“Let’s head over to West 4th for a pickup game,
whadda ya say?” It was a hot summer New York night,
the kind where it doesn’t dip below 80 degrees and
anyone and everyone is out and about, looking for
something to do. The idea sounded like a great one
to Ernesto; his friends, however, weren’t as
enthusiastic.
“Whadda ya fucking
crazy? It’s fucking hot as fuck. What the fuck do
I want to fucking go all the way to fucking
Manhattan for a fucking game of fucking basketball
to further sweat my big hairy fucking balls off at
10 o’clock at fucking night? Are you fucking
kidding me?” His cousin Vinny had the vocabulary of
a Soprano and the basketball skills of a third grade
girl and there was no way in hell he was gonna go
anywhere to play basketball at any time. He needed
to play it off so he went on and on about how hot it
was and about how it was too far to travel. The
rest of the gang; two Tony’s, Tony A. and Tony M.,
and Joey, weren’t the worst basketball players in
the world but they certainly knew enough to know
that if they were going to go to W.4th Street for a
pickup game, they would get spanked. They all
moaned about how hot it was and dismissed the idea.
Ernesto couldn’t be dissuaded so easily. It was a
hot Saturday night and he knew the courts would be
packed. He needed to go. He just couldn’t see
himself hanging out in the neighborhood, drinking
40s out of a brown paper bag, talking about bangin’
girls, listening to Tupac and bitching about over
how hard it is to be a white man in today’s
society. Ernesto was different. Born in Tuscany,
he’d moved to Brooklyn when he was 11 to live with
his aunt and uncle when his parents died in a car
crash. Twenty years later, he had lost his foreign
accent but never quite acquired a New York on
either. He stood out like a sore thumb in so many
ways. He was the most worldly of the group always
looking to experience new adventures, he’d gone to
out of state for college. Most of the guys around
the way had never gotten past high school, let alone
moved out of state. Truth be told, a few had never
even been to the Bronx. He had a great job in
Manhattan as a massage therapist; his friends
thought that was some fairy shit. It was okay when
his clients were hot chicks but they were disgusted
by the idea of rubbing on some sweaty dude. He even
looked different. His complexion was naturally
darker, his jet black hair just touched his
shoulders, steel gray eyes, and a 6’2” body he
worked on religiously, all worked together to make
him look like a Calvin Klein model. Most of his
buddies stood under 5’11” with short hair and were
getting little beer bellies in their 30s.
For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted
and loved in the community like he was no different
at all. And he loved his family and his friends.
They had taken care of him when he was at his
lowest, most lonely point. While most people
anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in
Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the hood to help take
care of his grandmother who had come from Italy 10
years ago because she was aging. His aunt and uncle
both worked graveyard and didn’t have the time to
care for her in the evenings and Vinny and Theresa,
his other cousin, only knew how to curse in Italian
so they couldn’t really communicate well with her.
Ernesto loved his family and would do anything for
them so leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was
really out of the question.
“I’ll check you guys later, I’m heading to the city
to play some ball.” Nobody was shocked and they
barely looked up as he grabbed his gym bag and
headed for the subway. He plopped down on the cool
seat and pulled out the book he’d been reading, a
collection of works by James Baldwin. He was
fascinated by social commentary and the descriptions
of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a
Black gay man in America. Being a gay man himself,
a closeted gay man, he connected with the words, he
connected with the struggle and the rage. His
friends, even though he had sucked off most of them
when they were younger, including his cousin, were
as homophobic as they come. They had to be. It was
part and parcel for the good fella’s persona that
they had to carry off. It never occurred to them
that Ernesto could be gay because he was masculine,
athletic, and he had women swooning over him every
time he walked in a room. The stuff that happened
when they were younger was just boys being boys, and
they would never admit to anyone the experimentation
they had done as kids so his secret was pretty
safe.
