Excerpt from the novel, The Price Of Dick by Dan Skinner


His planed face was mere inches from mine. Eyes the same color as his December birthstone bore into me. He took my hand and placed it on his wet chest. Tendrils of body hair flowered around my fingertips. I felt the tip of a nipple between my first two fingers; the thump of his heart beneath that. It seemed we were sprinting on the same track.

“This is a pretty big thing for me,” he said in a very low voice.

“Anything new is,” I agreed.

“Like the first time I ate oatmeal?” he said with half a smile, attempting levity.

I laughed, “Yeah, I guess.”

“I hate oatmeal,” he admitted. His look was now sly like he’d caught me trying to coerce him.

“Then it’s a good thing you found out.”

Leaning into me, sandpaper-rough whiskers grazed my cheek. His lips dragged across mine, briefly tugging my bottom one down. Water from the top of his head fell inside my mouth.

“Everyone always remembers their first of anything important.” Now his lips found the lobe of my ear. A nip of teeth.

His hand caressed the side of my head, fingers toying with my hair. I felt the pull toward his mouth; my own opened instinctively and met the warm point of his tongue and deeper. And then we were breathing separately again.

“Do you remember your first time? The very first time ever?” he asked.

I nodded my head in the massive ladle of his palm. “Yeah. Very much.”

“Tell me.”

“At camp. A buddy. He taught me how. To masturbate that is. Not fuck. First time masturbation.”

He looked down at my erection. A waterfall spilled down my chest as he gripped me firmly in his hand. I actually said, “Ow,” under the pressure he applied. It was tighter than I expected.

“Were you attracted to him?” he asked.

I was truthful. He’d been a chubby, red-head with freckles. He burned and peeled with ten minutes of sun exposure. “No.”

“Was he gentle or rough?”

I blinked trying to recall the experience from long ago. “It was a little rough. But I didn’t know what he was doing. I just knew I wanted to learn how and I didn’t want him to stop.”

“Did it take very long?” The pad of his thumb rubbed over the tip of my cock. It tickled. I tensed and jumped backward against the tile.

“No. It didn’t.”

“Did you do him?”

“He used my hand to do it. I wasn’t sure how hard… how to handle him.” I began to remember it very clearly. We shared a scout pup tent during a camp out in the woods by the lake. The other scouts’ tents had been a good distance away with trees separating us. It happened at night, a full moon glowing against the khaki fabric of the tent. I could barely sleep afterwards. The discovery of masturbation had set off a chain reaction in my body which I couldn’t control. So I lay there, listening to him snore, and thinking about the wonderful feeling I’d had revealed to me.

“Did you fall in love with him?”

There was a weight to the way he asked that question. “No,” I said.

His jaw relaxed and the whiskers dragged along my opposite cheek, more tenderly this time. His body curved deep into my own, almost making me have to bend backwards. Our cocks locked in an easy embrace. His own towered above mine.

“Quid pro quo. This for that. Your first?” I wanted to hear his story. We had been friends for more than a year, but I learned things about him in bits and pieces.

He was so close his words puffed against the flesh of my face. “I’ll tell you what no one else knows. Not even my closet friends from college.” The words were terse, said in the way one spoke when secrets were being divulged as if a pact was being made. “Because you’re my very special friend. Because you won’t judge me.”

“You know I won’t. I’m your friend.” I assured him.

He looked down at our dicks overlapping, performed a short swordplay with them.

“My coach.” he said. It was more of an announcement and had an atomic weight all its own. One that boggled the imagination, confounded sensibilities. He had only two coaches. In high school. It had to have been football. My head was already figuring his age range from the articles I’d seen in his scrapbooks. I remembered a picture of that coach standing next to the team. A man in his early thirties. As old as I was now.

I ventured a hand to his waist. It felt small and lean and taut. He liked the sensation of my hand on him there.

“It’s how I made captain of the team. He thought I was special. I didn’t mind and it was easy. And my family was proud that I was chosen to be captain. My mom was proud of my accomplishment. Her son’s achievements filled photo albums and scrapbooks. She has trophies to dust off and show to her friends.”

I listened without a response. It wasn’t my story to respond to.

He grabbed both my hands and put them on the cheeks of his ass. Water swirled between my fingers.

“Isn’t it amazing how this thing between our legs can change our lives? Change others’ lives. Give us what we want. Give others what they want. Shape the way we think and feel. It can make us great, or weak. Turn us into criminals with jealousy.” His mouth found my other ear to whisper. “Our dicks change the very world we live in.”

I was so turned on it was beginning to get painful; that too tight pull in the scrotum.

