Omg! Not Another Gay Erotica Anthology?

Is there any such thing as too many gay sex stories? There are so many themed gay erotica anthologies these days from gay pastry cook erotica to gay Centurion erotica it's hard to squeeze another one on to the market, especially when there is little or no commonality of themes. Sure, some of the stories in this collection involve mythological beings like Santa and Satan - notice the characters names are anagrams of the other - while four stories involve dads, uncles or dads-in-law. The seventh story involves that biggest clich in all gay erotica: the college jock. The subject matter encompasses obsessions with male strippers, gender reassignment, gay comic book heroes, fallen angels, college nerds and jocks, skateboarders, and police 'brutality.' There's even a happy ending or five. The stories also range from short and sweet to longer than a donkey's dick and sleazy as fuck, all written in Barry Lowe's inimitable style. The only thing the stories have in common, apart from the same author, is the inclusion of OMG in each of the titles. Justification enough to call the collection OMG Not Another Gay Erotica Anthology? OMG Not Another Gay Erotica Anthology? was originally published by loveyoudivine Alterotica and includes - OMG My Dad's a Stripper , OMG Santa's Got a Six-Pack , OMG My Dad's Got Tits , OMG Satan Wants a Blow Job , OMG My Uncle's a Fairy , OMG Put Some Clothes On , and OMG The College Jock's a Nudist all previously published as individual eBooks by loveyoudivine Alterotica. Excerpt from: OMG My Dad's a Stripper The man himself was making his way toward me. Well, toward the table at which I was seated with mates, Dazza, Franco, and Tick. I was so excited I almost shit myself. As always, he had me wriggling like a worm on the end of a hook. This special man. The man I'd had the most enormous crush on since I hit puberty. Gage. Just the sound of his name made my cock so hard you could hammer nails with it. His body was incredible. He was obviously past his twink years - that was a plus for me as I like older men - but he kept his body honed to perfection. Not steroid perfect, but gym toned; the sort of body that takes dedication, still a turn-on for a muscle worshipping freak like me. As it came toward me, okay us, the body was part-hidden by an intricate crisscross of leather straps and metals rings that highlighted its pecs and its biceps. A man could die happy cradled in those powerful arms. This man certainly could. Tick nudged me. "You're drooling, mate. Put your tongue away." How are you gentlemen today? Enjoying yourselves?" I couldn't speak. The deep masculine tone was just perfect. Not too educated, not too working class, and not so deep as would be the envy of James Earl Jones. That was too deep; I never found it arousing. "You're doing it again," Franco hissed. He, my he, was standing so close I could have reached out and run my fingers across his lightly haired chest, the oil glinting under the subdued lighting of the club, his nipples perfectly erect and just begging to be tweaked and chewed on. His biceps had that divine vein running the length of his arm. I wanted to lick it, to feel the pulse of blood beneath. Oh, those abs; his washboard stomach, again with a slight mat of hair that trailed down, down, down until disappearing under his leather pouch. Oh, dear God, did it ever get any better than this?