As he emerged from the bowels of the train system,
into the humid night air of Greenwich Village,
except for the fact that it was dark, it could have
been 11:00 in the afternoon instead of 11:00 at
night. The streets were bustling with activity,
packed with people out doing anything and everything
you could think of. He made his way to the courts
and just watched the first two games. Ever since he
could remember, he’d loved Black men. As cliché as
it sounds, after his first Black lover, he had no
desire to be with another white man again so the old
“once you go black” adage was true in his case. For
the better part of 7 years he’d dated Black men
exclusively. Sitting there, seeing all of those
toned and muscled bodies, gave him an even further
appreciation of the Black male form. It wasn’t a
lustful appreciation, well, at least not in the
overtly sexual sense. It was a profound and deep
respect for not just their physical bodies, but for
the struggle they endured that he read about in the
pages of his book.
He was always certain to get picked for a team.
There’s an unspoken code that says that white boys
who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get
served so people was always looking to school them
make sure they play. Three on three, half court, to
21, shirt vs. skins. He was shirts and he was
playing the team who had just won the last game.
Skins got the ball first and scored three points
right off the bat. Ernesto was guarding a guy who
had dominated the previous game and he knew he had
to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to
toe under the rim. They were the same height, even
the same body type, but his opponent was the color
of caramel with a shiny bald head. It was a queer
guy’s heaven, being able to publicly run his hands
over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles,
sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own. It was
all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard,
making sure everyone knew he was there to ball. The
guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent
him to the ground. There ain’t no fouls in street
ball so he was right back up and in the game; he
didn’t miss a beat. He got the ball and showed he
had some skills. The other part of the unspoken
code is, that when a white boy has skills on the
court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite,
getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines and
everything.
The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and
the shirts had the ball. Dude was blocking him,
checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the
paint. He pivoted and -- whoosh, nothing but net.
In the split second right before the shot, he
thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could
have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his dick.
Not just body contact that happens during the course
of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost
caressing it. It had happened so quickly and the
score was tied so he couldn’t dwell on it. The two
adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye
contact. The court lights made every drop of sweat
glisten on his shirtless opponent. One of the skins
sank the final shot ending the game. The entire
court erupted in cheers and back slapping and kudos
about the great game.
Ernesto sat on the bench and pulled out his towel.
His book was on the top of the bag so he sat it next
to him. While he was toweling off and catching his
breath, drinking a little Gatorade, he saw a hand
reaching out to him.
“Good game man, I’m impressed.”
He extended his hand and looked up, “Yeah,
congratulations, great game,” Ernesto replied, still
trying to catch his breath.
“Name’s Flex. Anytime you want to play a little
game of pick up, let me know, I’d love to have you
on my team.” He smiled a gorgeous smile and Ernesto
looked up and then down, his eyes resting on the
crotch directly eye level in front of him.
“Your mom named you Flex,” Ernesto asked, trying to
sound aloof but still out of breath and doing his
best not to show it.
“My pops named me Eugene, Jr. but I’ll beat
somebody’s ass if they call me that. So it’s
Flex.” They both laughed.
“Yeah, my name is Ernesto and we got problems if you
call me Ernie, so I’m really feeling you. Here have
a seat.” He moved his book out the way and slid
down a half a foot to let Flex sit down next to
him. They watched a little bit of the next game in
silence.
“You from around here,” Flex asked?
“Nah, I live in Brooklyn.”
“Oh, I see.”
That sat in silence some more, watching the game and
neither one of them willing to address what had
happened on the court. Ernesto figured he’d been
mistaken. It was a physical game and maybe Flex
didn’t know he was grabbing his dick. Maybe he
thought it was his arm or something. That had to be
it.
“”Is this your book? Man, I love James Baldwin. ‘I
am what time, circumstance, and history, have made
of me, certainly, but I am also, much more than
that.’ Now that some deep shit right there.” Just
then, it was as if the wall of ice had been broken.
The two men started talking and sharing and letting
down their guards. They had a connection more than
sports and it was electric. “Are you busy right now,
I mean, are you in a rush to head back to Brooklyn,
because I only live around the corner from here. We
can go to my place and hang out if you want. I’m
not a serial killer . . . any more, I promise.”
