Me and My Boi Read online

  ME AND

  MY BOI

  ME AND MY BOI

  GAY EROTIC STORIES

  EDITED BY

  SACCHI GREEN

  Copyright © 2016 by Sacchi Green.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover Photo: ThinkStock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-121-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-139-8

  Contents

  Introduction

  Only Pinup

  A Fresh Start

  Hot Pants

  Bike Pedal. Empanadas. And Whiskey.

  Bennie

  The Measure of a Man

  Dynamic Duo

  Loblolly

  Five Blow Jobs

  Not Just Hair

  What I’m Made Of

  Welder Boi

  Teamwork

  Dancing Boi

  The Way

  Resurrection

  Cricket

  Nisrine, Inside

  Gargoyle Lovers

  Her Gardener’s Boy

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION

  This book is a celebration of all things boi, butch and masculine-of-center, in those who include lesbian as a part of their identities. These are stories of people we love, and people we are, who put their own personal spins on the gender spectrum. Bois who like girls, bois who like bois, bois who like both; those who don’t label themselves boi or butch at all but can’t stand to wear a skirt; screw-the-binary free spirits of many flavors. Cool bois, hot bois, swaggering bois, shy bois, leather bois, flannel bois, butch daddies and the femmes and mommas and tops and bottoms and even girls next door who wouldn’t have them any other way.

  Writers always blow me away with the variety in their stories, and the twenty here are no exception. Some are from a boi’s point of view, some from a femme’s, some from a seasoned butch’s. Some deal with youthful self-discovery and others with finding your inner butch later in life. The settings range from a charming English garden and an equally charming (if greasy) English car-repair garage, to a racing sailboat, to quiet forests and rushing cities and dimly lit bedrooms where the rest of the world might as well not exist. A couple of pieces take us back through time, to a Regency drawing room and an old-school, pre-Stonewall lesbian blue-collar bar, but most could be taking place just yesterday, or today, or tomorrow.

  And, of course, all these stories give us a charge of steamy, explicit sex that develops naturally out of all the elements in the story. The action may be kinky, or hard-edged, or sweet, or passionately emotional—or even blends of those that you wouldn’t have thought possible—but whatever turns you on, or cuts deep, or sparks your wildest fantasies, if these writers don’t push the buttons you already have, maybe they’ll hook you up with some new ones. Gender has no boundaries, and neither does lust.

  Sacchi Green

  Amherst, MA

  ONLY PINUP

  Gigi Frost

  She is my only pinup. Half-asleep in the morning, I roll over to watch her dress, enjoying every stage, boxer briefs tight around her thighs, bra or binder showing her strong shoulders, over that a white undershirt, the way she walks around with her jeans undone while she puts on deodorant and buttons her shirt.

  She is my only pinup, sprawled on my bed, hands behind her head, grinning up at me. She is the strongest, the softest, the only one I want. I love kissing her powerful back, her sharp curving hip bones. I can’t stop grabbing her butt whenever I am behind her, in the kitchen when she’s washing dishes, or just walking down the hall.

  There are girls like me everywhere, pretty office workers pouring out onto downtown streets in pencil skirts and heels, interns with long shiny hair at the State House, models half-naked on billboards, every blockbuster movie populated by virgins and whores. If she wants a little eye candy, all she has to do is open her eyes.

  My type is butch, or transmasculine, et cetera. And they do catch my eye sometimes, salt-and-pepper butches at the co-op bundled in flannel and fleece, sporty dykes in Provincetown, walking the streets in cargo shorts and polo shirts, their hair sticky with wax. But you won’t find my type baring their skin to sell Skittles or shaving cream. If I want to look at a handsome pair of arms, or the hidden curve of a strong chest, well, I’m lucky I have my very own pinup right here in my bedroom, getting dressed.

  She is my only pinup. I joke about making a calendar, six months of her in a binder and boxer briefs in different colors, three months in a sports bra and jeans, three months in a shirt and tie, maybe a sweater vest for variety.

  When we watch movies, she watches the men, their clothes, their hair, their bodies. Walking down the street, she’ll grab my arm. “He’s so tall!” “Did you see his jacket?” I turn my head, but the object of this admiration, envy or wonder is halfway down the block. “I didn’t notice,” I mumble. If anything, I notice women, their colors, their accessories, their posture.

  In the country of men, she is a foreign exchange student with a visa and I don’t even have a passport. She is writing a doctoral thesis and I don’t speak the language. I never needed to, never wanted to. I am an admirer of this masculinity, I don’t need to embody it.

  She is my only pinup, my butch and my top. Her desire to fuck me is an electrical current that charges and changes us both. I don’t need to fuck her in the same way. I don’t have that energy coursing through me that makes we want to take her, own her.

  When I fuck her it’s sweet, silly, gentle, so different from how she tops me, with that scary look that melts me, makes me arch my back and throw my hands up over my head.

