’s where Damian had found me. The elevator was throwing one of its

periodic temper tantrums and refused to budge off the eighth floor so my little

smoker’s retreat was in danger of being over-run by a steady stream of cursing

residents climbing or descending the stairs to street level. I returned their grumbles

while cupping my guilty secret in my hand hoping they wouldn’t smell my illicit

activity.

“Can I bum a fag, mate?” He startled me because I had not heard him coming up

behind me. I was about to turn and tell him not likely with the cost of cigarettes

these days and the government soaking smokers and drinkers for every penny they

can get.

“Sure, mate.” I changed my mind and shook the packet until one or two bobbed

out. He took one and I lit it with the end of mine.

“I owe ya,” he said.

Shit, this kid could owe me any time. Tall, almost six feet, yellow blond hair,

probably from surfing or an outdoor job of some kind, slim but not scrawny, biceps

that confirmed manual labor, and a sort of rugged, pretty face with lips you just

want to slide your cock into.

“Damian,” he said after he blew the smoke out of his lungs from a satisfying first

drag.

“Brad,” I told him.

“Tossed out of your apartment?” he asked, nodding up the stairs. .

I sneered. “Yeah. Boyfriend says the ash dirties the carpet. You?”

“Daddy don’t like kissing fag breath.”

If this kid had a daddy, it weren’t no familial relationship—it was more of the

sugar variety.

“You work outside?”

“Uh huh,” he said.

“I noticed the arms.”

“Apprentice brickie. The pay’s shit. It’s why I have to supplement me wages.”

“Sugar daddy?”

“Uh huh.”

“Nice way to earn a living.” I didn’t know what to say. If I’d had visions of this

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twenty-something twink god being interested in a 5’7”, middle-aged, beer-gutted,

billiard-ball headed slob then they had been well and truly shattered.

He took a long draw of the fag before he answered. “Helps that I’m a slut.”

I choked on a lungful of smoke.

“You got the necessaries?” he asked as he crushed the butt under foot.

I fished in my shorts’ pocket and brought out a condom and a sachet of lube. Be

prepared was not just the Boy Scouts’ motto. I never said I was faithful to him

upstairs.

Damian took out a mouth spray and gave his throat a coating. He pulled me

over and kissed me. It tasted lemony.

“You taste cigarettes?”

“Nah, you’re sweet,” I said.

He dropped his jeans and bent forward on the stairs.

He looked around at me.

“Don’t you wanna?”

I dropped my fag quick smart. “Shit yeah,’ I said and scrambled out of my shorts

and briefs.

My cock had been hard since I first saw him.

“Better make it quick ‘cause I’m running late. He hates it if I don’t turn up on

time.”

“You can use the excuse the elevator’s out,” I said as I ripped open the foil

package and sheathed my cock.

“Yeah.” Damian pulled his T-shirt up over his back to give me better access. He

was like a sculpted god, his tanned skin stretched over taut muscles, and an ass that

a man could bury himself in. And I did.

I pushed my fingers in and swirled the lube round his ass band that twitched as

I entered him. He was warm, pliable, and inviting. I greased the rubber and pushed

my knob against his hole.

“No need to be gentle. I like it rough,” he said.

As if to confirm it, he backed up on to my hard cock swallowing me right down

to the balls. I held his smooth, boyish back and rammed him hard, my balls banging

against his ass. He moved to meet each of my thrusts as if he couldn’t get enough

cock inside him. And the tightening and loosening of his sphincter as I plowed

inside was dragging the spunk up from my balls.

We weren’t in this for the long haul; we could be caught at any moment, and he

had an appointment, so I concentrated on fucking the cutest young twink I’d had on

the end of my cock in I don’t know how long. I pinched his nipples, which only

made him milk my shaft all the more. I reached under to feel for his prick, but he

pushed my hand away.

“Uh uh,” he said, and I understood he was saving it for the job ahead.

I pushed him down on the concrete steps and whispered in his ear. “Take it,

fucker. Take my hard daddy cock in your slutty fuckin’ ass!”

He must have been hurting as the edge of the steps bit into his skin, but his

groans were more real now and not so faked.

“You won’t forget this fuck. Daddy fuckin’ your tight slut asshole on the stairs.

You love daddy’s cock shooting his spunk right up inside you, don’t you punk?”

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“Yes, daddy,” he whispered as I shot inside him. My body bucked as the strings

of spunk filled the rubber.

He gave me a few seconds to recover and then pulled off my cock. He wiped his

ass and dressed quickly. He took the stairs two at a time as he swore, “Shit, I’m

gonna be really late. He’ll kill me.”

I heard him exit three floors above and the door slam behind him as I was still

peeling the rubber off my cock.

Barry Lowe

GUTTER TALK

We were sitting in the gutter—the most natural place in the world, given the

circumstances—comparing notes on the previous night’s Sleaze Ball, Sydney’s late

year sexual free-for-all event, second only to the annual Mardi Gras. I cradled

Graham’s head as he puked up his first attempt at recreational substances,

determined as he was to enjoy the party. We were yet to discover whether he had or

not.

“Reminds me of the first time I swallowed it,” Bonnie said, watching Graham be

sick.

“It?” I asked.

“You know? It!”

“You mean semen, sperm, jizz, cum?”

“Yes, them,” she said. She always had been coy when it came to anatomical

terms.

“It smells like bleach to me,” said Kevin.

“The first time someone blew in my mouth,” Toby piped in , “I ran out to the

balcony and spat it into the street.”

“I never trusted men when they said they wouldn’t,” Kevin added. “I always

used to put a piece of chewing gum over the knob and peel it off later when I

wanted to give the poor yob relief.”

Andrew snorted. “What a load of whingers. I only had a year or two before it

was declared unsafe to swallow. You fucked it up for all of us, and you don’t know

how good you had it.”

“Some of us oldies miss it too, you know,” I added sarcastically. Andrew was in

his early twenties and prone to sneer at anyone over thirty-five.” And the combined

ages of all of us, bar Andrew, came close to equalling that of those giant Redwoods

in Southern California that live to such a great age it would send any pension fund

into liquidation.

“This one would gladly drown in cum,” said Toby , pointing to me. “He’d gargle

with it morning, noon and night if he could.”

Bonnie gagged.

“He used to keep it in the freezer compartment of the fridge and thaw it out.”

One of Kevin’s dark eyebrow rose . “What on earth did you use it for?”

“Feeding the pot plants,” I joked.

“What do you think he’d use it for?” Andrew asked impatiently. “He ate it.”

Toby listed an alternative. “Or else used it as lubrication to wank.”

Bonnie looked suitably aghast; Graham kept his head down, and Kevin

grimaced.

Toby was not going to let it go easily. “And you’ve got no idea how awful it

smells once you’ve defrosted it.”

“That first time a man came in my mouth,” Bonnie said, “I vomited all over him.

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It looked like egg white all over his genitals and his chest.”

“Must have been a bummer in the lovemaking department,” Kevin suggested

with a smirk.

“Well, he never blew in my mouth again.”

Toby was determined to get his revenge. “And there is nothing worse than

getting used condoms through the mail. They used to leak no matter how tight the

sender tied it, and the envelopes would be all yucky.”

“You did that, too?” Andrew sidled a little closer.

“In those days I would do anything for cum.” I sighed. “Now I’m restricted to a

diet of my own.”

Toby moaned. “Yeah, and I wish you’d stop. It lifts the polish off the coffee

table.”

“Wasn’t it great?” yelled Simon from the other side of the street.

“Speaking of spunk rats,” I said, “I can’t hold a candle to that guy.”

Simon crossed, and I made the introductions. He sat down in the gutter with us.

“We were just talking about cum.”

“Yum!” was Simon’s brisk reply.

“Yuk!” was the chorus from Bonnie, Kevin and Toby.

“I love you all. And I want to suck all your dicks,” Graham slurred, coming to

life momentarily.

“I don’t have one.” Bonnie smiled. “I keep it in a jar by the bed.”

At that Graham passed out, whether from Bonnie’s revelation or from the

previously mentioned ingested chemicals, we weren’t sure.

“Looks like Graham’s got a big cock,” Simon said.

“He has,” I replied.

Toby looked puzzled. “How do you know?”

Graham and I were old friends from school days. For me to trifle with his

privates would have been tantamount to incest.

“He wanted to know whether I thought he had a big cock, so one morning,

while you were in the kitchen, he flashed it for me.”

“And?” Simon was definitely interested.

“It almost made me choke on my cornflakes.”

“You sucked it?” Bonnie’s eyes widened.

“Was it hard?” Simon persisted.

“On the slack. I didn’t have time to dip it in the bowl and lick the milk off before

he’d put it away again. I’m not his type.”

“Am I?” Simon asked with a hopeful lilt.

“Simon, he’s comatose. Anyone is his type at the moment.”

“I wouldn’t kiss him though, if I were you,” Bonnie added helpfully.

“I’m only after him from the waist down.” And so saying, Simon began to

massage Graham’s crotch through his jeans much to the amusement of passing

traffic.

“I was telling everyone what a cum queen you are, Simon.”

“Yeah, in the old days I used to prowl round the steam baths looking for guys

who’d been fucked...”

Bonnie’s gag reflex began working overtime. “I don’t think I want to hear this...”

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“Egg white, egg white, egg white,” I repeated maliciously.

“... and if their asses were runny like ripe camembert, I’d lick them out.”

Bonnie retched, and Toby and Kevin merely screwed up their noses at the

thought. Andrew got a hard on.

“I only ever did that once or twice.” Andrew looked despondent even though I

was playing with his cock through his jeans.

“We called Simon The Human Vacuum Cleaner,” I murmured. “If anyone ever

blew their load over the wooden benches in the steam room, Simon would be down

siphoning it up with that fabulous mouth of his in next to no time.”

Simon looked modest. “I didn’t want anyone to sit in it. I’ve always been

considerate like that. Saves on the cleaning bills, too. And anyway, what about you?

Haunting the corridors looking for a booth where someone had done it on the vinyl,

and then going in and rolling about in it or rubbing your face in it before you licked

it up?”

Simon and I duetted, “Ah, the good old days...the good old days.”

“Anyway it looks like I’ve found what I’m after for the night. So, if you will all

excuse me.” Simon whipped out Graham’s engorged cock and went down on it.

“Remember not to swallow,” Kevin lectured.

“It is rather magnificent,” marvelled Bonnie.

“Here, you want a bit?” Simon offered, wagging Graham’s dick in her direction.

She declined. “Want to go for a coffee and leave these sleazes to it?”

Kevin nodded and struggled to his feet. “I think so.”

“And who knows,” she said, linking her arm in Toby’s, “we may find a few nice

men who are drunk enough or drug fucked enough that we can persuade them

we’re all twenty years younger and hotter than the Sahara at midday.”

Kevin giggled at the prospect of a new adventure as the three of them wended

their way, none too steadily, toward the inviting bars and clubs along Oxford Street.

I kissed Toby au revoir; my preoccupation with Andrew was no threat to our

fifteen-year relationship. “Want to come back to my place for breakfast?” I asked the

young man.

“Sure,” he replied eagerly.

