Dear Straight Men

So you've had gay thoughts. Hasn't everybody? It's no big deal, really. Are they recurring? That's absolutely normal. It happens to everyone. But, if you're worried, I've got just the thing.

Like you, I identify as a man. And, like you, I was born with a penis. (I like having a penis very much. You might say I'm attached to it!) We have that much in common already. Hell, we're practically bros.

It's better to know than to wonder forever. In the spirit of brotherly love, I will help you to indulge your curiosity--to "resolve the fixation," as they say in psychology. I will let you fuck me.

No strings attached. No implications for your identity as a straight man. You won't turn into anything you're not. This is purely about self-knowledge. A freebie, a hall pass, one time and one time only.

I mean it. You and me.

Let's fuck.

See, I'm a bisexual man. I understand your appetite for conventionally attractive straight women, as well as your... spicier tastes. Perhaps better than anyone, I understand you. I understand your needs.

No one has to know. Your buddies will have no way of finding out. Do you have a girlfriend? A wife? A side piece? She won't know. I think you'll find that, as a bisexual man, I keep men's secrets.

I'm giving you a chance to fuck a guy and get away with it scot-free. No more wondering. No more intrusive fantasies. This is actually happening. It's the real deal. I'm down, and I think you are, too.

You show up where I tell you to. Don't worry; it's far away from anyone you know. They charge by the hour and they mind their business. I could even call out to you from the darkened room as you approach.

What are you waiting for? Let's have sex!

First off, a few words about me. Don't worry; we're not getting personal. I don't want to get to know you, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to get to know me. This is anonymous sex, not a first date.

But even anonymous sex partners need to know a little bit about each other's bodies. Before we are anything else to each other, we are physical beings, and we have to deal with each other on that level.

I'm an average guy. Average height, average build. I'm strong, but not jacked. My hips and belly are a little thicker than they used to be. I wear my hair and my beard short. I don't shave my body, but I do trim.

My cock isn't huge, but it's decent--a thick 7.5 inches, uncut. I get hard at the drop of a hat, I stay that way for a long time, and I'm good for multiple rounds. If you're curious about that sort of thing.

I wear androgynous clothing. Cut-off shorts, cut-off t-shirts, cut-off everything. I don't wear dresses or stockings or things like that, but it's been a long time since I bought anything from the men's section.

I like my body. I like the way it feels in these clothes. I like going outside and feeling the warm sun on my belly and my thighs. I like the breeze.

I also like the confusion on people's faces, that brief moment when they don't have themselves all figured out. I like knowing that straight men wonder, however briefly, what I'd be like in bed.

Now, I want to know about you.

No, don't tell me about your life. I don't want to know that shit. Tell me about your body.

Are you fit? I bet women like that about you. I bet they like to look at you, to pull up your shirt, to tickle your tummy and laugh as it tenses up, to run their fingers over those hard abdominal ridges.

Or maybe you're fat--even better. Body fat is so sensuous during sex. The way it ripples when you fuck, so pliant to the touch. "Round" and "soft" are pleasure words for everything else. Why not for your body?

Are you smooth? I love smooth skin. I love the way it feels as my fingertips glide over it, like crawling in between cool bedsheets after a hot shower. I love feeling the goosebumps as they appear.

Or are you hairy? Body hair is wonderful. Have you ever seen a man with the full frontal carpet? You can run your fingers through it from their chest all the way down, like a soft, yankable treasure map.

And oh, the way body hair traps sweat. You can push your face into it and the scent of it is just delicious.

Are you tall and strong? Lift me up, toss me around, treat me like your personal fuckdoll. Are you a short king? Even better. Let's cuddle together like curious college girls after having one too many.

I don't care how you dress yourself. Straight men are generally terrible with clothes, but--I cannot stress this enough--that doesn't matter to me. I have no expectations, therefore I will not judge.

Besides, we both know that your clothes aren't staying on for very long. We know why we're here, and you know what I really want to see.

I want you to tell me about your penis.

First thing's first. What do you call it? It's good to be on the same page about these things, just in case we're exchanging sweet nothings later on. Let's go with "cock." That's what I call mine, too.

