The Author Becomes the Story by Str8SensitiveGuy,Str8SensitiveGuy Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction.
The Author Becomes the Story
It’s an early April Saturday afternoon in beautiful New England. I have finished my grocery shopping for the week and my chores for the weekend. I have traded my jeans for a pair of comfy sweats and I’ve slipped into my home high-tops that I wear like slippers. I’m ready to settle in and watch the baseball game when there is a surprising knock on my door. It’s surprising because I live on the sixth floor of an apartment building. No one rang from the lobby. I have buzzed no one in. And since I am not friends with any of my neighbors, It’s unlikely that any of them are calling upon me. Who is here and how did they get in? There is an easy way to find out.
I cross to the door and look through the peephole. There stands a quartet of smiling friendly looking guys. They are college-aged; maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. Are they lost? Who gets lost in an apartment building? Could they be here to see me? Why would they be? A small part of me tells me not to open the door, but there is a youthful innocence to them so, ignoring all warning alarm bells in my brain, I just go for it. I swing the door open.
They look me up and down, head to toe and their smiles grow wider. One of them says to his friends, “He looks just like I imagined he would.”
“He’s cute,” says another.
“Adorable,” agree the other two. “This is going to be fun.”
He places his palm flat against my chest and, pushing me backwards, guides us all into my apartment closing the door behind us. The physical contact feels foreign and I am left speechless. I work with dozens of people on my team and I have thousands of customers every week, but no one ever touches me. Nor do I touch them. While the palm in my chest told me that I am not in charge here, I also kind of liked it. It was a jolt of electricity that I want to experience again. I think. Life is a contact sport but I’m always stuck warming the bench. But who are these guys and what do they want?
~~
Here is what you need to know to understand how I came to find myself in this situation:
I am an author. Sort of. A failed author? An unpublished author. I have written five full length novels and none of them have seen the light of day. But not for a lack of trying. I have spent hundreds of hours querying literary agents all around the country (and some of Europe) only to be denied or ignored. In fairness, since the pandemic, agents receive hundreds of queries a day and chances of getting signed by one is less than one in ten thousand. Most of them never even see, let alone actually review, the queries they receive. And thusly, my books will never be read by anyone who isn’t me. So, while I have technically written, does it even count? It’s pretty meaningless. Like if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it does it make a sound? I guess I am an author in my own mind.
I have had success in my writings in one respect; I am a frequent contributor of gay male stories on a free erotic literature website. And a modestly successful one at that. I have hundreds of followers. Tens of thousands of people read my stories and seem to enjoy them. I have consistently high ratings, which is rewarding, but what I live for are the comments. The comments are some of the biggest joys of my mostly empty life. Whenever a new story of mine publishes, I eagerly log in every day for weeks after, checking my ratings and devouring every comment posted. People seem to enjoy my stories and they connect with my characters. It fills me with a pride that would otherwise be missing from my sad lonely life.
I’ve posted around forty stories to date and I’ve grown as a storyteller in the process. Some of my stories are just fun adventures while others involve developed characters with heart and depth. Four years ago I posted my first erotic story and I had to create a profile and choose a username. Without giving it enough thought, I chose part of the title of my very first story. It was probably a decision that deserved more consideration because now I’m stuck with it forever. My name has a number in it. While it’s hardly the biggest regret of my life, it made the shortlist.
Most of the characters in my stories are New Adults. New Adults – in that eighteen to twenty-five age range – are a relatively newly broken out target market. They are no longer Young Adults (thirteen to eighteen) and not yet actual adults. New Adults are physically and biologically adults, but emotionally still figuring things out while unwittingly making decisions that will affect the course of the rest of their lives. They are also less than half of my age. I have no clue how old my readers are because my followers are as anonymous as the authors. People of all ages need to escape their daily lives for a while and get lost in a made up world, so I imagine writing to a wide diverse audience. Many of my characters are New Adults because it’s a way of reliving my own life with different choices. Giving myself a do-over. It’s the perfect age to revisit, discover things about myself and make some alternative decisions. Even if it’s only in my mind.
It’s my way of turning back time. Or better yet, reliving my younger life in today’s world. So, in different ways, I put myself into these characters I write about. My decisions in real life were not brave. I never took a chance. In my stories, I do just that. I write about how my life could have been (or how it should have been). I was attracted to other boys for as long as I was attracted to anyone, but I didn’t understand it and I never acknowledged it. I slid around on the old Kinsey Scale. I convinced myself that I was a solid 3. A bisexual man who never needed to confess his bisexuality because he was in love with a woman who was the love of his life.
Neither thing was the truth. I wasn’t in love and I wasn’t a 3. Okay, maybe I was technically bisexual at one point many, many years ago, but these days, I am a solid 6. Totally gay and permanently closeted. I married my high school girlfriend and pretended it was true romantic love. We had a family and raised kids together (who are now all in their twenties and out on their own). With the kids grown and gone, my wife and I realized that there was nothing left for us. No reason to stay. We sold the house, divided our assets and went our separate ways. Despite being newly single, I am still not “out” and I have never lived a day of my life as who I truly am.
It’s not all my fault. I went to high school in the ’80s. Back when there wasn’t even such a thing as a GSA Club. Back when no one was “out” – not in my hometown anyway. Back when “gay” was a derogatory insult. The world is not perfect but comparatively speaking, we’ve come a long way. Today’s kids are not the same. Schools are not the same. The LGBTQIA+ umbrella today is a million times bigger than it was all those decades ago. Also, there is awareness of bullying. While it is not nonexistent today, it happens less because it is not ignored. So, who could blame me for being closeted and living a lie when I grew up in the time and place that I grew up in? But now that I’m divorced and my kids are adults, maybe the second half of my life can be my time to live my truth. Maybe. But where do I begin?
I am totally gay, pretty much always have been, and the gayest thing that ever happened to me in real life is…nothing. Nothing has ever happened. At least not that I’m aware of. Maybe another guy at some point found me cute or had impure thoughts about me, but if one ever did, I never knew about it. I’m not a bad looking guy and I’ve always known that but I’ve never caught a lingering look or a not-so-incidental touch. Not from a boy. Nothing. And I so wish I had.
Since my divorce, I lost thirty pounds. I eat right and I run five miles four times a week. I am healthier than ever. My doctor told me that my body is fifteen years younger than my age. I look much younger than I am. But I am not foolish enough to think that any of the sweet, cute, queer boys I write about would ever take an interest in me. Again, if I fantasize about redoing that time of my life, it’s to be that age again myself. But I still don’t know where to start. I don’t have a time machine. My stories are my time machine.
To this day, no one has ever known the real me.
Well, one person does. A high school friend who at the age of twenty four was brave and “came out”. He was the best man at my wedding. Over the decades, life has pulled us apart. Our friendship, though more real than any other friendship in my life, is online and long-distance. We are separated by too many states to be in the same room together. But two years ago, I came out to him. He was kind enough to tell me that I was brave for admitting my truth, but it was a pretty low-risk move. And he is over a thousand miles away. But his friendship and support are two of the most important things in my life.
I’ve lived in a few different places throughout my life and some of my stories have been set in each of those locations, while others have been set in places I’ve never been to. I currently live in New England and I love it here. There are so many good looking men all around me, I just don’t know who might play for my team and I can’t imagine asking the question. I know there are websites and apps to help with this type of thing, but that’s scary too. Who knows who’s waiting on the other side?
