Three Doors Down

No, this post has nothing to do with an iconic rock band that may bring back memories of an overly emotional late 90’s existence. If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman? Well, I would certainly hope not. But while we’re on the subject of the Man of Steel, we all have something that makes us weak – we all have our own personal kryptonite that brings us to our knees, sometimes literally. For some of us gays, it is a straight man.

Now it is no secret at this point that human sexuality has an intangible fluidity that escapes explanation at times. So, “Why not?” says the gay man looking for a challenge.
I personally never cared much to waste my time pining after heterosexual men, regardless of whether or not I thought I was able to lure one in. That is, until, I met the man who lived three doors down.

He would stand outside his apartment door smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer just about every time I passed by. We never exchanged many words, just empty phrases that were born from a sense of obligation. Months passed without us even knowing each other’s names.

As chance would have it, I adopted an overly gregarious roommate who managed to make friends with just about every tenant in our miserable complex. Before I knew it, there were strangers in my apartment being introduced to me as if I was new to my own home. They all meant well, of course, and even invited me to a BBQ at our communal pool.

“That’s the man from three doors down,” I said to my roommate as we approached the pool gate with towels and cans of beer.
“That guy?” he replied, “Oh, that’s Jason.”

He didn’t look much better with his shirt off than he did with it on, but there was still something alluring about him. Perhaps it was the camouflage swim trunks and goofy smile that were capturing my attention. Or the fact that he was so eager to tell me his life story.

He grew up in Florida with his devilishly handsome brother, often finding himself in trouble with the law. He married too young and had children well before he was ready to take on the responsibilities of parenthood. His wife left him after a few years, being unimpressed with his lack of money or motivation. From there he moved to Texas to live with his father where he would continue to cycle through girlfriends who wanted to take a turn with a kind-hearted bad boy alcoholic.

“So, you’re gay?” he asked me. Apparently my roommate felt inclined to inform Jason of my sexual orientation beforehand.
“Mostly,” I replied, which is my go-to answer when I’m asked that particular question.

He reassured me that there was nothing wrong with being gay, as if he wanted to suddenly become my therapist. I nodded and smiled politely. He asked me questions about being gay and how it played into my own life story. I indulged his requests, and he soon came to know more about me than most.

The night ended, and I remember laying in bed thinking about him. Not sexually, necessarily, just as a new character in my life.

On a warm summer evening I found myself chatting with him on the patio of another neighbor I would have never met had it not been for my roommate. He told me wild tales about the various physical altercations he engaged in, including a run-in with Hell’s Angels. He had a story for every scar.

He was uninhibited by nature, but the beer seemed to push him just a little further.
I came to realize this as he randomly told me of a time he accidentally slept with a transsexual he mistook to be an ebony goddess. “I don’t remember, but I think I had her dick in my mouth. And it was bigger than mine! Does that make me gay?” he asked. I merely shrugged. “Well, whatever. When I get drunk, sometimes I just want to find a warm hole.” He made it easy to either laugh with him, or laugh at him. I fell asleep that night still chuckling to myself.

It was autumn now, and Jason and I were accustomed to making small talk outside his door. I’d bum a cigarette and a beer off of him after work sometimes, or find him Skyping on the stairwell with some girl from his past that he couldn’t wait to introduce me to in person. I never lingered very long, though I could sense his loneliness. My roommate had moved out some time ago, so I could relate to that. But it didn’t explain the curious way he would look at me sometimes.

One evening I laid in bed, letting time slip idly by, waiting to become tired enough to justify an attempt to sleep. But then I heard a knock on my door. I lived in a bad part of town at the time, which made me wary of unannounced guests. Especially now that I lived alone.

Upon opening the door I found Jason holding a 12-pack of Budweiser. “Hey, man,” he started, “You’re not going to bed are you?” Although I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe, I declined any notion of slumber and invited him in.

We sat on the couch, and mostly I found myself listening to more stories from his past. He seemed more vulnerable than ever though, like he just needed someone to care. Suddenly I had been confronted with my own kryptonite.

He followed me to the kitchen to retrieve another beer. We were both drunk already, but then again, Jason was always inebriated to some degree. I noticed him subtly look me up and down as I tilted my head back to chug. And then there was a silence.

“You know I’m just stalling for time, because I know something is going to happen, right?” I was used to gay men who are so much more direct. But still, I knew what he wanted.
“Yeah,” I said nonchalantly, “but it ain’t happenin’ in the kitchen.”
“Where do I go?” he asked, dumbly. I took his hand and brought him to my bedroom.

Without hesitation I dropped my robe and began ripping his clothes off.
“This is just sex,” he said. “I don’t want anything else…” he said sternly as I fell to my knees.
I looked up at him”Get over yourself, do you think I’m going to ask you to be my boyfriend or something?”
“Well you can’t tell anyone, no one can know.” he said while resisting to moan.
I pulled my head back. “Who would I even tell, Jason? We can keep talking, or I can suck your dick. I can’t do both.” He said nothing more.

I stood up and pushed him onto my bed. He was taller and stronger than me, but I suddenly felt a certain power over him. If I was going to be his experiment, I might as well take control of it.

“I’ve never had better head in my life,” he said while arching his back.
“Of course you haven’t,” I said confidently.
“Are we gonna fuck?” he asked, earnestly.
“I think that’s pretty obvious,” I replied, rifling through my nightstand for a condom.

It took him a second to figure out a rhythm, and he looked slightly terrified. After many welcomed thrusts, his noodle began to go limp. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. It’s not you, I just don’t think I’m gay!” he said with a sense of alarm in his voice.
“Perhaps not, but it was worth a try, right?” I said, standing up.
“Where are you going?”
“Get dressed, I’m seeing you to the door.”
“Just like that? You’re kicking me out?”
“Yeah, what do you want to cuddle?” I said with a laugh.
“You’re not mad at me, are ya?” he asked.
“No, I want to go to bed, fool. We’re neighbors, I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He collected what was left of his beer, and I closed the door on him with a quick goodbye.
I returned to my bed, the scene of the crime. “I did it,” I thought. “I had sex with a straight guy. The guy from three doors down.”


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