The Las Vegas Impersonator

Here’s the beginning of The Las Vegas Impersonator, a new yaoi MM novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Kyle shivered a little when the elevator door opened. Elvis stood there in front of him. He was young, glorious Elvis, radiantly macho as he stood there with a big grin on his smooth face. His hefty body barely fit in his white shirt beneath a black jacket. That little tendril of hair that hung over his forehead was like a beckoning finger, demanding Kyle enter the elevator and suck his body clean.

It wasn’t really Elvis, of course. Elvis would be elderly if he were still alive. This was a man named Rank Teravalo. He worked here at the Count Castle Casino in northern Las Vegas. Kyle worked here too, though he was nothing more than a blackjack dealer. Rank was an Elvis impersonator, and he performed a retro-rockabilly show five nights a week.

“Howdy,” Rank said. He still had that Southern accent. It clung to him and it required active thought to switch himself back to his ordinary dialect (he was an Italian-American from Queens).

“You sound tired,” Kyle said. He didn’t want to embarrass Rank, so he just got in the elevator and stood there awkwardly. He was sure he hadn’t hidden how much Rank turned him on. Rank was sexy, handsome and deep-dimpled. He was a bodybuilder too; some of the casino patrons referred to him as Muscle-Elvis because he was substantially more muscular than the real Elvis had ever been. Kyle had had a huge crush on him from the moment he first saw Rank with his chest bursting from the up-collared shirt he wore over jeans that hugged his plump ass. Kyle had stood there drooling at him from the audience.

“Yeah, you seen them old broads?” Rank asked. His accent was cute, Kyle thought, because, when he dropped character, he still spoke like a Kentucky country singer but with the diction of his New York City home. “There’s a big party of ‘em ‘round he’e, uh-huh. They all over the place. They’s a fuckin’ bachelorette party, swear to God. What kinda old lady got a bachelorette party in Vegas? The bride’s like sixty.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Kyle said. “Old ladies need loving too, Rank. You shouldn’t hide your sexiness from them.”

Rank smiled. “I don’t need some lady older than my mom pinchin’ my ass. One of ‘em I think was tryin’-a get her finger in my asshole, man. I swear, she was tryin’ to finger me, like she thought I might have a treasure hidden in there.”

Kyle giggled. “Oh you’re just playing, I know you love it when women fawn all over-“

The elevator rocked and trembled. A loud beeping sound filled the air, then it slowly trailed off like some piece of electronics somewhere in the machinery was dying. Kyle and Rank exchanged nervous glances as the elevator came to a screeching halt.

“Oh shit.”

“Is this broken?” Kyle went straight to the elevator door. He managed to force it open with Rank’s help, but behind the door was just stone wall.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Rank went to the emergency phone, but it rang before he could even touch it. A security guy was on the other end of the line. “Uh, hello? Error signal? Yeah, the elevator’s stuck. We’re in here. Two people, just me and Kyle. Rank Teravalo and Kyle…”

“Martin.”

“Kyle Martin.” He laughed. “Shut up, Jamaal, I ain’t like that. When’re we gettin’ out of here? Well call him up, asshole! I don’t care!” He chuckled. “Yeah, there’s a patron in here too. She’s an old lady who got a lawyer on retainer. She say she gonna sue yo’ ass, boy.” His Kentucky accent gradually dwindled now that he was stressed and out of that Elvis-mindset. He angrily slammed the phone down. “Fuckin’ Jamaal, he’s an asshat. Fuck that guy.”

“What’d he say?”

“He’s calling maintenance, he said it was lesser priority cuz there weren’t no patrons in here. And he thinks…” Rank glanced at Kyle and bit his lip. For a moment he really looked like Elvis, and Kyle blushed.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Did he say something about me?”

Rank blushed and winced. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t… Man, just… I said it, it wasn’t no thing, man. I was just kiddin’-“

“What? What did you say?”

Rank sighed. “Man… It ain’t a big deal, alright? But a couple days ago, I told Jamaal you was, y’know… I know you want me, alright? I seen you lookin’ at me, and shit… And Jamaal was sayin’ I should let you take a swing on my meat.” He grabbed his cock through his tight bell-bottom pants. “He said since we stuck in here anyway…”

“Oh.” Kyle blushed. He hadn’t realized how obvious he was checking Rank out. In his defense, it was almost impossible not to — he was simply stacked all over, and he was dressed like an attention-grabbing idol, so he was hard to ignore.

A very tense air filled the elevator. Kyle forgot his annoyance and fear at being stuck in the elevator. All he could think about was Rank’s body and that handsome face. He giggled to relieve the tension in his mind.

The Yakuza’s Tutor

Here’s the beginning of “The Yakuza’s Tutor“, a yaoi interracial tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Frank felt like an idiot when he finally realized who he worked for. In retrospect, there were lots of clues. But he was an American who had only just moved to Japan to teach English. He had chalked all that stuff up to cultural differences.

He only became totally sure when he went to a noodle restaurant with a man. The Japanese gay scene was hard for foreigners to break into; many gay men simply weren’t interested in Americans. But he finally got a date with a hot man, and they went to this legendary noodle joint that had been recommended by the men he taught English to. They ate there often. He had seen the takeout containers. He had eaten the noodles takeout himself, he had just never been there before.

Midway through the meal, Frank’s date leaned over to whisper, in broken, nervous, trembling English, “I didn’t know you were… yakuza. I’m sorry, I’m just shocked. I know I should pretend I do not know, but… well, you’re not Japanese anyway-“

“Wait, what?”

And so that was how Frank figured it out. He never went on a second date with that guy, who was too terrified to answer the phone when Frank called. The noodle restaurant was yakuza-connected. The waiters had been speaking in hushed tones that Frank’s date overheard as they ate — the only reason they had allowed Frank in was because their delivery boy vouched for him working for Samforo.

Samforo was, it turned out, a front company. Frank went to work without acknowledging what he had learned. Now it was obvious. This was a telecommunications company that didn’t advertise or run cable anywhere. The “executives” to whom Frank taught English were mostly muscle-bound goons, several of whom were missing a finger. There were no women around at all. Even the cleaning staff had grim faces and nice suits.

So there were signs that something was amiss. Frank was terrified and considered quitting. He could just flee back to America. But that might even be more dangerous. He wondered if the yakuza thought he was an idiot for not figuring it out.

He decided to play along. He pretended he still had no idea. He asked how the telecommunications business was doing, and the charming “Vice-President” who signed Frank’s paychecks — Mr. Matsumagi — smilingly explained that they were doing well, expanding into new areas. Frank said great and went home.

After that, things settled into a groove. The men were very respectful to him. He had thought that was general Japanese politeness and respect for educators, but now he realized that wasn’t the case — they were deferent to him, either because he was seen as a boss of sorts or because they thought they needed in order to maintain the illusion that they were a real company. They were strictly obedient, falling silent in their chairs at nine o’clock every morning and listening attentively until they finished at noon.

That was the beginner’s class. In the afternoon, Frank taught English one-on-one to the more advanced learners. That was another aspect that seemed obvious in retrospect — the “beginners” were bodyguards and goons; the “advanced learners” were the actual leaders, extortionists and others who needed to do real business in English-speaking countries. The beginners were all big and strong and not especially smart; the advanced learners were smaller and handsomer, with obvious intellect, honeyed words and big grins. The beginners had, in some cases, worked here for years but were still treated like lackeys (because they were).

