Jake took Michelle's hand as they walked down the hallway to her dorm room. The slim college freshman looked down, and demurely smiled at him.
He couldn't help but smile back. This charming young woman had touched his heart. And the date, their fifth, had not only gone well but had given them both the chance to open up to each other, sharing vulnerabilities and hopes, each of them a little surprised at their own bravery.
It was easy to be brave around Michelle, which helped Jake a lot. He hadn't dated in a while and had had a bad experience just two months ago. A crowded cafe had given him an unexpected tablemate, a confident, forward woman in her mid-thirties. She'd smiled broadly past her cellphone as she sat down.
Jake had had a chance to take a good look at her as she finished her phone call. She'd been dressed well, not office attire, but comfortable, stylish clothes, cheerfully bright but not garish, accessorized with a hint of panache that had made Jake wonder if she was an artist. Her hairstyle struck him as unusual, which he later realized it wasn't -- not for thirty-something soccer moms, but then the styles of many of the girls in his college classes would have been unusual, and age-inappropriate, on her. And if maybe she wasn't a corporate vice president, she had the air of a woman who could negotiate with one without being the least bit intimidated.
Her necklace had drawn his eye to her cleavage, and as she'd turned to the side, he got to see all angles of her breasts nestling against each other. They were large, and tanned, and they crowded together naturally, making his view quite enjoyable until she turned back and, he was pretty sure, caught him looking!
He'd looked down at his coffee until she hung up the phone, and then they'd taken up talking while they relaxed. She was, in fact, an artist, a potter, who'd worked in the town for years. But he'd only gotten started asking her about her work when she began asking him questions about himself, with genuine interest.
When their coffees were gone and she was still asking him what's-it-like and what-do-you-think, he remembered that there was such a thing as a "cougar" and that maybe a college senior had become prey. He was flattered. He was interested.
He'd stepped up his conversation a notch, and he grew sure her lean-ins and smiles were flirting. The two of them had had such a good chat that he'd asked if he could see her sometime. She'd paused for only a second before saying she was married, and when he looked confusedly at her left hand, she held up her pendant, which, he realized, was a diamond ring. "It's the clay," she'd said, "I only put it on my finger for special occasions. Sorry, hon."
At least she'd said she'd been flattered.
He hadn't even gotten her name, and that was the closest Jake had come to picking anyone up recently. Until Michelle. Who was so different. She was reserved, quiet, and on a bad day you might say mousy. She had feelings and opinions but he'd had to pry gently to get them out of her. She was an artist too, a dance major, only just a freshman, small, graceful, slender and strong. Dark hair and eyes. She wore slightly baggy clothes, even on their dates, so he'd guessed like many dancers she was insecure about her looks.
But he'd seen Michelle dance, in a leotard, and he was aware of what she must look like under those clothes, and the awareness was a fire within him. He'd had a dream, once, of performing ballet with her, grasping her hips between his hands and lifting her. No sex, just that one image, but he awoke instantly, devastatingly hard, and unable to sleep until he'd taken a nice constitutional and read a textbook for a while.
This date, the fifth, ended much like the first four. A walk to her door, then a few quiet words. The niceties about the date had become unnecessary: they both knew they'd had a good time, and they both knew they were more than just having fun. The kiss started tender, turned passionate, then the passion lasted longer than they'd expected. He laid his hands on her hips and gently guided her back against the wall, where he kissed her with all the ardor that had built up in him these long months.
She kissed him back, hard, first with a hint of tongue. Then as he slowly sucked her into his mouth, she surrended herself to her feelings, and their tongues caressed each other, intimately, like lovers: a preview of how their bottled-up desire would play out through other wet, sensitive places, and of the delight they would bring each other.
Then she withdrew, and looked down, and said she was sorry. When he said it was all right, she said she'd like to invite him in but she just wasn't ready, and sounded like she was about to tell him something important, but instead kissed him, fast, then loving, then fast again, and disengaged, and looked at him through the crack of her closing door, and then the date was over and he was walking home.
At some point on the walk, he inwardly swore, and thought "why am I dating a freshman?" -- longer to wait for sex to enter the relationship -- but erased that thought with a reminder that Michelle was really something quite special. Three years younger, but still: special.