  The first time she let me touch her chest, it was morning. She asked me to look away while she took off her binder, then crawled under the sheet, pulled it up to her chin like a child afraid of monsters who will snatch anything left uncovered. She let me touch her back. The sheets, the walls, her skin, all pale, reflected the sunlight that poured in and we were late for work again, like we always were that summer.

  I kissed her neck, the freckles behind her ears, and she said, coy like a femme, “I have freckles on my back, too.” I kissed the bone ridges of her spine, the sheet still pulled up to her waist. We rolled over together, skin to skin like some mad ballet, and there is nothing, nothing, like chests and nipples touching. Especially when I had wondered if it would ever happen.

  We’d talked about someday, talked about how she dreamed of lying topless on the beach, but I thought it would be months, years, before she’d let me touch her chest. I would stroke her belly while we cuddled and sometimes she asked me to massage under the elastic band of her sports bra where her skin was sore and constricted. Gradually, we were getting closer to something we both knew we wanted. Later, I joked it only took me six months to get to second base.

  After that day she gradually got more comfortable. Soon she had a new pinup pose, on her back, chest bare with her hands behind her head, grinning up at me.

  And then, just a few weeks later, we woke up on another morning, kissing and touching, and she asked me to fuck her.

  Warm skin against skin, my mouth everywhere, on her cunt, my h
ands cupping her hip bones, grasping her breasts. I kissed from the hollow of her breast up to her chin and back down again. She pushed the pillows up over her head, arched her back and let me in.

  Right before I enter her there’s always a little hesitation, looking both ways, peering around the corner. But then—the long slow entrance, and she is so ready for me, keeps opening and I add another finger, and another. She keeps arching up, trying to get close enough to kiss me, but I want to go deeper, so I push her back down.

  I love seeing the silhouette of her buzzed head against the pillow. Fucking her like this I get a taste of the power she wields over me, but I get self-conscious, I need her to tell me what feels right, I need us both to laugh when I all but do a back bend to reach the lube, which has of course rolled under the bed.

  I love how wet she gets, just from making out, just from thinking about fucking me, about hurting me. I lean over her, kissing, grinding, and she tells me that she wants everything, wants to flip me over and fuck me at the same time that she also wants to get fucked. If she can’t decide, I’ll decide for her.

  “Don’t go getting all fierce just yet,” I say, and push her over onto her back.

  This is love, and passion, and trust, and I get to look all I want while she comes on my hand.

  A FRESH START

  Melissa Mayhew

  Bob lay on her back on the creeper, looking up at the underside of a car that, in her view, should have been consigned to the great scrapyard in the sky long ago. Grimly, she applied the socket and bar and exerted all her muscle power to the bottom ball joint. If it didn’t budge soon, she was going to burn the damn thing off. Grunting, she forced her weight against it. It didn’t budge.

  “Come on, you bastard,” she muttered under her breath, levering the bar hard. She felt the sweat running down her face, the strain in her muscles and then, finally, she felt a tiny movement as years of muck and rust gave way and it began to turn.

  She relaxed, catching a breath. This bloody wreck was going to be the death of her. But the owner loved it, and despite the expense, insisted on the garage keeping it on the road, no matter what.

  “Bob, kettle’s on,” she heard Ed shout across the noise of the workshop.

  “Okay, coming,” she called.

  “Lucky cow.”

  She heard a burst of male laughter, and grinned. As the only girl in the workshop, she was often the butt of male colleagues’ jokes, but she gave as good as she got, and they were all close friends who’d known each other for years.

  Not that it was true, she thought, her smile fading. It had been a bloody long time since she’d got lucky. Not since Lauren had left, five years before, in fact. Since then, she hadn’t much bothered with romance, but now and again she missed it.

  Sighing, she emerged from the underside of the car, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and went to get her tea.

  The bell on the customer counter rang just as she picked up her mug. Damn. As a small garage, they didn’t have a receptionist, and anyone who was available went to serve when customers came in.

  Wiping her hands on her boiler suit, she walked through to the customer area and saw a look of surprised relief wash across the pretty elfin features of the small brunette who stood waiting. Bob smiled easily. It wasn’t uncommon for female customers to feel intimidated in the largely male environment of the garage, and she often helped to put them at ease.

  “Hi. Can I help you?”

  The brunette looked sheepishly into her eyes. “I hope so. My car’s making a weird noise. I’ve no idea…” She trailed off.

  “Okay. Why don’t you have a seat, and we’ll take a look at it. Do you have the keys?”

  “Oh. Yes.” The woman slid a voluminous handbag from her shoulder, and raked through it. Bob laughed. “Looks like you’ve got the kitchen sink in there.”

  The woman grimaced. “Just about literally. I’m just moving into the area. Basically, all my worldly goods are in the car, and this bag.”

  Bob nodded, thinking how very sexy the woman was, with her smooth, dark hair, soft, curvy figure and small, slender hands.

  “You’ve landed a job near here?”

  “Uh-huh. Research assistant at the university. I only got the job last week, but they wanted me to start straightaway, so here I am. I’ve had to rent a house I’ve never even seen—some place nearby called Tanfield Village.”