I want everyone to be themselves whether it’s gender identity, sexual identity… Whatever. You do you. But for me… I just happen to be a man who likes men. I like sports and cars and men’s clothes and men’s bodies and everything about masculine men. While I respect the preferences of others, I tend to write what I know. I don’t feel like I have the right, the perspective or the credibility to write outside of my comfort zone. My characters in my stories typically reflect my personal preferences. Many of them defy stereotypes and would not necessarily be presumed gay because of any physical or behavioral characteristic. Well, I guess popping a boner when the source is a hot guy can be considered both physical and behavioral, but you know what I mean. And not that there’s anything wrong with less masculine characteristics, but I would only be attracted to them from a friendship standpoint, not sexually. Not that anyone is offering. Simply put, I’m just into dudes. And since I do nothing about it in real life, I do plenty about it in make believe life by writing these narratives.
I have a real job and support myself with my salary. I make no money from my writings, but most of my pride and validation comes from the feedback I get in my stories. One of them even won an award. My most popular story is a three part tale involving two eighteen year old boys about to graduate high school. Their names are Jack and Tyson. They are complete opposites in every visible way and they are thrown together in a faux boyfriend thing for their Catholic school’s first ever Inclusion Week. Readers really took to Jack and Tyson. They fell in love with them. I did too. I often fall in love with the characters I create and Jack and Tyson were no exception. If I could go back to being eighteen today, I would love to be Jack.
The story was called Just For the Week and at the end of the third and final installment, there were so many comments begging for more. In my mind, I had told their story and it was over. But then I won the Gay Male story of the month award and my series gained even more exposure and more readers. People kept demanding more about those two and I eventually caved. But I couldn’t just do more of the same story I had already told. I needed to make it different. Something compelling. My continuation surprised everyone and most people hated it.
I broke up Jack and Tyson. Part two of the series came in the form of three more installments. There was a twelve year time jump and the characters were now thirty. We learn that Tyson and Jack started college totally in love. Everything was perfect. Then, Tyson sent him a breakup email, changed his name and disappeared out of his life. Why? We spend three chapters discovering the answer to that question. Jack had been left devastated and heartbroken for twelve years, never understanding what he had done wrong and he never got over Tyson. He comes back to town and decides to investigate, find Tyson and get the answers and the closure he needs. While he does so, two things happen. 1: He learns the truth about why Tyson disappeared on him. It was an act of love to save Jack from a complicated situation. 2. While on this journey, Jack falls in love with another man – Matthew. Now he has a choice to make between his new love and his old love.
According to the far majority of my readers, when Jack chose his new love, he chose wrong. People were furious with me for breaking up Jack and Tyson. I knew it was a controversial choice, but I was shocked by the level of the outrage. People demanded a rewrite. A new HEA. And some of the comments were hurtful to me, the writer. Almost threatening. They were upsetting to read. So much so that I ultimately pulled the second half of the story and just let the original three chapters stand alone. I received numerous requests from those still working their way through chapters four, five and six to repost, but I never did. I had made a creative decision and apparently it was the wrong decision. Live and learn.
The thing about the website is that I am anonymous. There is a profile, but there are no identifying clues. No name or city or anything. Beyond commenting on the stories, there is a way to give the authors direct feedback. I have received many emails from readers sharing their thoughts, making requests and telling me how important my stories and characters have been to them in their lives. I cherish these emails and I save most of them. The sender does not see my email address, but if he chooses to request or allow a reply, I can see his. My identity is protected by the website but if I choose to reply, it comes from my personal email account. Taking that step is the author’s choice.
The private feedback emails are a way for individual readers to express thoughts and feelings that go directly to me and, unlike the public comments, no one else can see them. In addition to thanks and praise, I have received requests. Sometimes the requesters want me to answer questions about my stories, sometimes they have a story suggestion for me and sometimes they beg me to repost the deleted Just For the Week chapters. People want the Jack and Tyson story to continue. I will not repost those chapters – I learned my lesson – but on a couple of occasions, the plea was so genuine, so thoughtful and so heartfelt that I caved and emailed the deleted installments directly to the individual requester. I guess I’m a sucker for praise. I forewarned them each time that they would not like what they read and to proceed at their own risk. They go in understanding that I will be breaking their hearts and crushing their dreams. They don’t love the final choice, but they thank me for sharing. The other emails, the ones requesting that I rewrite Part Two and do it “the right way”, are just rude and get deleted.
Each reply came, from my personal (and no longer concealed) email address. That alone should not have been of concern. I’d replied to “feedback” multiple times in the past with no consequence. But I was about to realize that I had a quartet of young “fans” who were much more technologically savvy than I could imagine and they were able to turn nothing more than a nondescript email address into my name and place of residence. That Spring Break, my little corner of New England was about to get four uninvited visitors.
~~
Now, here I stand, face to face with four intruders. Young, cute and innocent looking intruders, but intruders nonetheless.
They look me up and down, head to toe and their smiles grow wider. One of them says to his friends, “We knew he was a little older than us. I think he looks just like I imagined he would. He’s sort of cute.”
I blush a little at being called cute. It’s been a couple decades since anyone thought I was cute. Handsome? Good looking? Sure. But cute? Hmm. And never by a guy. No guy has ever noticed me in any way. Or if he has, he has hidden it well. Like I do when I’m checking out the eye candy. My dick twitches in response.
Another of them adds, “This is going to be fun.”
Okay, that sounds ominous. Fun? What will be fun? I say, “Do I know you guys? Maybe you have the wrong apartment. Whoever buzzed you in I’m sure is expecting you. Maybe you’re on the wrong floor.”
A second guy says, “We caught the lobby door as someone was coming out. We’re in the right place. We’re here to see you. We’re fans.”
Fans? Of what? My expression reflects my confusion.
A third guy says, “We know who you are.”
They certainly found me, but why would they be looking for me? I ask, “Then why don’t I know who you are?”
“Because this is a surprise visit.”
“And our profile names on the site would be meaningless to you anyway.”
I’m tensing a little. I’ve opened my door to intruders. What is wrong with me? So little happens in my real life that when I saw four good looking dudes through my peephole, I swung my door wide open for them with hardly a second thought.
The third guy continues, “We found you! We figured out your real name and here we are. You’re kind of a celebrity to us. We’ve read all of your stories.”
My hand tightens on the doorknob. The doorknob to the door that I now wish was still closed.
The forth guy almost shouts with glee, “You’re Str8SensitiveGuy!”
My blush deepens and that alone is all the confirmation these guys need. One of them plants a palm flat against my chest, guiding me backwards and we are now all inside my apartment. My door is once again closed, but these guys are on the wrong side of it.
No one has ever called me Str8SensitiveGuy before. My identity on the site is supposed to be anonymous. No one in the real world knows of my alter ego. At least they didn’t. With my pink cheeks giving me away, my new young friends here know more about me than my own family does. Or the people I work with. And since I have no real friends, that’s everyone.
The first guy says, “Cool place. Is it the inspiration for Felix’s apartment? You know, in the one where Miguel/Ramon stays over for the weekend? Where’s the piano?”
Okay, they really have read my stories. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Should my fingers be readying to call 911? My phone is on the coffee table. I ask my uninvited guests, “Who are you?”
One of them says, “I’m Seany and this is Seb, Quinn and Jay.”
