Author’s note:
The following story contains anti-gay slurs. They are present as a matter of characterization and do not meaningfully influence the plot beyond that.
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“Yo Kevin, it’s Jack. Call me back, man. We need to talk.”
The automated voice asks me if I want to send, rerecord, or delete. I contemplate deleting.
A short time later, he sends me a text with a bunch of question marks, then another telling me to come over if I can. I agree, and I head that way.
It’s nice out tonight. Warm, humid, nobody around. The street lights do that thing where the mist makes them look like they have halos.
Kevin’s been hung up on this girl Allie for a minute. She’s an undergrad, he’s in grad school, they met over drinks at an informal department meetup. They’re friends. Nothing’s ever happened.
But, in private, he’s been a fucking wreck over her. I’d tell him to get over it, except he’s seen me the same way and I’m not about to act like I have room to talk.
Allie knows how he feels, at least to some extent. Whatever she thinks, she keeps it to herself.
Through him, she met me on a couple occasions. I never thought she cared much for me, but last night she invited me over to her place to split a six pack. And I went.
(As a man, I feel honor-bound to think with my dick at least some of the time, okay?)
Even before we cracked the first round of beers, she assured me that this meant nothing–that her favorite recreational activity was “to entertain suitors,” but that she was in a relationship with herself.
Then she shrugged. “I’m a whore.”
“You’re not a whore,” I said, more out of reflex than anything else.
By the end of our evening together, my balls were aching from how drained they were. That ache gives you a sort of clarity you didn’t have before.
Lying next to her atop a tangle of covers, I asked, “What about Kevin?”
Without looking at me, she said, “What about him?”
I agonized all the next day about whether or not to tell him. That evening, I gave him a call and got his voice mail. I kept the message short and unrevealing.
“Yo Kevin, it’s Jack. Call me back, man. We need to talk.”
I went over and over it in my head–the worst case scenarios, the best case scenarios, trying to cheer myself up or steel myself for a blow-up.
Knowing Kevin, he’ll say we should make it a threesome. He’s that kind of guy. Everyone will be joking about gay stuff, and he’ll be the one to take it too far, right when the whole room stops talking.
When I get up to his place, he sees that something’s bothering me. Knowing me well, he goes straight to the bar cart in the corner of his living room and starts mixing an Old Fashioned.
“This will make you feel better,” he says.
I take it. I’d be happy with a glass of soda with some booze in it, but he gets way into everything.
He pours one for me, one for himself, and gives each of them a stir with a cocktail stirrer from the bar setup.
He hands me the drink. At first, I’m not in the mood to not drink it. But after the first sip, it goes fast, and he pours me another.
We have our conversation.
I’ve already decided to leave out the gory details, but I’m honest. I tell him about the message from Allie. I tell him that she definitely knew how he felt about her before she sent it.
He’s keeping it cool, but when I tell him I sealed the deal, I see something panging behind his eyes, and I quickly add that I felt like I had to. I immediately regret saying it; it sounds ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I’ve just about drained my second drink, and he gets up to fix me another. If he’s been drinking his, I haven’t noticed.
He passes me the fresh drink and I gratefully accept. He sits back down.
He begins, “Thanks for making a point to come here and tell me this.”
I nod, trying not to drink too fast.
He admits to me that he’s been depressed, that he thinks Allie might just be a fixation for that depression to latch onto, that he understands this now, but that it Eryaman Escort doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.
He thanks me for being such a supportive friend through all this emotional turmoil. I’m being as nonchalant as I can, but I’m listening furiously for sarcasm. I don’t think I hear any.
He continues, like a monologue. If I’m being honest, it’s starting to get kind of boring.
The repetition and the drinks–he’s fixed me another, by the way, each one stronger than the last–are making it really hard to focus.
At some point, his voice grows indistinct, other-end-of-a-tunnel, and I find myself nodding and agreeing without knowing or caring what’s being said.
Allie’s pale body, slightly chubby, trimmed brunette pussy. Big tits, practically bursting out of her bra. Wide cherry blossom areolas. The details keep drifting to the forefront of my mind.
She felt like heaven, even through the condom.
I feel awfully warm.
And awfully good.
For some reason, I think of when I was a really little kid, when my mom was potty training me. She would have me get up on the little step stool and hang my penis over the toilet.
Then she would pour warm water over it, and I would pee every time.
The first time I ever masturbated, back [WHEN I WAS 18 YEARS OLD AND NOT A MINUTE YOUNGER], I similarly hung my penis over the toilet.
It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing. For reasons I still don’t understand, I just grabbed a glass of warm water.
