A collection of thought provoking poetry focusing on women in the bible. Original and unique poems by Betty Hemphill.

Third Testament Women: Poems

Hemphill, Robert

Hemphill, Betty

Lydian Press

Gay Dicks for Straight Chicks

Literature & Fiction

Starr, Jazmin

Erotica

Excerpt from: Carbon Dating The Bear  I'm as embarrassed as hell. Normally, I wouldn't even consider appearing in public like this. Naked, except for handkerchief-sized red Speedos strung up between my ass cheeks like those Aussie lifesavers. I hope none of the neighbors is watching as I knock on the door to my best mate Robbie's house, hoping he won't answer the door. I'm praying it's his dad.  You see, I have a problem. I'm 19, pretty good looking, not an ounce of body fat on my slim, okay, skinny frame. Long, black hair, which hangs seductively across my face. My dick is average size, between 6½ and 7", depending on which porn movie is in the DVD player when you measure. My body is twink hairless except for a clump of pubic seaweed, and my ass is smooth as butter and as bubbly as a balloon. Okay, what's the problem, you're asking? The problem is I just can't get laid. Let me rephrase that. I can't get laid by the guys I fancy. I suppose two telling points I should mention here: I'm a bit on the, shall we say, less than macho side, nothing flaming, but you'd never mistake me for Russell Crowe. Plus, I'm a top. Sure, I'd love to reciprocate, but just the idea of a cock entering my butt hole sends my body into shutdown and sphincter central locks all entrances to the building. Oh, did I mention my homme (yes, I'm studying French at college) of choice is a delicious, mature daddy with just a fleck of grey through his temples highlighting his desirability. Hair on his head is not essential. Hair on his chunky body is. The more fuzz that covers his body, the better I like it. The better I like it, the harder my cock gets. Alas, most men of that age either find it too arduous to douche or simply only have time to stick their dick in any available cubhole and squirt before racing home to the wife, husband or spouse of unspecified gender. I usually satisfy myself with a quick fumble in a borrowed bedroom, a suburban shithouse, or a noirish alleyway, only occasionally going upmarket for a quick blowjob in someone's Ute or family sedan with baby seat attached. Once I encountered a truckie, who was everything I ever dreamed of, until he took off his trousers and revealed he was wearing white stockings and a suspender belt. No wonder then that last night I was running off at the mouth on meeting a gentleman of such proportion and charm that I was practically drooling. It was the occasion of a charmless party that I'd attended with mates Robbie and Viz. Unusually, none of us scored that night. "There was no one there over 35." I moaned dramatically. Robbie and Viz in the back seat were indulging me, though not without a certain amount of eyes heavenward.

Bear Skin: Hot Gay Bear Erotica

Lowe, Barry

Sentjen struggled to get up. His body was too weak to move any faster. He listened to Mark’s threats, realizing the danger. It was a false danger, he held the men’s fate in his hands if he decided to talk. Sentjen decided he didn’t want to relive this nightmare, something he’d have to do if he talked. Gathering a few things in a bag, including the picture of his father, he slipped out of the dormitory before noon. Neither man was in sight. He hated to disappoint his dad, but he’d get back to him someday and explain. Right now, he didn’t know where to go. Hitchhiking along the highway he’d head in whatever direction any oncoming car seemed to be going. He didn’t balk when the Chevrolet trailer pulled up beside him. The door opened and a man resembling his father looked out at him. Without asking, he climbed into the seat beside the heavily bearded man whose dark hair covered huge forearms. The driver waited a few minutes. "I'm Ben. You got a name?" Sentjen looked at the handsome rider. His name? It didn't matter to him, why should this stranger care? "Sentjen," he cautiously whispered. "I'm headed south Sentjen. You sure that’s where you wanna go?" Ben placed his hand on Sentjens knee but removed it when he got no response. "It'll do fine…Mr…Mr Ben?"  "You can call me Ben. All my boys do." They drove for several miles without talking. Ben turned the trailer onto the shoulder of the highway and watched his passenger for several minutes. Slowly Sentjen felt the swell of emotion and his body trembled and his eyes brimmed with tears. Within seconds those tears came in a flood, his entire body shook as he sobbed uncontrollably. Then without any reason he spilled out the entire story to the stranger along with his fear of maybe never seeing his dad again. Ben pulled the boy to him, pressing the tearful face against his broad hairy chest. “It’s okay boy. It’s all past history now. You’re under Daddy Ben’s protection now. I’ve got a family that you would fit nicely into. We’ll take care of you until you can do it yourself. Maybe we can find your dad and let him know you’ll be with me for awhile. Wanna come with me?” Ben stroked the long blond hair of the boy and hugged Sentjen to him. Sentjen immediately thought of how much he missed his dad. But for now he was too ashamed to ever face him again, not until he had gotten his dignity back. He was in no condition to fend for himself, so he nodded affirmatively to Ben’s offer. Within moments he was asleep against Ben’s chest as the giant swung the trailer back onto the highway.