They both laughed and Flex flashed that gorgeous
smile and before Ernesto knew what was happening,
they were walking towards 10th street and in a cute
little studio apartment. Flex was a graphic
designer for and advertising firm and had moved from
his own roots in Queens to his little apartment 7
years ago.
Once inside the apartment, the only place to sit
comfortably was the futon. Ernesto looked
uncomfortable. He didn’t want to put his smelly,
sweaty ass on the sofa. He was really feeling this
guy and wanted to be invited back and he didn’t
think that would make such a great first impression
to leave his scent, so to speak, so he was trying to
figure out how he could sit on the floor without
looking like a dork.
Flex came to the rescue before he could even process
the thought completely in his head. “Hey, it’s
pretty hot out there; you can take a shower if you
want to cool off. Guests first. Here’s a towel and
everything’s in the bathroom you should need.” He
dropped his gym bag by the door inside in the small
bathroom. He took off his sweaty clothes and
stepped in the shower, feeling the warm water wash
away the layer of sweat. Shutting his eyes, he
thought back to the court. Had he gotten his
signals mixed? Maybe Flex was just a nice guy who
wanted to hang out; maybe he happened to like James
Baldwin because he was a great writer, not because
he was a great gay Black writer. Maybe that hand
caressing his dick wasn’t really caressing it; maybe
it was just part of the game, maybe to make him miss
his shot. Whatever it was, Ernesto was deep in
thought, remembering the feel of Flex’s hand on his
cock, the same cock that he had in his hand now and
was stroking, thinking about his sexy, sweaty new
friend.
He shut his eyes tightly and started thinking all
sorts of nasty thoughts, jerking off and
fantasizing. A knock at the door shocked him back
to reality.
“Hey, don’t mean to interrupt or anything,” Flex
yelled through the door, but do you want something
to drink? A martini, a beer, a glass of wine, water,
Kool Aid. Anything?”
“A beer’s cool, thanks,” he yelled back and quickly
turned off the water to dry off. He didn’t want to
put the same stinky clothes back on so he tied the
towel around his waist and headed out to see if Flex
had anything he could put on. His cock was still
hard but he pushed it down and tried to will it so
stay soft.
That thought lasted an entire 1.5 seconds because
when he opened the bathroom door, he saw Flex,
standing naked in front of the closet, grabbing for
a towel to put around him. “Hey, how was the
shower?” He turned, wrapped the towel around
himself and, not waiting for an answer, he said,
“Your beer is on the coffee table, make yourself at
home, I’ll be right back, I need to take a shower
myself.”
Ernesto was impressed with the tiny apartment. His
music collection was eclectic but mostly all Black:
jazz, blues, R&B, hip hop, even some gospel. The
art on the walls was amazing and inspecting further,
he saw that most were signed with the name Flex.
Because the place was so small, every square inch of
space was utilized. Oddly enough, the place didn’t
look cluttered at all; it might have been small on
space but it was big on style. The timer on the
oven went off and Flex was still in the shower so he
decided to take out whatever was in there. He
opened the door and a fantastic aroma came wafting
out. He pulled out the dish and it was some sort of
dip that had been heated to go with the tri colored
chips that had been put out on a platter. Ernesto
was blown away. “This guy can play ball, he can
quote James Baldwin, he has a great apartment, he’s
creative, he can cook and he’s sexy as hell. Damn,
I think I just met my future husband,” he said under
his breath.
“What did you say? Oh good, I’m glad you pulled
that out. Thanks.” Flex looked even more amazing
fresh from the shower with his towel around his
waist. Ernesto didn’t bother answering his question
and instead took the tray and set it on the coffee
table while Flex was opening up the futon. “Here,
this will be more comfortable. Have a seat, take a
load off.”
