Mantown

Mantown was originally written in 2018. This version is fully rewritten and expanded well beyond the original. Thanks for reading.

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Chapter 1: The State of Man

Jesse King stood in his master bathroom, running a hand down the side of his throat, testing the tension of the skin. The house was quiet except for the low drone of morning news drifting from the bedroom TV.

There are a lot of things about us men that fucking sadden me, he thought, leaning closer until his breath fogged the glass. Like how women see us as such bastards…

He shook his head, leaning his weight on the cool marble of the double vanity, imagining Cal resting on a weight bench between sets, nodding sagely: “Which we are.”

But seriously. Forty-two was looming, and the script had flipped. He studied the man in the mirror: glasses and a thick mustache. The jaw that had once been his best feature had gone soft around the edges. 

When did all that happen? He hadn’t been vain, quite, in his youth, but aware of his looks—and the benefits he reaped from them.

In college, he knew he was hot. Hot enough to get laid nearly at will. When his fraternity threw car wash fundraisers, they didn't put him in the back with the soap and hoses. They put him out front on the sidewalk in denim cut-offs, holding the neon sign. The V of his Apollo’s belt pointing down to the package had been enough to bring in the soccer moms in their SUVs and the passing gay guys looking for a show.

He’d let things slide. That’s what happens with marriage, a career, kids. It just seemed there should have been warning signs along the way, an offramp somewhere. Maybe that's what those expanding waist sizes had been along the way—thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-four… Maybe another was the day he stopped shaving over his lip because it was just easier. There were so many concessions over such a long time. They accumulated like snow. Innocent enough at first, and then you find yourself buried.

Almost a year ago, he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a storefront window on a crowded street, completely off guard, before he could instinctively suck in his gut. He knew the sensible, flat-front slacks Lyssa bought for him had become uncomfortably snug, cutting into his midsection, but somehow he didn't realize it was so public.

That had been the brutal wake-up call.

His dad had always said you can only start where you are, so he did. For the past twelve months, he’d quietly gone to war. He put in hours at the gym. Forced down the powders and amino supplements, rubbed greasy white moisturizer into his face, like he should have done years earlier.

It was time to assess the return on that investment.

He reached over and shoved Lyssa’s cluster of bathroom products—a sprawling chessboard of lotions, serums, and sprays—out of the way so he could take a proper look at himself in the wide mirror.

He rolled his shoulders back and turned sideways, checking the angles. The curve of his back was good, the lat muscles swept down in a clean taper. His ass was high—round again under the towel. His waist had finally retreated back to reasonable, respectable levels. Not college lean, thicker. Solid.

He flexed slightly, watching the muscle move under his skin. His shoulders had broadened, rounding out. His chest had armored up again into defined pecs that dropped a hard line down to his ribs.

He was, without a doubt, a forty-two-year-old man... maybe only forty. Not a boy anymore, but maybe a man who knew his own strength. The stache read ‘dad’ now, but paired with his newly sharpened jawline and the set of his shoulders, it didn't look tired. It looked dominant.

He untucked the towel around his waist and opened it up to check the lower real estate. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, balls full. Still the same seven inches, thickest in the middle. That, at least, hadn't changed. Not bad, bro.

He reached for his razor, paused, and then pulled his hand back. The dark shadow looked good—it gave his sharpened jawline a more dangerous edge. He put the razor down, retied the towel low on his hips, a deliberate hint of dark pubes showing above the fold, and headed for the master bedroom with fresh swagger in his step.

Lyssa was at the edge of the bed, getting dressed. Even now, catching her off guard in the morning light, he felt the friction of the towel against his rising cock.

She had been the absolute hottest girl in college. The one who put up the most disciplined resistance to Jesse and his charms, so of course she was the one he had to have. Foregoing all others, as they said in the marriage vows.

Things had started so well. They were such a good match, equally attractive by the standards of their own genders, strong-willed enough to go head-to-head and toe-to-toe. They made each other so hot and bothered, but for the longest time it was mostly just bothered.

