“Sorry, I need to get a cigarette,” I said while trying to put on my shoes, making an excuse to escape from the suffocation.
“Will you come back?” Mike asked out loud and then hastily followed my lead after receiving my answer. He was clueless, running after me like a child feeling guilty but not sure exactly what the guilt was about, or at least that was my imagination of what was happening behind my back when I tried to move faster with each pace.
I thought it would be a great idea, to tag somebody in, since Mike was also a top and we didn’t have a place. That’s why Yan was in the picture. I’d fucked Yan twice, I guess, which usually started out really nice but then ended up not the way I wanted since he didn’t want to let me cum in his mouth nor his face. He was a passive, waiting for men to take initiative, gentle-gestured and skinny kind of French, which was never my appetite.
Mike was exactly what I had pictured him would be: big but not fat, a bit nerdy, talking passionately about politics & games but keeping quiet and socially insecure about others. He was the type that you loved to give a hug, and get one in return, the type that you could feel safe falling into their warm ambiance.
But on that couch, all of such impression was long gone. He drew me in to his left side, got Yan from another before pushing Yan down to his crotch area while I was working on Mike’s shirt. Mike took turn kissing both of us and then forced us to kiss. It was also Mike that led us into the room. Yan was enjoying it, I could tell. He couldn’t keep his mouth off Mike’s cock, which was slightly thicker than mine.
Mike then pushed me to bed and it was then that I could feel the warmth of his breath. He kissed my belly and started giving head. It was enjoyable but it wasn’t long. Yan’s hungry mouth was clearly a distraction. Damn. (I had given him some of my cock to suck on in advance of Mike’s arrival and he was still that craving).
Another clear distraction was the fact that Mike kept on saying “fuck yeah”, “that’s my boy”, “come take my big dick”, “suck that fucking cock”. I did say some of those, I guess, but it was in a different circumstance where the bottom was massively submissive. But again, things always look different when you’re outside looking in. It was as if those verbal creation had formed a wall of vulnerability around me, in which my identity couldn’t win, or even survive.
“What do I do, now that those 2 are getting on, and efforts of Mike to reach out to me, and of mine to reach out to him, have been disturbed as well?” I then put the condom on, moved to the back and slid my cock inside Yan’s hole. If there was 2 things that I took comfort from spending time with this guy, it was his mouth and his ass. It was bony, which I never find sexy, but it was usually very embracing to my cock, and endurable.
I didn’t know what was going on in my mind. Maybe it was Joey, maybe it was Mike, or maybe it was somebody else. All I knew was that I wasn’t there. But I was moving at the same rhythm of Mike’s masculine grunting and to be honest, I would rather be at the other end of the spit roast. And no sooner had I realized that I already came. It was the first time I came inside somebody since that night with Joey, and the first time I came inside a condom in that position as well. But unlike the pleasure and overwhelming calm of the last time it happened, I felt hard to breath this time around.
That was when I decided I need to leave.
He caught me at the beer place. I remember seeing my hands shaking and couldn’t hold a cigarette properly. He sat and calmed me down. There was some blood on my arm. I had been scratching it out of subconsciousness.
“What was that? Did I do something wrong?” he asked, with concerns in his eyes.
I didn’t know what to say, or how to answer to such demanding genuineness. I didn’t know if I should feel upset or annoyed by what happened. But I knew that whatever it was, it was calmed, somehow, by his decision to chase me down and ask me with care. I couldn’t play truant. I escaped the invisible prison to allowed myself to fall into his sweet trap again.
“I’d thought you were genuine. Different,” I told him.
“But I am genuine.”
He was feeling guilty. It was written on his face and his hazel eyes. He then told me that it was his first time with 2 guys so he didn’t know what to do. The only thing in his mind was the impression of how men act in porn. He followed it like it was his Bible. I was thinking of Ruth, a very good lesbian friend of mine, whose radiant could warm any heart in close proximity, since there was something of Ruth I can see in his dorky manner, his facial expression, his freckles and his eyes.
It was then that he told me about how he had always felt insecure growing up, as a gay guy who doesn’t want to be identified as “feminine”, who hung out with straight dudes, who was into books and international relations rather than anything stereotypically “gay” portrayed in pop culture. And somehow the fear of it and the need to modify it in others’ perspectives exaggerated his manner, especially when it came to sex. He told me about his law degree and his thought of Communism and Bernie Sanders.
I told him that I’d been going through exactly the same thing. That sometimes I tried to be more masculine out of insecurity. I told him that he didn’t have to act all porned-up to really enjoy it. I told him that my expectation of him as a genuine person failed me in the room, cuz things he did in there completely betrayed such person, and that I didn’t even like Yan but just asked him to join so that we could connect, physically. He kept saying “Oh God”, as if he had committed a terrible crime, finally bowing his head down.
To comfort him, I told him about my job, thing I never really told anybody who wasn’t close enough. I told him about politics, about how you could go to party and get all socialized and in the center of such fanciness, dozen people in suits and gowns, and the clinking of glasses, you could still feel so left out. I remember crying.
I never told him most of what annoyed me in the room, which I realized later during my walk outside, was that Mike was in charge instead of me. I had always been in 3 ways, 4 ways, you name it, and it was always made sure that I was the center of attention. But this time it went out of hand. Even Yan, the boy who was supposed to be my boy, my fuck boy, felt inclined to Mike and seemed to enjoy Mike’s dick better. I was annoyed and angry at my own powerlessness.
I never told him I cried not only because of such personal stories we were sharing, but also I was surprisingly disgusted of how I could make up a lie in front of such innocent, caring and loving person, how I quickly thought of that whole “you failed me” story in the spot to turn the table around, to make it all his mistake. The way to de-masculinate him was to make him feel weak and vulnerable. I was disgusted of my own manipulative behaviors, and how it had hurt Mike, and others.
But the most important thing, that I never told him, was that I cried also because I thought of Joey. We were still doing the long distance thing at that time but there was always something in between. Joey called me a social butterfly, which I was not. Joey asked if what I wrote to him was a part of the fiction I had been reading since he thought such lines couldn’t been poured out of my mind. I was struggling with all of that and Mike brought a certain comfort into the chaos. Although it wasn’t much but I felt like I’d found somebody who could really understand. I never told him that I was thankful that he took his shoes and ran after me right after that moment.
And I regret, until now, that I pulled away and hopped on my bicycle, leaving Mike an awkward goodbye, when he was trying to kiss me. It takes guts to kiss people here, on the street, in public day light.