Dating Straight

[Disclaimer: I would describe this as both a Gay Male story as well as an Exhibitionism story.]

1. Desert Apartment

A slow smile builds as I stare firmly at your picture, lean towards my desktop, slightly part my mouth, and deliberately rub my lower lip slowly against the bottom of my upper jaw. It says straight on your profile. I've got this terrible habit. Fantasizing about bottoming for a straight guy. It's so unproductive to my online dating. I imagine messaging you. My eyes stare. You've got hairy arms, a muscular chest and big arms. I could cradle right into them. You're neat and narrow beard. There's something devilish about it. Your short spikey blond hair. It makes my hands moist. Nothing gay about you. Well, there is one thing. A queer detail. Your glasses. Those yellow and black tortoise shell rims. I wouldn't say they're gay or feminine. Not on their own. It's when I pair them with the way you smirk in your photos. Something just feels a bit off about you.

My mind fills with daydreams of me seducing you. Showing you I'm a better fuck than any other woman you've ever messed around with. You want to tie me to your bed post and fuck me all night long? My asshole can take it. I reach into my shorts and rub my hard cock. My eyes look at the contact button. Should I try it? It could be embarrassing and awkward. We live in Phoenix though. There are millions of people in this sprawling wasteland. Thousands on this dating site alone. What's the worst that could go wrong? Not like I'd ever see you again. I could always play it off. Just an internet misunderstanding.

I press it. Click. The box pops up. My palms sweat over the keyboard, ass fidgets on the leather chair, and lips wet themselves with my tongue. How should I do this? Maybe try to sound girly. My fingers type on my mechanical keyboard.

Hey. :D Your pictures, I like. History. That was my favorite class in high school. You know talking is great and all. But what are your thoughts on dates. This is a dating site after all. I wouldn't mind. Going on one with you. ;D

I send it. That was stupid of me, I'm going to embarrass myself one of these times. I sigh, grimace, and collapse the window. Oh well!

My mechanical keyboard clacks. I pull up Rimworld. I've got like 400 mods installed. Hopefully my computer doesn't explode. The game thankfully loads. I release my breath and relax into my chair. I load a save and lord over my colony of eight gay male colonists. Things eventually go horribly wrong. I sigh and quit the game. I notice an alert on the collapsed window of my web browser. I don't think that it's you. There were other men I messaged earlier.

I wet my lips, fidget, and click on the collapsed window.

Bro, do you even read? It says "Straight." Did you not notice? There was an option. Bisexual. I didn't select it.

I swallow, shake my head in frustration, and smile bitterly. This message meets my expectations. Never did I think you'd be interested. My keyboard clacks.

Whoops! My bad. I had too many windows up. Didn't mean to message you. Sorry!

As I type that response, I assume this will be the end of it. But before I can even close the window, you respond blisteringly.

Such a bullshit canned response. You do read. But you did it anyway. Admit it. All the gay men on here. Still not enough for you. Instead, you hit on me. Now you're going to lie about it. Watch.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

Uh huh.

Anyways, sorry again and have a good day!

Faggot.

Messaging you. It seems it was a huge mistake.

Excuse you?

Why do you keep messaging me? I'm not homo or interested in you. You're acting in bad faith. Not like one of the respectable gay men they like to put on all the TV commercials. Face it bro, you're a fag.

I'll report you.

Pathetic. I thought the women on here were thin skinned. Holy shit.

Fuck you.

Alright fine, I'll go out with you but only on one condition.

You're setting me up for something. A cruel punchline. An offensive bigoted response. How the fuck do I respond to this? Not earnestly, for sure. I pause, finally type and the keyboard clacks twice.

;D

You have to do everything I say. Basically, you'll be my complete and total little bitch who has to follow every order I give you. If you're not willing to be totally obedient, then fuck off. I'm too busy and impatient for bullshitters who are going to waste my time.

My body stills, my pelvis limp, mouth open, and my eyes blink. It couldn't be real. There's no way.

Are you serious?

My palms sweat, feet jitter against the floor, ass fidgets in the chair, and eyes stare at the screen.

Yeah, I'm fucking serious. Are you? I'm free at noon today. Send me your address and I will pick you up and take you on a quick date.

I sit frozen staring at the screen. How the fuck did that just happen? Finally, a giggle escapes out my mouth and I send you my location.