Looking at her, he was reminded she’d kept herself up. Women understood the economy of attraction, building capital and investing, while men were profligate, spending their best days with abandon. Women were taught from childhood that their looks were a commodity, but men—men of Jesse’s age anyway—were conditioned to not even know what was attractive in their own sex 

It looked like more fun for men, but like Aesop’s grasshopper and ant, when the seasons turned and the long winter came, it was the men left begging for a crumb of sex. Those ancient Greeks were right about a lot.

He hoped their boys could see themselves more clearly.

He walked up behind her, his bare feet silent on the carpet, and ran a broad hand over the curve of her back.

"I was thinking," he murmured, his voice dropping a full register. "My birthday's coming up. We could—"

Lyssa stopped dead, a shoe dangling half-on her foot.

"Did you take care of the toilet?" she asked.

Jesse's hand stopped moving. "What?"

"The toilet," she repeated. "It's been taking two flushes. Three for you, after your man dumps."

"No, it doesn't—"

“Could you just get it taken care of?" she asked, her attention already snapping back to the logistics of the day. She slipped her shoe on, stood up, and grabbed her purse from the armchair.

"And you forgot to shave," she noted distractedly, disappearing down the hall.

---

Chapter 2: The Princes

With a heavy sigh, Jesse untied the towel, dropped it in the hamper, and opened his closet. He reached for the uniform of his daily life: the sensible, flat-front slacks, a pale blue button-down shirt, a conservative striped tie, and a pair of dark loafers.

He grabbed his canvas gym bag from the floor of the closet and slung it over his shoulder. By the time he headed downstairs, the smell of toasted bread and dark coffee drifted from the kitchen.

His sons were at the sprawling quartz island, finishing breakfast.

Nate, his oldest, didn't even look up at Jesse's arrival. He was eighteen now, graduating in a matter of months. He was a striking kid—a perfect, genetic compromise between Jesse’s handsome features and Lyssa’s lean, elegant frame.

Nate probably had his choice of girls at school, like Jesse did at his age. But Jesse didn't really know. Like Lyssa, his firstborn was more remote, more… compartmentalized. Even when Nate spoke to you, looking you dead in the eye, you never actually knew what was going on underneath the surface.

Lyssa had joked about it once, years ago, when Nate was eight, after accidentally learning he had his first “girlfriend,” a milestone Nate deemed not worth mentioning.

“He'll get married and have kids someday,” Lyssa had laughed, sitting in bed, “and we won’t even know. He’ll just never mention it.”

It had been funny then. 

Now, watching Nate stand up to take his empty bowl to the sink, the joke carried a dull, ache.

As Nate reached over the counter to load his plate into the dishwasher, the morning light caught his arm. Jesse could see the shifting flex of the muscles in Nate's tan forearms and the broadness settling across his shoulders.

He was a young man now, not a boy. Fully formed, Jesse realized with a sudden pang. The window of childhood was closed, and Jesse didn't know what lessons he had actually passed on. What had he taught this boy about being a man? Looking at his own life, what kind of blueprint was he even providing?

He watched Nate grab his backpack in silence and head toward the garage.

Jesse turned his attention to the island. He might still have a chance with his younger son. At sixteen, Sam was more open, more emotionally accessible, and far more affectionate—more like Jesse, with a softer, easier energy.

Right now, however, Sam was hunched over the glowing screen of his smartphone, the volume turned low.

Jesse poured himself a mug of black coffee and walked over. He stood behind his son, resting the flat of one broad hand on his back.

"What are you watching?" Jesse asked, leaning in to look.

"YouTube," Sam mumbled, not looking up.

Jesse narrowed his eyes at the shaky, chaotic footage on the screen. The title of the video was in Spanish. The shaking camera was panning wildly across a horrific scene: a flash flood in a rural town in Guatemala. The water was a muddy torrent, tearing down a narrow, paved street. It was sweeping away trash cans, bicycles, and any debris, the current strong enough to lift parked cars off their tires.

