Behind Closed Doors

Some of my greatest misadventures in dating have occurred while living in Austin, prior to meeting my now fiancé. Meeting someone in person is considered old fashioned at this point, so most of those who are fishing for attention and affection must turn to “the apps”. In the gay world that means: Grindr, Scruff, Growlr, etc. I had an active profile on all of them at one point with the intention to either find a boyfriend or at least get laid.

While browsing the man-buffet of pictures on my phone, I stumbled across a gent I found to be rather attractive. He was a bit older than me, well proportioned, and had intense eyes that somehow complemented a large, genuine smile. His name was Trevor, according to his profile, and I decided it was worth a shot to send him a message.

It’s always awkward trying to start conversations with a stranger whether you are in person or have a screen barrier. If you’re looking to seem date-worthy you have to start with something better than “Hey, what’s up?” And if you’re looking to get your dick wet, you have to decide ahead of time how long you should engage in pointless small talk before sending nudes.

I managed to initiate a conversation that eventually resulted in us agreeing to meet at my favorite watering hole for drinks and karaoke. Although, I should mention, we did unlock our “private” collection of photos for each other. With that said, I wasn’t really sure what to expect for the evening.

When I arrived at the bar I recognized him almost immediately. He was sitting with another gentleman who was probably twice my age and quite spindly. His face seemed to have only one expression – a look of both constipation and confusion.

I grabbed a drink before approaching him and the man sharing his table.
“Trevor, right?”
“Travis? Take a seat.” I did. He went on to introduce his friend Pete.

Trevor and I hit it off immediately, and he even complimented me on my singing voice when I would return from the microphone. He was speaking my language with a dry sense of humor and constant use of sarcasm. Even flirting. However, I noticed a closeness between him and Pete that went well beyond friendship. Perhaps I was being paranoid.

Pete got up to sing a pitchy rendition of a song no one else knew as Trevor and I stood and watched. “How do you know him, again?” I asked.
“He’s my boyfriend,” he replied. I laughed involuntarily, completely unsure of whether or not he was messing with me or being serious. I decided not to press forward with any more questions at the risk of embarrassing myself. Instead, I was left wondering whether or not I was invited to a date with two men instead of one. Or maybe it wasn’t a date at all. The mystery wouldn’t solve itself that night, because Trevor ended up getting too drunk and left without saying goodbye. My pride and ego gasped for air before perishing together in a romantic tragedy. I imbibed a while longer to drown my sorrows.

Some months later I ran into Trevor again at that same bar, this time without Pete around to spoil the environment. He greeted me with a tight bear hug, and I immediately dropped any sense of resentment I had been holding against him. Trevor had a quality that I can only describe as mesmerizing, for better or worse.

We shared a pitcher of beer together and spent most of the evening making fun of the poor karaoke performances that night. As it would turn out he didn’t care much for karaoke to begin with and only went for Pete’s sake.
“So if you don’t like karaoke, why are you here without your boyfriend?” I asked, tripping over the last word a bit too noticeably.
“I dunno, I can’t resist the cheap PBRs, I guess,” he joked. “We’re open, ya know, me and Pete.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows raised with suspicion and intrigue. The game had changed.
“Yeah, you want another beer?”

My sides and cheeks were aching from laughter the more time we spent together self-medicating on piss-colored beer.
“Wanna go down to 4th Street?” he asked. This is an area in town where there is a cluster of gay bars. Although most of the patrons of these establishments are young twinks and witless jocks, I didn’t want to reject his suggestion. I wanted my evening with him to continue, regardless of where it was.

We walked and stumbled for a few blocks before entering a nightclub buzzing with effeminate young men, drag queens, and go-go boys. It wasn’t my scene, and I didn’t expect it was Trevor’s either. However, there was a nice patio in the back that provided cabana like structures with an arrangement of couches and chairs. We got our drinks and found a place to get comfortable.

Our conversation shifted from poking fun at karaoke singers to judging the shameless boys prancing around in their underwear belting out Katy Perry lyrics between shots of some green-colored concoction. Our chuckling subsided into a silence that transitioned into very direct eye contact – the kind that signals for action. We began to make out, and everything else disappeared. Trevor was a damn good kisser, and as I said before, mesmerizing.

We broke for a moment and he asked if I wanted to go back to the bar where we started. When I asked why he said, “Because I want to see you try to walk with that!” I followed his eyes to my crotch which I had somehow neglected to notice during our public displays of affection. I reached into my shorts and readjusted myself in one of the few ways us men can really manage. We’re limited to pushing it down to be held poorly by the elastic of our underwear, or flipping it up into the waistband of our pants. You have to be careful not to let your shirt lift up once you’ve committed to the latter, lest you reveal the top half of your schlong. We’ve all been there, men. You’d think it would get easier to play the “How Do I Hide My Boner?” game after surviving puberty, but that’s not really the case. I digress…

Trevor and I did indeed return to the first bar which was now considerably more crowded than before. The night owls had come out to play.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said to me.
“Okay.” My eyes were wandering around the room, analyzing new bodies and faces.
“No, I mean, I’m going to the bathroom…” he said again, this time with a mischievous grin and a no-longer disguised agenda.
“Oh!” He walked away leaving me with a difficult decision. Do I follow him and risk getting caught having sex in a public restroom? Should I stay? Should I go? Am I really about to do this?

Perhaps it was the alcohol thinking for me, but I ended up casually wandering into the men’s bathroom. I found him waiting there in an open handicap stall with the shit-eating grin of a champion spread across his face. He pulled me in and locked the door.

Now having sex in a gay bar’s facilities doesn’t sound very appealing, but it’s actually more thrilling than I had previously thought. And kudos to him for picking a handicap stall that had convenient metal bars around to hold on to. This probably wasn’t his first rodeo.

We made no attempt to be quiet in any way. My worry about being caught flew out the window, replaced by primal lust and reckless indiscretion. We heard other men coming in and out of the restroom, carrying on conversations and seemingly ignoring the distinct sound of sex. Perhaps this was more common than I thought. Now it had become an auditory performance.

I have no idea how long we fucked, but at some point after climaxing we both realized that the bar would be closing soon. We dressed ourselves and peered out the stall door. The garbage had already been bagged up and tied by some poor barback who most likely experienced a symphony of our moans.

Trevor and I made our way out of the bathroom and found a backdoor to sneak out of. I’m not sure what the point of protecting our identities was at that point, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“Well that was fun,” I said, still somewhat out of breath.
“Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” he said with a nod.
“Maybe even in a bed?”
“You’re not that boring, Travis,” he joked.




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.”