Like many, I’ve always had a weakness for the dark, brooding types—the quiet, handsome men who scare you just enough to make you ache for them. They don’t flirt or chase; they simply exist, still and commanding, like they’re giving you permission to approach. Their conversations are brief, blunt, and magnetic. They don’t pretend to be boyfriend material. They tell you straight up: they’re more likely to bend you over in a bathroom, fuck you senseless, and walk out to finish their beer while you catch your breath in the stall.
And because they’re so goddamn beautiful—and the sex is so unforgettable—you start to convince yourself maybe you’re the one. Maybe you’re the one who’ll change them. But deep down, you know better. You know it’s not a story that ends with love.
These men weren’t common, but I saw them often enough to keep hope alive. Unfortunately, I always struck out. I eventually accepted that I probably wasn’t their type. They could do better. So I settled for my Grindr hookups. They were fine—quick, convenient—but never really satisfying. I tried my luck at bars too, but nothing ever clicked. It confused me. I had no trouble getting laid online, but in person? It was like I was invisible. Or worse—guys hovered near me like nervous stalkers, never saying a word.
Over time, I developed this theory: I was stuck in that awful in-between. Not hot enough for the guys I wanted, too picky for the weirdos drawn to me.
That changed one night. I was with some friends and joked, “I must be way too intimidating for men.” I expected a laugh, but instead… silence. Then agreement. A few even confessed they’d found me intimidating when they first met me.
I blinked, genuinely shocked. Intimidating? Me? I thought I was open, friendly. Approachable.
But apparently, the version of me that I thought I projected—the curious, easygoing one—wasn’t what the world saw. My friends were quick to break it down: my resting expression, my intense gaze, my habit of silently scanning the room like I was judging everyone in it. At first, I brushed it off. But later that night, I thought about it more seriously.
It started to make sense—the awkward bar encounters, the avoided eye contact, the shy men who lingered but never made a move. I remembered how I tend to go still when I’m relaxed, lost in thought. I’ve been told I look like I don’t want to be disturbed. Combine that with my sharp cheekbones, narrow eyes, and wardrobe of black t-shirts and jeans—and yeah, I probably don’t scream “Come flirt with me.”
It hit me then: I was the broody stranger in the corner I always fantasized about. I was the guy people were too afraid to approach.
I laughed out loud. It was ridiculous—and yet, strangely fitting. On the inside, I was warm, curious, always hoping someone might see through my shell. But first impressions matter. And apparently, mine said, stay the fuck away.
I decided to test the theory.
I told my friends I was going to try something. I walked to the far end of the bar and watched—not for the guy smiling at me, but for the one avoiding my gaze. The one pretending not to notice me, even as he kept sneaking glances.
And there he was.
A cute, shy guy in a corner, sipping something nervously. Our eyes locked for a second. I let mine roam down his body, slow and deliberate. No smile. Just intention.
I wanted to see what he’d do—if he’d hold my gaze or flinch. He squirmed in his seat but didn’t look away. That was all I needed.
I stood and made my way toward him. He shifted, growing visibly tense, but still… he didn’t move. When I reached him, I stopped close—deliberately invading his space. His breath caught, but he didn’t retreat. I leaned in slightly, watching his face, and saw it: that subtle blend of fear and anticipation. The kind of tension that begged to be broken.
Part of me wanted to joke, to lighten the mood. But this wasn’t the time for charm. This was a test—and a seduction.
Be the man you always fantasized about, I told myself.
I placed one hand against the wall beside his head and leaned in, close enough for only him to hear. His breath quickened. So did mine.
“Is this going to happen or what?” I asked, low and direct.
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
I looked him over again, letting the silence hang. Then I said it clearly, deliberately:
“Am I going to get to fuck you?”
He froze. For a second I thought I’d pushed too far. But then he looked up at me—eyes wide, cheeks flushed—and whispered, “If you want to, sir.”
My cock twitched.
“Then get your ass into the bathroom,” I said, calm but firm. “I want to walk in and see you bent over in a stall, waiting for me.”
“Yes, sir,” he murmured—and practically bolted from his seat.
I watched him go. Honestly, I didn’t think it would work that easily. But it did. Something about the way he moved—urgent, eager—turned me on more than I was ready for.
I waited a moment, let the tension build, then followed.
The bathroom was half full—two men still at the urinals when I walked in. I ignored them, scanning the stalls until I saw one wide open.
There he was.