  Bob started. “Oh! You must have rented the old Mill House.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “How did you—?”

  “ESP?”

  The woman blushed. “You wouldn’t want to read my mind.”

  Bob’s eyebrows rose. “No?”

  She laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t want to shock you.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s highly unlikely.” The endearment came naturally, unexpectedly, and for a moment, the two women looked at each other, a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling between them.

  Bob cleared her throat, striving for normality. “I live in Tanfield. It’s a small village, and that’s the only place up for rent just now. It’s a nice house, you’ll like it.”

  “Oh! We’ll be neighbors, then?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “In that case I’ll introduce myself. I’m Ellie.”

  “Bob. Good to meet you.”

  Bob looked into Ellie’s pretty blue eyes and wondered if the color deepened when she was aroused. She could just imagine peeling off that fluffy little sweater, revealing the rounded curves of Ellie’s breasts, stroking the vulnerable tenderness of her stomach, hearing sighs and groans as her work-hardened hands slid across smooth skin lower to soft, moist warmth. Would she taste as good as she looked? Bob felt her stomach clench at the thought. Hell, she loved the scent and taste of an aroused woman, to bury her head—

  The door banged as another customer walked in. Bob jolted back to the present, shocked. Hell, what was she thinking? She was at work, for goodness sake. Not only that, she never, ever flirted with customers; it was a recipe for disaster.

  She frowned as she looked at Ellie’s head, lowered now as she rummaged in her handbag. Had Ellie guessed what she was thinking? Had she embarrassed her? She didn’t want Ellie to feel awkward around her, especially if they were going to be neighbours.

  Ellie looked up, smiling. “Found them,” she said, handing the keys over, but her tone was brittle, and Bob noticed that she wouldn’t meet her eyes. Shit.

  “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll get your car looked at,” Bob said, politely, and watched as Ellie turned and sat down. Forcing a smile to her face, she turned to greet the other customer.

  Ellie hadn’t been joking about the kitchen sink, Bob discovered ten minutes later as she reversed the little Auris over a bay. The back was so full of stuff that you couldn’t see out of the rear window.

  As she maneuvred the car she listened to a rhythmic knocking in the engine. A pound to a penny, the suspension arm bush had gone. And if that was the case, Ellie wasn’t going anywhere, as they’d have to order the part in overnight and fit it the next day.

  Half an hour later, Bob’s diagnosis was confirmed. Ellie’s face, when Bob told her, was a picture of dismay. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered. “Could anything else go wrong this week?”

  “You’ll be on the move again tomorrow,” Bob said reassuringly.

  “Yes, but I wanted to get settled in tonight. All my stuff’s in the back.” Her shoulders slumped. “Never mind,” she sighed, pulling a mobile phone out of her pocket. “You don’t happen to have the number of a local taxi firm, do you?”

  Bob hesitated. It was nearly five, and she was due to finish. She could easily give her a lift.

  The offer was made before Bob had time to process the wisdom of it. She watched an expression of thanks and relief cross the pretty face. “Really? That would be great.”

  Half an hour later, Bob’s estate car was loaded with Ellie’s belongings, and they set off along the pretty country roads toward the village.<
br />
  “I had no idea it was so lovely around here,” Ellie exclaimed as they drove along the country lanes lined with pink dog roses and creamy white cow parsley.

  Bob nodded, trying to ignore the subtle allure of Ellie’s floral scent. “It’s a good location. Close enough to the city for work, but far enough away from the madding crowd.”

  Ellie looked at her, surprised. “Madding? You like Thomas Hardy?”

  “Sure. I prefer his poetry to his prose, though. You?”

  “Oh, yes. I love both.”

  They drew up outside the Mill House. Bob turned to look at her. “You didn’t expect a mechanic to read Hardy?”

  Ellie’s eyes widened. “Well, I…”

  Bob grinned. “You’ll find I don’t conform to much. I just do what suits me. I love mechanics, I love reading, I love…” She broke off, looking away. “Well, I am who I am.”

  Ellie stared at her. “I am surprised,” she admitted. “Not because you’re a mechanic, but because very few people read Hardy these days, especially his poetry.”

  “You have.”

  “Well, yes. But then—”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, it’s my job. That’s what I do. I’m a researcher in English.”

  * * *

  The Mill House delighted Ellie, who exclaimed in delight at the period features, the gorgeous view of the river and the pretty cottage garden. Following a tour of the house, Bob helped her unload the contents of the car into the drawing room.

  “Good grief, I’m done in,” said Ellie as they hauled in the last box. Sitting on top of it, she stretched, wiped a limp strand of hair from her face and then laughed at the sight of Bob. “You don’t look like you’ve even broken into a sweat!”

  Bob shrugged, avoiding Ellie’s eyes. With her job, she used her muscles every day and carrying in a few boxes was hardly an effort. But seeing Ellie sitting there like that, sweaty and rumpled, had her on the rack. She wanted to go over there, lay her back over the box, pull off her jeans and—