A few weeks before I moved to New York, I fooled around with a guy in the bathroom at my friend Gretchen’s Christmas party. Her 18-year-old roommate, April, was trying to hook me up with her bisexual ex-boyfriend.
“Dustin is totally going to have a crush on you!” she sighed as soon as I walked in the door.
Now, April was not someone whose judgment I would ordinarily have trusted. But she showed me Dustin’s picture and he was actually kinda cute. Kinda. And I hadn’t had sex since August. And, let’s be honest, the opportunity for some kind of sexual adventure, no matter how vague, grants pretty much any situation a little magic, a thrill of possibility. So, I feigned disinterest, skepticism, but I was open to the idea of some bi-sexual guy wanting to make out with me, or whatever.
This party needed that little extra magic, that sexual tension—or it felt like it did, now that I knew it might be there. It seemed like Gretchen had intended for this to be a quiet, cozy affair: a couple close friends, some cocktails and homey, Christmas-y nibbles. April, on the other hand had invited a dozen or more of her friends: white trash, just out of high school types who seemed intent on turning Gretchen’s intimate little get-together into a scene from Kids. The sucked down Jell-O shots, carried beer cans around in the pockets of their cargo pants, wrestled around on the kitchen floor for some reason. And, of course, a few otherwise boring girls made out with each other for attention while the guys whooped and hollered.
When April introduced me to Dustin it was obvious that we’d both heard about each other already, but it wasn’t clear what he thought of the situation. He was either playing it aloof, or he was shy. Or he just wasn’t as interested as April had expected him to be, which wouldn’t have been surprising at all. She was a dim little thing, eager to seem worldly, eager to impress in that way that all teenagers are. But in a way it was kind of sweet what she was trying to do. She wanted to be a matchmaker, to feel her own influence and intuition by directing people toward each other, with the added exoticism of matching up to guys. So cosmopolitan of her!
“No fair! I wanna see some guy on guy action!” she whined, hand on her hip, head cocked to one side, watching two of her girlfriends lip-locked on the kitchen floor. This was her idea of hosting: manipulating her environment, accommodating the events she wanted to see happen—getting Dustin and I from point A (two guys who’ve just met and don’t really have much in common) to point B (two guys snogging the night away). She might actually be good at this, at flirting, at working a room, if she could manage not to get pregnant and drop out of school before finishing her sophomore year.
I could see all this, and I could see Dustin glancing at me across the room more and more as the night went on and he got deeper into his case of Bud Light. I was on home turf; I could afford to be bold.
I grabbed Dustin and pulled him into April’s bedroom—a semi-curtained off area that you had to walk through to get from the living room to the kitchen—telling him there had been a request for a little guy-on-guy. His eyes lit up and he laughed. He seemed relieved for some reason, like he wouldn’t have been able to do this without an excuse, without being pushed in the right direction. He took off his baseball cap and put his arm around my waist and kissed me kind of artlessly, sticking his tongue right into my mouth. The girls whooped and hollered as we rolled around on April’s—his ex-girlfriend’s—bed. They behaved the way I imagine middle age women do when they go to see Chippendales.
Dustin smelled of skin and clean laundry. Guy smells. He wore a baggy t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and baggy painter’s pants. There was something sexy about that foolish, adolescent bagginess. It made me want to crawl into his shirt with him.
There’s only so much you can do with a guy with six or seven girls watching, so I cut things short, before the novelty of two boys kissing wore off and before the party derailed too much further. But I did manage to pull Dustin into Gretchen and April’s bathroom—the smallest bathroom I have ever tried to have sex in in my entire life.
We kissed and groped, and his clothes slowly started to come off. He was not, by any means, what you could call fat, though his body had a certain doughiness to it. He had the body of a real guy, someone who didn’t try to sculpt himself into a celluloid heartthrob at the gym. He was well shaped, without being muscley or even particularly toned. He was soft, fleshy in spots, but sturdy, solid, a man not easily moved. And his ass was down right chewable. The black tufts of hair under his arms and curling out from the waistband of his boxer shorts seemed that much sexier since his body was mostly smooth.
Later that night, when the party had dissipated, when Gretchen and April had gone to bed and everyone else had gone home, Dustin and I tried to fuck on the old pull-out sofa in the living room. But try as I might, I couldn’t keep him hard. We ended up falling asleep without even cumming, that heavy, naked body rising and falling beside me as he breathed. I don’t remember him waking up to leave the next morning.
April told me later that he’d said I was the only guy he’d ever been with who had managed to keep him hard as long as I did.
0 Responses to “Dustin, December 2004”