2. The First Date

Your car pulls up. A very clean, sleek, and blue four door sedan. It's extremely hot outside. I open the passenger door and the air conditioning is on full blast. From my apartment to the curb and I'm already sweating. I sit down in the seat and it's all fancy inside. Red leather interior, video display like a smartphone, and pilot wings on the steering wheel. I wear a blue tank top and black shorts.

You smirk at me. Just like in the photos. Your arms look even bigger in person, and they bulge particularly out of your short sleeved black polo shirt. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, and mischievous glasses. The type of guy I go for. You're wearing khaki cargo shorts.

"This is a nice car," I say and buckle. It clicks, the AC blasts, and some audiobook plays softly over the radio. Something about the Soviet Union.

"It's a Genesis," you say in a deep, masculine voice. "Not bad for something Korean. I got it barely used for a steal." Your hulking arm shifts the gear lever and I'm mesmerized.

"What's this?" I ask and lift a bottle of orange liquid from the floor next to me. The bottle has been opened and is about two thirds full.

"Be careful with that," you warn. "That's a $300 bottle of tequila."

"It's hot," I complain as I quickly set it down. "Burns my hand. Why do you have it here?"

"In case I get thirsty driving," you say as you roll your eyes at me.

"It's illegal, you know," I prod, tilt my head, and raise an eyebrow. "To have an open--"

You grab the bottle, lean back and swig tequila from it. I wince as you do so. It's bad enough to gulp liquor like that. Doing it when it's that hot is something else entirely. My eyes study you. Totally unphased. You smell like booze but then again you just opened a bottle and drank. Your eyes look clear and intact, and attention focused. You're not drunk but just showing off. That bottle was hot though. That's been in your car all morning. Not a prop to entertain me. I guess you are as you say. Someone who likes to drink scorching hot $300 tequila in his car when he's thirsty.

It's blindingly bright outside. Not one cloud. Everything's flat except for mountains in the distance. The pavement sizzles. We drive south, pass downtown, and through rundown neighborhoods. You pull us into a small strip mall parking lot. There is a check cashing store with a car parked in front.

You park across the store and idle the car.

I pause and stare at you. The audiobook rambles on about Joseph Stalin. My eyes blink. "Uhm, why are we stopped here?" I ask.

You nod your head towards the check cashing place.

"You need to cash a paycheck or something?" I ask, perk up my body, and focus on you.

"I'm in-between jobs right now," you respond bluntly, look away from me, and scratch at your nose in a way that covers the lower part of your face.

I swallow and the hair on my neck prickles. It doesn't matter. You being unemployed or whatever. But then why are we here? It all begins to seem seedy. People come to these places for quick cash. Either that or because they want to commit robbery or fraud. As far as I can see, you have no weapon. But there is a file folder wedged in between your seat and door. "Why are we... just sitting here?" I ask.

"I'm waiting," you say, shrug your shoulders, and roll your eyes at me. "When they leave, I'll take their spot." You point at the car parked directly in front of the business. "The summer. It's almost 120 degrees outside. The sort of heat that gives me migraines. I'm not walking any further than I must. Not when it's this hot."

This parking lot is not very big. Your reasoning is unconvincing. The motivation for wanting to park so close. It can't be the heat. You want your car next to the front door. It'll be easier. If you need to flee from the store. My heart beats fast and I study you again. Your eyes are normal. No bumps on your skin. You smell like sexy male cologne. The car is nice, clean, and expensive. Nothing suggests drug addict or thief about you. Yet I can't think of any other reason we're here.

The front door of the store opens, and a woman exits. The front of the building is transparent glass. There is cactus landscaping in the front. Her car beeps twice and she climbs in and turns on the engine. After her car leaves, your Genesis takes its place.

"C'mon, let's go," you say as you open your door and grab the file.

"I'm going to stay here," I declare. Nobody can blame anything on me if all I do is just sit in your car.

"This isn't a pitstop," you complain. "This is the date. Get the fuck out of my car. You agreed to do what I tell you to do. Either you do as you said, or you can walk back to your apartment. In that case, have fun in the heat and try not to have a stroke."

I look at the pavement of the parking lot. It hazes and shimmers in the heat. There are no trees providing shade anywhere that I can see. I visibly sweat, my hands clench and release, my body fidgets, and I swallow hard. Against my better judgment, I open the door and follow you inside of the store.