We left Simon working patiently on Graham’s cock, reminding me of the New

Year’s Eve I’d spent under bushes in Moore Park doing something similar to a Greek

who resolutely refused to cum until the stroke of midnight. After 45 minutes, I had

shut up mouth and gone home in disgust at 11.55.

“You really do those things you were talking about?” Andrew asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ve always been too embarrassed to talk about it.”

“That’s one of the advantages of getting older. You can admit to just about

anything.”

Back home Andrew wasted no time in taking my cock right down his throat.

“Ah, hog heaven.” He sighed as I felt the wet warmth engulf my prick. His

technique was all youthful enthusiasm, but his lack of skill was more than

compensated by the beauty of cute blond twink face stuffed with my hard weapon. I

held the back of his head and thrust inside his throat. All the sexual tension of the

night’s rave party, wall-to-wall hot bods and erect pricks pressing together on the

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dance floor, was concentrated in my balls. And it was about to blow.

I screamed. “You want cum, baby, then cum you shall have!”

Pausing for breath and popping my cock from his mouth, Andrew admitted, “I

like it for people to come on my chest.” Then he wrapped his hot tongue around me

again for the final countdown.

“Anywhere you like,” I panted, trying to time it just right before I snatched my

cock from his mouth to blow streaks across his hairless chest. He rubbed his hand

through the settling strings of stickiness as I leaned over to lap my juice and suck it

from each of his fingers. Andrew’s prick was twitching violently. I knew what to do.

Pulling him to his feet, I yanked his dribbling cock until he groaned and shot his

wad across the coffee table.

My cock was rock solid again, and without losing my own stroke, I pushed his

head down, rubbing his nose in his own juice.

“Eat it, baby. Eat it!”

As Andrew lapped it up, I shot my second load close by and, without hesitation,

kneeled beside him. We watched each other as the precious liquid dribbled from our

tongues and the corners of our mouths.

“By the way,” he said, retrieving a couple of dark flakes from his tongue,

“Toby’s right. It does lift the varnish.”

Barry Lowe

A HEAD START

This story was first published as “A Room with a View” in “Boy

Meets Boy”, edited by Lawrence Schimel (Alyson, 1999).

I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I knew Jason liked to kiss, and I was

taking no chances. After I'd gargled and rinsed, I took the time to floss. It was not

that I was reluctant; hell, I was so keen my dick was screaming at me to hurry up.

No, I'd left young, good-looking Jason in the lounge room watching porn. We’d

been bantering sexually at work for months, and when he turned up at the front

door, swathed in the unmistakable stench of testosterone and Calvin Klein’s One, I

knew I was on a winner.

Toby, my significant other, was as taken with Jason as I was and so, pleased with

my prescience, I excused myself in order to attend to my oral hygiene in preparation

for the X-rated bout of snogging.

Judging the time to be just about right and my hard cock protruding eagerly, I

crept back to where I'd left them fully clothed, but fully aroused. Sure enough, my

absence had proven an aphrodisiac. Jason was enthusiastically demonstrating his

oral prowess on Toby.

My own prick, eager to share in the tongue-lashing, led me into the room. Toby

was expecting my approach, as we had refined our group sex agreement right down

to the fine print—it kept our relationship from becoming as stale as last week’s

focaccia—and he knew it was to be a three-for-all.

As I approached, Jason looked up, thus interrupting his spit polishing

momentarily. Never one to let an open orifice remain unfilled for long, I guided my

warmth-seeking cruise missile into the gaping gullet. Jason spat it out with ill-

concealed contempt and hissed, "What do you think you're doing? I'm not interested

in you."

He went back to his ministrations after throwing me the crumbs of, "I suppose

you can watch if you really have to." Toby was too far gone to complain and merely

shrugged his resignation.

My cock shriveled in embarrassment. I would have quickly tucked it away had I

not, inconveniently, left all my clothes on the bathroom floor. Quickly retreating to

retrieve them, I dressed and headed for the front door, but not before I heard Toby

moan, "Get your tongue under that foreskin."

Rejection is rabidly esteem-deflating, particularly when your expectations have

been cruelly shattered and your significant other is the preferred icon of lust.

However, there were a number of mature options to consider:

ONE: I could burn down the house with both of them in it; claim the quite

substantial insurance and take myself on an extended holiday to the Caribbean,

where I would live in sexual bliss with a swathe of priapic Costa Ricans.

Spunk Rats

PROBLEM: Since we bought the self-igniting gas stove, and as neither of us

smoked, matches were in very short supply.

TWO: I could go one better and pick up the best looking man in the universe

and flaunt him in front of my treacherous friend and my traitorous other half.

PROBLEM: I had walked out without my wallet, and I was not about to

humiliate myself further by coitus interrupting them again. Besides, in expectation of

screwing Jason myself, I hadn't douched. Big mistake.

THREE: I could go to the bars and get pissed.

PROBLEM: (a) See above. (b) I'm an abstainer.

So, with mature reflection, I did what any seasoned gay man does under such

circumstances—I consulted a clairvoyant.

Madame Acacia, occult friend to the gay and lesbian communities, lived not far

from the setting of the current perfidy, and she was accustomed to her friends

popping around for a quick emotional cheer-up and tarot reading to see if the night's

trolling would be blessed with union.

"Give me your watch," she said.

I whinged. "But it cost $240.00."

"You have more money than sense,” she retorted. “Anyway, Rolex or Lorus, it's

all the same."

Madame Acacia was big on predictions and short on taste.

Explaining that she had not gone into bartering for payment, I handed it over;

upon which she shuddered violently and dropped it. I hoped (a) the watch had

survived the drop intact or was at least repairable, but mainly (b) that

it was a sign

Jason would die a screamingly wretched death before the week was out and that he

would never ever have another satisfying sexual encounter after Toby.

My reveries were interrupted by Madame Acacia’s demanding voice. "Get rid of

him. He's nothing but trouble."

"But I love him!"

"Rubbish!" she retorted. "That's your dick talking."

It throbbed its agreement that Jason was one helluva sex kitten and probably

phenomenal in the sack. And that bubble butt. The things I could have...but on all

those points, Toby was sure to provide an overly ample first-hand account.

Madame Acacia offered not the least consolation.

So, with a dangly bit that simply would not dangle and cried out for attention, I

took the third most mature option of the night: I slunk back home and forlornly

hoicked myself over our back brick fence, as quietly as grazed knuckles and scuffed

shins allowed, and crept up the side of the house to the double glazed picture

window where I had a perfect, uninterrupted view of the goings on in the living

room.

From my darkened vantage point behind Toby’s potted shrubbery, pressed

between the moonlight and the terrace’s mossy bricks, I admired my lover in full

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rampancy in each and every one of Jason's inviting but well-utilized passageways,

fantasizing myself in his place. Eventually I found, if not release from rejection and

humiliation, at least freedom from frustration.

The next day, when Toby was watering the garden, he complained of the awful

coagulated, viscous mess that was blighting his greenery. I merely shrugged...and

blamed the pigeons.

Spunk Rats

GUT REACTION

This story first appeared in “The Mammoth Book of New Gay

Erotica”, edited by Lawrence Schimel (Carroll & Graf, 2007)

I should have known I wouldn’t make it. That’s the problem with eating new

cuisine: you don’t know how your gut will react. Well, I knew now. After trying that

new Kyrgyzstani restaurant, recommended so volubly by the local food guide, I had

decided to walk home in an effort to shed some of the avoirdupois that had settled

on my already portly frame. My dinner companions had very wisely taken the car.

My mouth had loved the new flavors and food textures, but my stomach, the

final arbiter of all things cuisinetical, was now remonstrating sourly that a car ride

would have been the better option. It was rumbling like Old Faithful in Yellowstone

National Park. And was likely to be as projectile as said geyser if I didn’t hurry.

Fortunately, as someone who did not like to publicly expel any bodily fluids from

any orifice of my body, I was nearing the local park, set up by the city council in an

effort to capture the green vote by dedicating a former industrial estate alongside a

major freeway from the airport. To date it consisted of hardy weeds and spiky

bushes, which thrived on the carbon monoxide and particulate rubber from the

passing stream of motorists. Grass, however, was attempting to impose its authority

on the landscape without much success. Dominating this forlorn excuse for green

space was the brick toilet block of such utilitarian architectural ugliness the more

environmentally sensitive members of said council had attempted to disguise it by

planting a number of trees and native bushes grandly labeled an urban forest.

Those less party politically bent said the urban forest was merely a ruse to

disguise the folly of the park that remained steadfastly underutilized by the locals

who had a healthy concern for their respiratory well-being. Regardless, the single

storey brick garage of a building, with opaque glass and wire mesh windows and

doorways on opposing sides—one labeled patriarchs and another wimin—was not a

tribute to the vagaries of council political correctness, but to feminist vandals. The

area is

patronized in the late afternoon by dog lovers who can release their pooches

to cavort, shit and piss freely without the Gestapo tactics of the poop scoop brigade.

But even they flee the advent of darkness. As the sun sets, they desert the oasis of

dust and toxic fumes to make way for that most ubiquitous of all life forms—the

cockroaches of gay and closeted humanity—beat queens. These are the people who

live on scraps of sexual experience away from bright lights, scuttling from contact to

contact, disappearing at the slightest hint of trouble. So widespread and adaptable

are their earth-wide foraging fields that they, too, like their insectoid counterparts,

would probably survive a nuclear holocaust.

Beats: a necessary part of gay life and, in fact, for many people of the older

generation in particular, the only gay meeting place for our early sexual and social

experimentation. I spent many an exploratory teen year undergoing rigorous oral

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examinations unknown by my high school examiners and about which my parents

remained blissfully unaware. I think a strong case could, and should, be made that

the United Nations declare beats the sacred sites of gay culture.

But my stomach was in no mood for such philosophical niceties. It wanted my

mind to concentrate on which orifice was going to expel rancid food particles that

were bubbling volcano-like in my gut, as there was no way I was going to make it

home before the expected eruption. That had been my initial plan. You see, I’m

modest about body functions in public. I don’t mind flashing my dick in

circumstances that are likely to have it (a) sucked, or (b) inserted in someone’s

rectum, for everything else I like to find a cubicle to give piss a chance. I piss in the

street only when my bladder is about to burst or a sex partner has an uncontrollable

urge to be humiliated publicly, or I wish to show my contempt for some extreme

examples of modern architecture. If I’m coy about public pissing, I’m downright

obsessive about public displays of projectile vomiting.

I gave belated thanks to the misguided council apparatchik who had created the

park and headed for the block. It was dark, my way guided by the peripheral glare

of the halogen beam that emanated from a tall concrete pole. The other five park

lights had long since given up in despair, or homophobia, so that all that remained

was this brave little park light that cast its happy smile on nothing more edifying

than a few clumps of fly-blown dog shit or the occasional rotting carcass of a bird or

marsupial that had been clobbered attempting to cross the freeway and had limped

or dragged itself to the comparative safety of the park, only to expire.