Maybe you're boastful about your cock--many straight men are. Please don't boast about it to anyone who didn't ask for it. But, if you're of a mind to, boast away! This is me asking for it. I want to know.

(I mean it, straight male readers. This is your chance. The comments section is below.)

If you're not boastful about it, or even if you're insecure about it, not to worry. I've seen all shapes, all sizes. I love them all. I want them all. I would be grateful to have yours.

So take your clothes off and get your cock out in front of me. Is it a small, delicate prick between your thighs? A pink mushroom protruding from a dark bush under an overhanging belly? A commanding obelisk?

More importantly, I want to know how it feels. I hope you're not hard yet. (It's okay if you are, and I can't blame you. You're about to get lucky.) I want to feel it in my hand as it pulses to full length.

Ooh, it's getting heavy. I love the contrast between the softness of your skin and the ever-hardening core just under the surface. And it's so warm. Whatever rules I had set for tonight are getting flexible.

How does my hand feel? Too soft? Too rough? Do you want me to be more firm, or is the loose grip doing it for you? I know this is new for you. Tell me what's good for you and I'll do my best to ease your way.

So far, you haven't had to confront the reality of my body. In the dark of the room, I could pass for a woman, as long as you look away from my face and ignore the way the crop top shows off my hairy belly.

But now is the moment of truth. Even more than me touching your cock, this is probably the moment you'd choose to call it off. You ask me to undress, right as I'm about to offer. I nod and take a step back.

There's an elongated square of dim light falling over me--street light through drawn curtains--as I pull my top off over my head. I love that you're watching, but your silence and your blank expression worry me.

Now that I'm topless, the illusion is harder to sustain. Hard men's pectorals, halos of hair surrounding each nipple, a narrow blanket of curls leading like an arrow to the diagonal ridge under my shorts.

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

After giving you a moment to object, I unbuckle my belt. In one smooth move, I drop my shorts and my brightly colored briefs and stand up again. It goes without saying that my cock is already at full mast.

You're staring at it. I don't mind. Again, I like being looked at, but, again, you're not saying anything and your face reveals nothing. I contemplate asking you to touch it. Instead, I try something else.

"What's the matter? Are you afraid of it?" I say, a hint of play in my voice.

Now you've been dared. And a dare is permission.

You reach out and grip me, emulating the way I reached out and gripped you. You clench me tighter than I think either one of us anticipated. Your palm is rough--I'm guessing you don't have a skin care routine.

But it's okay. I like that.

I feel the muscles in your hand working in subtle ways. You're trying not to be noticed, but you're feeling me up, finding out what another man's cock feels like if you squeeze it this way, squeeze it that way.

To my surprise, you tilt your head to kiss me. No preamble, no runaround--our tongues meet. Yours is strong and sloppy. You're a domineering kisser, and I accept the passive role eagerly.

If you ignore the rough brushing of my beard against your chin, I could almost be your wife. Or your girlfriend, or your side piece.

Our bodies have been brought together in such close proximity by our kissing that your cock just barely touches my thigh, and your hips jerk away as though you've been burned.

But you don't let go of my cock, and you don't stop kissing me. Soon, I feel that warm mushroomhead on my thigh once more, and it doesn't jerk away, and then it's the full length of your cock and balls on me.

One thing I know about you, about all straight men, is that you live under a rigid set of expectations, both of your own and of others. But all you need is a little encouragement and you're capable of anything.

When our lips part, when we've each had a moment to catch our breath, I tell you I'd like to give you a blowjob. I feel your body react, that moment of hesitation we both knew was coming. Look, I get it.

"Does your girlfriend blow you?" I ask.

You tell me that your wife--your girlfriend, whoever--occasionally goes down on you.

I tell you to just imagine that it's her, to picture her instead of me. You give it some thought. Is this agreeable? Yes, you say, it is. I can't exactly say you sound convinced, but it's enough for me.

You let go of my cock--you've been holding it this whole time, apparently enjoying the novelty of it--and I slink down to my knees, trailing my hands down your torso. I cup your genitals in one palm.

I glance up at you. You're looking down at me, but your eyes are hazy, like you're not really seeing me. It makes me feel like I'm just a wet hole for your cock. The joke's on you, because I'm into that.

