Category Archives: Erotic Stories & Excerpts

Erotic short stories about like-minded men, male sexuality, and male emotions.

The Jew and the German

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The Jew and the German

We rounded up one hundred and sixty Jews today.  The rifle shots that ended their lives had stopped less than an hour ago.  I had witnessed it all, standing among my German comrades, not twenty meters from the edge of the trench that served as a mass grave.

Men, women, children; it didn’t matter as long as they were Jews, or gypsies, or suspected Bolshevik sympathizers.  I had seen the increasingly higher pile of naked bodies at the bottom of the trench, watched the officer go down among them and blow out the brains of those still moving.  I had listened to them moan and beg and pray, and watched as they somberly removed their clothes, then stood shivering at the edge of the trench, not allowing their eyes to fall below the eastern horizon.  I had felt my stomach roil with bitter acid, felt my teeth hurt from clenching them so tightly.  I had been part of it, me, a draftsman just out of college.  I had been conscripted into the SS, assigned to the ranks of Sonderkommando 4a, one of the outfits designated to address the Jewish question, currently operating in Ukraine.  My group had been ordered to clean out the surrounding villages around Kiev.  The day would come I would be chosen to man one of the rifles.  I still could not comprehend why we were doing this.  I had not figured out what had happened to my homeland.  My breathing had been labored since my first day in Ukraine.  I could not imagine pulling the trigger.

Now, as the gloom of night cast the first shadows over the long weary day, I stood a few yards outside of camp, leaning against a tree, taking long draws off my third consecutive cigarette, staring absently across the vast steppe.  Sonderkommando 4a was following the wehrmacht as it plowed through Russia.  Setting up command centers in the cities and villages behind the front line, our objective was to round up and eliminate German enemies.  Of course this included the Jews.  My small group, part of the central group in Kiev, had been sent southeast to clean out the small villages.  It was horrifying, merciless, carried out with ruthless detachment.  I would never adjust to this manner of thinking.  I had known many Jews in my hometown in Germany, neighbors, chums I had gone to school with.  Why were we killing them?

From the corner of my eye, I saw an approaching prisoner, a young man in tattered peasant clothes assigned the chore of picking up the trash and cigarette butts littering our camp.  I watched him, his cautiousness as he got down on his knees to scour the ground, glancing at me, most likely fretting over every tiny scrap and every last cigarette butt, trying to avoid a beating.  I felt ashamed of my uniform.

Eventually he stared at me, the look in his eye chilling; more than hostility, analytical perhaps, a look that almost seemed to suggest pity, though not quite masking his hatred and contempt.  Moving forward on his knees, likely resigned to his fate, his courage seemed to gather, reflected in the expression of defiance on his face.  When he got to his feet, he glanced behind and saw we were alone, then fixed his arrogant, scornful eyes on me.  “You think you’ll get away with this, with what’s going on here,” he said bitterly, staring fearlessly like a man with nothing to lose.

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Born In the Wrong Body

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Born in the Wrong Body

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Out shopping one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, I walked down a well-lit hallway that led to the public restrooms.  Rounding a turn in the hall, the two doors came into view on opposite walls.  Before turning away from the women’s room, as I stared at the door, quick flashes of a more Utopian life passed through my mind.  A middle-age woman glanced my way before disappearing inside.  It would have felt natural to follow her in, though that would have made her gasp in horror.

That’s because I still looked like a man, barely a year out of a late puberty.  Not a masculine man, a wimpy one.  Still, during puberty, my body had changed in a way that broke my heart.  When the other girls at school were looking at their new breasts in the mirror, I was looking at a penis that had gotten larger.

Call it a temporary lapse, me wanting to forget my body’s configured differently than the other women that use that room.  Given certain circumstances, I would have these fleeting fantasies of feeling normal; usually followed by memories of the day my mother, after catching me looking at myself in the mirror in a pair of nylon panties, went through every drawer in my room and threw out all the female intimates I had hidden; or those days in junior high PE class, changing into those awful gym shorts, invariably humiliated when Johnny Perkins taunted me, mocked my slender hairless body, my girlie white skin, my small boyish penis.

It was my sense of self, my feminine sensibilities that urged me to use the restroom I felt most comfortable in, instead of facing the lifelong dread of making myself go in and pee with the men.  It didn’t matter the rest of my world saw me as a man, for me it was impossible to accept.  It didn’t matter my shoulders were small and my protruding nipples sometimes felt swollen and sensitive, as if they were about to blossom into full blown breasts (but never did); I was stuck with the basic shape of a male.  It didn’t matter if I secretly shaved my underarms and legs; I still looked like a man.  But I’m not.  Not then, that day at Macy’s; not now.  I’m a woman.  Born a woman and destined to stay a woman for the rest of my life.

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Two Husbands

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Two Husbands

A year has passed since he confessed.