“We can make other people do anything we want if they want that something special from us. Good or bad. So, I made captain of the team because the coach wanted to jack my junk.” He bent deeper into me. “And with you, it’s friendship.”

He’d set the parameters of our little adventure firmly in place. Between friends. We were sharing ourselves with each other. No emotional attachments.

We dried, found our way between the sheets of the bed. I was in the role of the teacher; he the student. He responded to my directions. My kisses came first. He responded. His customary aggression was nowhere in sight. It was empowering to have that behemoth of a man under my control.

I swallowed to work up spit before I took his cock in my hand and inserted the plump head in and sucked on it. I could taste the residue of soap from the shower. I pulled on it harder until I drew another inch of it in. There was a long, windy exclamation. I looked, found him staring at me with a smile. My eyes locked with his as I continued down his thickness; my nose pressing firm into his curlies. A knee and moan sprung up in response. Balled fists unclenched, balled again. I kept myself down on him deep, pulling in vacuum hard. His balls crawled up the sides, tapping my chin. I released him and he fell flat, free of tension.

I pushed both his knees upright so his feet were beside my head. I could see the avalanche of blond hair down the curves of his hamstrings. The rounded “W” of his buttocks peeked beneath the drape of his balls. There was just the barest glimpse of my target between those cheeks in the thick brush of curly hair. It puckered as if it knew I lusted for it. His eyes never left me, head propped up on pillows, the hammer of his chin dug into his chest.

I wanted him. I was going to take him.

“Turn over,” I said, my voice forceful and foreign.



Buddies with Benefits

An Excerpt from the Novel The Price of Dick By Dan Skinner

Within a couple of weeks he closed the deal. We loaded the apartment’s furniture and the boxes of our belongings into a rented moving truck and moved into the new condo. We still had only one set of bedroom furniture and a petite dining room set that was fine for a small apartment but was dwarfed by the huge open space of the new place. It would be an evolving process to add things to fill up the empty spots.

For dinner that first night we lit the fireplace, roasted hot dogs and drank boxed Cabernet. We had that fuzzy feeling of accomplishment as we talked about decorating. I was still having difficulty choosing a bedroom for myself. I figured since he was paying the mortgage, the master should be designated as his own.

His eyes were wildly static with wine in the dancing orange of the fireplace. “ I had my own ideas about that,” he said. A smile came to his lips. I noticed the first wrinkles crinkle the edge of his eyes. He was maturing. The weight loss had aged his face.

“What?” I wondered.

“Let’s make one the studio, and the other two guest rooms for when the models have to stay over.”

“But that doesn’t leave one for…”

His voice rode over mine. “And we share the master bedroom,” he finished.

“What?” He’d floored me with that.

“Not as boyfriends,” he said, clarifying. “Just friends. But that doesn’t mean we have to sleep in separate places. I mean nobody really likes to sleep alone, do they?”

I’m certain my mouth looked like a huge empty space, matching the rest of the house.

He smirked a little. “Buddies with occasional benefits,” he said with a wink. “We all have needs.”

I was still staring at him in the flickering of flames as he closed the gap between us. He pulled me to his mouth for a kiss that tasted like warm wine and hot dogs. My dick sprung immediately to life in my shorts. I glanced down. It looked like his own was unzipping his jeans for him.

The bed hadn’t even been put together yet. It’s frame stood in pieces against one bedroom wall; the box springs leaned against another. The mattress had been thrown on the floor. That didn’t hinder us as we left a trail of clothes on the stairs; clumsily making our way to it. His half-year of pent-up need spilled out in the form of passionate motion as we ascended the stairs. His kisses missed their mark, catching me on the nose, eyelid and chin in his desperation to get me out of my button down shirt.

We were naked as we fell onto the mattress, and he took me fully with his mouth and throat. His fingers dragged trails on my thighs and ass cheeks. We were moving like fumbling teenagers. A dry, anxious finger stabbed me anally, startling me, but eventually made it inside. I winced. I knew I wouldn’t last long under the powerful suction of his mouth and tongue. He was yanking my orgasm from me second by second. And then he had it. I couldn’t hold on and I fed him every drop as my pelvis took over instinctively. I heard him swallow. Big, strained gulps. Noises that proved he’d tasted me. When I was done, I found hairs twisted on my fingers that I’d torn from his scalp.

