That Night

Even now, almost six years later, I still can’t believe that night really happened. I felt that way at the time, too, as I remember all too well: I’m losing my fucking mind. this can’t be real.

the situation: my senior year of college, late April, so things were winding down. the students in the English department were doing an end-of-year party cum open mic night, and I’d decided to go, less because I had a deep investment in the culture of the English department and more because I had nothing better to do, so when my friend Andy asked me to read some poems, I said yes.

I didn’t think very hard about it — I picked a few of my favorites and called it a day. most of them were addressed to guys I thought were hot, plus one to a (fictional) boyfriend. I picked that one because I thought it was cute, and I thought people might appreciate the water imagery.

the party was relaxed. a bit of alcohol, some people reading stuff, some people playing stuff, chatting with friends and acquaintances between sets, marveling at how many people I didn’t know — some of whom, like him, I was pretty sure weren’t actually English majors but had come along anyway.

him: Mike, another senior, one I didn’t know very well at all, who was in one of my seminars in the fall. Colonialism and Romanticism. hot as fuck, in a confident, kind of douchey, straight dude way. often wore a baseball cap, backwards, even indoors. incredibly charming — if also douchey — smile. amazing arms that I spent a lot of time in class trying not to stare at. that was how I thought of him for the first few weeks, until I’d internalized everyone’s names: Nice Arms Guy. he didn’t say much in class, and we never interacted outside it, so at the end of the semester he was much of a mystery as he had been at the beginning. a hot, straight mystery.

I noticed him — beer in hand — on the other side of the room, took a moment, to appreciate the view, then turned my attention to other things. eventually, my turn at the mic came; Andy introduced me, people snapped politely when she finished, and I stood there, a little awkwardly (as always), and read my gay little poems. some more snaps, I thanked the audience, then I went back to the people I’d been talking to when Andy called me up. a couple of people came over to congratulate me or compliment the poems — the usual polite stuff at an event like this; I did appreciate it, but most of them were friends who’d heard me read before.

as I was heading over to the drinks table, though, Mike stopped me — like, physically stopped me, by putting a hand on my shoulder as I walked by.

“hey!” he said. he sounded genuinely excited to see me, which was weird considering we’d barely ever interacted.

“hey,” I said.

“I really liked your poems,” he said. he took his hand off my shoulder, but he made very earnest eye contact with me as he did so. I stared at him. he touched my shoulder. he touched me...? “thanks for sharing them.” he smiled, and in that moment I fully lost my mind.

“uh. thanks.” I fumbled for words. “I’m, uh, I’m glad you liked them.” I looked towards the drinks table, no longer sure I wanted that to be my destination but also not sure what I’d say to him if I stayed.

as if he guessed what I was thinking, he smiled again and said, “I’ll let you go — I just wanted to say thanks for reading.”

“well,” I said, and ducked my head awkwardly. “thanks again.”

“any time,” he said. “see you around!” I looked up at him again, half-expecting a wink or something, but he just smiled and moved off.

dazed, I continued towards the drinks table and picked up a beer. I could still half-feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder. he touched me!?

the evening continued, and I kept finding my eyes — and my body — drawn back to him, first from across the room and then from much closer. it seemed, too, like he was responding. we kept making eye contact across the room, and over the course of the next hour or so we drifted closer to one another. it wasn’t — on my part, anyway — planned, but eventually I was sitting at a table with some other acquaintances and he was standing behind me, having a conversation with a girl I vaguely recognized from my Media Theory course.

when I say he was standing behind me I mean: his crotch was level with my head. his crotch was about six inches from my head. his hip bumped lightly against the back of my head once when he turned.

“sorry,” he said quickly, his hand brushing against my shoulder again.

“it’s okay.” oh, man, was it okay. I was barely listening to anything anyone else said to me. all I could think was: he’s so close. his dick is so close to me. and he touched my shoulder.

it wasn’t long after, when I was standing up again between conversations, that Mike passed me, heading for the door and — I guessed — for the bathroom. as he did, his hand rested for a moment on my arm. a long moment. I mean, it was probably actually only a second or so, but it felt like an eternity. too long to be incidental. I looked up at him, startled, and saw that he was looking at me, too. a long moment — until he took his hand away — of eye contact and smiling. he jerked his head, ever so slightly, towards the door, then, abruptly, turned and sauntered away.