Late one night, after I had taken a shower, I found him sitting in front of his computer.  He didn’t realize I had come up behind him until I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.  He stiffened.  Glancing at the website on the screen, I knew why.  As I stood back and stared at him in disbelief, he solemnly turned off the computer and went into the kitchen.  Confused, I followed and joined him at the breakfast table.

Had anyone else told me something like that about my husband, I would’ve laughed at them.  Tom and I had been married fifteen years.  A total surprise.  He’s one of the most masculine men I’ve ever known: six foot one, broad shoulders, generally a no nonsense kind of guy.  I didn’t have to ask why he was looking at a film clip of two men, both naked, one leaning over the other from behind—he simply told me in no uncertain terms.

Fifteen years.  How could I have not known?  I had never been so overwhelmed by so many debilitating emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, confusion.  Then those agonizing next few days trying to talk to him, trying understand exactly what I felt angry about.  It finally came to me.  Not so much his errant sexuality as the fact he had not been honest with me.  I had been married all that time to a man I didn’t really know.  Then another few months worrying the confession was a prelude to our divorce.  How could he love me if he was attracted to men?

At first I thought an affair with another woman would have been easier to deal with.  At least that’s something I understand.  I backed away from that notion after thinking about it.  Another woman would have left me feeling inadequate as a wife, a torment I’ve managed to avoid, at least to some degree.  Though his eyes still followed me when I crossed the bed room naked, though he still held me and draped his leg over mine when we slept, I often still wondered if he’d rather be in bed with a man.

As I muddled through those first few weeks, most frustrating was his reluctance to talk about it.  He would listen patiently to my doubts and concerns, or sit quietly through my anger and tirades, then reconfirm his love and assure me he was the same man I had always known.  Beyond that, getting answers was like pulling teeth.  Questions followed by quick generic answers.

“When did you first know?”

“In high school.”

“Did something happen?”

“No. I just knew.”

“Have you ever touched a man?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a relationship?”

“We were close friends for a year before you and I got married.”

“What happened?”

“I met you.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“A few times.”

“Do you still think about him?”

“Now and then.”

“Do you miss him?”

He hesitated, then: “What does that have to do with you and me?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.  I still miss him,” he finally admitted.

I remember how this impacted me, this unsettling piece that complicated the puzzle, that also served to evoke more questions.

“Have you seen him since we’ve been married?”

“He moved to New York.”

“Would you?”

“Not if you didn’t want me to.”

Ah, so that burden would be on me.  More weight on my shoulders when I’m trying to reduce the load.

“Have you seen anyone?”

“No.”

Relief.  At least that’s what I wanted to feel.  He had not been honest about his sexuality, why would he answer me honestly now?  When you discover something totally out of character about your husband, you’re prepared for any number of surprises.  You have misgivings about him, and I hated suspicion—it felt like bile rising in my throat.

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Abducted

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Abducted

Little does he know, when she pulls in front of him just as he turns into the parking lot, that this event has changed the course of his life.  His coffee splashes on the floor when he hit the brakes.  A quick flash of anger as he watches her drive on into the parking lot, oblivious to the fact he had the right-of-way.  He sees her again after he parks, when she passes in front of his van; a suburban clone, blonde, ponytail, distracted by some frivolous conversation on a cell phone while trying to see over the hood of a tank-size SUV.

She stops a few cars down to wait for an elderly couple get into their car and vacate their parking space.  Why didn’t she take the space six cars back and simple walk the extra distance?  Two cars pull to a stop behind her.  They have to wait for her to get out of the way.  She honks, apparently to hurry the elderly couple.

He shakes his head.  How many of these clones has he seen before, the type that thinks the world revolves around them, utterly unaware of the real world, or other people’s sensibilities, spoiled from the moment they’re born, little girls that grow up selfish and self-serving, then marry the ambitious fraternity man that has to have just the right female to call his wife?

Maybe this bothered him more these days, now that his business had gone under, now that he had lost his house and was living in the lake cabin left to him by his uncle, all heaped on the pain of losing his wife in an automobile accident less than a year before.  A year ago this obnoxious female wouldn’t have roused a second thought.

He watches her maneuver the big SUV into the parking space, step down out of the cab and start toward the grocery store, stopping to confront the cart attendant about a cart that had gotten in her way.  He can see the boy trying to be polite even though she’s talking down to him, likely accusing him of not doing his job.

She’s blessed—his whole world has fallen apart.  She will fill her shopping cart with expensive organic food and the latest high-energy sports drinks.  He’ll buy sugar and coffee and maybe a pot roast.  His money will run out within a few months.  He feels powerless, like the world had passed him by and he will never catch up.  His optimism and ambition have been reduced to pangs of inadequacy, failure, unable to solve problems or make decisions; a low that often feels like a physical pain, a low he had never realized even existed.

