Schoolboy Secrets (#amreading #gayerotica)

by Cameron D. James

(Since this month's theme of "What Are You Reading?" makes me think about school -- here's one of my teacher/student dom/sub stories!)

Schoolboy Secrets

Now that Evan is eighteen, the first thing he wants to do is go to the bathhouse. He’s gay and a virgin — and so the bathhouse seems like the perfect place for him to go on a Sunday afternoon. He makes his way through the place, eventually finding himself in a hallway shrouded in total darkness. He brushes up against a body, likes what he feels, and has his first gay experience then and there with a man he can’t even see.

As he heads out of the bathhouse, he runs into the last person he expects to see — his gym teacher, Coach Miller. And it doesn’t take long for Evan to connect the dots and realize that it was Coach Miller that Evan had done stuff with in the dark.

The situation is tricky — he had sex with a teacher — but there’s one thing Evan can’t deny. He enjoyed it. And he wants more.

Excerpt

I lingered at the coffee shop, watching the non-descript building across the street. Every time the door opened and a man entered or exited, my heartbeat surged. My coffee had grown cold as I sat there for far too long, with my leg bouncing in nervous anticipation.

It was my eighteenth birthday yesterday — my buddies had bought me a cake and we’d spent the evening playing board games. While it certainly wasn’t as wild as what most guys likely did on their eighteenth, it was the most we could do, what with us being at a private all-boys Catholic boarding school. But with my eighteenth now a day behind me, I was old enough to leave campus for short periods, and old enough to enter that building across the street.

My heart skipped a beat as the door opened again and a buff man came sauntering out. I watched him as he paused to light a cigarette, inhale, exhale, and walk down the street.

If I’m gonna do this, I better fucking do this, I told myself. I got up, ditched my cold coffee, and exited the coffee shop. Every step down the sidewalk and across the street seemed to make my heart race just a little faster. By the time I approached the front door, the sound of blood rushing filled my ears and my palms had started to sweat.

I reached for the door and just before I grabbed the handle, the door swung open, making me jump back and gasp. It was almost enough to send me scampering. An older guy, maybe in his thirties, with delicious scruff, came out. He paused and looked at me, gave me a wink, and then walked down the street. I watched him go, his bubble butt swaying in those tight jeans of his.

Taking another deep breath, I grabbed the door and opened it. The small foyer beyond was dimly lit and the walls were lined with posters that had sexy men in their underwear. A little trap door opened and a face peeked through, eyeing me up and down before buzzing me through to the actual entrance.

Along the wall to my left were more posters of men wearing next to nothing and to my right was a long desk where the man who had peeked through the little door stood. I stepped up to the desk.

“I-I’d like to ... uh...”

“Can I see some ID, kid?” the man said, his words carrying a whistle due to having a large gap between his front teeth.

Just past the desk, a buff guy wearing only a small, white towel wandered by, eyeing me up and down before turning down a dark hallway. I watched him for as long as I could see him, but he eventually disappeared from view.

“Kid? Your ID?” the older man said, another whistle rushing through his words.

“Right,” I said, and pulled out my wallet. I fumbled through it, digging out my license, then passing it over to him. He glanced at the birth date and then passed it back to me.

“Happy belated birthday,” he said. He put his hands on the counter and leaned forward a bit. He was an attractive man. I think the light was aging him a bit — I originally pegged him at about fifty, but closer up, he really looked more like mid-thirties. “You’ve never been to a bathhouse, have you?”

I shook my head, hoping that the jerky movement didn’t telegraph my overwhelming nerves.

“You sure you want to jump into this right now?”

“Yes,” I said. “I want to do this.”

He looked at me a long moment, like he was deciding whether to actually let me in or not. Eventually, he turned around, grabbed a towel from the pile behind him and put it on the desk in front of me. Then he reached for a key off a rack and placed it on top of the towel.