And there, right in the center of the frame, were two men.

They had waded waist-deep into the crushing, violent current. One man was braced against a concrete pillar, anchoring himself, while his other arm was locked in with the second man’s. The second man leaned out precariously into the flow, using his free hand to reach desperately into the churning brown water and physically pull terrified children out of the floodwaters as they swept past.

They men weren't soldiers. They weren't emergency responders. They were just ordinary men in soaked, clinging t-shirts and jeans. 

“Wow,” Jesse said. His voice was a breathless whisper. He spoke without thinking, captivated by the screen.

It was something incredible to see. 

“That’s amazing,” Jesse murmured, the heat of genuine awe rising in his chest.

Sam shrugged. He tapped the screen with a thumb, closed the video, and started scrolling mindlessly through a feed of short comedy clips.

Jesse stepped back, still trying to reconcile what he’s seen—two completely ordinary, unremarkable men with nothing but the raw strength of their bodies and the absolute iron of their will doing the impossible. It was idyllic, but it happened.

“What’s going on at school today?” Jesse asked, shifting his attention to Sam.

“Nothing. Play auditions,” the sixteen-year-old mumbled, his eyes still glued to a video of a guy falling off a skateboard.

“Gonna get a part?” Jesse asked, setting his coffee mug down on the quartz counter.

“Maybe,” Sam shrugged again, the universal teenage gesture of profound apathy.

“Well, do you want a part or don’t you?” Jesse pressed, stepping closer to the island, demanding his son's attention.

“I guess,” Sam answered, finally turning his head away from the glowing screen to look up at his father.

Jesse looked at the boy's soft, unbothered face. He thought of the men in the muddy water, gripping each other's arms, risking everything to pull life from the current. He thought of his own reflection in the mirror, entirely ignored.

“Well, if you want a part, get it,” Jesse said, his voice deepening. “If you don’t, why do it? Don't just float through your life, Sam. Because if you do want it... there is nothing a man can't do if he sets his mind to it.”

Sam just stared at him. The boy's brow furrowed, looking completely puzzled by his father's sudden intensity over a dumb high school play.

Jesse looked down at his son, overcome with a deep, wistful affection. He stepped forward and pulled Sam close, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of the bewildered boy's head.

He released his second born. He picked up his coffee mug, adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder, and walked out to his car.

---

Chapter 3: A Vast and Eternal War

“Y’know, it’s all bullshit,” Jesse said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel.

Cal, sitting on the adjacent bench press, nodded slowly but didn't say much. He just took a sip from his water bottle.

“We get led around by our dicks for just a crumb,” Jesse continued, his voice tight. “And then when we finally get it, we roll over on our backs in gratitude. Like fucking us is such a big favor.”

Cal glanced nervously at the guy doing cable flys a few yards away. "Keep it down, man."

Jesse ignored him. "I haven’t jacked off for a week. Lyssa is always around. Or the boys. That’s my sex life now. If I get to blow my load at all, it's a few pathetic minutes in the shower before the water gets cold."

“Jesus, Jesse,” Cal muttered, his eyes darting around the gym floor again, searching for anyone who might be eavesdropping on this sudden broadcast of domestic misery.

“I had it better when I was in high school,” Jesse continued, making a jerk-off motion with his free hand. “At least I had a bedroom to myself.”

“Dude,” Cal whispered, rolling his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Jesse said. “If men were in charge—really in charge—there’d be fucking jerk-off stations around the city. Nice ones. Self-cleaning. Right on the streets. You get horny? You duck in, stroke one off. They’d have nice lubes in dispensers. You finish up, wash off, and get back to your day with a clear head.”

Cal let out a short, startled laugh. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“When I was a kid,” Jesse said, the frustration bleeding out of his voice, “I thought it would be so cool to be a man. Men seemed so... capable. You know? Protectors, and leaders. Now, the whole thing is tarnished.”