The two men lounged on the futon, talking about
everything under the sun, sharing details about
their lives, drinking beer, listening to music,
eating. It was very apparent that Flex was gay,
out, and very confident in his sexuality, so much
so, he didn’t even make it an issue. Because
Ernesto was so ruled by his hidden identity,
everything had more impact on him, he had to analyze
and dissect everything as if there was a hidden
meaning behind it. When Flex offered to let him
spend the night, he didn’t know if it was a sexual
invitation or not; he didn’t know how to respond.
Flex could sense his hesitation and he left the
question open for him to decide. He got up, turned
off all the lights, lit a few candles and came back,
this time, taking off his towel and letting it fall
to the floor. He stood there for a few seconds,
letting his new friend take everything in. “Does
this make you uncomfortable?” Ernesto shook his
head but didn’t say a word. He climbed back on the
futon, this time even closer to Ernesto. His
heart started beating faster, the blood started
pumping in his veins; he was being seduced. Flex
reached out to kiss him softly; Ernesto forgot to
close his eyes; he wanted to see everything. The
kiss was soft and gentle and in many ways atypical
of most of kisses Ernesto had ever shared with
someone. Usually the men he was with were closeted,
intent on proving their masculinity, on dominating
the proverbial white man behind closed doors,
playing up the thug/Mandingo role. He let his eyes
close gently, experiencing the kiss with the rest of
his senses. He could smell the clean scent of
Flex’s skin, still fresh from the shower; he could
feel the softness of his lips against his own. He
could taste his tongue gently exploring his mouth
and he could hear the soft moan escape from his own
lips in awe of the sensations he was feeling.
“Okay, Mr. Massage therapist,” Flex said, “let me
check out some of your magic,” as he pulled away
from the sensual kiss. He stretched out on his
stomach, adding, “Let’s see if you can work out some
of this tension I have in my shoulders.”
Ernesto said, “Hold on, let me get my bag.” He
returned a few seconds later with a special blend of
massage oil he used for work. This time, he also
took off his towel and let it fall to the floor as
well, exposing his cock that had been half hard
since they left the courts. Flex didn’t even look,
he had his head resting on his arms and his eyes
closed, waiting for his massage. Ernesto straddled
his legs and looked down at the gorgeous body he was
about to caress. He warmed the oil on his hands and
started at the shoulders, aroused by the contrast in
skin colors. Flex let out a moan and shifted a
little but he didn’t say a word. Working his way
downwards, he found the spots that were tight and
loosened them; he rubbed the sore muscles and left
that smooth brown skin glowing in the candlelight.
He worked his way further down, hesitating for a few
moments before he started massaging the full, round
ass cheeks of his new friend. Flex let out more of
a moan and started grinding his hips more, even
adjusting himself to make his thickening tool more
comfortable under him. Grabbing the bottle of oil,
he drizzled it on his skin and started massaging
those magnificent mounds of flesh. He wanted to
stroke his own cock, now fully erect, but he didn’t,
he was intent on doing a good job, better than he’d
ever done before.
He worked his way down Flex’s thighs and even used a
few reflexology techniques on his feet. “Here, do
the fronts of my legs now, I’m sore from that
workout you gave me earlier.” He turned over and
Ernesto couldn’t move. Flex flashed that gorgeous
smile again but that paled in comparison to the body
of perfection before him. Shoulders that were broad
leading down to muscular toned arms, a hairless,
well-developed chest and six pack abs that looked
like a washboard. His dick stood up straight and
tall and his balls were resting on his thighs.
Ernesto didn’t even want to look at the rest of him;
he just wanted to drink in the beauty of that
magnificent hard cock.
Flex teased him, stroking it casually with his other
arm behind his head. “You like that? Go ahead,
touch it.” He put his other arm behind his head and
repeated, “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”
Ernesto swallowed hard and held the shaft in his
hands. The heat from it was incredible and the
thickness was impressive to say the least. He
grabbed it at the base and brought his hand all the
way to the top, twisting his hand just a bit for a
little more stimulation. Flex moaned his approval
and licked his lips. “Don’t stop,” was all he
said. Putting more oil on his hands, Ernesto
started stroking more, bringing him to full
hardness, coaxing out precum from the head of that
delicious looking cock.