“Your admission is on the house. Call it a birthday present,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He leaned forward on the counter, resting on his elbows. “I’ll run you through the basics. Lockers are right through there,” I looked where he was pointing, “and you’ll want to get totally naked, wearing only this towel. You’ll find a hot tub in the back, as well as a maze in total darkness, glory hole booths, a hallway lined with private rooms, and a sauna. You can have sex anywhere and everywhere — in a private room if the guy rented one or totally out in public. Just not in the hot tub. You shoot your wad in my hot tub and you’re out the door.”

I watched him as he spoke, trying to process all of this information, but I found it was all overwhelming me, making me wonder if I really should’ve just turned around and walked out. No, I told myself, if I walk out, I’ll just come back tomorrow when I’ve screwed up enough courage again.

“Kid?” the man said, pulling my attention back to him. “The most important rule, above everything else I’ve just told you, is that you have the right to say ‘no’. If somebody starts fondling you or sucking you and you don’t want it, just tell him you’re not interested. If he gives you trouble, you come to me and I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you,” I said. That managed to calm my nerves quite a bit. I could just say no. If I wanted to, I could just spend time here and not touch another man at all. Like I’m going to get out of here without getting some dick, my sarcastic self said in my head.

I picked up the towel and the key, which was on one of those elastic coils that I could wrap around my wrist or bicep. I followed where the man had pointed, finding a room of lockers at the end of the hall. I wasn’t alone. Two guys were getting naked. I stood in awe of the sight; two well-built and well-hung men were dropping their pants and their boxers. One of them caught me staring and winked at me — and before wrapping his towel around his waist, he turned slightly so that I could get a better view of his glorious cock. Moments later, they both had a towel wrapped around their waists and they walked out of the room, hand-in-hand.

When I was alone, I then realized just how fucking hard my cock was. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to shoot my wad within the first few minutes of being in here. I held my breath for a moment — a classmate had told me that if I get an awkward boner in class, holding my breath for ten seconds will get rid of it. I counted to ten, then started breathing again — my boner wasn’t gone, but it was a little less stiff.

Gotta get naked. Right.

I glanced at the number on the key and found my locker. I stripped naked and grabbed my towel, hurrying so no one would see my dick and balls, as if I were in the gym showers at school — even though in the back of my mind I was telling myself that my sole purpose in being at a bathhouse was to get some dick and to get a blowjob. To get those done, I needed someone to see my dick and balls.

Still, habits died hard. I cinched the towel around my waist, locked the locker, and strung the key around my wrist.

I awkwardly held my arms in front of my body, as if to hide my near-nakedness, and wandered back down the hallway toward the front desk. The man at the desk nodded encouragement at me, even as his eyes roved hungrily over my body. I came to a fork in the path — if I remembered right from what I’d read online, the hallway looped around, so it was more a matter of which direction did I want to do the loop in. The warm scent of a hot tub came wafting down the hall from my left, so I started in that direction.


As I wandered, I passed a small foyer with a leather futon and a TV playing porn. A guy sat on the futon, idly stroking his cock as I wandered past. My gaze locked on his meat and I couldn’t stop my eyes from going wide. I’d never seen such open display of sex outside of internet porn. He eyed me up and down, subtly inviting me to join him — I was tempted, but I didn’t want to just settle down with the first dick I found in my first five minutes in here. I wanted my first experience to be a more memorable one. I could always have fun with multiple men, but I knew there was a chance, given my nervousness, that I would run back to the dorms once I had my first dick.

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Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad

by Cameron D. James

While perhaps not my most taboo title (as the definition of what's taboo will vary from person to person), Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad is my most popular taboo title.

When I started writing this, I was catching on that incest and pseudo-incest (step-relations) were hot taboo topics, but also very problematic as books featuring those themes often got banned on Amazon. With that in mind, I took it one step back to what I decided was pseudo-pseudo-incest. There's no relation between the two males leads (biological or legal), but due to circumstances, Jay has always looked up to his best friend's dad "like a father figure".

