I never planned to write this down, but after what happened last month, the memories keep replaying in my head at night, and I need to get them out. I'm thirty-four, always thought of myself as straight. Married once, divorced now, dated women on and off. Then one Friday after work I stopped at the bar around the corner from my apartment, the one with the dim lights and the long wooden counter. I was just looking for a beer and some quiet.
He sat two stools down. Tall, broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt, dark hair cut short. We started talking about the game on the screen above the bar.
His name was Marcus. Easy laugh, steady eyes. After the second round he asked if I wanted to grab food at the place next door. I said yes without thinking. We talked for another hour, and somewhere between the burgers and the third drink I noticed how his hand rested on the table, fingers long and strong. When he brushed my wrist reaching for the salt, a spark ran up my arm I didn't expect.
By the time we walked back toward our cars, the air felt thicker. He lived two blocks away. "Want to come up for one more?" he asked. I hesitated, then nodded. Inside his apartment the lights were low, a single lamp by the couch. We sat close. The conversation slowed. He looked at me and said, "You ever been with a guy?" My mouth went dry. I shook my head. "No," I told him. "But I'm not running either."
Marcus leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull back. His mouth met mine, warm and firm. The kiss started soft, then deepened. His tongue brushed mine and heat flooded straight down my spine. My cock stirred in my jeans before I could stop it. I kissed him back harder, tasting the whiskey on his breath. His hand slid up my thigh, stopping just short of my crotch, thumb pressing lightly. I was already half hard.
We moved to the bedroom without saying much. He undressed me piece by piece, eyes never leaving mine. When my shirt came off he ran his palms over my chest, thumbs circling my nipples until they tightened. I reached for his belt. His cock was thick and already straining against his briefs. Touching another man's dick for the first time felt strange and electric at once. I wrapped my fingers around him through the fabric and he groaned low in his throat.
Marcus pushed me onto the bed and knelt between my legs. He freed my cock and took me into his mouth in one smooth motion. The wet heat was nothing like I'd known. His tongue pressed along the underside, lips sliding down until I felt the back of his throat. I gripped the sheets and tried not to thrust. He worked me slow and steady, one hand cupping my balls, the other stroking the base. My hips started moving on their own. I could feel my orgasm building too fast and had to pull him off.
"I want to try," I said, voice rough. He understood. He lay back and let me explore. I took his cock in my hand first, learning the weight and the way the skin slid. Then I lowered my head. The taste was musky, skin warm against my tongue. I took the head into my mouth and sucked gently. Marcus's fingers threaded through my hair, not pushing, just guiding. I went deeper, gagging a little, then pulled back and tried again. The sounds he made, low and approving, made my own cock twitch against the mattress.
After a few minutes he rolled me onto my back again. He reached into the drawer for lube and a condom. "We don't have to," he said. I shook my head. "I want to." My voice came out steadier than I felt. He slicked his fingers and reached between my legs. The first touch against my hole made me tense. He circled slowly, pressing just enough to relax the muscle. When one finger slid inside the burn was sharp for a second, then melted into something fuller. He added more lube and worked me open, two fingers, then three, crooking them until my back arched and a moan tore out of me.
He put the condom on and lined up. The head of his cock pressed against me. "Breathe," he whispered. I did. He pushed in slowly, giving me time to adjust with each inch. The stretch was intense, almost too much, but he kept still once he was halfway in, letting me get used to it. When he bottomed out I felt full in a way I'd never imagined. He started moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. Every stroke dragged over that spot inside me that made my cock leak onto my stomach.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer. The rhythm built. Skin slapped skin. Sweat slicked between us. He reached down and stroked my cock in time with his thrusts. I came first, hard and sudden, pulsing over his fist and my own chest. My ass clenched around him and he followed seconds later, groaning my name as he pushed deep and held there.
Afterward we lay side by side, breathing hard. He got a warm cloth and cleaned us both. I expected to feel weird or ashamed, but instead I felt loose and strangely calm. We talked for another hour, quiet and honest. I left around two in the morning, but not before we exchanged numbers.
That was three weeks ago. We've seen each other twice since. Each time I learn more about what my body can feel. I'm still figuring out what this means for the rest of my life, but I don't regret a single moment. The memory of his cock sliding into me for the first time keeps me hard when I'm alone at night. I know I'll go back again.