“Go ahead, suck it, you know you want to, suck my
dick.” The confidence that oozed from Flex made the
situation that much more intense, more erotic and
Ernesto felt light headed. He wasn’t being rude or
domineering, he was just sure of himself,
uninhibited.
Ernesto positioned himself between Flex’s legs,
stroking him some more, teasing him, and Flex spread
his legs to accommodate him. Fingering his balls
and holding them up, he started his mouth job there,
licking and gently sucking his nuts. Rolling them
around in his fingers, he was getting them wet with
saliva and licking the sensitive sacks. Flex
appreciated the attention to his balls and let him
know how good it felt. “Oh shit, it’s been a long
time since someone paid attention to my balls like
that. Damn, that feels so good. Ohhhh yeah.” He
grabbed his knees, pulled them to his chest, giving
Ernesto better access. Stopping momentarily to
catch his breath, he put one testicle in his mouth
and started flicking his tongue back and forth
rapidly. Flex could barely breathe it felt so
good. “Damn, if you suck my balls that good, I
can’t even imagine how good it’s going to feel when
you suck my dick and eat my ass.”
Anxious to get to both of those tasks, he said,
“Which of those things would you prefer I do
first?” Flex’s dick jumped at those words, his mind
reeling with all the erotic possibilities.
Flex grabbed his dick at the base, tapping the head
against Ernesto’s lips, teasing him. His
instructions were clear. “Suck my dick.”
Not needing any more of an invitation, Ernesto set
about his task. He replaced Flex’s hand with his
own and started stroking it, using massage
techniques to stimulate spots that would make
Michelangelo's David squirm. Using his tongue, he
began softly licking the head, swirling it around
and flicking it gently at the hole. Flex moved his
hands down to Ernesto’s head, but not to face fuck
him or force him down on his swollen member, but to
hold his hair out of the way in order to see the
expert job he was doing. He licked up and down the
sides, getting the shaft wet, running his tongue
over every vein. Flex couldn’t help but show his
appreciation by moaning. Lowering his mouth on that
beautiful column of flesh, he took just half of it
in his mouth. He started sucking it like a baby
would suck a nipple making sure to grip the base of
the cock firmly in his hand. He took his tongue and
started swirling it around the head and shaft and
increasing the suction on his sucking. Moving his
hand away, he started bobbing up and down on the
cock, taking it further and further into his mouth
each time. He was getting it wetter and wetter,
taking the head to the back of his throat. Flex
could do nothing but grip the sheets for dear life
and moan, “Holy fuck, damn, shit, that’s some good
shit. Oh my god that feels so good.”
Just when he thought it couldn’t feel any better,
Ernesto relaxed his throat muscles and let the head
of Flex’s thick cock go several inches down. His
lips could feel the tickle of his hair so he knew he
had accomplished his mission of taking his full
length. Then, he decided to perform his magic, he
started bobbing up and down, from the head to the
base, taking him deep in his throat every time.
Spit was dripping down his balls and Flex was
breathing so hard he thought he might
hyperventilate.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. I can’t take much
more of that. Damn, where did you . . . oh shit,
you are going to make me cum before the party even
starts.” Flex sat up a little bit and the look of
sheer panic on Ernesto’s face was evident. “Hey,
what’s wrong? What’s going on in that pretty head
of yours?”
“I just wanted to make you feel good, that’s all.”
What he really wanted to say was, “I am used to guys
using my mouth as many times as they want and I feel
like I’ve failed if I didn’t make you cum.”
“You did make me feel good. Too good in fact, that
was incredible. I just didn’t want to nut too
soon. I like to make things last, go slow, you
know.” He leaned over and kissed Ernesto again, as
gently and as tenderly as before. Flex lay down on
the bed, pulling Ernesto on top of him. Their
kissing became more urgent, more passionate. Their
tongues and lips were sucking and licking, their
dicks were sensually rubbing against one another.