Jeans around his ankles, legs slightly parted, hands braced against the wall above the toilet. His back arched just enough to put his perfect ass on display. It was an invitation. A surrender.
And it was fucking beautiful.
I stepped into the stall behind him, closing the gap until my groin pressed against his ass. I let him feel the hardness growing in my jeans.
He exhaled sharply.
Leaning over him, I put both hands on his shoulders and whispered, “Good boy. Easy access. No fuss.”
Then I stood up straight and spat on his hole—slow and deliberate. I pressed my finger into the wetness, working it in, slow circles at first. He whimpered. I spat again, adding a second finger, stretching him wider. His body tensed, but he didn’t pull away. He was trying to take it all—hungry for it.
“Breathe,” I murmured. “Relax. The more you fight it, the more it’ll hurt.”
He obeyed—long, shaky breaths between soft moans. I kept fingering him, feeling the tight grip of his body clenching around me. He was good. Trained. He knew how to open up.
Behind me, I noticed movement. I glanced back.
The two men from the urinals were still there, lingering, clearly watching. One of them caught my eye and smirked.
I’d forgotten the door was wide open.
But I didn’t care. In fact, it made my cock throb harder. I was owning this boy in public, and he wanted to be seen.
I unzipped my jeans and pulled out my cock—hard, dripping with precum. I pressed the head against his hole, teasing him with slow pressure. Just enough to drive him crazy.
“You ready?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he gasped, breathless.
I didn’t wait. I pushed in.
Even with all the prep, he was tight. The friction burned in all the right ways. His whole body tensed, a strangled moan spilling from his mouth as I sank deeper. Inch by inch until I was buried to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he groaned.
“Yeah,” I growled, leaning over, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other tangling in his hair. I pulled his head back, exposed his neck. Then I slammed into him, hard.
He screamed. The kind that was pain, pleasure, and submission all rolled into one.
Behind me, I heard a cheer.
“Give that slut what he deserves!” one of the guys called out.
At first, I hesitated—was this too much?
But then the boy beneath me moaned, “Yes, sir, please… fuck me.”
That was all I needed.
“You hear that?” I said, loud enough for the room to hear. “Even he knows he’s a fucking hole for cock.”
He whimpered in agreement, pushing back against me as I started to thrust harder. Deeper.
My hips slapped against him, rhythm brutal and unforgiving. My grip stayed firm—one hand on his shoulders, the other guiding his waist, controlling every motion. He held onto the wall, bracing himself, but I could feel him trembling under the force of it all.
The audience was growing. I heard murmurs. Heavy breathing. A belt unbuckling.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t doing this for them—but their energy fueled me.
I leaned down, teeth grazing his ear. “You’re mine right now. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then take it.”
And he did.
I kept fucking him—hard, relentless. His body trembled beneath me, muscles shaking as he took every thrust. The air in the stall was thick with heat, sweat, spit, and the scent of sex. The crowd behind us had grown louder, one of them openly stroking himself as he watched.
But I was locked in—focused only on the boy in front of me. Bent over, obedient, giving me everything.
I felt it building—tight, low, unstoppable.
I grunted, pulled out, and spun him around so he sat on the toilet, legs spread, breath ragged. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lips parted like he was drunk on the whole experience.
I placed my cock against his mouth.
“Open wide. You’re taking every drop,” I said.
He obeyed instantly, tongue out, mouth ready.
I groaned deep as I came—hot, pulsing streams filling his mouth. He didn’t flinch. Just swallowed. Greedy. Grateful. When I was done, he kept sucking, cleaning me off with his lips and tongue, slow and careful like he never wanted it to end.
I let him finish, then looked down at him.
And something shifted.
For just a moment, I saw past the scene. Past the roles we played. I saw him—a boy desperate to be wanted. And I saw me—not the cold, brooding fantasy I’d acted out… but the guy beneath the mask. The one who never thought anyone would follow him into a bathroom stall just because he asked.
I brushed a strand of hair from his face. My touch softer now. His eyes searched mine like he sensed it too.
“You did good,” I said quietly.
“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, lips still swollen.
I tucked myself back in, zipped up, and looked him over one last time. That ache behind my ribs surprised me. But I didn’t let it linger.
I turned, walked out without another word, and left him there—flushed, used, and shining with sweat.
At the sink, one of the guys watching nodded at me.
“Can I take a turn with him?”
I didn’t smile. Just said, “Ask him. He’s not mine.”
Then I washed my hands, dried them slow, and walked out—back into the thrum of the bar, heart still pounding.
I ordered another drink.
