Bent

Ch 1 The First Time

It's Saturday. A normal Saturday. Just a Saturday, like any other. I'm at The Dive, with my girlfriend Jess. I know, I know, a dive bar named The Dive, it's pretty corny. Yes, the place is rough around the edges, but the beer is cheap and it's only a couple of blocks away from my place, so it's where you can find us most week-ends. Jess and I have been together for about seven or eight months, though the first few months it was a hook-up type arrangement, so we are still in the process of meeting each other's friends. Today, it's her friends Liza and Ethan's turn.

Jess looks so happy as she introduced me to Liza. She's one of her best friends and someone she'd been wanting me to meet for a while. Liza seems nice. Tall and blonde with tortoise-shell glasses which give her a bit of a sever, librarian vibe, but she seems friendly and is obviously pleased to meet me. Says she's heard good things and all of that.

We make small talk for a few minutes and then she says, almost like an afterthought, "Oh, Oliver, you haven't met Ethan. Come on, he's watching the game, I'll introduce you."

We turn and head to the bar and there he is.

There. He. Is.

He spins his bar stool around slowly, leaning back against the bar, broad shoulders in a crisp white shirt. His legs splayed. Feet perched on the stool as an easy, if slightly cutting grin, spreads slowly across his face.

There's really no way around it, the very first thing you notice about Ethan is that he's handsome. I mean seriously handsome. Dangerously handsome. Olive skin, brown hair so dark it almost looks black. Light hazel eyes with wild flecks of green and blue. A slightly prominent nose, with a tiny hint of a curved bridge. It's just enough to add interest to his face and forever excuse him from being mistaken for being just another perfect face.

Perhaps, I should add a preface here, to say that in my twenty-six years, never once have I found myself taken aback by or even vaguely interested in a man's looks. Hell, I probably couldn't tell you what color my housemates' eyes are and I've known those guys since college.

But, back to Ethan, he is so good looking that the very first thing I feel upon meeting him, is a vague sense of annoyance. But annoyance at who? Jess? Irrationally, I almost feel that she should have warned my before I met him. You know, just a quick little heads-up. Something like, "Just so you know, you should prepare yourself for the fact that Ethan is incredibly good-looking." That would be completely irrational. So, no, I'm sure it can't be that. I wrack my brain.

What the fuck is my problem?

I wonder if it's a case of me being a bit of an asshole? There's no way for me to say this without coming off as a dick, so I'm just going to have to come out and say it -- usually, when I walk into a bar, I'm the best-looking guy there.

Okay?

And no, I don't have a big head about it and no, I'm not into myself. Usually, it's just a fact. So, maybe that's it? Maybe I'm a little threatened and that's it?

Yes

, I think,

that's it.

I'm not proud of it, but I feel better as soon as I've mentally worked through this little conundrum. I introduce myself in a manner that feels perfectly normal and socially acceptable. With relief, I think I must be over my weird little blip.

"Irish, huh?" He says by way of greeting. His voice is deep. The type of deep that you easily pick out in a crowded room, as it seems to occupy a completely different octave from the voices of other mere mortals. I'm surprised he made my accent. My mom and I moved to the States over ten years ago and most people can't hear my origin in my voice anymore.

He shoves a hand towards me and as I reach out to shake it, I can't help but notice how big his hand is. Wide palms with long, slender fingers. It feels hot to touch and as it envelopes mine...

wait,

what?

What the fuck!?

What is going on with me

?

I haven't even had a beer yet, but I feel like I need to sober up. I need to pull myself together. I take a quick deep breath, sit down and take a long, cool swig of the beer that's appeared in front of me.

I focus my attention on the football game on the TV above the bar. Over the next hour or so, I find out that Ethan and Liza have been together for four years and that he is an architect. Other than that, it's small talk and yelling the odd bit of advice at the referee. I'm in my comfort zone and I feel acutely relieved. That whole business earlier must have been an anomaly and nothing to worry about, I'm sure of it. Absolutely sure of it.

Jess has made a dinner reservation for us, so as soon as the game finishes, we get ready to leave. Even though I've barely said two words to her, I assure Liza that it has been lovely to meet her, and she assures me of the same thing.

Ethan lightly taps my arm says, "Good to meet ya, Irish."

