[Author's note: In this story, lines of consent are blurry at best.]
//
Some guys just bring it out in me, I can't really explain it. An out-of-the-blue, animalistic urge to fuck. I'm not gay -- I don't think -- I'm married, to a woman, two teenage kids, family man and all that, living in San Diego. But over the years, and more frequently as I've gotten older, there are instances when I see a guy and something clicks. When I say "click", I mean an almost tangible click in my head and in my body, a metabolic switch. Maybe something like the "hitch" that alcoholics talk about when a critical mass of booze hits their bloodstream.
Despite what you might think, reading this, I don't go around looking for sex. I do notice and appreciate male attention, though, probably more than most "straight" guys. I'm a big guy, 45 years old. Ex-military. Given my height and bulk, I get checked out a lot. I like catching men in the act of checking me out. I enjoy turning a guy's head, noticing when his gaze snags on my crotch. Sometimes I'll even give him a wink. But that kind of thing hardly ever leads to sex.
The guys that provoke this response in me, the men I fuck, don't fit a predictable form. I suppose what I'm saying is, I don't have a "type". Slim builds, thick builds, tall, short, older guys, younger guys, skin, hair, or eye color; none of these variables correlate with who triggers me.
When I feel the click, it's a signal sent from an individual. Someone, I think, in desperate need of what I have to give him. A direct wire to my lizard brain, communicating his primal need to be penetrated, violated, bred.
These men I fuck, it's like a dream. They don't pertain to my real life. I meet a guy, he trips my wire, we fuck, then go our separate ways. At least, that's how it has always happened. With Devon it was different. I'm not sure how it was different, but it was. I'm still thinking about him, almost a year later. Maybe it's why I'm writing this, to help figure it out.
//
It happened last summer when I was in Toronto for work. I was staying at a sprawling convention center/hotel complex. I had finished two exhausting weeks of consulting. 14-hour days, endless meetings. It was my last night in town. I decided to grab a drink at the hotel bar to unwind. It was late afternoon, and the bar was starting to get crowded. The hotel was packed with conference attendees, academic types, wearing name badges on lanyards around their necks. I had seen multiple rounds of them come through since I'd been there.
I ordered a drink and wandered back into the lobby to find an isolated table. I called my wife, let her know what time my flight was scheduled the next day, heard about the kids' games that weekend, etc. I was eager to get home.
As I was talking to her, I watched conference-goers trickle into the lobby, walking in twos and threes toward the bar. In one trio, my eye was immediately drawn to a younger man, mid-20s probably, 5'8"-ish. There was something about his gait, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved his arms. He was speaking animatedly with his friends. As he passed me, we briefly made eye contact. I felt a weight drop into my chest and felt it, the click, the distinct shift of gears in my body. The moment was mutual, as it always is. I saw him sort of miss a step, caught mid-sentence by the electricity of our connection. He stumbled slightly before steadying himself. He hurriedly looked away, and disappeared into the bar with his friends.
"Yeah, I'm still here." I said into the phone. "Yeah, sorry. No, I just realized there's something I need to do before I leave. No, I'll be able to do it tonight. OK, sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you too."
I pocketed my phone. My exhaustion had been replaced with what felt like the slow burn of a coal fire. I returned to the bar and ordered another drink. I looked around and located my quarry. He was at a table with six or seven other people. His back was to me. Thick mop of black hair. He was slightly chubby, his denim shirt a bit too tight, pinching his torso awkwardly under his arms. He had dark features against pale olive skin. He was perhaps Greek, or Slavic. Adriatic-looking. I had ancestors from that area of the world. I wondered if our distant relatives had ever met, maybe on opposite sides of swords and shields on a battlefield. Or, in the steamy corridors of some ancient Roman bath.
I stood at the bar, nursing my drink, waiting patiently, intermittently watching my mark and gazing up at the T.V. screens above the bar. I enjoyed the building anticipation, savoring the unknown of what was coming. I let the moment ripple across my body. As the animal energy took over, I felt the higher levels of my cognition being dismantled, folded and put away.
I descended into my senses. My hearing became hyperacute to the conversations around me. My olfaction seemed to pick apart each unique element of my drink, the layered smells around me in the bar, the faint musk of my own body radiating up from from my chest, armpits, and beard. After about 20 minutes, I saw my target get up, leaving his bag at the table. He made his way to the rear of the bar and out into the lobby. A minute or so later, I followed, tracking him across the lobby to the men's room.
I entered. He was at a urinal, humming softly to himself. Nobody else was in the room. I walked to the sink and ran the water. He looked over at me. I saw the stiffening of his sudden recognition, the same jolt of surprise as before. I smiled at him and began to wash my hands. I heard a flush and then fast footsteps as he came to the long row of sinks, taking the one furthest from me. I looked at him in the mirror. He studiously avoided my gaze.
Up close, he was chubbier than I had previously appreciated. His shirt and his pants, dark blue jeans, were both at least a size too small. There was a belly poking out over his belt. I saw that his ass was really packed into his jeans. I thought about what it would look like, freed from captivity. I glanced at his name badge, reversed in the mirror.
"Hello, Devon." I said.
He looked up at me in the mirror, stammered. "H-Hi, do I know you?"
"No." I smiled. "I just read your badge."
"Oh, right." He rolled his eyes and awkwardly grabbed at his name badge with a soapy hand, flinging suds onto his shirt. "Oh, whoops, haha." He flushed red, flustered. He stood for a second, seemed not to know what to do. Then he reached back into the sink to finish rinsing his hands. "Are you, um, here for the conference?"
"In town for business." I replied, removing a paper towel from a stack on the counter. I dried my hands. I took another towel and walked over to him. I reached out and carefully wiped up the spots of soap suds on his shirt. He stood, frozen, his ears burning red. I felt the soft pliability of his flesh under his shirt and felt blood surge into my hardening cock. Next to him, the difference in our sizes was grossly apparent. He was plump, but his frame was diminutive compared to mine. His head was level with my chest.
