I wear dark colors. I wear glasses. I sometimes forget to have my hair trimmed. I grew up in a normal, if slightly overbearing, home. I date women. I’ve been in several long-term relationships with women. Yet, here I am, bent over the side of my bed, with a black man’s cock buggering my arse, begging and screaming for him to fuck me harder. And I’m not embarrassed.
He pounds harder, his hard, thrusting cock burying deep inside me, rubbing against the hard little nubbin of flesh that makes stars shoot through the back of my brain, and panting harshly in my ear at the exertion. I gasp and keen, loving the sensation of his body, his hands, everything about this man. This man.
I’m confused, but not embarrassed.
I’m not confused about what I’m doing. I’ve been buggered before, and even if I hadn’t, I do know the logistics of homosexual intercourse. Insert Tab A into Slot B, correct? The things that I’m confused about are who I’m being buggered by, and why now, and how it happened, and why is it so much better now than it is when I’ve been buggered in the past?
Gunn and I have had our differences, yes. But we’ve also been the best of friends. And not once, in the years of knowing one another, have I ever known him to think about men in a sexual way. Especially myself. He’s always been as macho and as straight as they come. Now, I’m not gay either. Possibly a little curved, because four homoerotic encounters in the life of a 30-year-old-man can’t be ignored. But Gunn has never been like that.
And why now? Why is it that he came to drop me off after disposing of a particularly nasty demon, I invited him up to my flat for a cup of coffee, and because I know that most nights he’s as lonely as I am. So I thought we could talk, like we do. We’re friends. Before I knew it, we were kissing, and now we’re in my bedroom, and he’s pounding me into the mattress. Rough, but gentle enough not to hurt. It feels lovely, and I grunt a little and cry out his name, making sure he knows I’m still enjoying it. He places a soft kiss on the nape of my neck, and I marvel at the sweet caress.
My lovers in the past have never been so considerate as Gunn. He runs his hands along my flanks, his dark chocolate skin seeming black against my pale Prep-school-English-boy pink pigment. His sweat drips from his body and pools in the small of my back, mingling with my own, and he thrusts again and again. I certainly didn’t expect him to have this kind of stamina. Particularly if this were his first time with a man. Unless he’s not enjoying it.
This worries me. I’ll admit that over the past months, I’ve developed somewhat of a crush on Gunn. Before I could convince myself that my feelings would never be reciprocated, the feeling had grown into fully-developed, hard, wild lust. Every movement he’s made, every half-smile and twinkle of his deep, dark eyes has had my stomach fluttering and my cock stirring in my cotton-polyester blend slacks. More than once, I’ve wanted to throw him over my desk and pound into him, looking into his eyes and watching the sensations manifest themselves as facial expressions.
My worry is that perhaps Gunn has picked up on this. Maybe he’s more perceptive than I’ve given him credit for, and maybe he knows how I feel. Perhaps Gunn is with me now, pounding into me, caressing my pale, trembling skin, licking at my vertebrae, because he wants me to feel good. Perhaps this isn’t about him wanting to fuck me, but rather him wanting to give me some satisfaction, since I’ll never have him as a real lover. For tonight, he’s in my bed, or rather bending me over the side of it, but after tonight, there will be nothing for me to hope for. A memory pops into my head. “No cause to hope that I might be needed. Or wanted.” It seems long ago, far away. And it is, but so real at this moment, because I know, Gunn won’t want me in the morning. This is him being generous.
But I’ll take what I can get.