Here's the blurb:

Jay has a crush on Richard, his best friend’s dad. Richard is older, very masculine, cares about Jay, and is extremely sexy. There are just the problems of Richard being straight, married, and the father of Jay’s life-long best friend.

When Richard takes his son and Jay on a camping trip to celebrate turning eighteen, becoming men, and taking their first steps into the adult world, Jay struggles to contain his lust. Hitting on Richard would ruin the camping trip and destroy his friendship.

But when his friend takes ill and Jay and Richard enjoy some bonding time alone, it becomes clear that Jay isn’t the only one in the thrall of forbidden desires. A relaxing camping trip soon turns into a series of sweaty, erotic encounters, as Jay and Richard stoke this fire burning between them.

And here's an excerpt:

Still not breaking eye contact with Richard, Jay willed his fingers back to life, massaging Richard’s upper thigh. With every squeeze of his fingers, he moved his hand half an inch closer to that patch of ball skin. With every passing moment, he felt the tension build in both of them, like he was waiting for Richard to call him a pervert or Richard was waiting for Jay to burst out laughing at the prank. But then his fingertips brushed against that warm, soft, wrinkled, hairy skin, and the tension deflated from both of them.

“Jay...” Richard said, his voice a mere whisper. It was filled with lust and need, happiness and contentment. He wanted this — needed this.

Jay brushed the skin, rubbing his fingers back and forth, then carefully worked his hand under Richard’s shorts and boxers. Soon he had one meaty ball rolling between his fingers. It was almost plum-sized, firm and round. He squeezed the ball lightly, tugged it gently, and Richard let out a low moan, falling back on his elbows on the rock, head cast back. Jay eased his other hand in the other pant leg and grabbed Richard’s other ball, giving it the same massage treatment. He rubbed both balls, smoothing out the skin, holding them firm in his grasp. The long bulge in the middle of the pile of fabric at Richard’s crotch twitched.

Shifting to grasp both balls in one hand, Jay slid his fingers reverently up the length of Richard’s cock, watching the man’s face for any reaction that this was going too far. But Richard was too far gone, too lost in the heat of the moment to ever say no — Jay knew he had Richard, that the man was putty in his hands, but that he had willingly and knowingly put himself there.

He still didn’t understand it — Richard was straight and married and the very fact that Jay was his son’s best friend should have put up some immediate boundaries, placed him off limits. But those boundaries were obviously being ignored. The almost father-son relationship they’d developed over the years also wasn’t a boundary that could stop them. If anything, that closeness only added to the intimacy of the moment. Jay was giving pleasure to the man he’d looked up to all these years.

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The Geography of You (#flashfiction #gayerotica)

I let myself in the apartment and put my suitcase by the door, quickly going in search of you. I find you. It’s not difficult. You’re in bed—naked and waiting for me.

In the near dark, I see your eyes glisten. You’re awake, you’re watching me, but you’re still lying there...teasing me. You’re drawing out this moment, making me take the lead, inviting me to explore your body.

I take off my clothes, trying to appear casual and not as rushed as I feel.  Three weeks. I’ve been away three weeks—away from you. I need you. I need to be in you.

Now naked as you, I crawl onto the bed and kiss your feet. They’re strong and sturdy, yet clean and soft. You’re freshly showered; you knew I’d want this as soon as I came home. I drag my tongue up your shinbone and caress your other shin with my hand. I’m easing my way up your body. You want to draw this out for me? I’m going to draw this out for you.

I kiss your kneecap—first one, then the other—then I inch up your legs, kissing your inner thighs, climbing higher with every feathered touch of my lips on your hairy legs. Soon my nose is under your balls as I kiss the top of your thighs, as I flicker my tongue out across your taint.

You groan in pleasure and your body shifts. You want it bad. So do I—my aching erection is proof enough—but I’m going to torture you with pleasure.

