A Queer Exchange

GAY PRON

"Goddamn,"

He whispered under his breath. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Andrew slammed back the double shot of vodka he'd ordered, already lifting his fingers for another.

Breathe.

Vodka wasn't his usual fare, but he was gonna have to get drunk fast if he wanted to do this.

He was pretty sure there was a bright, neon sign above his head somewhere that read "STRAIGHT--STRAIGHT" But then he remembered why he was here, and he mentally added a ("maybe...?") to the lettering. It had been a solid month and a half since arguably the most embarrassing situation of his life, and now he was seemingly trying to double down by sitting front and center...alone...at a gay bar called

The Cockpit. Goddamn...

"Just a routine check..." "Nothing to worry about,"

They'd said. He'd been a couple decades too young to be having his first prostate check at 25, except that his dad had been diagnosed, treated--beat it the year before. And now he was lucky enough to get a pair of gloved, lubed-up fingers shoved up his ass once a year "Just to be safe."

Yay!

Andrew tipped back the second double as the image erupted of his own, hard dick standing straight at attention, and poking through the too-thin hospital gown while he bent over the examination table last October. An embarrassing moan had slipped out from his lips as the doc's fingers slipped past the tight ring of his asshole, and he'd tried to disguise as a groan of discomfort, but it was way too obvious. And that hospital gown was doing nothing to hide his reaction, even as he'd pinned it back to his body with a forearm. "It happens," the doctor had tried to tell him, though the tone of his voice said that it

definitely did not happen

while accompanied by a loud moan. Andrew just remembered trying to breath evenly and focus on the anesthetic walls instead of covering his mouth against another moan. The whole drive home, he hadn't been able to completely get rid of his boner, even after flexing his thighs and trying to imagine Rosie O'donnell in a bikini. It only ended with a fist around his cock and the best orgasm of his life. Since then, he hadn't been able to stop chasing it. And that's how he ended up at

The Cockpit

, tipping his head towards the bar in case the blush he felt was starting to creep up on his neck.

Andrew lifted his fingers one more time, thinking it was time to slow down. Three doubles should be enough to take the tension off...

"You trying to join the Navy?" A male voice came from over his shoulder--male, and exceptionally flamboyant.

"Hmm?" He grumbled, unsure if this was some kind of euphemism he was meant to understand.

"The Navy... you're drinking like a sailor. Trying to drown your sorrows?" Andrew was unfamiliar of the sensation of looking at another man that way, but his eyes scanned down his body anyway. He was skinny, wearing too-tight clothing with neon bands around his wrists, and with close-cropped black, curly hair and thick bars of cat-eye eyeliner. He seemed nice enough, but if Andrew was going to do this, he couldn't see himself doing it with someone like that. Maybe he had a type? Shouldn't he be more interested in the "feminine" ones than the "masculine" ones? Since he had always been into women?

Ah, this is too complicated.

He thought, downing the fourth and decidedly, final shot of the night.

"Nope. No sorrows to drown," he finished curtly, trying to send him away. Was this how women felt? Sitting at a bar and waiting to be picked up? Man, this was intimidating. Andrew scratched nervously at the scruff on his cheek, then suddenly embarrassed that he'd groomed himself specifically for this occasion.

"Oh,

relax.

I am just coming to get the scoop. I'm not looking myself,"

"Oh," Andrew half-heartedly chuckled.

Nice assumption, mate.

"I'm uh, Andrew," He offered his hand to shake, and the guy gripped it the same way that old women in church used to, where he didn't actually grip his hand at all, but rather offered his fingers into Andrew's palm.

"I'm Angel,"

"Uh, nice to meet you."

Angel took the seat next to his, ordering his own cosmo with a flare. "Well, it's clear that I was born here, right by the piano, but you...

mm-mnn.

I'm thinking midwest. Somewhere where they

grow things...

" He'd said it like it was dirty, and Andrew was forced to laugh.

"Yeah, Nebraska. A lot of corn..."

"Ah, so is that why you come in here looking like you just saw the scarecrow move?"

"My attempts to act natural are going that well?"

Angel turned his back to the bar, sipping casually. "I've seen worse. Don't worry, let the alcohol do its work, and you'll be dancing in no time."

Andrew resisted the urge to laugh at that.

No, really, I'm just here to get fucked.

He thought.

I don't wanna dance.

Andrew thought of the women he picked up, and the ones who wanted it were always direct. He tried to picture Nichole, with her straight, ebony hair and her hands on her hips.

