This collection of stories embraces all kinds of scenarios involving hot, horny guys on vacation. You will find everyday men living out their most erotic fantasies. You will also find fantastical creatures such as a genie, a zombie, angels and demons, and ghosts.

When I sent out the call for stories, I asked for hot and horny summer flings. Since most of these authors know that I enjoy BDSM and dark fantasy, many of the stories have those qualities. Every one of these stories got me hot and I hope they do the same for you!

I think you'll have a wonderful time lying on your deck chair, reading about these gorgeous men and their erotic encounters.

Happy Reading!

Sèphera Girón

July 2009

It's Magic

Everything's a trick, you know?

I mean the first time I saw Ferradini the renowned mentalist perform, I was still technically a cabin boy on Duchess Cruise Lines.

I stood toward the back of the packed auditorium and felt actual thrills racing from my heart to my head and down to my groin. He was just so elegant, so suave--so fucking smart.

Up until the moment I saw him enter from stage right wearing a custom-made tuxedo and looking like he'd just stepped out of the Oak Room at the Plaza, I'd been secretly gloating over my own good fortune.

It was only my second five-month contract with the line, but I'd managed to land the part of understudy for both Harold Hill in The Music Man and Emile De Becque in South Pacific, the plays we were staging during the ten-day cruise to Cozumel and the Panama Canal.

Look, I'm not going to lie to you. I mean, Nina, the artistic director (a five-foot, two-inch two-hundred-pound blond bitch with eyebrow piercings, whose voice was so shrill and edged with nastiness that her real calling should have been serving papers on Operation Repo) made it very clear that if the guy playing the lead felt up to it, he'd do both shows both nights we were bringing Broadway to the Caribbean Sea. And yeah, the theatricals were abbreviated versions of the original shows and strictly amateur--about what you'd see in some crummy summer stock production in Akron or St. Petersburg--but there was a certain frisson in the behind-the-scenes action.

First, I had that little confidence boost. Christ, most cabin boys, when they're done swabbing the "stateroom" toilets and making up the beds and counting how many cans and bottles are missing from the mini bar, were either standing on a line to use the "crew" computer to e-mail Mama or borrowing the gift shop calculator to tote up the exchange rate on a ten-dollar tip--which usually converts to around 1200 hundred Sri Lankan rupees, give or take. They save their entire salaries to marry whatever girl their parents "purchased" for them before they--or even the girl--was born. And the tips paid their family's rent and buy some decent food back home, plus extras like school books for their eight younger siblings.

But, in my off time I was rehearsing, and if even if I never got into costume or onstage, hell, I was having a lot of fun fucking some of the hotter chorus members while we grappled behind the heavy velvet drapery, picnicked ashore in secluded parks or on nude beaches, and committed travesties and sacrilege inside temples at ancient ruins. It was all in good fun and nobody was looking to get attached or put the strings on anybody else. But there were plenty of us boys who had wild sex standing chest deep in the warm gorgeous turquoise surf at Tulum and, except for the ants, literal steam bath trysts on the jungle trails in Costa Rica while the shipboard straights shopped for bargain jewelry.

But, like I said, all that changed when I watched Ferradini.

We actually met later that night after his show.