I’m sitting at my desk, stoned and horny and cruising the Internet for guys in the empty bedroom I use as an office in my apartment on Market Street and Mendenhall in Greensboro, NC. I’ve been smoking pot a lot more lately, at home, on my own, watching Adult Swim and endless reruns of Family Guy. I can already feel boredom pushing me out of this town. Suffocating, claustrophobic boredom that keeps me up all night looking at photos of gay guys who stay home because there’s nothing to do even on a Friday night in Greensboro.
Chase is online. We’re chatting and I’m suddenly more horny than bored.
He’d approached me in a diner one night a couple months back, in the wee hours of Monday morning after a Sunday night spent dancing to 80s music at Sky Bar with my friend Michael—my freshman year roommate, a former rival and now my favorite going-out buddy. I’d felt exhilarated when the DJ played “Dancing Queen,” drunk as I was, probably on cosmos or dirty martinis, though it’s hard to remember what I drank in those days, and entirely self-possessed. I’d smiled at Michael and shouted over the music, something like, “Imagine how much less fun we’d have if we were straight!” We’d left the club at 3a.m. happy to be ourselves, by ourselves.
But then, an hour later, in this diner off of Wendover—why were we so far from downtown at that hour?—this boy who I’d met earlier that night, and who, Michael had informed me, had a distracting lazy eye that I still couldn’t detect, was approaching me. It struck me as brave. I could almost feel the rush of adrenaline, the plunge when you find yourself moving from contemplation to irrevocable action. I felt myself as a wall he was confronting, and I decided not to make this hard for him.
Chase asked for my phone number and called me the following week. We went on a couple dates, and then ended up in bed together. He’d made it clear at some point, I don’t exactly remember how, that he was a bottom. I was trying to be gentle, to loosen him up with my fingers, to ease my cock—lubed up, condom on—into him slowly, to be respectful of what a delicate, precarious thing it is to get fucked in the ass. But he thrust his pelvis forward, forcing me all the way inside him, all at once. Gentle didn’t seem to be what he needed.
But it didn’t last, me and Chase. There really wasn’t much to him, and it didn’t take long for me to get bored with him, the way I’m bored with everything else these days. We’d walk around Tate Street, with its coffee shops and campus watering holes, and there really wasn’t much to say. He talked about going to ECU in the fall and it didn’t bother me that would be moving to a different city.
Now here I am, a couple months later, stoned and horny and thinking about the way he pulled me inside him, taking my cock in one surprisingly deft movement of his hips. He’s in Greensboro, he says. (Is it a holiday weekend? Did he actually go to ECU?)
I’m stoned, I type. Come over.
This image enters my mind, of Chase bent over the side of my couch, of me fucking him there, his ass smooth and white and super receptive, his mouth gone slack, opened in silent groans and little gasps.
He laughs, LOLs, catching my drift. So we can exchange some hastily delivered fluids? Can’t. Sorry. Maybe some other time.
There’s a boyfriend, I think, at ECU. (He did go to ECU, I decide.) Have we chatted about him before? Either way, I hadn’t anticipated the resistance. I’m already hard and it doesn’t seem worth pursuing further. I jerk off, stoned and feeling very uncharacteristically sensual, my skin all warm and alive and awake-feeling. Crawling, but in a good way. I’m thinking about fucking Chase bent over my couch, the way I could slip right into him, and when I cum it’s really fucking intense.
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