Wasted Gays and Wasted Nights (Hot Sex with Nasty Gays)
Fiction & Literature, LGBT, Gay, Romance, Erotica
| Author: | Skye Eagleday | ISBN: | 9781310861710 |
| Publisher: | Skye Eagleday | Publication: | January 30, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords | Language: | English |
| Author: | Skye Eagleday |
| ISBN: | 9781310861710 |
| Publisher: | Skye Eagleday |
| Publication: | January 30, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords |
| Language: | English |
What do you get when you cross the Biggest Bottom West of the Rio Grande with a bunch of incredibly horny gay guys armed with paint guns? Just add alcohol and you get a really wild evening you’ll never forget. You should probably put a condom on your E-Reader when you enjoy this, just to be safe. (An absolutely only for adults story of nasty and erotically explicit non-stop action that is definitely “gay, gay, gay!”)
Excerpt:
Doug saw Evan looking intently at the group photo on the bookshelf. “What do you think of the guys?”
“Don’t bother me—I’m busy inhaling that rank scent of musky taint, rancid armpit cheese and butt syrup wafting off of this picture.”
“So—would you hit it?”
Evan sighed. “I hate myself--however I still would, but only in my darkest hour, and only from the back and only after putting on a full body condom covered in liquid antibiotics. Maybe I’ll need some bleach for my eyeballs afterwards.” He pushed the cowboy hat he was wearing higher up on his forehead and leaned closer to the photo. “Who’s the one with the ZZ Top beard and the big gut?”
“His name is Brian, aka Biggest Bottom west of the Rio Grande. You know, I always suspected you were a closet chubby chaser.”
“Nah,” laughed Evan, “I’m just an equal opportunist, but I will admit I enjoy banging a guy who jiggles every time I thrust. It’s a real different sensation.” He turned back to face his friend. “Since you’re being so personal, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Doug put the back of his hand to his head in an affected swoon. “I’m just a little hung-over from a poorly thought out night of mixing cheap Chablis and the distilled jizz of the Devil others call moonshine, putting me on both ends of the “how pansy do you want to look and how shitty do you want to feel tomorrow” spectrum in one fell swoop. What can I say—I was celebrating my White Trash Tennessee Roots.”
“Have any of the moonshine left?”
“Do I look like I have anything alcoholic left?”
“Looks like we have to hit the bars, then. I don’t want to keep looking at you and staying sober.”
“Just let me get my coat and maybe throw up again.”
What do you get when you cross the Biggest Bottom West of the Rio Grande with a bunch of incredibly horny gay guys armed with paint guns? Just add alcohol and you get a really wild evening you’ll never forget. You should probably put a condom on your E-Reader when you enjoy this, just to be safe. (An absolutely only for adults story of nasty and erotically explicit non-stop action that is definitely “gay, gay, gay!”)
Excerpt:
Doug saw Evan looking intently at the group photo on the bookshelf. “What do you think of the guys?”
“Don’t bother me—I’m busy inhaling that rank scent of musky taint, rancid armpit cheese and butt syrup wafting off of this picture.”
“So—would you hit it?”
Evan sighed. “I hate myself--however I still would, but only in my darkest hour, and only from the back and only after putting on a full body condom covered in liquid antibiotics. Maybe I’ll need some bleach for my eyeballs afterwards.” He pushed the cowboy hat he was wearing higher up on his forehead and leaned closer to the photo. “Who’s the one with the ZZ Top beard and the big gut?”
“His name is Brian, aka Biggest Bottom west of the Rio Grande. You know, I always suspected you were a closet chubby chaser.”
“Nah,” laughed Evan, “I’m just an equal opportunist, but I will admit I enjoy banging a guy who jiggles every time I thrust. It’s a real different sensation.” He turned back to face his friend. “Since you’re being so personal, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Doug put the back of his hand to his head in an affected swoon. “I’m just a little hung-over from a poorly thought out night of mixing cheap Chablis and the distilled jizz of the Devil others call moonshine, putting me on both ends of the “how pansy do you want to look and how shitty do you want to feel tomorrow” spectrum in one fell swoop. What can I say—I was celebrating my White Trash Tennessee Roots.”
“Have any of the moonshine left?”
“Do I look like I have anything alcoholic left?”
“Looks like we have to hit the bars, then. I don’t want to keep looking at you and staying sober.”
“Just let me get my coat and maybe throw up again.”
