It’s Halloween Week …

It’s Halloween Week …

… what better time than to share with you a few of the more twisted tales from my short story collection, “Basic Butch,” available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. A lot of the horror we hear about this time of year is pure fantasy, but all my stories are based in reality. They could happen, and, hell, maybe they have.

For more, visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or gay-erotic-fiction.com on your tablet or smartphone.

So let’s start off with “Hooked.”

Handsome but tormented Simon was determined once and for all to find out the identity of the mysterious, well-built man with the hairy chest but no face shot who had been stalking him for weeks on the gay sex websites. What Simon was not ready for that rainy Halloween night was finding the guy hot, hard, and ready, at his doorstep…

Simon made sure he had enough provisions for the weekend. He had even brought the commode his old man had used only once before he died closer to his desk so he wouldn’t have to go all the way upstairs to take a piss. He pulled the drapes in his room so there would be no distractions and left the lights off in the front of the house so any trick-or-treaters would think no one was home. He turned his smartphone off and left the answering machine on his landline phone off. He was determined to get to the bottom of his mystery web buddy if it took him all weekend.

Just then, he heard the rain they had been threatening all day suddenly hit the flat roof of the garage. Good. That would keep the little Halloween bastards home tonight for sure.

Simon had been surfing the web and the phone apps for sex for a while now, ever since Geo died and he no longer went to the bars or visit the baths. Along the way he had met a few hot numbers, Jersey boys like himself or an occasional out-of-towner, since most Manhattan gay guys didn’t have cars. It didn’t take much to convince them to make the trip to Paramus—one came as far as Cherry Hill; after all, his nine inch uncut dick that he displayed proudly in his private photo files was worth the gas and the tolls on the Garden State or Turnpike, and his suitors were too impressed by his man-pole to question why he plowed them with all his clothes on. Fucking away in the bed where he was made 27 years ago, before mom split for another guy, and dad, a constructor worker, got slammed by a crane.

Then, two weeks ago, it started happening. Whether he was on BuddyBear.com, SlickDick.com, Jockstrap.com or Leatherman.com, suddenly this guy—“Tom”—appeared in all four of his message boxes. All with the same pic—hot hairy chest and abs and a tease of a dick shot but no face and the same message, “Could show you a good time. A real good time.” Nothing else.

When he searched for the guy’s profile, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if someone had hacked the sites, had hacked his messages. And when he responded, asking for stats, like height, weight, age, dick size, and a face shot, he just got the same response. Faceless pic and the message. He tried deleting the guy’s e’s, but they reappeared. He contacted each site’s webmaster but they claimed nothing was wrong with the site and the guy wasn’t even registered.

Now yesterday, “Tom” was coming up as pop-ups every time he opened any one of the sites and no amount of pop-up blockers or deletes got rid of them.

Tonight, though, as he started making his endless rounds of the sites—some nights he’d visit them ten or twelve times between TV repeats and cold chicken from the frig—“Tom” didn’t show. In fact, his first e-guest for the evening was an old regular on SlickDick.com, that is if Mack, a 20 year old hairless bottom from Totowa, could be classified as “old.”

“Sure you don’t want to plow that ass of mine for Halloween?” he messaged with a new shot of those baby smooth melons, his muscular legs spread apart enough to show a dong that practically touched the floor. Funny how the guys with the biggest dicks wanted to get fucked the most.

Simon kept his fly unzipped and dick handy and gave it a couple of strokes but Mack was starting to get boring and his worked-up hard-on quickly faded.

On BuddyBear.com, he had his typical share of “woofs” and “you’re a hot fuck!” from hungry guys anywhere and everywhere, places he’d never visit, tonight from Wheeling, West Virginia, Johnstown, PA, Palm Springs, and even one from Berlin, his fifth international fan to date. After all, that chest of his had actually once deserved it even if the pics he posted were two years old. Thankfully, his buzz cut didn’t date them. Simon used to respond with a “thanx—much appreciated” but now he just deleted them. He had gotten his ego kick.

The rain had picked up and was hitting the window outside his desk hard like his stiff dick against his hand just before he stuck it up a guy’s hole.

He was surprised to have a message waiting for him on Jockstrap.com. Usually those conceited gym bunnies only looked. He knew that from the number of “admirers” who, according to the webmaster, had viewed his profile.