So it was weeks before Frank felt comfortable again. It finally clicked to him one day — Frank was in a position of power. The leaders didn’t care what happened so long as everybody learned English, and they certainly didn’t care about ordinary rules or laws. They respected only obedience to proper authority, and during classes, that authority was Frank.

The men in his beginners didn’t care too much what Frank did either — they didn’t freak out when he did something they saw as rude by Japanese standards; they didn’t care that he was white or openly gay; they didn’t expect him to behave in the same stoic, obedient way they expected each other to behave. They even seemed to enjoy it when Frank cracked inappropriate jokes or behaved like a blustery American cowboy. The “goons” — that was how Frank came to think of his morning beginner’s class, since they were all bodyguards and enforcers — thought it was hilarious when Frank threw a limp wrist and a sassy comment in their direction. They didn’t even usually understand the sass, but they enjoyed it. They said he was “funny like a white Upa”. Frank had to ask several Japanese friends what “Upa” was before he realized they were comparing him to RuPaul.

Soon the classes became rowdy affairs, at least by Japanese standards. The goons laughed and occasionally called out comments in broken English. They brought in videos downloaded from YouTube and asked Frank to explain why they were funny. Occasionally they argued with each other, or challenged each other to contests of strength, all of which were conducted in Japanese much too rapid for Frank to follow.

It was after one of those contests that Frank first realized what he could get away with. The winner was Itsuki, who was new to the class. He was one of those goons whom Frank was a bit scared of, despite his deference and respect for Frank’s authority — Itsuki was tall for a Japanese man, brimming with muscles and missing one finger in its entirety and another finger past the first knuckle.

When Itsuki won his contest — Frank had no idea what sparked it, the class was simply interrupted by an argument in very swift Japanese, so Frank went with the ride and clapped with the others while Itsuki and Akio did push-ups.

When he won, Itsuki stood, chest heaving and dappled with sweat. He was heavily tattooed, with koi fish and kabuki dancers covering his badly scarred chest and neck — he looked like he had survived a fire at some point — and he roared, pounding on his chest like Tarzan. It lasted only a moment, and Itsuki blushed like he hadn’t meant to; that was an intense display of emotion for a Japanese man, especially a yakuza in a classroom like this. Everyone fell silent and stared at him.

Frank broke the tension by placing one hand on Itsuki’s bicep. He intended to raise his arm like an umpire congratulating a winning boxer, but he felt a surge of desire and arousal from the touch of Itsuki’s corded muscles and the musky scent of his armpit. He just held onto Itsuki’s arm and rubbed his face against it like a cat, giggling and blushing.

The expression on Frank’s face must have alerted the yakuza to Frank’s feelings, because they all burst into laughter. Frank thought he had angered them or humiliated himself, but they thought it was funny. Whatever they said to Itsuki made him frown at Frank — Frank caught a few words in Japanese, it sounded like they were telling Itsuki he was too ugly to meet any girls and he should hook up with Frank instead.

The T-Girl in the ‘Hood

Here’s the beginning of The T-Girl in the ‘Hood, a new story by Calvin Freeman about a transgender woman living in the hood, getting propositioned by all the sexiest straight bucks the ghetto can provide!

 

Tina looked out her window. Her apartment was freshly cleaned, so she felt good — she loved a clean apartment. From her vantage point, she could see the park next-door. It wasn’t a nice park; Tina lived in the ghetto; it did have one redeeming factor though.

The shirtless men who played basketball every day. Tina watched them bump sweaty chests and clasp each other on the well-muscled back, stroking her cock until she shot all over her floor. Tina did the same thing nearly every day.

Today, however, she was distracted almost as soon as she wrapped one hand around her cock. Walter was back. She shivered with delight and anticipation.

Walter was her neighbor, or to be more precise, he was her neighbor’s husband. He was a middle-aged black man; there was no objective reason he should be so hot, Tina thought — he didn’t have a perfect body like some of those basketballers; he had a nice face but he was hardly some Hollywood heartthrob in that department; he was scruffy, ever-dirty because he was semi-homeless with a serious gambling problem and semi-serious drug problem (according to Tina’s neighbor, whom she didn’t entirely trust). He was ungodly sexy though, with swagger dripping off him and a hefty frame that made Tina drool every time she saw him.

“I said I’d do it, baby, damn!” Walter’s raspy deep voice rang out. He was one of those people who didn’t really have a quiet voice, so Tina could always hear when he was back in his wife’s life. “Don’t start this shit again!”

One of the sexiest things about him was that he had checked out Tina’s ass, and then when his wife told him Tina was transgender, his eyes opened wide as though he thought that made her hotter. Tina didn’t often see that look on men’s faces. But he had gone then, after an argument, before spending a few months in prison on an ancient child support beef, then living on some “white lady’s couch”. He had come back one other occasion, but only for a few days before he got kicked out again. Tina hadn’t had any opportunity to be alone with him.

Until now.

She hurried into the back alley when she saw him grumbling as he left the building. Tina’s apartment was right there adjoining the alley, so she was the only person that had her own side-entrance and -exit. That was the door she used now.

“Hey, Walter,” she said. He had a bag of trash in his hand. It was heavy enough that it made his biceps flex holding onto it. He wore only a wifebeater and a pair of shorts. He tossed the bag into the dumpster.

“Hey,” he said with a casual nod. He grabbed his cock through his shorts and smiled at her. “What’s ya’ deal?”

First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor – Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending

Here’s the debut novelette by a new MM erotica author, Happiest Ending! It’s called First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor: Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending and its title pretty much gives it all away!

When the jock’s cock twitched beneath the towel, Chase knew what was going to happen. He didn’t react right away though. That, he thought, wouldn’t be very professional. He continued the massage.

The jock was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a wavy shock of blond hair and brilliantly flashing eyes, when they weren’t scrunched up closed tightly. His muscles rippled beneath Chase’s fingers, which kneaded the meaty flesh of the young man’s thighs. His toes stretched and he grunted.

The jock was named Irwin. He was a rugby player from the university right around the block. He had come in to the Happy Ending Massage Parlor at the insistence of his coach, who had said his sore calf needed a real massage. Coach Gathers knew Chase well, and knew that he was a licensed masseur who could fix the calf muscle — which did indeed have a knot in it. Chase could get that out easily enough.

But that erection… Chase wondered if Irwin was even aware of it. He had been so nervous he giggled like a schoolboy when he undressed in the massage room. His hefty muscle-bound body trembled. It was obvious he thought he was going to get a female masseuse, not Chase, but Chase pretended he didn’t notice that.

“How does your leg feel?”

“O- Okay.” He bit his lip. It didn’t sound like he was thinking much about the leg. He let out a breathy sigh like he was either aroused or scared or embarrassed, or maybe all three at once.

“Good. I can feel a lot of stress in your body,” Chase said. “What’s been bothering you?”

“Uh, well, nothing really,” he said. Chase knew something else was coming, so he just waited. His hands moved up Irwin’s body from his thigh to his chest — Chase could feel him desiring a handjob, but Irwin didn’t say that and Chase wanted to tease him still — and his muscles tensed beneath Chase’s hands. Then they slowly relaxed, bit by bit, as Chase massaged his flesh. Irwin grunted. “My ex banged this Samoan dude on my team, it really pissed me off.” He blushed like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Chase said. He clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“She did it just to piss me off. Him too, I think. He did it in the locker room so I would see it,” Irwin said. He snorted. “Whatever, fuck him. She wasn’t even that hot.” He seemed to realize then that he had a boner. He looked down at his cock and smiled nervously. “Oh, uh…”

“It’s okay, relax.” Chase moved up to massage his chest with one hand. He arranged himself so Irwin couldn’t see his own crotch because Chase was in the way. Chase’s other hand roamed down to Irwin’s cock and gripped it.