Or perhaps the happy little light knew precisely what it was doing. There were

rumors that shots had been heard in the vicinity the night the first lights went out:

those that had focused their sticky-beak illumination on the toilet block and the

surrounding bushy urban forest. Just as the internal lights in the toilet had been

rendered sightless within the first week of their existence, a half-hearted attempt to

replace them had led, ultimately, to the sockets being wrenched from the walls. No

one had been foolish enough to go against the obvious wishes of the park’s

constituency, and the amenities remained resolutely dark, lit only by the odd beam

of a car illegally chucking a U-ey on the freeway or the rheumy wintry glow of the

moon.

Hoping for some privacy, I went to the women’s toilet. But the grate was locked.

I rattled it and all I got for my disturbance was a drunken slur.

“Piss orf, we’re full up.”

Full in at least two senses of the word.

At the darkened entrance to the men’s toilet, I bumped into a figure standing

guard—occasionally the police would roar across the park with their lights blazing

and siren screaming, forcing the denizens of the sex pit to scatter.

I begged the stranger his pardon, and his reply was a surly, “Watch it next time,

mate.”

I groped my way inside and paused to give my eyes time to adjust. I basically

knew where the cubicles were, the position of the urinals, and the odd positioning of

the wash basins. I expected the smell of stale piss, sperm and urinal cakes, although

most of those had disintegrated long ago and had never been replaced, I suspect,

because they were too Princess and the Pea lumpy for those of a sensitive

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disposition, who liked to lie in the stainless steel urinal.

Nor was the smell that of rampant testosterone. I sniffed again.

“Some demented queen has adorned the place with air fresheners,” a voice

beside me whispered.

“Mm, sure is minty fresh,” another hissed not altogether in approval.

I could see vague shadows now and that there was activity afoot, or rather

aknee. In fact, the guy who had commented on the freshness of the air had a head at

crotch level apple-bobbing frantically on his cock while others watched, expectantly

awaiting their turns. I stumbled to one of three cubicles, all of which had their doors

closed. I knew they weren’t secure because the locks had been removed. Not by

council, but by beat queens who had bristled when recreational drug users

discovered they were an ideal shooting gallery. This had been tolerated as long as

the drug users stuck to their hours and removed the paraphernalia afterwards. But

they hadn’t and, in the ensuing stand-off, locks had been removed and police, who

were more than amenable to arresting drug addicts, as it looked good on their arrest

record, than randy queens, were tipped off. The addicts relocated to a more

amenable abandoned sports block within walking distance to the methadone clinic.

The drunks were much more amenable. They only used the toilets in winter

when the temperature outside threatened to freeze their balls off and beat queen

numbers declined. An unofficial memorandum of understanding proscribed the

women’s toilet for the exclusive use of the alcoholically addicted during winter—

that they could use it and lock the iron grate door against invasion.

I pushed on the cubicle door. Someone was leaning their weight against it. Ditto

the second. Voices hissing angrily.

“Wait your turn like everybody else,” was not about to dissuade me from my

purpose. The third door opened unexpectedly because the occupant, a young man

kneeling on the floor ministering to the obvious needs of an eager penis engorging

through the expertly drilled and sanded glory hole, was too engrossed to bother

wedging his hand or foot against it. He hadn’t time to push me out before I had my

pants down round my ankles and my ass over the stainless steel bowl while he

contemptuously continued his oral gymnastics. I wanted him to leave, whispering

that I needed privacy for what was a very intimate experience for me. He either

didn’t hear or didn’t understand because he burbled something about, “Wait a

minute. I’ll get to you as soon as I’ve finished with this one.”

I didn’t want a turn. And I couldn’t wait. All I wanted was privacy. I toyed with

the idea of rushing out and squatting among the pine needles, but my gut made the

decision for me. The fart was L-o-n-g, LOUD, and very Toxic. Fermented. The young

man didn’t miss a beat in his vacuum action until the stench reached his nostrils. He

paused. Looked at me. Sniffed. Let out an “Eeyeeeew,” which was followed seconds

later by a chorus of similar from the other side of the cubicle door. The cock that had

been poking through the glory hole had withdrawn as quickly as a bank deposit in a

shonky bank. I heard a chorus of zips zipping and much hasty exiting. Ah, at last, I

was going to be alone for my business. Yes, the circumstances were embarrassing as

half the occupants of said toilet block were daylight-hours respectable men who

would now avert their gaze from me on the bus we took to our places of

employment each workaday morning. I had soiled not only myself, but also my

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reputation in their eyes. It was worse than being rejected in public by butt ugly

straight boys who would normally plug their cock in any orifice within spitting

distance.

It was much worse even than being rejected publicly by Him! Him was god

incarnate! We had all tried. And all failed. Built like a brick shithouse, the looks of a

young Billy Idol with platinum blond hair and a platinum blond sneer. And a

platinum blond cock carved from the most magnificent platinum blond marble on

Mt. Olympus. The gods of all religious persuasions had smiled indeed on this guy. I

consoled myself the night I had been rejected with the simple maxim that I wasn’t

turned on by blonds anyway. So there.

But right now, I was attempting to hold the cubicle door closed with my foot

while perched over the bowl, expelling wads of fetid foodstuffs as the front entrance

guard was banging on the door telling me that there had been complaints I was

using the toilet to shit in. Did I know that was a breach of Paragraph 6, subsection

15A, lines 27-35 of the Beat Queen’s Charter? My response was a curt, “Fuck off. I’ve

got diarrhea.”

“Well, fuckin’ take it outside like everyone else,” he huffed. “There’s a section in

the pine grove for that sort of thing. There’s even toilet paper supplied along with a

small shovel.”

I thanked him for his concern and excused my behavior on the grounds that I

was not a regular.

“Yeah, that’s as obvious as the nipples on a watermelon,” he muttered, giving

me a few minutes to tidy myself up and get out or he’d come and get me.

He even tossed a few scraps of paper over the door. I was thankful because

otherwise I would have had to resort to using my handkerchief, which I was

extremely reluctant to soil as it was the only remaining memento from my long dead

grandmother.

I was cleaning up as best I could when I heard the guard say, “I wouldn’t go in

there, mate. Not until the air fresheners have done their job.”

Obviously, the newcomer took no notice because I heard the scrape of running

shoes on gritty concrete. Then the first cubicle door slammed open. He had been

expecting resistance and there had been none forthcoming. Similarly, the second.

When he reached mine. I was about to call out that I was in no fit state to receive

visitors, when the door banged part open, slamming against my knee. I was about to

scream a string of curses when I realized that my previous dump had been merely

the first in what was to be a long line of boweletic evacuations. I realized

simultaneously that standing witness to my predicament was Him himself! Without

thinking, I pushed the man of universal wet dreams out of the cubicle and slammed

my foot against it. I shat in abject humiliation. My life was at an end. There was no

way I could ever catch the bus to work. I would have to leave the country.

I cleaned up as best I could and decided my exit strategy would be to walk out

as if nothing had happened and return at least one sheet of the toilet paper to the

concierge at the door. Alas, the best of intentions…

I rushed through the entrance and toward the clump of trees, hoping to cover

not only my embarrassment, but the yards needed to make it to the outside latrine.

A hiss of spray took my place in the toilet. I detected the subtle aroma of

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lavender before a voice called, “Okay, it’s safe to come back now.”

A stampede of shadows almost knocked me down, but at least the urban jungle

was free. I found the rather well concealed, but well planned, latrine with its shovel,

bucket of sluice water and a rather lovely textured toilet paper cut into equal sized

strips with just a hint of…

I had my jeans down round my ankles, squatting unceremoniously over a small

hole I had dug, sniffing a sheet of paper. I couldn’t quite make out the scent.

“Jasmine and jojoba,” a voice said from the dark.

Shit! On top of everything else that had happened that night, I had been caught

sniffing toilet paper. Was there no end to my disgrace? I looked up and, of course, it

was Him. Was ritual disembowelling now my only option?

“You rejected me,” he said ominously. “No one’s ever rejected me before. That’s

my line. But you pushed me and slammed the door in my face.”

There wasn’t a lot I could do if he intended attacking me. My life flashed before

my eyes. And my stomach lurched in terror.

“You know what your rejection did to me, mate?” he said. I nodded weakly as

he moved closer. “It made me so fuckin’ hard!” He unzipped his jeans. “Nobody’s

done that to me in yonks. Made me so hard.”

He held my head and began to push his cock rhythmically in and out of my

mouth, his shaft headed toward the back of my throat. Big mistake. My gag reflex is

usually something upon which I pride myself. But not this night. Not with a stomach

full of acid and raw vomitous. He pushed. Too far. And too often. I felt reflux in my

throat. I pushed him hard enough that he tumbled over backwards just in time for

me to deposit the contents of my stomach all over his cock and balls. Not once. But

twice.

I wiped my mouth and fled the scene, tugging up my jeans as I went.

“Hey, fuckin’ get back here!” he called.

I couldn’t determine whether it was anger, murder, or mutilation in his voice.

I stumbled, rather than ran, along the footpath hoping that in the glare of the

headlights of cars whizzing along the freeway, he would injure me only slightly. I

was too weak to struggle, so when I heard the thud of footsteps I decided to confront

my fate. When I turned, he was smiling. “That’s the second time you rejected me!

Fuck man, that’s so cool. All the other guys are so fuckin’ annoying chasing after me

‘cause I’m so good looking. And a cock courtesy of God Almighty. It’s all too easy.

But you, you fuckin’ rejected me. How great is that?”

I knew better than to tell him I’d rejected him only because of a mammoth attack

of food poisoning, that in reality I was another of those annoying stalkers.

“What’s your name, mate. I’m Wayne.”

I revealed my name as he walked slowly alongside me, glancing guiltily at the

wet patch at the front of his jeans where he’d attempted to wash my chuck off with

the water from the sluice bucket.

“You got a phone number?” he asked. “I mean only if you want to give it to me.

I won’t be one of them annoying stalker types. You know, I’ll only ring if you want.”

I gave him my number as faux reluctantly as I dared.

He moaned. “You’ve got no idea how boring sex is when you can have whoever

you want.”

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No, I didn’t have any idea. I was never likely to.

“Makes it hard to get excited.” There was a very long pause before he stopped

and looked at me. “You wanna do me?”

I tried to look as if I was wrestling with the answer hoping my stiffening cock

wouldn’t give me away. “Well…” I mustered every ounce of my acting ability to

sound as offhand as I could.

He pleaded. “Come on. Let’s go back to the park. I’ll let you do me in front of

them bastards. Really piss them off”

“I dunno…” I stared at my watch insinuating I had somewhere better to be all

the while gleefully anticipating that this one act would wipe out the total

humiliation of the night thus far, lending me an aura of sexual supremacy.

“I’ll drop you off if you have to go somewhere. I got my car.” He was so eager.

I allowed him to cajole me into it. Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, he brought me

round. He was getting off on it, making the anticipation all the hotter.

“Come on back to the park and do me!” he commanded.

I went back to the park. And did him. I did him good. I did him hard. I did him

in public. And I did him until I could do him no more. Then I took him home and

did him again. The next morning I ignored his pleas for a return bout suggesting

that he wasn’t up to my rigid sexual standards. But I noticed him secretly write

down my phone number.

He waited three days before he rang.

Spunk Rats

BLOWING HOT & COLD

This story first appeared in “hard”, edited by Tony Ayres

(BlackWattle Press, 1997) and “The Mammoth Book of Gay Erotica”,

edited by Lawrence Schimel (Carroll & Graf, 1997).

