8. Straight Male’s Perspective
STRAIGHT MALE’S PERSPECTIVE
Lorenzo pounded me from behind.
Not gently. Not carefully.
My hands pressed against the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as his pounding built—fast, relentless, almost impatient. Like a beast charging at me. The headboard tapped loudly against the wall in uneven beats, matching the pace of his fucking without ever talking about it.
It was messy.
Uncoordinated in the way that meant neither of us was trying to impress the other.
And somehow, that made it better.
I could feel his girth moving in and out, driving me insane as every shift and rhythm sent waves of pleasure throughout my body, waking up sensations I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Then he pushed so hard, it blew my brains out.
A loud moan escaped me before I could stop it—half surprise, half surrender.
“Relax,” he murmured, breath warm against my neck, voice rough in a way that felt earned.
Then his hands found my hips, grounding, steadying, and guiding me to the new rhythm just enough that my body didn’t have to think about it anymore.
But then suddenly, he rolled me onto my back, and I blinked up at the bear looming above me.
Sweat clung to his skin, chest rising and falling, and he was looking down at me like I was a prize.
He wasn’t ripped. Just solid. Strong in a way that felt natural, deliberate. Hair covered him in all the right places, and that thick beard looked like it could both scratch and soothe at the same time.
And then there was his eyes. Big, round, almost innocent—puppy eyes that somehow softened this chaos.
He actually reminded me of an American football player on a good day. The one who could laugh, fight, and charm all at once.
I swallowed hard, because that look—bright, messy, knowing—made my chest tighten in all the wrong ways. And I hadn’t even started thinking about anything else yet.
Then he raised his hands, scraped a mouthful of saliva from his tongue, and wet his protected knob.
I went feral at the sight, making my thighs spread like peanut butter, inviting him in.
The shift in his expression told me everything was about to change.
“I’m not done with you,” he murmured.
And when he pushed inside me again, a low sound escaped him—almost a growl, like he went feral as much as I did.
“Holy shi—” I cut myself off, biting down on my fist as the sensation hit all at once—sharp, overwhelming, yet perfect.
The ecstasy of being bear-handled by this guy sent me to heaven.
Later, when everything slowed down—when the heat settled into post-nut clarity—I lay there beside him, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what I was feeling.
Because annoyingly, Andi was right. Not in a life-changing, ‘I’m healed’ kind of way she would dramatically claim over brunch—but still, right.
Victor was still inside. Of course he was. Somewhere in the back of my mind and heart, lingering like a melody I couldn’t fully forget.
But the difference was, he wasn’t loud anymore.
Or at least, he wasn’t the only thing I could feel.
I turned my head slightly, glancing at Lorenzo, who was still catching his breath beside me, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’d just run a marathon instead of rearranged my gut.
We had been talking on Instagram for, what—a week?
Late-night conversations. Flirty messages. The occasional “when are we finally seeing each other?” that felt like a promise more than a question.
And then we did. And it was good.
God, it was good!
A week later, Lorenzo and I weren’t talking anymore.
Not in a dramatic, ‘we need to end this’ kind of way—it just stopped.
It started with the replies that got shorter. Delayed. Then nonexistent.
Because in gay dating, there’s this unspoken timeline everyone follows, whether they admit it or not.
You start with conversation. You learn each other’s humor, typing patters, the way they flirt when they’re bored versus when they actually mean it. You build this tiny, digital version of intimacy that feels real enough to believe in.
Then comes the planning. The ‘when are we finally seeing each other?’
Then the meeting.
And once that question gets answered, so does everything else.
Because after the sex, one of two things happens: either it turns into something more, or it quietly becomes nothing at all.
And in gay dating, the latter usually wins.
No fight.
No closure.
No real ending.
Just absence, dressed up as mutual understanding.
Ghosting is the modern term for it.
And ghosting is—unfortunately—the love story of most queer people.
I stared at our chat thread longer than I should have, my thumb hovering over the keyboard like I was about to say something that would change the outcome.
But I didn’t. Because what was there to say?
“Hey, was it just sex?”
I already knew the answer.
But then again, Lorenzo wasn’t Victor.
He wasn’t a story I was trying to hold onto.
He was just a moment that felt good while it lasted.
I was somewhere entirely different by Friday night, with different company.
Andre walked beside me like he owned the night, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered and cool.
We made our way up to the second floor, past the restaurant downstairs where everything felt warm and polished in that quiet. But the moment we reached the top, the energy shifted.