I’m torn between laughter and fear. Sean, Seb, Quinn and Jay are the names of the four characters in my Road Trip and Road Trip 2 stories. Four friends from high school are away at college but back for holiday break, they take a January trip to Florida. Along the way, they come to realize they have had feelings for each other and ultimately they become two couples. Sean and Seb are featured in the first part and Quinn and Jay star in part 2.
Should I be afraid that they are not telling me their real names? Or why they’re here? I don’t have much that anyone would be interested in. A laptop. My iPhone. That’s it.
I ask them, “What do you want?”
Quinn says, “To interview you. We’re fans. And I want to be a writer. We want to ask you questions about your stories and your characters. We’ll pay you for your time. It’s not like your touring the country on a book signing. We had to come to you.”
Thanks for reading pls vote or comment Jay says, “Oh my God! You should totally put all of your stories into a collection and publish it. It would be a bestseller!”
It would not. And it’s a moot point because no one would publish it.
I’m feeling more at ease than I should be at this point because most of my characters in my stories are generally nice guys. These four young men really seem harmless. They also seem well-matched to the story they chose. I see it now. Just like my character in Road Trip, this Jay is black and a muscly athlete. Seb is of Latino influence. Quinn is blond, of slight build and is quite stunning. Sean, who I wrote as the most average looking, is the most different simply because he is as adorable as the rest of them.
“Pay me?” I scoff. “I don’t want your money.”
“That’s good,” says Sean. “Like so many of your characters, we’re broke college students and we have no money to give. We have a different way of paying you in mind.”
Is that what they meant when they said this was going to be fun?
I ask them, “You ‘found me’ because you discovered my real identity? How?”
Seb answers, “Seany pestered you about the missing chapters of Just For the Week and he finally convinced you to email them. He has some computer skills that I can’t even begin to understand, but somehow, with just your real email address, he found out who you are and where you live. We all go to the same school and we’re on Spring Break. We’re on a Road Trip of our own and you are our destination.”
Oh no. I am about to live through my own real life Misery. I didn’t kill off a crazy fan’s favorite character, I killed off four crazy fans’ favorite relationship. Just For the Week did not end as they had hoped and now I have to pay the price. These guys are gonna tie me to my bed, break my ankles and make me rewrite my story.
But these boys are just smiling at me. They’re acting like I’m a long lost friend, not the next victim in their serial killing spree.
I rub my chin, “You want to interview me? You want to talk to me about my stories? About my characters?”
“And about you,” clarifies Quinn. “What inspires you to write? Where do your ideas come from? How do you so easily come up with characters and stories that your readers fall in love with and remember long after the story is over?”
I have no good answers to those questions. The truth is that my real life is empty and I find fulfillment in creating worlds for characters that I wish existed. People that I wish I knew. Or wish I was. Somehow, all five of us are now sitting. I am in my recliner and the four of them are crammed together on the couch.
Jay scolds Quinn, “Too fast, too soon. One question at a time.” He turns to me, “Forgive Quinn. He’s a little overanxious. He aspires to write himself and he’s excited to ask about your process.”
Quinn calms himself and tries again, “Do you live here alone?”
I nod, but then I say, “Should I be afraid? This is all a little hard to believe. You haven’t even told me your real names.”
Seb’s voice is reassuring, “We’re just fans. Superfans, you might say. Think of us like a book club and you are our only author. Seriously. We follow you on the site. Whenever you publish a new story we get notifications and we devour it that day.”
“What do you mean by ‘superfans’?”
Now he blushes a little. “We read each story many times and once we learn them, we act them out.”
“Um…” I’m not sure how to respond to that. Or what that even really means.
“Like right now,” Seb resumes. “We’re not just on a road trip, we’re on your Road Trip. We might not be headed to the Florida beaches, but we’re reenacting the scenes from both stories. All of them. From my feet in Seany’s lap on the couch to our little game under the blanket in the backseat of the car—”
Sean elbows Seb, “That might be too much information.”
Seb elbows him back, “Seany, we’re talking to the dude who wrote it. There’s no such thing as too much information.”
I can’t help myself. I ask, “Do you act out the whole story? Even the hotel room scenes?”
Sean blushes again and Seb says, “Yes, even the hotel scenes. Our box of condoms from Sean’s dad has been broken into. So far the scene in the back of the car is my favorite. That was fun.”
“Mine too,” admits Sean with a blush. “I don’t know how you come up with such great stuff.”
Quinn looks at Jay and says, “Our hotel encounter hasn’t happened yet, but when we did that baseball game/basement scene where Jay is giving me that foot massage on the couch and eventually he wrestles me down to the floor, pins my wrists above my head and snakes his hand under my shirt and onto my stomach… I was so… I almost blew my load right there on the floor. It was so hot.”
“And you’ve acted out scenes from other stories too?” I ask.
All four of them nod eagerly. “We read each one as you publish them, but acting them out takes planning and time,” says Jay. “Scouting locations, finding props and rehearsing… We started with Str8SensitiveGuy Gets Explored and we’re up to Road Trip. We take our time with each story; we work them until we get them right. Then we move on to the next one.”
Quinn adds, “And we take turns playing each role. We have to rotate because sometimes the tickle torture scenes, depending on the story, are too much for one person to endure over and over. Although, it is a lot of fun for the rest of us.”
I know they said they are here to interview me, but I can’t seem to stop myself from interviewing them, “Are you four actually four friends and two couples? Like in Road Trip?”
All four of them blush, “We are,” they say in unison.
They are ridiculously adorable young men. And they apparently love my stories. I relax a little more.
I ask, “You said you have a different way of paying me in mind. What does that mean?”
“That’s a surprise for later,” says Jay. “After the interview.”
Sean clears his throat, “Belly buttons are prominent in pretty much all of your stories. Do you have a belly button fetish?”
I blush again. I do, but do I just admit it? I am a voyeur. A navel gazer. Guys don’t wear crop tops nearly as often as they should. In the summer, I spend as many days off as I can at the beach, just so I can gawk at shirtless guys for hours on end. And while the arms and the pecks are fine, it’s the round innie belly buttons centered in smooth flat skin that fill my memories and fuel my masturbation sessions. I don’t know why I find the navel to be so sexy, I just do.
I simply nod.
All four of them lift their shirts and flash me their bellies. Quinn asks, “Like these?”
My face flushes again and my crotch stirs. This is the kind of thing that I write about. This doesn’t happen to me in real life. All four happen to be round innies of varying depths and hairiness. I hope my sweatpants can conceal the form of my stiffening rod. “Those are very nice,” I say, trying not to drool.
Jay asks, “You dabbled in nonconsent. Is that a fetish too? What’s that about?”
These questions are embarrassing when I’m not so anonymous. I shrug, “It’s definitely a fetish for some. For me, it’s more of a curiosity than a fetish. I just imagine a dude trapped, helpless or in some way at the mercy of others to be a potentially erotic situation. It depends on how it’s written. My little twist is usually that the dominating dude, instead of forcing his sub to do things to him, is more curious about playing with and doing things to the sub.”
I blush as I answer. I’ve never shared my inner fantasies before. Why am I now? Especially when these inner most fantasies are supposed to be anonymous. Right now, I am very exposed.
He nods, “It’s one of your signatures. Whether it’s in the bowling alley, at the gym, with the football team… The way you write it is perfect. You find a balance and exercise restraint. It’s a talent.”
Since they’ve acted out my scenes, I guess they would know.
It’s Seb’s turn, “You like to give sizes in your descriptions. Shoe size, height, weight…” he clears his throat, “…other measurements. Why?”