Then he flipped me. Pushed my face into the mattress, hiked my hips up so that he had my ass where he wanted in front of his mouth. His thumbs pulled hard, opening me, his tongue tip jabbed deep. I shook hard, feeling the muscles of my legs turn weak as he backed away to mount. I heard the roll of latex and then the stab of hard flesh sent a flash of pain up my spine. He pumped hard and fast and uncontrolled. There was no finesse to this fuck. He plunged deep, pulled back to the tip before plunging deep again. He was sweating more than usual. The hairs of his chest and stomach were sticking to me as if coated with glue. The bristles of his pubes were soaked as they pressed against my ass. He was making ugly, angry dog-like noises. A hungry animal devouring, taking. And then I felt the pulse of the release filling up the latex balloon. He held completely motionless and let his orgasm pump itself to completion. Then he lay atop me, long testicles drooping steamily against my own. I felt his heart thumping against my backbone and knew we would be asleep before long. I would be sore in the morning. No question about it. He was definitely alive again.

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an excerpt from the science-fiction/thriller XPERIMENT by Dan Skinner

Staying close to the trees as he ran, he found himself still splashing puddles. The force that hit him from behind came without announcement. It struck the middle of his back, throwing him off balance sending him skidding through the wet grass; falling hands-first into the humps of tree roots. He tasted mud and grass, felt it coat his arms and legs. Stunned, he rolled to his side looking quickly around for the source.

Rain fell like silver coins all around him. His eyes searched between the trees seeing nothing. He sniffed. He smelled nothing. That was confusing. With his heightened senses he should have been able to detect anyone who came at him. He didn’t just slip and fall. He’d been knocked to the ground but none of his defenses had been aroused.

He sat, wiping his hands on his shorts as his eyes made a three-sixty of the area. There was no one in sight. He searched the wet scenery behind him. The mowed lawn and wet clippings made it unlikely he’d detect footprints, including his own. Above him in the trees there was a rustling noise. At first, he didn’t so much see as feel something watching him from the cover of dripping leafs. His eyes searched elusive places between branches. His vision roamed through the limbs a second time when he noticed an odd shaped shadow. He stared at this a number of seconds before it blinked. Gold eyes stared as the rain whispered. It wasn’t hiding in the darkness. It was the darkness. It had no distinguishable form. It knew it had been seen. It moved further out on a large branch, the glowing eyes never leaving his. It sprung up higher in the tree moving with the speed and stealth of a leopard.

Geoff stood slowly, curiosity moving him for a better visual vantage.

Lightning zig-zagged through the cloud-cover. In the same instance the thing flew from one tree to the next. It took to the ground fifty yards from him sailing low and fast toward the avenue ahead. Whatever it was it had no discernible form.

Now intrigue overtook him. He had to see what it was. He took off in a sprint after it.

It wasn’t an easy thing to follow, this nefarious Snipe. Even with the advantage of night vision it was something that could move from one shadow to the next and become invisible. It was like watching a hallucination when it crossed paths with light, seeming to absorb it, like he’d blinked and imagined it. The rain didn’t appear to touch it. Its feet, if it had feet, didn’t splash in the shallow puddles. It waved in and out between the street lights. He’d never chased a shadow before and it was giving him a real challenge.

Rain pelted him like liquid bullets. He was drenched, shoes filling with small lakes. There was no disguising the noise he made as he ran, but it didn’t matter. It’d seen him; he’d seen it. They were horses in the same race.

It flew past the dark façade of a coffee house. No sooner had Geoff made the turn, he could smell something bad in the air. The two of them were heading straight toward it. This wasn’t good. He’d made his mind up to avoid those things.

The block was empty except for one lit storefront with two limousines parked out front. He’d lost sight of the thing and stopped. The rain was making it difficult to see. Another fork of lightning found it for him, crawling on the ledge of an upper story window of the building.  Stepping closer, he saw it open the window. It turned to him, their eyes meeting again. Then it folded itself like black wings and disappeared through the opening.

Slowly he moved in and as he did the foulness grew stronger. It was coming from the building. He walked past. The sign on the window revealed it was a headquarters for a senatorial candidate. Her slogan red: “Rose Fincher says It’s Time To Take Our Country Back,” painted in red, white and blue. He could see four people inside talking behind a counter. They were sharing cocktails in celebration.  He continued past, glancing occasionally to the open window in the second story for any sign of the mysterious creature.

Lights in the office flickered, went to black. For a few seconds there was no sound; then, the noise of hell breaking loose inside the building. A man shouted, a woman screamed; things broke. Another male yelled and then, gunfire – two shots. Something bounced on the inside of the front window. He couldn’t see but it was large enough to shake the pane in its frame without breaking it.