He reached down, wrapping his calloused hand around a heavy dumbbell, and firmly locked his tricep into the angled pad of the curl bench. The gold band on his ring finger clinked faintly against the knurled iron. 

“You think of 'men' now, and it's sexual harassers—” He yanked the weight up in a sharp, concentrated curl. “—fucking deadbeat dads—” Another sharp pull, the thick muscle of his bicep swelling round and full under the strain. “—fucking podcast assholes.” He let the iron drop back against the pad with a dull, heavy thud. “That wasn't what I thought being a man would be.”

His grandfather had gone to war when he was hardly older than Nate. He returned to build a life for his wife and children. In turn, Jesse’s father worked hard but always made time to coach and mentor Jesse, and other boys as well. He passed on simple but abiding rules for living. You can only start where you are, he used to say. And, don’t do a thing if you can’t face it.

What had Jesse built? Nothing. He traded his skills for a salary from a soulless company. He earned a good living, but he made nothing of his own, bartering his talents to realize someone else’s vision. And in turn, he bartered his earnings to others in impersonal transactions. Even his home was built by strangers, maintained and repaired by other strangers Lyssa found online. His boys were taught their moral lessons by buffoons on YouTube.

He looked at his hands, calloused from the knurling on the barbells.

“But we’re not even men,” Jesse sighed, sitting back up. “We’re boy children. When’s the last time you bought your own clothes? Honestly?”

Cal blinked, thrown by the sudden pivot. “I don’t know, man. Gloria and I were at the mall a few weeks ago—”

SMACK!

Jesse slammed his right fist into his left palm. The crack echoed loudly enough to draw the attention of three other members.

“My point exactly!” Jesse hissed, leaning in. “My fucking point. You know, even before we were married, Lyssa started picking clothes for me. 'You men don’t know how to dress,' she’d say. And I didn’t care so long as I was getting laid. 'Sure, baby, whatever you want.' Now? I don’t even know where my clothes come from. They just appear in my closet. Like a dog doesn’t ask where its collar comes from. And I held up my throat for it. 'Sure, baby, whatever you want.'”

He stopped, his chest heaving. Cal just stared at him, a dumbbell resting limply on his knee.

Jesse turned away, world weary.

His gaze caught his own reflection in the sprawling, full-wall mirror that lined the free-weight section. He lifted his towel, wiping the sweat from his mustached face, and stared at the man looking back at him.

This morning, he had been admiring his rebuilt body, preparing for a battle he thought he could finally win. 

But looking at himself now, and looking at the reflection of the other hard-working guys scattered across the gym floor behind him it seemed bleak.

There were guys out there who were equal partners in raising their kids and managing the household, guys who had a social conscience. And yet, they were still virtual children in their own homes.

And why? Because they didn’t meet the standards of women. They were constantly graded on a rubric they hadn't written. They didn’t talk about their feelings enough. They ate the wrong foods. They wanted sex too much. They were too loud, too hairy, too big, too smelly.

They were too male.

Of course men didn’t meet the bar. It was designed for women. It was built on women’s values, women's tastes, women's biologies. Not men’s. 

In an age of diminishing gender roles, at a time when men and women could be nearly anything they wanted in the professional world, there remained one naggingly inflexible set of roles for them at home: women were the gatekeepers, and men were the beggars. The woman doled out intimacy as a conditional reward for domestic compliance and good behavior. The man was forced to constantly earn his way into his own marital bed, just for a chance at physical relief. 

At the absolute crux of it all was sex.

Jesse lowered the towel, holding his own gaze in the glass.

There was a vast and eternal war between the sexes. And although Jesse knew, on a purely biological level, that sex was less consequential for men than for women, it didn’t feel like he had the upper hand. He felt entirely outmatched.

But standing there on the rubber floor of the gym, staring into the mirror, he realized something else.

He didn't want to finally gain the upper hand over Lyssa. He didn't want to defeat his wife, or women in general. 

