Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen Read Free Book Online Page A

firm grip. The Harley veered off the curb into the traffic. The heat of the day vanished as air rushed cool around them, the bike throbbing under his thighs, and Chris smiled under his helmet, clinging to the warm and solid form of Jean-Baptiste in front of him.

Feygele
    Alex Stitt
    I study men like an ornithologist studies birds. The blushing robin, twittering with excitement, the mysterious, yet all too obnoxious crow, even the balding vulture, pecking at my body for some small morsel of affection—all fly in this menagerie of men. And like an ornithologist I tour, Europe mostly, working as a travel writer, though the most exotic species I ever found was in an alley of London proper.
    I had just ended a three-month relationship with a leggy, flamingo-like drag queen, and was on my way home from a disappointing rebound date with a staunch penguin trying so comically to act straight. It was raining at dusk. I was dreaming about real Mediterranean sunsets, since there was no sun in Westminster’s overcast sky, only an eerie, gray hue before nightfall.
    From the queer, neon-lit nightclubs of Soho, I dashed over to Covent Garden, having rented an oversized closet with a radiator that my landlady boasted as a flat. I was almost home when firelight exploded between two buildings. Looking over, I saw the usual flock of drunks and ravers, starry-eyed with lager and ecstasy, just as a second fireball illuminated the brickwork. Back-alley street-performers weren’t uncommon in Westminster, though few were bold enough to bring fire. I would have walked on had I not caught sight of him.
    Trailing two flaming chains along the ground, he spun in a crouched circle, his excess fuel flaring a crackling ring around him. He was black and wet, and as he rose the flames swung from his hands, illuminating his body with dancing shadows. Unlike certain flashy flamingos, this one lived for physicality, but he wasn’t like the cockerels I saw prancing in the gym; he was lean, sylphlike. Muscles would have only gotten in his way, and when he moved the fire orbited his graceful motions. I would have liked to think he saw me, but I was just another owl-eyed figure cooing at a distance.
    Wrapping myself up in my scarf, I continued on home.

    â€œYou got a haircut. I like the faux-hawk thing. It suits you.” “It’s just easy,” I said as Michael leaned into his end of the
    webcam. He was clearly in Japan. I could tell by the paper lanterns decorating his fantastic view of a room. We’d dated, briefly, after discovering we were both travel writers aboard the same cruise. He was a hummingbird type, fluttering from cocktail glass to cocktail glass with seemingly endless energy. He approached sex the same way, and I found myself quickly kissed, topped, adored and abandoned. And now? I was just one of his countless webcam friends, smiling back at him, though he was the only one I had left.
    â€œSo are you gonna talk about it, feygele? Or do you want me to just leave my laptop on again? I could, you know.”
    I winced. Feygele was his little nickname for me, an odd derogatory nicked from his Yiddish grandmother. He said it was cute. He said it meant “little bird.”
    Behind him, the raised outline of a bedsheet revealed the pert arse of his latest dozing flower. Sometimes he left his webcam on so I could spy on mute, jacking off to his exotic Asian adventures from my pathetic, box-room flat.
    â€œYou would like this one.” He grinned. “He’s got tattoos. I think he might be in the mafia. So if I go missing, tell the children I never had that I died doing what I love.”
    â€œRimming?” “Rimming Yakuza.”
    â€œModel parenting,” I said, defogging my glasses. The square frames were starting to bend, but I couldn’t afford a new pair. Not until my next assignment, anyway.
    At least the radiator kept the place hot.
    â€œSo you dumped the queen?” he went on, raising