Eight Inches

by Sean Wolfe

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Sean Wolfe knows what men want. In his anthologies Aroused, Taboo, and Close Contact, he delivered smart, sophisticated tales of intensely erotic escapades. Now he goes one step further, with a collection of eight interconnected stories that explore the very nature of desire--how it shapes us, drives us, brings us together. . .and just how far we're willing to go to satisfy it. . . A teenage runaway gets an education in the ways of the street, and the heart, from a gorgeous young hustler in "Street Smart." In "Head of the Class," a college athlete who's used his sexual talents to keep his grades up learns all about pleasure from one of his professors. The exclusive Kappa Lambda Phi fraternity includes a mind-blowing initiation that's only the beginning of their debauchery in "Frat Frenzy." And in "DudeSearch" two men who frequent an online site specializing in random hookups agree to meet--and are completely unprepared for the fireworks that explode between them. . . As compelling as they are explicit, these stories offer more than instant gratification. They're funny, touching, intimate, and complex--and of course, incredibly, irresistibly hot. . .

Release date: August 11, 2009

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 349

Sample

I remember when I was a kid my whole world revolved around my little neighborhood in the small town I grew up in. It was easy, because in Booker, Texas, there was only one school, one small hometown bank, one gas station, and one tiny grocery store. Everyone knew everyone else, and privacy was a myth that we read about in terms of “rights to” and “invasions of.” Those terms seemed both ridiculous and strangely elusive to our little town of 500 residents.

“Globalization” for us meant gaining a deep understanding of the intricacies of life for rice patty farmers in China by watching National Geographic specials on TV or by buying imported jalapeños from Mexico with which to top our nachos.

It was hard, if not impossible, for us to understand how our lives could possibly affect that of those rice patty workers on the other side of the world, or even those Mexican neighbors immediately to our south. We were farmers working to fill our own silos; we built our own little churches—nine of them in that small town, to be exact, and we attended those churches every Sunday; and we played the same nine or ten other tiny towns in football every single year. Our little town took care of our own, and the same “village” mentality surely did the same for all the other millions of villages around the world. Our lives meant nothing to anyone outside of our village, nor did anyone else’s life affect our own.

Well, I’m not a little kid anymore, and we’re not living in that cellular, self-possessed world anymore. In a day and age where we can, and do, travel all across the world simply to go shopping or experience a meal…or, even more intimately, adopt children to become a part of our own family, many of us are beginning to realize that we are all part of one family, and that our “village” is much larger and more influential than we once thought.

I do a lot of diversity and inclusiveness trainings and workshops. In one of those workshops I use an activity called the “Circle of Influence.” In this exercise, we draw a big circle and write our names in it, and then we draw eight to ten smaller circles around the outside of the bigger circle. Inside the smaller circles we write the names of people or situations in our lives that have affected or influenced us—either positively or negatively—and we reflect on those people or circumstances, and talk about the ways in which they have helped shape who we are now.

It’s a powerful exercise, because most of the people in my classes have never given much thought to their circles of influence, and it brings home to them how, although we are all strong and unique individuals, there are a lot of people and circumstances that have helped get us to where we are. At the end of the exercise I ask my participants if their circle of influence is fairly vanilla—if it looks a whole lot like they do—or if it’s pretty eclectic. I encourage them to “color up” their circles of influence, to step outside their comfort zone and experience things and people and places and tastes and colors that are new to them. We cannot grow as people by surrounding ourselves with people just like us, or by experiencing the same things over and over again.

My last two books, Aroused and Taboo, were centered around a central theme. Each story was independent but was connected to the theme. For Eight Inches I wanted to do something different. I wanted to demonstrate how each of us is connected to one another in ways that we might never know. But the energy of the universe runs through all of us, and we are all touched by the same energy, and therefore are part of one another.