God, it felt good, that warm water splashing over my erect dick. It made me unbelievably horny. I felt the strangest tingling in my urethra–not quite like having to pee, but almost.
I didn’t shoot cum. I dribbled, in thick, heavy drops that plopped when they hit the toilet water. The tingling in my dick and balls was unbearable; I had no idea what to do with myself except wait.
Eventually, the dribbling stopped and the tingling subsided. I felt like I wasn’t done, but I was losing my erection and I couldn’t get it to happen again. Not right away.
That was my first orgasm.
Right now, here in Kevin’s living room, that’s how I feel. That feeling of warm water, except it’s all over my body. Thrumming, tingling, horny as hell. Pent up, no outlet. Uncomfortably warm.
I blurt it out. It’s almost like I’m hearing myself say it from the outside. I ask him if I can take off my pants and my button shirt, and he says he doesn’t mind.
I’m sitting there on his couch in my undershirt and my boxer shorts, and he’s over there in the papasan chair–blah blah blah, he’s saying–and I’m still awfully warm.
I ask him something else, and he agrees, and at some point I’m just naked, sitting there on his couch, and I feel so good and warm that I’m at full mast. It sticks up out of my lap like a weather vane.
I’ll hang brain in front of just about anybody. It’s big, and I’m proud.
Here though, alone with my buddy in his living room, I’m dimly aware that this might be the wrong time for it.
The couch is too hot. I stand up, in the middle of the room, stark naked and pan-handled. The taste of the central air washing over my skin is absolutely delicious.
Kevin gets up, and that’s when I notice that he, too, has a boner, showing as clearly through the front of his sweatpants as if he’d been wearing nothing at all.
He must be warm, too.
I say so, or at least I think I do, and he agrees.
Then he takes his clothes off.
His is big, too. I can’t help but compare. Mine curves up; his is straight. I’m a little longer; he’s much thicker. Mine is wreathed in big curls; his is closely trimmed, almost bald.
He laughs, “What you see something you like?”
God damn it. I must have been staring.
“Nah, bro,” I say, or think I’m saying. “Just turned off by how gay you look right now.”
He shrugs, his usual “What, did I take it too far?” shrug. But he’s still looking me in the face, and, god damn it, I am still staring at his cock. I don’t Sincan Escort know why I’m not looking away.
Then he’s right in front of me, close enough that his body heat overcomes the coolness of the AC, and he’s so naked and erect and so am I, and I feel like I should be really uncomfortable.
All the responses that keep floating to the front of my mind refuse to come out.
“Ever heard of personal space?” “I didn’t know this was that kind of ‘come over.'” “Get away from me, faggot.”
I’m tongue-tied as I feel him looking me in the face. Knowing that he sees my downcast eyes, still locked on his fat, veiny dick, that windsock of foreskin nearly covering the whole end of it.
He touches me. I don’t say anything.
His hand takes my dick, gently, and in his other hand he takes his own dick and touches them together, like a kiss. It’s tough to put my finger on the feeling, the dull touch of warm, unyielding flesh.
All I can do is stand and observe. My arms hang limply at my side. I realize I’m holding tension in my core, that I’m trying to make sure my abs look good for him.
He pulls back and our dickholes are briefly connected by a hair-thin strand of precum. I’m not sure whose. Mine, I think, or maybe both of ours. It breaks and vanishes.
I know this has to be absurd. I keep willing my brain to register the absurdity. Instead, all I can register is the feeling of his fingertips on my shaft, how nice it is to be touched, even by him.
Even by him.
My brain is running a little slow. Things break up into fragments; the footage of my mind keeps pausing and skipping. He touched my penis, we touched dickholes, he pulled back. Little strand of precum.
Then he’s on his knees in front of me, kneeling on that shitty carpet that every townhouse has, and though I know exactly what’s about to happen, I keep on just standing here. Arms dangling, abs flexed.
His lips on my dickhead are a delight. I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve had the itch, that craving to be touched, almost ever since I got here. I guess sometimes it doesn’t much matter who it is.
I’m staring down at him, and I realize only after our eyes have been locked for what feels like forever that he’s staring up at me, and though it alarms me, I don’t have the presence of mind to look away.
Through clenched teeth, I mumble, “Gawwwd, this is so gay.”
I feel his tongue swirling around the end of me, just inside his lips.
I manage to sneer, without conviction, “I didn’t know you were such a faggot.”
He says nothing. He just stares at me, my cock in his hand, the end of me in his mouth.
Kevin doesn’t get laid as much as me. I just assumed he didn’t like sex the way I did. Still, I’ve seen the kind of chicks he’s fucked, and they’ve been consistently hot.
I truly, honestly didn’t know he was a fag.