The Prison Bitch

Here’s the first chapter of The Prison Bitch, a hot new hardcore and extreme story from Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary.

Charlie had gotten through his first day in Brutewood Prison and, so far, everything had gone very well. People more or less ignored him. He was processed along with several weaker men, included one disgraced cop and a pedophile, so they were the target of most of the ire from the other inmates.

When he returned to his cell after dinner, he saw his cellmate — an elderly Latino man — being led out on a stretcher. He was alive, but he looked sick. He had looked sickly since Charlie met him, but now he looked much sicker.

Charlie was nervous. What did that mean for him? Was he going to get a new cellmate? Maybe it’d be someone else new, he thought. Was this a good thing or a bad thing for Charlie? He had no idea.

Soon after dinner, his cell door opened, and a middle-aged black man entered. He was Jackson; he was wiry and ropy-muscled, not huge or bulky but powerful. He had a shaved head and a wide, flat nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was covered in gang tats, including the underlined words NINE TATS on his belly — Charlie knew that meant he was one of the head generals of the Nine Tats street gang.

Jackson stopped in the center of the cell, holding onto a box containing all of his belongings. The cell was open, since this was free time; anyone could just walk in or out. Jackson checked Charlie out from head to toe.

“Yo, you faggot, whiteboy?” Jackson asked.

“I-“

“Wait just a sec, boy, befo’ you answer, I got somethin’ to explain,” he said. He spoke quickly but with great intent, like there was meant to be hidden subtext to everything he said. He had a very faint lisp like a pimp — it wasn’t very noticeable, but Charlie heard it. Charlie still hadn’t really decided if he would tell people he was gay. Some had said he should, some had said he shouldn’t. He had planned on playing it by ear.

When Jackson checked that no guards were around, he sat next to Charlie on the bunk. “Yo, lemme rap at you. But first, my name’s Jackson, howdayoudo?” He smiled broadly and shook Charlie’s head.

“I’m Charlie.”

“Charlie. That’s a pretty name. That’s very good. I like that, boy,” Jackson said. “Welcome to my cell. You should know this is my cell, alright? I be settin’ all the rules in here. You got any kinda problem wit’ that? Huh? You tell me now.”

He leaned forward until his eyes were right in front of Charlie’s, his lips so close he was virtually kissing him. “Yeah. You a faggot. I can tell. I can smell it on ya lips, yes, I bet you is. I can’t wait to hear yo’ answer. But don’t say yet. I ain’t finish askin’ the question.”

“Okay-“

“Shut yo’ mouth. That’s rule one. You don’t speak unless I allow it, boy.” He paused as though giving Charlie a chance to disobey him. Charlie’s heart raced. Jackson smiled. He remained so close to Charlie their lips almost touched. “Good. Now when I ask if you a faggot, you gotta understand I’s askin’ cuz you gotta have a role. You gotta get somethin’ to do around here, somethin’ that contributes to the organization.” He pointed to his Nine Tats tattoo. That entailed leaning back so Charlie could see it, which meant he finally pulled his face away from Charlie’s. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Jackson smiled at him. “Oh, that’s the Nine Tats. They’s my organization. See, if you say you ain’t no kinda faggot, then when I rape you a little later, you gonna be my bitch. You gonna be prostituted out for a cigarette or two, ya dig? I’m gonna sell yo’ ass. If I can find a way to sell yo’ organs, that’s what I’m gonna do. Okay? So that’s option one. You can tell me you straight, and I turn ya body into cash any way that I can. You like option one?”

“No-“

“I ain’t think so. It ain’t popular. I think it’s got a branding problem, you know? Like maybe if we call it the Doritos Extreme Prison Bitch Experience or some shit, you know, then people would give it a try,” he said. “But option two might be better. Since I think you might really be a faggot, that’s the one that might suit ya needs the best. See, in option two, you tell me you a faggot. Then I tell you that you my wife now. I will treat you right-“ He held one hand up as though to forestall any objections. “Now I may still treat you wrong from time to time, cuz I am an imperfect man. We all just faded and disto’ted copies of God’s glorious visage, ain’t we?”

“Uh-“

“No talkin’ just yet, boy, but I like yo’ enthusiasm,” he said. He gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek. “If you my wife, I still rape you. I still gonna hit you when I gotta correct yo’ behavior, and maybe a little fo’ fun — but I always make that up to you, baby, I always say I’m sorry and give you some sugar to make up for misbehavin’.” He paused and smiled. “See? I normally give this little speech to straight boys who gonna pretend to be gay. I make love to they squirmin’ virgin ass till they bore me and I sells ‘em off. But you really a faggot, right?”

“Yeah-“

“See, now that’s nice. You ain’t gotta pretend. I might not get bored of you. I love fuckin’ faggots. Once you fuck a straight boy hard enough, he stop fightin’ back, then it’s like fuckin’ a dead fish. But a faggot, boy, I can make a faggot squirm for days,” he said. He licked his lips. “Suck on my finger.” He held up his middle finger, and Charlie sucked it down. It was callused and salty, and tasted a little of tonight’s dinner — hot dog and ketchup. Jackson licked his lips. “If you was straight and pretendin’ to be gay, you’d be gaggin’ right now, and I’d be saying that I fuck you so good you turn into a faggot fo’ real. I tell ‘em I know how to make ‘em cum from the prostate — you know about the prostate, right? Course you do, you a faggot — I tell ‘em that and make ‘em tell me they like it. I make ‘em jack off when I fuck ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ better than a straight boy cumming when you fuck ‘im.”

“Can I suck your dick now?” Charlie asked. He thought getting on Jackson’s good side would be helpful. Jackson was very sexy and in any other environment, Charlie would have genuinely wanted to suck his dick. But this was too frightening for him. He couldn’t even think about any actual desire for sex. All his mind focused on was Jackson’s intense words ringing in his ears.

“No you may not, but thank you for askin’,” he said. “I gotta work out. You watch me and study my body, so you can worship it later.” He paused. “Straight boys get this real cute look in they face when I say that.”

“I bet,” Charlie said. He smiled. “You are really hot, you know.”

“I know. Thank you fo’ sayin’ it, sweetheart.” He smiled. He got down on the ground and started doing push-ups. He counted off, and Charlie watched him the whole time. Then he did a series of other workouts using a pillowcase filled with odds and ends as a weight, and he almost totally ignored Charlie the entire time.

Eventually Charlie lost interest in watching him. He studied the marks carved into the stone wall of the cell, trying to decipher their meaning.

“Alright, you can suck my dick now,” Jackson said suddenly, startling Charlie, who suspected that Jackson had been waiting for Charlie to get distracted. He seemed like he enjoyed those sorts of mindgames — he wouldn’t want Charlie to suck his dick because Charlie desired it, so he waited for Charlie to get involved in something else. He didn’t wait for Charlie to react either, he just grabbed him by the neck and made him lean over the edge of the bunk. In seconds, Jackson had his limp dick ramming into Charlie’s throat, while his hand squeezed his neck and his balls swayed in front of Charlie’s eyes. If Charlie had been straight, he thought, that would have been terrifying. “Open up that throat, boy.”