I press more kisses to your body, climbing higher, curving to the front of your pelvis, carefully avoiding your cock and balls. They don’t get pleasure—not yet. But I don’t ignore them. I lift my mouth off your tantalizing body and exhale my hot breath along your length. You groan again, shift your hips up, desperate for contact, but I always keep my lips away from your shaft.

Moving further north, I dip my tongue into your belly button, swirling around and around. I take a moment to adjust my own position, bringing my legs closer to the core of your body. You spread your legs, lifting them a little, allowing me to get close to you and simultaneously inviting me to get even more intimate with you. Shifting even closer, the head of my cock—wet and sticky with pre-cum—makes contact with your tight, wrinkled flesh. I almost lose it and by the deep groan you let out, you almost lose it too.

I abandon your bellybutton, now glistening with my saliva, and move north, kissing each of your abs along the way, enjoying how your skin gets hairier and hairier under my gentle touch.

As my kisses approach your chest, I hook my hands under your knees, gently folding you, exposing that tightness even more, that tightness that I’m aching to plunge into. As I press against you, I feel a slickness I didn’t expect, as my shaft slides effortlessly against your tightness, moreso than the ease that my pre-cum would provide. You’re prepared for this moment, lubed up and eager.

I shift my hips a little, angling myself so that the head of my cock presses hard against your hole. I press forward a little, just enough to tease the opening, to judge how eager you might be.

And I find that you are very eager.

You want me inside you. You need me inside you.

I kiss across your torso until I reach a nipple—and as I clamp my teeth down on it, eliciting a yelp of painful pleasure from you, I shove my hips forward, plunging full-depth into you. Your yelp of pain turns into an incoherent shout of pleasure.

I bite down on your nipple hard—the way I know you love me doing—and thrust again. I can feel you losing control—not like you’re about to blow your load, but like you’ve lost all coherent thought, like you’re a being of pure pleasure, like you’ve given control of yourself and your release over to me.

I start pumping myself in and out of you. I kiss your tender nipple, easing the fire caused by my teeth. I give your other nipple a little bite and a lick, so it doesn’t feel neglected. But I’ve moved on from your nipples. I want more from you. I want all of you.

I drag my tongue across your chest and to your neck. Your five o’clock shadow is scratchy against my skin, rough against my tongue. You press your head back into the pillow, flexing your neck upward, pressing your Adam’s apple into my mouth.

I suck on your neck, kiss it, press my tongue into that sensitive spot that drives you wild. You moan incoherently, an endless sound of pure pleasure that contains no words, and I thrust harder into you, changing my angle to hit that spot inside you that sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your whole body.

You’re gasping, writhing, begging for release, desperate for orgasm.

Then I claim your mouth.

I kiss your lips, sweep my tongue across yours, suck up your moans of pleasure. You kiss me back—or at least you try to, as much as your pleasure-wracked mind can accomplish.

You bring your hands to the back of my head—the first real sign of movement I’ve seen from you—but with one quick movement, I grab your wrists and pin your hands down past your head. This isn’t about sex; it’s about me rediscovering the geography of your body.

The geography of home.

I thrust into you again and the reediness of your wail tells me that you’re close. You’re so incredibly close. But I’m not ready for you finish yet. I don’t let you cross that line, don’t let you dive off that cliff—instead, I tease you at that line, slowing down enough to keep you there, but not push you further.

Your whimpers turn desperate, but I’m not ready for you to finish.

I’m not done re-discovering your body.

I drag my tongue across your cheek, across your rough stubble, and suckle on your earlobe. You gasp again, a gasp full of such pleasure that I fear I’ve gone too far. But your gasp turns into a begging mewl and I know I’ve still got the upper hand. I know I’ve still got control over your body.

I let go of your hands, no longer pinning them above your head, and you instantly wrap your arms around me, pulling me close. I give in and press my body to yours, our chests hard against each other, our arms holding each other, and when I kiss you again our breath interchanges between us.

