Hey! Grab a dick! Play a game! It's called "Grab a dick"!
—Michael Ian Black, who is always game
We've often said that if you're not laughing in the bedroom, you're doing it wrong. But it's not just about finding the humor in gay sex — laughter itself makes stronger, more blissful orgasms. Yogis have always known this, and they rhythmically chant the "ha" sound during sex. It turns out that chanting "ha," even if you're in a serious mood, has an elevating effect. Doing it with your partner more than doubles the intoxication (we've all experienced how laughter is contagious and how giddiness snowballs). We adore how laughter can take over your body, like a forceful lover. Just yesterday, at a Thai restaurant, we heard a guy at another table get tickled over something his buddy said, and he started giggling and then quickly lost control of himself. The longer he laughed, the harder he laughed, and it got to the point that he was nearly hyperventilating. He was essentially (and perhaps literally, for all we know) multiple-orgasming from laughter. And it was indeed hard-on inducing to hear him giving himself over to the hysterics. Speaking of fetishizing laughter, we have a fantastic piece of erotica to share with you today, by a comic friend who can bring anyone's funny bone to the point of no return. With his permission, we shifted the original lesbian focus of the story to unbridled man-on-man.
The plush seat of the nightclub chair felt physically seductive to Reggie. Yet even as his ass sank comfortably into luxury after a day spent running all over campus, he was acutely aware of his psychological discomfort. Why the editor of the university newspaper had sent him to interview the neo-boylesque star was a mystery. Whatever the reason for this decision, the assignment was a keen source of irritation for Reggie.
He was by no means a prude. He acknowledged his own urges, and when they became distracting he did something to address them, effectively and expeditiously. But he dismissed any larger fascination with sex as easily as he dismissed other forms of frivolity.
Frivolity. Reggie cringed as he remembered that he was here, not merely to interview a specialist in titillation, but to interview one whose act evidently revolved around jokes, of all things. He glanced once more at the blurb he’d printed off the Web:
Lorenzo the Laugher is a "new boylesque” star whose specialty is erotically charged laughter. In a twist on the historical marriage of comedic and erotic elements in boylesque, Lorenzo has created an act in which the laughter becomes the sex . . .
What the hell was that about? Reggie wondered. He couldn’t fathom it, and he doubted that sitting through Lorenzo’s act would enlighten him any further. If it weren’t for his sense of obligation to his editor—and the indisputably nice feeling of the chair against his rump—he’d be tempted to bolt and forget the whole thing.
He consoled himself with the thought that Lorenzo the Laugher was on first tonight—so all he had to do was survive one stupid performance, conduct a bare-bones interview, and flee.
He looked around at the other members of the audience. The club was nearly full, which he had to admit was remarkable for a Thursday night. Apart from those at his own table—a good one, thanks to his press pass—almost every chair was taken, as were the majority of the barstools. And almost every face seemed to be alive with anticipation. People were dressed up, too—and not in the way Reggie was dressed up, grayly professional in deference to being "on assignment.” The silly event was being treated as some kind of important night out, he realized with a touch of incredulity.
He took a sullen sip of his ginger ale, and occupied himself by mentally scoring the piped-in "light classical” music.
Soon the house fixtures dimmed; the light classical became lighter and lighter until it was inaudible; and a sort of gloaming established itself on the stage. Reggie saw two male forms—crisp silhouettes in the near darkness—float in from the respective wings. The shadows stood still, faintly whimsical in their silhouetted bowler hats. Impressed by the drama, Reggie forgot his disdain for a moment.
A slender spotlight, an oval the color of watermelon meat, suddenly illuminated the center of the stage, from its front edge to the hefty purple curtain at back. A gap developed in this curtain, through which walked—no, emerged—the most self-possessed man Reggie had ever seen.
Lorenzo the Laugher.
He looked fancier in his near nudity than most men looked in tuxedos. The silk outfit that glimmered around his hips—it seemed too grand to be called a "bikini”—was two or three shades of watermelon deeper than the empty areas of the spotlight, falling somewhere between flamingo and glans on the Pantone wheel. Hundreds of individual pieces of silk had been sewn together to form the garment, mimicking the texture of feathers and creating a ticklish effect for the observer.
But Reggie wasn’t ticklish.
Lorenzo, his stance at once statuesque and supple, turned to the left and to the right, taking in the still-shadowy masculine figures at each end of the stage. His sensuous shoulderfuls of dark hair were paraded as he glanced each way, and the pink spotlight caught the elegant outline of his Roman nose.