Berlinger, Cain

Christmas Cracker: Gay Erotica for the Holidays

<p>To fall in love, really in love, would be an awfully big adventure. Renowned Scottish playwright, James Matthew Barrie, lies abed, unable to sleep, dreading the anniversary of one of the most tragic moments of his life. Lulled by the persuasive power of the syringe, he falls into a fitful sleep as the events play out in his mind. It’s Armistice Night in London and Michael Llewelyn Davies, one of Barrie’s adopted sons and one of the models for Peter Pan, celebrates with friends when he runs into the mysterious Rupert Buxton. They meet again in Paris, and later at Barrie’s retreat on the Scottish island of Eilean Shona where the relationship between the two men becomes passionate. Will their love survive the censure of 1920s England, and will it destroy James Barrie’s reputation? Love sometimes has tragic consequences. Based on a true story. Excerpt: BARRIE: (addresses the audience) I miss them, my poor dead boys. I should like to see them one more time but I know that no one should come back no matter how much he is loved. But I did dream that Michael came back to me. I dreamed we had an extra year together and during that time we lived quite ordinarily though strangely close to each other. I did some things that I had wanted to do before but until then had not dared do. I had fears of spoiling him and struggled not to do it. In agony I let him go away sometimes, to live the ordinary life of youth. The sound of fireworks and merriment. Eton. Armistice night: November, 1918. BASSETT, SENHOUSE and MICHAEL LLEWELYN DAVIES stagger on slightly drunk, banging tin bath tubs. Other sounds of celebration off. BASSETT: Righto, Davies, down on your knees and thank your own particular gods the war is over just one day before your call-up. SENHOUSE: I don't really think James Barrie had anything to do with it, Bassett. MICHAEL: I should not be a bit surprised if old Uncle Jim did have something to do with ending the war. BASSETT: Confound his interference! And just as we were winning, too. They all laugh. SENHOUSE: And where is the gentleman who is the topic of our conversation? MICHAEL: In Paris. In the thick of it. BASSETT: Heaven help our fighting men. SENHOUSE: You can be a frightful bounder sometimes, Bassett. MICHAEL: He set up a hospital and nursing home in memory of my brother George. BASSETT: I say, Davies, I am awfully sorry. I was only teasing. Sound of fireworks. MICHAEL: Let's go and watch the fireworks. BASSETT: You know what the Housemaster said about being back in our rooms by curfew. SENHOUSE: Don't be such a wet blanket, Bassett. Nobody is taking any notice of the rules tonight. I'll wager even the Housemaster himself will be at the fireworks. I'm game if you are, Davies. MICHAEL: I'm game. What about you, Bassett? BASSETT: Oh, all right. But we mustn't be too late back. They whoop and rush about. Michael accidentally bumps into a stranger who has appeared. RUPERT BUXTON is dressed as an aesthete. Michael has run into Buxton but it is Buxton who apologises. BUXTON: I do beg your pardon, that was most careless of me. He smiles and moves on as Michael and the others glare at him. BASSETT: Did you see the way he dresses? SENHOUSE: And that hair! BASSETT: I should like to give the scoundrel a good thrashing. He brings Eton into disrepute. Buxton turns to address them. BUXTON: Ah, but I do not attend Eton, my good sirs. I come from Harrow. SENHOUSE: Come on, Davies. We'll miss the best part of the fireworks. MICHAEL: You go ahead. I'll be along presently.</p>