“It’s just part of the descriptive prose. I like to paint a picture. I like to describe the characteristics that I would hone in on if I were standing in the room.”
“And you like to measure something in particular,” continues Seb. “That’s come up a few times in your stories.”
Jay laughs, “You said it, Seb. The measuring makes it come up.”
I swallow, “My fantasies feature a fair amount of domination, though I think I’m happy to be a third party observer rather than starring in either role. In my mind, the image of a bigger stronger man pulling, tugging and sizing up a smaller dude to me, is an erotic scenario. A side-by-side comparison, judgmental comments, an assessment of masculinity… My most recent story, the one about humiliating the campus security guard, explores the topic on a deeper level. It’s quite different for my other stories and some people might not like it. The MC enjoys being humiliated and dominated. It’s a fetish. He’s a campus security guard and one night… Well, eventually, you’ll read it.”
“Oh, we already read it. We loved it! Eventually, we’ll act it out. Four characters… It’s perfect for us. We can’t wait to get to that one.”
Sean chimes in, “I don’t think it’s that some people didn’t like it. I get why you’d think that. It does push the boundaries and almost no one posted comments about that one, but at the same time, about ten thousand people read it and the rating score is crazy high. I think people loved it but didn’t want to admit it.”
I’d never thought of it like that.
Quinn clears his throat, “We could act out a quick domination scene while we’re here. Jay is the biggest, Sean is the smallest and Seb and I are in the middle. We brought a tape measure. Who do you want to see get wrestled down and measured up?”
Are they serious? They want me to pick one of the four of them to get pinned down, stripped and measured? Right here in my living room? One of my fantasies come to life. These guys make me blush so easily. And Sean shows no shame in being labeled the smallest. He’s who I’d pick if I were picking, but I’m not. I do not reply.
Quinn shrugs, “Maybe later.”
All four of these boys – men – are interested in my every word. No one is taking notes and I’m not being recorded (that I know of). They are just curious.
Seb smiles at me, “We all love all of your stories, but a favorite is Dex and Alfie. We love those guys soooo much. And even their friends too. The sex scene at the end was well worth the wait but who could read that story and not fall in love with those guys? Alfie is adorable and Dex is so sweet with how he sneakily takes care of him. I want Dex to examine my belly weekly and make sure I’m eating enough.”
They all giggle.
“Will you write a sequel? Will we get more Dex and Alfie?”
I shake my head, “Readership drops off in sequels. Less and less people read the subsequent chapters as the story continues. For example, I love Road Trip Part 2. I thought that some of the best stuff I’ve ever written was in there and because it had a part 1, it had a very low number of reads. It bummed me out but I learned to avoid multiple chapters when I can. I’d rather create a new set of characters than pour my heart into something that fewer people read.”
They thoughtfully consider my response. Sean says, “Your Little Guy With a Big Surprise series could only work in multiple chapters.”
“True,” I admit. “But I wrote that a long time ago. I was only just beginning to get into developing characters at that time.”
“Another favorite is Zack, Luke and Ben,” says Seb.
The other three utter their agreement.
Jay says, “Luke is the guy who should be everyone’s best friend. And, I love the supporting characters too. How awesome was Zack’s brother Noah? And his co-worker Gio cracked me up. And when his mom showed signs of coming around at the end? Who could read that and not need a whole box of tissues?”
“I was in physical pain during the scene at the log cabin,” says Sean, “but I knew somehow that it was Luke who would come rescue Zack. And he did! But Jay’s right. I went through a shit-ton of Kleenex.”
Quinn asks, “Where does a story like that come from?”
“No one place. From knowing my co-workers and imagining their lives, from reading books, from watching the news… One tiny morsel can ruminate into a full story idea. Sometimes I either don’t know or don’t remember where an initial idea came from. A couple of times, it started with something from a dream.”
Seb observes, “Even in stories that do not start out as obvious love stories, you sneak in some heart and before you know it, it ends in a satisfying HEA that both comes out of nowhere while being realistic at the same time. Like Bowling Alley Bullies. That story seemed to be about one thing, but satisfyingly turned into something completely different. Also, The Test Subject is the same kind of thing. It started out as a cold, clinical experiment and became a love story right before our surprised eyes. It’s another signature mark of yours.”
Sean crosses his legs, “The Football Team one gave me a raging erection from the beginning and it lasted for hours after I finished reading. But I was also uncomfortable the whole time. I mean, I guess it accomplished what you set out to accomplish. Bad guys ended up being good guys. And in the end it was all a dream…or was it? It was devilishly masterful.”
I shrug, “I’m not so sure about masterful. Once I get an idea, I almost have to write the story. My brain won’t stop thinking about it until I get it all out.”
Jay says, “I know the guys in The Surprise Weekend Visitor are older than us, but that’s one of my favorites too. Felix’s vulnerability is beautiful. Elena is my hero. And the twist at the end with the ID in his wallet with the whole Miguel/Ramon thing… I never saw that coming. I loved it. It was so different from most of your other stuff. Where did that one come from?”
“I was listening to music one night with my eyes closed and headphones on. A song by Keane came on: Strange Room. It’s about being devastated after a breakup. A few lines from the song inspired scenes from the story: A pint set on the piano. By the open window. Your arm around my shoulder. One song after another. But those are memories because his love is already gone. Those few lines from that obscure song inspired my story.”
Quinn says, “Speaking of older types, A New Start With an Old Friend has a twist at the end too. And I love those guys as much as any of your characters. They just belong together.”
Wow. It’s ten years after high school in that story. Twenty-eight is “older” to these guys? I shake my head.
Seb claps his hands together, “The elephant in the room is your three deleted installments of Just For the Week. We’ve only been reading you for the past two years; we discovered you in college. You had already pulled the offending chapters down before we were aware of your stories. Some of the reader’s comments at the end of chapter 3 illuded to the fact that more of the story had once existed. We eventually decided to email you directly and beg and plead for the missing chapters. Thank you for emailing them to Sean. We all read the full story and we have differing opinions about how you chose to wrap things up for Jack and Tyson.”
“‘Differing opinions’ would be a mild way of describing the reactions of my followers. Actually, they weren’t so differing. They were 95% in agreement that my ending was wrong and that I suck as a human being.”
Sean is sincere when he says, “You should take it all as the highest compliment. You made tens of thousands of people fall in love with those characters. You took them all on an emotional ride that they will never forget. The anger was because you made them care so much. And whether the reader likes how you resolved things or not, it was suspenseful and masterfully written. A brilliant work to be proud of.”
I get a little lump in my throat. “I’m glad you liked it and it was fun to write, but ‘brilliant’ is an absurd overstatement.”
“It’s not, though,” Quinn says. “Even if the ending was wrong.”
Jay elbows him, “It wasn’t wrong. I liked the ending. I didn’t expect it, but I liked it.”
Seb says, “Tell us the story. How did it all start and why did it end like it did?”
I’ve never really explained any of this on the forum. When the nasty comments became too hurtful and too much, I just pulled the stories. I made them disappear. I look at these four kids sitting across from me in my own living room. Their eyes are kind. These are good kids. I decided shortly after they arrived that as unlikely and unbelievable as their story is, that I believe them. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true. I have a small group of superfans and they are sitting across from me. They are not here to cause me harm of any kind. Why not tell them the story?