TV, then tossing and turning until midnight. Then got up, room dark. A stretch of internet porn, a dick growing hard in his shorts, and a glum face as he pondered, and discarded, and pondered again, the idea of grabbing it, stroking it, and making a mess.
That just wouldn't have felt right to him.
Instead he dressed, and got in the car to drive his thoughts away.
Nowhere in particular to go. But getting off-campus, drifting under streetlights and past dark buildings, helped him forget the pretty brown eyes that were still looking at him through the closing door. Helped him try.
Drove through downtown, glancing here and there at brightly-lit gatherings of people -- a Starbucks, a bar with a patio. Drove under the gaze of office buildings, over the railway, through the industrial park. Drove a spell through not exactly a bad end of town.
Drove past the sex shop. And not one of the upscale ones -- the sex shop with no windows and no door on the sidewalk. But everyone knew what it was.
Jake remembered a block later that one of his gay friends had mentioned that there was a sex shop on Oakley Street where guys sometimes went to get a quick handjob when they were in the mood. He glanced at the next street sign: Oakley.
Well, wasn't that something.
He drove for quite a ways out of town, then told himself of course he would have to go back exactly the way he came, to avoid getting lost. It wasn't until he braked to turn into the parking lot that he'd decided.
Bored, the clerk examined his ID, took the cash and waved him in.
Head down, he pushed open the door and strode into the dark room.
Thumping music playing just loud enough to discourage conversation. Dim lights, barely there. Each wall lined with small alcoves, some the size of a large closet, some just a phone booth. Curtains hung only halfway down, enough, he realized with a start, to hide faces and little else.
A dozen men milling around. Half in their 20s, half older. Mostly white. Most looked... ordinary. Dressed unremarkably, looking average. Few direct looks. He scanned them all, quickly, furtively, not wanting to draw attention. Not yet.
And a bouncer, or something like a bouncer. Also bored.
All the booths had video screens. Two of the booths had someone in them. Each man staring at his screen. One's hand was slowly moving in his pants pocket.
An opening led to a darker, more claustrophobic room, with a movie playing on a large screen. Large enough for Jake to see it held two naked bodybuilders, showing the world what passed for enjoyment, as they fucked.
He withdrew and walked along the wall, parting curtains with one hand and peering into a few of the empty booths. All had video screens. One showed a man kneeling, and suckling at another's dick like a calf at an udder. One was simply a muscular man, reclining, masturbating.
Surprisingly, one showed a man fucking a woman. Not exclusively a gay hangout, apparently. Or... well, he didn't know. He looked at the straight porn for a moment, and if he listened carefully he could hear the actress's tinny praise over the room's thumping bass.
He turned to walk into the large-screen room and drew himself up short. There was a man in his path. A young man, short, slim, wearing jeans and a dark vest that hung open. Straight black hair. Mexican ancestry, Jake thought, or was it Asian? He couldn't tell.
Their eyes met. Nothing was said. The smaller man took a half-step to the side and watched as Jake walked into the video room.
Tiny. Barely over a dozen seats, just enough to be almost private. The room was empty -- except, he now saw, the light of the screen silhouetted two men's heads in the front row, corner. Were they just sitting? Watching? What happened here?
Not knowing what else to do, Jake walked to a middle row and took a seat against the wall. He'd try waiting a while, see what happened.
The two men onscreen just kept fucking. On a patio in the bright sun, apparently outside a villa overlooking the sea, they wowed each other with the excitement of their fuck.
One bronzed, hairless, muscle-bound man was bent forward, face-down over an incongruously comfortable-looking easy chair, legs spread. He held one ass cheek back for the camera to get the perfect angle of his asshole as the other man's cock drove in and out, clean and smooth as a chrome piston. The other man, bronzed, hairless, muscle-bound, held his partner's side at an unlikely angle with one hand, twisting for the camera.
Jake stayed seated and watched.
Over the next few minutes, he noticed with amusement, it was that other free hand that was the most creative performer in the scene. It took a tour of the set. It rested jauntily on a hip, pulled its owner's butt cheek aside so the audience could see what an asshole looked like when it wasn't getting fucked, it pulled on balls, and it delivered several hard spanks to the other man's toned rear.