“Hey, bud, you got some hot pics there—and we’re practically neighbors,” read the message from Bobbie, a rusty bearded rebel boy type from Garfield. Slim with just a bit of chest and belly fuzz, a few pube hairs sticking out from his boxer shorts, and that handsome Black Irish face and smile that didn’t quit. He wore a cap that read “Montana Mountain Man” but Simon didn’t think it was hiding any receding hairline.

“So just how neighborly would you like to get?” messaged Simon back with a butchy grin. He could feel his dick pressing against his half open fly.

“Well, you up to trickin’ AND treatin’ tonite?”

“As long as you don’t mind getting wet. Rainin’ like hell outside”

Pause.

“Got any butt shots to share?” messaged Simon.

“Sure—give me ten—I’ll send them over for your very private inspection, sir.” He could almost see him standing at attention at his pc.

Simon was dripping. This would probably end up like so many other encounters, a lot of dirty talk and dirty pics but no cigar. But what the fuck. He was half way there already.

Just then, what sounded like an army began banging on the door and ringing the bell non-stop. He waited a few minutes, hoping they would give up. But they didn’t.

“Better make it quick before my man meat explodes,” Simon messaged back, then got up to get the door.

He looked at the three teenagers, all males, seventeen, eighteen he guessed, dressed in jeans and pullovers whose only costumes were some cheap drugstore masks around their necks. They looked more like potential hold-up boys than candy grabbers. The rain had let up.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be trick or treating?” said Simon with a pissed off, what-the-fuck-are-you-bothering-me-for look.

“Man, just give us some stuff and mind your own business,” grunted the shortest of the three who was still a good six foot.

“Why don’t you just go back and fuck your girlfriends,” said Simon, reaching from behind for the doorknob. Suddenly the tallest one grabbed his wrist. Simon pushed him off, then, with a haughty air of self-confidence on his face, lifted up his T-shirt clear to his throat and faced the trio head-on. They all looked dazed like deers in front of the headlights. The middle one turned around and began throwing up in the bushes on the side of the house.

“Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” said the shorter one, unable to turn away.

“The same thing that’ll happen to you if you don’t get the fuck out of here—NOW!”

And with that Simon slammed the door, breathed deeply, and double locked it.

When he got back to his laptop, He was there. Tom. Same cockteasy pic with no face. Only there was something different.

His message had changed.

“Ready for me to show you a good time?”

Simon sat down quickly and messaged him back, still pissed-off by the boys.

“Who the fuck are you?’

“Someone you’d like to know.”

“Don’t give me any shit. Why are you bugging me?”

“Because I know everything about you even if you don’t know shit about me.”

“Like what, fucker?”

“Like why you never take your shirt off in public anymore and all those hot pics you got on your profile are horseshit.”

Simon began to sweat. He tried to hold his hand from shaking as he key-stroked.

“And why don’t you have any face shots, fucker, huh?”

“We have a lot in common, you and me. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Look, if you want me to fuck you, come over and let’s get it over with. Otherwise, fuck-off.”

Simon pulled the plug from behind his laptop and popped out the battery, then popped it back in so everything shut down instantly.

He sat there, limp-dicked, his face as blank as the screen, for what must have been a half hour. He felt paralyzed, to a point that he took advantage of the commode, and took a piss.

Then he remembered about Bobbie and his promise to send some more pics. He booted up.

Bobbie’s pics got him hot again. Nice, real nice shots of a hairy butt, furry low hangers swaying in the breeze. He clicked on “Reply.”

“So how soon can you come over?” messaged Simon, thinking quickly whether he had enough lube in the house.

“Give me a half hour. What’s the address? I got GPS.”

“You read my profile, didn’t you—I’m a top,” Simon typed with a cautious stare.

“I sure fucken hope so. My boy butthole needs some Daddy dick lovin’”

Simon sniffed his armpits, then his crouch and debated about taking a shower. But his first priority was finding that lube. He was about to get into the shower, hard-on and all, when he heard a loud knock on the door. It couldn’t be rebel boy. Not that quick. Well, if it were another bunch of trick-or-treaters, he’d just answer the door butt naked and this time let them get a gander of all of him.

He swung open the door, his hard-on bobbing in the rain.