I hold your balls in the one hand and take the length of you into the other, lowering my lips onto the tip. Any second wasted is a second for you to decide this isn't for you, so I'm not fucking around.

Honestly, cocks can taste gross sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I'll go down on anyone as long as they're not an asshole, but it's obvious that you showered before you came here. Thank you for that.

I pump my lips up and down the first couple inches of you, holding you firm and kneading the backs of your balls with my fingers, getting as close as I dare to the warning zone of your virgin perineum.

I can tell by your breathing, by the trembling of your legs, that I'm hitting somewhere good. I zero in on it, using your body's feedback like an echolocating bat, refining my technique as I go.

Soon, you seem blissed out, maybe even surprised. I gather no one's sucked your cock quite like this before. It's understandable. A lot of straight men see oral sex as just a stop on the way to the main event.

No, my buddy, my bro. We're already at the main event. And, at this event, you don't just come and go home, or crawl into that bed and go to sleep. Your one-shot night with another man is only just beginning.

You tap me on the head. I pretend I don't feel it. You tap me on the head again, but, by then, it's too late. Your cock is shuddering in my grip. Even as I pause, as you try to hold back, the first rope comes.

You blurt out something I don't catch, but I'm pretty sure it's the sound of you deciding, fuck it, we're doing this. I resume my manly duties, bobbing my head, coaxing each rope as it lurches out of you.

I love cum. It's not the taste, so much as the texture. It's so rich and thick on my tongue, such a gratifying swallow. Some men taste overly bitter or bleachy, but yours is fine. It's probably your diet.

I keep swallowing until you've dribbled your last, then I release you with a wet, sucking pop. You stand over me, shoulders slumped, slightly unsteady, eyes downcast, temporarily gone from this reality.

I stand up, take you by the hand, guide you to the bed, sit you down on the foot of it. I sit next to you, still holding your hand, watching with fascination as your cock softens and droops in your lap.

This is your other chance--the cold reality of post-orgasm, when all the questionable decisions you would have made before seem like insanity after. I hope you don't spontaneously pack up and go.

I can see your mind clearing. I know you must be thinking it.

"Is this where you want it to end?" I whisper.

Don't let my voice ruin it for you. I know a lot of the cis women you're into have husky voices. Think about them. Think of Mary Elizabeth Winstead.

You say nothing, but I can tell you're thinking it over. Meanwhile, your cock, still wet with spit and cum, is starting to rise up from its limp position in your lap, throb by throb, heartbeat by heartbeat.

I offer to let you watch me jerk off. Still, you say nothing. I start doing it anyway, but I'm mindful. I know you wouldn't say anything, but I'm confident your reaction would tell me if I were wrong.

You don't tell me to stop. Not with your words, nor with your body.

In fact, going by what your body is showing me right now--how quickly you've blown through your refractory period and returned nearly to full strength already--I'd say you were rather amenable to the idea.

Don't think about what I'm thinking about. Just watch me as I recline on one elbow, the dim and diffuse light falling weakly on my belly, my loose fist cruising slowly up and down my hardened penis.

Is this a fantasy of yours? Sitting on the bed next to another man, watching him masturbate? Watching him get himself off, hearing the sound of his hand, smelling the scent of his sweat?

Did you know some men like being watched by other men? Does that make it even better for you? As your hand finds its way to your own cock, unbidden, as you begin to jerk off as well, I think you're learning.

I don't want to come. Not yet. I slow down, think of statistics, but I think we're okay. I can see by the haze in your eyes, the parting of your lips, that your better judgment is clouded by arousal once more.

I don't say anything. I reach over the side of the bed and find the pump top bottle off lube. As I bring it into view, you laugh. It's okay to laugh. It's funny. The bottle is huge, and it's half-empty.

As a straight man, I'd imagine you don't use lube much, but you should. Next time you go to bed with someone with a pussy, you should have it on offer. I bet they'd appreciate the consideration.

I can see the question in your eyes. Something like "How do we do this?" or "What do I do next?" I reach down next to the bed again and produce a box of large black nitrile gloves. I figure this will help.

I get on my hands and knees on the bed, my ass in front of you. No fucking around. We both know what we're here for, and I figure there's no point in delaying. Besides, I don't want you to lose your hard-on.