Flex was caressing his hands along Ernesto’s spine,
grabbing his ass, spreading his cheeks and teasing
his hole with his fingertips.
Ready to take things to the next level, Ernesto
said, “I want to feel your big cock in my pussy.
Fuck me.” Quickly repositioning himself, he crawled
to the foot of the bed, got on his knees, and looked
back over his shoulder and said in a lust-filled
daze, “Fuck me.” He gripped the frame of the futon
tightly, prepared to get his asshole savagely fucked
but what he felt was entirely different than the
searing pain/pleasure he was anxiously
anticipating. “Nooo,” he hollered out.
Flex had repositioned himself as well. He was
laying between Ernesto’s thighs underneath him and
sucking his dick. He wrapped his arms around
Ernesto’s back and held him in place while he
delivered some equally spectacular head to his new
lover. Try as he might, Ernesto could not pull away
and he felt his body succumb to the oral pleasures
he was receiving. “No, no, no, no,” was all he
could say. He thought to himself, “Can’t he tell
that I’m a bottom, whose only use and purpose is to
serve and please?” Flex was fucking with the entire
fabric of the universe. Ernesto got his pleasure,
alone, in the solitude of his bed in shame and in
silence, long after the sexual experience was over,
reliving it in his mind, jerking off to how he had
pleased his lover, how he had been the perfect
bottom, never expecting any pleasure whatsoever.
Flex couldn’t hear any of that internal dialogue,
all he was doing was focusing on tasting Ernesto’s
dripping precum and returning the sensual favor.
The roles had changed again, this time with Ernesto
trying to change the direction of things. He was
able to pull away and this time he lay back on the
bed and spread his legs, holding them up and
pleading with his new lover to be fucked. “Ram that
big dick in my pussy, fuck me hard. FUCK THE SHIT
OUT OF ME. Come on, daddy, I need it so bad. Pound
that meat in my slutty asshole and make me beg for
more. I’ll be your little whore daddy. Spit on
that hole and make it nice and wet and shove that
fucker in me and make it hurt.”
What happened next sent a chill of panic and
pleasure through Ernesto’s body. Before he could
realize what was happening, he felt the soft, gentle
tongue of Flex exploring his hole, kissing it,
licking it, tongue fucking it. He’d never felt that
sensation before in his life. He grabbed his knees
and pulled them closer to his chest, exposing his
hole even more. All he could feel was the warm, wet
sensation of that probing tongue and while his head
wanted to say, “Stop.” His mouth was saying, “Oh
shit, that feels so fucking good, don’t you dare
stop.” As many times as he’d rimmed his lovers
before, he never imagined that being on the
receiving end could feel so damned sexy.
Flex, inspired by his lover’s words, didn’t
disappoint. He licked and sucked and tongue fucked
that hole, making it wet and ready. He got on his
knees and aimed his bloated dick at that sexy hole.
He teased it, teased him, but rubbing his head on
that hole. Just before he pushed it in, he leaned
down and whispered in Ernesto’s ear, “I want you so
fucking bad.” They kissed again and Ernesto felt
the head of Flex’s cock enter him. It was slow,
steady, calculated and giving him pleasure in every
cell of his fucking body. They were grunting and
sweating again as the pace was slow and agonizingly
sensual. Ernesto was being made love to and he knew
it. He used his fingertips to softly explore Flex’s
body while the two worked out a rhythm. Flex
stroked, Ernesto squeezed, they fucked each other
like gorgeous wild animals. The pounding became
more intense, the stroking harder, deeper. Their
moans grew wilder and their kissing more frenzied.
Flex pulled out and replaced his dick with his
mouth, tonguing out that gaping, well-fucked hole.
Ernesto made a sound that couldn’t be described. It
was the singular most erotic, nasty, sensual feeling
he’d had in his life. He grabbed his cock and
started pounding it furiously, ready to spew his
load then and there. Flex had other plans.