"Answer the phone, will you?" Toby shouted while attempting to stuff our

thermal underwear into an already bloated suitcase.

"Why can't Adam do it? I'm busy."

Indeed, I was. Searching through a pile of books to see which would be

interesting enough to read on the plane, but innocuous enough to get through

Chinese Customs.

"He's putting on his face."

I groaned inwardly as visions of our devastated bathroom flashed before my

eyes. For Adam, a young man with whom Toby and I shared communal sexual

favors on an irregular basis, putting on his face meant virtually rearranging the

bathroom, using every available towel, smearing make-up over the vanity basin,

scrunging the bath mat into the most grotesque shapes, and spilling enough water

on the floor to keep the Snowy Mountains hydro-electric scheme going for years.

I picked up the phone.

"Wanna wank?" the voice on the other end panted.

Putting my hand over the receiver I yelled to Toby, "You got time for a wank

caller?"

"Come off it; we've got to be at the airport in half an hour."

For a split second, I was going to call Adam, but I noticed he was struggling

with his eyeliner and thought better of it.

"Sure," I breathed huskily down the mouthpiece.

At first, I could not make out what was going on at the other end, but then I

realized it was a well-lubricated hand jerking furiously. I waited patiently for him to

put the phone back to his ear rather than a more pointed part of his anatomy before

launching into some heavy breathing.

"Rub the phone through your pubes," he mumbled hoarsely.

About this time I realized I was not in the mood for all this carry on and that I

had to ring my mum to wish her a merry Christmas and all that festive shit we were

doing our best to escape.

Anyway, I was still fully clothed.

Rubbing the phone through the hair on the top of my head, I wondered if it had

the authentic sound. I was rewarded with groans of ecstasy from the other end.

"Tell me what you want to do to my body," he whispered.

"I want you to leave your front door open...” I was beginning to get turned on, as

Adam could see as he looked up from fishing for his eye-liner in the basin.

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"You're disgusting." He sneered and applied another layer of pancake.

"Oh, yes please," came the whisper. "What would you do to me then?"

"You'll be spreadeagled over your coffee table, and I'll drink about a gallon of

water in the half hour or so before I arrive..."

By now things were straining at the leash. I attempted to push the bathroom

door closed with my foot so Adam could not see or hear what was going on. He

merely swung it open again. There was going to be no privacy.

"What would you like me to do to your body?" I asked in my huskiest voice

hoping to avoid some of the embarrassment of Adam listening to my telephone

technique.

The voice began to babble his fantasy, so I put my hand inside my jeans. It was

uncomfortable, but pleasant.

Just as he got to the part where I was standing above his face on the coffee table,

I heard a knock at the door. I looked pleadingly at Adam, but he merely shrugged

and went on with Ramboing the bathroom. There was no use calling for Toby, who

was cursing having to pack winter clothes for China when the temperature in the

room would have fried an egg.

Good manners dictated I couldn't interrupt my caller's fantasy, so I carefully

cradled the phone on the kitchen Laminex and went to the door.

It was Jordan.

"Just dropped in to say goodbye and tell you about last night at the baths."

Ushering him in, I motioned I was on the phone. He busied himself fishing in his

oversize bag for cigarettes while I picked up the receiver.

"...and then I want you to really go to town...”

The caller had not even noticed my momentary disappearance.

"Oh yeah, what a turn on," I muttered.

"Wank call?" Jordan enquired without looking up.

I nodded, motioning to him to continue his story. Adam waved from the

bathroom.

Jordan waved back. "That guy I was supposed to meet last night at the steam

bath...”

I struggled to remember while trying to retain the thread of the phone

conversation—Jordan had so many dates and so many stories.

"It turned out a disaster. I met him there, but he was a novice. Fascinated by the

shaven crotch and the ball stretcher, but wouldn't let me lay a hand on him. Here

was your sister prepared for all sorts of mischief. Had the bag full of toys and

condoms. It was so heavy I almost needed a removalist van to get to the city."

Nodding, I wished my ears were ambidextrous.

"...and then you can tie me to the coffee table. I'll open my mouth really wide ..."

"Well, naturally I dumped him as soon as I could and went wandering. Let me

tell you, your sister fell in love a hundred times, but nobody was reciprocating.

Until, that is..."

Jordan paused. "Why are you rubbing the phone through your hair?"

Adam shouted from the bathroom, "The wanker's into pubic hair."

Jordan looked closely at the hair on the top of my head and merely said, "Oh,"

before going on with his story.

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"I passed one room and there was this number with tattoos all over his arms.

Normally I'm not into tattoos, but he had on all the paraphernalia, the tit clamps, the

cock ring, the ball stretchers, the works. Well, your sister threw herself into the room

with the bag full of goodies..."

"Help me with the bags, will you!" Toby griped as he struggled past.

Adam put the finishing touches to his new retro-Grace Jones hairstyle and

wandered out, grabbing one of the suitcases.

"Love your hair," Jordan flirted.

"I had a lawn that looked like that once," Toby quipped as he hustled the bags to

Adam's car.

"...then I want you to turn me over and part my cheeks with your rough,

callused hands..."

Callused? My hands had never seen a hard day's work in their life.

"I looked at all the things he had attached to his body, and I was too

embarrassed to get mine out so I just felt under the towel for the meat and...," he

paused to fan himself with his hand "...I wasn't disappointed. It was about..." He

mimed a size which would have looked interesting on an elephant but which, on a

human, must have looked grotesque. But then Jordan's entire reading list consisted

of Tom of Finland drawings.

"Are you close to coming?" the voice from the phone asked.

"Uh, yeah," I lied.

"Tell me about your fantasy with me," he begged.

"Look, at the moment..."

Jordan leered. "I can leave if you like."

I motioned to him to stay put as he continued with his tale while I mumbled into

the phone.

"After I've spread your cheeks I'll lube my fingers..."

"His gear was so co-ordinated, so Gucci, I wasn't about to show him my BBC

Hardware make do's. I gave him a few yanks on the chains he had all over his body,

and he screwed up his face in pain. He looked like one of those statues of the saints

being done to death with spears..."

Toby was getting impatient."Will you hurry up!"

"Look, mate," I said sharply into the phone.

"Oh!

You've made it go down interrupting like that."

"Are you close to coming? Because I've got to get ready," I complained.

"Why don't I ring you back in a few minutes when I'm in the mood again?" he

whined.

"He loved every minute of it and got a kick out of the condoms too. He hadn't

realized you could do so much with a piece of flaccid rubber. Not that anything else

was flaccid."

I sighed. "Okay. Hear from you soon."

"Rub the phone through your pubes one more time."

I put the receiver on top of my head for a few perfunctory rubs and then hung

up. Jordan managed to retrieve a grey hair from the mouthpiece.

"I don't think you're listening," he sulked.

"Your S&M gear didn't match so you were too embarrassed to use it." I huffed,

Barry Lowe

madly searching through my books to find the still elusive suitable title.

"Anyway, gotta go," I said, grabbing the novel closest to hand while pushing

Jordan toward the door. Toby and Adam were both in the car beckoning wildly.

"Is the answering machine on?" I asked.

"You'll be gone for 10 days; that's an awful backlog of calls," Jordan pointed out.

"Adam's looking after the house while we're away," Toby cut in. "Now get in the

car."

"Well, your sister's off on a date. I've got all my goodies." Jordan displayed a

twelve-pack of condoms and a vicious looking studded dildo. "Have a good time."

He waved as he headed off.

I was opening the back door of the car as the phone rang.

"Fuck," I said. The wanker really was keen.

"Get in the car!" Toby demanded.

"Could be my mum," I said as I unlocked the door to the house just in time to

hear the answering machine beat me to it.

I listened for a while. It was a few seconds before I could make out the

distinctive sounds of a phone being rubbed through pubic hair. This was followed

by the slurping of a well-lubricated jerk off. I closed the door laughing.

"Who was it?" Toby asked.

I grinned. "Wrong number."

"Are we ready to go?" Adam was getting impatient.

"China here we come!"

A few days later we rang Adam from our hotel in sub-zero Beijing. He informed

us the weather was great and that he had developed quite a tan at Lady Jane. “Oh,

and the phantom wanker called back.”

“Did he leave a message?” I asked, remembering our machine worked on a

thirty-second cut-off cycle.

"He dialed 14 times before he had an orgasm."

All I could do was marvel at his stamina. And his phone bill.

Spunk Rats

KNOB HILL

"Welcome to the Nob Hill Cinema. Our guest star, Rokk Stone, will be appearing

in the upstairs theatre in approximately five minutes. Those not wishing to

participate in tonight's show are advised to seat themselves in the back two rows."

Participate? What did he mean by participate?

I had plunked down the $20.00 price of admission, it was the early ’90s, before

inflation and rampant capitalism had upped the price of everything including

pleasure, because I was rather partial to cinema, especially that in which the only

sound is one hand clapping. I’d been especially attracted by the promised live

performance of Rokk Stone, billed as having “the biggest Hispanic foreskin in the

business” and “he proves it three times daily.”

But participation? That I wasn’t sure about. I was a poor Aussie boy on his first

solo visit to the capital of the gay universe—San Francisco. And I’d left the boyfriend

back home.

Anxiety was assuaged neither by the catwalk, which extended into the first ten

rows of the cinema, nor the PA system announcement five minutes later: "The City

of San Francisco prohibits the touching of the genitals or the buttocks of the

performer. However, solo and mutual masturbation are permitted. Mr. Stone hopes

you enjoy his performance."

It was too late to move. The auditorium had been plunged into darkness and the

disco music had begun. Whatever the audience participation, it did not involve the

touching of the star's family jewels.

The curtain parted and there, in what passes for your typical fantasy

construction gear, stood Rokk Stone, a porn star of incredible handsomeness whom

the audience had witnessed a few short minutes earlier doing all sorts of things with

said forbidden genitals and buttocks in a Falcon porn movie on the biggish screen.

You've seen the motion picture, now touch the flesh.

Perhaps Mr. Stone couldn’t get his union ticket because his tenure as a

construction worker lasted a matter of moments before one deft snatch of the Velcro

tabs revealed the brand of jockstrap all good building workers should wear beneath

their coveralls. A few more bumps and grinds and off came even that flimsy

covering to reveal Mr. Stone's religious and/or ethnic affiliations, although it was

very difficult to think of him as Mr. Stone once you had seen this magnificent man in

the altogether. In fact, it was difficult to think of anything other than that rugged

face and the beautiful washboard stomach that grooved down to a mammoth prick

that he was kneading to erection—thus giving the audience a perfect demonstration

of his nom de screen.

The $20.00 door charge now seemed a small price to pay as Rokk was buck-

naked, rock hard and wielding a mean looking dildo as he thrust his groin at the

leering audience.

The catwalk ended in three steps down into the cinema proper. In no time at all,

Barry Lowe

Rokk was wiggling his perfect ass against the pointed end of the handrail. Sheer fuck-

and-edibility, I thought. It looked for all the world as if those sphincter muscles were

being embedded on the metal.

