Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... as they answered his knock on the door. Then I heard shouting -- whoever answered the door up there had answered his complaint with a tirade of viscous curses. As I sat there listening I remembered I hadn't told him anything about them, I didn't tell him how big the boys were. Dad came back a few minutes later, and he went right to his bedroom and spent the night there. They didn't turn the music down that night - no, after that they really cranked it up. Now every night the music thunders above our heads, an invitation to come upstairs and complain again. Every night he sits there, acting like it doesn't bother him, pretending it's not an insult, a dare to come upstairs for another round. I knew that this was another unspoken bond between us, because I too was afraid of blacks. I was a freshman in high school, I was one of a rapidly diminishing group of white kids that walked the hallways with fear in our eyes, hoping to make it through the day without being picked on. We huddled together like mice, we walked as close to the lockers in the hallways as we could, allowing the roaming groups of black toughs to swagger like princes down the center. I didn't dare wear my Kiss T-Shirt to school. Bitterness was all that was left in him. The humiliation of having his wife leave him. "Bill, we just don't have fun anymore." We sat and simmered that spring in the pitiless heat of those words. Fun she wanted, fun I knew she found in the lean, agile muscles of a black man named Les, ...

... an electrician that was working in one of the apartments downstairs. The first time I saw Les was a day I came home sick from school. I could smell the grass as soon as I opened our apartment door. The Doors were playing on the stereo: "Try it on for size . . ." I should have left when I saw the tool belt on the floor of the hallway. If I had left I could have told myself one of the super's men was working on something. If I had left I could have remained a child a bit longer. But beneath the music I heard another sound, a muffled cry that seemed to call to me, as if I heard it before. I walked down the hall, and when I got to my parents bedroom my eyes opened in wonder. All I could see was his ass, the big black haunches pushing into her, rocking the squeaky bed, and making her cry: "I'm almost there, Les!" Her legs were up over his shoulders, and her hands told me what was happening inside her. She had her hands on his ass, her red nails were caressing the stubby spiked hairs he had down there. "Oh, Jesus, Les . . ." They didn't hear me, they didn't hear my heart slamming and the blood rushing like breaking surf up into my head. She left a few months after that. Even though her words were directed at Dad, they hurt me too. I don't know if Dad knew what she was doing; if he did he knew it as something unconscious, a truth too painful to face directly. But I knew why she left - whenever she called I only half listened; I was lost in the memory of what I saw that day, and the ...