He was so nervous. Conversations online were nothing like this. There had been several whiskeys at home beforehand so that in this bar now he could order a beer and pretend that this was normal, that this was every day. The conversations online – reading for a long time, dropping in the occasional comment here and there had led on to dialogs, then to stories and chats, and now to this. This bar, this everyday place, and the faintest whisper of stepping outside of what he had always thought his sexual identity was.
The man was easy to spot. He’d thought enough about him in their sessions of storytelling online, after all. So when the man walked up, and introductions were had, hands held each other a second too long in the handshake, that wasn’t too strange. Conversation was initially about the weather, because all conversations are always about the weather, and then how the days were, generic conversations about work because of course they were strictly on first name basis only, and there was a gleam in the man’s eye about their online story-telling, but he wasn’t going to bring it up first, because this was a whole new world to him. So he finished his pint and ordered another. The man’s eyes on him were so intense, the feet kicking against the bar stool the same size as his own, the sneakers were similar. Their arms emerging from t-shirts and stretching across the bar clutching pint glasses were almost identical, chunky wristwatches similarly rendered almost useless by shiny cellphones carefully removed from pockets every so often in a comforting ritual.
Conversation was heavy with things unsaid, and he was used to this with one girl, and was used to the knees ‘accidently’ knocking under the bar and then purposefully resting on each other, it had been a long time since that girl and he had parted ways so that he could instead focus on his girlfriend, the other girl fading into the background even while she acted out as much as she could to stand out. But the man was new to him, and the pressure was all too much, trying to decide if it was chemistry and anticipation, or if he was creeped out by the situation, or if it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B, so he excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, and looked himself in the eye in the mirror. “Figure out what you want,” he said to himself, and the bathroom door opened. The man came in, locking the door behind him. “I know what you want,” he said, “and I’m going to give it to you”.
He was pushed against the toilet wall, a body so similar to his own pressed against him, a similar mouth on his, hard and soft and wet. Skin was so much rougher than he was used to, but the sensation of stubble wasn’t at all unwelcome, the texture new and surprising, but savoury. He felt his wrists being pinned in a strong grip, his arms raised above his head and pushed into a wall by a force stronger than his own, but these were only half thoughts as he closed his eyes and submitted to the rough kiss. As the man’s cock grew harder and pressed into his leg, he felt his own stirring, so foreign against such a hard body, though the intensity of the man’s pressure against him was a reassuring reminder that he wasn’t in control of the situation and he was happy to submit to whatever came next.