His lips slide down my shaft. His mouth is so hot and wet–god, that warm water feeling again–and I feel my dickhead poking the back of his mouth.
I’m trying to conjure a joke. “Want me to fuck you up the ass next?”
How are his lips and his tongue this soft?
I feel something wet on my balls, and I realize his saliva is running down the underside of my shaft and collecting on my scrotum.
It’s a no-frills, no-nonsense BJ, really. No theatrical licking up and down, no teasing, no ball sucking. He’s paying close attention, narrowing it down to what I need to make me come.
I try to resurrect thoughts of her. Of Allie.
We got naked and she sucked my dick, right before I fingerblasted her through what looked like at least two very real, very powerful orgasms. Hell, I was proud.
All I need is that visual, of her little mouth on my big cock, to override the clear and present image of Kevin down there with me in his mouth.
That’s all I need–to get off to her, instead of to him–and it’ll make all of this okay.
No matter how hard I try to force it, she just isn’t coming to mind.
I close my Etlik Escort eyes to think of her. And I only see him.
Then I open them again, and there he is.
And I can’t help but surrender, and enjoy the fact that I’m naked with one of my closest buddies, all alone at his place, and he’s on his knees in front of me, and I’m about to come in his mouth.
I feel that buildup again. It’s strange–it’s not like the orgasms I’ve gotten used to having, whether by fucking some pussy or by my own hand.
It reminds me of a long time ago. Of standing over the toilet, of warm water, of that wet, tropical feeling, building me up, only to release the pressure in such a slow and frustrating way.
I feel like I’m having my first orgasm all over again.
Perhaps sensing this, he pulls away, his chin slicked with spit, and he watches me. I feel reddened and half-mad in my simmering climax, my dick trembling as if struggling to ejaculate.
And it happens.
I don’t shoot. I dribble.
Thick, heavy drops that hit with a plop when they fall to that shitty townhouse carpet. That tingling in my dick and balls, that unbearable feeling of pressure unreleased.
Eventually, the dribbling stops. The tingling subsides. And my erection fades with painful slowness.
As if waking up from a trance, I start to whip around and search for my clothes, but I realize I’m still in the trance when he touches me on the arm and tells me no.
I don’t move. Of course I don’t move.
I stand there, and I keep standing there until my dick is an embarrassing shriveled little button in the cold of the AC, there in his living room, under the gaze of his fascinated eye.
His own dick is still impressive at half mast. I wonder if he’s going to ask me to do anything to him–to do anything for him–and I wonder if I’m dreading or hoping.
Instead, he says, “You look like you’ve cooled off. You should put your clothes back on.”
While I get dressed, he takes his own clothes to the bathroom. When he reemerges, he’s gotten dressed and washed his face.
He’s acting as if nothing happened.
“Thanks again for coming over,” he says. “I appreciate you telling me what happened.”
Bewildered, I tell him, “You’re welcome.”
He calls a ride share for me. (I really shouldn’t be driving right now.) We make idle chit chat about whatever, about anything other than Allie or about what just happened.
The ride share pulls up outside. He opens the front door for me.
“Later,” I mumble.
“Later,” he says, and closes the door behind me.
I don’t see Kevin again for a while.
About a month later, I hear through the grapevine that Kevin and Allie are fucking. It seems recent, and he hasn’t said anything to me, but I guess I can’t blame him.
Occasionally, I try to imagine her–hell, I try to imagine them together–and all I can imagine is him.
One night, I’ve been drinking by myself, and I’m very, very horny, and I realize that I’ve got my phone in my hand and my thumb is hovering over his number.
I quickly close the phone app, pull up the first porn tube site I can think of, and manage to fumble out the word “lesbians.”
One night, Kevin has a party over at his place, and I’m invited. I feel like it’ll be weird if I don’t go, so I do.
I’m there alone. Everybody else seems to be paired off. Kevin is there with Allie. We strike up a conversation together, but it’s weird. I don’t stay long.
As I pull my jacket on, I glance at the spot where we were just standing and notice the stains from when I dribbled cum on his carpet.
He must not have cleaned it up. No one could possibly know just from looking at it, what it is or how it got there.
But I know.
I look at it, and I look at him, and he looks at me–his arm around her–and I know he knows that I know.
Lately, my porn habits involve one woman and multiple men. I try not to think too hard about how I tend to go for the videos where the men remind me of Kevin and me.
There’s an occasion when I mistakenly click on one that’s just the two men. I immediately click away from it, but I eventually come across the same video again. This time, I watch it.
Allie moves away–she’s in grad school now–and Kevin and I don’t really see each other anymore.
But the men I’m hooking up with over dating apps certainly remind me of him.