I take in a deep breath. “More than four years ago, I’d never written a thing in my life, but I’d always been a big reader. I’ve averaged two books a month since I was just a kid. I mostly read Mysteries and Psychological Thrillers. About five years ago, I was in the book store during pride month and a table of Young Adult Gay Fiction caught my eye. When I myself was a Young Adult way back when, there were not a ton of Young Adult books at all, not to mention gay YA books. It’s a different world today. Seeing that display made me feel good. And curious. I picked up a book by Becky Albertalli and I bought it. I read it and I loved it. I went back to the store and bought six more YA gay fiction books and devoured them, It was my new guilty pleasure. I discovered Adam Silvera and several others.”
I cross one leg over the other, “And then I read one, the author and title are irrelevant, that I thought had potential but was not particularly well executed and by the end I thought, I could have written it better myself. The book I read was a twist on a fake-dating kind of a story. But the whole premise to me was weak. It could have been great , but it kind of sucked. I thought of my own foundation for a story that might throw two unlikely boys together for a week and over the course of that week… Well, you know what happens. You’ve read my stories.”
They remain quiet and I continue, “So, in my mind, I had a whole outline of characters and events and then I just started writing. The whole story just popped out of me in no time at all. I had written my own original teen gay fiction book. I was inspired by a bad book I’d read, but the characters, the premise – it was all mine. I researched how to get a book published and learned that the process begins by getting an agent. I naively thought that the choice would be mine. Agents would be lined up and I would get to pick from a crowd. I was wrong. I wrote a Query letter and started emailing like crazy. I got a few polite rejections but mostly no response at all.”
I uncross my legs, “Meanwhile I’m reading more and more YA books and suddenly I convince myself that my own creation is not good enough. I liked my basic premise, but it wasn’t special. Nothing was unique. Nothing to differentiate it from anything else out there. So, I left it alone, hiding in a dark corner of my laptop. But I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the actual writing process. This was when I first started writing my own erotic stories as Str8SensitiveGuy. People actually were reading what I was writing. Thousands of people. And while I certainly believe that I’ve improved and grown since my early works, I received almost all positive ratings and comments from the beginning.”
Thanks for reading pls vote or comment “And well-deserved,” says Quinn.
“It gave me more gratification than anything else I ever did in my life. I put my heart into writing these stories and when they mean something special to people, it just means the world to me. But now that I had the writing bug, I wanted to give writing a novel another try. So I did. An adult mystery novel. I queried it with literary agents and heard nothing but crickets. But I thought it was good. Better, in fact than most books I’d read in a year. It’s just that when the pandemic hit, everyone was stuck at home and people rediscovered the joy of reading – which is great! But they also discovered the joy of writing and literary agents are now flooded with thousands of queries that they’ll never even look at. If you have no connections, no way in – which I don’t – then it’s impossible.”
“That’s not fair,” Jay commiserates.
I shrug, “I just finished putting it out on the site. It’s my new Mystery Admirer series. If I couldn’t get it published, I could still have an appreciative audience. I added in the erotic dream scenes and spiced up the Brock and William bedroom scene from the original writing. And the scene near the end when the Mystery Person is finally revealed. It is an erotic site, after all.”
Quinn is excited, “So awesome! It was an epic story! And you did publish it!”
I sigh, “It’s not… Well, yes. But it would have been nice to be really published. While I love this site, I also love the idea of a real book. I’m not going to stop writing, even if it’s just for me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my Jack and Tyson story, hiding like a punished child in a timeout. I was right that the book alone wasn’t good enough to be a YA novel, but I still liked those characters. I thought that I could maybe scrap it for parts. Break it up and use it’s pieces in a new story. It occurred to me that I could jump ahead in time to adulthood. What if Jack and Tyson were forced to break up? What if Tyson left Jack and disappeared, but never explained why? Why would he do that? The main character had his heart broken at the age of eighteen, never learned why and never recovered from the devastation.”
They don’t interrupt me. All four of them are riveted.
“That would be the premise for my new idea. A guy wakes up the morning of his thirtieth birthday and decides to reclaim his life. He has spent twelve years hiding from real life, burying himself in his work and allowing no one to get close to him. He went away for college and never came home because Tyson is presumably there somewhere. Tyson has changed his name and is in hiding, but he does exist. And there’s something else. Jack realizes that a chunk of his memory from twelve years ago is missing. It’s just gone. And that missing day is the day before Tyson sent that break-up email.”
Seb says, “So he goes home after twelve years of staying away. He wants to start living his life again.”
Sean adds, “Which he can’t do until he gets closure from what happened all those years ago. But to get closure, he has to find out what happened in his repressed memories. And learning that means finding Tyson, who for unknown reasons, does not want to be found.”
“Right,” I smile at my smart admirers. “He goes home at age thirty and reconnects with an old friend from high school – Matthew. Matthew is a sweet, gentle soul who wants to help Jack rediscover his memories, but is worried about what might be lurking beneath. Still, he understands that Jack has to find Tyson, so he volunteers to help. Matthew suggests to Jack that maybe if he tells him his whole story, it will help trigger a memory. Or maybe a fresh set of ears will consider things from a new perspective.”
Quinn’s eyes get wide, “Matthew? There was a Matthew in Mystery Admirer. He was a major character. Is he the same Matthew?”
I nod, “I wrote Mystery Admirer first, and I dusted him off and continued his story with Jack in the later chapters of Just For the Week.”
“So this is where you weave in your original Just For the Week fragments,” says Jay. “The high school Inclusion Week stuff which is suddenly twelve years in the past.”
“Yes. Jack tells Matthew the whole story – how Jack and Tyson met, became a faux couple for Inclusion Week, faced adversity and ultimately fell in love. The story is told to the reader in spurts as Jack tells it to Matthew over the course of several days. But the real story is what is happening in the present as thirty year olds. The flash backs from twelve years ago were just supporting chapters to validate Jack’s broken heart and broken life. The real story was supposed to be how along this journey of discovering what happened with Tyson and why, Jack and Matthew develop complicated feelings for each other and begin to fall in love.”
Seeing it now, Quinn says, “He ultimately finds Tyson, but so much time had passed. Too much.”
“Yes again. Jack never knew the reason why Tyson left him. Did Tyson just decide that Jack wasn’t good enough for him? So when he finally learned the truth of what happened on his missing day – there was a traumatic event, perpetrated by Jack, wrapped up in mutual saving – he finally realized that he had repressed the memory as a form of self-preservation. But still concerned, Tyson did some research into dissociation and repression and learned that something later could trigger those long gone memories. Triggers could be sights, smells, sounds…”
“Or people,” says Jay. “Tyson disappeared because he thought he could eventually be Jack’s trigger. If Jack remembered what he’d done, it would ruin his life. And the rest of Jack’s life was more important than the love between Jack and Tyson. Tyson never fell out of love with Jack. He left him in the greatest act of selfless love ever known to man. He didn’t leave him to hurt him. He left him to save him.”
Quinn sits up straighter, “Jack finally learns the truth about what Tyson did, what he sacrificed, but then he doesn’t leap into Tyson’s arms. They don’t gallop off into a happily ever after.” He wipes a tear from his eye, “How could you have not written it that way?”
Jay puts a consoling arm around Quinn, “Because too much time had passed. As much as those two will always love each other, they weren’t the same people anymore. They were thirty, not eighteen. And the new life he was building with Matthew was real.”
I really could have used Jay’s rational perspective a couple years ago when I needed it most.