Jackson coughed like he was surprised at how good Charlie was at deep-throating, especially so suddenly. He whistled his appreciation as his balls slapped against Charlie’s nose. There was nearly a foot of black throbbing cockmeat in Charlie’s throat.

“Fuck, you oughta give lessons to the prison bitches around here. A lot of ‘em can’t suck worth a damn, man.” He groaned and started grinding his hips to get his dick in even deeper.

Charlie’s throat did gag and clench, but he was used to that. He was able to fight against his instincts, allowing every last inch of Jackson’s dick to fill up his gullet. His head swam. He was dizzy, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Hey, boy, hey boy, look up here. Focus,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers to get Charlie’s attention. He swayed his hips, making Charlie gag as his balls dragged over his chin. “Look me in the eye when you suck my dick. Touch me right here if you understand.” He pointed to his left pectoral muscle.

Charlie had to reach up to touch him there. Jackson nodded like he was satisfied. Then he pulled out. As soon as he did, Charlie hoarsely gasped for air. Jackson grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up so Jackson could watch.

“Yo, it takes three seconds to take a breath.” He held up three fingers, quickly counted down, then pushed Charlie back to the ground. Charlie had barely gotten a breath in before Jackson’s cock slammed back into his mouth.

Jackson was relentless and had his cock deep in Charlie’s throat again in moments. Once more he swayed his balls over Charlie’s chin and laughed when he choked. Spit spilled out of Charlie’s mouth, sliding down his cheeks and making a little puddle on the floor of the cell.

“You got three seconds to breathe. That’s what it takes. Any more than that is you on vacation, and I don’t allow my boys to take no time off,” he said. “You is doin’ a good job. I’s proud of you, sweetheart.” He spoke rather flatly, like he had read somewhere that he should give positive reinforcement but didn’t understand why.

He repeated that cycle several times. He held his cock in Charlie’s throat, fucking him back and forth, reminding him to keep his eyes aimed up at Jackson’s face, then gave him three seconds to breathe before resuming the cycle all over again. Charlie was so dizzy and discombobulated that he had no idea how long that lasted, and it was a complete shock when Jackson came — if he gave signs beforehand, Charlie didn’t notice them.

All of a sudden, just as Jackson slammed his dick in once again, a load of salty cum hit Charlie’s tongue. This time Jackson didn’t move, he rammed his dick down Charlie’s gullet and held it there, his load flowing directly into Charlie’s stomach. It was hot and creamy, salty, sour and delicious on Charlie’s tongue.

“Good boy, swallow it all, swallow it all. Don’t gag, no, I don’t like gaggin’ at this stage — you can gag when I fuck ya throat, that’s yo’ body reactin’ instinctively, but don’t you never gag on my cum, boy. That’s disrespectful. I might have to punish you if you do that. You look so pretty wit’ my cum dripping down yo’ chin. Look me in the eye. Who do you love?”

“Uh, you-“

He slapped Charlie, not as hard as he could, but hard enough. “Don’t say uh, don’t hesitate. If you in love, you ain’t gotta hesitate. If you know that shit in yo’ heart, you don’t gotta think about it.” He paused. “Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good boy.” He bristled and sniffled. “Sorry I hit ya. I don’t like hearin’ my boys hesitate, that’s all. Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good. Good, good. Who fucks you the best you ever been fucked?”

“You.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Finally it was all over. Jackson made him sit there with remnants of cum on his face. Charlie stayed motionless, basking in the glow of his own orgasm. He was glad to be settling in, he thought, and he was glad Jackson was his prison husband.

At last, Jackson allowed him to clean up and go to bed. Charlie was genuinely grateful, and he already couldn’t wait to be fucked again. As soon as lights out came, Charlie had an idea.

“Jackson, can I masturbate tonight thinking of you kissing me? I just think you’re so hot-“

“Yes, sweetheart, you may, as long as you eat all yo’ own cum. Thank you for asking.”

The Black Cop

Here’s the beginning of The Black Cop, a new yaoi tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Nelson never thought this would happen. It only happened in gay porn, right?

But here he was, sliding to his knees in front of the mountainous black cop, Officer Toulouse, with his deep Louisiana accent and a chest so broad and strapping he looked like a professional wrestler. Any moment now Nelson expected him to rip off his shirt and pound on his chest.

Officer Toulouse — or Alan, as he had said Nelson should call him — had a handsome if gruff face, with a noble jaw, high cheeks and a brilliant cop mustache. Nelson loved men with facial hair, and Toulouse had one of the best, fullest and sexiest copstaches he had ever seen. He barely fit in his uniform shirt too, biceps bulging from his sleeves and tattoos peeking out from his chest.

That was fine with Nelson, who didn’t even want him to be wearing a shirt right now. But he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask him to take it off. He seemed like the kind of macho alpha male who thought real men didn’t take their clothes off when they let gay dudes suck them off. So Nelson just watched his pecs bounce beneath his brown uniform.

“Ah, yeah, man, my wife ain’t suck me off in years, man… Used to be just on my birthday, but then she stopped doing that,” he said with a moan. He closed his eyes.

His fat cock drilled down Nelson’s throat. It stiffened almost right away, his big veiny shaft rubbing against every inch of Nelson’s mouth. The flavor of his musky body and his hairy crotch assaulted Nelson’s senses. He moaned, gurgling merrily on the taste of his cock.

Nelson had had a crush on Officer Toulouse for more than a year. A homeless man had passed out drunk on Nelson’s porch one night, so when Nelson woke up, he called the police. Officer Toulouse showed up and Nelson was so smitten he blushed and giggled as he explained, even despite the smell of the homeless man who had pissed himself on the front lawn. That was a long time ago, but Nelson kept running into Toulouse — buying coffee at the same time, on the side of the road when Nelson’s car broke down and once in the courthouse parking garage while Nelson paid a speeding ticket.

His hands gripped Nelson’s head and held on tightly. He groaned as though Nelson was scratching an itch that Toulouse had been unable to reach for a long time. Toulouse leaned his head back and his crotch forward, bending himself in both directions to give Nelson easy access to his cock.

“Ah, shit, man… You should give lessons on handlin’ meat…”

Nelson gurgled as he deep-throated him. Nelson loved sucking dick, and Officer Toulouse’s was particularly sweet and meaty. Nelson had never been one of those gay men who were into rough trade, or big black cocks, or even uniform studs. He saw the attraction of that stuff, but it wasn’t really his thing.

Asian Alpha: The Hardest Yakuza

Here’s the beginning of Asian Alpha: The Hardest Yakuza, the newest gaysian MM erotica story by the great Rick Mann!

Minoru threw away the half-used limes and lemons, their little squashed wedges sitting like dead soldiers on the cutting board behind the bar. He wanted to signal that it was almost closing time. He made a loud noise clinking glasses together as he cleaned up the bar.

There weren’t many people here still, and he thought they’d leave soon. They usually did. They were too polite to stay until closing time and make Minoru tell them to leave.

A shiver of desire ran through Minoru’s body as he raised his head and caught a glimpse of that new man. Minoru thought he was so sexy it hurt to look at him. He was Japanese, but he was built, Minoru thought, like a Russian bodybuilder, with a squarish jaw, bulging shoulders and crude, deep eyes. Minoru knew — or strongly suspected — that the man was covered in colorful tattoos as well, but he couldn’t see them because they were covered up by his ill-fitting suit.

The new man was yakuza. They all were. Minoru was a bartender at a yakuza bar. No one had ever told him that; he simply figured it out when he saw the entirely male clientele and saw how they interacted with each other. It was the only thing that made sense.