Horny to a timetable, Rokk waved the dildo in a general invitation to the

audience that he wanted someone to sink the rubber phallus up his very willing and

even more available ass. But there being no one within immediate reach of the

catwalk, Rokk was obliged to grease up the protuberance of pink rubber and

administer to himself whereupon it disappeared like a hot knife into butter. As

Rokk’s ass muscles clenched, every man in the cinema was imagining it was his own

flesh and blood cock ramming its way into the stripper’s guts. Rokk wiggled his tush

as if it were the centre of the universe, and for all of us at that moment it was.

Having had his fill of fake mancock, Rokk Stone sauntered down the few steps

to mingle with the real thing, making his way to the nearest patron, stroking his

smooth cock obscenely next to a young man's face as if daring him to defy the rules

and by-laws of San Francisco. Then Rokk moved on to the next and the next.

So, that was audience participation. You could ogle in close-up and touch as

long as you didn’t touch too eagerly. And, of course, you could put a monetary

value to your pleasure.

The audience had been forewarned that tipping the performers was appreciated,

so I felt in my pockets, getting a few loose notes ready as Rokk worked his way

toward me, insinuating his stinking sexuality throughout the entire cinema.

Others already had their cocks out in appreciation of this studman, and as mine

was screaming through my denim, I thought, what the heck? Join them.

Rokk was in my aisle smiling, and that was just his ass. Then he was towering

above me, his hard cock so close I could see the strong purple veins pumping just

inches from my face, the smell of talcum powder and baby oil in my nostrils. It was

the most erotic aroma in the world.

I let go of my own desperate prick to run my hands across Rokk’s stomach of

granite-like smoothness and toughness, to pinch the elongated nipples. I worked my

hands round to the ass and kneaded the firm cheeks, wondering if this is what they

meant by buttocks, and then ran fingers up Rokk’s spine before returning to the

magnificent chest, thighs and stomach. I smuggled some bank notes into Rokk’s

footwear, the porn star whispering his thanks plus the inviting, "See you downstairs

afterwards”, in a voice reminiscent of Desi Arnaz.

I was more than ready to play Lucy.

Rokk made sure he spent quality time with every member of the audience—

twice—except those cowering in the two back rows. He timed it perfectly so that

twenty minutes after he first appeared, he jumped back up on the catwalk, speared

himself magnificently on the imitation rubber cock, grabbed the handful that was his

own meat and jacked off to noisy groans of appreciation from the audience.

With a few loud grunts of his own, Rokk shot his creamy load on to the

unappreciative stage while some of the spunk rats in the audience poked out

parched tongues. And imagined. Knocking the final tardy oozings off the end of his

dick the instant the music stopped, Rokk thanked everyone for coming, waited for

the inevitable coy titter, smiled, took a bow, and departed.

I had already staked out the cinema and discovered the dungeon-sized S&M

Spunk Rats

theatre, the arcade of X-rated video booths, and the adjoining bookshop. Where did

Rokk mean for us to meet?

I wasn't in the dark for long as the ever-helpful PA system informed the

audience they could meet Rokk Stone on a one-to-one basis downstairs in the

Touchy Feely Room just off the bookstore and...

I didn't wait around for the ifs, ands, and butts. As I assumed quite rightly, it

turned out that my Rokk had issued the very same invitation to all and sundry who

had generously donated to his bulging socks.

Remembering to put my own cock away before I went out into the harsh light of

the foyer, I was painfully aware that although Rokk had had an orgasm, I hadn't. No

problem. I was sure Rokk could fix that.

For a further ten bucks, plus tips for the performer, I was ushered into the

Touchy Feely Room, a grand name for what was really no more than a private

booth—a sexual confessional, a glass wall separating the two of us.

Rokk was already there. He hadn't bothered to dress; he'd slipped down the

back stairs. His Costa Rican accent was endearing particularly when he smiled

disarmingly.

“That’s a great looking cock you got there,” he said when I revealed my

tumescent status. Rokk was even more complimentary when my cash-flow status

was revealed and quickly begged to help me out of my swollen predicament.

This was only possible because of the astonishing addition to the divided cubicle

of a set of heavy-duty rubber gloves mounted on plastic rings screwed into two arm-

size glory holes in the glass partition. As Rokk sheathed hand closed around my

cock, he whispered how good it would feel sliding in and out of his ass.

His powers of description were so persuasive, his digital manipulations so

erotic, I really thought I was buried up the inviting Costa Rican butthole. I unghed

and ohhhhhhed as Rokk stroked me. We swapped positions. I tugged his own

straining meat and then my plastic glove enclosed finger digitally fucked the very

buttocks the City of San Francisco said I should not touch upstairs. But, of course,

here we were in the privacy of the Touchy Feely Room and I wasn’t actually

touching him. I splashed my load gratefully on the floor and against the glass as he

continued the fantasy, telling me how good my hot cum felt inside him. At least in

fantasy there was a respite from safe sex.

A post-prandial cigarette was out of the question. As was the promise of a phone

number or a return engagement. Just exactly what do you say to a man who's just

relieved you via an arm-length rubber glove protruding through the safety of a glass wall, I

wondered. Thank you seemed so inadequate. And, of course, it was. I handed over a

few more banknotes and made my way back upstairs as an equally eager patron

replaced me in the booth. I heard Rokk begin his spiel all over again, but I didn’t

care that it followed the same pattern; I'd just had a porn megastar all to himself.

Back in the foyer I noted the times for Rokk's further performances and decided

to avail myself of the theatre’s pass-out system to stock up on one dollar notes before

the next showing.

“Not waiting around for Al Eros?” the guy in the box office asked. Al was one of

the generic house strippers, one of the Jack-Off Kings. Not famous enough in his

own right for star billing, he performed while Rokk was taking a well-earned

Barry Lowe

sabbatical to replenish those delectable gonads.

"His cock's about 12 inches, and he might even slap you across the face with it."

Al Eros? He of Tough Guys Do Dance? I imagined the foot-long schlong whacking

me about the cheeks. Yep, it definitely had its attractions.

Another forty-five minutes of gay porn movies didn’t, however. Now that I’d

seen and touched the real thing it was difficult to get excited over the pale celluloid

substitute. But all the tedious waiting was forgiven, if not forgotten, when Al

bounced onto the stage and, although he didn’t beat anyone across the face with it,

and even if it was not quite a foot long, well, I was not one to quibble over a

millimetre or two.

Whether it was the lure of ready money or just pride in his pulsating pecker Al

sure was eager to please, and athletic with it, as he leaped from aisle to aisle across

the back of ancient seats managing to slip conveniently into more than one generous

patron’s lap.

While the body was softer than Rokk’s it was certainly a long way from the

flabby flesh and flaccid cocks I was used to fondling late at night in back rooms and

steam baths. I made the most of my two touch-up chances and ejaculated my

appreciation on to the anthropologically fascinating sperm-fossilized floor. I was

reserving the Touchy Feely Room for Rokk alone.

Nineteen minutes to the second later Al dumped his prodigious load—it was his

first performance of the day—loudly and histrionically on stage. The audience was

ready to applaud his gigantean effort but sat stunned as, just seconds before the

curtains closed, he totally destroyed his searing memory by grabbing a towel to wipe

up the evidence of his erotic indecency.

Couldn't management afford cleaners? I wondered. I would have volunteered to do

it for free. And I wouldn't need a towel or a mop.

What I did need was to obliterate Al’s serious faux pas from my erotic memory

and thought a trip to the more earthy Campus Cinema, down from Nob Hill in the

Tenderloin district, was in order.

The guy in the box sniffed his concern. "I'm into leather, and I wouldn't go there

at night."

“I’ll be back.” I waved cheerily and headed into cleaner air that was not tinged

with the odor of mold, piss and stale sperm.

At the less grandiose Campus Cinema, I had to wait at the entrance as a staff

member ran across the street from one of the numerous heterosexual grind houses to

collect my admission. There was no full-time ticket seller. In that time I noted Lou

Wass was listed to appear in the intimate playroom downstairs, a sort of wrestling

pit with padded vinyl seats on three sides I was soon to discover.

Lou was a lesser god in the gay porn pantheon, not on the same heights as Rokk,

but definitely much higher up the ladder of success than Al. I had always found

Lou’s screen performances lackluster and rated him a reliable support player rather

than a star. Scrunched together on the bleachers, forced to share an intimacy we did

not feel, the audience was hardly enthused when, with no fanfare at all, Lou strode

in with attitude and as much appeal as a plastic Mac. He humorlessly told the

waiting throng his name. Twice. And that tipping was appreciated. Three times.

Again, the audience was warned of the rules of the City of San Francisco

Spunk Rats

concerning genitals and buttocks before Lou depressed the "on" button of his

portable tape deck. Things were so down-market here the stripper brought his own

sound equipment. And it was not just the button Lou depressed, but also most of the

audience with his smooth but cold, mechanical performance. Touching him up was

about as pleasurable as running my hands over a side of beef in a butcher’s window.

The audience remained virginally zipped throughout.

Lou’s act was a mercifully short sixteen minutes, and before the last drops of his

orgasm even hit the floor, he slammed off the recorded music to again tell us his

name and that tipping was much appreciated. I’ve never been able to watch a Lou

Wass movie with much enthusiasm since.

As I still had time to kill, I waited around for the generic stripper, a popular

local, if the gathering buzz was anything to go by. But when the new performer

turned out to be less than gorgeous and in daggy street wear, my cock reacted badly

and refused to be prised from its recumbency inside my jeans.

The moment the music began the tawdry blond dancer was transformed. He

was truly magnificent; exhibitionism personified. He was actually getting off on all

the attention and the aching caresses of the audience. He seemed actually flattered as

more and more men exposed their most vulnerable, private body part—big, small,

limp, hard, thick, thin—in appreciation. My cock, too, jumped to attention.

He was so popular he scored two socks brimming with tips by wiggling his

generous cock and balls around the room a number of times before orchestrating the

dumping of his magnificent load on the vinyl mattress doubling as a stage just

before the music had run its 20-minute course.

He did not proffer his name or an opinion that tipping was desirable. The

audience was only too pleased to give until he came. I reluctantly sheathed my cock

for a later workout with Rokk and watched as a huge wave of love erupted

throughout the audience, some of it splashing across the shoulder of my coat,

slashing my cheek. I discreetly ignored the damage to my jacket while dabbing at

my face with a handkerchief, because, after all, manners were obviously everything

in this city: just witness their by-laws.

Surreptitiously sniffing my handkerchief before putting it back in my pocket, I

discovered a wad of scrunched banknotes at my feet, obviously having fallen out of

the dancer’s bulging socks. I mingled with the stragglers, those audience members

who wanted to cop a last feel. So far, the dancer had made no effort to mop up his

warm puddle of sperm that glistened deliciously in the dim light.

He saw me looking. "All yours if you want it." I was so glad I’d returned the lost

cash. This was the best reward I’d ever been offered.

Without bothering to consider I was depriving some poor cleaner of his

livelihood, I dropped to my knees in appreciation, my tongue ready to lap up the

nectar of the god. And, between mouthfuls, I glanced at my watch, noting I had a

good half an hour to get back to Nob Hill for Rokk’s next performance.

Barry Lowe

SAUCE MATERIAL

“Is it legal to jerk off on your coffee break?” Neil asked.