I say, “I wanted the adult Jack to have an impossible decision to make that would split the readers down the middle. The readers would have been right there with Jack as he fell in love both times to two different great guys, twelve years apart. Everyone would pick a team. Team Matthew or Team Tyson. I knew it was risky. Either way he went, half of the readers would be mad. And I honestly didn’t know who Jack would choose until I got to that point in the writing. His choice almost surprised me too.”
“Did you publish this book?” asks Seb.
I shake my head, “Not for a lack of trying. I really liked my novel when I finished it. Queries were unsuccessful. I thought, no one will ever read my part psychological thriller about repressed memories and part gay romance triangle with these three lovely guys. And then I had the idea to take just the original YA book part of the story; the twelve years ago part with Jack and Tyson and put it up as a series from Str8SensitiveGuy. I trimmed out some excess fat and added in some erotic dreams and the sex scene at the end so it would qualify as an erotic story. People still complained that there wasn’t enough sex.”
Quinn scoffs, “What do people know? You knew it was coming and it was totally worth the wait.”
“But that wasn’t their main complaint. I wrote Matthew as such a sweet, gentle, kind and loving man. Wow, did readers hate him! I knew people loved Jack and Tyson together, but I did not see this reaction coming. Matthew had death threats in some of the comments that I deleted.”
“No way!” exclaims Sean.
“A few threatened to cause me harm too,” I continue. “Over time, I realized my mistake. The way I wrote the novel, it began with the broken thirty year old Jack who was hiding from life, afraid to let anyone in. He reconnects with Matthew, who kindly helps him and heals him and they slowly fall in love while on this journey. It’s during this journey that the readers learn of Tyson and of their love from all those years earlier. In the book, you know Matthew before you know Tyson. You see how great Matthew is as he helps to heal his old friend. The readers fall in love with and root for Jack and Matthew before Tyson is even introduced.”
“But no one would ever read the book,” Sean observes sadly.
“Right. In my short stories online, it’s the opposite. Matthew barely exists in the first three chapters and when he comes in later, it’s too late. You’re already all-in on Jack and Tyson. I could have made Matthew save the world from blowing up and my Jack and Tyson fans would still have hated Matthew.” I sigh, “I originally planned on only the Inclusion Week story but the people demanded more. When I introduced Matthew in chapter four, he was perceived to be a villain. I was surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. I should have just kept it to the original three chapters and stopped. It was my own fault.”
Quinn looks me right in the eyes, “Thank you for telling us. I know I said Jack chose wrong before, but now I’m not so sure. I understand Matthew better now. Is there any chance you’d let us read your full novel? Like, email us the file?”
It’s not like anyone else will ever read it. It’s just on my laptop collecting virtual dust. I tell him, “Sure. I’ll send the document to the same email address.”
“How many full novels have you written?” asks Seb.
“Five, if I count Just For the Week separately. I’ve come to realize that my books are just for me. They’re gonna have to be. I’ve taken some of the characters and situations in them as inspiration for some of the relationships and plots in my erotic stories, but the full original novels? No one will ever read them.”
“That’s so sad,” says Jay.
“Well, now we know that Mystery Admirer is one of those five novels. And Just For the Week,” says Sean.
“I guess that’s true. And really, it’s the comments and feedback from readers like you that sustains me anyway. I live for it.”
“We can tell,” says Seb. “That’s partly why we’re here.”
They all lean forward and suddenly the room feels smaller.
“Let me ask you,” Seb continues. “Your 1980s Prom story. Was that the story of your prom? Did you dance with a boy? Did you kiss a boy in front of everyone? Did you kiss a boy while hiding out in the choir room? Or in his bedroom after school while you were supposed to be working on math homework? At least tell me the hole in your sock was real and he stuck his finger in and gave you a quick tickle.”
I look down at my feet, “That wasn’t my life.”
“It could have been,” Sean says. “You need to know that your stories aren’t just for entertainment. Being a much-needed escape from daily life alone is a huge thing, but it’s so much more than that. Even if it’s only a handful of the people who read your stuff, your stories make them braver and stronger in their lives. And among those inspired to live their truths by your stories are the four of us.”
These guys keep making me blush like I’m still their age.
“You’ve published forty stories. More than half of them involve first times, friendship, first loves, coming out…”
“I do fear that I’m repeating myself. Is it time to stop? Maybe the well has run dry. Am I telling the same story over and over again in different settings with different character names?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sean corrects. “Never stop. People escape into joyful bliss reading your works. Keep them coming. I just meant that it seems like by writing repeatedly on this topic that maybe you…”
“Are you ‘out’?” asks Jay. “With your real name in your real life? Are you ‘out’ with family, friends, coworkers?”
I don’t owe them this answer. I don’t owe them anything. I say nothing.
Quinn says, “You’ve never had your own first time, have you? You’ve never had real love in your life. Not the kind of love you’re hardwired for. It’s never happened for you. You write these stories to vicariously live the life you wish you could have lived.”
My eyes mist up and my throat tightens. “Life is a series of choices. I made my choices and I made peace with them long ago.”
Seb lets a tear roll down his cheek, “Please tell me you’ve at least kissed a boy. That there’s been something,” he pleads.
I sniff and wipe my eye with my sleeve, “I think I’ve answered all of your questions.”
They don’t stand. They don’t leave. Sean reminds me, “We haven’t paid you yet.”
“You know what? You four seem like fine young men. Knowing that you’ve enjoyed my writings and that they meant something to you is all the payment I need. Let’s call us even. Besides, talking through my catalogue of stories with you has made me remember how I felt when I wrote them. That alone is a gift. I don’t want your money, which works out well since you don’t have any.”
“You didn’t let us tell you how we intend to pay you,” Jay points out.
“What did you have in mind?” I swipe away another tear.
“You know how we told you we’re in the process of acting out your scenes?” asks Sean.
“Yeah.”
“We want to act one out with you,” he says. “You choose the scene and you choose the role you play.”
I scoff, “You’re joking.”
“We’ve never been more serious,” says Quinn.
“Why?”
“Everyone deserves their first time,” says Jay.
“I am significantly older than you.”
“So?” Quinn scoffs. “Age is just a number. I look at you and I just see a healthy, good-looking man. That’s what we all see. You answered our questions and you honestly helped me with my own writing aspirations. Whether you want to call it payment or not, we decided before we came here that we wanted to do this for you. You’ve given tens of thousands of readers so much with your beautiful stories. We’re going to give you an experience back.”
“You decided this before you even met me?”
It’s Sean’s turn to scoff, “We might have just met you, but we’ve known you for two years. You put parts of yourself into your characters. You are Luke, Zack, Jack, Tyson, Matthew, Felix, Miguel, Tommy, Shane, Cam, Dex, Alfie, Brock and all of the others too. We could tell that you were living through them and we want you to have a little life of your own. Something real to remember. We’re not here to attack you.”
Seb adds, “Like Jay said, you pick the scene and you pick the role you play. You lived these scenes in your imagination and in print. It’s time to live one of them in real life.”
Jay says, “So what will it be? We can be the football team and we can size you up.” He grins at me.
I grin back, “I can save you some time here and eliminate everything with a tickle torture sequence.”
Still grinning, “Don’t knock it until you try it.” He winks at me. “Or you could be the football team.”
“Still a No.”
“Then I’m guessing you don’t want to wear a ski mask and be wrestled and tickled into submission in front of thousands of screaming fans.”
Now I full out laugh. “Probably not. And I don’t want to be the Terrible Tickler either.”
“You mean the Torturous Tickler,” corrects Seb.