Tonight, Minoru hadn’t sold a single drink of alcohol. No one told him why, but he had overheard hints that clarified — these man had some sort of duty that led to them being forbidden to drink for a period of time; that duty was satisfied as of today — that was why they had come out to celebrate — but the no-drinking rule still applied, hadn’t been lifted and wouldn’t be violated except on pain of death, even if the reason for it no longer applied.

One by one, the yakuza had gone upstairs. Again, no one told Minoru why but he had a good guess — girls. There were prostitutes in the apartment upstairs (he had seen scantily clad women coming and going in the night-time), and each of the men took turns having sex. They may have paid, Minoru thought, or gotten freebies because their organization ran the brothel, though Minoru suspected it was the former — the yakuza were generally too organized and strict to give freebies, or even discounts. It was more likely that the men’s boss paid for them all.

“You want a free ride on a girl?” asked one of the yakuza, sliding into a seat at the bar.

“I’m sorry?”

The yakuza was a young man with a cocky glare. He dressed flashy for yakuza, with a brilliant purple ring on one finger and a colorful tie. He smiled charmingly. “We are celebrating because…” He sniffled. “Because we have reason to celebrate. We are… If you would like to spend time with a girl, I will not charge you. The fee has been arranged. You may go upstairs and take your pick. Except not Etsuko. She is my favorite.”

Minoru’s heart sped up. He knew he shouldn’t be too nervous — this wasn’t a movie where he might say the wrong thing and get killed for looking at a yakuza wrong. They weren’t anti-gay either. Minoru was actually surprised that this pimp-yakuza didn’t already know Minoru was gay — at least some of the men here did know, so they must not have been spreading it around. This was one occasion when Minoru would rather that they talk about him behind his back. It would have been easier than coming out of the closet over and over.

“Uh, well… I am… Thank you very much for the offer,” Minoru said. “But I am not interested in females of any kind.”

The pimp-yakuza frowned. He glared at Minoru, inspecting him closely like a professor grading a paper. Then he cleared his throat and smiled. “Ah, yes. I see. That is okay. That is good. That is better than okay, it is good. I would rather have the man on the first floor of the brothel be… Well, it is good to know the girls do not need to worry about you developing an interest in them,” he said. “That is fine.” He paused and looked over the men. “Are there any men here you would like to… spend time with? Provided you do not emasculate them, you may-“

“Him.” Minoru pointed to the new man. He did it out of pure instinct, without giving it a second thought, even as his mind told himself to say no. It would have been wiser, he thought, to avoid any entanglements with the yakuza. But he had already said it.

“Hachiro?” He sounded like Hachiro was not an option available to Minoru. “He is… I did not think he was handsome.”

“Well, he’s…”

“You like muscles, it is okay,” the pimp-yakuza said. He smiled. “Do not ask him many questions. He is… He will look like he will hurt you, but he will not hurt you. He will not answer any questions. He is very dumb.” He turned to Hachiro. “Hachiro! Come here.”

The Pimp

Here’s the beginning of The Pimp, a new yaoi MM novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Carl was glad to be single again, but he was beginning to regret his living arrangement. After divorcing his husband, Carl had moved into an apartment in Bloomington, Illinois. He couldn’t afford a really nice place, but he didn’t want to live in the ghetto. He found an apartment in a safe-looking building; it wasn’t exactly in a nice neighborhood, but the building was fine and the front door was locked all the time. Carl thought he’d simply stay in most nights, avoid the streets when it was dark out and keep his head down. He didn’t intend to live here long-term anyway, it was just a short-term way to get through this stressful period in his life.

He didn’t have much stuff. It was all Brandon’s. Carl felt both like he had discarded a useless appendage but still kind of missed it and like he was a useless appendage that had been discarded but, he hoped, was still kind of missed. Carl was glad to be rid of Brandon regardless. Brandon had become toxic, a destructive part of Carl’s life. Brandon wasn’t even into gay guys, not really — Brandon only liked sex if it was rough trade. He sucked off straight guys, the rougher and dirtier the better. Carl wasn’t into that.

There was a knock on his door. Carl peered through the peephole, where he saw a tall black man with broad shoulders and a big nasty scar on his neck. He wore a vibrantly colored purple suit with a matching hat and a brilliant yellow tie.

“Uh, hello?” Carl hesitantly opened the door. He kept it on the chain, but as he did so, the chain pulled right off — it wasn’t attached to the door. The door swung wide open.

“Howdy, suh, it’s right nice to meet’cha, yessuh,” said the black man with a charming smile. “My name is Lance, I live right down the hall from ya. I just wanted to say how-do-yo-do and make sure you settlin’ in alright.”

“Oh, thanks. Yeah. Cool. It’s cool. I’’m, uh… cool. You’re… cool. It’s okay. Thanks. Thank you,” Carl said. Then he added, “I’m Carl.”

“Well alright, Carl. If you need anythin’, suh, you come see me, reckon? I run this buildin’ more than Mr. Sazo. I got you covered,” he said. “Ya feel me?”

“Yeah-“

“Also, I think it’s important to keep the lines of communication flowin’ between neighbors. Don’t you?”

“Yeah-“

“Good, good, I think open and honest communication is what matters. That’s what makes this buildin’ a community,” he said.

“Sure, sure-“

“So I promise — I swear to God, on my Mama’s grave, on the American flag I hold so dear-“ He took the purple hat off his head. “-I swear, if I got some kinda problem wit’ you, suh, I will come right to you. I will have the respec’ to come to you like a man. Ya feel me?”

“Yeah-“

“And we can talk about it then. We can work together to find a solution,” Lance said. He paused for a long time. He peered directly into Carl’s eyes. He stank of cologne, and his strapping muscles rippled beneath that purple suit, making Carl’s dick stiffen in his pants. Lance snorted. “You feel the same way?”

“Uh… yeah-“

“Good. So if you start dislikin’ the way I act, or if you see somethin’ that makes you uncomfortable, you come right to me. Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, don’t call the cops, don’t sit at home and stew like a passive-aggressive loser, don’t call the cops, and most importantly-“ He touched Carl’s lips with one callused finger. “Don’t nevuh call the cops.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m glad we on the same page, Carl. Lemme give you a welcome present,” Lance said. “What kinda girls you like? I don’t allow my girls to come in this buildin’ — that’s just a rule I got, no exceptions — so you gonna have to take her to a motel. I pay for it. This is my gift to you, Carl.”

“Oh. So you’re…?”

“A pussy-rancher, yeah,” he said. He chuckled dryly and grabbed his cock through his violet slacks. “A girl-farmer. If you evuh need to find me out on the street, I’m Mr. Fantastic.”

“Cool…”

“Yeah. It is cool, man,” he said. He smiled, showing off huge dimples. “You alright, whiteman. Most people who move in here get all scared of me, actin’ like I’s some kinda nigga who gonna steal they car, but I ain’t down with that. I don’t allow crime, nosuh, when you live in my building, you be safe, you be protected, you get all of ya needs fulfilled, boy, for real. Come on, what kinda girls you like? You want a fat Asian girl to lick your butthole? I got two Chinese, but one of ‘em is Malaysian, you know what Malaysian is? Malaysians is exotic, whiteman.”

“No. No, thanks, no fat, uh, Asian rimjobs,” Carl said. He blushed, heart thumping and sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m, uh, not really into girls.”