“If it’s on his own time,” I ventured. “And as long as it’s not specifically

excluded in his working conditions.”

“Is it?” Toby asked.

“Well, no,” said Jean-Pierre. “No one would ever have thought to include it.”

Neil showed off. “Except if you work in a brothel.”

Jean-Pierre frowned, “It’s not against any rules I can find. And he’s a great

trainee. And he washes his hands thoroughly. I wouldn’t want to lose him. But it’s

disrupting the kitchen. Everyone knows what he’s doing now when he’s in there.”

I asked the obvious question. “Is he cute?”

“Punkish sort of way. Tatts, piercings, thin, shaved hair. The girls in the kitchen

think so.”

Armed with that information, plus the address of the restaurant that Jean-Pierre

owned and the time Malachi, the trainee chef, took his break, I’d persuaded a

sceptical Toby to make a booking for the following Tuesday night. That was the

night it was least busy and also the one night Jean-Pierre had off. I didn’t want him

witnessing my humiliation if my plan fell through.

There were four at dinner. Max and his boyfriend, Gunther, joined us, believing

Toby and I had some big news about an overseas trip or an invitation to join us in

our non-exclusive bed. I was a bit tetchy when I replied that the world was a sad

place when people couldn’t go to dinner with their oldest and dearest friends

without having their motives queried. Of course, they weren’t having any of it. Toby

was bemused, as usual, as I counted down the minutes to Malachi’s coffee break.

With three minutes to go, I got up from the table explaining that I needed the john,

when what I meant was I needed the Malachi. It’s all I’d thought about since I’d

heard of his nocturnal emissions.

I had a fair idea of where the staff toilet was and headed off.

“Hey,” Max called after me, “Isn’t the toilet that way?”

I ignored him and determinedly headed for the kitchen. The staff were too busy

to notice me, and a quick look round showed that no one fitting Malachi’s

description was there so he must be...down the narrow corridor to the back door.

Just inside were the staff facilities. I pushed the door and it opened easily as I knew

it would because Jean-Pierre had admitted that was how he’d made the discovery—

the door did not lock.

“What the fuck!”

Yep, Malachi was a cutie. He had his pants down around his ankles, his shirt

hooked up over his nipples and his fist wrapped around his solid cock gristle. He’d

been at it a while because the head was glistening with slime. Before he could do

anything I was on my knees and had my lips wrapped around that pale, thin cock

and was tonguing his glans.

Spunk Rats

He didn’t ball a fist or smack me in the face. He just grabbed the back of my

head and wham! bam! throat fuck city! If his food was as hot and spicy as his sex

technique, he was marriage material.

“I dunno who you are, dude,” he said by way of introduction, “but your

throat is fuckin’ heaven.”

Hmm, he wasn’t totally straight then.

He choked me on cock for a few minutes, but I didn’t want him to come. Not

yet, although I knew we were racing the clock. I disengaged and dropped my

trousers after I’d extracted a sachet of lube and a condom from the pocket. Expertly,

I ripped the lube with my teeth and smeared the grease in my asshole. I repeated the

teeth trick on the condom wrapper and had Malachi’s cock sheathed and greased

before he could protest, if, indeed, he intended to.

I backed up like a drain at a family barbecue. He gasped as his cock sank into my

warm asshole.

“Remind me to ask your name later,” Malachi said as he bent me over to get

better maneuverability. He was not a gentle lover. His fucking was fierce and bony

like his body. I liked that. He whispered sweet filth in my ear about how he wanted

to break my asshole. Make me his boy cunt.

Clenching my ass muscles every time, he rammed his cock up to his balls against

my ass. I knew he wouldn’t last long. I looked at my watch. Two minutes ‘til his

break was officially over. He increased his effort. I clenched tighter. Soon he was

cursing God, Satan and the Elders of Kalimdor, whoever they were, before squirting

inside me.

“Oh, dude,” he said. “That was fuckin’ intense.”

As we dressed I peeled the condom off his cock, careful to preserve the contents.

I explained how I’d found out about his nightly activity and how obsessed I’d

become. That pleased him. When I explained what I wanted him to do there was no

revulsion. I could have lived with that now given the fuck he’d just rammed up me,

but he just said modestly, “My cock’s always hard. I can come five or six times a

night.” He grabbed the used rubber and said, “Leave it with me. Your meal might

take a little while longer, but the sauce will be worth it. Fresh as fresh.”

I returned to the table and my friends, who noticed my look of absolute

contentment. It was an hour later they first had an inkling of why when Malachi

brought our meals to the table personally. My dish was a succulent bozzoli pasta

with special cream sauce. Malachi dipped his finger in the sauce and offered it to me

to taste.

“Perfect,” I said. “Absolutely perfect.”

Barry Lowe

SKINNY DIPPING

Skinny Dipping first appeared in Out of the Gutter #3

The first time Chris pulled a knife in Anything Goes, Oxford Street's premier

erotic bookshop, I'd been grateful.

It was one of those summer nights where you know to expect trouble. Stinking

hot! All the overhead fan could do was listlessly swish the odors of sex and

desperation into a heady stew that left people irritated and ready to explode at the

most innocuous provocation. It’s neither cool enough to shrug off inconvenience nor

yet hot enough to make violence a lethargic non-option. Danger-zone hot.

Summer was always a lousy time in the shop. It brought out the worst in

patrons. Most of them didn’t buy any of the ageing porn mags securely virginalized

in plastic bags. Occasionally, I’d find a purloined copy of Big Tits #13 in one of the

video booths with a telltale slime deposit left by a hare-cocked punter who’d nicked

it from the shelves when I wasn’t looking.

Mind you, the store never lost money on cum-stained magazines. Provided the

cum was fresh. Simon, our resident spunk rat, so named for his absolute passion for

man juice rather than for his quotient of good looks, would always purchase, at

premium price, Big Tits #13 or Gang Bang Bimbos #78, not for the pictures but for

the evidence of obvious male enjoyment. I never knew exactly what Simon did with

them once he’d handed over the purchase price; all I knew was the pages came back

spotless and unlikely to stick together when he’d finished with them. Then I would

happily re-bag them in plastic, slot them in the second-hand section, and return

Simon half his purchase price. I reckoned we should have been paying him.

Yeah, summer, like Simon, sucked.

So, when Chris pulled a knife in the shop I was lucky. It was in my defence.

Chris was one of the street sex workers who hired the cubicles, which the

management laughingly labelled rooms on the shop's second floor. For $10.00 you

got a vinyl-covered divan that uncomfortably accommodated one person—the

management did not want to encourage lingering—and a TV monitor which showed

decrepit porn movies. If swinging a cat was your predilection you’d have had to hire

three rooms just to get up a good head of speed. But it was a good tax-free money

spinner for the boss and it kept the street workers, male and female, from doing it up

against lamp posts. The police looked the other way. And counted their pay-off.

Chris was a regular, and although pale and anorexic, managed to drag in the

johns because of his youthful looks. He was never any trouble like some of the

workers who would deposit their tricks in a room, pocket the fee for services paid in

advance and then bolt after saying they were going to the toilet to clean themselves

for the pleasure ahead.

That night I'd been having hassles with two straight yobbos who'd gone into one

of the X-rated booths to watch porn videos at the rate of a dollar for one minute.

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Sure the videos were as straight as most of the clientele, but some of them didn't

mind quick relief through the strategically placed glory holes from the cock groupies

who hung about like happy vultures knowing they’re going to get a feed. But Simon

had made a mistake in propositioning these two.

They almost ripped the booth door off its hinges in an attempt to punch the shit

out of him. Wisely, he remained barricaded securely inside. Most of the shop's

patrons had fled at the first sign of violence, leaving me to cope with the two

rednecks.

If they couldn't get Simon out of the booth to pulverise then they'd take it out on

me. Just as their belligerence was reaching danger level and I was reaching for my

trusty metal bar, Chris came up the stairs with a trick. Now Chris was so slight of

build he looked as if he could be knocked over by a strong fart, so when he stood up

to these two dimwits they stared at him in disbelief. And, glad as I was for the help, I

had visions of scraping Chris off the carpet when they'd finished.

They advanced on him, but, faster than Wyatt Earp, Chris whipped out a flick

knife and was waving it in their faces egging them on.

"Come and get me, fuckers," he taunted.

Although they weighed at least the equivalent of two welterweight wrestlers

more than he did, they looked at the skinny caricature of a man wielding the knife

and must have seen that same glint of madness in his eyes that I’d observed. Retreat

was a safer bet. Chris sheathed his knife as if this was nothing, ordered an upstairs

cubicle, and got his visibly shaken John to part with the $10.00.

I handed Chris a handful of condoms and lube, supplied gratis by the Sex

Workers Collective, and slipped the ten dollars back to him in gratitude, unseen by

his thirty-minute employer.

"It's on the house for the next two weeks." I winked.

He pulled me across the counter by my T-shirt and planted a big, wet sloppy

kiss on my mouth.

"Don't go away," he said.

Fat chance. I was stuck there until at least 2 a.m.

"You know that's the first nice thing anyone's ever done for me? I owe you one,"

he whispered.

"You don't owe me anything. It's my way of repaying you for those two slobs."

"That was nothing. Happens all the time."

He carried the knife as protection on the streets. He'd been bashed himself a few

times, on one occasion sustaining broken bones and a painful stay in St Vincent’s

Hospital. He'd also been raped—the staple of street workers who got little sympathy

from the public and even less from the police.

Chris had also been in and out of boys’ homes as a juvenile for stabbing people

in brawls.

About twenty minutes, and a very satisfied customer later, Chris re-appeared.

"You want me now?" he asked.

"You're too pricey for me."

"Nah, on the house. I'll make enough from you not charging me for the room in

the next two weeks to make it worth a dozen tricks."

"You don’t owe me anything. I’m glad to do you a favor."

Barry Lowe

"I'm clean," he said pulling up his sleeves to reveal the lack of puncture pricks on

his purple-veined arms. I didn’t tell him I'd already noticed the telltale marks in the

veins on his feet when he'd worn flip-flops into the shop. "And I really like you."

He was right. In the two weeks of free accommodation at the Hotel Anything

Goes, Rooms by the Half Hour, we conspired to the extent of a couple of hundred

dollars. I always slipped him the John’s $10 room payment as he left. He tried to give

me half, but I refused it. That frustrated him. He wasn’t used to people doing things

for him without expecting anything in return. I had no ulterior motive. I liked the

guy. I didn’t want to take advantage of him.

He would pull my face across the counter and kiss me with his plaintive sexy

lost boy lips. And any time he was in the shop and I came from behind the counter

to straighten magazines or retrieve dollar coins stuck in the porno booths, he would

goose me or run his hands across the front of my jeans, smirking when my cock got

hard.

If the shop was deserted when he came downstairs after a client, he would

prance between the rows of magazines and strip slowly. Peeling his jeans off

wiggling his scrawny appetising butt in my direction, he would drop his briefs and

bend over, spreading his ass cheeks like the female models on the magazines that

surrounded him. He would wink his asshole invitingly. Or lick his finger and insert

it smoothly in the furrow that had just been warmly plowed upstairs.

