Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen

glide into a knot of people like she owned them. Then Jay came out of the bathroom sporting the washed-out look of a man who’s been on his knees at the bowl. He didn’t look for me or his wife. He took a chair at an empty table and stared at the centerpiece.
    Jeff asked me to dance again and I then asked Bill’s mother Adele, who I liked more than any of them. Widowed and stout, she glided along in my arms and spoke with a throaty alto that was always welcome.
    â€œThey’re a marvelous couple,” I said of her son and his new spouse.
    â€œIndeed,” she replied. “Bill is happier than I’ve ever seen him. I can go to my grave in peace.”
    â€œI hope you’re not planning on that soon.”
    This brought on her big laugh, as I knew it would, and she beamed, then settled in to study me. “I’m so sorry about your breaking up with your actor friend. Tom, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYes, Tom.”
    â€œYou mustn’t let it color your future, Alex. You’re a delightful boy, and the right man is out there somewhere, probably looking for you this very minute.”
    â€œOf course,” I said. “Of course.” I then changed the subject, encouraging her toward tales of her lady friends, which ran like a geriatric soap opera.
    When the song ended I escorted her to her table, kissed her cheek and fled to the garage situated one floor below. I’d seen waiters slipping out for a smoke and I joined them now. Tom had gotten me to stop smoking, and for our three years and one month together I’d obliged. Now I was nearing a pack a day.
    The garage was gray, cool and quiet, a sea of cars waiting to flee. I sought a corner where I savored my cigarette, noting it a good spot for sex. Tom and I had done that at a wedding at the Hilton, fucked in a dark corner of the garage because we couldn’t wait a minute longer. We’d driven ourselves crazy at the reception, eyeing each other while chatting people up, eating, drinking. After a couple of hours it seemed appropriate to add fucking.
    This occurred three weeks into our relationship, back when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I was crazy about him because he was all I’d ever wanted, darkly handsome with sharp features, wicked eyes and full lips. I remember the first time we met I thought how I wanted those lips to do things to me. But it wasn’t all sex. Our passions met other ways: he an actor who, at thirty-five, was making good after a long struggle, me an avid film buff. We both loved the beach, tennis and prowling art galleries. He was perfection, and after the garage sex he said he loved me and I moved into his shiny loft.
    Garage sex has an earthiness to it, city man’s equivalent to fucking in a meadow. Car smells, be it oil, gasoline, grease, I really have no idea, bring a gritty feel to the otherwise hollow cavern, and I’ve found this much to my liking. On the first anniversary of our garage sex, Tom and I snuck into the Hilton and did it again in that same corner. And there it was, that smell, lingering, or maybe just trapped. I grew to crave it. Now I inhaled it as much as the cigarette smoke.
    A waiter soon joined me, cute, sandy haired, with a light sunburn. He nodded as he lit a cigarette. “How much longer do you work?” I asked.
    â€œUntil they chase out the last guests.” He blew smoke with an audible breath.
    â€œWhat else do you do?” I asked, because every waiter I’ve ever known was an actor, writer or painter.
    He chuckled. “Actor,” he said. “Haven’t landed anything yet, but I make the rounds, attend a workshop. You know the drill.”
    â€œActually I do. My lover was an actor, but we broke up.” He knew this was foreplay, knew I’d suck his dick, and I
    got how he was savoring the prospect. When I stubbed out my cigarette, I turned to him and moved in closer. He kept smoking, rushing his puffs,