His name was Ben. Tall, at least a few inches over six feet, his height, coupled with his broad shoulders and well-built body always made me feel small. Safe. Maybe even a little helpless.
We struck up an acquaintance at work; both of us bartenders at a local pub. He struck me as arrogant, cocky, self-involved. Not my type.
In retrospect, It was actually this skeptical first impression that led to the first conversations over after-work drinks. He looked the part of the macho gym rat: big muscles, tight T-shirts, and that cocky swagger that made me roll my eyes more times than I can count. But as I am continually shown time after time, it's unwise to judge a book by its cover.
Ben had warm brown eyes, and a truly contagious smile. I found myself watching the way he talked to customers. People of all ages and walks of life; when Ben leaned his elbows on the bar and rested his chin on his hands, he listened. And when he did you could see the person who had caught his attention light up. It really was a special gift he had.
Our friendship started innocently enough. We had a similar situation with our brothers, and we spent many hours lamenting their difficult plots in life. Sometimes the conversations were while he was still working and I would stay after to have a couple of beers. Sometimes we migrated out to my car to share a bowl and giggle and talk nonsense. He quickly became my favorite person to catch a buzz with.
Months passed, and other than a few hugs and backscratches, nothing happened between us, and I had no feelings of wanting anything more. We became closer and closer, and our fellow employees teased us about being like brother and sister with the way we would banter and play-fight behind the bar together.
One night a group of us went out after work to a seedy dance club that is definitely not my kind of place. I prefer craft beer and small quiet bars to shots and flashing lights, but I floated along with the group to the club, loosened up by enough beers to not have any hesitations.
Walking down the sidewalk, my arm around his waist and his around my shoulder, the laughter of our group carried down the street and we skipped along in that half drunken cocoon that makes everyone in a group feel closer.
I found myself slipping my hand into his back pocket and enjoying that comfortable warmth that comes with an innocent, intimate gesture. I felt his hand run over the roundness of my butt and give it a little squeeze. It wasn't that much of a leap. By that point in our friendship it was known that he was a butt guy and that he didn't think mine was too bad. Sex had of course come up in conversation, and our views were about we opposite as you can get. He had had ample opportunities to take home a pretty girl after a night of bartending, but he never did. He said it was because he just didn't want to deal with it- the kissing, the foreplay, the awkward time after. I often joked he just needed a wet orifice to stick it in. Conversely, I love all that comes with sex. I could kiss the right person for hours, I love giving head and snuggling and trying new things. I believe sexual touch is one of the most powerful things in the world, and I try to focus as much as I can whenever I'm with someone in that way.
We made it to the club, and I found myself increasingly wanting his attention in that way that sometimes happens when girls get tipsy. I also began noticing things I had never noticed before: his thick, dark eyelashes and his oversized, strong hands. His hands especially distracted me. I started to think about them sliding under my shirt whenever he hugged me, feeling the rough softness of them run up and down my back...
