
Slow Grind: Gay Men Tell Their Real-Life Sex Stories
An excerpt by Michael MarshThe Alley off Polk StreetI spot the parking place and the hustler at the same time. He lounges there, one leg propped up against the crude graffiti on the brick wall. At the sound of my car he turns his head, smiles, and looks straight at me, the expression on his face expectant and mildly curious. I notice his eyes first, dark sparkling eyes framed by equally dark lashe...
Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Alyson Books (July 1, 2000)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1555835600
ISBN-13: 978-1555835606
Product Dimensions: 5.5 x 0.5 x 8.5 inches
Amazon Rank: 4458750
Format: PDF ePub TXT ebook
- 1555835600 epub
- 978-1555835606 epub
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“This book has many enjoyable stories. I started reading it before Christmas, and still have not finished it, though i do like every story i have read thus far. I just want to make the pleasure last....”
. His crown of long jet-black hair is brushed back into a ponytail. It shines as it catches the warm October sunlight. My God! I think, he is wonderful; he is sexy. My body suddenly shivers with lust.I am instantly aware of how different he is from the general population of homeless youth who meander up and down Polk Street daily. He is young, somewhere in his 20s, I suppose. He is well-built, of medium height, his body slender and lean. Nothing about it is pronounced. He has no tattoos, no pierced body parts that I can see, no buff biceps or triceps, no rounded melon buttocks or bulging basket so beloved of gay fantasy. Rather, his are the radiant, handsome American good looks of a healthy young boy out for an afternoon of adventure, preferably naughty. His white T-shirt and faded blue jeans hang loosely on his frame. He wears white socks and decrepit sneakers, their soles held in place with electrical duct tape. I laugh at the sneakers. When I was at Princeton I wrapped mine the same way. Looking at him, I have only one thought: I must have this beautiful boy!As I pull into the parking place, he strolls up to the car and leans casually on the frame of the open passenger window."Hi, my name is Christian." His smile is open, friendly, almost bashful."Christian? That's an imposing name.""Yeah. It's my dad's name too. My folks call me Chrissy, but around here, I'm usually just Kit.""Kit's easier; it suits you," I comment. "Hi, Kit. I'm Michael.""What do you know," he remarks. "My first boyfriend's name was Michael. Nice car, Michael," he says, looking at the interior. "What year is it?""It's a 1968," I answer. "Twenty years old last month.""Classic." Clearly, Kit likes my car. "A real beauty. Do you mind if I get in for a minute? I've never sat in a Mer
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