Best Gay Romance 2013

Monday morning, on my way to the unemployment office on Miami Beach to register, I decided to treat myself to a chocolate croissant from the little French bakery around the corner from my apartment. I was about to start tightening my belt, finances-wise, but I figured I could afford one last small indulgence.

I entered the bakery, my senses immediately assaulted by the smell of fresh bread, the rows of beautifully decorated pastries, and the French reggae music playing softly in the background. The bell over the door tinkled as I entered, but the heavyset Frenchwoman who normally waited on customers didn’t appear.

Then the baker himself appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of mixed breakfast pastries, including the pain au chocolat I was jonesing for. “Sorry,” he said. “My clerk, she has left me. I am all alone here.”

He was about my age, late twenties, and about my height as well, just over six feet. But there the similarities stopped. He was broad-shouldered and beefy, with big hands and a broad smile. He wore a white chef’s coat with the collar turned down, already spotted with what looked like raspberry jelly, and a white toque.

“Are you hiring?” I asked. “I haven’t worked a register in a couple of years, but I spent four years while I was in college working at fast-food places.”

He quizzed me for a few minutes about my skills, and then said, “You are a gift from God. How soon can you start?”

I stepped behind the counter and he grabbed me in a big bear hug, kissing me on each cheek. My body tingled, and my cock stiffened almost immediately. Embarrassed, I backed away, as the bell over the door rang and a customer entered.

My shift was seven to three. The other clerk, who came in at one, spent her first two hours in the tiny office next to the kitchen, ordering supplies and paying bills. By the time she relieved me, my feet hurt, my shoulders ached, and I wanted to luxuriate in a hot bath for hours. But it all went away when the baker, whose name was Jean-Pierre, hugged me again and kissed both my cheeks.

“How can I thank you,” he said, his French accent making each word as sexy as a proposition. “I know! I will cook for you. Dinner, tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” I said, as he released me. My dick had popped back up and I tried to turn away as fast as possible so he wouldn’t notice.

Back home, naked in a tub of hot, lavender-scented bubbles, I had only to remember the baker’s embrace and I was instantly hard again. I closed my eyes and jerked myself to orgasm, remembering the scent of flour and lemon that surrounded him, the touch of his lips against my cheek. In my head I heard him murmuring soft French words as my body shook and milky white cum spurted out of my dick.

The next morning I wore sneakers with thick white socks to cushion my feet. Jean-Pierre unlocked the door for me, greeting me once again with a big bear hug and a kiss on both cheeks. I felt my whole body glowing with his touch—and the memory of my bathtub adventure the afternoon before.

We chatted off and on as he baked. He was excited about the meal he was preparing for me that evening, and he kept popping out of the kitchen to ask if I liked oysters, spinach, chicken, mushrooms, garlic. With each new ingredient, with each time I saw his shining eyes and the sexy triangle of flesh where his collar folded over, I came closer to orgasm.

He lived in an apartment above the bakery, he said. Very convenient when it was time to start baking, at four in the morning. No commute.

I left at three, promising to return that evening at seven. I lounged in another hot, lavender-scented bath, but this time I wouldn’t touch myself at all. I didn’t think Jean-Pierre was gay, and didn’t expect anything to happen—but I wanted to leave myself in a heightened state of expectation anyway.

After my bath, I stood in front of the mirror examining myself. I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend for a year or more; I’d worked too hard at my last job, and all I had the energy for was the occasional bar pickup. But I’d kept going to the gym, and my body was toned and sexy: muscular calves and thighs, slim waist, seven-inch cock nestled in a patch of wiry, black pubic hair, six-pack abs, nicely defined pecs and biceps. If nothing happened with Jean-Pierre, I might head over to one of the gay bars on Lincoln Road and see if any of the available hunks floated my boat.

I pulled on a pair of Ginch Gonch briefs decorated with fruits and vegetables, a form-fitting black T-shirt, and a pair of khaki pants that accentuated my butt. Promptly at seven, I was ringing the bell at the back of the bakery.

Jean-Pierre was delighted to see me. He engulfed me in another of his big bear hugs. He took my face in both hands, kissing me on each cheek, and then, unexpectedly, on the mouth. Though the kiss was brief, his full, moist lips sent a jolt of electricity through me. Then he turned and bounded up the stairs to his second-floor apartment, leaving me to wonder if his ebullience was simply French, or something more.

I also got a great view of his ass as I followed him up the stairs. Without the white chef’s coat to cover it, I saw two round globes gripped by a pair of form-fitting jeans. I liked what I saw.

“You must sit here,” Jean-Pierre said, when I entered his apartment. He stood by an oak table, pointing at an armchair covered in a colorful Provencal fabric. “You like white wine, yes?”

I said yes, and he filled a stemmed glass for me. “Appetizers in one minute, please,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

I looked around. The impression was of a French country farmhouse: an oak armoire opposite a black metal baker’s rack; curtains and cushions in the same blue, white, and green floral fabric as my chair. The air smelled wonderful: roast chicken, lemon, and a host of other fragrant aromas. Jean-Pierre reappeared, carrying a tray of oysters Rockefeller, which he placed before me with a small bow.

He wore a blue-and-white-striped shirt, the kind French sailors wear, short-sleeved and open at the neck. I eyed his muscular arms and large hands as he dished out the oysters. But when I tasted the first one, I forgot everything but their orgasmic taste. “Mmm,” I said, and sighed happily.

They were silky smooth, accentuated by the spinach and the seasonings. I’d never tasted anything so good. “You like?” Jean-Pierre said.