I’m losing my fucking mind, I thought. this can’t be real. no-one had ever tried to cruise me before — at least, not that I’d noticed. that was what had just happened, right? it had to be. right?

heart suddenly hammering in my chest, I glanced around, waited another few moments, then, cautiously, followed him. worst-case scenario, I figured I could just...use the bathroom. I did kind of need to pee, in any case.

out into the hall, down the stairs to the basement where the men’s room was, push open the door, and there I was.

and there he was. he was in the closest stall, the door of which was wide open behind him as he stood in front of the toilet, pissing loudly. I froze, staring at him. he’d adopted kind of a power stance, and I could see the stream of piss in the space between his legs. as he heard the door open and close, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. when he saw it was me, he grinned.

“hey, man.”

“...hey.” oh, god. what if I was totally wrong.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

oh, god. what if I was right.

I stood frozen there, unable to look away from him. he finished pissing and then half-turned towards me. his cock was still out, and my eyes were instantly glued to it, my mouth already watering at the thought of it.

“like what you see?” he asked. he was probably grinning even wider, but I couldn’t look away from his cock. damn, it looked thick. uncut, with the tip of the head peeking out from his foreskin.

“uhhhhhhhh.”

“come here,” he said. he took a half step towards me, reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the stall. he shut the door behind me and locked it. we stood there for a moment: him, his other hand still on his cock, grinning; me, frozen, unable to process what was happening. he waved a hand in front of my eyes. “hello? earth to Brendan.”

I shook my head and looked at his face again. “sorry. uh. what?”

he rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “are you going to suck my dick, or just stare longingly at it?”

“uhhhhhh —”

“bro,” he said. “here.” he moved his hands to my shoulder, pushed me gently but firmly down; I let myself be guided to my knees. once again, his cock was at my eye level. it was really thick. it was getting hard, too, it looked like.

fuck. what am I doing?

I must have whispered that aloud, because he answered me: “I mean. I feel like it’s pretty obvious, but maybe I was, uh, misreading the fact that you spent a full semester constantly staring at my arms and now you’ve followed me into the bathroom and are on your knees practically drooling over my cock.”

“um.”

“dude.” he reached down to grab the base of his cock and gave it a few strokes; I watched it twitch in his hand. “do you want it or not?”

“I. um. I really, really do.”

“okay, then.” his other hand came to rest on the back of my head, and I let him guide me closer, the hand on his dick lifting it towards my lips. then I opened my mouth, leaned forward, and swallowed his cock.

it hardened — and thickened — as he pulled me down onto it, sighing with pleasure as he did. my eyes closed and I slid my tongue around the head and then the shaft, feeling it grow until it was pressing against the back of my throat. the pressure of his hand on the back of my head relaxed and he let me pull back just a little so I could quickly exhale and inhale. then I was back at it, sitting up a little straighter and tilting my head to try and get him fully down my throat. I didn’t quite manage it, but the gag that jolted through my body seemed to satisfy him anyway, because his hand tightened on the back of my head, pushing me down, and he said, “yeah, suck that big cock. you like that?”

I gurgled something vaguely affirmative and he laughed.

it was over quickly after that, and fortunately no-one interrupted us. a few switches between working the head with my tongue, pushing it up to brush against the roof of my mouth — making him shiver and whisper, “fuck” — and tasting bitter, salty precum and swallowing around him, gagging as he held me down, my whole body jerking with the force of it, his hands on either side of my head as he thrust into my mouth, my own cock straining against the fabric of my briefs. I reached down to adjust myself and he laughed, once.

finally, he murmured: “I’m almost there...”

I picked up the pace, reaching up so I could wrap my hand around the shaft — but before I could touch him, his hand was tightening, a little painfully, in my hair and he was pulling me closer; I changed tack and moved my hands to his ass, pulling him as close as I could while he grunted, once, and I felt his cock throb as he shot his load down my throat.

it took a long time for him to finish cumming; when he finally let me go I was gasping for breath, tears in my eyes from the effort of swallowing his cum. still, when I saw one last drop gathering at the tip I leaned forward and caught it with my tongue.

when he’d caught his breath — in less time than it took me to catch mine — he ruffled my hair; I looked up at him in surprise and he smiled at me, almost indulgently. “thanks, man,” he said. “I needed that.”

then, without another word, he tucked himself back into his boxers, zipped up his cargo shorts, opened the stall door, and left. the toilet flushed automatically as I stared after him, unable to believe what had just happened.

the reality that I was kneeling in an open stall in the men’s room hit me, then, and I hurried to my feet. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pee now — not while I was this hard — so I washed my hands and went back to the party. what else was there to do?

he ignored me for the rest of the night, although our eyes met a few times and it seemed to me like there was an extra something in his when they did. but he didn’t smile, didn’t say a word to me.

the party came to an end. a few weeks later, we graduated, and I never saw him again.

still, though, I think about it. about him. six years on, I can still remember what his cock felt like as he came down my throat. was this something he did often? a one-off bit of wild horniness?

now I’ll never know. still, though...