Then he faced forward, his eyes absurdly, but beautifully, large with promise. And he laughed—a wicked purr of a chuckle.
It was quite brief, but it rang across the room and sizzled down Reggie’s spine, coming to rest at the small of his back. Lorenzo followed it with a brief trill, and Reggie found his buttocks shifting involuntarily. He felt embarrassed . . . yet curious. What was funny? And why did the charming, irrelevant laughter seem to resonate with every cocktail glass and beer bottle in the nightclub—and with Reggie’s bones?
A warm baritone from stage right, thick like greasepaint eyebrows, broke into his thoughts. "Did you hear the one about the bed?”
"No,” said a similar voice from stage left, perhaps half a key higher. "It hasn’t been made up yet.”
It wasn’t very amusing, but Lorenzo pretended it was. An emphatic "a-HA-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha” burst from his lips—as though the gag had surprised him, despite hours of rehearsals—and the spotlight intensified slightly. Lorenzo’s cheeks glowed a bit brighter, and the tight skin of his abs looked scrumptious where he pressed it with his fingertips.
A subdued wave of sympathetic chuckling surrounded Reggie, as the audience laughed, not with the two- dimensional comedians, but with the three-dimensional adonis at center stage. The ambient laughter was heavy and sexy, like sticky limbs awakening on an August morning.
The sweet kiss of ginger ale tingled in Reggie’s mouth, tasting like a pleasant disorientation.
"What’s the tallest building in town?” This time it was Stage Left Man who served the ball into play. "The library, ’cause it has the most stories.”
Lorenzo’s face lit up with delight: "Ha-ha-HA-ha-HA-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” As before, the pink light intensified, and a shiver of glee coursed through Lorenzo’s torso, visibly traveling from his throat to his navel.
A shiver coursed through Reggie as well, and lodged between his legs.
Again, the room murmured with collective chuckling. As it tapered off, Reggie thought he heard one or two stifled moans. He felt a twinge in his jockstrap.
"Why did the turkey cross the road?” "Because it was the chicken’s day off.”
Lorenzo bent his knees, then slapped them with mirth, shimmying very subtly as the laughter rippled through him. "Oooh-hee-hee-hee-hee!” he sang, each syllable a precious comment. The spotlight flashed his chest like cartoon lightning, and Reggie saw the Laugher’s pink tits vibrate with the dignity of minor planets. "Ooh-hee-hee,” Lorenzo reiterated, as if summarizing. His eyes danced; and when they refocused, they seemed to be staring right at Reggie.
Reggie felt as if one more "hee” would make him soak his jock. Reggie felt that maybe there was something to this, after all. Reggie waited breathlessly for the next joke.
"If two’s company, and three’s a crowd, what are four and five?” "Nine.”
Lorenzo’s knee-bend was a deep one this time, a display of flexibility that looked raunchy as hell in combination with the expression of uncontrollable ecstasy on his face. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee-hee-hee-hee-hee- hee-hee . . . ,” he shrieked—indefinitely, it seemed to Reggie, who only realized that one cascade of laughter had ended because another, equally intense, had begun. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . .” Lorenzo stamped his feet, folded his arms across his chest, and writhed in a sultry, slow rhythm that formed the perfect counterpoint to the frenetic sixteenth notes of his giggles. Reggie felt hypnotized by the sound, and by the fascinating motion of Lorenzo’s hips, where the corporeal echoes of the laughter appeared to be most concentrated.
The corny riddles came faster and faster, and Lorenzo would break up at the next one just as he’d disembarked from the previous crescendo. Each burst of delight was delivered with exquisite artistry and musical precision by every muscle of his highly-trained body: he stalked and danced, tittered and howled, his entire form expressing the eclectic rapture that was his stock in trade. He paced himself like an athlete, getting maximum mileage out of each episode of excitement, rationing his energy for the long haul. When an invisible stagehand pushed a plush-seated stool through the curtain, Lorenzo, amid a particularly strong gale of laughter, spun it around like a partner, then straddled it lewdly as he bounced through the final paroxysms of his current gust of jollity. When Lorenzo stood, Reggie strained his eyes to see if the velvety fabric on the stool showed signs of the wetness that he imagined was developing in the crotch of Lorenzo’s silk.
Reggie’s interview jockstrap seemed to crawl between his buttocks, like snakeskin waiting to be slowly shed. His cock was a vortex of sensation, and he knew that if he were at home this would be one of those evenings when he’d thrust a hand down his pants in a businesslike fashion and fondle the head into an explosion. And that it would be satisfying in a not-very-satisfying kind of way.
