Dear Straight Men

There are never any guarantees, of course. But anal sex is generally a lot cleaner than most first-timers expect. At least, assuming that their partner is conscientious with their personal hygiene.

You mumble something, and it takes a second for me to realize what you're saying. You're asking if it was good for me. It comes a little late, but, nevertheless, I find it charming. You're a real peach.

I decide to change the subject, but only slightly. I ask you if you'd like to watch me finish myself, and I'm pleased by how quickly you agree. I recline and spread my legs, giving you the full medical view.

It doesn't take much. My asshole is burning with the pleasure of recent penetration, and my mind is alive with the experience of you finishing inside me, of giving you your first time with another man.

As I jerk off, I contemplate talking dirty. How hot it is that you're watching me, the pleasure I took in sucking you off and swallowing your cum, how much I enjoyed it when you fucked me up the ass.

But straight men can be fickle, their mood easily broken. I decide to pretend to ignore you, to keep the dirty talk to myself, to avoid complicating your feelings anymore than they already are.

You've been a champ about all this, you know?

That familiar feeling sweeps over me, spreading throughout my cock and my asshole and my thighs and my gut. My body shudders. I suppress a deep groan, but it sneaks out as a breathy, high-pitched grunt.

I watch you through half-closed eyelashes. Your eyes are on my penis as the cum spurts in great gouts, first between my pecs, then my upper belly, and the rest pumps steadily out into the divot of my navel.

Then I release myself, let my limbs go limp at my sides in whatever position they feel like, and, just like that, we're officially done.

We shower, separately. (I don't even ask.) I go second. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, toweling my hair off, not bothering to hide my nudity, you're already dressed and looking towards the door.

You don't seem concerned with pretending that you're interested in meeting again. It's okay. That's just fine with me. I tell you that you've got my number. You nod. My body is still wet when you leave.

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's all you needed to satisfy your uncertainty. One and done. You did it.

And maybe, a few days later, as I swipe through one of my gay hookup apps, that isn't you I see, a brand new profile with a picture of you with your shirt off. It's flattering, but I like you better in person.

I'm sure you just put up the profile for the thrill of it, to see what it feels like, to enjoy the sense of possibility.

It's okay.

I've been there.

~THE END~