The first thing I hear is the snap of the gloves as they go on. Good. The next thing you do is squeeze a comically large amount of the lube onto my asscrack, about an inch or two above my asshole. It's okay.

For future reference: it doesn't take much. This bottle has lasted me through a lot of wanton sluttery, and there's plenty more to go.

I feel you massaging it into my sphincter, and, really, it feels good. You're activating some nerves here. But that's not quite all there is to it, and it seems like you need some coaching.

"Go in," I whisper, doing my best Mary Elizabeth. "Put your fingers inside me."

You take my advice a little too literally. I have only a little time to tighten down, inhale, exhale, and relax as you push two fingers in straightaway, right up to the last knuckle. Again, it's okay.

I'll just have to tell you to be careful next time. A less experienced partner might have been hurt.

You fingerfuck my asshole for a while, getting used to the strange, soft, clenching sensation, as we all must. Intuitively, you thrust your fingers as a straight man might thrust a cock into a pussy.

That sort of fumbling pursuit of self-gratification isn't going to do it for me. It probably hasn't done it in any of your straight couplings. It's okay, though. This is good. A learning opportunity.

"Turn your palm up," I tell you. "Give me a come hither."

You obey me, and I'm immediately gratified by the foreign object inside me, the wonderful sensation of having someone penetrate you. Each stroke makes my cock twitch involuntarily.

Soon, you withdraw, apparently bored of the foreplay. The next thing I hear is the crinkling of a condom wrapper, and the next thing I feel is the pressing of the end of your encased penis against my wet anus.

Like a gentleman, this is when you choose to stop, to wait for me to give you a signal, when you're already knocking at the gates and there's nowhere else to go but in.

Quietly, I tell you, "You can hit it raw, you know."

I've seen your tests, and I know I'm good. This part's up to you.

The question is, are you going to freak out if you get any on you? And does the possibility override your natural urge to fuck any warm, soft hole that will have you?

I hear the snap. The condom is off. The pressing of your penis returns, sans latex, giving me what I was kind of hoping for anyway. I love taking it up the ass bareback, that squishing feeling of semen.

Besides, you have a nice cock. And Iike being raw-dogged by men with nice cocks, especially first-timers.

Again, I tighten down, inhale, hold my breath. I look over my shoulder and give you a nod. For a second, you pause, and then it's my turn to be impatient.

I know how you feel. I felt that way once. But, really, it's okay. It's just sex. It's one of the best parts of being human. And, besides, it's just you and me here. No one will ever know.

You start pushing, and I exhale, and I release, and the head of you is in--I can feel the ridge with perfect detail as it passes inward--and, soon, I feel that exquisite fullness, that glorious discomfort.

I know it feels good for you. The tightness of my sphincter, that tiny ring of muscle, so small, yet so powerful, struggles in vain to defeat the lube as it clings to your sliding cock like a vise.

I feel your gloved hands close on the soft parts of my waist, and the game is afoot.

You withdraw a little, then you're in once more, taking it easy at first. But then you're all the way in, and I can scarcely take anymore. Each thrust takes my breath away. I know you can hear me.

Impatiently, you speed up, and, just for a second, the pounding of the your cock at its deepest reach worries me. It doesn't hurt, but it's still a fight between pleasure and near-pain. I hope you come soon.

The way you're huffing and puffing, you just might. Don't worry; I've been there. I really have. I've raced through the clumsy pursuit of my own orgasm, been through the litany of overly tolerant partners.

The clapping of our bodies reverberates in the sparsely decorated room. My balls and my cock, hard almost to the point of bursting, sway beneath my body. You grunt, loud, guttural, and you suddenly slow.

The pause, the stillness of the moment, of just having a hard cock up my ass damn near to my navel, just sitting there throbbing inside me, is wonderful. Good enough that I feel the beginnings of my own orgasm.

You pull out, a little too fast for me, that slippery pressure like taking a shit as the end of you pops loose with a sucking sound and the strong scent of anal sex. I feel your cum running down my balls.

You say something under your breath, beautiful and foul, and you release my waist. I can already feel bruises welling up on my love handles.

I glance over my shoulder. You're staring down at your wilting cock, your face both surprised and pleased, and I realize you'd expected to find a mess down there.