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First things first: Thank you a shitload to James for being my kinda beta.. telling me what worked and didn't work, giving me ideas, basically just dealing with me. Thank you!! Second, this is really my first serious attempt at writing any kind of sex and it was difficult, for various reasons, none of which are really worth discussing. Let me know how it works for you, what you'd like to see next time, etc. Critique me, but just don't be an ass when you do so, yeah? Finally, enjoy the story... this here's like, a week of hardcore writing, and my dominant hand is in a cast so it took more time to type out. Thanks for reading. -R
Something about him attracted me. Perhaps it was his aura. He had that strange aura that people on the brink of middle age have, the sort of desperate need to continue living as a young person before they get too old. It was an air of disbelief: have I really been alive 37 years? What have I done with my life? Nothing.
Or maybe it was his appearance. I had always liked older men. He wasn’t exactly the most attractive man in the world, being in his late 30s and growing older every minute with the day-to-day stress of his mundane life, but something about him was almost sexy. It could’ve been any number of things: his certain mysterious sadness, the fact I could have a chance because of his internal sexual struggle, or perhaps the large age difference between us gave me a thrill I couldn’t get from alcohol or drugs.
I was a barely legal alcoholic headed on the path for rehab when we first talked. I was sitting next to him, watching his hands and the gold wedding band on his finger when he asked, “Got a light?”
When I looked at him, he had a cigarette poised between his lips. I had never seen him smoke before, but I acted as if this was the first time I’d ever noticed him in the bar at all. I reached in my pocket and fished out my BIC and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, flicking it until a flame ignited. He lit the cigarette and returned the lighter. I put it back in my pocket and decided that, well, since he’d initiated the conversation, why don’t I just continue it?
Before I opened my mouth, I let him take a drink of beer. This was his third. Rough day. His Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow. As he blew smoke into the stuffy air of the bar, I asked him, “Bad day?”
He looked at me, shook his head and laughed miserably. “You have no idea,” he replied, tapping his ashes into the ashtray to his right. “Dead end job, dead end family, dead end fuckin’ life. I ain’t lived at all. I come here and piss my night away, the missus gets mad, I eat, sleep and shit and go back to work and piss my day away in a little cubicle workin’ for some asshole with a fuckin’ electrical pole up his ass, and then I wonder why I’m doin’ it all.” He sighed and took another puff. “Livin’?” he said through the cigarette. “Sometimes I think I’d do more livin’ if I was dead.”
“Mm,” I said, then turned my focus to my beer. “Sorry.”
He grunted in response, and there was a comfortable silence. Without warning, he turned and said, “So you know all about my shit life. What’s your story, hm? What’s a kid like you doin’ in a shithole like this?”
With a shrug, I sighed. “How does anyone wind up in a shithole like this? Hit the bottle at thirteen, dropped out at sixteen. Did some things I’m not so proud of to get where I am.”
The other’s aura changed to one of sympathy. “D’ya regret it?” he asked after a moment.
I looked at him. “If I could relive my life, I’d never touch booze again.”
He studied my face for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“Adam,” I said. “What’s yours?”
“Nathan,” he answered. Then he lifted his glass and said, “Here’s to a coupl’a bums with shit lives, yeah?” The two of us downed massive gulps of our respective beverages. Then he set his drink down. “Man,” he said, then repeated, “Man.”
There was another pause until he said, “Let me give you some advice, Adam. Don’t make the same mistake I made. Don’t get married fresh outta high sch-“ then he remembered I had dropped out. Treading carefully, he continued, “Don’t get married to the first bitch you meet… ‘s all puppy love in the end, yeah? You’ll have a coupl’a brats, and then you’ll be stuck forever supportin’ some fuckin’ whore who refuses to work and some annoyin’ kids that scream and cry twenty-four-fuckin’-seven.”
Nonchalantly, I said, “There’s a shitload’a people out there who’d kill for a family, y’know.”
He snorted. “Let ‘em have mine, then. I’m just sick of the same old routine every fuckin’ mornin’. I’m sick of that girl, too, my wife. She don’t do anythin’. And it’s too late to live now, y’know? I’m thirty-seven. Thirty-seven!”
“You’re practically a fossil.”
“Smart-ass, I just meant I’m reachin’ the point where my time is—well, limited. And what’ve I done? Nothin’. I ain’t become a rockstar or an Oscar winner or anythin’. Just a fuckin’ Joe Schmoe. Just a guy. A nobody.” He shook his head. “When I was a kid, I planned out my life. I was gonna be a fuckin’ millionaire astronaut. Then I was gonna be a fuckin’ movie star, fuckin’ rock star, fuckin’ scientist. Then I got put on academic probation, at fuckin’ community college. Eventually got expelled for ‘poor performance’ an’ flipped burgers ‘til I landed a job workin’ for some corporate stiff in a cubicle downtown. It’s shit. It’s complete shit!”
