ho/mo/hea/ven: a state of absolute euphoric sensual containment between two gay men, such that no one or nothing else exists.
It can happen for just a moment, a night, or a lifetime.
It can happen with a one night stand you never see again, a guy who’s a fuck buddy you’ve played with every week for years, or a partner who thinks you and he have worn one another thin…
It can be the way your bodies feel pressed together, your tools locked in pleasure, the way he stares at you or you caress him…
You can be cold sober, stoned or high than a jetliner, but while drugs may heighten your level of sensuality, all homoheaven really needs is just the two of you, alone, naked, silent and totally consumed.
By one another.
For one another.
For at that moment you are beyond sexual pleasure or emotional ecstasy.
You are in your own private time zone.
Reality is for other people.
You are one.
Like this love scene from my most recent work of erotica, “For The Love of Samuel,” where my two protagonists, Dare and Billy, who have literally just met, bed down for the first time…
“Open your mouth just slightly,” whispers Dare. I comply, as he begins to kiss me, so softly, so delicately as only a lover would. He looks at me. I look at him. I can see he is crying. So am l.
“I’m sorry, he says, “men don’t cry.”
“They do when they’re sad or when they’re happy. Which is it with us?”
“Shut up,” Dare replies, “I’ve rehearsed this moment in my head for a long time. Don’t fuck with my fantasy.”
We continue to kiss the Dare way, who knows how long. Now I’ve kissed many a guy, Jim when we were high, and Gus while he fucked me, and so many, so many others, the phony kiss, the tongues down the throat kiss, the let’s get this over with so we can fuck kiss. But Dare is different. Dare kisses me like no guy ever has or probably ever will. It’s a soft kiss, yet it comes from a man, no pseudo-man but a guy you’d play football with and happily lose to. Yet where our tongues are petals on a flower, not ravenous snakes.
And as we kiss, our bodies first touch, then press together like two pieces of clay becoming one. Now remember, I’m supposed to be the teacher, but maybe it’s his inexperience though I doubt that, or his boyish innocence – this is Billy The Elder talking now – or just his lustful desire to please me that Dare begins his own private Marco Polo adventure of exploration, kissing my body as he softly strokes my chest fur, wet and dark like the Amazon rain forest, and as he gets to my nips and presses them with his lips he’s better than Gus’s teeth ever were.
I join in, starting my own voyage of discovery, tonguing the hairs on his chest that lie there in abundance like flora in the ancient Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I may win the hirsute contest but the mane on his chest is more than enough to make me delirious. My tongue travels, then settles on his right nip which is getting – erect.
“Yea, yea,” he whispers, “that’s great,” his iron hard pole wedged against mine, both wet and throbbing, painful in their pleasure.
Now most guys would get to the family jewels in a flash but we take our time like time was an inconvenience made for other people. After all, for each of us, the other man’s body is a continent yet uncharted. And when we get to our temples of masculinity, we mutually search out with our tongues and fingers, like some insatiable hunters, for the sweet spots on one another’s penises, knowing we have reached the secret treasures by the precum that oozes out from the tips of our mushrooms. No sounds, no moans, just endless exploration.
I find Dare’s sweet spot just under the edge of his corona and I go after it relentlessly like a fanatical Nazi, the veins of his shaft pulsating like the roots of a giant tree sucking up sustenance. Dare returns the favor, drilling with the tip of his tongue the spot just behind my head.
But now I take my favorite position, both of us lying on the bed, me between his fuzzy muscular legs. I work my mouth down to his sac almost twice as heavy and big as mine, fondling each egg with religious reverence. As they pull up I know he’s getting close, and when he puts his hand on his trunk of forever giving life, I pull it away and swallow his dick like I did that first time with Gus. But unlike Gus, there are no hysterical yelps, but a series of a quick cleansing breaths, then one long deep exhale as if he was enjoying the last gasp of oxygen on earth. We have just exchanged our silent oath to one another, sealing it with spit and cum.
He first rises, then lowers himself on me, rubbing his still erect organ against mine, the electricity between our penises the positive and negative poles on a car battery.
“Kiss me, fucker, kiss me,” I mutter quietly but forcefully.
“Keep your eyes open this time,” he whispers back.
And I do, both of us now caught in some kind of cyclonic trance, as pupil meets pupil. He lays his lips ever so lightly, ever so softly on mine, the tips of our tongues teasing each other as I finally, irrevocably spurt my juice of life, sanctifying his abs and chest as he grinds his body into mine.
There is an eternity when neither of us say anything, he lying on top of me in our mutual naturally musky exhilarance.
Don’t we wish all our man to man encounters were like this?