I thrust one more time—harder, deeper, longer—and you whimper into my mouth, a whimper that turns into a wail. And I know I’ve done it, I’ve pushed you past that line. Your body shivers and quakes as you try to contain it, but the floodgates give and you finally lose control.

You hug me even closer, pressing your mouth harder against mine, and I feel an exploding wetness between our bodies. And at that moment, your body clamps down on mine, tightens around my length, squeezes me so hard, and you drag me over that edge with you.

I, too, struggle to hold it back and shudder with the effort. But then I give in—I give in and pleasure shoots through me, and my essence fills you.

I shiver with the last of it, shake with the seemingly endless pleasure, and then let out a long breath when it finally abates. My body relaxes—so does yours—and I lay on top of you, listening to your heartbeat as it slows down from its racehorse pace.

I’ve missed you. I know you’ve missed me too.

But now I’m home.





Cameron D. James is a writer of gay smut. His upcoming publication is the (surprisingly smut-free) gay YA romance, Gay Love And Other Fairy Tales, under his YA pen name, Dylan James.

The Beta's Pleasure (#gayerotica #gaysex #gaybdsm)

My Alpha stands over me, towering, dominating. He’s all man — more than I’ll ever be — made of muscle and hair and tanned skin. A leather harness wraps across his broad chest, his bulky lower body is encased in a tight pair of leather pants.

I’m on my knees, naked, my cock in a chastity cage. I’m the beta to his Alpha.

He likes to think he chose me. The truth is, I chose him.

He unzips his fly, revealing a sweaty jockstrap, and then grabs my head, mashing my face into his crotch. He thinks he’s demeaning me, that he’s doing this for his pleasure and his pleasure alone.

I inhale, breathe him in, let his musk surge through my body. He’s not the only one getting pleasure. I would argue my pleasure is greater.

I nibble at the cotton, teasing the sensitive skin of his shaft. He lets out a loud breath that I know is a barely contained moan. He doesn’t want to show such weakness in front of his beta. I play along, submitting to him, giving him what he wants — what he thinks he wants — while I truly get what I want.

He eases down the front of his jockstrap, his length flopping out. I eagerly take it in my mouth. I moan. It’s not an act, it’s not a way to please my Alpha — no, I moan because I’m getting what I want, what I need.

We’ve been Alpha and beta for years. We met at Folsom Street Fair, I sucked him off in the middle of the party, and we’ve been with each other ever since. I give him blowjobs like no other beta has ever done — better than anyone will ever give him, I know. He knows that too.

I’m true to him. He’s my only Alpha. He demands my faithfulness, though he doesn’t need to — I freely give it to him. I don’t demand the same of him, but I know I’m his only beta, his only fucktoy … his only lover.

I’m too good to him. In a moment of weakness last year — a rarity for my Alpha — he had confided that he’s always terrified of losing me, because he considers me irreplaceable. And so he treats me like a prince. Still a beta, still a submissive, still a lesser man than him, but a prince, nonetheless.

He lets out another loud breath, another barely contained moan, and I know he’s close to losing it, to filling me with his spunk. And I know he doesn’t want to do that — not yet. To do so would be to show weakness in front of his beta, an inability to control his urges around me.

Instead, he cups his hand under my chin and nudges me to his feet. I hate to abandon his cock, but my Alpha bids me to do so. With dominance in his eyes, but with a glimmer of affection, my Alpha guides me toward the sling, hanging from the ceiling, here in his dusty basement. He helps me into it and then ties up my wrists and ankles. Securing me. Restraining me. Owning me. Between my legs, my helpless cock, contained in a cage of plastic, decorated with a padlock, struggles to get hard, but it can’t. Beta males don’t deserve erections.

With my limbs secured, my Alpha says, “Let me know if it hurts. And don’t forget your safe word.”

Of course, I know these things. He says them every time. Yet, I’ve never been put in a position of harm and I’ve never used my safe word. For an Alpha, he’s very gentle and caring, very tender and compassionate. Those reminders, surely necessary among new partners, but less so between us, reinforce how much he cares for me.