This was not the kind of thing that Jake found exciting. He'd watched porn movies before and he remembered grimacing when the camera showed only the mens' equipment, without a woman prominent.
But there was something hypnotic about the surreal beauty of it. Despite the cheap viewscreen, the saturated colors of sky, tree, brick and skin provided a superficially rich cinematography. Men's muscles flexing and bulging were attractive in their own right, like all healthy, exercising human bodies. The organic tension of thrusting hips and flexing knees turned what could have been a monotony of ritual into a celebration of energetic flesh, drawing Jake in to witness a portrait of the motion of two bodies compelled by desire.
As he studied the scene, Jake allowed his eyes to travel over the hairless bodies, across the strong backs, up to shoulders, down to thighs, and... eventually... to scan the part of the movie that was probably the main attraction for anyone else in the room at the time.
They called themselves "top" and "bottom," everyone knew that. The top's buttocks squeezed as he thrust back and forth, steady as a metronome, plunging a long, thick penis into the bottom's ass.
The bottom lay across the arm of the easy chair. His head turned to show his contorted face, eyes squeezed closed, mouth open in disbelief as he moaned and moaned. His balls and his penis, erect, swung below. They were splayed downward against the fabric, dick pink, swollen, and begging vainly for a caress as his balls dangled astride. A short strand of pre-cum hung from the tip, swinging as the metronomic plowing swayed it back and forth.
Was he moaning from the pleasure of the ass-fucking, or the pain of his cock's unmet need? Or vice versa?
Jake's own penis lay soft in his jeans. He was mesmerized and stimulated but not aroused. Still, something was there. The video was just a fuck-movie on a loop in a sex joint, but any two people in the throes of passion were compelling, attractive, if you spent even a minute looking.
Jake kept looking straight ahead as a man walked up and sat right next to him. His heart thumped. This was a turning point, he knew. He knew what was happening. He wanted to fuck. He could have what he wanted -- almost. Or he could stand and walk out and never look back.
Jake half-turned, and looked without looking. It was the short Mexican guy he'd walked past. No, wait -- Jake guessed one of his parents was European and one Korean.
He had big eyes, a pursed mouth, and stylish, boyish hair. A slender frame and delicate hands...
...one of which was now lightly stroking Jake's knee.
Jake turned back to the movie and watched more. The top's long, thick cock was still pistoning into the lubed, red hole between the bottom's sculpted butt-cheeks. Nothing to obscure the view. A cock plunging in and out of a moist tube, to a soundtrack of ecstacy.
The hand on his knee was ever so lightly dancing its way up his thigh. Jake's soft penis, as it happened, was nestled in the leg of his jeans on that side. The hand got closer and closer.
His dick wasn't exactly getting hard, but Jake felt anticipation start to course through him. The hand reached it. Jake stared straight ahead at the moaning men as fingers touched his dick through his jeans leg. It had only taken a few seconds. A man's fingers were playing with his dick.
He couldn't look.
Silence as Jake felt himself slowly begin to react. Out of the corner of his eye, the other young man was studying his face, not the movie. He was caressing, not groping. Jake couldn't bring himself to look at him. Jake thought of how he'd grown hard when he and Michelle had kissed goodnight. How he wanted, needed her body. Without looking, he thought of this young man's cock and belly and back and butt. He was a person too, with a body and needs.
"Go easy on me," he thought to himself. His only reason to scramble out the door was his nervousness and fear, and the fear worked instead to anchor him to his seat. Touched through denim, his penis had begun to engorge almost immediately, fattening itself. And when the slim fingers started petting him, the fear leaked away and the battle was over before it started. Pleasure was there. The pleasure Michelle had refused him.
Jake took a breath and let it out. Was he expected to do anything? The man was still looking at him. They couldn't just sit here forever like this, right? Were they going to say anything? Were they going to try to seduce each other or had that already happened?
Nothing was said. It seemed silence sufficed. Jake's cock stretched, extending to its full length in his pants. Down his leg and to the side, the tip surfacing pocketward like a breaching submarine. The young man used both hands now, one petting and pinching the sensitive head, the other rubbing down-shaft to touch his balls and back up, like a genuine massage, back and forth.