He didn’t want the advantage in the war of the sexes.

He didn’t want the war at all.

---

Chapter 4: The Queen

It was supposed to be their regular monthly date night.

In theory, it was supposed to do whatever date nights were supposed to do—rekindle the spark, force them out of the house, remind them that they were lovers before they were parents and homeowners. In reality, it was a heavily scheduled, expensive obligation that they both quietly dreaded.

Sitting across from Lyssa in the dim, amber-lit ambiance of a high-end downtown steakhouse, Jesse sipped his Manhattan and studied his wife. She was wearing a black-and-white checkerboard wrap dress that clung to her in all the right places, her dark hair falling perfectly around her shoulders. She was, as always, striking. But the dress itself felt almost painfully on the nose to Jesse. She looked like the Queen draped in the chessboard itself, sitting directly across from him, waiting for him to make a move.

The silence between them was just the heavy silence of a couple that had run out of material. He knew for a fact that they both actively hoarded conversation topics in the days leading up to these date nights. They’d stash away an anecdote from work or a piece of mild neighborhood gossip just to have something—anything—to say, because they were expected to talk, and they were strictly forbidden from talking about the kids or the household chores.

Jesse took another slow sip of his drink. What he really wished, with a sudden, aching intensity, was that they could just sit at a dark bar together, shoulder to shoulder, staring at a wall of bottles and shooting the shit the way he would with Cal or any other guy. No pressure. No performance. But he knew that wouldn’t be romantic enough. It wouldn't count. And if he was being honest, she was probably sitting there wishing for something different, too. Something he wasn't providing.

The word divorce played on his tongue. There was no shame in admitting the marriage had run its course. The boys were grown, mostly. But if they ended it, wouldn’t they each just be succeeded by new players in the same game? New antagonisms or even the old ones under new names. Because in the end this wasn’t about him and Lyssa. It was about men and women, with no escape from this unending cycle.

The exhaustion of it all crashed over him.

Fuck it, just say it, a voice in his head whispered. This is your life. You’ve blown a lot of the first half playing along. Do you want to blow the second half, too? Man up.

He set his heavy crystal glass down on the white tablecloth.

“Do you ever think,” Jesse said, with an impulsive frankness, “that maybe men and women are just two different species that happen to be sexually compatible?”

Lyssa paused, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly. “What’s that all about?”

The dam broke. Jesse couldn’t stop it if he tried. The words poured out.

“I think the way we interact is bullshit. Women leading men around by the dick. Men constantly failing women’s emotional standards. Look at us—the sex we do have is a chore for you and nowhere near enough for me.” 

He leaned forward, gesturing slightly as the momentum carried him. “It’s like society and biology conspired against us both. They set up this totally fucked-up system where men and women are just deadlocked in an endless war of contradictory urges and instincts. I want shit you don't care about. You need shit I don't know how to give. Doesn’t this whole arrangement just seem like a guaranteed formula for everyone's misery?”

He leaned back. He had laid it all out. A grand, tragic theory of their mutual suffering.

Lyssa studied him for a long, agonizing moment. Her expression was unreadable. Then, she picked up her wine glass.

“Well,” she said, her voice perfectly level. “Too bad you men can’t just fuck each other.”

Jesse stared at her. He tried to discern whether she was joking, or pissed off, or just being brutally honest. It was funny, in a dark way, that you could share a bed with someone for two decades, know the exact cadence of their breathing, and still have such glaring blind spots when it came to their mind.

But this was exactly the kind of gaming he was done with. Why couldn’t people just say what they really meant?

“All wars are about resources, Jesse,” she continued, swirling the red wine in her glass. She wasn't angry. If anything, she looked slightly bored by his existential crisis. “Land, oil, or in this case, sex. If you men could just fuck each other, you wouldn’t need my resource.”

Jesse mulled this over. The cold, brutal economics of her argument completely bypassed his philosophical romanticism.