The safe word gives me the option to end a scene at any time. For a beta, it puts me in a position of power. In a way, it makes me the Alpha, even if I shun that term, even if it doesn’t feel true. Alpha waits for me to nod, the sign that I’m okay and ready for the next step.

I nod, giving my Alpha permission to proceed.

He smiles, and for a moment I see relief, like he was scared I would put an end to this. I’ve never ended a scene early — not with him. I trust my Alpha and would let him do anything. I would give him permission to do whatever he wants to me and my body. Because I know his ultimate goal is pleasure — for him, but also for me.

He leans into me, pressing the head of his dick against my already-slick hole. I relax my muscles, unclench my body, and he slides easily into me. I moan loudly, to give my Alpha permission to silently moan along with me, my noise cancelling out his, letting him maintain his dominance and control over me.

Again, my dick struggles to get hard, to enjoy the moment, but it’s locked down and kept small. My Alpha hasn’t given me permission to have an erection. And I have given my Alpha permission to make that decision for me.

He drags his cock halfway out, igniting all my nerve endings, pleasure flaring through my core. Then he slams it home, the chains squeaking under the violent shudder. I moan again and it drags out into a steady rhythm of loud breathing and moaning as he starts swinging his hips back and forth, pounding me.

Every shove inside me has his dick stroking against my prostate, causing ecstasy to build and mount within me. He grabs my hips, to give him better leverage to fuck me. Our bodies collide and separate, collide and separate, over and over.

I can tell by Alpha’s breathing and the sweat on his forehead and the crease in his brow that he’s close to orgasming, close to filling me with his seed. I know he wants to maintain his superiority, so I give in to my own pleasure. Alpha has pushed me so close to orgasm, so close to that overwhelming joy, that it doesn’t much to push me over that inescapable edge.

One more stroke across my prostate has me whimpering and moaning as pleasure explodes within me. Even though my cock is contained in plastic, forced to stay flaccid, I have an incredible orgasm. Powerful. Overwhelming. My cum leaks from the plastic cage and flows down my taint.

And my asshole tightens, gripping Alpha’s thick girth. With a grunt — powerful, dominating, aggressive — Alpha shoves his dick in me one more time and presses his body hard against mine. He grunts again, long and low, and I know he’s filling me with his cum. My body is owned by him, inside and out, and this is him staking his claim on me one more time.

In the aftermath — sweaty and breathless — he looks into my eyes. That same dominance is there, but behind it, hiding, is a look of questioning. Did I enjoy it? I know he wants to ask me — I know he wants to make sure that I want him and only him — but he can’t ask me, not if he wants to maintain his Alpha dominance over me.

“That was incredible, Sir,” I say, between gulping down lungfuls of air.

And with that, the question disappears from his eyes, so that only dominance remains.

I let my eyes close and I sink into the sling, revelling in the moment, the feeling, the joy, the pleasure, the ecstasy. I’m where I belong.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Forbidden Desires: The Complete Series. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Big Dicks

All right, I’ll do it. I’ll be the first to address the obvious innuendo in this fortnight’s topic — “Short and Long”. And I’m going to make a statement that some might find controversial. Ready?

When it comes to dicks, bigger is NOT always better.

I’m far from being the most experienced gay, but I’ve had my share of dicks in me. The smallest was maybe an inch and a half and very slender, and the largest was ten inches (yes, I measured) and very thick.

What I’ve found through all of these experiences is that size really has little — perhaps even nothing — to do with how enjoyable sex is.  There is, perhaps, a minimum length needed for penetration to be enjoyable, but if I have a deep connection with that partner and we’re both willing to be experimental and have some fun, there are lots of ways to make sex exceptional, even with a shortage of inches.

If someone is too long, then they can go too deep. Yes, there’s a thing as going too deep. If it goes too deep, it can be uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, depending on how fast he’s thrusting or where he’s hitting.