"Actually, I'd like you to take me home."

And as much as he'd loved spending the next four months relentlessly plowing her pussy, this time he was wanting to be on the receiving end, and he couldn't bring himself to say

Nah, I'm looking to get fucked.

To his new, gay-bar friend. Instead he said, "I'm not really one for dancing,"

"Cause you don't have rhythm, white boy?" Andrew laughed more genuinely. He definitely had friends who were gay, including Jack and Alan who'd adopted a little girl that called him "Uncle Andrew", but he'd never accompanied them to their nightlife, and certainly never stepped foot in a gay bar. It was relaxing to have someone give him grief the same way his straight friends would have done in the same situation.

"Uh, cause I have no idea how to dance with another guy..." his voice heightened at the end, and he looked to Angel hoping for some kind of conciliatory understanding. Again, he was suddenly curious how he'd looked when a girl said "This is my first time," or something to that effect. Angel handled it with a smile.

"Good for you!" He tipped his glass, sipping the remainder of his drink before setting it on the bar. "Come follow me,"

Then, Angel was grabbing his hand, and Andrew was pulled from the comfort of the barstool and onto the dancefloor. "Oh no, no, no. Nope. It's definitely the rhythm thing. Can't dance. At all."

"Oh, puh-lease. It's just a dance. Help get those shots into your bloodstream, at least. Dance with me,"

The other couples were all very comfortable, dancing in various styles, some grinding, and some with their hips pressed together. Andrew knew there was a ton of cultural stuff he was missing, but all his previous experience hadn't prepared him for this. Andrew stood in front of Angel, thinking to put his hands on his hips, but guys didn't really have hips like girls did and so he shrugged, letting another awkward "Uhh..." drop from his mouth.

Angel only stepped forward, placing his hands where he'd thought they should be. "Just hold me however you're comfortable. I don't mind." It helped him ease some of the tension in his body, and he relaxed, "Oh, there you go," And Angel started to move his hips. Andrew supposed that guys

did

have hips the way girls did. He'd just never seen someone move them like that.

The vodka was hitting his system and he started to move his body in time with the music. He didn't recognize the song, but that was okay. After awhile, he found himself shouting "Where are you from?" to Angel.

"Detroit. Son of mechanics."

"Really?"

"Really," He shook his head. "I even know how to change a tire. But the thought of it is ugh...like the idea of cheerleading in front of your favorite team for you. Do Nebraskans even have a football team? The Cowboys or something?"

Andrew had to stop to catch his breath after laughing. "Huskers. There's nothing to do there but play football and shuck corn. Tip cows. Where I'm from, anyway,"

"How quaint," Angel put on a bad Texas accent. "A country boy here in the big city."

"Yeah."

"You want another drink, country boy?"

"Ah, no." He was feeling buzzed and comfortable. Didn't want to overdo it.

"Well, I'll be right back. Why don't you find somebody else to dance with?" Angel's knowing expression as he stepped back only told Andrew that he'd been left for the wolves. He had to be one of those matchmaker friends like Sharron, who had already tried setting him up with Melissa, and Chelsea, and Sara.

"Should've seen that coming," He said to himself as he debated seeing himself from the dancefloor. Then a hand tapped his shoulder.

"Hey,"

Andrew turned around.

"Uh, hey," The amount of 'uh's' coming out of his mouth tonight was pretty damn high, but he was nervous, and looking at a guy, presumably asking him for a dance made that little syllable slip out uninvited.

"Dance?" Just a single word, and the guy radiated all the confidence in the world. He wasn't like Angel, dressed in neon or skin-tight jeans, but a loose t-shirt and jeans--the normal kind. Andrew found himself nodding, but was more than a little surprised when the guy pulled him in by the hips instead of the other way around.

Woah.

Way too fast the guys hands were on his ass, and Andrew tried to take it as a sign that he blended right in. But, he also put a hand in between them, just as a signal to back off. The guy took the hint, moving his hands back onto his hips.

"So, what's your name?" Andrew shouted, waiting for his response.

"Mark."

"Andrew."

They didn't talk much as they danced, and Andrew fell into the rhythm of allowing his hips to move. He was rotating in a group of a few different guys, switching partners without much thought. It reminded him a little of homecoming dances in his high school auditorium. Too crowded and with too many bodies to really care who you were brushing up against. Still, it was different. It was nice. He supposed that was a little of what he was after too. With women he had always been the one to take charge, and guide her into place. But there was a different vibe to everything he'd done since his doctor's appointment, and he certainly wasn't ready to be making any decisions here beyond giving his consent. He had no fucking idea how the

mechanics

worked, let alone how to work out the equation of two dicks with a partner.