We chatted as we ate, moving from the oysters to a roast chicken accompanied by a dish of creamy scalloped potatoes and a tray of warm asparagus dusted with olive oil and sea salt. I didn’t think I’d ever eaten such a delicious meal, but Jean-Pierre dismissed my compliments. “Is a simple meal,” he said. “Because I must bake all day. When I have the day off, then you will see, I make something good.”

“I can’t imagine anything better,” I said, and when Jean-Pierre caught my eye and smiled a shiver ran through my body and my dick jumped to attention. Damn, I thought, this guy was a flirt. But again, I wasn’t sure if it was his native Gallic charm or something more.

“No pastry,” he said. “I cannot bake one more thing when I come home. For you, I have the chocolate mousse.”

I sighed once again with pleasure. How could he have known that I considered chocolate mousse the perfect dessert? And Jean-Pierre’s did not disappoint. He brought out two elegant parfait glasses, each filled with mousse and topped with homemade whipped cream.

From the first bite, I was hooked. The texture was thick and silky, rolling across my tongue, and there were hints of vanilla and another fragrance I couldn’t identify. “Is my secret,” he said. He smiled. “But I tell you. Essence of violets. Just a drop, but the perfume…” He ended the sentence by bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them.

I remembered the touch of those lips against my cheek, and against my own lips, and I experienced another of those electric jolts. I couldn’t spend another minute in suspense; I had to know if Jean-Pierre was anything more than a flirt. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs, and with just the slightest pressure, my foot grazed his leg, and I smiled.

Jean-Pierre smiled back and I saw his shoulders relax. “You would like to move to the sofa?” he asked. “I make cappuccino?”

I sat on the sofa and looked at him. He sat next to me, and I snaked my right hand behind his head and pulled him close. Our lips met, and I tasted the chocolate, vanilla, and violets on his. Our tongues dueled together, and my dick throbbed. I wanted to eat him up, my second dessert.

He pulled me around so that I straddled him, my legs wrapped around his torso, our dicks pulsing against each other through the fabric of our pants. He gripped me in one of his bear hugs, and I luxuriated in the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, his chest against mine, our bodies merging into one incredibly sexy organism.

I reached my hand under his blue-and-white-striped shirt and started caressing him gently, as he nibbled on my ear and whispered those same French words I’d imagined him saying the day before. “Quel beau,” he said. “Quel homme.”

I thought he was handsome, too, and certainly a hell of a man. I kissed his neck, and he ran his hands under my T-shirt, up my back, and then down under the waistband of my khakis. I don’t know how long we sat, making out. The rest of the world disappeared. I was just a mass of sensations.

“Come with me,” he said finally, picking me up as easily as he hefted a tray of bread loaves in the bakery. Damn, I love a man who can do that! He carried me into his bedroom, a big oak bed with a spread in another bright Provencal pattern, and he settled me onto it with great delicacy. Then he lay down next to me and we curled together, fully clothed, kissing and fondling each other.

His shirt and my tee came off, and he ran his slightly rough hands over my chest as gently as a butterfly’s wing, each touch sending another electric jolt directly to my cock. I thought I might explode.

Then I was unzipping his jeans. His cock was fat and stiff, and I leaned down to take him in my mouth. He stroked my hair as I sucked, and then pulled me off to kiss him again. I couldn’t bear the sensation of my cock remaining trapped for a moment longer, so I scooted out of my jeans. I was about to pull off my briefs when Jean-Pierre gripped my hands.

He reached over to the table by the bed and fumbled in the drawer, pulling out a condom, which he unwrapped and slid onto his dick. I found a bottle of lube there and squirted some onto his stiff dick, massaging it, then took a dollop on my index finger and began to grease the way for him.

“I will do that,” he said, and as he kissed me again, his lubed finger found my asshole and began to work it. I was panting with longing by the time he lifted me up and, with a little guidance from me, slid himself into me.

All that work on my thighs and calves at the gym paid off. I leveraged myself up and down on his stiff dick, as he lubed his hand and began jerking me off. I couldn’t hold out for long, and neither could he. I began panting and whimpering just as I saw his body stiffen, and we ejaculated at nearly the same time, him first, and then me just a few seconds later.

I collapsed onto his nearly hairless but very muscular chest, kissing his neck; he nestled his head against mine. At some point we separated, and then I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, my body totally satiated.

It was close to six A.M. when I woke, alone in Jean-Pierre’s big bed. For a moment or two I was disoriented, trying to figure out exactly where I was. Then I looked at his bedside table and saw a note that read Come downstairs for breakfast, and I remembered all that had happened the night before.

I rescued my clothes from the floor and shrugged into them, then climbed down the stairs, stepping out into the South Florida dawn for a moment as I moved from the door to his apartment to the door to the bakery. The back door led directly into the kitchen, and I saw Jean-Pierre bent over a tray of croissants, sliding them into one of his big ovens.

My body sighed with the joy of seeing him. He looked up at the sound of the door; his smile was as broad as the ocean. In a moment we were locked in an embrace, kissing and hugging as if it had been years since we’d seen each other, instead of just minutes.

“Pain au chocolat for you,” he said, finally pulling back. “And the cappuccino I promised you last night.”

We ate together, sitting at a small table in the kitchen. I’d never been one for morning-afters, preferring to get out while the sexual glow was still hot, but I couldn’t imagine getting up from that table and walking away from Jean-Pierre. In the space of forty-eight hours he had become as essential to me as breathing.

At seven o’clock I moved to the front of the bakery and opened for business. When I was ready to leave at three, Jean-Pierre said, “You will come for dinner again tonight?”

A month later I gave up my apartment, and moved in with Jean-Pierre above the bakery. If you visit South Beach, you are welcome to come by and sample the wares—but the baker is all mine.