His words land and dissolve, but the spot he touched on my arm burns into me like a brand.

What the fuck?

I think, not for the first time that evening.

I'm not attracted to him, am I?

Am I?

I steal a quick, furtive glance at him.

No

.

No, obviously not. That's not me.

As we leave, I open the door for Jess and in years to come, I'll often wonder what makes me do it, but as she walks through, I turn and look back at Ethan and Liza. She's pressed up against him now, his arm is draped around her small waist, his hand snaking down, grabbing her ass. He cups her chin with his other hand, tilting her face up to his. I see his lips part and the pink wetness of his tongue, as he presses it into her mouth. I'm transfixed. I tear my eyes from his mouth, track up along his jaw, up his chiseled cheekbones and finally land on his eyes. I fully expect to find them closed, but no.

No, his eyes are open. Wide open.

They're looking straight at me. Into me. His gaze hits me square in the chest, making me physically recoil. My mouth opens in surprise, though I quickly clamp it shut. Blood rushes south. I feel myself stiffen.

Fuuuuck.

*

It's been a couple of weeks since our last, extremely odd encounter, and I've had plenty of time to work through it. I've analyzed the situation repeatedly and in minute detail. Ultimately, this is what I've come up with: Jess and I had not had sex on the day I met Ethan and I was obviously pent up. It happens. No big deal. Additionally, dicks are not all that clever and sometimes they do dumb shit. Also, no big deal.

Okay?

So that's it. Line drawn in the sand.

No. Big. Deal.

*

So,

No Big Deal

it is, until Jess and Liza make plans to get a mani-pedi together and unanimously decide that it will be nice for Ethan and I to hang out. I 'um' and 'er' about it a bit, trying to think of an excuse that's not, "Your friend's boyfriend gave me a look that made my dick hard." But I'm coming up empty. Jess seems to have decided that Ethan and I are going to be friends and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it. I make a mental note to watch her for signs of being controlling in future, though to be fair, she's been pretty much a dream girlfriend up until now.

I feel a bit like a kid being dropped off for a playdate as she drives me over to Ethan's. I remind myself firmly that last time was

No Big Deal

. Still, I feel a little sense of trepidation as we walk up the stairs to his apartment. Ethan opens the door and lets us in while Liza greets us with a big smile. The mood is completely relaxed and neutral. Normal.

See? Absolutely,

No Big Deal.

Yes, he gave me a look. Nothing wrong with that. Everything is completely fine.

The End.

But.

But.

Butt.

It wasn't the end, was it?

I can still hear the clatter of Jess's heels on the staircase, when the mood in the room shifts. It's hard to say what changes. On the face of it, all Ethan does is offer me a beer, get it out of the fridge and walk back over to give it to me. Under the surface, it's the edge in his voice, it's the way he moves, the way he lookes at me when he hands it to me. It's hard to know how to describe it other than to say, there's a charge. I can't tell you if it's a positive or negative shift, or if there's suddenly more or less oxygen in the room. I can only say that it's

charged.

What happened next happens so quickly, I don't even have a second to refer back to my

No Big Deal

pep talk. It's vague and jumbled in my mind, but to the best of my recollection, it goes like this: He hands me the beer. I take it, but as I do, he gives me a playful little jab in the ribs. I jump a little and might say something like, "What the fuck, dude?" He jabs me again, a little less playful this time, so I shove him a little. His lips crack open, in a crooked, dark smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, as he reaches down and very deliberately taps my dick.

He tapped my fucking dick!?

I'm unequivocally positive I say, "What the fuck?" that time.

I toss my beer onto the floor and grab him by the scruff of his t-shirt and shove him up against the wall. He still has that smile on his face and I can't help noticing that his eyes are completely and notably without fear. So much so, that I can't seem to hold eye contact with him and maybe that's why my eyes wonder down. They wonder down past his neck. Down his chest and to his belt. To his buckle and to the little bit of skin I'd exposed by grabbing his t-shirt. Tanned skin. Taut skin, covering his belly as it rises and falls as he breathes in and out.