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An Intimate Table for Three

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By Mark S.

Lorena stepped out of the accounting office … MY accounting office! and walked past the cubicles of her coworkers. They waved and smiled, some sadly, as she passed. She entered the large shared office of Craig and Stephen, the co-owners of TreeHuggerz, Inc. Here we go, Lorena, breathe deep and keep your shit together. As usual, the glass doors of the brightly sunlit office were open wide. Craig was sitting behind his desk, resting the weight of his rugged frame on his elbows. Stephen, tall, thin, and childishly energetic, was sitting on the desk and swinging his feet. Both men stared so intently at her that Lorena felt heartsick.

“Come in, Lorena”, said Craig, with his disarming smile.

“And close the doors behind you” added Stephen with a fake sneer.

Lorena’s discomfort tripled as she closed the doors. Craig and Stephen were open with their employees, and closed doors always meant something heavy was going down. She imagined everyone watching the meeting and speculating what was being said. Craig offered her a chair with a sweep of his hand, which she politely declined. Stephen jumped off the desk and moved behind it, standing next to his seated partner. Stephen was trying to act stern and angry, and the effect would have been comical in other circumstances. He was such an exuberant free-spirit that he seemed like a teenager. Grey hair at his temples and the deep laugh lines around his blue eyes were the only evidence that he was well into his forties.

Craig spoke.

“Well, Lorena, tomorrow is Friday. Your last day with us. We were shocked two weeks ago when you gave your notice. We respect your choice, but we REALLY do not want to let you go.”

Oh, Craig, if you only knew what would make me stay. “I know. It’s not an easy decision. I’ve really enjoyed working here. You both have been great to me” Continue reading →

Johnny Feelwater’s Sexual Revelation

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The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater is a story about a thirty-two year old man who realizes, during a onslaught of astonishing circumstances, he has set his stride on the wrong path.

james-wu-sashaLike countless men like him, another man lives inside his head, a man he can’t allow himself to be, a confused identity shunted into the darkest corners of his consciousness.  He had married Marrilee, started his career, took on a mortgage–he was normal.

Then, one morning he innocently steps into another world, Cassandra and Julian Mott’s world, and everything begins to unravel, his career, his marriage, his peace-of-mind.  He comes face-to-face with the other side of his sexuality.  After lifting his legs and resting them on another man’s shoulders, nude and vulnerable, he realizes, if he is to get his life back, he needs help.

Johnny knows that a man called Dr. Brian Fowler is the one who can help him, the one man that can deal with Cassandra and Julian Mott; but Fowler is in Africa, where he goes every summer to donate his time to the people of Kenya known as the Maasai.  For Johnny, there’s no choice other than to exhaust what remains of his finances and journey to Africa, where he finds answers to his unmasked questions.

Johnny’s senses are overwhelmed during his stay with Bryan Fowler in the Maasai village, the human smells and visuals, humanity’s oneness with the earth.  His imagination is set ablaze and his self-recognition begins to blossom as he lives among these dynamic people and sleeps so close to Brian in the tiny confines of a Maasai hut.

One day he and Brian attend a traditional ceremony, where the two of them sit on a knoll with the village elders, watching the festivities.  Here is what he sees:

(From The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater)  . . . It was a time of waiting.  Puffing their pipes, Johnny and Brian continued to observe the activities from their positions on the knoll.  Johnny’s reprieve held.  There were no omens in his hands.  Locking his fingers around a knee, he sat comfortably, the pipe clenched in his teeth, his shoulder and neck muscles tension free.  While the elders next to him spoke among themselves of their important concerns, Johnny continued his private study of Maasai contentment.  He watched young mothers with newborn infants at their breasts, tiny babes engulfed within loving arms and gazes.  A toddler emerged from a forest of long legs, wailing.  So distraught was his small face that Johnny’s heart felt a pang.  The child had lost his mother, not yet old enough to know there was no safer place on God’s earth he might be.  The younger men, the warriors, stood in small groups, conversing and comparing adornments and body paint.  From them came no shortage of teasing; for it seemed where go the warriors, so go the girls and the catcalls and flirting.

Johnny had been watching one of them in particular.  A young man who would be king, Johnny surmised as he leaned forward and stared, resting his forearms on his knees, letting his hands hang limp.  The warrior, shouldering no more than twenty-five years of life’s trials, stood an inch or two taller than his companions; a stature enhanced by a magnificent, horseshoe-shaped headdress, feathered with stuffed orioles and kingfishers.  Flaring nearly as wide as his shoulders, he wore it like a crown.  Chalky white paint formed a raccoon-like mask around his eyes and strands of beads crisscrossed his forehead.  Set in the perfect symmetry of a longish, oval-shaped face, his eyes shone with self-confidence and arrogance, his nose long and broad with large nostrils, his lips a voluptuous, omnipotent smirk.  Tied at the back of his neck, a bright red cape draped down over his torso to his knees.  It hung loosely open down the back, which allowed shadowy hints of rich black skin and the masculine contours of his lower back and buttocks. Continue reading →

The Crystal Carafe

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The Crystal Carafe

She was holding a bottle of wine when she opened the door.  A smile brightened her face.  I was excited about seeing her, this being our third date, all I could think about for the past three days.  For a moment I just stared.  It was more than her natural beauty, or her short blonde hair, or her feminine body, or the smile that had rested in my mind since the moment I met her—I was fascinated by her mind.