The store has brown tiles, white concrete walls, and is bisected in the middle by a chest-high white counter with a green top. Bulletproof glass connects the ceiling to the counter with a spot near the register where documents and money can be exchanged. A young Hispanic woman stands on the other side of the counter in a white and green uniform, matching green eyeshadow, freckles, and glossy lips. The air conditioner hums.

We approach the counter. You set your file down, politely smile at the woman, lean towards the glass divider, and lick your lips. "I'd like to notarize some documents," you request.

"Of course, it's $10 a signature," she says, looks firmly at you, moves closer, and strokes her right arm with her left hand.

I focus on your smile. There is a fakeness to it. Perhaps you're nervous. About to do something shifty. You place a crisp twenty dollar note in the divider. She takes it and examines it before smiling back at us. My leg muscles tense up. I'm prepared to bolt at any moment.

You pull a paper from the file folder out by the bottom but only so far that a third of it is displayed. "Go ahead and sign here," you say and hand me a pen.

"Why am I signing something?" I ask and look down at the paper. All that is visible is the empty signature lines. "Can you pull it out so I can see the top?"

"C'mon, I told you I'm busy," you complain in sharp tone, scowl, and tap your fingers against the counter. "The only reason I'm here is because you said you would do what I tell you. I order you to sign this document. I don't have all day to wait for this. Go ahead and sign it. Quick, so we can get out of here. Sign it."

I hesitate as I stare down at the signature line. My brain debates writing down a fake name.

"You'll need to get your driver's license out too," you explain. "She's going to verify you're the real person who signed this. Make sure to write legibly."

Fuck, here goes nothing! I do as you say, sign my name, and take out my ID. You pass the paper and my ID through the divider. I sigh, squeeze my eyes shut and gather my eyebrows. This was my fault. I shouldn't have hit on a straight guy like that. I let myself get taken advantage of, used as some sort of accomplice. You didn't want a relationship with me. Why would you? You're straight. I must be your mark. What were we even doing here?

The clerk lifts the paper, reads it, and freezes. Her eyes widen, lip's part, and she giggles. With enthusiasm, she stamps the document, quickly signs it, and writes in her logbook.

"One more," you say and pull out another paper from the bottom of the file folder as you had done before so only the bottom is visible.

I blink at her. Not at all the reaction I was expecting. If you're not ripping off the joint, then am I the victim here? There's not much you can do with just my signature. Right? You'd need my personal information, social security number, account numbers, and that sort of stuff. I sign the other paper.

She reads this one with rapt attention, glowing eyes and rapidly nods her head. She practically slams the stamp down on the paper, quickly scribbles her signature, shoves the document through the divider, and says, "Have a wonderful day!"

We get back inside your car. You immediately turn on the engine and the AC blasts on full. Your eyes face me through your colorful glasses, and you smirk. Carefully, you open your file folder and squeeze your thumb and forefinger against the first notarized document. You slide the crisp sheet slowly out of the file before handing it to me. Your eyes linger, enjoy, and share a moment.

My eyes focus on its printed text.

I, Andrew Diaz, hereby agree to be Wayne Wetzel's gay little bitch. I will do whatever he asks, never complain about anything, and will be wholly and totally subservient to him. Furthermore, I agree to not have sex with anyone else without his express written permission which will rarely if ever be granted, while he may fuck whomever he pleases without any regard to my thoughts or opinions.

My eyes dart upwards. Through the windshield, the transparent glass front of the store, and the bulletproof glass, the clerk stares at me with a huge grin on her face. I shiver and my ribs squeeze together.

Your eyes glow through your glasses, tongue licks your lips, mouth smirks, and right eyebrow quirks. You wet your thumb and forefinger with your tongue and retrieve the other notarized sheet and hand it to me.

I, Andrew Diaz, hereby agree to suck Wayne Wetzel's big fat penis to the point of completion inside of my mouth. Said cock sucking shall take place in the following (1) time, (2) place, and (3) manner:

(1) Immediately,

(2) In front of whatever establishment this document is notarized in,

(3) While he is seated comfortably, at a relaxed unhurried pace, without rushing or

complaints, adequate levels of slurping without fake exaggeration, and

ZERO expectations of reciprocation.

