The Hotel Bar

The Hotel Bar

You never know what will happen when you're alone at the hotel bar....

I was in Chicago for business. With the pandemic, it was the first time I had traveled for business in nearly two years. I was out of practice.

After a long day, I was sitting at the hotel bar, pre-gaming before meeting a long-time friend for dinner. The hotel was right on the river. The weather was ridiculous, sunny and mild, like it is in Chicago only about a half dozen days each year.

When I arrived at the bar, there was only one empty seat. It was the first chair, empty because it was next to a very fat man who was breathing heavily through his mouth. He was huffing more than he was breathing.

I ordered a glass of Josh.

I ordered a second glass of Josh.

I saw you approach the bar. You were in fancy jeans, the kind that are intentionally threadbare here and there. You were in a white v-neck. At first, I thought it was a tee. But, as you got closer, I could tell it was not a natural fiber, not cotton. And, it was textured; it looked a little like a paper towel. It was loose on your torso, but tight on your arms. Curly, dark hairs from the middle of your chest were visible in the V.

Your approach was a bit of a strut. You walked with confidence, like you knew people watched you. They did. I did. You didn't notice, and I looked back to my wine.

When you said, "Excuse me, Sir," I looked up. I thought you were talking to me. You weren't, but I thought you were.

You weren't looking at me, so I got to really look at you. Your dark hair was wavy and parted on the left. It was thick and a bit wild, hanging over your ears and the down back of your neck.

Your blue eyes were wide, which gave the impression of being too close together. They weren't.

Your nose was a bit of a button.

Your lips were dark and thick.

When you spoke to the bartender, I noticed you had a bit of an underbite. Not a big one, but I noticed it anyway. I tend to notice things.

You had a ridiculous jaw line. It was angular and sharp. It made me jealous.

"How late are you open?" you asked the bartender.

"We close at 1," the bartender said.

"Thanks," you said, turning and walking away. I watched you go. Like your lips, your ass and thighs were thick, like they might one day be too thick, but weren't just yet.

One of the threadbare spots on your jeans was on your right butt cheek. I thought I saw skin. I wasn't sure.

I assumed that was the last I'd see of you. I assumed incorrectly.

I didn't think of you at dinner. That surprised me, as I thought of you the entire walk along the river to dinner, wondering what your story was, why you were at the Sheraton Grand Chicago on a Wednesday night at the end of June.

My long-time friend and I shared two bottles of wine with dinner. With the earlier two glasses, I felt the weight of them as I walked back to the hotel, the sky over the river and then Lake Michigan bright with stars.

I didn't need more to drink. But, I walked past the bar, just in case. You were there, sitting, seemingly alone.

I walked up and ordered over your right shoulder. You turned your head when I did. You smiled at me, like maybe you recognized me. I smiled back.

"Sorry," I said, realizing I was in your space.

"Nothing to be sorry for," you answered, piquing my interest.

The bartender put my glass on the bar next to yours. Instead of taking it, I left it there, pretending there was nowhere else for me to stand.

You were drinking a beer. We reached for our drinks together. You said "cheers" and clinked your glass to mine.

I cheered you back.

I was not usually bold. I was bold with you.

"I'm Robert," I said, placing my free hand on the back of your chair, casually, like it was not intentional. I lied. My name is not Robert.

"I'm Ryan," you answered.

"You by yourself?" I asked.

"I am," you answered. "I wasn't supposed to be, but I am."

"Stood up?" I asked.

"Appears so," you confirmed.

Lucky me, I thought, hoping. I moved my fingers between the chair and your back, sliding them into you, but pretending not to. You didn't react. I hoped some more, gently moving my thumb against the texture of your shirt. You didn't react.

We drank and talked, you two beers, me two more glasses of wine.

With me behind you, it was difficult to talk face to face. So, we talked into the mirror behind the bar.

I learned that you were thirty-nine, ten years younger than me.

I learned that you were in sales and always had been.

I learned that you were in Chicago for a national sales meeting.

I learned that you were supposed to meet a woman at the bar and "see where it goes."

I was undeterred by that last learning. I got lusty when I drank, and I was deeply in. I was definitely lusty.

I also was increasingly attracted to you, the confidence with which you walked spilling over into our conversation. The more we talked,the more I wanted you.