Grabbing the bottle of massage oil, he flipped the
top open and poured it on Ernesto’s prick. Ernesto
held his breath, almost sure he knew what was going
to happen next but terrified to think about it.
Flex moved into position and straddled his body. He
could feel his cock rubbing between those full,
round ass cheeks. In that moment, in his mind,
Ernesto outted himself. He knew that he could no
longer remain in the closet; he realized that he has
handicapped himself by not being able to love
whomever he wanted freely. He knew that he could
not keep his secret any longer to anyone. In the
darkness of his self imposed closet, he was a
submissive bottom. In the light of his sexual
freedom, he was a man who loved other men. His
revelation was distracted by the feel of his cock
penetrating Flex’s tight asshole. He felt the ring
of his ass gripping every millimeter of his
erection, squeezing it. He looked up to see a look
of sheer pleasure and bliss on Flex’s face,
unencumbered by roles of top or bottom, just
expressing his sexuality freely and genuinely.
With his ass settled down on Ernesto’s body, Flex
started grinding and winding his ass, using his ass
muscles to work that hot dick. Ernesto grabbed his
hips and started thrusting, fucking him back,
working his dick in harder, trying to go deeper.
Flex started bouncing up and down on his dick,
riding him hard. The look on his face was one of
pure bliss. Ernesto shut his eyes and got lost in
the sensation, “Oh Flex, I love . . . this, I love
this.” He really wanted to say I love you. It was
as if every fiber of his being wanted to profess his
love for the man who was giving him pleasure in ways
he’d never imagined.
Flex leaned down and whispered in his ear, “I love
you too.” Both of them knew it was the lust
talking, both of them knew intellectually that it
couldn’t be love based on a couple of hours. Both of
them knew that there was a connection there that
would last well past a one night stand or casual sex
as well.
Using his muscular arms, Ernesto flipped Flex over
and placed him on his knees. Flex looked back and
said, “Fuck me, ram that dick in me.” They both
groaned as Ernesto pushed the entire length of his
cock in that hot hole and started pounding away. It
was pure, unbridled, sensuous fucking. He gripped
that brown flesh and pulled him closer, he could see
the contrast in skin color, the way Flex’s asshole
would grip his cock as he slid in and out, faster,
harder, deeper, faster still, harder, using every
muscle in his body to give pleasure. He was hitting
that hot spot, making Flex moan like a little
bitch. The way his cock felt, surrounded by that
hot, tight ring, he was cursing in a string of
Italian and English and what seemed like another
primal language only understood by lovers.
He could feel the cum about to explode from his
cock. He began pistoning his cock in and out,
harder than he thought he was capable of doing.
Flex was taking it all and begging for more. He
crushed Flex beneath him and used his ass to pump
and pound, His fingers intertwined with Flex as he
unloaded his cum deep inside him.
Six months later, Flex and Ernesto stood as a
testament to true interracial gay love. They didn’t
flaunt their sexuality but they certainly didn’t
hide it either. All of his friends in Brooklyn
disowned him, wouldn’t speak to him again. They
would have been a little more tolerant of the idea
if Flex hadn’t been Black but they couldn’t get it
out of their minds that their friend, their paesano,
was the bitch to a black guy. It was beyond their
comprehension that the two were far more than top
and bottom, they were reciprocal, versatile lovers
with no roles or labels.
Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK
Tired of seeing black women being portrayed as
ghetto bitches, freaks and whores, and black men as
barely literate thugs, bulls, and pimps, Scottie
Lowe decided it was time to show black people in a
positive sexual light. Ms. Lowe is the sole owner
and founder of www.AfroerotiK.com, a company
dedicated to eradicating the negative and
stereotypical depictions of Black sexuality and
providing customized, personalized erotic stories
for and about people of color. Her innovative
approach to writing Black erotica is shattering
misperceptions and opening the doors to dialogue
about subjects long considered taboo.
