Grab Bag is a totally unthemed gay male anthology that exhibits the breadth and depth of the sometimes whacky and sometimes touching, but always creative and surprising, writing of that master of gay erotic storytelling, habu. In this “bag” are twenty stories that adhere to no uniformity of theme in time, space, locale, or message and that have never been published as stories before.
As has become the hallmark of habu, this is a collection of tales (and tails) that are guaranteed to excite and stimulate—not just the mind. A true grab bag of surprises and pleasures, these offerings are sure to be savored more than once.
From “Barber Brad”
When I walked into Parson’s barber shop with what was almost a crew cut—with light highlights—any damn fool could see that I didn’t have enough hair to need cutting. But what I was counting on—and was successful in it—was that neither Brad nor the other barbers would recognize me for who I was. I figured that when they looked at a man, what they concentrated on was his head of hair, since that was their trade. I also had changed the style of my clothes. No more police uniform or even tailored dress shirt and trousers, with a tie. I was in jeans, a tight red T, and boots today. I must have guessed right. I had changed myself enough to be an entirely different person to them all.
When I was in Brad’s chair, he looked at me quizzically in the mirror across from the chairs and said in a low voice, his eyes searching mine, “Doesn’t look like you need a haircut, buddy.”
“I came for your special,” I whispered back. “Heard about it. Want it.”
“It’d be a pleasure. You’ve got a killer body. You know how much that haircut costs, though?” he asked, still keeping his voice down.
“Not sure I remember what I was told,” I answered. “But it sounded like I could swing it. I’ve got cash.”
“Seventy-five for the servicing and a hit. Hundred fifty for a *oggy bag as well.”
“How much without the hit?” I asked.
“Same seventy-five,” he answered.
“Let’s do it,” I muttered back to him.
Fifteen minutes later he gave up on pretending he was doing anything with my hair, made a show of letting me check myself out in the mirror, and gave the back of my neck a razor-cut shave. As he finished that, he pressed on my carotid and up under my chin with his fingertips for a few seconds, sending chills up my spine in anticipation and giving me flash images of him fucking me right there in the chair, with all the other guys floating around and doing their thing and not noticing Brad’s **** was churning in my channel.
I got another chill as I felt the palm of his hand on my butt as we moved to the back of the shop.
“Strip, please,” he said when we were in the back of the shop and I’d doled out seventy-five dollars to him. “And lean over that table.”