I reached my right hand to your right knee, running my fingers along the skin showing through the intentional tear. "You paid extra for this," I said.

"I didn't," you answered. "My wife did."

"You're married?" I asked, surprised, as you were not wearing a wedding ring, and disappointed, as I was not generally successful with married men. I felt like a kid who had just had an ice cream sandwich only to learn that meant he had to wait thirty minutes to get back in the pool.

"Yep," you answered, casually, not caring as I put two and two together and realized why you were not wearing your wedding ring. You couldn't wear it and "see where it goes" with whomever had stood you up.

"Kids?" I asked, my disappointment growing as my hope evanesced.

"Three boys," you answered. "12, 8, and 6.... Two more on the way... My wife is pregnant with twins."

"Wow," I thought to myself. "Your wife is home with three kids and pregnant with two more and you're here trying for road strange."

"That's not the only one," you said.

"Not the only one what?" I asked, confused by the reference to one, as we were talking about threes and twos.

"Tear," you answered, looking at me directly in the mirror. "There's another one on the right cheek," you said, leaning forward so I could see the one I had seen earlier.

"I know," I said, titillatingly accepting the invitation and running my finger through it and discovering that you were not, as I had suspected, wearing underwear. I immediately contemplated your penis, unconstrained. I wondered if it was left or right or straight down. I wondered if it was at that moment lengthening and thickening at my touch.

"I'm flirting with you," I said, making my intentions clear.

"I know," you answered, pushing your back into my hand to let me know that you knew I had been touching you and that I could keep touching you.

"You're flirting back," I said.

"A little," you answered, a wry smile on your face as you lifted and then drained your glass. "Just having a bit of fun before calling it a night."

"Can I buy you a final final and keep the fun going?" I asked.

You didn't hesitate. "No, thank you," you said, looking at your watch and announcing "I'm too drunk and too full for any more. It's time for me to call it a night."

"I'd get kicked out of my tribe if I didn't ask to join you," I offered, as you signed and stood.

"It was nice to meet you," you said, not making eye contact and pointedly not answering my question, ignoring it.

I watched you go. You didn't look back.

I slid into your chair to finish my glass. I glanced at your receipt.

You had to write your room number on it. 1317. I was also on 13. The thought of knocking on your door as I headed to mine flitted through my mind.

You also had to print your name on it. You were Clayton, not Ryan. I wondered what else you had lied about.

I accepted when the bartender offered me another glass. I was drunk, my judgment was off, and my flight was not until one the next day. I could sleep it off before checking out.

I also accepted when the bartender slipped me a small piece of paper. "From your friend," he said.

I unfolded it. I was gobsmacked by the message. "I changed my mind. 1317. Ryan."

I signed my receipt and carried my wine to the elevator.

On the way to yours, I stopped by mine. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and hands, and did a quick primp in the mirror. Just in case, I grabbed a washcloth, wet it, and ran it through my front and back. If it went there, I wouldn't be clean, but I'd be cleaner.

I found your door ajar. I knocked as I entered your room.

You were at the window, your back to me. You were in a blue tee and white, mesh shorts.

You turned as I moved toward you.

"Hi," I said, closing the gap.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you answered. You were hard, your shorts tenting to the front and right.

"I do," I answered, running the back of my forefinger down your left arm.

"I'm not sure I can do this," you said, backing away and sitting against the ledge.

"Look," I said. "We don't have to do anything. You're in charge. But, you changed your mind for a reason."

"Yeah," you answered. "But right now, I don't know what it was."

I stepped toward you and brushed the back of my hand over the end of your erection. "I do," I said.

You visibly blanched. I backed away, hands in the air in surrender, reminding you that you were in charge.

"I've never... you know," you stammered.

"Never?" I asked.

"Never," you answered. "Not once. I haven't even wondered about it, until tonight."

I didn't believe you. Everyone wonders about it, at some point, if only fleetingly.`

For the first time, I noticed that your hair was wet. "He showered for me," I thought.

"You got hard, wondering about it tonight," I said, nodding my head toward what I had just brushed.

"I got hard in the bar," you said. "I almost said yes when you asked to join me."

"Why didn't you?" I asked.

"Fear," you answered.

"How did you overcome your fear?" I asked.

"I didn't," you admitted. "I'm still very much afraid."

"Yet, here I am," I pointed out.