It took him three days after to finally work up the nerve to walk into one of those skeevy sex shops off the freeway, and buy what he needed. He'd withdrawn cash, horrified at the idea of asking his dad for help with finances only to have him see a transaction for sex toys. "YOUR SON IS STICKING THESE UP HIS ASS" the statement would read. It occurred to him that he'd had no problem buying his girlfriend a vibrator on his card, but fuck. He was so nervous, his hands were shaking as he walked in and located what he needed on the shelves. He'd done a fair amount of "research", thoroughly clearing his internet search history after every time. Fuck. He'd spilled enough cum over the trackpad of his laptop, pressing a single finger, then another into his own asshole thinking about those toys. Fuck, it felt good.

Before he would even move, he was always at full mast. Harder than steel. It was almost painful in its pleasure. Soon, he'd graduated to "borrowing" one of the small buttplugs he'd bought for a girl, and she hadn't taken it with her with the relationship ended. Before he knew it, he was laying on his side in the bed, fucking himself with the plastic, but he wanted more. He bought a dildo in his own "size" thinking that if Hanna could take 8 or 9 inches, so could he. He could have bought something that wasn't

explicitly

shaped like a penis, but he decided it was just about time to get over it. So, what if he liked having things up his ass?

That night, when he'd brought the dildo home, he'd drawn the curtains, then stripping down and standing in the middle of his bedroom. He mounted the thing on the metal frame of his bed, which hovered just the right distance from the floor for his purposes. After lubing up the fake cock, and himself, he slipped each of his legs underneath the bed frame, ready to begin the task of easing himself backwards onto it.

It was awkward, and he wasn't used to having the tip slip around the outside of his asshole without the guidance of his hand. Both of his hands were on the floor, and he already felt himself gripping into the fibers of the carpet when he thought about exactly what he was doing.

Fuck.

He was about to fuck himself on his hands and knees in the bedroom, when he'd never so much as let a girlfriend stick a finger up there before. He eased himself back, putting more pressure against his tight rosebud--gentle pressure until he felt himself giving way. Almost immediately he had to stop as he felt his cock engorge. He was tempted to stop now, and just jerk off in the living room. If he went this far, he wasn't really sure that he was turning back. But, the pressure against his rear entrance felt like ecstasy.

He'd shifted his hips, and the slippery sensation was all that he needed to decide. He took a deep breath, then pushing back until the tip of a silicone cock was past the ring of his asshole.

Fuck, fuck.

He was so hard he felt like he might burst. Even just the tip. There was something so erotic about it.

Forbidden, maybe?

And he pushed further. The more of the dildo entered his asshole, the more he felt that he was on the verge of cumming. He was maybe 4 inches down the hard, fake, cock--definitely brushing his prostate and he had to steady himself. A single drop of precum was tracing its way down his cock, and he wanted more. That was why he'd bought the damn thing. How much could he take? With every inch, there was new pressure, and a kind of pain that felt warm. He thought about taking his cock in hand, but he knew that even the slightest pressure on his dick, and he'd spill. He was taking his time, closing his eyes and inching back. He felt so fucking full, but the whole thing wasn't in his ass yet. Still, he couldn't stop himself from slipping a couple of inches forwards, only to slam back the same distance. He moaned too loud, unable to stop himself, then grabbing for a clean sock on the floor. He'd gone ahead and shoved the thing between his teeth, afraid that his neighbors would call in a noise complaint and someone would erect a sign "THE WALLS ARE THIN, PLEASE KEEP THIS IN MIND AS YOU PLEASURE YOURSELF!" But thinking about how his neighbors might react if they knew that he hadn't brought another girl in here; if they knew that he had about 7 inches buried inside him.

Fuck,

he'd shot his load onto the carpet.

No one at The Cockpit really gave much of a damn what he'd had up his ass. He was dancing and being pulled into motions, glad that he wasn't feeling quite as uptight anymore.

"Want a drink?" Mark shrugged.