As my eyes look up, I hear your zipper pull down. My glance darts over to the store. She's staring at me. Waiting for me to do what it says. What I promised. I blink rapidly, swallow hard, appear flush, and fidget. Finally, I bend over so my face is in your lap.

I reach into your pants and fish out your cock. It's big, hard and veiny. I rub it, stroke it with my hand, pinch at its taut skin, wrap my lips around its head, and suck on it like a lollipop. My head bobs up and down at your preferred, agreed upon pace. I slurp moderately at first, but I find it inadequate. The roaring full blast air conditioning, a warranted non-negotiable necessity, covers too much of the noise. Even though I agreed not to, I do exaggerate it a bit so that you'll have something to listen to besides the detailed history of the NKVD.

My eyes glance up at you while I suck. It's different doing it with you. Normally when I suck a guy off, he is invested in it. You're not even watching. Instead, you lean back in your chair and stare at her through the three glass windows, wink, make flirty faces, rub your lips against your teeth, and occasionally moan or gasp. I stop sucking and spit your big hard cock out from my wet mouth before rubbing it with both my hands. My jaw clenches, face narrows, and I purse my lips. "Are you enjoying it?" I ask.

"Yeah cupcake, keep sucking until I cum," you say while you focus still on the girl behind the counter. "You're doing great down there. Uh huh." You gasp. Why do you stare at her? I'm the one dutifully sucking your hard dick.

I hold up your penis with my left hand and lick your dangling balls before massaging your hard shaft with my bumpy wet tongue. It plops back into my mouth. The musky taste of your cock goes well with your spicy cologne and the fresh leather interior small of your car. My head bobs, mouth slurps, hands squeeze at your balls, and I play with it using my tongue.

"Mmhmm," you say and moan. "Ok cupcake. You're about to take a shot in the mouth. Don't swallow it, ok? Remember you agreed to do what I say..."

My shoulders loosen, head nods while sucking you, and I shoot a glance up at you. I wish you'd look down at me and not at the stupid cashier. Oh well, at the end of the day, I'm the one who gets to drink your salty cum.

You gasp, moan, eyes inward, lips widely parted, and you shoot in my mouth. It's creamy, sticky, musky, and tastes like sweat with a hint of salt and ammonia. My nose writhes as I enjoy a parting whiff of your pungent musk before spitting your shrinking penis out of my wet mouth.

"Don't swallow!" you order. "Not until I say it's ok."

I blink and do as you say.

"Show her what I did inside your mouth," you command. "Remember, you're my bitch."

My stomach knots. I look at her through the window, slowly open my mouth, stick out my tongue, and reveal your thick white viscous load. I see her watching intently through the three glass filters.

The driver's side door cracks open. You step out of the car. The vehicle starts clicking repeatedly. It's loud and prevents me from learning any more about the Polish resistance. You leave the key in the ignition. Thank God. With the door open, it feels like a gateway into hell is trying to suck me in. My hand clutches the passenger door tightly as if it really was the case. I don't want to melt. You walk chest out, strong posture, with arms swinging while you walk. The clicking continues. I see you inside and you speak to her. She laughs, brushes her hair, and stares at you. She's cute. Sure. But I'm the one who sucked your dick.

At some point you and her look over at me in the car. You both laugh. What did you say to her? She already knows. Those things you tricked me to sign. Where I agreed to be your little bitch. Whatever. That's why I messaged you to begin with. I wanted it. You dominating me like this. Making me suck your dick like I'm your gay sex slave. You think you're so clever. No theatrics were needed. You could have just had me easy. I look away from the business and bite my cheek. Why do I feel like shit then?

You laugh with her. "Fucking cunt," I swear with your semen in my mouth. My face sneers, teeth clench, and I kick at the wall between your passenger compartment and the engine block. The radio drones on about various assassination conspiracies.

She signs a little post-it note and hands it to you. I growl. She rubs at the top of her uniform and puffs her chest out. Slut. You give her a crisp nod, turn around, release a visible sigh, raise your eyebrow at me, adopt a cocky smile, and leave this shit place and walk back to your car.

When you climb inside and close the door, I sigh and relax. The clicking stops. It no longer felt like I was being sucked into a vortex to hell. We sit in silence for a bit. The AC blasts on full.