I had no idea when I began writing this book that we’d be in the beginning of possibly the most exciting time of our history—where we have a leader who commands respect from the rest of the world, and who values and embraces diversity and inclusiveness, and who believes in the power of humanity…all of it, and not just those of us who believe the same things that he does. Yes, I really did start writing this book that long ago, before anyone really thought this enlightened time in our history was possible!

But this journey that we are on now reinforces my belief that we are all connected energetically with one another, and that our actions, our words, our works, and our love make a difference—to everyone, and not just those to whom we direct them.

Whether we like it or not, we are our brother’s keeper. We share the same universal energy, and therefore we have the power to manipulate that force. It’s a very powerful idea, for sure. If we want peace, we can—by our actions, our thoughts, and our words—bring it about. By loving unconditionally those around us, we can create a ripple effect of love around the world. And by taking care of one person in need, we can create a chain reaction of compassion and works that can change the world.

Eight Inches is a collection of erotic stories, and so I hope that they will stir you in ways and in body parts that are meant to be stirred by the reading of…well…fuck stories. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all. But I also hope they help you think about the various people in your life who have helped you become the person you are, and about how you might have influenced—possibly completely changed for the better—the life of others.

Happy reading. And when you see me around, stop and say hi and introduce yourself. We’re brothers, after all, and we’re sharing energies. Change my life, and I hope I will change yours.

Carlos was running for his life. It wasn’t the first time, not even the first time that week. When he was a full block away and felt it was safe, he stopped and bent over at the waist, taking deep breaths, and looked back at his house. The old Victorian was squeezed between two cookie-cutter low-income apartment buildings, which offered Carlos a clear view of the house without making himself equally visible, especially in the dark of night. The front door flew open and his father stumbled into the front yard, looking frantically to both sides. Carlos took a another deep breath, and turned and continued running.

It was Friday night, almost eleven o’clock, and it was very cold. His breath rose before him in a cloud of fine mist as he ran, and his side hurt immensely. He ran about half a mile before he stopped and wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to warm himself. There hadn’t been time to grab his coat before climbing out his bedroom window and fleeing, and now he was feeling the shock of the biting wind.

Carlos had been in the front room watching TV with his younger sister when his parents came home. He heard the squealing tires turn the corner half a block away, and thirty seconds later, the slamming car doors. His parents were fighting in the front yard. His father was drunk, his mother pleading with her husband to listen to reason. The neighbors yelled at his parents to pipe it down, and his father screamed back at them even louder to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.

Carlos and little Rosie looked at each other, a familiar frown dominating their faces. Carlos walked calmly across the room and turned off the TV. He picked Rosie up and hugged her close to his chest as he carried her to their shared room. Pulling the blankets back with one hand as he balanced his baby sister in his other arm, he tucked the young girl into bed and kissed her forehead.

“Good night, princess.”

“Why does it always happen like this, Carlos?” Rosie asked sweetly as she looked up innocently into his eyes.

“I don’t know, Gorda.”

“Is he going to hit you again?”

“No, honey,” Carlos said, still feeling the pain from the last fight his parents had had. “Not tonight. Now go to sleep.”

“Are you leaving again?”

“I don’t know, sissy, I don’t know.”

“Can I have another kiss, Poncho?”

Carlos knew she was trying to keep him with her as long as possible. “Of course you can, Cisco,” he answered, fighting back a tear.

He bent down and kissed his sister on the cheek. The front door was suddenly kicked open, and Carlos jumped.

“Where are you, you little bastard,” came his father’s drunken voice from the living room. His mother was still pleading with him not to hurt the boy; he was only a child, for God’s sake. A loud slapping sound and the thud of his mother falling to the floor got Carlos up and moving.

He ran to the bedroom window and raised it. Halfway out, he turned to his younger sister to blow her a kiss, and saw she was crying. He started to go over and wipe the tear away, but just then the bedroom door was kicked violently open, and Carlos jumped out the window.