But he wasn’t at home; what he was feeling was anything but businesslike; and his cockhead, removed from all direct contact save the halfhearted tension of the jock, was getting the handjob of its life from a stranger on a stage. And Reggie knew that he wanted to watch Lorenzo laugh until the beautiful performer came like a hyena in heat.
By the end, Reggie wasn’t even hearing the riddles, though they were no doubt articulated with perfect clarity. He had learned that it didn’t matter what the joke was—that all that mattered, in fact, was that the joke be a weak one, so as to ensure that the bumper crop of erotic laughter would be purer than any prompted by a spark of actual wit. Lorenzo’s laughter was a freebie, an act of generosity, a reward for nothing. It crossed Reggie’s mind that many a theatrical producer would have loved to have Lorenzo in the audience—except that then the audience would have taken notice only of the Laugher, and not of the play.
For his grand finale—triggered by yet another stale punch line that Reggie ignored—Lorenzo rolled on the ground in a full-fledged frenzy of artistic giggles. Then, situating himself with his lovely sixpack to the floor and his silk-sheathed ass gleaming in the spotlight, he hammered his fists to underscore peal after sturdy peal. To top this, he flipped over and spread his arms, kicking his strong, hairy legs in the air and making himself a kinetic portrait of wide-open manhood.
As Lorenzo’s laughter shouted itself to the ceiling and down again, his crotch became the electric center of Reggie’s attention. Still remaining on his back, Lorenzo now switched from a kicking to a pedaling motion, working his limbs like an inverted, hilarity-drenched clown on a unicycle, his feathered gusset anchoring the action of the surrounding flesh. His wild, giddy voice carried with it every other voice in the room—including Reggie’s. Together, all present comprised a living sea of euphoria, an ocean held in place by a palpable sexual tautness.
Then the Laugher jumped to his feet, a man composed and in control. He bowed like an orchestra conductor and disappeared behind his curtain.
The laughter in the room was overtaken by applause. The comical shadows made discreet exits, and the house lights went up.
Reggie gasped when he found he was alone again—and that he had never been so aroused in his life.
When he’d arrived, the management had shown him which door to proceed through after Lorenzo’s act, in order to keep his interview appointment in the dressing room. While other patrons moved casually toward the bar or the restrooms, Reggie rushed in the opposite direction, as desperately as if he were trying to catch a train. "Best I’ve ever seen from him,” he heard someone say to a companion as he hurried past.
He flashed his press pass at the hipster who sat on a stool in the corridor, breathing one burning word out to him: "Lorenzo.”
The man nodded to the left, toward a black door set into a black wall. "He just flew by ten seconds ago. Probably had to take a leak.”
Reggie blushed, daring to hope that the stagehand had correctly read Lorenzo’s urgency—but incorrectly read its cause. In his imagination, it was nothing as biologically mundane as an eager bladder that had sent Lorenzo rocketing into the privacy of his dressing room in the wake of his onstage exhilaration. Reggie wanted to know that Lorenzo, hyperalive and trembling from his performance, was one giggle away from a thunderous ejaculation, and that the Laugher had raced to his dressing room to bring it upon himself without further delay.
As he navigated past the hipster, he was suddenly afraid that Lorenzo would be doing precisely what he hoped Lorenzo would be doing—but that he himself would be excluded: locked out, his interview relegated to the lobby and its subject cool and professional, fifteen minutes hence . . . when nothing would matter anymore. Feeling a need that scurried from his cock to his knuckles, he rapped hungrily on Lorenzo’s door.
The hesitation was brief, but Reggie thought he could discern the noises of slick digits being extricated and elastic snapping back into place. "Come in.”
It startled him to realize that, until now, he hadn’t heard Lorenzo speak—only laugh. Did he imagine it, or did even the polite neutrality of Lorenzo’s come in echo with teasing titters?
The dressing room was masculinely fragrant. Reggie might have feared that it was his own beseeching scent that colored the atmosphere, giving him away; but this was a sweeter, rounder aroma than his sharp, familiar tang. Unsure of his words, he chuckled foolishly.
Lorenzo smiled from his seat at the makeup table and chuckled back. The vibrato played on Reggie like a thousand intimate, exploratory fingers.
"We have an interview scheduled, yes?” Reggie nodded. "Is—is this a bad time?”
The star smiled again, this time as if at some secret joke. He shook his head to dismiss Reggie’s concerns. "Please don’t mind if I’m a bit . . . keyed up. It’s always that way after a performance.”