"Uh," Andrew hesitated. He didn't really want this guy

buying

him a drink. The dance had been okay, but well...Mark was a man of few words, and he still wasn't sure that it was actually going to happen. "I think I'll grab my own in a bit,"

"Eh, alright." Mark trudged off, and Andrew didn't really expect to see him for the rest of the night. Andrew decided he'd had enough of the dancefloor, and he needed to keep his buzz up. Mark was already walking back towards a group of guys with bottles of beer circled in his hands, and Angel sat at the bar, stirring some colorful drink in a short glass. He made his way back towards the familiar face, signaling the bartender to come in his direction.

"You make it a point to drag non-dancers out of their comfort zone?" He scoffed. "Jack, neat," He added to the guy behind the bar.

"You seemed plenty comfortable, once you got the hang of it."

"So, I suppose you want a thank you?"

"Don't I

deserve

a thank you?" Angel looked at him pointedly, and Andrew noticed that he did his own eyebrows.

"Yeah, it uh, took of the edge. Thanks."

"Now, you've got to tell me, what was wrong with tall, light and simple. He looked like he knew some things about corn? And football. What more do you want?"

It was like talking to some of the artsy/edgy girls who he'd stayed friends with through high college. Right to the chase. "Ehh...I don't know. Someone who speaks in more than one syllable?"

"Hmm...well. I can give you the who's-who if you want,"

"Alright,"

"Okay, so over where your monosyllabic friend went are the dumb, cowboy types who probably drive trucks, and wear plaid and also assless chaps on occasion. I like to think they're reclaiming country. Thought you'd fit right in." Andrew looked down at his own semi-plaid shirt, grimacing.

"Not the right clothing option?"

"Mmm. Then, of course you have the dance, dance crew. Show queens in neon, like myself. I have the spirit of a dancer. Hmm...the lonely hearts club. In the corner, of course. The semi-bikers. Bears are usually split between them and the cowboys. The Jocks. It's a lot like a high school cafeteria. But of course, everyone is much more comfortable with themselves now and you'll find different people just about everywhere. I hate to imagine that the stereotypes don't hold up, but, some of those cowboys are actually smart. You might be one of them...guess we'll find out."

Andrew did feel like he'd been handed a map around the cool-kids table. The easiest distinction was clothing, and things started to make a little sense. "Alright,"

"See anything you like?"

"Honestly, I am really,

really, realllly

new to this. And--"

"How new?"

"Uhh...this is my first time in a gay bar, so--"

"Oh. my. glob! I cannot. ATTENTION!"

"Oh no."

"ATTENTION!"

"No, no, no. Angel, not nice!" His neck was already heating under the collar of his shirt.

"We have a formerly STRAIGHT MAN in our midst!" He buried his face in his cup, slamming back a drink that wasn't meant to be. So much for the neon sign. "A first timer in this or

any

gay bar!" A loud cheer went up behind him and Andrew shook his head.

"I really do not like you very much right now,"

"Please, gentlemen, help this poor, sexy Nebraskanite find his fancy! Thank you!"

After several seconds, the cheering dulled to a chatter, and Andrew spoke up. "You really don't have many friends, do you?"

"Hey," The first, male voice from behind him made Andrew close his eyes. He'd had no intention of putting himself out there like meat on a hook, but now that the shop was metaphorically open, he looked over his shoulder, finding not one, but four dudes standing there.

He tried to manage a smile, but was worried it was looking more like nausea. "Yeah, hey. Angel here is mistaken, he just likes the attention."

A couple of them chuckled, and it seemed that they knew about Angel's...theatrics...better than he did. "He does like the attention," said one of the biker-types with a long beard. "But he also knows what he's talking about. If he didn't, we would stop listening, after all."

"Nope," Andrew was insistent. "He just got it wrong. Yep. Nothing remotely...hetero here." It sounded like bullshit.

"Well" One of the guys with a frilled, black haircut noted. "I bet you have plenty that makes you...interesting. Even if you are new." He reminded him of one of the theater majors..

"Nope. Nope."

Geeze, Angel.

He was seriously considering retreating back towards the dumb guy he'd danced with earlier, and accepting that drink to get them to leave him alone. At least he had been good-looking. Theater boy was too girly, biker dude at least a decade older than him. The third was a skinny kid like Angel, though paler and he hadn't said a word. And the last was leering in a way that made Andrew once again empathetic with the female population. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Still, he tried to think of what he would do if the same situation were reversed in gender, and he was being pursued by four women instead. "Really," he threw his hand over his heart. "Gentlemen, I'm flattered. But I'd really like to finish my drink and tell my friend here not to be such a drama queen,"