Lance scoffed and leaned back. He furrowed his brow, sizing Carl up. He lowered his head and inhaled Carl’s face. He nodded.

“Yeah. I see that,” he said. “Alright, yeah. I believe ya.” He pushed past Carl into his apartment. “Where’s ya stuff? This place is empty.”

“I don’t really have a lot of stuff. I need to buy some furniture,” Carl said. He wanted to tell Lance to leave, but he didn’t want to start off his relationship with his neighbor on poor footing. Besides that, Lance’s muscle-bound body was so sexy Carl couldn’t help but daydream about him even through that purple suit.

Is this a home invasion? It feels polite, but I didn’t invite him in.

“Mr. Fantastic got ya covered, boy, swear to God.” He snapped his fingers in front of Carl’s face. “Lookit me, sweetheart.” When Carl’s eyes were trained on his, Lance unzipped his slacks and pulled out a massive, veiny black shaft. “There ya go. Give it a suck.”

The Prison Wife Treatment

Here’s the beginning of The Prison Wife Treatment, a hardcore story of alpha male worship by Calvin Freeman!

 

“Alright, baby, go in there and make me somethin’ tasty,” Ruddy said. He kissed Sal on the cheek, making Sal flush with desire and arousal.

He was Ruddy’s prison wife. Not really, of course, since they weren’t in prison, but Sal had asked Ruddy to treat him like a prison wife (and paid him handsomely for it). That’s because Ruddy was the sexiest mandingo stud Sal had ever seen. He was a tall thug with short braids and a harsh glare to his mean eyes; he had broad, strapping muscles like a farmworked ox, marked with legions of prison tattoos. He had spent twenty of his forty years in prison, though it was mostly in short stays of a year or two at a time.

Sal hurried into the kitchen. He had assumed this would be mainly about sex, but the first thing Ruddy asked for was food. Sal cooked him a quesadilla because that was just about all Sal had — he didn’t cook much and the kitchen was mostly empty. He hadn’t thought about buying food just for Ruddy.

This all started because Sal had gathered up the courage to go to the local prison and make an offer. All he wanted to do was suck Ruddy’s dick — he was the sexiest non-skinhead to be released that day — but Ruddy said no. Ruddy said he wasn’t gay and wouldn’t fuck with any man under any circumstances.

But, Ruddy said, there was a loophole: when someone became a prison wife, he said, that person was effectively female. It didn’t count fucking a prison wife. I reckon I could use one too, whiteman, yessuh, I don’t think there gonna be lotta females who wanna give up the pussy, so I could use a prison wife on the outside.

So they had both agreed upon the terms of their relationship. Even though it was scary and strange and off-putting, Sal had agreed to it. He had agreed to pay Ruddy a bit of money every week, plus give him a free place to stay. That was how Ruddy strolled into Sal’s house just a few hours after getting out of prison.

He just took one look at Sal’s dumpy little house and scowled. “You best start cleanin’ up in here, baby. I don’t much like mess, and I hate clutter. I’s gonna start punishin’ you tomorrow e’ry time I see it like this.”

“Okay, yes. I will.” Sal caught a harsh glare from Ruddy’s dark eyes. He stumbled over his words. “I will… uh, sir.”

“I ain’t a cop, don’t call me sir. Call me papi, and say it as though I make you horny,” Ruddy said. He imitated a Spanish girl seducing her boyfriend. “Papi!”

“… Oh-“

“You hesitatin’?” Ruddy advanced on Sal as though going to hit him.

“No! I’ll call you whatever you want! Papi,” Sal said, struggling to make it sound sexy because he was scared of Ruddy. He had always known there was a chance that this would be dangerous, but now that he had Ruddy in his home, it seemed even riskier than Sal had ever guessed. Ruddy could do rob him, burn the house down, frame Sal for a crime or just fly into an uncontrollable rage.

As Ruddy moved into his room — he had very few things after this most recent stay in prison — Sal finished cooking the quesadilla. He served it on a plate with a few sprigs of cilantro, but Ruddy scowled as though he didn’t like that. He didn’t tell Sal not to do it though.

“Get on your knees while I eat.”

Sal did as he was told. Ruddy sat on the couch. He was shirtless now because he had been moving his things into the house, and now he was sweaty. His chest muscles gleamed. Sal kneeled in front of him.

“You don’t eat when I eat. You should be on your knees watching in case I want something,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m a good husband, baby. As long as you mind yaself and do as ya told, I’ll treat you right.”

“Yes, papi.”

“Start fingerin’ ya throat.”

Sal hesitated before he pushed his finger into his mouth. Ruddy didn’t respond, he just took another bite. Sal pushed his finger deeper in, until he gagged.

“Good. Keep doing that,” Ruddy said. “Work on your gag reflex.”

“I will, papi, I promise. I won’t gag on your cock. I-“

He smacked Sal. “No. I ain’t say that. Did I? Don’t you get ahead of yaself. You don’t know what to do, you stupid bitch, don’t try and pretend you smart.”

Sal blushed. “Oh. Sorry, papi.”

“You s’posed to gag. I like makin’ bitches gag,” he said. He paused and sniffled. “Sorry I got salty wit’cha, baby. I got a demon inside-a me, it comes out when I see pretty girls like you behavin’ improperly. Don’t speak outta turn, baby.” He snorted. “You s’posed to gag, I ain’t trainin’ you not to gag. E’ry time you gag on my meat, that’s how I know you love me.”

“Yes, papi.”

“You gotta work on gaggin’ more, and gaggin’ without spitting out my dick. I like gaggin’. Gaggin’ on my dick is how you show you care, girl,” he said. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Did I hurt ya feelings? You can still make me leave. You still gotta pay me, but-“

“No. I want to be your prison wife. Treat me like that. I’ll learn,” Sal said. He blushed. “I’ll learn how to behave properly.”

“That’s right. You will. I am a good educator, baby. I am a firm and fair teacher.” He finished his quesadilla and wiped the grease off his fingers on Sal’s shirt.. He put the plate down on the coffee table. He spread his legs and pulled his cock out.

“Take your clothes off,” he said. He had a big black cock, which was already throbbing beneath his fingers even though it was still limp. He burped loudly, blowing the fetid air into Sal’s face. He thwacked his cock against the palm of his hand, accentuating how thick it was. Sal couldn’t wait to do anal (though they had already planned on that not happening just yet — Sal wanted to build up to it).

Sal felt skinny and weak next to Ruddy, who stood up. He peered at Sal’s naked body. He caressed each of his limbs and his chest and back — not in a sexual way, more like a farmer might inspect a horse — and grunted his approval. He grabbed Sal’s dick and snorted.

“You got a tiny dick,” he said. He flopped his own massive cock against Sal’s. He chuckled. “No wonder you act like a girl.”

Sal blushed. “Yeah. I guess so, papi.”

The Rugby Giant

Here’s the beginning of The Rugby Giant, a tale of yaoi MM lust about one lucky gay and the massive Polynesian jock who comes to love him!

 

Lyle sighed. He didn’t think it was going to be this difficult. He almost hadn’t come here today, and he shuddered to think what would have happened if he didn’t. Most likely Robby would have said it was good enough and they’d have unusable footage. It would have been a costly disaster.

On the other hand, Lyle thought, maybe that would have been better. He hadn’t gotten any usable footage of Tavita his way either. At least Robby wouldn’t have had to push the entire crew into overtime to get the useless coverage of Tavita mumbling his line.