I wondered if he thought it might be because I didn’t want to go seconds, or

tenths.

One night he dropped into the shop before he started work. He looked

spectacular. He’d made more effort than usual. I was flattered and felt mean in

turning him down. He looked so beautiful. And so forlorn.

A few days later, he bounded into Anything Goes with a look of triumph on his

face. “I’m so stupid,” he said. “It’s not this you want,” and he patted his ass. “It’s

this!” He’d unzipped his jeans and was sporting a mouth-watering hard on. I knew

it was mouth-watering because this time he hadn’t waited for the shop to be

deserted and some of the regulars were licking their lips and, I guessed, mentally

calculating whether they had the requisite amount of change in their pockets to pay

to chow down on the cock that was long and thin like he was.

He was so busy being paid to show his cock in private for the remainder of the

night he didn’t have time to register that I’d turned him down yet again. A half-

hearted attempt to interest me by getting an exhibitionist john to fuck him publicly

late at night between Anal Sluts and Trannie Grannies was his last gasp attempt. We

were still on friendly terms, but he began disappearing for days on end. Then a week

at a time.

Finally, he disappeared altogether. It wasn’t uncommon for the street sex

workers. They cleaned up their act and moved on to bigger and better things. Or

they ended up at the morgue. Killed by a john. Or drugs. I did miss him, wondering

what he was up to in those odd moments of reflection while collecting the used

condoms from the booths and the rooms and scrubbing down the vinyl divans

between uses. This was Simon’s unpaid job when he was in, and if I could prise him

away from the glory holes. He was never paid cash for this work. He was paid in

kind. He got to keep the rubbers. And he didn’t have to use a cloth to wipe up the

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fluids on the vinyl.

It was toward the end of summer when I saw Chris again. It was also the

occasion on which I saw Chris’ knife for the second time. He had waited until

exactly closing time.

He called out through the locked metal grille as I was turning out the lights at

the back of the shop, cursing under my breath that management was so stingy they

wouldn’t install air conditioning. It was a lousy night, and I wanted to get home.

He begged the favour of using the toilet to get through the door. Then he'd

pulled the knife.

"I'm sorry, mate, but I gotta do it. I need it bad."

He was waving it at me this time demanding that I open the till.

"I don't wanna do this, but I hafta," he said.

His arms were spotted with bruises and even the tops of his hands had prick

marks. He was in a bad way.

I locked the cash drawer and put the key in my pocket.

"Don't make me do this," he begged.

"You'll have to if you want the money."

"I thought you were my friend?"

I was sweating profusely and backing toward the heavy metal chrome bar I used

on such occasions.

Chris hadn't advanced, but the urgency in his voice was becoming more grave. I

stood firm.

"Aw, shit," he cried. Then "Sorry" and there were tears in his eyes.

He ran out. I slammed and locked the metal grille behind him.

It took a while to calm down. I concentrated on counting the night's takings and

the paperwork trying not to tremble. Then I set the alarm and locked up behind me.

Walking toward Taylor Square, I noticed a crowd and I heard someone shout

"He's still alive." I squeezed through, but the pale and scared face on the stretcher

was not Chris. It belonged to a fleshy middle-aged man who seemed to be muttering

something about his watch and his wallet.

"He's been stabbed, poor bastard," someone else said.

"Did they catch him?" I asked.

"Nah, he got away."

A few yards up the street, the police were putting Chris's blood-spattered knife

into a plastic bag.

Barry Lowe

LUST IN VENICE

Here I was in Venice for the first time in my life and I was lost. Sure it was my

own fault, but the group with which I'd been exploring the hidden byways of the old

city had left me behind when I'd stopped to examine what I thought was a wall of

gay Renaissance erotica.

It turned out to be a crude chalk drawing of two guys fucking, but in my horny

state, and from across the canal, it had looked like a Michelangelo.

I'd been in Venice for five days, herded from pillar to post day and night leaving

very little time for an Italian dalliance. Billeted with a stockbroker from Cincinnati,

he insisted I talk to him like the Crocodile Hunter. The rest of the group was on a

par—not a hot number among them. I'd had no chance to lighten the load in my

balls.

Now I was alone when I least wanted to be. I'd seen Don't Look Now, and I knew

there were dwarfs in red raincoats waiting all over the city to knife to death

unsuspecting travellers.

I'd walked around in circles for a good hour and found that my limited Italian

vocabulary, which was restricted to Mario Lanza, pizza, and Arrividerci Roma, was

no help with the locals. Panic was about to set in, so I took a few deep breaths and

leaned against the balustrade. The deep breaths didn't help because the canal was

putrid from garbage and excrement. I retched.

A gondolier smoking idly just below looked up and cursed even though I'd

missed him. After he'd determined that there was no mess on his vessel he smiled

and said something unintelligible in Italian.

"I don't understand," I said weakly.

"You English?" he asked.

"No, Australian."

"Ah," he said with a knowing grin. "Rolf Harris."

"Yeah, mate," I said sadly.

"You need a ride?"

I did, but I had very little ready cash on me. I could take his name and address

and send it to him later.

He maneuvered the gondola to a point farther along the canal where I could

easily jump aboard the flamboyant vessel, the colors of which were enough to make

any qualified interior decorator gag. But if the gondola was flashy the gondolier was

fabulous.

I'm a pushover for Mediterranean men and here was a fine specimen. Tall, with

piercing hazel eyes, jet black hair that hung down over his ears and down his thick

neck almost to his broad shoulders, and a body that tapered to a slim waist and, in

his gondolier get up, what looked like a sizeable cock.

Now, I'm no slouch in the looks department. Blond, going on six feet with a

physique kept trim through a regimen of early morning swimming, but this guy was

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wet dream material.

He told me his name was Luciano and kept up a running commentary as we

made our leisurely way along the canal. The combination of his deep sonorous voice,

the sun and the gentle rocking of the gondola drugged me, and I lay back against the

cushions. I looked up at this Venetian god and promptly fell asleep with the last

image being of the outline of his cock thrusting against his trousers.

"We're almost there," he said shaking me awake and quoted a price for the

journey. I was prepared to pay anything to get back to familiar turf and told him so,

but then had to reveal my pecuniary state. I thought my assurances of instant

payment if he wanted to accompany me to the hotel would be enough, but he began

swearing in Italian and accusing me of being like all those other tourists. There was

no calming him. He turned the gondola back into the lagoon.

I could have jumped, I supposed, but one look at the water was enough to

squelch that idea. Anyway, where could he be taking me but to the police? I would

explain to them my predicament and all would be well.

But it was not to the police, or anything like it, that he was taking me.

"Here we are," he said about forty minutes later and pulling me roughly to my

feet.

I was too tired to argue as he led me through the trees of one of the smaller

outlying islands to a deserted hut, which had seen better days. It smelled of bat shit

and dead beetles.

"It's more private here," he said by way of explanation.

"For what?" I asked, imagining my mutilated body washed ashore at San Marco

square.

"For you to pay."

"I've already told you I've got no money on me."

He smirked."No, you pay a different way."

In one deft stroke, his trousers hit the floor. His cock jutted out.

It was a thick olive cock about eight inches long. I almost choked taking it down

my throat. He didn't give me time to gulp breath before he plunged it in again and

again. It was my punishment. I grabbed his hips and guided him to pace his strokes

so I could take in some air.

"What's the matter? I hear you Aussies like it rough."

I gulped. "Uh huh. But I also like to breathe."

"You breathe. I fuck."

He stripped to reveal his tanned, muscular body smooth except for a curlicue of

black hair in the crevice between his bulging pecs, and a patch that squirrelled from

just below his navel to his balls before proliferating down his legs. Blue veins ran the

length of his sweaty arms, and his stomach was a tribute to his Roman forebears.

As well as being partial to Mediterranean men, I'm also very partial to hairy

Mediterranean men. Quickly stripping off my own clothes, I was down on my knees

again slurping my tongue around that dark, pink uncircumcised cockhead. It was

gritty and sweaty and oozed precum. I heard him grunting and knew if I wasn't

careful he'd drop a load before I'd had any fun. After all, to him this was a quick and

cheap way to get his rocks off. To me it was a way of life.

I manhandled him toward the bunk bed where I pushed him face down, his

Barry Lowe

thighs splayed over an old feather pillow. He wasn't used to any of his victims co-

operating as readily as I did or of them taking control of the situation.

Pulling his cheeks apart, I nuzzled my nose and tongue into that tight hairy

Italian butt. He groaned and thrust back almost smothering me and forcing my

tongue further into his chute.

"Eat me, fucker!" he cried. "Eat my fuckin' hairy asshole. Fuck me with your

tongue. Yeah, that's it. Fuck it."

I put my hand underneath him and pulled his cock and balls backward so that I

could begin my tongue bath at his knob, slowly work my way up the shaft to his

balls and then once again lick and prod my way up the crack to that pink hole until

it eventually gave way. Luciano sighed.

More precum oozed from the slit of his cockhead and I lapped it up greedily. I

was horny as hell. Taking a chance, I grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face

toward the side of the bed and rammed my cock into his unwilling Italian gob.

If it was good enough for me then... He pushed me away, but I held on tight,

letting him gasp just enough air so that soon he relaxed and began to chew

amateurishly on my aching cock. It wasn't his first time, that I was sure of, but he

sure wasn't an experienced cocksucker either. Luciano was as close to straight trade

as I'd had in years.

That idea turned me on as I fucked his face, but not wanting to waste a five-day

backload, I popped my dick out of his mouth and swished my tongue around in his

navel licking my way toward his tits. I kneaded them with my hands before my

tongue and teeth found his left nipple and bit down gently.

Repeating the exercise on his right, I then wormed my tongue under his armpit

and licked and cleaned before running my mouth down his muscular arms. I felt his

heart pounding in his chest, my hand firmly grasping his cock. It was now or never.

Turning my attention to his slimy cock, I straddled him and quickly lowered

myself on to his Italian salami. His surprise was short-lived and, without waiting for

permission, he rammed all eight inches in at once. I saw stars and his sadistic grin as

he pounded me.

Tensing my ass muscles, I gripped his cock and rode him as savagely as he was

fucking me.

Luciano worked his cock deep inside my bowels. I was controlling his

movements so he was finding it awkward to gain momentum. He knocked me

backwards without taking his prick from my stretched hole, pushing my legs over

my head to sink his cock still deeper, his full body weight against my willing cheeks.

He fucked as if he were trying to get his whole body inside me. I licked the

beads of sweat that rolled down his chest, his neck and his chin as he concentrated

on his strokes punishing my shit chute.

"Fuck me, fuck me hard!" I yelled as I felt my own cock fill to bursting point.

Luciano rode me like a madman, thrusting and pulling out then thrusting back

again. I felt his orgasm welling up inside his groin and knew he was about to spurt. I

milked his cock for all it was worth until all the slime from his balls shot high inside

me.

As I rode his still-hard cock my own dumped a load in huge strings across his

chest. When the last drops had subsided, I leaned forward and licked it from the

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matted hairs swallowing it gratefully.

"You Aussies sure know how to fuck," he said.

I grinned contentedly. "So do you Italians."

"Paid in full," he said.

"Yeah, but how do I get back to my hotel from here?"

