Domenic is in my bed. There are maybe four other people passed out in my bedroom. Another failed attempt at a post Thirsty Thursday orgy.
“You’re not gonna make me get wood,” he says.
I’m playing with his cock, which is shockingly, disappointingly small. Normally cock size doesn’t really matter to me, but I’d always imagined Domenic’s cock to be perfect. A fat, red beer can cock, not too long, but thick. A rhino’s horn, curving up. I’ve been lusting after Dom since I was a freshman, this short-ish, stocky Italian-American guy with dark sleepy eyes and bee-stung lips. Everyone says he’s dirty, he’s been around, but to my mind that just makes him sexier. Lazily sexy. Dom looks like sex to me, and I’d imagined his sexual prowess to be a fucking force of nature.
Dom is straight. I have no idea why he’s letting me play with his cock, but he doesn’t seem nervous or freaked out or anything. Maybe he’s just really drunk.
You’re not gonna make me get wood. It’s less a warning and more like he’s reassuring himself. I take it as a challenge. I start sucking his cock and rubbing his hairy taint, expecting him to pull away at any moment. But he doesn’t. I take his balls into my mouth and squeeze his shaft. It begins to stiffen. I’m hoping that he’s bigger when he’s erect, but as his cock gets harder I can see that’s not the case.
“That looks like wood to me.” I smile at him. He doesn’t say anything, so I start blowing him again. My own cock is straining against my jeans, hard and, I can feel, dripping pre-cum, but I don’t take it out.
I’m massaging his taint and I keep expecting him to shift subtly away, or tell me to stop as my fingers move closer to his asshole. But he doesn’t. I reach that puckered button of flesh, smelling of hair and faintly, sweetly, of carrion, and I rub it gently with the pad of my finger. Dom spreads his legs ever so slightly wider. I put my middle finger into my mouth, wetting it, and when I touch his hole again, it slips in easily.
Domenic’s friends—good natured, crumudgeonly hippie guys, comic book intellectuals—joke about him being gay and I’ve never really understood why. Of all of them, he’s certainly the most attractive, the only one without a beard or a beer belly or dirty, unkempt hair. He cares about his appearance, but not in an overly metrosexual kind of way. He’s a sweet guy, really; they all are. But I’d never describe him as overly sensitive, or particularly in touch with his feminine side. And yet here he is, getting his cock sucked by another guy, getting his ass fingered. I wonder if it was something his friends picked up on, something they’re more attuned to, like gaydar for straight guys. Maybe this sort of thing has happened before. Maybe his friends’ gay jokes have become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I’m stroking him, sucking him, moving my finger so gently inside him. I want to see him cum so badly. I want to see him lose control, those pillowy red lips gasping. His eyes are closed, but I know he hasn’t passed out. His cock is still hard. Still, I can’t tell if he’s actually enjoying this.
And then he asks me if I want him to fuck me.
I think about taking him into my bathroom, away from our other four sleeping friend, and getting into the shower with him. I think about my body and I think about the sort of bodies he wants. Women’s bodies. I wonder if whatever is driving him here in the dark, in my bed, could survive the awkward logistics of trying to fuck. And it occurs to me for some reason that he’s doing this for me. That he’s not simply drunk and horny, but that he may think he’s being kind to me by letting me suck his cock. That he’s enduring this, going through the motions because he’s fond of me, because we’re friends, and why not?
I want him to fuck me. I want him to stay with me, wrap his arms around me after we’ve cum. I want to lay my head on his chest and sleep. But fucking would cross a line, somehow. What we’re doing now is fun, playful. Even fingering his ass feels like no big deal. It friendly. Fucking would be too intense, too intimate. I know I shouldn’t take this any further, and I actually don’t want to.
“You should go,” I say, running my fingers through his bush, over his belly, in his chest hair. I don’t want to let him go, this perfect example of everything that I want.
He gets dressed and I wake up the other four.
It is never weird between us after that night. When we see each other at bars and at parties he doesn’t avoid me. He always treats me like a favorite younger brother and I love him even more for that. But we never mention that night, ever again.
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