What does one do when moving to a new city with a flourishing gay scene and more men that openly flirt with you in public and online? Behave, is what I did. I wanted to meet new people, make friends, but not combine them with sex. So every man that so much as openly admitted to only liking other men, was immediately friendzoned. I don't know why or what was wrong with me but I only wanted to be fucked by straight men. In hindsight it's a fairly logical consequence of a lifetime of rejection for one's sexuality leading to the desire to be acknowledged for one's uniqueness which corresponds with being sexually aroused by the thought of being the only boy a man has ever tasted. But I didn't know all that back then.
All I knew was that nothing turned me on like the look of a man with a wife or a girlfriend who couldn't resist looking at my ass. The idea that a straight man who normally drowned in pussy and would feel disgust at the thought of fucking another dude adored my male body and my tight asshole like a splash of water on a hot summer's day, sent me over the edge. And luckily for me, there were plenty of them. They could be bisexual of course and surely many who identified as straight had felt the inside of a boy's behind more than once, but for my fantasy, I was their first and only exception to a life of loving women and being proud, brutish heterosexual men furthering the species. I was their curiosity, their break from society and the ideals of manhood. Or better yet, a need to affirm their manhood by taking it from another man. I was the one thing they couldn't resist no matter how ashamed or wrong it might make them feel. They fucked me not out of love or biological urge or societal constraints, but because they wanted to stroke their cock with a tight fit and used me to do it. It was I was born for.
I worked in a restaurant where I was very proud of my sexuality. I could openly joke about bottoming and liking dick with my very heterosexual colleagues, often rugged cooks who laughed at my jokes but were still very much disgusted by the idea of men having sex. But it weren't my colleagues that made me love my job so much.
The restaurant was fancy. Like marble floors and chandeliers on the ceiling fancy. And it was a hot spot of rich thirty-something men who would come by on their business diners or family outings to show off their wealth. It was my hobby to make them all glance at me. Most didn't bite, confirming my theory that at least not all straight men secretly desired a boy's bubbly ass. But a surprising amount of them did. I caught them looking when I leaned over the table to pour the wine or place the silverware. Their surly hands graced the side of my buttocks and sometimes even pinched them. It was the highlight of my day.
And then I saw him. He was seated with colleagues. All handsome men in suits whose voices were racing to be the loudest in the room. He drank beer like the rest of them, hung back casually in his chair, legs spread wide and shoulders broad with a sly grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. When he opened his phone I saw an idealistic picture of a smiling wife and son next to him in shorts on a boat. He wasn't from here, surely on a trip far away from any chance of relief. And then we locked eyes and my heart stopped.
He had a sullen face with a big nose, nothing that would get him on the cover of a magazine. He was bald and not too tall. But his jaw was sharp like a blade, even though it was covered by a thick black beard. His body was broad and muscular, his expensive suit fit to the inch, except at his thighs, which were so thick I swore they would burst free soon, and his crotch, where a large bulge strained against the fabric. His brown brooding eyes, weary of the laughter and empty talk around them, stared right into my soul. I knew I wanted him. Every fiber in my body urged me to sit on his lap, feel the heat of that bump against my ass crack. But I also knew he didn't want me.
When I cleaned the table after the main course, bending over like a dirty little slut for the umpteenth time that evening, it was the loud, obviously drunk guy next to him that slid his hands in between my legs and felt me up to my crotch. My dick twitched, for sure. He was more traditionally handsome, tall, blonde, blue eyes and a scruffy beard. I liked his cocky attitude but it wasn't him that I wanted.
I had prepared to be fucked tonight. It had been months since I had any, not that I was deliberately starving myself, I just had been busy. But it was to the point that I couldn't think of anything else but be fucked, no matter how many times I jerked off. I had planned to go to the sauna tonight and being anonymously ragged by whichever gay would offer, but now I had seen him, nothing else would suffice.
"Would you like more wine," I said to him, as we once again locked eyes longer than men normally would allow.
"Bring the sommelier," he answered politely, a twinkle in his eyes again. But he carried on the conversation with his companions seemingly indifferent to who was waiting his table. Disappointed I tried to squeeze from between the two chairs when I felt the other guy brazenly grab my cock. I didn't mind per se, it just startled me and thus I twitched. I knocked my upper thigh against the edge of wooden table behind me and I wheezed in pain.
"Are you alright?" the black bearded man asked softly as he jumped up from his chair and grabbed my hand with both of his to balance me. They were huge despite his average size and they wrapped my hand like a warm blanket. The other guy quickly pretended to not know what caused the fuzz.
"I'm alright, I'm so sorry for the disturbance, sir," I said, afraid of what the maître might say if he saw me causing a scene.
"Not at all," the man smiled at me. I hurried away in embarrassment under the watchful eyes of everyone at the table. But as the night carried on I couldn't help but wonder who would grab a waiter's hands like that. The answer wasn't necessarily 'someone who wants to bone you' but still. It felt odd in the best way.
The evening came to a close and I was bringing petit fours when I saw him get up and go to the bathroom. I don't know what came over me but I put the plates down on the table and followed him.
The bathrooms were near the entrance, where no one was at this hour. They were small and secluded, so I could easily follow him without anyone noticing. My heart was beating in my throat. What was I doing? Did I want to lose my job? And still, like men follow their dick, I followed the gaping emptiness in my behind that begged to be filled. I entered the men's bathroom a few minutes after he did and closed the door behind me.
There he was, taking a piss at the urinal. He was doing it so over the top manly. Flat hand on the wall, legs spread apart, belt open and one hand on his crotch. If I wasn't so turned on my his masculinity I would've surely laughed. Without looking who entered, he flushed and closed his pants. When he turned around he stopped.
I didn't know what to say, so I smiled and out of a reflex started checking if the towels needed refilling. He smiled back and washed his hands. I was an idiot. Being concerned that I didn't fall on my face is not the same as flirting. And not every straight guy wants to rail you in the bathroom. Lessons learned. Except he didn't stop washing his hands. As he stroked his fingers and palms with care he looked at me and I breathlessly looked back. When he finally turned off the faucet he reached curiously close past my body to the towels.
