Close Please enter your Username and Password
Reset Password
If you've forgotten your password, you can enter your email address below. An email will then be sent with a link to set up a new password.
Cancel
Reset Link Sent
Password reset link sent to
Check your email and enter the confirmation code:
Don't see the email?
  • Resend Confirmation Link
  • Start Over
Close
If you have any questions, please contact Customer Service
My Magazine > Editors Archive > cat5 > Tales from the Net: Pride is Prey
Tales from the Net: Pride is Prey   by Jack Mauro

Member Votes

4 votes
7 votes
5 votes
22 votes
91 votes
Don't like So so Good Very Good Excellent
Members can vote on this response!

Editor Article Search

Text:  



Promoting a book means jumping around a little. You travel to where you can and shake hands where you think it’ll do the most good. When the book is about meeting gay men online, you hunt out the Pride days of spring and summer and see if you can juggle a few in your calendar, your budget, and your publisher’s budget.

And you even get to shake more than a hand sometimes.

Like yesterday. No, no sex at a book signing. I simply addressed a small gathering at Atlanta’s wonderful OutWrite bookstore. I confess to getting turned on at the close of it, though, when a very young and damn near beautiful boy shyly came up to ask me how he can engineer more online hook-ups. Christ, I thought. If this kid’s having problems, my book should be leaping off the shelves.
(As it turned out, the boy was just mystified by how really great hook-up partners don’t seem to want a second encounter. I explained the answer to him. I’d explain it to y’all too. But my editor would beat me.)

Then there was last week, which got a little funkier. A smaller town not too far from me was doing a Pride. I weighed the inconvenience of getting there against the potential exposure. It’d be worth it, I figured. Small time, but worth it. So I loaded up a satchel with copies, arranged for table space, and bought me a bus ticket.

This Tennessee town ‒ which will stay nameless, I’m afraid ‒ turned out to have a pretty little downtown slapped next to a park nearly as large. The afternoon was hot and humid, the dogwoods were dewy with blossom sweat, and I looked forward to maybe peddling a few books and maybe seeing a lot of hot guys with their shirts off.

The first thing that struck me as I set up my small display was the crowd. That is, there was one. I began to suspect that gay dudes from neighboring villages made the same trip I did, if for only one of the same reasons. Things were looking promising, all around. I rolled up my sleeves and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt. Hey, a little flesh never hurts. In fact that may be the First Law of Sales.

The second thing that struck me was a him, not a thing. It was a pretty hot guy making long, lazy circuits of the park. Faded jeans, slim hips, lanky and sexy torso, scruffy facial hair, t-shirt. And what hit me as odd was that he was alone on a day when pairs and clusters throng. There was also a kind of furtiveness about him, like a thief. He didn’t actually belong. Then I realized why. He was straight, and he was circling the Pride Day park like a shark who bumped into a school of plump Yellow Fin tuna. Smart guy, I thought. When you want to get wet, you go to where the water is.

What worked beautifully to my advantage here was that I too was alone in this sea of grouped friends. The sun beat down, the guy still circled, and I managed to get a few seconds of sultry eye contact in here and there. Then, when no one was at my table (and I was grateful for this ‒ sales are great but a straight blow job doesn’t come around every day), he ‘casually’ wandered over. He fingered a copy of my book. I put on my best face: inviting but tough, interested but don’t-fuck-with-me.

He put the book down very gently and looked up with a hopelessly staged face of nonchalance. This definitely turned me on more ‒ he may have been a predator but he wasn’t actually evil. The guy was too clumsy for that. Then he even let his fingers brush against the worn denim at his crotch, and he slowly, slowly strolled over to the public men’s room.

I watched, then did some quick thinking. Fuck it. Grabbing a marker for signing, I scrawled a fast ‘Back Soon’ on a stray piece of cardboard and propped it on my books. Was I taking a chance? Sure. But I reckoned even a few stolen books would still be copies in other hands, right?

The restroom was quiet, steamy, dark, and nearly empty. Another wonderful thing about a Pride is how pride keeps the horny guys away from the usual stomping grounds, or at least until nightfall. There were three stalls. The door on the far right one was ajar. I dipped my head and saw two beat-up sneakers, facing in. I took a breath and silently made into the stall next to it.

No hole. Damn. OK. I stood there, hearing no pissing from my new friend. What I thought I did hear was the repeated, soft and muffled sound of skin on skin. Hand on cock. In the universal translator of the bathroom, that means, ‘howdy.’ So I gripped my now stiff cock in my jeans, uttered a silent prayer, and left my stall to loiter just outside the open door of his.

I looked in. Yeah, he was stroking. But he was in no rush to show me ‒ all I saw was that slim V of a back and the rhythm of his arm. But I was close enough to smell his sweat. I let my cock out, knowing he damn well heard the zipper. Finally, he turned, and turned out to be hung like every tall, lanky, scruffy dude is supposed to be hung. That fucker was long, maybe nine. Not too thick but thick enough, and curving upward from a dense, brown bush. Precum glistened from the slit. I moved in, closing the door behind me. We were all hot breath, sweaty skin, and stiff cock.

He looked at my cock like he’d never even seen his own before, then grabbed it. He was fascinated, staring at my dick, pulling it, rubbing his palm over the head. His thin chest was heaving, his mouth open with heavy breathing. I inhaled his breath and reached out to cup our cocks together in both hands. Somehow I knew ‒ there would be no sucking. This was what he needed.

His eyes closed and he rocked back and forth as I jerked us off together. I slid my dick under his, poking the head into his bush and jabbing at his low-hanging balls. Then he gripped my sides and started ramming himself into me, like he was trying to fuck anywhere around the base of my cock. Right then I wanted nothing more than to blow my load deep into his crotch hair. And I guess he read minds, because he whispered, “Cum on my dick. Lemme see it.”

I took over my own jerking off. My face dropped into his wet neck. Smelling him, feeling him pant, I soon lost it. Wads of white jizz had nowhere to go but in his bush and on his curved, big prick. I shook in a spasm of cumming, my knees buckling. I had given him what he needed. In a flash he rubbed my load up his meat and began fisting himself furiously. Lubed like that, it happened in no time and he returned the favor by washing my cock and pubes in streams of his milky load. Was that it? Oh, yeah. Because he practically shoved me aside in his zipping up and flying out of there.

Back into Pride myself, I saw and was surprised to see two books actually missing from my table. I did a little more math. I lost a small amount. Two copies were, again, in other hands, if larcenous ones. And I’d be traveling home with stud cum dried on my cock. So I shrugged it off. All in all, not a bad bargain.






Jack's new book, M4M: For an Hour, or Forever - The Gay Man's Guide to Finding Love Online is out and it looks great! Check out excerpts and more at [extern url='http://www.amazon.com/M4M-Forever-Guide-Finding-Online/dp/1416940723/sr=8-1/qid=1172579812/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-1055302-1892010?ie=UTF8&s=books' target='_blank' text='M4M']."

You can write to Jack directly - at [extern url='http://www.jackmauro.com' target='_blank' text='www.jackmauro.com'].