The Death of Peter Pan

Dramas & Plays

Sex, drugs, and insatiable bottoms. Who doesn't love a good bottom boy? The men in these stories are better than good...they're totally insatiable, they simply can't get enough of what keeps them happy. Whether it's the guy who misses his stop on the last train of the night and ends up with three hunky workman repairing the tracks, a bottom who falls, literally, at the feet of three hot workers putting in a speed hump outside his door, a sex shop worker who goes to the aid of his favorite porn star bottom, a straight boy who bets his ass on a sure thing in a card game, a top man who finds his real calling at a private sex club, or the lead singer in a Korean boy band, these boys give new meaning to Entry at the Rear. Excerpt: I’m such a fuckwit. How else would you explain my predicament? The facts speak for themselves; it’s two o’clock in the morning, it’s the middle of winter, and I’m pissed off my brain – at least I think I’m pissed because it could be drugs – wearing nothing but a T-shirt, and jeans, with bare feet. I lost my sneakers somewhere during the night. Where am I? Your guess is as good as mine. Godknowswhereville, attempting to hitch a ride outa here. The whole thing is my own fault. There, I freely admit it. Are you laughing yet? Why are gay men so fuckin’ boring? They’d rather sit around discussing the latest Lady Gaga clip or gay rights for Antarctic penguins than get down to the nitty gritty. Where are the real men? Gay guys who like it rough and ready at the click of their fingers, who want nothing better than to ram a moderately hot just-past-twink-years bottom like me? I spent the night bored off my brain at a gay pub where a group of gay swingers thought they were on to a good thing by inviting me on a date. Better that they had just thrown me on the ground and had their way with me. A fuckin’ date! Do I look like someone who wants to go on a date? Fuck me. My filthy mouth always gets me into trouble. I’m too direct. There, I managed to restrain myself. I was gonna put the F word before at least three or four more of those words in those couple of sentences but I’ve learned too much of a foul mouth and you sound like one of those wussy porn movies where the actors sprout bad dialogue while looking as bored as I’d felt all fuckin’ night. After the pub almost sent me catatonic I headed to a disco where the music almost burst my ear drums and the only action in the Men’s was of the snorting or injecting kind and I don’t mean injecting in my ass. Somewhere between when I’d paid to go into the disco and leaving the leather den, I lost my wallet – or else it’d been lifted by some skanky fag – and I no longer had taxi fare home. Proof enough that I must have been in a bad way, it took me some time to realize I’d left my shoes inside the leather den but when I went back the door was closed and no amount of banging got me an answer. Plus for the first fuckin’ time in living memory the weather bureau got it right and the cold front had moved in: a bitterly cold wind that froze my balls off. Only thing in its favor was it made my nipples hard as icicles. Problem was, no one was sucking. My lack of mates, the sort who’d allow me to sleep on their living room floor let alone share their bed, sank any chance of a warm place to kip. I guess I must have looked the worse for wear because guys were giving me a wide berth as I walked up the street. In frustration, I shouted at one pissy bunch who giggled like high school girls at the fact I had no shoes. “Have I got two fuckin’ heads or something?” No cash for a cab meant sleeping in a park or a shop doorway for the night. I glanced up at the clock on top of the gay pub on the corner. Shit! If I hurried, I might just make the subway. Last train was due to leave in about fifteen minutes. I’d have to jump the turnstiles but that wouldn’t be the first time.

Butt Boys: Gay Anal Erotica

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