I'm on a cross-country driving trip with no particular itinerary or destination. One evening, I find myself spending the night in north Texas. I spy a neighborhood bar not far from my motel and decide to stop in for a beer or two and to get a feel for the place.
The bar is sparsely populated; a few guys playing pool, a group of middle-aged women is sharing a pitcher and laughing loudly at a table in the corner, and one man sitting alone at the bar, nursing a beer. He appears to be in his early thirties, dark hair, a four-day growth of beard, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He looks a little forlorn, like he was hoping to score some tail but definitely wasn't into the women in the corner. Maybe he'd fucked them all already. Maybe they were too old for his taste, never mind the "cougar" thing (if it is still a thing).
I sit down a few stools away from the guy, who glances over and gives a slight nod. I order a draft. The bartender brings the mug, and I take a deep swig. The other guy didn't appear to be interested in anything in the way of conversation. After a few minutes, I turn to him and say, "I gotta go take a piss. Could you watch my beer for me?" He shrugs and nods, but doesn't say a word.
I find my way to the john. It's a fairly small, run-down room but has what I need most: a urinal. It's basically an open trough with ice to keep the piss smell under control. I'm emptying my bladder when the door opens behind me, and the guy from the bar walks up next to me. Before he's even opened his fly to pull out his cock, I notice that he's staring at my dick. I've got nothing impressive, particularly when soft, so I'm puzzled by this. He finally pulls out his dick, which is very nice: cut, good size, and with a notable amount of pubic hair sticking out of his fly. He doesn't seem to have a lot of piss in him, just a dribble, so I figure he might be pee-shy, just like me. In fact, if I hadn't already been pissing when he came in, I would have been completely frozen, with a full bladder and my dick in my hand, nothing coming out.
Just looking at his dick is getting me aroused, but since this is definitely not a gay bar, I shake the last drop of piss from my cock and stuff it back in my jeans. I notice that his dick has swollen a bit, and I could swear that he was stroking the underside of his dick ever so slightly. Not wanting to get beat up for hitting on a straight guy, I turn and leave without washing my hands.
As I walk back to my barstool, I can't stop thinking about the other guy's cock. I can feel my dick stiffen, and when I sit back down, I realize that my erection is obvious to anyone who might glance my way. I'm a little concerned because the pool players look like the sort that would beat the shit out of any "faggot" that had the nerve to come into their bar. I can smell my cock on my fingers as I sip my beer, and that makes matters worse. I'm contemplating leaving, when the other guy comes back from the bathroom. Instead of sitting on the same stool as he was before, he sits right next to me. There are a dozen empty stools, but he chooses that one.
"Hey," he says. "You new in town?" "Just passing through," I reply. "My wife's waiting for me at the motel," I lie. "I'm Dennis," the guy says, extending his hand. "Jake," I reply, and we exchange a firm but friendly handshake. His smile is intoxicating, particularly since surrounded by his dark stubble. I notice a nice bit of fur on his forearms and a tuft of chest hair poking out of his t-shirt.
"So, Jake, you like to get high?" Dennis asks. "Sure," I reply. "Listen, I got some good stuff back at my place. It's right around the corner. Do you wanna come over and have some?" My gaydar is pinging loudly, and I'm pretty sure it's not just wishful thinking on my part. I decide to go for it. "Sounds great!" I say, mind racing a little. This could be a trap, but my stiff dick starts doing all the thinking for me. Dennis exudes masculinity. Clearly no deodorant on this one, just that musky smell of a day's work.
I follow him out the door. His jeans hug his nice round buns, as if serving them up for my pleasure. We arrive at his place, on the first floor of a small apartment complex, a little run down but not seedy. Dennis opens the door to a nice, clean apartment, though clearly a bachelor pad: sparsely decorated, two-seater couch and recliner across the living room from the large TV, as if set up for watching a football game with one or two buddies. "Have a seat," he says, motioning to the couch. "Can I get you another beer?" "Sure," I reply.
"Do you need to call your wife?" he asks as he brings two bottles of beer from the kitchen. "Nah, she'll be fine," I say, not taking my eyes the stretched denim holding his cock and balls firmly in place. Dennis' smile suggests that he knows that there's no wife. I think to myself, "Well, Jake, you may end up in pieces in his freezer, but damn he's sexy!"
Rather than sitting in the recliner, Dennis sits next to me on the couch, and I mean right up against me. I can feel the warmth of his body and smell the intoxicating musk of his armpits. As we drink our beers, we make small talk. Dennis is divorced, twice. No kids ("Thank God!" he says). I reiterate that I'm just passing through town on a road trip with no particular destination. I don't mention my fictitious wife, nor do I say that I'm driving to clear my mind after a particularly nasty breakup with an incredibly hot, but incredibly selfish boyfriend, and that I may never go back home.
Our bottles nearly empty, Dennis opens a drawer in the coffee table, and withdraws a ceramic pipe, lighter, and small box. He pinches some weed into the pipe and lights it, inhaling deeply. He hands me the pipe and I do the same. My lungs burn a little, but I also feel the rush of warm relaxation. For a change, I don't cough while exhaling. Dennis sits down right next to me. We each take a few more hits off the pipe, and by that point, we are both grinning at each other like idiots. I put my hand on his thigh, which seems to startle him just a little. But he does not push my hand away.
"I'm straight," he says, "but I really want to suck another guy's cock." "That's cool," I reply, trying to be noncommittal but my barely-suppressed pot-enhanced laughter gives me away. We both dissolve into giggles. "Shit, man, I knew you were a cocksucker the minute you walked in the bar," Dennis says between outbursts of laughter. "Yeah, like you've got a wife! I got no problem with you being a faggot. My ex-brother-in-law is queer, that's why he divorced my sister. Whatever floats your boat, that's my motto."
As the pot hits my system, I find Dennis getting sexier and sexier, especially now that my not-so-secret secret is out. I want to kiss him, long and deep, but know that kissing is a red line for a lot of straight guys. So I resist. Instead, I reach over and unbutton his fly, reach in, and pull out his semi-flaccid dick. "Commando, and in 501s!" I exclaim. Just the way so many of my fellow gay men dress for a night out, all the way back to when I was an insecure urban queer kid. He doesn't say a word. His cock feels warm and heavy in my hand. I've seen a lot of cocks in my life, and this one is a fine example. Prominent veins, velvety head with a pronounced ridge. And like the rest of him, it smells like a real man: musky with a faint hint of piss. With my finger, I touch the tip to get the drop of precum that appears. It is as sweet as honey.