"I guess it would be,” said Reggie. The delectable essence of Lorenzo’s cock was making him dizzy. The Laugher’s ass shifted on his seat, the silk feathers on his hips fluttering under the fluorescent lights. And Reggie lost it.
"Can I touch you?”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch.
"Oh my god.” Reggie felt as if he were choking. "I’m sorry. I’m—”
But his host cut him off with a laugh—a large, loud, Lorenzo laugh, which knocked Reggie down to his knees, with his hands clasped between his legs. His reporter’s notebook dropped independently to the floor, forgotten.
Lorenzo laughed anew—more delicately, so that it felt like a kiss. And Reggie watched Lorenzo’s hand stray to the most alluring point on his shimmering stage scanties, where it teased the ripe plumpness.
Then Lorenzo stood. He walked both muscularly and gracefully toward Reggie, then squatted effortlessly in front of the journalist, his powerful thighs bouncing lightly. "You made my show, reporter. Sitting there all alone with your cute little notebook and your ginger ale . . . front and center, looking so out of place.”
Reggie felt naked. He blushed a blush even deeper than the one he’d already been inhabiting.
"Did you sense me playing to you tonight? Straight to you, only to you?” Lorenzo punctuated these questions with mellifluous, tinkling giggles, and the questions seemed to require no other answer from either of them.
The star’s hand drifted to the front of his confection-pink bikini again. "When I won you over, my sweetness, I thought I was going to cream, right there on the stage.”
Reggie whimpered. He clutched the dampness in his jock.
"I saved it for you,” the performer said gently, as he took Reggie’s free hand and placed it where he needed it. Lorenzo’s next laugh was impossibly soft, almost more a coo than a chortle. "Can you feel how close I am?”
As Reggie stroked the silken precum, Lorenzo’s laughter became richer, and soon the small room reverberated with his bliss. Reggie noted how the other man’s ticklishness was psychological, not physical: when the hand that pleasured him went beneath the feathers, the laughter artist’s flesh remained stable, pulsing with a controlled rhythm rather than the quivering chaos that the reporter was experiencing from his very own touch.
The Laugher’s wetness was a warm comfort to Reggie’s fingers. Reggie felt himself floating in the musk of Lorenzo’s arousal, in the magic of Lorenzo’s increasingly excited trills. He had looked lost, Lorenzo had said; and lost was exactly how he felt now, only in a wonderful way—lost like a tourist who knows that some bright adventure is around every confusing corner. Exploring the unseen territory under the performer’s balls, Reggie was high on the thrill of bringing the soap bubbles of Lorenzo’s laughter up from the cauldron of his privacy, his clumsy fingers agents of glistening ecstasy. Each stroke seemed to elicit a new river of glee, as if the Laugher were a wellspring whence came a hundred flavors of joy. And touching Lorenzo’s fuckhole seemed to make all the flavors flow at once.
"Oo-EEE-hee-hee-hee . . .”
When Lorenzo’s entire body began shaking, the star had to hold Reggie by the wrist to keep his hand from losing contact. Lorenzo’s eyes were even more brilliant than they’d been in the watermelon spotlight, and his gaping, laughing mouth was the sexiest thing Reggie had ever been close to.
"Oo-EEE-hee-hee-HEEEEEEEEEEEE . . .”
Reggie was barely aware of his other hand, the one that was jammed into his own drenched jock, until it dutifully showed him the reflection of Lorenzo’s climax. And he felt even more like a tourist upon realizing he’d never known what a really good orgasm was. His legs felt as if they’d ejected themselves from his pants, and the hard floor of the dressing room caressed his bottom like the softest of chairs. Between his thighs was a shaft of happiness; he wrapped his whole being around it as its radiance painted him, inch by inch.
He closed his eyes as Lorenzo kissed him. For several seconds, a delicious mixture of satisfaction and hunger ate at his lips. Then he recognized that something was being pressed into his hand. The notebook.
He opened his eyes just as Lorenzo was beginning to laugh again. "Now I’m afraid I don’t have time for the interview.”
Reggie’s face broke into the relaxed smile of someone who didn’t give a flying fuck on a unicycle about any interview.
"You’ll have to come back tomorrow, okay?” The Laugher stood up, adjusted his bikini, and gave a practice gyration, making his silk feathers dance across his hips, bringing each one to life like a hopeful penis.
That night, Reggie laughed himself to sleep in the dark.
The bit in the new Bon Jovi song where it's stripped right down to vocals and drums puts 8 years' worth of erection in my denim shorts. Can't wait to rip my vest off at the live show and club my erection with a concrete lintel to that stripped down Bon Jovi beat.
—the erection-inducing Iain Connell