Time seems to slow, and then stop briefly. I raise my hand, clenching my fist, fully intending to punch him. Somewhere between curling my fingers to make a fist and drawing my arm back, I lose my train of thought. I'm distracted. Distracted by the heat of his body. Distracted by the quickness of his pulse and the quickness of mine. Ultimately, what should be a punch that ends a friendship before it even begins, turns into an open palm pressing against that little bit of exposed skin. My open palm. His exposed skin.

Instead of getting the fuck out of there right then and there, that open palm turns into a hand grazing his belly and a sharp intake of breath, though I can't be sure now, if that comes from him or from me.

The next bit is a blur. My shirt comes off, though I'm not completely sure how. I do remember his fingers in the belt hooks of my jeans. I do remember him pulling me towards him. My hips against his hips. I definitely remember the electric shock that rips through me as my dick rubs against his. Both of us are hard. So, so hard.

No way I could forget that.

I remember his hands on me. Grabbing my neck, my chest, my sides. The sound of a zipper coming undone. My zipper. I remember a tugging sensation. His hands again. His hands on my chest. My jeans and boxers yanked down. Cool air on my ass. Both of us stumbling back. Bumping into the dining table. Roughly being turned around. Bent. That's me. That's me, being bent over the table. Those are my jeans around my ankles.

My God!

If the first part is a blur, the next part is anything but. No, if anything, the next part is crystal clear and in painfully sharp focus. He has me over the table, ass bare, legs spread open as wide as my jeans will allow. He runs his hand up my inner leg, from my knee to my balls, barely touching me. The movement is only felt as a reaction to the heat omitted from his hand and possibly, the slight disturbance of the coarse blonde hair on my leg. A shiver travels up my spine.

What the fuck am I doing?

Finally! A conscious thought. My mind races. Confused. Desperate to make sense of this dreadful chain of events.

This is way, way passed dicks just not being that clever!

I think frantically.

He reaches up and grazes my balls with his fingertips. I buck and have the good sense to push his hand away and try to get up. My position is compromised, I'm off balance and tangled in my own pants. He grabs my wrist, twists it back and pins me down easily. I arch and struggle. I swear I do. Only, by now he has my balls in his hand. Stroking them gently, but I'm sure you'll agree, I'm in a very delicate predicament. I'm sure you'll agree, most people would consider it wise not to fight.

Wouldn't you?

He runs his fingers down my balls and then up again, this time travelling up, up, up across my taint. Slowly tracking his way to my...

Jesus Christ!!

What the fuck?

I think desperately,

this certainly

is

a motherfucking Big Deal!

But it's too late. Time has stopped completely. I feel like a record on an old-fashioned gramophone. The record is spinning, but the needle has reached the end of the track, it's paused and lifted. The room has fallen silent, yet the record still spins. I am the record, and I'm spinning.

I glance back to see him licking his thumb.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck!

He barely even strokes my puckered little hole, before shoving his thumb into me. I wish I could tell you that I fought it, I wish I could say, "I asked him to stop." But no, all I did, was throw my head back and omit a long, loud groan. Appalled by the sound, I screw my eyes closed tightly and press my lips together, desperately trying to stop another moan from escaping. His finger continues its assault. In and out. Deeper and deeper until I'm sure I can't take any more. I gasp in relief as he pulls out.

Thank God.

My relief is short lived though as he grabs my dick hard, jerking up and down quickly, flooding my body with paralysing pleasure. I feel the room rotating, as he leans in close to me.

"Don't. Move." He says.

He speaks quietly. The timbre of his voice washing over me. I glance back frantically to see him walking quickly, purposefully, down the hall. As he walks, he lifts his faded grey t-shirt casually up over his head, causing his defined delts and traps to ripple he bring his arms down and tosses the t-shirt to the floor.

Quickly!

I think,

Get your shit together! You have to get out of here NOW!

I glance around the room, doing a quick recon. My shirt is on the floor in a puddle to my left, my jeans are pooled around my ankles. I still have my shoes on. I could literally be out of there in a matter of seconds. So why am I not moving?

Why the fuck aren't you moving?

Maybe it's because of how hard my dick is, or maybe it's because of how heavy my balls are. Maybe it's the thick mist of arousal swirling around me, or maybe it was the way he said, "

Don't move"

. Like a dare. Like a promise. His words, his voice, snaked their way around my limbs and bound me just as surely as if he'd used rope. So, you see, I don't move, because I

can't

move.