He backed fast to the opposite sidewalk darting in the doorway of a storefront as another gunshot rang out. Something hit the pane again this time crashing through. A body flopped, rolled onto the sidewalk – at least a portion of a body. It was missing an arm. He could hear the commotion inside the building more clearly now. A woman screamed again. A man barked orders, “Back up, back up!” and then another blast of a gun. The door banged open and a woman in a white business suit ran clumsily in heels to the first limousine. She yanked the door; it was locked. She shrieked, “No!”

A burly man in a suit with a bloodied face followed her from the front door. Geoff could see he had a gun, the car keys jangled from the hand. “Get in the car! Get in the car!”

“I can’t, it’s locked!” she squealed.

Car lights blinked as he unlocked it. He scrambled into the drivers’ seat and turned the ignition. She fell into the back seat pulling the door shut.

Small, short bursts of lightning shot across the sky bright enough to expose the thing swooping, flapping like a black flag from the office to the limousine. The car door flung open and it was inside as the car accelerated. Geoff heard the bumps and rattles of a ferocious battle in the vehicle as it lurched forward diagonally in the street heading in his direction. Everything was happening fast leaving him no time to run. He jumped back further in the doorway.

Metal slammed concrete as the car rammed the post in front of him. It rocked but held as the auto wrapped its bumper around it in a twisted metal bear hug, bringing it to a grinding halt. The engine hissed, rattled and died. Headlights blinked and went out. The airbag had deployed inside. There was another shout and the bag splashed red. Screams continued for a few seconds, then stopped. Whatever was happening inside the vehicle didn’t end with the scream. Not until every window was coated in a dark liquid curtain.




“There is clear evidence that we’ve allowed a machine of mayhem to be built in our midst – a machine that encourages people to take the law in their own hands. This machine tells a weak mind they have great power with a weapon in their hand. The law doesn’t determine whether the individual holding it has the intelligence, discretion or emotional control before using it as a solution. The voices behind this machine say the law gives them the freedom to assassinate what they personally find unacceptable. It’s a machine that has unleashed hell on earth one trigger-finger at a time. Every individual that wields a weapon becomes a part, a cog in this vast machine that says killing is their legal right. By allowing this we haven’t assured the safety of humanity but guaranteed it must fear being its perpetual victim, forever at the mercy of impetuous anger or indifferent prejudice.”


An Excerpt from the Gay Fantasy Fairy tale, THE ART OF THE HEART By Dan Skinner



Zac swung slowly back and forth on the swing, head bent low and hunched over his sketchbook. He’d just begun drawing Eros moving ghostlike into the room of a sleeping boy. One glance would allow anyone to recognize that it was his own room, his bed…and the boy was Zac himself. The figure was gliding downward upon him readying an arrow from his quiver in his bow. The picture would be detailed exactly, down to the cowboy print on his pajamas.

“That’s really good there, Two-Tone,” the voice came from the side of the swing and surprised him. So intent was he on the sketch he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He didn’t have to look up to know it was Rory. His chest felt a swift stab of thrill and panic. His mouth went suddenly dry. He could see the tanned legs stretching downward out of the shorts, the feet in the worn red Converse basketball shoes standing inches from him. He could sense Rory bending close over his shoulder. A self-consciousness consumed him and his skin blazed with the burn of embarrassment.

“May I?” Rory’s hand reached down close to him to get the sketchbook and lifted it from his lap. He knelt down next to Zac’s swing near his legs to study the picture. “This is pretty amazing!” he said as he flipped the page.

Zac felt himself growing horribly anxious and tongue-tied because of the attention to his drawings. The sketchbook was private and he was afraid his secret would reveal itself in its pages, but he could say or do nothing. He was stuck to the swing, brain frozen with fear. As near as he was to Rory and as compelled by desire to turn and stare at him, he was incapable of movement. His gaze remained fixed on his own feet.

“This looks just like the real comic book stuff in the magazines. I didn’t know you could do this. Have you shown this to anyone?” the older boy asked.

Without looking up, Zac shook his head. He was nervous, sweat trickled down his back.

“These wings on your super hero are just…just,” Rory paused. Out of the corner of his eye Zac could see his finger lightly touch the face of the longhaired Eros as his words drifted off. It was one of the more revealing pictures of the character. The loincloth provided little cover, leaving nothing to the imagination.

The page turned. Zac knew what series of pictures Rory was looking at. It was Rory at the square dance in their barn. It showed the line of girls watching him, awaiting their turn. He had made an old farm dance look like a fairy tale ballet.

