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Night of the Satyr

     
    College student Brody Johnson signs up for an archaeological expedition to Italy, expecting romantic ruins, exciting new discoveries, and maybe even hunky guys. Instead, he finds himself sleeping in an uncomfortable tent and spending his days listening to dull lectures about broken stones and pottery shards. 
    Then he stumbles upon the ruins of an ancient temple that seems to be inhabited by a creature from the distant past. Brody knows that satyrs were known for their insatiable sexual appetites and amazing male endowments--but satyrs never really existed outside of myths. 
    And they surely can't exist in the twenty-first century...or can they?
     

Montego Boy

     
    There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of tourists at the resort in Montego Bay the week Mike arrives for his summer vacation, but the only one he notices is the young guy in the hotel room right next to his. Jesse’s like something from a tropical wet dream: about 18 or 19, sun bronzed from his sturdy legs to his heat bleached hair, buffed muscles glistening with suntan oil—and prone to sunbathe in nothing but a pair of expensive looking sunglasses.
    The heat is on as Mike gets up his nerve, and a few other body parts, in his quest to make this one the most memorable getaway of his life!
     

FLESHDANCE
     
    When I broke up with my boyfriend of five years, I was pretty down for a long time. So the guys decided to cheer me up with what they called a reverse bachelor party: they invited all the single men they could think of over to my place and hired a hot male stripper to entertain us. They wanted to convince me that being 35 and on my own again wasn’t as bad as I thought.
    I admit I was skeptical until I caught sight of the dancer they’d chosen. He called himself Sinboy, a name that fit him like a deluxe lambskin condom. He came over to my place about an hour into the party, and from the minute I opened my door, all I could do was fantasize about what he kept under that pirate-style red satin shirt and tight black jeans.
    “So how long have you been doing this?” I asked as I showed him into the living room, where my buddies were eagerly waiting. It wasn’t an idle question: Sinboy couldn’t have been more than 18 or 19, with silky blond locks that hung low over baby-blue eyes and tender coral-colored lips that would have fit perfectly over the raging boner I’d sprung in my pants.
    Sinboy shrugged. “Since I finished high school last year. I’m saving up for college, and I make a lot more doing this than I could flipping burgers in some greasepit downtown.”
    Sinboy produced a cassette from his shirt pocket—there wasn’t enough room in his pants—and popped it into the stereo I kept in the corner. “So why don’t we get this party going?”
    As the sharp, hot throb of the music filled my condo, Sinboy went into his routine—which was anything but routine.
    First to go were his leather cowboy boots, which he planted squarely in my crotch, one at a time, so I could pull them off his feet. Next went the shirt, and I found myself staring at a smooth, hairless chest and tight washboard abs slightly damp with sweat. Moments later, he’d slipped off his jeans and shimmied across my glass-topped coffee table wearing only a leopard-print jockstrap. He spent a long time easing the thin scrap of material into the crack of his perfectly chiseled butt-crack, then whipped the whole thing off to reveal a stunning hard-on.
    My friends went wild, stomping and whistling, while I sat entranced. I don’t think I’d ever seen a boner that big before, though maybe the leanness of the rest of his body just made it seem that way. All I could do was gape as that perfect, ruby-capped tube of flesh stabbed the steamy air in perfect sync with the music. Beneath its impressive trajectory bobbed two velvet-skinned orbs, cushioned in an equally soft jungle of gold hair.
    I’m not sure how long the show went on. All I know is