I'm not sure I can ever really explain what I feel like right then. Rooted to that spot. Waiting. Knowing. And I really mean,

knowing

. As there wasn't a single, solitarily part of me that doesn't know what I'm waiting for. That waiting felt like an eternity, I can promise you that. In reality, it's probably no more than a minute, before I hear his footsteps coming down the hall. I quickly face forward, eyes straight ahead, a last-ditch attempt to hide my complaisance.

I will myself not to look back as he sets the bottle of lube and a condom on the table next to me. I keep my eyes closed as I hear the clinking, bone-chilling sound of him unbuckling his belt. I try to ignore the tremor that goes through me as I hear the quick, whipping sound of his belt being pulled free. I try not to clench when I feel him spread my cheeks and I try not to jump when he squirts a cold, generous dollop of lube on my ass. I try not to gasp as I feel a long, thick digit enter me slickly. I fail there. I try not to moan when he adds another equally long, equally thick finger. I fail there, too. My sphincter clenches and spasms involuntarily as he shoves his fingers into me, over and over, until my limbs are nothing but liquid.

Slow, deep breaths,

I tell myself, as he withdraws his fingers.

Don't panic,

I think

,

as I hear the tell-tale rip of the condom wrapper,

it won't be that bad

.

Fear pools and settles heavily in my belly. How many of my girlfriends have I taken in this exact same way, in this exact same position? Their soft, smooth, porcelain asses quaking gently as I thrust.

It can't be that bad,

I think,

can it?

I purposely avoid looking back, as he rolls the condom on. I'm facing a big onslaught if the bulge I'd rubbed against earlier was anything to go by. No point in adding to my fear. I hear the snap of the lube cap and the squelching sound of him coating himself in it and feel the cool slipperiness of him rubbing a little more on me. The fear in my belly, twists and swirls darkly.

"Relax." He says, drawling slightly.

What a fucking idiot

, I think.

Relax? Re-fucking-lax?

When I'm about to get reamed?

I wonder vaguely just how many times I've said the very same thing to my partners?

I must be a fucking idiot, too.

I lurch forward a little when his dick first makes contact with my ass. He quickly catches my hips and locks me firmly in place against the table. He reaches down and spreads my cheeks with what feels like his thumb and forefinger, while guiding himself into my knot-hole with his other hand. I clench my teeth as he starts to press. My ass rebels, puckering and tightening.

"Relax!" He barks again, as he rubs his head against me, pressing a little harder, each time he swipes past my opening. I feel myself give way slightly, stretching just a little. He presses harder and harder.

My God!

The pressure is unbelievable. I try to wriggle away, but his fingers are digging into my hips like a vice. My ass pulses and struggles as it stretches millimeter by millimeter. My tight little sphincter puts up a valiant fight, but at last, with a little pop, it loses to the relentless intruder. White hot pain rips through my body, as he forces his head into me. My eyes slam shut and my mouth opens in a wide, silent scream.

Holy fuck!

"Arrrrghhh!" I cry, when I catch my breath. I'm frozen. Unmoving. Gasping for air.

What is it, what is it, what is it?

I think frantically. My executive function appears to be severely compromised by the extreme lack of blood flowing to my brain.

What is it I always tell my partners? Relax? No, don't be stupid, you can't relax when you have a red-hot poker up your ass. What is it? Bear down. Yes! That's it. Bear down a little and that will open your ass

.

Even this well-meaning advice I've issued countless times before, seems a lot harder to follow when it's applied to me. Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to try to push out, when someone is actually trying to push something inside you?

My God.

The pain is still wracking my body when I feel another surge of pressure. He's preparing to thrust again. I have no fucking choice. I bite my lip, as I bare down and feel myself give way. I groan deliriously, as at least another inch fills me. He moves slowly, easing himself in and out, giving me time to adjust, before the pressure starts building again and I have no choice but to let him in more. Over and over, we repeat this dance until at last, at last, I feel his balls press up against mine. I'm so weak with relief I hardly even register the mortifying way I'm moaning. Low and long, and so loud. Awful. Just awful. I sink my face into my palms. I try to hide my shame, as each tiny movement from him, forces these fearsome sounds from my body. Sounds that are so low, the whole room seems to vibrate.