“This looks like…” again Rory’s words trailed away into the air. He turned the page back and once more looked at the drawing. He flipped two more pages back. The one Zac had lovingly culled from his memory of Rory at sixteen lying on the tractor beside the road. The day, as a youngster, he’d sat on his lap in the cab of their truck. “How… how?” Rory’s tone held an odd mixture of both surprise and awe. “This is amazing, Two-Tone! How do you do this? It’s like you took a picture of it. This is crazy!”

Zac’s heart was beating so hard, the edges of his vision had gone dark. His senses left him feeling disembodied. He wanted to reach down and grab the sketchbook away from Rory before he could see any more of it. Zac’s soul was bared on its pages and he wasn’t ready for someone to know the secrets that lay within.

Rory shifted his position so the rays of sunlight through the tree branches fell on the pages of the sketchbook. Inadvertently, his leg grazed Zac’s. It was as if a jolt of electricity snapped through the racing current of his blood. He turned toward the older boy; their eyes locked. It was the very first time he remembered ever making eye contact with anyone. The light blue of Rory’s eyes was like a magnet on his own. The gaze between them contained a thousand unspoken sentiments. Rory appeared startled to see the younger boy’s face, and stared into the rich mismatched hues of his eyes.

Zac couldn’t believe he was this close to his idol. His tongue seemed dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. The twenty-one-year old youth’s face was exquisite. He could see the bare trace of whiskers along the strong line of chin. His ample lips were red as if cherry-stained, the bottom lip sensuously thicker than the top. A brown heart-shaped mole was at the corner of his mouth. Zac had never been near enough to notice it before. But it seemed so appropriate. He stored its exact location in his memory. His neck was long, sleek. In the afternoon sun his skin was the color of dark honey. Zac’s heart ached from being mere inches from such beauty. It was a tragedy he couldn’t kiss that mouth. All of his being wanted that contact more than he’d ever desired anything.

Finally, he tore his eyes away and looked down at his own feet again, hiding behind the veil of near-ginger. He was filled with dread. He needed Rory to hand the book back to him immediately. To not be curious anymore. To not turn any more pages. It was the most important thing in the world to him that the next few seconds went the way wished. He didn’t have a suit of armor to protect himself from hurt, and he wasn’t strong enough to bear it without one. If he had a voice he would ask for the sketchbook back.

The sketches he’d made on the next few as yet unseen pages were intimate and private. He’d done them for his personal use. They were for a lonely heart yearning to no longer be lonely. They had nothing to do with the storyline of Eros.

Time suspended itself in the November sunshine. The air around them grew hushed. Zac heard no bird or bee. What had been bright faded into indistinction as he heard the slow rustle of a page being turned. He didn’t have to look to know what was on it. He visited those pages every night. They were his hero not as he had been seen, but as Zac had imagined him. They were the way the scenes would be if Rory had been the one whose kisses had been designed for his lips alone. He stared at the toes of his shoes, not knowing what to expect. Another page turned. Tears of terror welled in his eyes and were dammed there against his lower lids. The thumping in his chest was unbearable.

“Rory, are you going to play or not?” Dale called out to his older brother from across the yard. His voice broke the trance. Zac looked up to see the younger McHenry holding a horseshoe in the air.

Pages ruffled backwards as Rory stood up next to him. His shadow blocked all the sunshine from shining on Zac.

“Here ya go,” the older boy said, handing the closed sketchbook back to him. He took it without raising his head. He didn’t want to see Rory’s expression. He was afraid to find hatred or anger or disgust marring the face he so admired. He didn’t want to have an image in his memory that would be impossible to forget. But nothing was said. And nothing happened. Rory walked away to play horseshoes and their families had a pleasant Thanksgiving together. Zac sat quietly in his chair at the dinner table speaking to no one, looking at no one–just as it would have been… even if his secret hadn’t been discovered.




I’m sitting with my muse, Dirk and five of his college buddies (straight by definition) in a cool water hot tub because the rain  has fucked up a pool party given for his buddies who have spent their hard-earned money on my gay literature at his behest. The great thing about being with others who drink (I don’t) is you get to listen in on conversations that gradually, with more booze, become more liberated..although I would say these guys are far more liberal in their thinking than most that I knew in my schooldays ..way back when. I am a listener because I’m fascinated about how people react to my work. In my head I tend to visualize it much different than others…so hearing their viewpoints fascinates me. There is no doubt that these guys have a favorite of my books.. the Science-Fiction one, Xperiment. Most have read several but this one is by far the one they like to discuss more. I suspect that’s because they grew up in an age of superhero and monster movies and I have pretty much combined the two for an epic-sized book with gay MC’s… Something new to them… superhero-gay-monsters. They tend to discuss the science-fiction aspects of the book more than the gay aspects…but it’s not because, I found out, the gay parts bother them at all. How do I know this? Dirk, always brazen, brought that subject up.