It wasn’t rebel boy, greased up for action.

It wasn’t kids looking for candy.

The guy—he was about five foot nine, maybe five foot ten—wore a light blue fisherman slicker, a rain cap pulled over his face, and dark sunglasses. A heavy salt and pepper beard covered the lower half of his face that was barely visible in the street light.

“I’m here to show you a good time,” said the guy in a deep, masculine voice, low and monotoned. “A real good time.”

Simon’s dick instantly shrunk. He turned around, trying to hide his schizophrenic reaction of shock and delight at finally meeting his web stalker. The man followed him in and shut the door.

“So, you say you know everything about me,” said Simon, slumping into an armchair, with a cool, Okay-what’s-next stare.

“And now you’ll know everything about me,” said the man.

And with that, he opened his slicker wide to reveal a dark, matted chest and belly that Simon was acutely familiar with, having seen it dozens of times on his laptop screen. Then, walking out of the shadows, the man took off the jacket, his rain cap and glasses, and flung them on a nearby end table.

Simon couldn’t stop staring at his half naked stranger. He could tell he had been handsome once. But all he saw now were deep, creviced scars like someone had played tic-tac-toe on his face with a knife. One of the gashes went right across his left eye that seemed permanently sealed.

Simon felt his dick coming alive.

“Halloween is about the only time of the year I can go out without a baseball cap and glasses,” said the man with a shrug and self-effacing grin. “Kids think it’s a cool disguise and want to know where I got it done.”

“Some alley I guess,” said Simon, still trying to look non-committal when his crotch told him differently.

“I used to teach at Rutgers before my little incident,” said the guy, lighting up a cigarette. “But afterwards, they were good about it and gave me on-line.”

“On-line?”

“Teaching on-line. That way I never have to see my students and they never have to see me.” He sat down on the sofa across from Simon.

“No it wasn’t a gay bash,” continued the guy, still trying to make light of the whole messy memory. “Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a bunch of fucks came in to rob the 7-11 I was buying a pack of these in.” He gestured to his cigarette. “Hell, I was lucky. The guy behind the counter got so macheted up, he died.”

By now, Simon couldn’t take his eyes off him. Nor could he hide the growing lust on his face.

“Tom, it’s Tom, Simon,” said the guy anticipating Simon’s next question.

“So you know my name, too.”

“I used to come into the Carlstadt branch of Bank America all the time.” He smiled like he had gotten away with robbing the bank.

“I’m still there,” said Simon.

“You know,” Tom said slowly, almost in a whisper, “I think I wanted to screw you the first time you handed me back my deposit slip.”

Simon said nothing.

“I know all about your little accident,” he continued, a tiny pompous grin coming to his mouth. “I’ve been hacking computers since I was 17 and when I came into the bank one day and heard you were in the hospital, I hacked Beverly Memorial’s system and got enough to piece together what happened to you.”

“You mean, when Geo and I were free-basing one night and the fucken thing blew up and spit all over us?”

“Geo your lover?”

“No, we were just fuck buddies. Went out and got high a lot together and screwed whatever we could pick up, or one another when we had a slow night. Funny how the shit hit me on the chest and belly and arms but missed my face and my dick.”

“And Geo?”

“He didn’t really get hit much at all, just one bad burn on his hand.” Simon stood up and moved closer to the sofa, his eyes locked on Tom’s “Then six months later Geo goes and OD’s—all by his lonesome self. Funny, ain’t it?”

“And after that—this was before my little 7-11 run-in,” continued Tom, “I saw you never wore those tight short sleeve shirts again at the bank. The ones that showed off your biceps.”

“So you noticed.”

“I’ve noticed everything about you. Everything.” Tom leaned over, grabbed Simon by the cheeks of his ass and pulled him close. Then he began to stick the tip of his tongue into each of the scars that dotted Simon’s belly like moon craters.

“Why, why did you choose me?” asked Simon. His lust and anger had now turned to self-pity and pity for this stranger but he was determined not to cry.

“Because we’re brothers in pain.”

As Tom worked his way up to Simon’s chest, most of the heavy carpet of hair that once covered it now reduced to a few wisps, Simon gently glided his fingertips into the deep, rocky crevices that lined Tom’s face. Each time he did, his dick twitched.

Suddenly there was a loud bang on the door.

