He was about a head taller than me. Dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, and full round lips. His name was...What was it? I had one of those moments where my heart began to race and I began to think of all the crazy things I've heard of starting like this.
'He walked into the house, still and silent. No one was around, but he could feel a presence. Just as he heard the creek of the floorboards, he turned too late and was knocked unconscious." Then you end up chained in some weirdo's basement for three months. Or in an tub full of ice minus one kidney.
All the things in my head told me this was a stupid thing to do, but the thing in my head wasn't what I was listening to. The source of my courage, or stupidity depending how you looked at it, was considerably lower. Then again, he didn't seem sinister. Forceful, but not sinister.
I met him, God, I can't believe I don't know his name, at a party of a mutual friends, friend. Their apartment was spacious, and came with balcony overlooking a beautiful cityscape. Leaning over the railing I was awestruck. Not by the beauty of the city at night, but how the friend of a friend could have such a difference in income as me. My humble abode was considerably more...humble.
He had come up behind me, and uttered one of those phrases. "It's a beautiful night.", "Care for some company?", "All alone out here?" One of those. Thinking back, I can't remember what he said all too well. What I remember is that when he said it and I turned to look to him, my heart started to beat a little quicker. He stood there, dressed in a suit, with a smile on his face. Or was it a smirk? Yes, that would be more accurate. Looking at him, I got the distinct impression that he'd been standing there for a while, observing. And from that smile, that smirk, and the glint in his eye, I could tell he'd found something he liked. That smirk though. I loved and hated it all at once. Before me, with that carefree, yet predatory smile on his face, he looked to be the most confident man in the world. He looked like he could get anything he wanted, and I'd be helpless to defend against him if he choose to get it.
He came up next to me and leaned against the railing to my left. I went back to staring at the night sky, and most importantly taking the occasional, all too long, glance at him. I turned to take in another one of my regular glances, I met his eyes, and that smiling face. How close was he? My logic tells me he was more than a foot away, but in my memory he is always so close. I felt a distinct warmness come across my honey colored cheeks. I knew it was night, but I knew he could see.
He leaned closer. I knew what he was doing, and I knew what I was going to do. Honestly, he'd not said more than a dozen words to me, yet here he was trying to kiss me. He didn't know if I was gay, which I'm not, and he was trying to kiss me. I'd never seen him before, didn't know who's friends friend he was, or even if this was his party, and he was trying to kiss me.
When he got close, I would push him back, disgust washing over my face. I'd storm off, yet not look like I was running away. I'd let him know that was way too much. And then his lips touched mine, and all that I'd thought in those brief moments before he kissed me went out the window. It's stupid, absolutely cliché to say, but I felt like I was floating. I don't remember moving, but when our lips parted, and my eyes opened to meet his, my hands were grasping his shoulders, and I was standing tip-toed to accommodate our height difference. He was smiling. Smirking. Gentle and well meaning, but forceful.
I am not gay. Well, not really. Not that I have a problem with it. Actually, I kind of like the thought I might get to try out something with another man, however far it went. At home, I'd have my fantasies. I had nothing against women. Didn't find them repulsive or anything. In fact, that the female form was one of the most beautiful things I knew of. But sometimes the thought of another man. The thought of arms around me, possessing me. The thought of another cock in the equation. God did thoughts like that make me stiff ever so quick.
I'd had a very few number of toys. I'd try anal, in my own private way. Fingers wouldn't do, if I was going to have my fantasy, I needed something at least close to the real thing. Like any other man, I'd jerk off to the crap on the internet where I could find it, but some nights, some mornings, I just got that need. The need to have my own private fantasy. It was like I was in heat. After It happened for years, I finally decided to do something about it.
I'd look on the internet. I'd go to clubs. Hell, I even went to a few gay bars. And all these experiences told me one thing. I must be one picky bastard. I never once saw a man I'd like to try something with. I know it's arrogant to even think that. Like I can go up to the one I want and say, "You. You'll do. Come along now." And that would be it. As if. But still, I figured fantasy and reality were just too different for me. I'd still flirt with the occasional good looking guy, but half jokingly. I knew if they tried to get close, I'd freak out and feel disgusted.
However, here I was in this man's arms, which I also noticed had ensnared me, when my senses returned to me, my erection throbbing, and my body subconsciously pressed up against him. I was ready to give this man all he wanted, and just from one kiss.
And then he touched me. I took in a sharp breath, and those big, possessive arms held me against him. I couldn't think. I was moving on instinct, want, and need. In the movies and on tv, you always hear jokes about premature guys. I always wondered if that was even possible. Honestly, someone getting excited from such a slight touch that they blew their load before anything even happened. I was about to be one of those guys.
I've been hard before. I've been really hard before. But right now I was granite, and his hand was that of a master sculpture. I nuzzled against him, teeth gritted, desperately trying to grind myself against him, trying to somehow will his hand through the fabric of my pants and too the searing flesh beneath.
And then it stopped. His hand was gone, and suddenly he wasn't holding me anymore. I was more confused than disappointed. Like someone had yanked a switch in my brain and turned back on logical reason, and hadn't been ready for it to come back on for a good long while.
I actually looked around for a second. I think I forgot where I was. Then I looked back in the room. No one even paying attention. Thank God. Then again, how long had that taken? Had that all happened in a few seconds? Or was I in his grip, literally and figuratively, for minutes? When I finally looked back at him, the smirk was still there. I still hated and loved it, but now I needed it. Badly.
Then he said something, I remember very closely. He took up both my hands, and kissed them, while he said in the most silkily gentle voice that somehow conveyed authority at the same time, "None other will do now."
He pressed something into one of my open palms, and before turning to leave said, "See you later." And he was gone. After that, after leaving me with the bluest balls in the history of mankind, he just left. Again, extreme confusion.
I left the party almost immediately. Driving home, I finally looked in my hand to see what he'd left me. It was an address. Not even a phone number, not even a name, an address. Do you ever end up somewhere, and not remember the drive to get there? That was me when I got home.
I raced, well, walked quickly, to my bedroom, stripped naked, got my toys and lube, and went to town. I didn't care that I wasn't gay. I didn't care that this was probably the strangest experience of my life. I just needed release. I stroked myself silly. I rode my toys like I was trying to win the Kentucky derby.