The bass hit first. It was low, steady, and enough to settle your chest without asking for permission.
And then I saw it.
The ceiling shimmered like a night sky, with tiny lights scattered across it, soft and endless, like stars suspended just above us. The entire space felt dipped in something celestial, like we had stepped out of Southside and into some pocket universe that only existed after dark.
The lighting moved in soft waves—deep blues, purples, hints of silver catching on glass and skin—making everything glow just enough to feel unreal. The bar itself pulsed quietly at the center, bottles reflecting light like constellations, like every drink came with its own orbit.
“What was the name of this bar again?” I asked, glancing up at the ceiling like I might find the answer written somewhere between the fake stars.
“Beat,” Andre answered.
His hand pressed against my back as he guided me through the room like he’d done it a hundred times before with his dates.
And of course he had, but with women. He was a gentleman with me because I actually made a non-homophobic, straight guy friend with secure masculinity.
We slid into a booth, tucked just far enough from the crowd to feel private, but still close enough to the bar to stay part of the energy.
But before I could even fully settle in, a waiter appeared with a timing so precise it almost felt rehearsed.
“Welcome back, Sir Andre,” he said warmly, already placing drinks in front of us. “Your usual.”
Andre gave a small nod—as if this wasn’t special.
I blinked, looking from the perfectly poured drinks to him.
“Of course, you’re a ‘they know your order’ kind of person,” I muttered, half impressed, half amused.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I want you to take your mind off things.”
I shrugged.
Because apparently, while I was getting ghosted on earth, Andre had reserved a spot for us in the galaxy.
Then the waiter turned to me, setting down a cocktail.
I stared at it confusedly, then at Andre… then back at the drink.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s a cocktail, James,” he answered sarcastically.
I narrowed my eyes. “Do I look like I’m weak?”
Andre smirked into his glass. “I only assumed since you like cocks.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Sorry,” I turned to the waiter, “can I get a Bacardi and Coke? I like it strong. I can take it hard.”
The waiter winked once—professional, but I could see it.
Andre, on the other hand, let out a small laugh. “I’m sure you can.”
I shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
The waiter nodded. “Right away, sir.”
As he walked off, Andre leaned back into the booth, studying me with that same amused expression.
“Rough week?” he asked.
I reached for the cocktail anyway, taking a small sip just to prove a point.
“Okay, this is actually good,” I admitted, then set it down like that wasn’t the issue. “But that’s not the point.”
Andre hummed, unconvinced. “So?”
I leaned back, exhaling through my nose, eyes drifting up to the ceiling again—fake stars, steady and unmoving, like they didn’t care what kind of week anyone was having under them.
“I hooked up with someone,” I said finally.
Andre didn’t react. Just took a sip of his drink like that was the least surprising thing I could’ve said.
“We were talking for a bit on Instagram,” I continued. “Late nights. Jokes. Flirting. I mean, you know the drill.”
He nodded once.
“It was good,” I said. “Like… actually good. Not just ‘I needed that’ good, but—” I gestured vaguely. “—convincing.”
“Convincing how?”
“Like it could’ve been something, you know?” I said. “Or at least, it felt like it was heading there.”
Andre tilted his head slightly. “And now?”
I picked up the cocktail again.
“Now we don’t talk.”
A beat.
“That fast, huh?”
I let out a quiet scoff. “Standard procedure of gay dating.”
I shook my head and took a sip.
Andre didn’t answer right away, just watched me—waiting.
“You’re fidgeting,” Andre pointed out.
Then I realized, I was rocking my left leg so hard that I must’ve looked like a human vibrator to his POV.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re safe with me.”
I smiled softly.
“Annoying, huh?” he continued.
“Yeah. Because it starts the same way every time. You talk, you build connection, and then the second it becomes real—” I snapped my fingers, “—gone!”
I let out a snort, but more tired than amused.
“And the worst part?” I added. “You can’t even be mad, because technically, they didn’t do anything wrong.”
Andre nodded slowly.
“That’s the thing with situationships,” he said. “They’re built on potential, not commitment.”
I glanced at him. “Wow. Look at you.”
“I’m serious, James,” he continued.
“Sorry,” I said, not truly surprised by his seriousness.
“In a relationship, there’s an agreement,” he continued. “But a situationship only has… vibes.”
I laughed. “I didn’t know vibes can be dangerous.”