Several minutes later he was standing outside a corner liquor store. Looking into the window, he saw in his reflection that his nose and ears were a shade somewhere between pink and red, and his fingers were beginning to turn blue. The old man behind the counter was alone, and he looked very warm. He was eating a pepperoni and double onion pizza recently delivered by Supremo’s Pizza, according to the box on the counter, and drinking a Coke. On the shelf behind him, next to the Smirnoff vodka, a small motorized fan blew cool air onto him. He was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt stained with dark perspiration that covered two-thirds of the sides of the dirty shirt.

Carlos contemplated only a moment before opening the door and walking inside. The old man looked up, frowned, and swallowed the large bite of pizza in his mouth before speaking.

“You can’t come in here, kid,” he growled. “I know you’re not eighteen, so don’t even bother pulling out a fake ID.”

“I don’t want to buy anything,” Carlos said, “I just wanted to warm up a little.”

“Tough shit. I’m not the goddamned Salvation Army here. Now get lost.”

“Please. Just for a minute. It’s freezing out there.”

“I’m calling the cops now,” the old man growled again, even as he took another large bite of the pizza, and picked up the phone.

“Never mind, I’m gone,” Carlos said, and walked back into the cold, windy night.

He walked a few blocks north and turned onto Geary Street. The Tenderloin district was well known as the dirtiest, most dangerous, and highest crime-ridden area of San Francisco. Strung-out drug addicts and prostitutes of both sexes lined either side of the large boulevard. The city had long ago given up on “cleaning up” the underbelly of the most romantic city in the country, and the Tenderloin itself seemed to relish its reputation. Every once in a while a squad car would drive by, but the residents of the boulevard knew all the officers by first name, and more often than not the driver had himself indulged in the merchandise on a semi-regular basis, so the hustlers were not terribly worried about being arrested.

Carlos could sometimes be considered a little naïve, but he was not totally ignorant of the goings-on of Geary Street. He didn’t know much in detail, but he knew the people who walked along the street at night were not selling Girl Scout cookies. The people there made him a little nervous, with their pierced bodies, dark makeup, and spiked mohawks. But the street was well lit and most of the kids did not look too cold, and that kept Carlos walking.

In the course of two short blocks Carlos was approached twice to see if he was interested in buying a “dime bag.” A few of the more effeminate male hustlers along the street gave him dirty looks. He overheard whispered conversations with the accusatory phrase “fresh meat,” and somehow Carlos knew they were talking about him. Just as he was passing in front of the Supremo’s Pizza store he was suddenly pulled into the entryway. He was startled, and doubled his fists, prepared to defend himself against an ugly, bearded troll, or even a monster.

“Don’t hit me, please.” It was a young boy, about Carlos’ own age. He was wearing tight blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a single, long, dangling silver earring in his right ear. His eyes were grossly outlined with eyeliner.

“What do you want?” Carlos asked cautiously.

“Well, you look cold and lonely. And there’s a cop following you, so I thought I’d pull you in here before he pulled you into his car.”

Carlos looked behind him, and noticed the cop car cruising slowly behind him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. My name’s Ricky. What’s yours?”

“Carlos.”

“Would you like a drink, Carlos?”

“Sure.”

He accepted a Coke can from the skinny kid and took a large drink. He swallowed and coughed violently before spitting a mouthful of the liquid to the ground.

Ricky’s eyes grew wide in disbelief.

“What the heck is this?” Carlos coughed out.

“Seagram’s Seven.” Ricky laughed. “It keeps you warm on a cold night.”

“Oh,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s so funny?”

“Heck is. I haven’t used that word since I was three years old. Out here it’s called hell and damn and shit, not heck and darn and shoot.”

“Oh.” Carlos looked around to make sure no one else had heard his childish vocabulary.

“How old are you, Carlos?”

“Eighteen,” he lied without hesitating even a second.

Ricky smiled. “Honey, I’m not a cop, so you don’t have to lie to me. I’m only sixteen, myself.”