Mr. Ten Inches was a good sexual partner. He tried to be in tune with my body and reacted to the sounds I let out or the faces I made — so if he was in too deep and it was hurting, he would change positions or ease out a bit. He tried to make my pleasure a focus of our activity. I had another long guy a few years back, maybe eight or nine inches — he wasn’t long enough to hit me in the wrong places, like Mr. Ten Inches could sometimes do — but he was a bad sexual partner. I was too entranced by his perfect body to realize that he was just bad at sex. His focus was entirely on himself and his own pleasure.

My most enjoyable sexual partners — and the most effective at pleasuring me — have been those with average sized dicks, or even those on the smaller side. Perhaps it’s because these men aren’t overconfident in their length and girth being the determining factor in how good they are as a lover… and so they take the time to exercise technique, experiment with new positions, perhaps introduce some toys or props, and emphasize the connection between us over the base carnality of the act.

Big dicks are certainly nice to look at. If I’m watching porn, I usually prefer bigger dicks (although that’s certainly not the determining factor in what I choose to watch). And I’m sure we’ll get no argument here that porn has affected what people view as a “normal” dick size, leaving many men feeling inadequate. In gay culture, there’s certainly an emphasis on size, that bigger is ALWAYS better. However, most bottoms (gay slang for the receiving partner) I know will admit that there’s a limit to how big they like a guy to be.

Being an author of erotica and erotic fiction, I’m technically part of the “sex entertainment” industry. Sometimes I will include larger-than-life dicks, if it suits the mood I’m building in the story. For the most part, though, I aim for average to slightly-larger-than-average lengths, in order to make it more realistic and immediate. I know that for me as a reader, finding out a character has a twelve-inch dick can take me out of the story just as much as a plot hole or a POV violation — because it makes me cringe at the thought of taking twelve inches and knowing it likely wouldn’t be enjoyable in real life.




Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Love and Lust and Sex

Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of introducing two of the cutest young men I know to each other.  Myself and a couple other people suspected that these two twinks might hit it off.

We had them (and other people) over for a barbecue and they seemed to hit it off pretty quickly, so we followed it up with an at-home movie night with myself, my partner, and these two young men.  There was an obvious attraction from both sides, but for various reasons, neither one made a move on the other.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to when one guy, who we’ll call Jeff, was lamenting on Facebook about his dating woes.  The other guy, who we’ll call Andrew, offered to meet him for coffee to chat about it.  They did.  And then they chatted about each other and the mutual attraction they’d felt during the movie night.  And with it all out on the table, all the misconceptions out of the way, they were able to say how much they were attracted to each other.  It had taken a while to get to this point, but it was love at first sight.

Andrew took Jeff home.

Jeff is one of my closest friends and given our ten year age gap, I think he might look up to me for advice sometimes.  So I heard all about the other guys he went out with before that fateful coffee with Andrew.  We’ve talked a lot about the differences between love and lust.  And every time he gets closer to finding love, he realizes that everything he had before was just lust.

He thought he’d figured it out a couple boyfriends ago.  He’d text me after he had sex and say things like, “Now I understand what you mean about the difference between sex and lovemaking.”  He’d been searching for that ever since that relationship ended.  And he seems to have found that in Andrew.  In fact, I think he’s come to realize that what he had before wasn’t truly love — it was close, but not quite the same.  What he has now is love.

Last night I received this text from Jeff: “Ok.. now THAT was making love.”

It’s been my experience, and Jeff’s experience reflects this, that lustful sex is full of passion and energy and focusses entirely on physical sensation.  Lovemaking may be just as full of passion and energy, but the focus is often more on connecting at some deep spiritual level, something impossible to achieve in lustful sex.  Because of that connection, lovemaking can be so intense and all-consuming that nothing else matters.

