some gay porn i wrote a long time ago...

long before earning a living in porn, I dabbled in erotic stories a bit -- and some of them were even GAY -- :pirate: -- if, admittedly, a little on the cerebral side -- lol

Here's one from 2001...

"Chronos"

Some of us have to deny ourselves any possible consummation, flirting only to bleed out a bit of the pressure that boils within. But the material expelled is flammable and sticky, like Napalm. Inevitably, things get set afire, then burn hopelessly. A safe one is the older man. This guy's like 62 and still very pointed in his posture from what must've been decades of diligent lifting. Think Anthony Quinn from about fifteen years ago, or Sydney Pollack's engirding aura of affluence in "Eyes Wide Shut". You'll see one or two of the type on the BART platform on a Tuesday night, right around eleven, when the less-expensive, mid-week performance of the Opera has just let out. Wasn't the cheaper ticket that brought out this rare fish, though. But the inevitably more variegated texture of the crowd that thinks to make an Opera Night from a pedestrian Tuesday evening. Strange lot. The city would seem of an entirely different face if such an audience were taken representative. So the BART platform is alive with them at around 11:30, clusters of carnival activity and the odd chatter of a foreign language. He'll almost certainly be standing, rather than sitting. It is a part of his appeal and raw physical charm that he resists such capitulations to age as sitting down when one is fit to stand. This man is erect, and for the wrinkles on his gayness, absolutely poignant. It is difficult for most men to realize it when they are being regarded with interest by him. There is usually the day's edition (or The Economist) tucked crisply under one arm, at the highest part of the arm, which requires so much more muscular tension, and a finger may be draped thoughtfully against the mouth. And there is always a wristwatch of exceptional craftsmanship and absurd cost. If you are a really young man, with the bloom of skateboarding and last weekend's rave still glowing on your skin, you will never detect his desire. If you notice his eyes passing over you at all, it may feel strangely avuncular, if even that menacing. Or, you'll msitake it for envy, of an oddly fangless sort. The unusual one for whom our Gentleman is keeping his eyes alert, is also the one best equipped to decipher the subtlety of the flirtation. For he is the same heroically afflicted homme arme des lettres, but at a younger stage of life. At about the age of 33, the younger will offer the older the perfected reflection of his own "sanded through the hourglass" youth. It is the picture of himself the older man always tries to conjure and animate within his memories. This was before the poetic fire of idealism (or, just as likely, the "idealistic fire of poetry") inside him had been doused by commerce. Having sighted such a one, he will be at his most vulnerable when he is dancing about for the first meeting of the eyes, he will be more listless than he wants to be, less stoically composed and more concerned about the BART than he normally appears. Excessive glancing at the watch. The fish will show clearly what bait has tethered him. But when he finally achieves your attention, you too will be startled to see yourself mirrored in him. Your first moment together is made intimate for both being afraid of what you see. There is also that weird kind of tautness, like between a father and son, when the younger has reached age and size enough to really threaten the older in a fight. But here, of course, it is without any incestuous taboo. The impulse to wrestle, to feel resistance and testing, and the irrational ache for physical mastery are all free of the usual blood fetters. When the dialogue of eyes begins, he will seem shaken and agitated. He will try to make the pain of self-recognition seem like tiredness, or still more absurdly, like nervousness before your beauty. And you will melt against this extraordinary flattery, never seeing his moment of great frailty. You will loiter long minutes in his gaze, and will enjoy how completely he sees you and how much of what he sees is admired. The BART doors open, close, the distraction of other bodies slides between you. And then there is the need to bring the relation into a more self-acknowledged light. You can only crane and peer around the obstructions so much before a conversation must erupt from the sheer embarrassment, from the nakedness of the chemistry. He will no doubt be some sort of architect, and have a dog-eared Atlas Shrugged near the intimacy of his bed. The unwritten, suppressed, lines of poetry will be there in his speech. He grows more lyrical, and queenier, when he sees just how well you hear his music. Now you wish that you had not lured him to this place of loss. And already you are slipping out the disappointing information. His mouth is drying, you imagine, for all the fluid in him having sunken to his feet. With sex precluded, the exchange recedes, sadly, to the province of intellect. And there, what are you but two echoes of the same sound, cancelled to muteness by each other.





j-