“I’m eighteen,” Carlos said defiantly as he stared at the street.

“Mmm-hmm. First time on the street?”

“Oh, no. My mom goes to see a doctor a couple of blocks up few times a year. Sometimes I go with her.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve got a lot to learn out here. I meant is this your first time hustling.”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’? We’re both guys.”

Ricky looked truly shocked, and raised one eyebrow cautiously as he stared at the newcomer. Because Carlos was walking up Geary Street at midnight, Ricky had assumed he was gay and a hustler. Now he wasn’t so sure of either, and thought about the consequences of carrying on and assuming too much. Though Carlos was not built overly big, Ricky was sure he could cause considerable damage to his own scrawny body if provoked.

“Just a term we use. Listen, Carlos, what are you doing out here? You’re obviously not a hustler.”

Carlos’ eyes fell back to the ground and he shifted his feet nervously. He didn’t like to talk about his problems with anyone, and especially not strangers. But it was cold outside, and Ricky seemed nice enough. What the heck, he thought, then corrected himself: What the hell?

“Could I have another drink of that?” Carlos asked, and nodded toward the Coke can.

Ricky passed the whiskey to Carlos and waited for him to begin his story. He had nothing better to do, and since it was still early, he doubted he would be picked up for a while yet, if at all. Lately, it seemed all the johns were looking for the masculine type—young and innocent, but masculine. Ricky looked at his new friend and thought how well he would do out there on the street if he really wanted to. He was definitely young, and his jet-black hair, bright blue eyes, and light brown skin gave him an unparalleled beauty. His little peach fuzz of a mustache blessed him with that look of masculine innocence.

Ricky sighed, partly in admiration but mostly in self-pity. He was almost the exact opposite of Carlos. He was three or four inches taller than Carlos, but weighed about the same, possibly even less. Too skinny. He was very pale-skinned, with dirty blond hair and even dirtier brown eyes that rarely, if ever, allowed expression. No mustache, heaven forbid. He wore makeup and girls’ jeans, size 1, to enhance his ass, which was much too flat. No sign of masculinity here, Ricky thought, and sighed again.

“I don’t know where to start,” Carlos said, pulling Ricky out of his trance.

“How about starting by giving me a drink of that and telling me why you’re out here,” Ricky said as he lit a cigarette.

Carlos stared at Ricky with fascination.

“What are you staring at?” Ricky asked, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the air.

“Your parents let you smoke?”

“Yeah,” Ricky said, laughing, “sort of. You never smoked before?”

“No,” Carlos answered softly.

“Wanna try?”

“Sure.”

Carlos took the cigarette from Ricky and held it for a moment, trying to build the courage to bring it to his lips. Finally he closed his eyes and put the unfiltered tip to his mouth. He drew a small amount of smoke into his mouth and left it there for only a couple of seconds before blowing it out quickly.

“Doesn’t do anything for me,” Carlos said with a look of distaste.

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t unless you inhale it.” Ricky laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“Do it again, only this time swallow the smoke.”

“Swallow it?” Carlos sounded horrified.

“Sure. Like this,” Ricky said, and demonstrated the barbaric act of inhaling smoke into his lungs. He blew the smoke out in rings.

“Wow!”

“Here, now you try it.”

Carlos was excited and nervous at the same time, so when he drew in the smoke he pulled in too much, and when he swallowed it, he swallowed too fast. Instead of blowing the smoke out in rings, he bellowed out a cough of smoke and spittle. It sprayed all over Ricky, and his new friend broke into a laugh. Carlos saw absolutely nothing funny in the fact that his lungs were on fire and he was choking to death. When he finally stopped coughing, his eyes were filled with tears. His lungs still burned as he leaned against the wall to breathe in some fresh air.

“Well, what do you think?” Ricky asked, still trying to stop laughing.

“It tried to kill me!”

This brought on another outburst of laughter from Ricky, and he passed the Coke can to Carlos. “Here, maybe this will help.”