"I tried to take care of this in the shower," you said, motioning toward your erection. "I couldn't."

"You wanted my help," I said.

"Yeah," you answered, your voice a little hoarse. "Or needed it."

"And now you don't know," I clarified.

"And now I don't know," you repeated, still hoarse.

"We can just talk," I said, my actions belying my words as I unbuttoned and slipped out of my jeans, my red boxer briefs revealing that I, too, was hard.

Your eyes were on my erection, which I took as permission to slide my shirt up and off.

For a forty-nine year old, I was in peak condition. I was an adherent to triathlons as a regimen, and I was a "clean living" adherent, but for the wine. I had the sculpted body of someone half my age.

"Wow," you said. "I didn't expect that."

I told you that I worshipped triathlons.

You stayed against the ledge. I moved toward you. I wanted to touch you. I thought you'd crumble if I did.

I put my hand on your shoulder, moved it to your neck, and rubbed my thumb along your jawline. You folded your head into my hand, so I rubbed my thumb along your lips.

I backed away and sat in the chair. You stayed against the ledge.

I smiled at you. I thought my best play was no play at all, to sit quietly and let you fill in the gaps.

"What?" you finally asked.

"When you called the bar, what were you imagining we'd do?" I asked back.

"I don't know," you said, your voice now even more hushed, more whisper than hoarse. "I don't think I got that far."

"When you were in the shower, stroking yourself, what did you imagine I was doing?" I asked.

"Stroking me," you answered.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Yes," you answered. I didn't believe you. No one, and I mean no one, conjures a hand job.

"I can do that, if you want," I offered.

"I don't know," you said, your voice still weak, but your hand moving to your erection and pressing it, hard.

"What about you?" you asked. "What are you imagining?"

"Are you asking me for a narrative or for a list?" I asked.

"List," you answered, still pressing.

"If I could do anything, I'd fuck you," I declared.

"Ha!" you declared back.

"If not, then I'd rim you," I retreated.

"Rim me?" you asked.

"Eat your ass," I said. "The way you eat a pussy."

The look on your face told me that wasn't going to happen, either.

"Fine," I reatreated further. "I'd suck your dick."

"Not have me suck yours?" you asked, incredulity leaking in.

"No," I insisted. "I'd rather give than receive. I literally love sucking dick."

"Really"? you asked, the incredulity leaking harder.

"Yes," I answered. "Almost all gay men would prefer to give than to receive. If you ever try it, you'll understand why."

"I don't think I could," you answered, a look on your face suggesting that you thought the possibility gross.

"Your dick's not gross," I said, taking hold of my own. "Just like a pussy isn't gross. It's part of your body. A fantastic, sexual, pleasurable part of your body.... If you think sucking a dick is gross, then why would you ever ask someone to do it?"

You pressed on your dick again.

I stood up and walked toward you. "Do you want me to suck your dick, Ryan?" I asked, my voice low and almost a moan.

"I don't know," you said. You were lying. You knew. You straightened and stood so that I knew you knew.

We were face to face, each of us at or near six feet tall. I moved my head toward you. I intended to kiss you. You turned your head at the last minute, giving me your cheek. I was disappointed, but I didn't show it. Instead, I kissed your cheek and then your neck. You tasted clean, like the body wash in my shower smelled.

I pressed my erection to yours and started to lift your shirt.

"No," you said. "Leave it on. I'm embarrassed. I have a dad bod."

"Makes sense," I thought. "You are, after all, a dad. Many many times."

I slipped my hands into the back of your shorts. I gripped and squeezed both globes and then pulled your erection harder into mine.

"Unless you tell me to stop, I'm going to suck your dick now," I whispered into your ear, my voice again nothing more than a low moan.

I knew you weren't going to tell me to stop, your "leave it on" a confirmation of what you signaled by straightening and standing.

I kneeled in front of you. I pulled your shorts out and down, freeing your erection. "Step," I said, so I could remove your shorts completely. You did, your hands covering your eyes, as if you couldn't bear to see what I was about to do to you.

You erection was great. You had a bell-shaped head. You thickened in the middle and then thinned a little at the base. You curved slightly to the right.

I buried you in my throat. I didn't want to fuck around with nibbles and kisses.