“Did the gay parts fuck up the story for you any?” he asks.. just like that as he passes more beer around the circle of us, rib-deep in cool bubbles.

Tom, his closest friend in this group, is first to answer.”Every one acts like straight guys don’t understand gay shit. We watch porn all the time. There are guys in straight porn. If you don’t think we’re not watching the guys in porn and getting off to them then you gotta think we’re all aliens or something? Women don’t fuck themselves. You gotta have dicks to see fucking. So yeah. we’re watching dicks and getting off to them.”

The others nod and agree.

Another, a newer addition to the group named Art, agrees. “Most guys I know have their first sexual experiences with other guys. It might not have to do with preference as much as what’s available or how curious we are, but I bet most everyone who’s gotten off for the first time has done it with a buddy.”

More nods. More agreement. I am enthralled with this conversation because to me it represents a new era in sexual enlightenment that just did not exist when I was their age.

“How did you feel about reading the gay sex parts of the book?” My question this time; me asking.

It’s Marty who laughs the loudest this time. I’ve met Wayne several times and Skyped with him from Dirk’s room. He’s an average guy, has his hair scooped and moussed up into that point in the center of his scalp most of the time. I find he has a great sense of humor and can tolerate Dirk’s hyperactivity better than others. When he gets too much of it he simply looks at him and says, “Settle, dude.” He says it a lot. But he’s laughed the loudest and I asked why.

“Because sex in a book is like a popcorn break at the movies.You get all this crazy intense stuff that makes you all nervous and uptight so you run to get some popcorn to bring it all back down to normal. Sex is the part where ya say…see…we’re all human.”

Dirk again:”Do you find the gay sex a turn on or a turn off?”

The whole circle laughs at this. “When is sex a TURN-OFF, dude?” It’s Marty again.”Everybody gets off on reading about people getting off.”

I have to admit I feel a little relief at this because I was curious, but really didn’t have the balls to ask. These guys really liked the book and I was hesitant to hear if the gay sex had dragged them out of their, otherwise, enjoyment of  it.

“What part did you think was the hottest?” Dirk again. (And he’s really enjoying this a bit more than me because his grin is as close to salacious as you can get without him actually engaged in something overtly obscene.)

Five out of five have just named the same scene from the book… the CHAMELEON Scene from early in the novel. I am surprised. I completely expected them to say something else. I ask what in particular in that scene affected them more than some others in the book.. (There is a scene in a sex club in this book I totally thought would be the one they picked.)

“Because we’re all deviants, dude. We all wanna sneak in and see what other people do. That’s human nature.”

So it’s the human part of my monsters that these guys relate to…and I like that…

And so without further ado and for your own prurient enjoyment, here is that scene from my sci-fi novel, XPERIMENT.


How he suddenly moved from the afternoon sunlight to the evening lights of the city and to the fire escape outside his bedroom was a mystery that could only occur in dreams.  Phantasms didn’t need transition scenes. The gauze had dissolved to a crystal clear view. This wasn’t a scene from any recent memory. The dream had a life of its own as dreams often do. He was standing in the shadows staring down the street as the bobbing lights of car approached. They swayed, traveling haphazardly over the yellow line dividing the lanes. Thankfully there was no oncoming traffic. The driver surely was intoxicated. As the car came nearer he recognized Shane’s battered Cruiser. The Pizza advertisement on top had been turned off. He pulled the car in front of his apartment and parked.

Shane emerged head first nearly tumbling out of the vehicle. He caught himself at the last moment steadying to an upright position by gripping the door. Staggering to the entrance of his building he fought with his keys eventually finding the one that let him in. The door opened unexpectedly taking him in with it. He’d fallen straight to the floor. A moment or two of recovery and cursing, he pulled himself back to his feet and kicked the door shut.

A weak light came on illuminating the window of his apartment.  From his downward view into the window Geoff could see the unmade sheets atop the mattress on the floor. A pair of jeans was wrapped in the tangled mess on the bed.

His curiosity was piqued and the voyeur in him couldn’t be satisfied by merely spying outside the window. He had to get closer. He wanted to see more. Like a stalker it was the insatiable desire to know the dirty little secrets and private idiosyncrasies of their interest that drove one to unpredictable behavior.

In a graceful leap, he bounded from the fire escape to the street stories below, landing with a spectacular and sturdy crouch a gymnast would have envied. It was only then as he looked at the taut muscles of his thighs he realized he was naked and wet. The light made his skin seem luminescent.  A quick check around himself shown the street was deserted. He was alone in the night.