Carlos took the can and finished off what was left of the whiskey. His throat felt raw from the smoke, and the alcohol burned as it went down. But it was somehow soothing, and he was getting used to it by now.

Ricky had noticed a silver Honda circling the block a few times while he was showing Carlos the fine art of inhaling. It now pulled up to the curb and the passenger window was rolled down.

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” Ricky told Carlos. “Stick around for a while. When I get back I’ll bring a fresh bottle of Seagram’s and some food.”

Carlos watched, fascinated, as Ricky swished over to the car and leaned into the passenger window. He could see the driver gesturing toward him as he talked with Ricky for a few seconds before Ricky turned around and walked back to him.

“He wants you.” Ricky sulked.

“For what?” Carlos asked nervously.

Ricky smiled. “He wants to have sex with you, child.”

“Sex?” Carlos whispered. He was astonished. “I’ve never had sex with a guy before.”

“Ever have sex with a girl?”

“Well,” Carlos hesitated, “…no.”

“Then there’s no problem, is there? You won’t know the difference.”

Carlos didn’t quite get the reasoning behind that, but the Seagram’s had worked its magic on him, and he agreed with Ricky.

“Good. Just lay there and let him suck you off. You don’t do anything to him. And whatever you do, don’t let him turn you onto your stomach.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s my position. Besides, you wouldn’t like what happens next if you do.” Ricky noticed the guy in the car was getting nervous, so he shook his head yes and continued his lesson to Carlos.

“The going rate is thirty dollars, but you can easily get forty. Hold out for that much. Play it straight; that should be no problem for you. Then make sure he brings you back here when you’re through,” Ricky said as he nudged Carlos forward.

Carlos’ head spun with everything Ricky had told him, and he barely realized what he was doing as he closed the door to the Honda.

The alarm buzzed loudly, scaring Carlos out of his deep sleep. He sat up in the strange bed, causing the sheet that covered him through the night to fall to the floor. He was naked. And hard. Grabbing the sheet from the floor, he covered his lap and looked over next to him. He was relieved to see no one was in the bed with him. He reached over and shut off the alarm just as the bedroom door opened and a middle-aged man came in carrying a breakfast tray.

“Good morning. Sorry about the clock, I know it’s kind of obnoxious. I have to meet my sister at noon to go shopping, so I thought it’d be good if we got up early.”

“Where am I?” Carlos asked, bringing the sheet up higher to cover his chest.

“We’re at my house,” the man said, setting the tray in front of Carlos.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jonathan. I picked you up on Geary Street last night, remember?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. You were somewhat inebriated. Here, this will help you.” He handed Carlos a glass of orange juice. “And there are a couple of aspirin there, too.”

“Why am I naked?”

“Because you could not possibly have fulfilled my wildest fantasies as you did last night had you been clothed, that’s why. You know, for a small boy, you are very well equipped. Worth the extra ten dollars, let me tell you.”

“Extra ten dollars?” Carlos asked, confused.

“Why yes, we agreed on forty.” He noticed Carlos’ puzzlement, and realized the opportunity. “Or was it thirty?”

“It was forty,” Carlos said, the night before slowly unfolding before him.

“Well, like I said, it was worth it.”

“Thank you.”

“I have to shower now. Eat your breakfast, then you can shower before I take you back to Geary Street. Or was there somewhere else you wanted to go?”

“No. That’s fine.”

“All right then. Eat up.”

Jonathan went into the bathroom, leaving Carlos alone in the bedroom. Carlos popped the aspirin into his mouth and swallowed them with the orange juice. Little by little the events of the night before came back to him. The old man had stripped Carlos naked and just stared at him for a long time before laying him on the bed and rubbing his body. Soon his mouth had enveloped Carlos’ dick, sucking and licking it for what seemed an eternity. Then the old man was on his hands and knees and Carlos was behind him, pumping like he had done with girls in his dreams. It felt better than anything he’d ever felt before; it was his first time, after all, and near the end Carlos thought he was surely dying. His heart was pounding extremely fast, and then, without warning, he felt his load erupt from his balls and blast through his rod and deep inside the stranger.

