Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen

have no key.
    There’s only the dark, elegant and black, like his suit—his suit, and his big feet, his hairy legs, his balls gonging off your ass, his handsome face, all of their faces. All of their cocks, filling you but also taking something from you as they work around inside your core, your head, leaving you happier than you’ve ever been before and slightly less than you were before you returned home with him/them.
    â€œ Yes ,” you sigh, hoping you’ll remember this part of the encounter when the long, strange night comes to an end.

Like Magic
    Salome Wilde
    Though I’d laid my arm across my eyes and could not see, I could feel the waxed ends of the great man’s mustache brushing my exposed belly before tickling the dark hairs that trailed from my navel down to my groin. That groin, and specifically my quickly stiffening shaft, was next exposed to receive the warm breath of his broad nostrils and parted lips. I shuddered as his brash sounds of delight poured over me.
    â€œWhat is your name, boy?” he asked, deep voice inflected with a rich Romanian accent.
    I was dizzy with desire, but the question startled me back to awareness. Eyes still closed, I whispered, “David.”
    The maestro laughed again. “Are you afraid to look at me, David?”
    Was I? Perhaps. If I gazed openly on the object of my deepest desires, would he vanish like the eager volunteers in his Cabinet of Mystery?
    * * *
    I’d revered vaudeville’s most illustrious magician from the time I grew clever enough to sneak out of school and into the matinee show at the Grand Theatre. There he received top billing and a devoted following. Now, a decade later, I’d been thrust into an adulthood that failed to live up to my expectations in many ways. I was forced to obey the strict, mundane masters of law under my father’s watchful patronage. The realities of tedious studies hastened me toward a future of dull routine and weighed me down. I daily longed for the magic of childhood, encapsulated by memories of the wonders of Mayer the Magnificent. I nightly worshipped the recollections my imagination conjured of the deft flick of his wrists, his thick, curling hair, and a smirk that hinted he knew all the secrets of the universe. As I summoned his visage, I would stroke myself to release, peaking with the childish but earnest wish that some miracle would turn my hand into his.
    Torn between duty I loathed and escape I needed like air, I managed one night to return to the Grand, where the object of my longings still performed. No longer star-billed, he was at least given a respectable place in the show, and his face—in a vivid drawing I remembered from so long ago—was still on one of the sandwich boards advertising the “Best Show in the Big City.”
    Once I had looked upon this man with eyes so devoted and earnest I feared a jealous and vengeful God would strike me dead for it. But now I stood firm before the bright marquee, admiring his portrait with a more mature awareness of his handsome, foreign mystique. And even God couldn’t compete with Mayer, a man who wooed me with skills more miraculous than any summoner of staff-into-snake or burning bush. My own snake, suffice it to say, stiffened at the mere thought of him, my very soul ablaze.
    So it was—cap in my lap to cover my arousal—as he took the stage amidst a poor smattering of applause in the theater that had grown dingy in my years of absence. Still, Mayer the Magnificent shone, performing many of the tricks I remembered well, and a few I had never before seen. His face was lit with mischief, as he played his part with an earnestness that made it more than real. Through glazed eyes, vaudeville’s virtuoso relished his admirers, however few—or perhaps, as I looked around me, mostly imagined. When he requested a volunteer from the audience in a commanding tone, it seemed he could still see dozens upon