Tavita Tohi was a prop on the Wichita Warriors professional rugby team. A prop is a position, usually the largest couple of players on a team, focused on hitting hard during scrums and rucks. He was seven feet tall and he was so big he had needed his rugby shirt to be custom-made. All of his clothes, in fact, were custom-made here in the States — back in his homeland, the Pacific island nation of Tonga, large clothes were more common, as were handmade clothes.

He was not just tall and big, with shoulders like patio furniture, he had a thick mop of curly black hair that was perpetually tangled and slick. His face was squarish, giving him an ogre-like quality, but he had a handsome noble jaw and big round eyes like a naive farmboy.

“Because it is r-r-r-rugby night in Wichita.”

“Because it is rugby night in. In… Wichita.”

“Because it’s… uh… it’s rugby night… in Wichita.”

Somehow Tavita sounded like a fake Hollywood Polynesian even though he was real. He was stiff and forced and awkward; he mumbled in all the wrong ways; he looked shy and scared rather than macho and confident. He said Wichita in a way that had made Lyle laugh the first few times he heard it. Weecheehta, spoken like the word was a costly heirloom that might break if Tavita said it out loud carelessly.

It was also funny — in a frustrating, non-humorous way — that Tavita couldn’t manage to say this one line. That’s because he was huge and scary, which was precisely the look Lyle wanted. This commercial was meant to appeal to tough guys (or men who wanted to see themselves as tough guys): the “shadowy swarthy exotic foreigner meanly barking out a vague slogan” was a perfect look, which was Tavita’s normal look. Tavita didn’t need to act, he just needed to say one line in an uninterrupted way that was totally normal for him.

Everybody else on the team had managed to give their line. Most athletes aren’t good performers, so a lot of it was rather wooden and forced, but Lyle had come to expect that. That was why they each only had a few words. Lyle could take the best take from each of them, and  splice them all together into a professional-looking commercial.

But Tavita was weird and off-putting, especially when there was a camera on him. That was one of the things that had gotten him famous — when he scored the winning goal in last years American Rugby Cup, ESPN asked him how he felt, and he thought for a long time before saying only “fine”.

“Tavita, do you miss Tonga? What do you think of America?”

“It is okay. I like Tonga. There is no sea in Wichita.”

“Tavita, what’s your workout regiment like?”

“I like to exercise,” he said. “I am very big.”

“Tavita, what do you think of the game this weekend? Seattle is a top-ranked team, do you think you can take them on?”

“Yes.”

“How? Can you elaborate on your strategy for this weekend’s game against Seattle?”

Another long pause as flashbulbs flared and journalists thronged the giant Tongan. “No.”

“Are you confident you can defeat the legendary Seattle offense?”

“Yes.”

“Tavita, what do you think of league commissioner Reginald Wartleby’s offensive comments about African Americans? What do you think of the rumored boycott of the League Awards on Saturday?”

“No.”

“Is that no…? Does that mean you disagree with him? Or that you won’t be joining in the boycott?”

“No.”

He’d developed an online fanbase who thought his terse non-answers were hilarious. One particularly memorable press conference featured Tavita saying “no” when asked about his strategy for a game, only for his agent to jump in and answer for him. That had become a constant pattern: Tavita said whatever he wanted to say, which was almost always yes or no, and then his agent would “interpret”: Tavita is looking forward to the game. Seattle has got some strong competitors, but Tavita is a world-class athlete who has been completely focused on preparing for this match.

So Lyle wasn’t surprised to learn he was a poor performer in front of a camera. Tavita had tried to get out of doing the commercial, but it was in his contract. All he had to do was say because it’s rugby night in Wichita in a macho way. Lyle spritzed more vegetable oil over his strapping chest.

“Okay, Tavita, you’re doing great, I’m glad you’re still with me. Can you say it again, this time we won’t run the cameras?” Lyle thought he’d try this. The camera was rolling, he had told the cameraman beforehand to keep filming no matter what. He thought Tavita might do better if he thought the camera was off. “No pressure, this is just a casual thing, I want to see how you would say it normally. No acting, no trying, just say it how you would say it, if I asked you what was going on tonight and you were going to a rugby night.”

He was quiet for a long time. “Rugby night is not a thing.”

“Yes, I know, Tavita, that’s okay. Pretend. I’ll invite you to a rugby night tonight, okay, how about that? You can come over, we’ll watch rugby games and, uh… talk rugby and… that kind of thing,” Lyle said — he was a marketing guy, he didn’t know or care about rugby. “So now we have real plans for tonight, right? We have a rugby night tonight.”

“Yes,” he said. He had a big beaming grin on his face.

Lyle nodded. “Good. Good. I’m looking forward to our rugby night,” Lyle said. “So if somebody asked you out tonight, you’d say no, because tonight is rugby night in Wichita.”

“Yes.” His bare pectoral muscles flexed all at once. Was he angry? Nervous? It was hard for Lyle to tell, especially since he was distracted by a flood of sexual desire — Lyle had spent all day spraying vegetable oil on bare rugby jocks’ chests, so he had been semi-aroused all day; this frustrating experience with Tavita had somehow made him forget that Tavita was mind-bogglingly sexy. Now Lyle blushed a little as vegetable oil dripped over Tavita’s mountainous pectorals.

Lyle backed out of the shot. “Okay, say it,” he said. He had stopped the whole thing where the guy with a clapboard marked the beginning of a scene, because that seemed to be making Tavita nervous. This was roughly take two hundred.

“Because tonight is… rugby night in Wichita.”

Lyle exchanged nervous glances with his director. That wasn’t technically the line, but it was close. Tavita glowered and fumed. Lyle wanted to say it looked like he was getting angry, but Lyle had no idea how to read Tavita’s emotions.

“Yeah, Tavita, perfect. That was great,” Lyle said, and he sighed. That was hardly great — it was stiff and weak and question-like, and there was a little pause in the middle. But it was close enough. He could get Robert Matheson to say the line as well — he was a charming, dimpled blond who had a hundred thousand followers to watch him steam fish and prepare healthy snacks on YouTube, and he was a pretty good rugby flanker too. Then Lyle could splice their lines together so that Tavita only said the word “Wichita”, and Robert said the rest. People liked the way Tavita said Wichita, even if the rest of the line sounded like Tavita was reading aloud his own death sentence.

Tavita even smiled for a moment before he left. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t say goodbye to his teammates. He didn’t even wash the vegetable oil off his body. He walked right out of the building and into the parking lot, still wearing nothing but his rugby shorts. He had forgotten his clothes and his cell phone there in the locker room where the shoot had finished up.

“Holy hell, that took forever…”

“Did he forget to put his clothes on?”

“I’m sure he didn’t forget.”

“He drove away. His wallet is in his pants. Look, he’s got a Donald Duck wallet with… literally nothing in it but his passport.“

“He had a piece of carrot on his shoulder when I did his makeup today. I asked him if he had carrots for breakfast, he said no. I asked if he had carrots for dinner, he said no. I asked when he last had carrots, he said he didn’t remember,” said Wendy, the makeup woman. She blushed and giggled with the other crew — it had been a long and stressful day, spent almost entirely trying to get Tavita to deliver his one line. “Who does that? How long has he had a carrot on his shoulder?”

“Okay, okay,” Lyle said, grabbing the wallet from Robby, the director. Robby looked chagrined. Lyle gathered up the cell phone and massive clothes. “Let’s chill out, I know Tavita is a bit of an oddball, but…-“

“He’s twenty-something years old, Lyle, and he’s got a Donald Duck wallet that my nephew would say was for babies. He’s a freak.”

