Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen Page A

dozens of hands rising before he’d even finished his request. Among a few others, I stretched my arm high, hoping that I would be chosen, though I despaired as he selected a pimple-faced shop girl—pushed forward by her wise-guy beau—to join him on the stage. My heart, and my erection, sank.
    As he concluded his act with a flourish of his red velvet cape and a deep, theatrical bow, I felt numb, unsure whether to stay or go, though I knew I could not face a return home to the books. Minutes or hours later, after scarcely seen songs and dances, comedies and capers, I rose to make my way to the exit, turning up my collar against the brisk winter air. As I stepped onto the pavement, a man came up beside me and tapped my shoulder. I spun, startled at the sight of a beefy, stubbled stranger who simply stared back. He handed me a small note with weary determination and then headed to the alley around the corner. He was, I concluded, a stagehand.
    Life surged back into me as I thanked the God I had so long abused, taking this missive for a sign. I tore open the small envelope with haste and beheld the contents within: Dear Boy, please do me the honor of visiting my dressing room for a private act, at which time your generous offer to volunteer will be most graciously accepted. It was signed with a massive, curling M.
    * * *
    â€œI’m not afraid,” I murmured to the great magician, opening my eyes to meet the close, leering gaze that threatened to devour me whole. I took in the powerful stare of his dark, almond eyes, sloppily lined with kohl. There were wrinkles at their corners and between unruly brows that I could see were pencil blackened, surrounded by pale skin, evened in tone by ample application of cake and powder. His carefully styled mustache faced the threat of encroachment by the hair spiraling from the nostrils of his long, sharp nose. The sly curve of his wide, reddened mouth revealed uneven teeth ravaged by a smoking habit to a patchy caramel. And, yet, aging and earthly failings could make him no less magnificent in my sight.
    â€œSir,” I ventured, my voice bringing into concert in a single word the awe of my boyhood and the longing of my untested manhood. “Will you share your secrets with me?”
    He threw back his head and laughed with stagy splendor. Then, cupping my face in his hard, papery hands with their horny, overlong nails, he leaned into me as I lay passive yet wildly eager on his musty divan. My pulse raced as he placed a firm, ardent kiss on my waiting lips. From his fleshy, knowing mouth I tasted vodka and cigarettes and passion. When he pulled away, I could see the impressive bulge in his worn black trousers.
    He pulled the suspenders down from his bony shoulders and over the starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar to expose hints of silvery chest hair. I tried to steel myself for whatever would come next, but my imagination, I had suddenly to confess to myself, had never reached beyond his fingers replacing mine around my stiff member.
    I bit my lip and watched as he brought his fingers to unbutton his trousers. I shuddered involuntarily, while he cocked his head and grinned. I felt a fool, so unprepared, embarrassing myself before the master of my heart. He shook his head, loosening a thick curl that fell down over his left eye, revealing gray roots even as it softened his appearance, melting my heart and hardening my resolve even more. Without a word, he released the grip on his trouser button and knelt before me. “Dear, dear boy,” he cooed as he reached between my legs.
    I arched into him, my eyes drifting closed once again. I was unable to stop my body from seeking what it had so long anticipated. My idol was here, stroking me, warmly and surely, tapping his fingers gently up my shaft as he went. I could not hold back a moan.
    He answered my call. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
    His voice encouraged me, both soothed and roused me.