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Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Dark Mouth

By Perry Brass

(Perry writes per introduction: This is one of my favorites of the “Smoky George” stories that appeared in what I and other writers have called “The Golden Age of Gay Porn.” There is something about it that is both smoking hot and poignant at the same time. When I first started writing gay stories, some editors actually rejected this idea completely—that you could have both in a story: it could be both overtly sexual and deeply emotionally felt. John Devere, a gay editor at an early  magazine called, of all things, “Dilettante” that was a forerunner of “Honcho,” rejected a story of mine because it combined he said, “Victorian feelings and sex.” He told me, “You can’t do those kind of things. I know, I have a PhD in literature from Yale.” I guess that nailed it. But Lou Thomas, one of my favorite editors, at “FirstHand” magazine, loved doing this, and he thought “Dark Mouth” was one of his favorite stories for that reason. He used to joke with me, “Write me another ‘Dark Mouth,’  I want to see another story like it.” So of course I did do it again, and he continued to love them.)

    I know it was a strange situation: I'd meet Leeland every second Wednesday, around seven, at the baths. He'd come in from New Jersey, where he lived in Summit with his wife, whose name I'd never learned—or for that matter ever wanted to—and his kids, Jeff and Sally. He'd talk about the kids, but never about his wife. He was a strapping, fairly big guy, going just slightly—the kind of slightly I frankly like—to seed. That is, his stomach, which had been tight as a hardball, was getting a slight amount of gut to it; but the rest was hard. Even his hair was hard. It was hard, blond-orangy hair, kind of like the fur certain calico cats have, and it sprouted thick on top of his thirty-five-year-old head, and then covered his chest in thick, swirling patterns, the very memory of which makes me horny enough to want to start everything all over again.
    The orangy hair tapered down in a regular "V" from his hard, almost pointy tits (that my teeth had gnawed to rawness during several Wednesdays), then pointed directly to his hard "outy" navel. The hair spread out again around his thick uncut wang, then brushed out from his large balls, and followed the deep orange crack of his ass, until it delta-ed out all over his ass-cheeks. His ass-cheeks were furry with cat-orange hair. His back had almost none on it, and his shoulders had a slight dusting on them.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any --- W. Shakespeare (Sonnet X)

For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Florence --- teaser

Michael Ampersant's new flash story, Florence, is out on Gay Flash Fiction. This is how it starts:

This wasn’t my first time, not even in Florence, but it’s my shtick, if you will. I’ve taken up position on the steps of the Loggia della Signoria, squatting between the statues of Cellini’s "Perseus" and Fedi’s "Rape of the Polyxena". I’m not a prostitute, but I’m a slut with a boy friend who’s a math genius and who’s always busy with his “results”—meaning he’s raising his head with an otherworldly expression on his face when you ask him what he’s doing and then he’s going back to an “open problem” that he found in a yellow, hard-cover math book and solving that problem rather than sucking your dick.

Have a look.
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