I shrugged. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want.”
“Damn fuckin’ right it don’t.” He finished his beer and sighed again. “Sometimes I wonder if anythin’ I done is worth mentionin’. For Chris’ sake, I ain’t never been outta the god damn country.” With a bitter laugh, he slammed his fist on the bar top and turned to face me. “Fuck, I just wanna fuckin’ live!”
To fully describe the expression in his eyes would require words that do not exist. No word, in any language, could accurately depict the pure desperation and loss and emptiness in his eyes. He looked so lost and in need of something. I decided to help, to kill two birds with one stone: his need to feel something, my necessity to quench the fire of attraction I felt for the guy.
Nonchalantly, I told him, “You know, I’ve been watchin’ you at this bar for a while.”
He turned away, back to the beer. “How long is ‘a while?’”
“Eh, give or take a coupl’a months.” I studied his face: cheekbones, jaw, lips, forehead. So he definitely would never be a model, but his face worked so nicely, still so soft and sad looking. I smiled and leaned closer. “Got what you might call an ‘attraction’ to you… magnetic, even. I’ve been drawn to you since you first walked in here.”
“Izzat so?” He looked at me, a glimmer of fire in his eyes. He wanted something… from me.
I smiled wider and laid a hand atop his. My thumb ran across the back of his wrist, gentle, almost loving, and I said, “Ever fucked a guy before?”
He shuddered. “No,” he said quietly. I chuckled.
“It would be… new… wouldn’t it?” I slid my fingers under his palm and stood. “Let me help you live,” I said softly, pulling him off the stool. “A new experience will do you good, won’t it? Come…”
“My-“ he started, motioning towards the beer. I let go of his hand, giving him time to pay, and then the two of us exited the bar.
Outside, we stood awkwardly, wondering which direction to go. Finally, I pulled him into an alley just next door to the bar. Pressing him against the wall, I slid my hands to his belt and unbuckled it, sliding his pants down just a bit. He gasped when my hands stroked him, and I smiled, burying my lips in his neck and kissing every little inch of skin I could expose. Slowly, I made my way down to his hips and made sure to look up at him as I lowered my head. He inhaled sharply, and as I worked my mouth, his breathing quickened and hitched. He moaned quietly and threaded shaking fingers through my hair. It was all encouragement to me, and the faster I worked, the faster he panted. It was easy to please him: a few strategic flicks of the tongue, some work with my hands, a carefully placed lick, and with every trick I used, he squirmed and sighed and groaned like it was his first time ever getting sucked off… although for all I knew, it was. When he came, I felt satisfied as I watched him slump against the wall, panting, eyes dark with arousal and disbelief. I spat, stood, wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and watched him recuperate. He slowly composed himself and looked up at me with a drunken smile.
“Shit,” he said slowly, catching his breath. “That was fuckin’ incredible... fuck…”
I grinned and leaned against the opposite wall. “New enough for ya?”
“God, yes…”
There was a silence and slowly he came down from the euphoria. He did not talk, instead composed himself and sighed. Figuring my work was done, I gave a slight wave and started to leave. There wasn’t much chance of anything else happening between us, I thought, when suddenly he called, “Hey, Adam.”
I turned, but did not answer. He wrung his hands, then said, “You… d’you got a place you can go?”
He was asking about me? I smiled and shook my head. “Not really. I’m slightly nomadic. Why?”
With a childlike nervousness, he calmly walked to me and said, “D’you… wanna go somewhere else?”
“Like where?” I asked, but I already knew the answer.
He looked down. “Jus’… y’know… somewhere…?”
I laughed and rubbed his arms soothingly. “A motel, you mean?”
“Y-yeah,” he said, and smiled weakly. “I jus’… I wanna… y’know?”
“I gotcha,” I replied. “Let’s go.”
His car was a short walk down the block, and we traversed it in silence. The car ride was long and quiet, occasionally a sniffle or a cough. Never an attempt at conversation; both of us were too nervous, too excited, to say a word. After a twenty-minute eternity, he pulled into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn and stopped the car. Then we sat, seatbelts still buckled, awkwardly trying to decide what the next move would be. Finally he unbuckled his belt and got out of the car and entered the building.
I watched him through the glass and felt a swell of lust. I couldn’t extinguish this fire. He was modest, lonely, tired, desperate, and I was cynical and looking for action. Something about him was unique, different from other men I’d slept with. Maybe because he was just sick of life, maybe because he was like a nervous teenager, but something about him was completely entrancing. And at that moment, I knew that no emotional attachment could ever grow.
