Twelfth in the series of eclectic gay male short story collections by habu, the fifteen stories of Grab Bag 12 offer a variety of gay male stories in terms of theme, sexual interest and fetish, setting, and time period. Laid out in the order in which they were written rather than grouped by theme, these are stories composed during the fall of 2016.
Four of the stories have historical settings, ranging from Virginia, when the Shenandoah Valley was frontier (“A Different Path”), to the British occupation of Egypt in the 1800s (“The Agent’s Third Secretary”), up to the twentieth century, in the Baltimore of the 1970s (“Ed, Frank, and Mark”) and New York and the Netherlands in the 1980s (“Under the Skin”). Of the eleven contemporary stories, one is set in an unnamed Asian country (“Prince’s Choice”) and one moves from Arizona to Cyprus (“Making of a Porn Star”). An unusually high number of habu stories for an anthology like this are set in the United States, moving east from California (“Quattro Amici”), Arizona (“Making of a Porn Star”), Wyoming (“Political Biography”), and Colorado (“Hunted”) toward the Atlantic seaboard states (“The Capitol Limited,” “Oversexed,” “TGIF Lexington,” “Gorilla,” “Avril’s Ploy,” “Political Biography,” “Tantric Teng,” and “Ed, Frank, and Mark”). Typically with habu, several of the stories are located in Virginia and the Carolinas (or New York City), but purely coincidentally, two of the stories in this anthology are set in Baltimore (“Tantric Teng” and “Ed, Frank, and Mark”).
Thematically, as is always the case with habu’s broad range of experiences, the stories in this anthology are “all over the place” in theme, from lust, greed, extreme need, and rough, BDSM sex to physical danger, espionage, paranormal events, mystery, racial discrimination, humor, porn stars, and tantric sex. The stories were all written in the heat of a U.S. presidential election year, so naturally there are stories here about shady and grasping politicians (“The Capitol Limited” and “Political Biography”).
The constants in habu’s hodge-podge of story writing are to provide variety, surprise, and scintillating gay male arousal. We trust that this twelfth anthology in the series will do just that for its readers.
I took to walking the beach in the morning and the afternoon and at twilight. In season, there would be eye candy to ogle and to flirt with and signal to. I knew all about identifying prospective tops and flirting and signaling. And, as a male model, I had no trouble being successful with that. But it was early October. The beach eye candy was long gone. At the most there were joggers, serious muscle builders, pounding up and down the surf line, taking advantage of the hard-packed sand that the surf was still saturating.
I walked farther up the sand, giving the joggers their space, but staying within ogling distance of them.
It was late in the afternoon, within an hour of twilight. The beach seemed deserted, as did the houses—mostly ’50s-style cottages, like mine, with the occasional more recent McMansion pushing in—lining the beach. I had never felt as alone—as jittery sexually—and was about to go inside, frustrated by the aloneness and contemplating going out to try to find a gay bar that hadn’t closed for the season, while recognizing I wouldn’t find one.
I saw him jogging up the beach from a great distance, moving quickly, legs pumping in his baggy athletic shorts, his torso covered with a loose hoodie. He was my age or a bit younger, obviously a bodybuilder, a serious muscle man. As he came closer I could see that he probably was a boxer too, his face showing the scars of combat. His arms were pumping and he was concentrating on his run. At first I thought he hadn’t seen me at all—that he was completely absorbed in himself and his workout. But as he came closer, coming at me, we made eye contact and he smiled. I smiled back, and nodded. He continued on up the beach.
He was behind me now. I turned several times to watch him run, my cock hard from the need of someone being inside me and with him being more than satisfactory in my fantasies of being pumped. One of the times I looked around, I found that he had too. He knew I was here. He was interested in me. But he was behind me, still running, probably running out of my life.
But then I heard him coming up behind me, puffing but not straining, just setting a rhythm of breathing as he ran. Passing me, he turned and ran backward a couple of paces, smiling at me, his hand going to his basket, giving me both a signal and a question. I smiled back, my own hand instinctively going to my basket, signaling my own interest.
There, up ahead, as he continued to run, I saw him pull off his hoodie, showing a muscular, hairy chest, and stuffed the hoodie in the back waistband of his shorts. I pulled my own sweatshirt over my head, so that, as he ran back to me, he could see my model’s body, my own trim but well-defined blond musculature. I pulled my shorts down so that he could see the curves at the top of my legs and below my hard belly, teasing him with what lay just a few inches below my low-rise waistband.
He took control, just as I wanted him to, as he reached me, taking a last look up and down the beach and then pulling my body into his, taking my mouth with his, stuffing his hand down my belly, under my waistband, and assuring himself that I was hard for him.