“Shit,” said Simon, “I forgot about Bobbie.”

“Bobbie?”

“Yea, a kid I just connected with on Jockstrap. I invited him over.”

“So?”

“Just let him keep banging. He’ll give up eventually.”

“And spoil his Halloween?” said Tom, laughing. He grabbed Simon’s hand and led him to the door.

Rebel boy stood there, the rain dripping from his Mets cap, and looked at the two of them. Simon stark naked and Tom, wearing jeans, boots and a heavenly hard-on. A confused but tempted look came to Bobbie’s face like the time he caught a gander of some apparent straight guy in a suit pulling his dick out in the park at lunchtime just for Bobbie’s private admiration.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said stumbling on his words but not looking away. “I must have the wrong address.”

“Bobbie, isn’t it,” said Simon, the pompous glare of a priest delivering mass on his face.

“Simon? Are you Simon?”

“Come on in,” said Tom, grabbing the kid’s hand, “before some Dracula out there decides to rape you.”

“I don’t understand, your pictures—”

“So you wanna stay or don’t you?” said Simon with a defensive look.

“Sure, sure, I’ll stay,” said Bobbie with conviction and a smile, throwing the duffel bag on his shoulder to the floor.

“And what’s in there?” said Simon, that pissed-off expression returning to his face. “I hope it’s not dildos. If that’s the story, you don’t need me—I mean—us. And if you’re one of those circuit boys trying to look butch who likes to party and wants me to mainline some Tina, just fucken forget it …”

“No, no it’s nothing like that,” the kid said almost apologetically. “I was going to ask you while we were chatting, but you logged off so quick.”

“Ask me what?”

“If I could video our little session, you know, as a souvenir.”

“Got a wide enough lens to get us all in?” said Tom with a smirk.

Bobbie stared first at Tom, then Simon. “No, I just wanna watch this time. I mean, I’m not usually into spectator sex, but this time—”

“Does all this make your dick go soft?” asked Simon, stroking his checkered chest.

“No, no way, man,” said Bobbie, his stare now as solid as a gold brick. “In fact, you fucken guys are giving me the best god-damn fucken hard-on I’ve had in months.” He unzipped his fly and whipped out a nice, cut, thick seven incher that made Tom and Simon’s tools twitch in unison. “This one I want to enjoy.”

It didn’t take the kid long to set up his tripod and camera, as Simon undressed him, giving Bobbie’s blazing hard-on a few strokes. Tom got naked. About ten minutes later, as Simon and Tom were deep into it on the living room rug, Bobbie got up from the arm chair and instinctively sandwiched himself between them.

“I—I want to feel your pain,” he said glancing back and forth at the two of them and took a heavy drag of Jungle Juice.

“Poetic, ain’t he?” said Tom to Simon as he leaned over and grabbed his jeans that he had flung on the floor a few minutes before, unlacing its leather belt from the loops. Then, with his dick in front of the kid’s face, Tom slowly wound the belt around Bobbie’s throat, tightening it ever so slowly with every turn as Simon fucked Bobbie slow and deep doggie-style. A few minutes later, the kid shot his load and appeared to pass out. Tom leaned over and gently licked the warm juice off the living room floor. Then, pulling out of Bobbie and laying the kid gently down, Simon aimed his stiff tool at Tom’s face and shot, his cum dripping down the crevices of his scars like snow melting down a mountain.

It was about 6 a.m. when the kid woke up. He got up from the sofa where he guessed they had stowed him and looked around. Seeing no one, he decided to go up the stairs. There in the master bedroom, Tom and Simon were sprawled on the bed, sleeping on their stomachs. He went over and, without disturbing them, slowly stroked their hairy butts, then went back downstairs, packed up his camera, got dressed and left. Thinking about the tape he had made, Bobbie felt his hard-on halfway there as he stumbled down the front stairs to his car.

Tom awoke a half hour later, got out of bed and pulled the drapes apart to let in the morning light. Then he turned around and lightly smiled at Simon, who threw off the blanket that had enveloped them.

“Think Bobbie enjoyed his fifteen seconds of pain?” asked Tom.

Shrugging his shoulders, Simon tapped on the mattress for Tom to come back to bed as his dick, unassisted except by Tom’s smile, rose in anticipation.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s