He returned to the car and tapped the hood. I got out of the car and stared across it at him. He gestured with his thumb to a line of doors and said, “We’re room 105.”
When he unlocked the door, I entered first and scoped the room. Just live every other motel room I’d ever been in, right down to the bedclothes. The light was still a sickly gold-yellow color, as all motels are, in a failed attempt to be classier and more regal. I went for the window and closed the blinds as he entered behind me.
“Want… want a drink?” he asked, gesturing to the mini-bar. He was getting nervous, I could see. I approached him and closed the bar, shaking my head.
“Costs extra,” I said, sitting down on the bed, leaning back, watching him.
Nervously, he cleared his throat. “TV?” he suggested. I frowned. He swallowed hard and sat down on the edge of the bed, folding his head into his hands. “Sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m jus’… scared…”
I rubbed a hand over his shoulder, trying to comfort him more than anything. This man was delicate and indecisive. It was inconvenient but for once I felt pity for another person. When I removed my hand, he turned around and looked at me, then slowly got up and climbed onto the bed facing me. Hands shaking, he stroked my face, pet back my hair, slid under my shirt and lifted it over my head. Then he leaned forward and kissed me, very slow, very gentle, and I took this opportunity to unbutton his shirt and slide it off.
Self-consciously, he recoiled and looked down. With gentle effort, I took his face in my hands and brought his lips to mine, soothing him, relaxing him. It worked like a charm, and when we parted, he made no delay in removing my pants and then his own. There we were, clad only in boxers on a motel bed, kissing like our lives depended on it… and maybe they did.
The time between getting the pants off and getting the boxers off is hazy, possibly because it wasn’t very exciting, but once the boxers were off, he looked me in the eye. He was asking a question: Can I? Those eyes were full of concern, genuine concern for my comfort, and I kissed him to answer it: Go. Having been given the green light, he entered, and I sucked a breath between my teeth. I was once told the more men who fuck you, the less painful it is, but that’s a fucking lie. It still hurts just as much as the last time. You just get slightly more used to it each time.
He sensed my pain, though, and kissed me gently to ease it. Those soft lips kissed across my cheek and jaw line, down my neck, as he began to move. I gasped, arched my back and neck, eagerly received it all. He started slow, getting into the feel, exhaling with every thrust, and then the speed increased until with every moment we breathed, together, panting and needing more, more, more. Our lips met—or, rather, they crashed blindly—in a bruising kiss and then climax, both of us together, and, exhausted, we slid under the covers.
He kissed me one more time, languid and soft, then wrapped his arms around me and hummed sleepily. I was too tired to do anything more than ask, “You don’t have any STDs, do you?”
Groggily, he chuckled and sighed a, “Nah…” across my cheek.
As my eyes slipped shut, I laughed too and murmured, “Just thought I’d ask.”
The next morning, when I woke up, I smelled cigarette smoke. At the table he sat, smoking, staring out the window. I groaned and pulled my underwear on. He turned and looked at me with exhausted eyes.
“Sixteen fucking missed calls,” he said tiredly. “She called all night.”
“Mm?” I began to get dressed.
“I… what happened last night…”
I laughed. “You don’t understand one night stands, do you? Technically, you should be gone by now.”
He paused. “Oh.” Then he let out a groan. “Jesus Christ… I’m… fuck.”
By this time, I was mostly dressed and went to the bathroom to clean up. I could hear him: “I can’t believe… I’m married… I got kids… oh Jesus…”
He rushed into the bathroom and whipped me around, kissing me with a violent sort of force, then stumbled backwards, eyes wild. “I… have to go,” he said. He gathered his clothes and dressed hastily, then ran out the door. I stood in the doorway and watched as he got halfway to his car, stopped and turned around. He charged at me, kissed me again, deeper this time.
“Son of a bitch,” he said darkly. His eyes met mine. There was a spark, a new rejuvenation, and in it was just a hint of excited fear. Then he smiled. “God, thank you,” he continued.
“Glad I could help,” I replied. Then he turned, got into his car and drove away.
That was the last time I ever saw Nathan. I stopped going to that bar, fearing emotional attachment, though patrons of the bar who saw me told me a middle-aged guy continually asked after me. Eventually, those reports stopped coming and Nathan stopped asking.
Occasionally, I’ll go to that certain Holiday Inn with someone else, and I’ll always feel a little remorseful. What did I miss out on by avoiding Nathan? What would we have become?
Sometimes it happens. A one night stand turns out to be a doorway to a powerful connection. And looking back, I realize it wasn’t sex we both wanted, it was that connection. I told myself not to get emotionally attached, but in doing so, I kicked down the door and dove headfirst into that connection, and as hard as I try, I can’t break it. I can never break it.
After all, he’s married, right?