His eyes zeroed in on his target: the light of Shane’s bedroom window. Bare feet stealthily made their way across the street. The front window was too exposed, but the one on the side in the alley was concealed. It was also higher and had access to a fire escape. He hoisted himself up quietly onto the grate flooring. Luckily, Shane had left the window open, curtains parted. He could see into the entire apartment.

This was salacious fun, he found himself thinking. Dreams possessed the power to do the naughty things that discretion thwarted. He imagined himself to be shadows painted on walls, skin camouflaging with his surroundings. And no sooner than he thought this, the tint of his flesh changed becoming a perfect blend of ebony and grays that could conceal him in dark corners. Light could no longer find or touch him. He was there and not there, sliding with the chimerical grace of smoke over the window sill and into the room like a living ghost.

Shane was in the shower, the door to the bathroom ajar. In the feeble light of the small room the naked form of the young man moved past the old, water-rusted plastic curtain.

He took in the surroundings. The room was large, an efficiency apartment: kitchen, bedroom and dining room all contained within the one open space. Shane, however, had made no effort to delineate partitions for what furniture belonged where. Everything was jumbled together. The kitchen table with its one chair was pressed up against the wall a few feet from his mattress. It was loaded with dirty dishes, half eaten T.V. dinners and pizza boxes from his place of employment. An old sofa with worn cushions sprouting pitted yellow foam was next to the door. A coffee table had been disguised under a pyramid of empty beer cans. Dirty clothes were thrown in a corner. The dresser was cluttered with all the typical male accessories: watches, condoms, cheap rings, and several pairs of sunglasses.  The mattress, besides being buried in the twist of sheets and clothes, also had a brimming ashtray,  pack of cigarettes and a laptop half under the pillows. Wadded empty cigarette packages lay on the side of the bed near the one lamp providing the room’s light. A bong in the shape of a Polynesian God, a box of tissues and hand lotion were next to this.

It was on the very rumpled bed on the floor, Geoff imagined, that Shane had a storm-filled night of lovemaking with the beautiful, dark-haired Danny.  He envisioned their lips pressed together in alcohol and cigarette-flavored kisses, baring themselves to each other, mingling in sweat and other delicious fluids.

With a tinny rattle of rungs, the shower curtain pulled back; the signal for him to meld with a corner of the room. Leaning flat against the surface of the wall, he disappeared into his bland, grease-stained surface. Shane exited the bathroom looking refreshed and less intoxicated. A worn terrycloth towel wrapped his small waist. His hair, wet and darker-looking, was brushed backwards exposing the squared angles of his face. His attention was on the black cellphone in his hands, thumbs tapping out a text message as he made his way to the mattress, kicking things out of his path along the way. He paused midway peering suspiciously around the room as if he’d sensed Geoff’s presence. Inquisitive eyes passed over the corner where he hid, but didn’t linger. Satisfied, he continued to the mattress and sat. Tanned, hairy legs parted just enough to taunt Geoff with what remained hidden.

Dreams were the playground of everyone’s hidden inner voyeur, he mused. Who hasn’t imagined what secret things they would look in on if they were invisible?  The fascination to see what others shielded from the world was powerful, and that knowledge wasn’t just power, it was another form of pleasure.

Shane made several calls looking for company. The wrinkles etched in his face said he’d had no luck.  Exasperated, he tossed the phone to the side, flopping belly-down on the bed.  He grabbed and lit a cigarette then opened his laptop. The screen bloomed.

From his viewpoint Geoff admired the lines of Shane’s body: the two round mounds beneath the towel. His back had a subtle arch accentuating the firm cheeks. The shoulders weren’t broad but lean and muscular. The hair in his pits and legs was a shade darker than that of his scalp. He had nice feet that moved nervously as he checked his email, and then finally some porn. Exactly what Geoff had hoped for: a private show.

He was an impatient porn peruser, quickly pulling up video selections, watching a portion then moving to the next. Not finding what suited his whim appeared to agitate him.  He shifted position, uncinching his towel, he rubbed his feet together and spread his legs affording Geoff the first glimpse of his genitalia. He had long, fleshy balls. Pushing his dick under these revealed he was uncircumcised , the head peaking from its soft sheath in half arousal.

When, at last, he found a video to his liking, his buttocks pinched in anticipation. HIs legs spread wider. He wasn’t one of those who watched porn “for the story”.  He fast forwarded through talking sections right to the action, even skipping foreplay.

