The thirty stories offered in this anthology explore, agonize over, and celebrate the ever-present atmosphere of intensity in the world of man coupling with man. Choosing the gay male lifestyle is, in itself, an emotionally charged rocket ride from the heights to the depths. The gay male always lives in the spotlight--and is always directly in tune with that very next breath, that very next encounter. The intensity reflected in these stories of physical emotion and relationship, in both the dance of choosing and joining together and in the frequent loss--is one of those sweet, albeit sometime bittersweet, emotions that make life worth living.
I'd stay awake nights waiting to hear the scrape of the key in the lock. Then I'd hold my breath and close my eyes tight in case he checked on me before he took his pick of the night to his room. I'd wait until I started to hear the moaning and then I'd quietly leave my bed and steal across to the dark living room, right there in the darker shadow of the TV cabinet, where I could get a good view of the bed in his room. He never shut the door. It was almost as if he expected me to watch-but I'm sure he didn't, because he sure didn't show any interest in me when we were alone.
Sometimes Cliff was the top and sometimes he was the bottom. I only really got into the scene when he was the top, though. I wanted him to top me. I wanted him to take me with the intensity that he fucked those other guys. The intensity of the emotion I'd feel when I watched them doing it built day by day until it almost overwhelmed me. I'd never done it with a guy before, but I knew from the first time I saw him fucking one of those guys he'd brought home late at night that I wanted him to fuck me. I'd watch them sucking each other off, building up to grappling on the bed, building up their moaning, and my hand went to the front of my sleeping shorts and I'd start going numb everywhere but the very center of me. I'd see Cliff's cock thicken and lengthen and my butt would twitch from the fantasy of him preparing himself for me. The legs would open wide, and the little cry and the arching of the receiver's back as he was being entered and filled would have me swaying and moaning and pulling my dong out into the open. Then my eyes would slit and I'd focus on the contracting and rhythm of Cliff's butt cheeks as he either possessed or was stroked by his lover of the night.
God, I wanted to palm my hands on those butt cheeks as Cliff worked inside me.
From that point I was lost, wanting to move with the figures on the bed, to become one with them. And as time went on, I learned the signals of approaching release and I was able to time my ejaculations closely with theirs.
Then I would retreat back to my bed, as quietly as I could. I never knew where they would go from there. Sometimes the other man would leave immediately and sometimes they would come out to the living area and would raid the refrigerator. But sometimes, there would be a short period of silence and then the moaning would start again. And I'd then leave my bed again and move to my observation nook beside the TV cabinet and watch and stroke to the renewed mating.