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

his 7:00 a.m. coffee.
    â€œHer majesty reigns no more,” I nodded, opening a 10:00 p.m. beer.
    â€œI thought you liked that one.”
    â€œI did. He just liked himself more.”
    â€œWell, darling, this might just cheer you up.”
    Six thousand miles away, on the far side of a lagging Ethernet connection, Michael slid aside his bedsheets, revealing his guest’s morning wood. Most cocks I’d encountered lilted to one side, but as he rolled over, it stuck straight up, inviting Michael to lick his way from base to tip.
    The guy was ripped, with a swath of geisha-koi-fish-dragon tattoos wrapped from his back to his pelvis. His spine arched as Michael slid his lips up and down, simultaneously holding one finger in front of the laptop to shut me up. With his face in a bush of uncut pubes, he hit the mute button, hiding my little screen. I could still see everything, but Michael’s guest couldn’t see me.
    Sliding my hand into my jeans, I ran my palm along the length of my shaft. I typically liked to jack off inside my clothes. The friction against my inseam rubbed in just the right way, but tonight I was restless. My date had been a bust. Penguins made poor substitutes for flamingos, and I hadn’t been laid in a week.
    In the land of the red sun, Michael was performing his famous hummingbird lick-fest, with one hand cupped between the Mafioso-samurai’s legs. Michael had a talent for fingering and sucking in one bobbing, harmonious motion.
    In London, I stroked, half-mast. I wasn’t ungrateful for the game, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I tugged at my foreskin now and then to remind myself what I was doing. I remembered when I used to be Michael’s little feygele, his one and only little bird, but I was tired of being kept. Michael said I was a pragmatist. He said I was a sparrow.
    Raising my fist up and down, I leaned back in my chair. I could feel my balls getting tight, but I knew Michael would finish him before I even got close. Hummingbirds, after all, were never known for their patience.
    Trying to coax myself on, I licked my hand, wetting my palm to give my head something smooth to rub against.
    The rain pattered, I turned, and there, outside my fourth-floor window, was a pair of eyes nestled behind a grin.
    Freezing in my chair, I stared back. The face disappeared. There was a thump and a scrape as a length of chain slid upward.
    Blinking again, I saw Michael on my screen, throat-deep in Nihonjin cock.
    Grabbing my glasses, I shoved the window open, fighting against its half-rusted springs. Poking my head into the rain, I saw the fire-dancer climbing up the fire escape. He was wearing a short jacket and carrying a heavy rucksack, his springy black hair catching raindrops.
    â€œHey!” I called. “What are you doing?”
    â€œYour fly’s open,” he said, swinging away from the ladder with one hand, if only to grin at my erection.
    Tucking in and zipping up, I looked out again, just as his metal chains rattled over the roof.
    Michael gasped, come dashing across his pixilated grin as he glanced sidelong at the camera, but I was already gone.
    Rain hammering my shoulders, I crawled out onto the metal platform. It was the last stop before the roof, but the whole ladder felt like it would pull off the wall. Climbing up the old rungs, coating my hands in orange rust, I made it to the rickety summit, vertigo and trash cans below.
    The top of my flat was an abandoned nest of TV antennas, some generations old, shoved in next to a row of grimy satellite dishes. A chimney stack in the corner grew an outcrop of moss, and to its left someone had tied a blue tarp between the stacks, a few cinder blocks and an overflowing bucket of rain. Beneath the weighted canopy was a camper tent, unzipped. A flashlight fumbled around.
    â€œYou’re that fire-dancer, yeah?” I asked, approaching slowly. “Do you live up here?”
    â€œNo,” he answered,