She was wearing a gauzy white cotton dress that came to just above her knees, the kind that slips down over the head and is held up by narrow straps draped over the shoulders.  It highlighted her hips, which were firm and well-developed for a girl this thin.  Her hair had been recently washed and appeared to have dried naturally.  She was barefoot.  I felt relaxed and comfortable right away.

We met the day she visited my office as a sales rep for a corrugated container company.  Taken right away, I sat behind my desk pretending to listen to her sales pitch.  A date was what I was actually thinking about—how to go about asking her for one.  We had dinner that night.  We went to a play a couple of nights later.  After the play, over a glass of wine in the theater lounge, she invited me to her sixth floor apartment that overlooks the river come Friday night.  Said she’d enjoy a quiet evening with me, promised to make it memorable.  I’ve thought of nothing else since.

Looking into her eyes as I stood just outside of her door, it dawned on me that I was to end up in bed with her, not that I hadn’t thought of that during the last three days; but by seeing her, I could almost feel her in my arms.  It felt like our chemistry was in sync and had already begun to work its magic.

She took my hand and I followed her through the living room and we stepped out on the balcony.  Not a word had been said.  It seemed we were communicating with our silence, that the evening was to be enjoyed without pretense or games, enjoyed just because we were together.  She invited me to sit down and then went about uncorking the wine, handing me a glass as she joined me.  During the next hour, we finished the bottle and got a good start on the second, talking about the city and the different things we liked.  I had never felt this comfortable with anyone.

Eventually the wine made me aware of my bladder and I asked directions to the bathroom.  “Can you wait?” she asked.  “There’s something I want to show you.”

Odd, I thought, that she wouldn’t simply wait until I got back from the bathroom to show me whatever it was; but curious, I nodded.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, then stood and I watched her go back into the apartment.  The gauze dress was sheer.  The light from inside the apartment showed through and I could see the apex of her legs and wondered if she had on panties.  The dress defined the crack of her ass, which caused a reaction behind my fly.

She returned with a small wooden box, inside which were rolling papers a bag of pot.  “Do you smoke?” she asked.

I looked into her eyes and said yes, which I would have said even if I didn’t.  Then she rolled a masterful joint, and after a few hits, I was thinking about being in bed with her and not much else, except my bladder.  When we finished the joint I inquired again about the bathroom.
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Wistful Thoughts

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I could not love my wife more.  Nor could I have a stronger desire to spend the rest of my life with her, to cherish every moment we’re together, to hold her every night and thank my lucky stars that I found her.

Ah, but there are times . . . usually when it’s least expected, I set eyes on another human being, a man . . . and I wonder.  I wonder what kind of personality he has, if there are many well-kept secrets in his head, like there are in mine.  I wonder what it would be like to know him, to have a friend like him, someone to spend time with and talk and trade innermost thoughts.

I instinctually recognize a certain chemistry, then wonder if it’s nothing more than my imagination, or wishful thoughts.  But I envision it anyway as I picture us walking shoulder to shoulder, from time to time brushing against each other, glancing at each other with a knowing gaze.

I picture the two of us camping by a fast moving stream, sitting side-by-side on a big rock, staring out over the terrain, talking now and then about the things that cross our minds.  When the heat of the day makes us feel sweaty, we strip off our clothes and play in the stream; and by day’s end, we’re sitting in the rapids, knees touching, eyes locked, cherishing our friendship, pondering the oncoming night.

Then later, lying close under the stars in the warm night air, staring up into the heavens, arms touching, I find myself drawn to his body heat and the smell of a man, and my imagination takes me to special places.  We had been looking at each other all day, recalling memories and thinking about memories yet unborn; then the feel of his breath on my neck.

Very little sleep accompanies the night and we find ourselves preparing breakfast, silent glances and smiles as we reflect on the feelings still inside us.  Another day is before us, another day much like the one that just passed.

So the week disappears; that part of us that no one else knows has been nourished and resolved, and we feel it on our skin–we are both comfortable with who we are.  We load the car, now anxious to get home to our wives and the world we have chosen.  And from time to time, as the months fall behind, we’ll think about next summer, when we’ll return to our secret campsite to do it again.

All of this in just one glance at the right man.