His clothes were off while I was still hesitating. Going to a cruisy gay bar with some gay friends can be excused, especially in these times when an open-mind is heralded with far more enthusiasm than an open mouth hungry for dick. Going to a gay bar when you’re ‘straight’ is perfectly acceptable—doesn’t Tom Cruise do it too?—and the way I figure things is that maybe following a man home can be weaseled out of too. I mean, if the press somehow get hold of the information... though this perfect slice of hunk heaven assures me that he understands my situation and isn’t the least bit interested in making the gossip columns. (But what does that mean, anyway? Is my situation
that common? Are there more ex-heartthrob young actors, finished with a hit sitcom that put millions into his bank account and made him friends with the world? More actors like me, now almost 40 and quite tired of playing the straight guy who acts gay so naturally? ‘Cuz if there are, I’d like to get acquainted. Please.)
This man with his clothes off in the middle of his dark living room is devastating. When was the last time I allowed myself this pleasure? All the money one can need in the world and I’m too paranoid to even use my card for gay porn on the internet, let alone buy another man drinks while some vulture stalks from behind a camera. This man tonight, in particular, bought the drinks. He brought one over with the cutest little kink to his perfect lips, then never left my side at the bar while I laughed my straight laugh and jammed my hands down to the bottom of my pants pockets—so that my hands wouldn’t find their way slipped down his pants after just that first drink. He was the kind of man that turned my insides out... made me more afraid of relaxing... But he switched my beers into cocktails before the initial semi-introductory courtesies were complete. And from the way my bottom lip hurts I do believe I had been biting down too hard—which he probably noticed before I did. This man has the kind of eyes that know everything—deep hazel green, like an autumn evening filled with flaring flecks of gold. You can play it perfectly straight all evening but he knows exactly the kind of bottom you are, the kind of pussyboy starved for hot meaty cock, too afraid to ask but not above begging for it when you’re on your knees in front of him and your face is at crotch level. This man knew it from across the room, before he even recognized me from TV.
He is almost fully erect now and even in the dim light, coming from somewhere out on his patio and through the glass sliding doors, I can see his gracious proportions. In my mind I am begging him to take me by force. Maybe I could claim date rape if I find my pants down on the cover of tomorrow morning’s daily dish. Maybe it was a non-consensual encounter in which I unwittingly followed this man to his house.. after having been dared to by my buddies... and then being drugged and anally ravished by a perverse stranger... who had the most beautiful cock and body I had been in close proximity with since... Well, I lose track of the time in between my moments of weakness and passion...
So I am standing there with a lump the size of my painful hard-on in my throat, unable to move. He seems to read my mind and moves over to stand right before me, so close that the tip of my nose just barely grazes his chin. My eyes are closed and I tilt my face down and forwards, finding my nose trailing the smoothness of his neck, his beating pulse, and the thin sheen of sweat that was developing over his olive skin. I finally breathe and the warm musky male scent of his neck greets me. I open my mouth and find his collar bone between my kisses. I move between his collar bone, to his shoulder, then to his neck again.. not daring to take it any further. His fingers curl into my hair at the back of my head, and with a firm grip he tugs my head back. My eyes dart open in a brief panic. For a flash I don’t see his sharp, handsome features—his angled jaw, dusted over with a light stubble, and almost brutish cheekbones that fit his entire look into what I like to call the ‘Clive Owen category’, though he looked more like Josh Wald. For that split second I see a god luring me into a loss of self control... who will turn out to be straight and ready to blackmail my ass... or kick the shit out of it the next time I need more of him. I always get this same vision, this same panic that I’m caught out in the open with my knees trembling from wanting a cock so bad... God, I needed this man’s cock so bad. It was the sinking feeling deep in my gut... sinking and sinking and never finding a resting place. I close my eyes again to chase the thought away, to try and compose myself, to try and stop my parted lips from quivering so bad. What must he think of me? Is he laughing to himself, about how little slutboys get when they haven’t been given a proper dicking in a while? Poor little Chandler... never gets his Joey....
I feel his breath on my face before I breathed it in and craved more in my flared nostrils. He put a bullet there and I breathed in again. I sniffled. And it wasn’t the coke. The sinking feeling was spiraling and twisting my stomach into a knot that tugged at my lungs. The angle my neck was pulled back at made it even harder to breathe. I was panicking again and tears were forming in my eyes, but then the sharp sting at the roots of my hair threw me back to earth just as this man had thrown me onto the carpet. Momentarily shocked and breathing heavily, my face to his carpet, I feel his hands on my waist and shoulder as he turns the rest of my body over. He is rough with me, in a gentle sort of way... his movements—the way he turned me over with a single tough nudge, the way he was stroking my neck with the back of his hand—were insistent and almost demanding, but caring at the same time. He was having his way with me tonight, but he knew—with those eyes and what lay behind it—that it was what I wanted, what I needed.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
His voice was at my ear, throaty and smelling lightly of menthol cigarettes, more strongly of whisky. He was straddled on my back. My cheek was on the carpet, my arms lightly pinned down above me by his position on my back, and I could feel his cock and balls resting just above my belt, where my shirt was pushed up just enough for his skin to be on mine. I twitched and felt the slight coarseness, the slip of precum and sweat.
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
I nodded. The hand he had on my neck suddenly gripped my hair and jerked my face off the carpet. I yelped in a mixture of pain and excitement.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Mr. Perry?”
Yes. My first words since the complimentary comment I had made about his house as we had rolled up his driveway.
He relaxed his grip on my hair and let my face fall back to the carpet. My heart was racing. Would he fuck my mouth first? Or would he let me rim his asshole for an hour before he fucked my face? Will he fuck me slowly?
I nodded, breathing hard.
“I said, relax.”
I nodded again, taking long deep breaths.
The man got off me and I heard him walk away. I look over my shoulder and see him putting on his clothes. Unsure of what was going on, my vision of being found out racing through my head, I get up in a bit of a daze. My own clothes are hardly ruffled, just the untucked shirt tail and the huge wet spot on the front of my pants. Absentmindedly, my hand moves to cover the wet blotch and the bulge.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
I don’t know what to say back to him. I want to ask him why he’s stopped. I want to crawl up to him, remove his pants again and suck his cock into my mouth. And I want to cry. But I just look away from him in silence.
“I’ll drive you home.”
I snap back into ‘straight mode’. I close my still-watering mouth, imagine roadkill, and move towards the door.
“It’s fine... I’ll call a cab."