Jake spread his legs just a little to give him room, and was rewarded with a hand that began gliding down over his balls, cupping them through his pants before sliding back up.
And that other hand was flicking over his sensitive dick-head, nipping at it, pinching, petting. This wasn't the slow baby steps of foreplay he'd grown to expect with women. This man's hands had gone straight in.
The pounding music and the moaning movie made it feel like another universe. A bizarre planet where men took care of other men's needs. A place where a man could reach orgasm anytime he wished, with just a glance. Rules didn't seem to apply here.
Still frozen and nervous, it seemed like forever to Jake. But it was just a minute before the smaller man reached over with both hands, popped open his jeans button, and unzipped him. The awkward extraction happened so fast. His straight, girl-loving cock was standing tall in a man's warm, strange hands while its owner stiffly watched gay porn.
He'd never had a sexual encounter without words. Every single time he'd had sex was after a date. It was dawning on him that conversation and the later, sensitive, whispered affection weren't... necessary.
He leaned back and tugged his jeans down just an inch to avoid the zipper. For some reason he'd thought a jack-off in a gay movie theater would be hard and quick. But the hands playing over him in a chaotic dance of touch were sensual.
The young man leaned closer, but it was only to improve the angle, to worship the dick with more reverence. His hands formed flower petals, feathers, and rings. He buffed, gripped, and squeezed. His hands slid, twisted, and pulled.
And under his care, Jake felt a strange passion rising. Surely not love, maybe not even lust, but the passion of needing satiety, release, completion. This wasn't like kissing his girlfriend or watching porn. This was a proud, full erection raised and loosed by a stranger and meant to be used. It wasn't artificial or an unwanted reflex. It was real. It was ready. An animal had come forth and it wasn't going back into its cage. There was a prize at the end of this hunt and, in Jake, a primal demand that the hunt be seen through.
Was this sex? Was this even sex? Or a raw exchange of ecstatic hurt, a painful and lonely rite of passage which men endured to emerge triumphant and revitalized?
His mind was focused, but Jake's eyes grew heavy as his head was teased and his shaft stroked. His penis was on full view, and he could see at least one other man observing. Go ahead and look, he thought. He was being a voyeur himself: he could see the two men onscreen, standing-missionary now. The bottom lay on his back, legs spread, his lustful, lonely erection bouncing on his abs as the other man thrust lubricated joy into his butthole. Projected on-screen in an endless loop, his manly chest and biceps flexed, cords lifting and falling in his neck as his head rolled with unending arousal.
For a long moment, Jake was frozen with him, pulled into that same oasis of joy and held there, suspended.
It couldn't last forever. It wasn't that the effete stranger was expecting reciprocation, though the thought had occurred to Jake. It was variety that Jake wanted. The next level.
Jake looked at his partner, finally, as the stroking waned.
The man leaned close to Jake's ear and said, barely audible: "you're straight, aren't you?"
Jake could only nod. How--?
The man stood and held out his hand: come with me.
Jake buttoned and half-zipped as he left the room, hand held, in curiously-intimate tow behind his masturbator.
They didn't go far. With murmured words, gestures, and a gentle touch to his hips, Jake was guided into the video booth he had left, the one showing the woman getting fucked. But he was led to a specific side, and, confused, was turned to face the wall with the flat-screen TV.
He looked down as his new friend unzipped him, and saw a hole in the wall. Oh. A circle large enough for a volleyball, maybe. Just at the right height.
His friend disappeared to step into that next booth over. Why did he want the separate booths? If he'd wanted he could have done anything before. Surely not privacy. Maybe for the opposite. Maybe Jake was on exhibition. Maybe his friend was showing off.
He didn't much care. No one he knew was here. With a deep breath, half-conscious of their small audience, he stepped forward and, cautiously, positioned his erect penis at the glory hole.
A small movement, and just the tip passed through. And already, the tip slid into the shocking wetness of a warm mouth.
He gasped. His friend was already waiting. Knew what he wanted.
The touch, the feel of a mouth slowly sucking his cock-head, was unbelievable. A man denied sex for months cannot resist a blowjob. He's made helpless by the sheer pleasure.