That was the night before, and now, only hours after that vigorous workout, Carlos’ dick was harder and fatter than he could ever remember. The sheet created a pleasant friction on his hard cock, and when he reached down to touch it he shuddered. He wrapped his fist around the fat dick and began to slowly pull at it. The sensation was so intense he could not stifle a series of low moans. It took only a few pulls at the readied cock before it shot. Several long streams of warm cum landed on Carlos’ face, more landed on his chest and stomach. He instinctively licked a drop that landed on his lips, and kept pumping at his dick until the last drop trickled out of the tip.

It was then that Carlos noticed the old man leaning against the bedroom door. Carlos grabbed the sheet and tried to cover himself.

“That was amazing. The shower’s all yours, cutie.”

Carlos decided he couldn’t hide his naked body forever, and stood up and walked naked toward the bathroom, his cum cooling on his torso and dripping down his hard, flat stomach.

Jonathan reached down and gave Carlos’ slowly deflating cock a gentle squeeze as he passed.

Carlos smiled shyly and closed the door behind him as he took his shower.

 

Jonathan dropped Carlos off in front of the Supremo’s Pizza store where he had picked him up the previous night. Carlos went into the store and ordered a Coke. He finished it slowly, watching the clock on the wall, and waiting until eleven o’clock before getting up to leave. His father left for work at eleven o’clock on Saturday mornings, so it would be safe to go home.

He wondered how bad the fight had been and how badly hurt his mother would be. The fights, which had been going on for as long as Carlos could remember, had become more frequent in the past year and a half, when his father had been fired from his foreman’s job at the Burton Jones Welding Company. He had been warned repeatedly, and after showing up drunk on the job for the fourth time, he was fired. Now he worked for his brother-in-law, whom he hated, making ten dollars an hour laying brick. Supporting a family on that salary wasn’t easy, Carlos knew. But he also knew it didn’t help matters any when every payday his father took his mother out and got stinking drunk.

The fights were always over Carlos, and it took far less than a genius to know why. Mr. Cortez had very dark brown skin, Mrs. Cortez had very dark brown skin, and little Rosie had very dark brown skin. Carlos’ skin was a honey-colored light brown. Mr. Cortez had dark brown eyes, as did his wife and daughter. Carlos had bright, electrifying blue eyes, accentuated with long, curly eyelashes. Carlos’ father and mother were overweight, and little Rosie was chubby, seeming to follow in their steps. Carlos was, and always had been, lean and muscular.

Less than a full year after her marriage to Juan Cortez, Lydia Cortez began having an affair, quite indiscreetly, with Richard Norman, a local schoolteacher. He was an extremely handsome man, tall and trim, with jet-black hair and crystal clear blue eyes. He also had a very distinguishable birthmark—two small moles on the left side of his chin. It only added to his handsomeness, and many times after making love Lydia would lick his chin and say how cute his “beauty marks” were. The affair lasted three months before Juan found out about it. He had walked in on them in bed together and had beaten the shit out of Richard, causing him to flee town.

Less than a year later Lydia gave birth to her first child. Baby Carlos had skin three tones lighter than his parents. And he had two small moles on the left side of his chin. Later, when his eyes lost that initial gray-black color that all babies are born with, they emerged his present turquoise blue. The fights began two weeks after Lydia brought Carlos home from the hospital, and Juan had never treated Carlos as his son.

That little boy was in front of his own house now, and seeing his father’s car gone, he walked inside. His mother and Rosie were in the front room watching an episode of Superstar Showcase on TV. Lydia looked up as he walked in, and Carlos noticed a small cut on her lower lip. At least there was no black eye, he thought.

“Hi, honey,” sh. . .