“He looked at me like a steak he wanted to eat, and when I said hello, he looked at me like he was surprised a steak could talk.”

“Lyle, he never said that line right. You’re gonna have a hell of a time making it sound okay in editing.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll fix it in post-production,” Lyle said. “Let’s not be mean. Tavita tried really hard. It was… He’s not good at this performance stuff. He’s not familiar with American culture.” But Lyle’s defense sounded flat even to him. Everyone just rolled their eyes and walked away. “I’ll call his agent,” Lyle said.

It turned out that Tavita’s agent was not surprised he had left his things at the filming location. Tavita regularly forgot “everything everywhere he went”, his agent said. Lyle waited for him to come pick up the clothes and cell phone to drop it off at Tavita’s house.

Lyle had hoped to finish filming today and get everything ready for the editors. He wouldn’t be able to do it all, but he could at least get all of the film in the same place, write down some notes on the more difficult takes (not just Tavita, Gerald Harkness had been very stiff, and Eddie Watters had a cold, while Rashad Milk had a cut on his lip that looked like a herpes sore; there was going to be a lot of photoshop needed to make this into a commercial). But after spending hours listening to Tavita’s liltingly awkward accent mangle the words because it’s rugby night in Wichita, Lyle just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t until he got home that Lyle started to laugh. He just giggled a little as he reheated last night’s dinner for leftovers. He recalled Tavita and laughed, finally letting out all of the humor he had had to repress today, both because he didn’t want to insult Tavita and because he didn’t want to interrupt filming with bouts of hysteria. Tonga is an English-speaking country, for Christ’s sake! Lyle just laughed to himself over and over. It felt good to get all that out.

As he cooked, he queued up some YouTube videos of Tongans speaking, just because Lyle wondered if he was being intolerant of Tongan culture. Maybe they all had that terse, stony-faced manner of speaking.

No, they were actually quite florid and expressive, at least on YouTube. They spoke like anyone else, just with a Tongan accent. It was Tavita who was weird.

When Lyle finished eating, he felt a lot better. It was silly to get frustrated. Tavita’s eccentricity actually made him pretty famous and brought a lot of attention to the Warriors. One of his interviews had gone viral on reddit and tumblr a few months ago because Tavita said I hate Kansas, it is ugly here. That was the entirety of his response — which was actually articulate and thorough compared to how Tavita normally talked — to several in-depth questions about how he was handling America. For anyone else who played for a Kansas team, that would have been a disaster.

But no one thought Tavita was supposed to say polite things, and some local newspapers had looked like over-sensitive pricks when they said he should apologize. Then Tavita kept the story alive by apologizing, reading (poorly) a prepared statement with his agent by his side, causing a counter-backlash from various corners of the Internet who thought (correctly) that he had been forced into saying something he didn’t believe. It was all complicated and confusing, but it led to sales of Tavita’s jersey quadrupling, so Lyle was happy with it.

There was a knock at the door. Lyle assumed it was his elderly neighbor needing help with the wireless router again. He rolled his eyes and opened the door.

“Oh! Hi!”

It was Tavita, standing there, still shirtless and wearing those shorts. He appeared to have tried to wipe the vegetable oil off, but much of it still clung to him.

“Hello,” Tavita said.

“Uh…”

“I am here.”

“Yes, I, uh, it’s good to see you, Tavita,” Lyle said. He let him in, still unsure what was happening here. He might have realized what was going on sooner but Tavita’s bare chest gleaming made Lyle horny and distracted. Tavita had to lower his head to fit into the doorway.

“Your agent has your clothes and your cell phone-“

“He does not. He gave them to me.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Good,” Lyle said. He wanted to ask why Tavita hadn’t changed and cleaned off, but his huge glowering presence was intimidating. Lyle had trouble thinking of what to say.

“Am I late?”

Lyle raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I think I missed something. Why did you come here?”

“Because it is rugby night in Wichita.”

A long awkward silence filled the air — a common occurrence with Tavita. Finally Lyle managed to tear his eyes away from Tavita’s chest long enough to realize that Tavita had said the line at long last, that Tavita had meant it for real, not as a joke, and that Tavita had thought Lyle really expected him to come over tonight.

“Oh. Tavita… I’m sorry, that was just a line. It’s for a commercial,” Lyle said. He didn’t want to sound patronizing, but he didn’t know how much Tavita really understood.

“You said it was for real.”

“Well… Yeah, I actually said pretend it is for real,” Lyle said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

“It is not rugby night in Wichita?”

“Well… No, not really,” Lyle said. “But you can, I mean… it’s okay. Do you want something to eat? We can watch some rugby games if you want. I have some on DVD.”

“I am hungry.”

Lyle just sighed again. Speaking to Tavita was a frustrating experience. He decided to stick to asking one yes-or-no question at a time. “Do you like grilled cheese?”

“Yes.” Since Tavita was so huge and he worked out so much, he was always hungry. That was the one thing he always showed enthusiasm over. Coach Michaels had had to stop providing orange slices during practice because Tavita would ignore everything until he had eaten every one. So now he handed out the orange slices to each individual, and waited for Tavita to finish because Tavita was unable to focus if he was eating.

Sure enough, Tavita waited wordlessly while Lyle grilled him a cheese; Tavita stared at Lyle without moving a muscle. Then when Lyle gave it to him, he devoured the whole thing before Lyle could even ask if he wanted hot sauce.

“Are you gay?” Tavita finally asked, bits of cheese grease dripping from his oversized lips.

Lyle was momentarily thrown for a loop. That was the first time he had ever heard Tavita ask a question beyond when is lunchtime? Tavita looked at Lyle with his head cocked to the side, though his face remained placid. Lyle felt small and weak.

“Yes,” Lyle said. He probably would have lied, just because Tavita was so big and strange, not to mention foreign — Tongans could have been homophobic, after all — but Lyle knew that they weren’t generally homophobic because he had been watching videos on YouTube just before Tavita arrived. One of those videos had been about gays in Tonga. It turned out that gays were pretty well-accepted there.

Tavita nodded. Lyle felt so awkward he might burst, but he tried not to let on. It was clear that this was a normal interaction for Tavita. His teammates had said he was always like this; they said they brought him to a strip club and he just giggled like a teenager whenever a stripper talked to him. Lyle tried to accept him the way he was. He put on a DVD of rugby games, which Lyle had bought when he was hired by the Wichita Warriors. He had sworn during the interview that he loved rugby, despite having never watched a game, so he had had to cram. It turned out rugby was very boring, but at least, Lyle thought, they wore those short shorts, which were pretty sexy.

Tavita wore those shorts now. His corded Tarzan-like thighs barely fit within them. He was still covered in oil, so before he sat down on the couch, Lyle offered to let him clean off.

“I did shower. It didn’t work,” Tavita said, as though that ended the issue and he had simply accepted that he would be forever covered in vegetable oil.

“You might need to use paper towels,” Lyle said. Tavita ignored him, leaning forward to watch the match begin. Lyle got up and got some paper towels, and stopped Tavita before he sat on the couch. “Here, use these.” Tavita just grabbed the towels and again tried to sit down. This time, Lyle physically stopped him — not really, of course, Tavita outweighed Lyle by more than two hundred pounds — but Lyle touched his side to get his attention as though preventing him from sitting down. “Sorry, you’ve got oil all over, I don’t want it on my couch.”

The blog and sample chapter smorgasbord for the open franchises of Eroticature.org