"Easy," he said, pulling my mouth down on his slimy cock while he fingered my

cum-lubed asshole.

Barry Lowe

RIGHT UP MY ALLEY

First published in “Cruising for Bad Boys”, edited by Mickey Erlach

(STARbooks, 2009)

He was standing under a streetlight. That was unusual enough because it

offered no illumination. It had been repeatedly vandalized, the glass shattered. This

particular streetlight was at the top of a very short set of cement steps leading to a

laneway between two houses that served as a shortcut to the front of a string of

inner-city terraces.

I usually cut across the small graffiti-ridden park reclaimed from a number of

burnt out homes, down the steps to my front door about halfway along the street. It

was a shorter walk from the bus stop and most of us in the area used it for that

reason.

Glancing at him, I saw he was dressed in a dark shirt and jeans that blended into

the muddy darkness of the rapidly descending dusk. I wouldn’t have seen him at all

except that he drew on his cigarette as I passed. It illuminated his face. A little

younger than my thirty-odd years and olive skinned. His abbreviated greeting of

“Nin” as he puffed his cigarette was undoubtedly to attract my attention. I smiled,

responded non-committedly, and walked on.

Halfway along the lane, I realized something was not quite right. I turned. He

was still lounging against the wooden telegraph pole. The most unusual aspect of

the scene was that he had his jeans unzipped, nonchalantly stroking his cock, hard as

the pole on which he leaned. It poked invitingly from the fly of his jeans.

Although he didn’t glance in my direction he must have heard that the crunch of

my shoes on gravel had ceased. If not then he must have heard my gasp of surprise.

His behavior was not an everyday occurrence even in rampantly gay Surry Hills, the

increasingly gentrified suburb of choice for the upwardly mobile homosexual male.

In the early years I’d found it difficult to persuade sex partners to come to my home;

the area was such a slum with an unfairly rough reputation.

Not any more. Gay public sex had obviously replaced the razor gangs on the

streets. I could only applaud the courage of the men who were pioneering the move.

The moment was rife with possibilities, but for a second or two I cursed that I

didn’t smoke. I moved as silently as I could to the mouth of the laneway where

reflected street light would at least silhouette me. He’d know that I was watching.

He gave no indication that he was concerned by my obvious voyeurism or that

he had any intention of following me. He also gave no indication that he cared if

anyone else should happen upon him, something that was very likely given the

circumstances. He would be able to make his escape easily if he were discovered by

anyone less inclined to indulge him in his masturbatory exhibitionism.

It was frustrating that he made no attempt to follow me, as I was about six or

seven body lengths from him and my view was less than satisfactory. Eventually, I

Spunk Rats

realized that if he had the courage to display his bona fides then the least I could do

was meet him half way. I strolled back as if it were the most natural thing in the

world to do when confronted by an erect penis on your way home from a hard day

at the office.

He flicked the cigarette in my direction, the sparks skidding along the asphalt

coming to a halt near my shoes. I ground the lighted red tip under my heel. I heard

him cough as he leaned his head back against the pole, closing his eyes. He played

with the glistening tip of his cock as I moved forward. We had observed the niceties

of the ritual mating dance and it had been a hell of a lot more seductive than the

usual “Got a light, mate?” Now it was time to get down to it.

He didn’t open his eyes as I wrapped my hand round his jutting prick, taking

over the stroke from him, nor when I smeared my thumb in his leaking pre-cum

across the sensitive head of his dick. He did open his eyes when I fell to my knees to

engulf his rod down to his balls. I gagged a little because I’d misjudged the length in

the dark.

He dragged me to my feet. “Not here.” He tucked his cock back in his jeans

although he didn’t bother to zip up. That was a good sign. I guess he liked me.

“You want to come back to my place?” I asked.

“You live in that brown terrace just down the street, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said wondering if I had a stalker. No matter, for a stalker he was

remarkably cute. And endowed. “You want to come back with me?”

“Naw,” he said.

My vision of sexual gratification began to fade. My alarm must have shown even

in the near darkness because he added, “You write that sex column in the local bar

rag, don’t you?”

I hesitated slightly. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been waiting for you. I read it every week,” he admitted. “It gets me hard.

Last week you wrote about living in the area and mentioned that your terrace

overlooks a school.”

“I remember.”

“I live in the street on one side of the only school around here. I knew you didn’t

live there so you had to live on this side.”

I couldn’t fault his skills at deduction, but it sure was killing the mood.

“And?”

“I wanted meet you,” he said. “We have a lot in common.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Well, your boyfriend, for one.”

I laughed. It all made sense now. “You’ve been waiting here every night since

the paper came out?”

“Yep,” he admitted.

“And you picked up my boyfriend some time over the last couple of nights and

went home with him? That’s how you know where I live.”

“That won’t cause a problem will it?”

I smiled. “Oh, I think I might get some mileage out of it.”

“I thought you had an open relationship.”

“We can go back to my place and have a threesome,” I said by way of reply.

Barry Lowe

“I want you to myself tonight.”

“Where do you want to do it?”

“So you don’t mind it in the open air?”

“I don’t mind anything, anywhere, any time.”

“Great. In that case I know just the place.”

He took off down the laneway, turning into my street.

“That’s your place, isn’t it?” he said as we passed.

“Uh huh.”

He walked to the paved area blocking access to the adjoining freeway

constructed by a local council intent on greening the area by installing bricks and a

rotting timber frame that barely supported gnarled leafless vines like outsized

varicose veins. In the shadows were a number of splintery benches that I thought he

intended using. But no, he detoured down a short alleyway that led to the garages at

the back of half a dozen houses. Roughly nailed sheets of corrugated iron

piggybacked fence posts.

The laneway itself was asphalt pimpled with weeds, oil smears and broken

glass. He stood with his back to the sturdiest looking of the posts and lit a cigarette.

He unbuckled his belt as a sign for me to drop to my knees. I pulled his jeans down

to his ankles, revealing his cock was already hard.

I looked up at him. “The fact we’ll probably be caught excites you, does it?”

We were locked in a dead-end should anyone appear at the mouth of the street.

More importantly, cars would pick us out in their headlights. There’d be no scaling

these fences without the likelihood of slicing off fingers or other extremities on the

sharp edges of the iron.

Branches of camphor laurel trees jutted out from the school playground, their

leaves filtering the bright starlight, too high, however, to serve as an escape route.

The setting was romantic as well as provocatively dangerous.

I played with his balls as I ran my tongue round his greasy slit, sucking up any

escaping juice. My tongue was a slimy pillow track as he slid his cock into my

mouth. I gagged when it hit the back of my throat.

“Good boy,” he said. “Take all of it!”

He smoked, offering the occasional groan of encouragement, sometimes

grabbing the back of my head to fuck savagely for a moment until I choked and my

mouth filled with gag.

He flicked his cigarette away, telling me to stand and take off my trousers.

“Right off!”

He pushed me against the fence, spreading my legs. His cock was slick from my

gag juices, which he augmented with his spit. His finger at my ass entrance slipped

in easily although his cock was considerably bigger. It took a few more gobs of spit

for lubrication before it slid in comfortably.

He picked up the pace, shoving his cock harder, slamming his balls against

mine, each time pushing my head against the corrugated iron, it squeaked and

creaked in opposition. In the quiet evening, the sound was like a call to arms.

I heard a window fly open. Light shone from a second floor window.

“What’s going on out there?” a voice yelled.

He didn’t pause in his stroke into or out of my asshole. He grasped my drooling

Spunk Rats

cock to jerk me in time to his thrusts. The sounds of our fucking carried, setting dogs

barking in the neighboring street. Backyard security lights clicked on like truss

lighting on a stage.

His excitement increased with each new sound of activity around us as if he

sought an audience to validate his performance. The realization that I was abetting

him, being on the receiving end of that performance did nothing to lessen its erotic

impact. It heightened it.

Someone threw an old boot at us from an upstairs window. “You faggots are

worse than alley cats!”

“It’s all right, Jim. I’ve called the cops,” a woman’s voice said.

There, off in the distance, was the annoying mosquito-like screech of a siren. He

picked up the pace. I was close now, my sphincter pincering his cock every time it

rammed its way in. His breath was shorter, sharper, my head slamming into the iron

fence with such force I thought it would give way. He gave a howl of triumph, and I

felt the contractions of his cock as he shot up my ass triggering my own ejaculation.

He slapped me on the butt. “That was great, thanks.” Then he was gone.

I grabbed my trousers, bolting down the street and in the front door as I heard a

siren now only a few streets away.

Toby, my boyfriend, came to investigate, discovering me standing in the hallway

puffing and holding my jeans with my now limp dick oozing the cum I hadn’t had

time to clean off.

“Oh, so you met Paul then?” he asked.

“We didn’t get round to introducing ourselves.” I grabbed a handful of tissues.

“Why didn’t you bring him home?”

“Because you’d already had him,” I said. “And in the comfort of your own

home.”

“Yeah. He didn’t like it much. He prefers it in the open.”

“So I discovered.”

“He leaves the door of his terrace open and sits just inside naked playing with

himself.”

“Does it work?” I asked as Toby began to remove his clothes.

“Seems it does. Most of the guys in this street have had him. You must have

been the last”

Wally inserted two fingers in my dripping ass.

“Hold on a second,” I said, as I took off my shirt and tie.

The End

Barry Lowe

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Barry Lowe lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Walter, and their irascible
baby dinosaur, Tofu, who travels the world with them not so much as a child substitute but
a wisecracking mascot. If you’re confused check his website at

www.barrylowe.net

Barry’s been writing since primary school where he entertained his fellow pupils with
stories of a teenage detective called The Count. Since then his career has encompassed
journalism, entertainment interviews and reviews, editing gay magazines and newspapers
and magazines, the script for the independent film ‘Violet’s Visit,’ short stories, film star
biographies and, particularly, plays which have been produced in Australia, the U.S., the
U.K. and Italy.

He has been described as ‘the man with the filthiest mind in Australia’, but even his

staunchest critics have had to concede he’s a survivor, and he’s still here doing what he does

best—spinning yarns.

Other lyd titles by Barry Lowe:

Carbon Dating

Marine Biology

Let the Games Begin

Four on the Floor

Stocks and Shared

Taking the Bait

Climbing the Wall

A Cook’s Tour

Party Whip

Love and the Odor of Red Leatherette

Spunk Rats

SPUNK RATS

loveyoudivine

Alterotica is dedicated to bringing you the finest

erotic literature on the web.

You are cordially invited to join us on a journey of sexual

awakening and sensual passion.

Visit us on the web at:

http://loveyoudivine.com

Barry Lowe

COMING SOON

to lyd’s His and His Kisses

TEAM PLAYER

BARRY LOWE

What’s on the minds of two Aussie Rules football players when they head to Mexico

for their Finals victory holiday?

Kev and Chuck, two of the winning Australian Rules football team, don’t go with

their mates to Thailand, but head to Mexico together. Is it for a ‘poofter’s

honeymoon’, as their teammates jibe them, or is it for the Mexican pussy they both

claim to want? Either way, a night with Conchita, a stunner they pick up to share, is

bound to bring unrequited passion out into the open—in quite unexpected ways.

Spunk Rats

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