Is that what I named him? “That doesn’t sound better.”
He giggles, “Have you ever played strip bowling? Have you been locked in a deserted bowling alley during a snowstorm and tickled, jerked and sucked until you were no longer a virgin?”
All five of us laugh.
I say, “That one won’t work. None of us are redheads.”
“And it’s not snowing outside.” Sean says, “But seriously. Who’s it gonna be? Ricky and Timmy – the ’80s prom guys? Felix and Miguel? Zack and Luke? Jack and Tyson? Dex and Alfie? We would need some Mexican cornbread.”
Quinn suggests, “It could be fun if you were the Str8 Guy and we played Max, the gay roommate you lose the bet to.”
My cheeks turn pink because I have something else in mind. I say, “How about Alex and Mac from A New Start With an Old Friend? The scene in their hotel room.” I kind of can’t believe that I’m so easily going along with this.
All four of them grin. Jay says, “Nice choice, but I’m a little surprised. Neither of those guys are first-timers. You very much are.”
I consider his point, “But it’s the first time the two of them are together.” I shrug, “It’s what came to mind.”
Seb asks, “You’ll be Alex?”
I nod sheepishly. “That story is a repurposed version of the older Jack and Matthew without the Tyson history. Alex is Jack and Mac is Matthew. A New Start With an Old Friend is basically a few chapters pulled from the book.”
“That tracks,” says Jay thoughtfully. “I can’t wait to read the whole novel.”
“Do I pick which one of you will be Mac?” I ask.
Sean smiles, “No. The question is which one of us will play Mac first? We all get to take a turn.”
“What! No way! Four times? There’s a difference between roleplaying a twentysomething and being one. My Little Man would be lucky to come back to life a second time in one night. Four times might kill me. It won’t happen.”
“For tonight, you are twenty-eight like Alex. You’ll be up for it. You’ll see. And if you need to be coaxed a little along the way, let’s just say we’re talented at coaxing.”
I am already starting to be ‘up for it’ and nothing’s even happened yet. The emerging bump in my crotch is becoming evident through my sweatpants and it does not go unnoticed by my new young friends. They seem to approve.
“It looks like ‘coaxing’ won’t be necessary to start,” observes Seb. “You’re not old. You’re not even twice our age.”
I guess my doctor was right about that fifteen years thing because these kids are way off with their math. By a lot. Shouldn’t they realize that a couple of my stories flash back to the ’80s for a reason? My youngest son is a couple years older than these guys. But I don’t point any of this out.
Quinn kneels at the foot of my recliner and eases my untied high-tops off my feet. He gives each foot a gentle massage and it occurs to me that none of these four guys were even born yet the last time someone other than me touched my feet. The bump in my crotch only gets… Bumpier.
All four of them step out of their shoes and they lead me back to my bedroom.
Quinn directs, “The scene begins with Alex wearing only boxers and a t-shirt while Mac is on the bed stripped down to just his briefs.”
All four of them undress simultaneously and the sight of these four beautiful young men close to naked in my bedroom is almost too much. My heart is pounding. Who am I? What is happening here? This is not my life. This can’t be real. Even if nothing else were to happen tonight – even if the four of them walked out and left right now – what I just witnessed is burned on my brain and will be fuel for masturbation for the rest of my life. My mouth is agape and they all wait, expectantly. Eight eyes and four perfect belly buttons are staring at me.
Since I am frozen in place, Sean steps up to me and pulls off my hoodie. He tells me to relax and I do. Well, in most places I do. When he begins to untie the drawstring of my sweatpants, I become the opposite of relaxed between my legs. Suddenly my sweatpants are dropped to my ankles and I step out of them. I am not even ashamed of the tentpole in my underwear.
It seems Sean is Mac first because he lies down. Okay. I have snapped out of my reverie and I remember I have a role to play. Four times. I jump on his legs and begin tickling his bare feet, just like Alex does in the story. He threads his arms through mine and pulls me backwards onto the mattress before slipping out from underneath and pinning my wrists high over my head. His free hand finds its way under my t-shirt and onto my bare stomach, making me tremble in fear and delight, but he doesn’t tickle me. He kisses me. My first kiss. He whispers in my ear for the first of what will allegedly be four times tonight, “It’s always been you, Alexander.”
Thanks for reading pls vote or comment These guys know my stories well. Every word, every movement… Perfection. I am already close to full erection. I have finally kissed a boy and it felt like coming home. It felt so right, so safe and so beautiful. I could just keep doing this for hours.
He kisses me again. He pulls off my shirt and stares down at my naked upper body with lust in his eyes. I’m glad I work hard to stay in shape. He says, “I could look at your body all night.”
Sean is a good actor. Very believable. I have to remind myself that what he is saying is from a memorized script.
Seb giggles from the sidelines, “You have a nice innie too. Of course you would.”
That is not in the story and Quinn scolds, “Shut up Seb. The scene is in progress.”
But I don’t mind the unsolicited compliment. It’s as good as a comment at the end of a story.
Sean (I mean Mac) kneels above me. I look at the flawless man towering over me. I reach out to touch him and he grabs at my wrist to stop me, “We’re gonna go slow,” he tells me from right out of my story. “We have all night.” He instructs me to grab ahold of the headboard and to not let go. I do as I’m told. We are fully in character now.
~~
He starts his fingers up at my wrists and slowly glides down my inner arms. My whole body pops with goosebumps. As he gets to my arm pits, he strokes gently and I quiver at his caressing touch. His glide continues down my ribcage and down my sides, all the way to the waistband of my boxer briefs. He makes two 90 degree turns and his fingertips stroke my lower abdomen. I involuntarily quiver some more. My stomach is my most vulnerable, sensitive spot, but Mac still isn’t tickling me.
He places both hands palms down on my stomach and slides up, like he’s smoothing out sand on the beach. He leans down and kisses me again, this time parting my lips and finding my tongue with his. Mac tastes amazing. He tastes good, he smells good, he feels good… I want to wrap myself around this perfect man on top of me, but I keep ahold of the headboard, not defying my instructions.
He lowers his weight onto me and the kissing intensifies. We kiss and kiss and kiss some more. It’s wet and sloppy and the most amazing hour of my life so far, although I suspect its crown will be lost to the next hour that’s about to follow.
He slides his mouth across my cheek and down to my ear, giving me a fresh round of goosebumps. His tongue travels to my neck where he stops for almost too much kissing, licking and sucking. I never knew how sensitive my neck was. At this point, anywhere Mac touches me with any part of him, I pretty much turn to goo.
He lifts his weight back onto his knees and his warm, wet sucking mouth finds my chin and begins a long southward journey. By the time he’s down to my Adam’s Apple, his hands fumble around down below until his thumbs hook under the waistband of my boxer briefs. Suddenly my underwear is around my ankles and my erection has sprung free.
His mouth is past my neck and at the top of my sternum when one of his strong, rough hands grips my shaft. I gasp from the shock. Mac does not hurry. The descent of his mouth is long and slow as he continues to stroke my throbbing cock.
When he finally reaches my navel, he takes even more time. Like I’m a sampling platter he ordered off a tasting menu, he kisses, nuzzles and sucks all around. Aside from physical sensations, Mac is making me feel desired…wanted…lusted after…loved. A few hours ago, I figured I’d live my whole life without ever knowing such feelings.
