This story isn’t a wham-bam-thank-you-sir story; however, it is a story of triumph and growth. And unlike my other stories, this actually happened to me. Some aspects have been embellished for entertainment purposes.
We met in Houston's Mining Company, a neutral enough place; an alternative to preppy affluence, Millennial pretense, or leather convention.
"You don't look like a bottom," Steve said and leaned back to get a better look at my ass. "On second thought, you certainly have a bottom's ass."
"Why, thank you—Hey!" I said without much conviction.
He smiled.
I melted.
(My name is Stanley Kubrick, no relation to the famous director. At the time of this meeting, I was twenty-two, slim-bodied, and a gay virgin. Now back to the story.)
"I'm just pointing out that you're using the wrong honey for the bees you wanna catch."
I blinked.
"Is this on?" Steve asked while motioning to my crotch.
"Very funny," I said and laughed along; then I thought of my own volley, "So, I should dress like you?"
"Hey!" Steve shouted.
We both laughed and Steve bought another round. From there we backed to neutral corners and moved on to more beer. After round number three, I started to reach a comfort level with Steve where I felt free to touch his leg or rub his arm. To which, he mirrored my gestures in reassurance.
At some point the jokes and laughter trailed to longing glances from Steve that made me hope. I so wanted him to fuck me, then make love to me. I wanted him to show me what men did in lustful savagery, what they did on impulse.
"Come home with me. You need a good fuckin’," Steve said with a confidence that pulsed along the length of my cock. The words, however, did much more. They tugged at my heart, and for a man of twenty-two, that was monumental.
It was his eyes: so clear, so steely gray. It was his eyes: so purposeful, so masculine. I would have done anything, anything, any--
"Anything," I said.
He pulled me to his car and we traveled in silence, but he held my hand and calmed my beating heart.
His home stood alone, shrouded by trees and shrubs that were positioned with strategy. An unusually high wall enclosed a small garden with a swing and a coy pond. Following Steve in the fading light, I noticed the large bulge of his greasy jock; the sight of it concerned and excited me. His broad back and powerful legs set off his six-four frame perfectly, and his swagger made it obvious that he was in charge. He was strapped in leather like a bandolier, in a full-body harness, and in boots reminiscent of bikers. I was going to have fun when climbing him like a eucalyptus and wrapping my legs around him like a koala. The thoughts made me smile.
My cock continued to thicken as I entered the warmth of his home. Throughout, light hid under ficus and glowed in opaque lamps. A large brown sofa and chairs hosted an old-style, big screen, tied together with the rest of the furniture by a zebra-skin rug.