You filled my mouth and my throat. You were big enough and thick enough to be fun, but not so big or so thick as to be awkward or uncomfortable.

I knew how to suck you. I used my saliva to get you juicy wet. Not sloppy wet, just juicy wet.

"Oh my God," you hissed from above, my nose again in your dark curls.

I worked you with my mouth and my throat. I used my hands on your hips to move you in rhythm with me. I wanted you to fuck my face, but I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to risk breaking the spell.

When you started to match my rhythm, I moved my right hand to your scrotum, tickling and tugging the way I liked to have mine tickled and tugged.

I kept my eyes on your face. Your hands remained over your eyes.

"Look at me, Ryan," I said during my first break. "Watch me suck you."

You moved your hands and looked down. With my eyes locked on yours, I took you down my throat.

We were immediately back in rhythm.

"You can talk or moan or make noise if you want," I said, during my second break as I worked my jaw loose again.

"I don't really do that," you answered. "But, you're really good at that," you added. "Really, really good."

"Thank you," I said. "Like I said, I love doing it, and your dick is perfect."

I took you back into my mouth. For the first time, you used your hands on my head. Between the slurping and the thrusting, the blow job got pretty intense and raunchy, the sound of gagging and slurping filling the room.

When I could see the pleasure washing over your face, I added my hand to your shaft and used as much suction as I could.

"Oh.... Oh," you said. I knew it was the only warning I was going to get. I didn't heed the warning. I wanted it all.

Without another sound, you flinched and came, shot after shot coating my tongue. I swallowed and swallowed, not wanting any of you to seep out. I continued to suck as I did. I loved sucking guys into the abyss.

You doubled over, your stomach covering my head.

I kept sucking.

I followed you as you leaned against the edge of the bed and slid down onto the floor, my mouth chasing your flagging erection and then finding your scrotum, the crevice where your hips joined your legs, and the sensitive, soft skin of your inner thigh.

I knew this was a crucial moment. In prior experiences, this was the moment where the straight realized what happened, became disgusted by it, diverted his eyes, and cut and ran.

You did none of those thing. Instead, you extolled.

"Oh my God," you said, when I finally stopped and was seated in front of you, the taste of your cum still in my mouth, my smiling matching yours. "That was literally mind numbing. I can't think. I might black out."

"So, it was good?" I asked, knowing the answer from the expression that remained on your face.

"So good," you answered. "I had no idea. I've been blown before, but never like that. It literally curled my toes. I'm wrecked."

"I'm glad you liked it," I said, making it all about you.

"Liked it?" you asked, chuckling. "I fucking loved it. No one has ever sucked me like that. Ever."

"Women don't know how to suck dick," I said. "For them, it's a chore. For me, it's a dream."

"I felt like you were making love to my dick," you said, which is exactly how I had wanted you to feel. "Like you were worshipping it."

"I was," I confirmed. "So," I asked, changing the subject, "you okay with what happened? Feeling alright about it?"

"I feel like I always do, after I cheat," you said.

I wanted to ask you how often you cheated, but it was none of my business.

"You don't feel differently?" I asked, "That you cheated with a man, I mean?"

"I don't," you answered. "I expected to, but I don't."

I wasn't surprised. You probably would have if you had allowed me to kiss you or if you had touched me, but you hadn't.

Still, I was relieved. You indifference suggested this would not be, in Evita's lyric, "a frantic tumble and a shy goodbye."

"You must think I'm an ass," you said. "I mean, stepping out with a pregnant wife at home."

"I don't think any such thing," I answered. "One, I don't know your story. For all I know, this is all within the bounds of what is allowed." I knew it wasn't. You had used the word "cheat."

"Two," I continued. "I don't think the way most people think. I mean, sex can just be sex, like any other human interaction. It doesn't have to 'mean' anything. Or, it can be sacrosanct, to be enjoyed only with a vowed partner. Or, it can be both, depending on the date and time. It is, as they say, relative."

"I think so, too," you said. "My wife does not."

I just looked at you. You filled the silence. "She doesn't much care for sex those days. She likes being pregnant, so we are soon going to have five kids. But, other than to procreate, we don't do much. She doesn't want me. Not anymore."

"You don't have explain yourself to me," I assured. "I'm a safe space. No judgment."

"Whatever we do is transactional. There's no passion. If I didn't cheat, I'd never get impassioned."