I’ll be honest — when I jack off, I have dirty fantasies in my head (or on my iPad).  I think about or watch pretty much every fetish you could name, full of dominating sex and giant dicks.  But if I were given the choice to live out a sexual fantasy or have vanilla sex with my partner — and if there were no consequences from making my choice — I would choose sex with my partner.  And that’s because sex with my partner isn’t just sex, it’s lovemaking.  Anybody watching us would probably find it boring, but to me, it’s thrilling, invigorating, and incomparable.

Lustful sex can be incredible, don’t get me wrong.  It can be adventurous and exciting.  But lovemaking can be these things, too, and so much more.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press  a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Rentboys in Gay Culture

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Infidelity and the Gay Man

I’ve often wondered with our over-sexualized media culture — something which I acknowledge I contribute to with my catalogue of gay erotica — if we are separating love and sex, and thus we’re being encouraged to cheat.  I think this argument could hold true for society at large, but I think it’s a much stronger argument when we look at just the gay male community.

As a gay man — even as one who is not all that plugged into gay culture — I’m constantly bombarded with sexual images and ideas.  My local pride festival invites a handful of celebrities in for pride weekend, and half of those celebrities are gay porn stars.  (The other half of the celebrities are drag queens.  My local pride organization seems to think this is gay pride, not LGBT pride.)

With the gay magazines and their naked photoshoots, the prevalence of porn on the internet, the way gay culture centralizes on sex (like with this music video, or this one), and with my local pride organization idolizing porn stars as leaders in the community, I’m left with one very clear message.  I need to be bigger, harder, longer, and I have to fuck every hot piece of ass I can find.  And I need to do it every day, though twice a day is better.

All of this culminates in one word: sex.  Not love.  Sex.  We are encouraged to seek out sex, not seek out love.  And if we need to cheat to get some good sex, well, it’s apparently worth it.  Because sex is awesome.  To believe otherwise is to not be a part of the gay male culture.

With the prevalence of Grindr and the ease with which men hook up, it’s become ingrained in us that a quick, anonymous fuck is fine — even if it’s not with our boyfriend.  After all, it’s just sex.  It’s not like we’re in love with the guy we’re hooking up with.  (And I don’t mean to diss hook ups and anonymous sex — they certainly have their place and I’m no stranger to them.)

Disengaging love from sex is something that certainly happens naturally in some relationships, and can be a healthy way for other relationships to survive and thrive — but gay culture paints this very clear picture that we all should have this separation between love and sex, so that we can fuck with abandon and come home to our love at night.

But the truth is that if there isn’t a pre-arranged agreement that infidelity is acceptable for both partners, someone will end up getting hurt.  And even in situations where there is an agreement, one partner may find that over time they grow uncomfortable or upset with their partner’s sexual adventures.  Some people can handle open relationships and other people can’t.  Gay men shouldn’t be told that open relationships are the gold standard; instead, open relationships should be presented as an option.  Every couple works differently and every type of couple should be portrayed in gay media — from swingers and polyamorous relationships to committed and faithful couples.

So where does this leave me as a writer of gay erotica?

I often write about hook ups — whether they’re anonymous or they know a little bit about each other.  However, I always acknowledge that the heart has its place.  Hook ups can spawn feelings of attachment, feelings of shame, or sometimes no emotional reaction at all.  While I don’t always depict infidelity, I’m careful to keep it in line with the character’s view of infidelity, and to not put too much of my own opinion in there.  In my latest release, Go-Go Boys of Club 21, Ryan cheats on his partner Liam — Ryan absolutely feels no regret, for him, infidelity is part of how he operates in a relationship.  For Liam, though, it’s devastating since he believed that Ryan was faithful to him.  And in my short story, Bathhouse Nights, Daniel hooks up with Justin, a supposedly straight jock with a girlfriend.  Justin doesn’t care that he’s being unfaithful, but Daniel is put in a (brief) moral dilemma knowing that the man of his dreams wants to fuck, and in doing so, he’d be helping that man cheat on his girlfriend.




Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series.  He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats.  To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.