Growing more excited in anticipation of the show, he wanted a clearer view of the action to come.  He slid silently along the wall like a dark curtain to a position nearer the side of the bed where he could enjoy the full length of Shane. From this vantage he could also see the computer screen.

His choices indicated he was into “jocks”, both the athlete and the supporter they wore. The chosen video had an assortment of guys fitting this category in a cheap studio with a fictitious fraternity banner hanging in the background. Unlike real fraternities, this one didn’t have an average “Joe” among them. No stoners, unshaven, typical college boys with a hint of a beer gut – just good-looking guys in peak physical condition. In spite of the lack of realism, the video had its desired effect on Shane. Hips shifted, butt lifted as he tucked a hand beneath to grasp himself.

On the screen a blond with a crew-cut was laid back on a table, shaved legs hiked up over another’s shoulderpads as his ass was being eaten. It was a resplendent ass, though hairless and with a noticeable tan outline of a speedo. Another “brother” in a pristinely ironed football jersey and brand new jock strap plied the thick, hard dick with a more than eager and well-practiced mouth. Shane grinned appreciatively, a remnant of drunken gleam still in his eyes. Pulling himself free of the towel, he pushed his buttocks higher, cheeks parting.  A thin rivulet of perspiration trickled down the firm mounds into the curling dark hair between them. Geoff preferred Shane’s unshaven ass better than those in the film he watched. It was more real. The higher he hoisted his butt the easier it was to view the impressive dangling hairy ball sacks. They were a spectacular sight. He was nicely endowed.

He sat, tucking his legs under himself, steadying himself on an arm. Geoff thought this made him resemble a seductive Renaissance sculpture. Nimble fingers toyed with the hard bow of flesh, pulling its uncut sheath back to reveal a perfect tulip bulb head, shiny red and engorged with blood. Geoff loved every moment of the show.  Dreams like this were rare, most lacking details and seeming fragmented.  In this one he could see everything from the thin arrow of dark-blond hair pointing down Shane’s stomach into his untrimmed proliferation of pubes, to the diamond bright drops of pre-cum popping and stringing from his dick to his fingers as he stroked himself. The bestial beat of sexual hunger felt more real than imagined in this dream.

Cautiously, he crept closer, skirting the boundary of weak light. Shane’s nude outline was enticing him nearer: the heaving chest, the slight shimmy of muscular ass cheeks. He wanted to relish every square inch and movement of that naked body as if it were a spectator sport.

Leaning to the side of the mattress and from between it and the box springs, he retrieved something that had been hidden –  sleek and black, twelve inches in length, it shone in the lamplight like a prized trophy. In a moment of indulgence, Shane closed his eyes and rubbed it across his lips. A pointed slip of tongue flicked over the smooth tip.  Whatever he was thinking produced an anticipatory reflexive response as his ass cheeks parted.

It was a captivating sight, more stimulating than the rehearsed moans and overly-dramatic gesticulations of the performed sex acts, as Shane’s mouth opened and he slowly pumped the dildo deep into his throat and luxuriously sucked it. His dick snapped upward and straight. Geoff’s pulse quickened imagining golden-boy Danny prone and at the mercy of that majestic mouth.

With more than familiar ease, Shane lifted his hips high as he reached around with the toy, tugged a white cheek to the side and teased the black tip near its pink target. He gingerly skewered it, pushing slowly and sensuously against the pliable entrance. At last he coaxed it into himself half an inch at a time. His back arched as he moaned rapturously, his body responding in a succession of shudders.  The blond hair on his chest highlighted his copper, coin-sized nipples as their tips became rigid.

Geoff had hardened similarly. There was more heartbeat below his waist than in his chest. He’d never experienced this much lucid sensation in a dream.

Shane chewed his bottom lip as the thrusts began to find an erotic tempo. He matched the pace with his masturbatory strokes. The rhythm conjured a visual articulation of a machine, piston-driven by desire.  Perspiration dotted his spine, his flesh glowed feverishly with heat as the small butt rose and fell on the black sex toy. His climax was close. Eyes rolled backward and with a prizefighters grunt for a winning punch, a projectile of thick white spurted from him, launching across the mattress to make a shining pool on a dingy pillowcase. Two more liquid bullets shot closer onto the bundled sheets.

There was nothing more beautiful than seeing a man lose himself in orgasm. Indescribable art, Geoff mused – a portrait of pleasure.  He was close to a climax himself, as if he was sharing the moment with Shane; a secret, mutual bond.

As Shane collapsed a sweaty, spent mess on the bed, Geoff came. He never remembered being able to do that in a dream before, but he came and it was mind-splintering magnificent.

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