Finally, he resumes his southbound journey. His gripping hand releases me, but that warm, wet mouth takes me in. I’m not particularly large, but I’m not small either. Mac has no trouble taking all of my length in as his lips and nose press into my pubic hair. One of his hands begins to stroke my scrotum and my eyes roll back into my head.
Suddenly, he’s doing something different. I don’t know what it is or how he’s doing it. He still has my whole length enveloped and his tongue is pressed against my sensitive underside. His tongue begins to ripple and roll like magic fingers in a massage chair. How is he doing this? I never dreamed that sensations like this existed. Mac has had me more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. I can’t hold out any longer. I’m about to explode, literally. I want to grab the back of Mac’s head and entangle my fingers in his hair, but instead I grip the headboard tighter.
I let out a warning moan, alerting Mac to the tsunami that’s about to follow. Mac does not stop. His relentless tongue action continues all through the most intense orgasm of my life. My body rocks and quakes and my toes curl as Mac sucks me dry.
Mac is back to a kneeling position and he’s grinning as he peers down at me. His three friends stand beside the bed and grin down too. I’m still gasping for breath and my body still racks sporadically as I slowly come down from my natural high. “Alexander, you are the most beautiful man alive.”
~~
And then they go off script. One of them holds my hands still while another pulls out a cloth tape measure.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
After this intense experience, my poor underused dick was flopping there comatose in a refractory state. The sight of the cloth tape measure has the blood rushing back to my no longer lifeless member.
Sean says, “You have measurement scenes in enough of your stories that we thought you’d appreciate being sized up by a group of guys.”
I don’t want to appreciate it. I want to tell them to put that thing away, but Sean is right. This is another little fantasy come true. My quickly stiffening cock wants to be measured so who am I to argue? I already know I’m just a smidge above average. It’s just that having four hot young guys assessing me, grabbing me, bending me, examining me… I’m at full erection once more. It is like I’m twenty again. Multiple hands grapple at my shaft as the measuring strap gets pressed against me. I almost blow a second load. I am told that I come in at five and three quarter inches. Not so coincidentally, that is what I had written in for Alex in the story.
And then, just for fun, they tell me to measure each of them. It doesn’t take long because all five of us are rock hard. Sean is the smallest at six inches, Jay is the biggest at seven and a half and Quin and Seb fall neatly in between the two extremes. I was probably eighteen the last time I was this turned on with an hours-long hardon. And I still have more hours ahead of me.
Seb is up next. He lies down on the bed and tells me to put my t-shirt and boxers back on. It’s his turn to play Mac and we’re taking it from the top. I couldn’t be more ready. One down and three to go. I think I will be up for all four rounds. This is turning out to be the night of my life.
~~
They ended up staying overnight. I couldn’t send them out into the cold night with little money and no booked hotel. Two of them stayed in my guest bedroom, one slept on the couch and one in my recliner. We had ordered pizza and stayed up talking most of the night. I felt like one of the group. Because I work with young people and I write about young people, I feel young. I thought I’d be exhausted after all of the sex, but I was wide awake. I was alive.
The whole experience was weird. It was weird because it wasn’t weird. Since we were acting out prewritten scenes, even though my multiple orgasms were very real, the emotions were not. It was like reading words on a page. The lust and passion were as contrived as the characters of Alexander and Mac. I went in understanding and accepting that. We were actors and afterward, there was no awkwardness. It was a thing that we did and it was over now, though I’ll remember every single second of it forever. And that’s the gift they wanted to give me. Or the payment I earned, I suppose.
When it finally came time to say goodbye, we hugged like old friends. That’s how I’ll think of them, as friends. Young friends I’ll probably never hear from again, but that’s okay. They got what they needed and so did I. It seems Quinn is an aspiring writer and this road trip for them was his idea. He wanted to pick my brain. And they paid me for my time not with money that I didn’t need, but with experience I might never otherwise have gotten. On his way out, Quinn told me, “I wish you a lifetime of real life.”
I knew what he was implying and under the circumstances, it was the nicest sweetest thing he could have said. I don’t think his wish for me will come true. Or maybe someday it will. Maybe someday I’ll be brave. I’ll see where life takes me in my second half. Maybe one day I’ll call that friend who is all those states away.
Closing the door behind them, I realize that I never even learned their real names. I still only know them as Sean, Seb, Jay and Quinn, the characters in my Road Trip story. I kind of like the idea of not knowing who or where they are and at the same time knowing that they know exactly who and where I am. It’s kind of thrilling. Maybe I do like the powerless feeling some of my characters experience. At least a little bit. Will they continue to comment on my future stories? Will that be the extent of my future interactions with those guys? Will they come visit me again someday? Unplanned and uninvited? Will this visit ultimately give me the courage to come out and live the rest of my life as it was meant to be lived?
Time will tell.
I really should go out. I really should try to meet some new people. But where would I go? Who is out there to meet? And why am I hiding? For my parents? For my kids? What about me? Does what I want mean nothing? And what do I even want? Do I deserve to be happy? And if so, what would even make me happy? I live my life without the love and the touch of another. Is it circumstance or is it my choice? My fault? A gush of shame washes over me. Has anyone in the history of the world ever been less true to himself than me?
Then the shame is replaced by resolve. I’ve made a decision. I want more of what I had last night, but I want it to be real; I want it to mean something. I pull out my laptop. I think again about the websites and the apps that are designed to help people like me to find other people like me. But what does “people like me” even mean? Mature gay men? Closeted gay men? Surely there are a million other guys who also never came out. Never? Will I really never come out? Is this how I will live the rest of my life? I feel like I’m at the brink of tears.
I suck in a deep breath and type in a Google search. The top result is what I’m looking for. My erotic stories site. I log into my account. I scour all of my stories for any new comments left by new readers since my last login. I’m pleased to find one praising me for my 1980s prom night tale. When the reader tells me that I drove him crazy with the hole in Timmy’s sock causing Ricky to tickle his foot, my little pecker begins to wake up. This is my life. My truest self lives vicariously through made up stories under a fake username. I make things happen on paper, not in real life. My door may never be knocked on again. Am I weak and scared? My life is the consequence of previous choices. Bad choices. Wrong decisions.
When I was young, I did not understand my attraction to other boys. It made no sense to me. I figured my feelings were simply wrong. Maybe if I had lived near The Village in New York City or in San Francisco… But I didn’t. It felt like I was the only one in the world who felt the way I felt. It wasn’t how I was ‘supposed’ to feel. It wasn’t how anyone else seemed to feel. I must have been confused over strange feelings that I had to tamp down and ignore. So no, I was never brave. Not then and not now.
But I have an active imagination.
I open a blank Word document. The events of yesterday will make for a great story. For the first time ever, a work of non-fiction rather than fantasy. I hope my readers like it. I hope they leave the comments I crave. The comments I need. The comments that feed my soul. I live for those comments. I will not be going out to a bar or swiping right on Tinder. I will continue to live my life through the stories and characters I make up. I start to type:
Four good looking college aged guys knock on my apartment door. They must be lost, but they don’t look lost. And they know who I am…
I write all day and I have a bit of an erection the whole time. I hope my readers are ready because Str8SensitiveGuy is about to post a new story! An autobiographical story. Is it at least slight progress that this one is a true story? Is this a new beginning?
Probably not.
And so it goes.
Another Note From the Author: The thing about writing fiction is that no one knows how much truth is put into it. How much of this story is the real me? None of it? All of it? Maybe something in between? Only I know for sure. I do crave the comments. I will keep the stories coming.
Thanks for reading pls vote or comment