“It is too bad,” he finally agreed, throwing back the rest of his Manhattan.

“Frankly, Jesse, I could live just fine without the fucking. It’s not such a treat for me,” Lyssa said, resting her glass on the table. “I have my kids. The economic partnership works. So go ahead. Find yourself a bunch of guys and start your Mantown. Go build a little utopia where there are no wives, no emotional red tape, and you can all just fuck each other instead of fighting with us. Go get it completely out of your system, and then just come home for dinner so we can get on with running this family in peace. You have my absolute blessing.”

Jesse froze, the ice clinking against his teeth as he lowered his empty glass.

She could be a stone cold bitch. God, he loved that about her.

His mind instantly flashed back to a Saturday afternoon years ago. Nate and Sam, both under the age of six, had gotten furious over some perceived injustice and announced they were running away from home forever. Lyssa hadn't yelled. She hadn't negotiated. She had simply told them she’d miss them, kissed their heads, and calmly made them each a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the road.

Of course, the boys had only made it to the end of the driveway before turning around. They were back in the living room within half an hour. He and Lyssa had chuckled about it in bed that night, marveling at the easy psychology of calling a child's bluff.

Was she playing that exact same card right now? Did she think she was handing a toddler a sandwich for the road?

Jesse looked at his wife in her checkerboard dress. He felt a dangerous, electric thrill pool low in his gut.

Mantown. She had named it.

“A toast?” he asked, his face turning up into his absolute best, most disarmingly boyish smile.

Lyssa looked slightly amused by his sudden shift in demeanor. “To Mantown,” she replied, raising her glass by the stem.

“To Mantown,” Jesse agreed, tapping his heavy crystal glass lightly against hers.

He maintained his neutral, easy smile, lowered his glass, and immediately pivoted to asking her about a piece of mild neighborhood gossip involving the HOA. She took the bait, relaxing back into her chair.

Jesse kept nodding along, keeping his face perfectly pleasant. There was absolutely no point in continuing the campaign when you’d just been handed the very thing you wanted.

---

Chapter 5: Two Kings

It took until ten-thirty the next morning for Jesse to even remember the conversation.

He was sitting at his desk, staring blankly at a spreadsheet, when the memory of the steakhouse suddenly pierced through his mild hangover. He winced, rubbing his temples. How much did I actually drink to say those things out loud?

He knew exactly why Lyssa had given him her "blessing" so easily—Mantown. She didn’t care if he found a man because they both knew how exclusively, hopelessly devoted he was to pussy. She had called his bluff with zero risk to herself. You might as well tell an agoraphobic they’re completely free to go anywhere in the world, knowing full well they’ll never actually step off the porch to take you up on it.

Jesse sighed and looked across the open-plan office.

His eyes landed on Terrell. He found himself wondering, for the first time in his life, how gay guys actually did it. It had to be a remarkably sweet deal, existing outside the battlefield he and Lyssa were trapped on. Maybe that’s exactly why Terrell rarely said a word about his love life at work. 

Jesse had never really thought about it before. He had never been particularly curious, casually chalking it up to the fact that Terrell was the only gay guy in their immediate group.

But watching him now, Jesse saw things he hadn't noticed before. Terrell was good looking, obviously. But fit as fuck. His posture was perfect, his tailored dress shirt fit his chest exactly right, and he always looked effortlessly sharp. Previously, Jesse would had just filed that away under "good genes." Now, with a year of grueling gym time under his own belt, Jesse recognized the discipline. There were daily choices involved in looking like that, and a hell of a lot of work.

Jesse opened his instant messenger and typed quickly. Hey man. Forgot my lunch and have to go out. Can I treat you? Maybe I could pick your brain about a few things?

He hit send and watched across the room as the notification popped up on Terrell’s screen. He saw Terrell’s surprised face. He watched the man read, and then visibly re-read, the message. It made sense; they hadn't done a single thing together, just the two of them alone, in the three years they had worked together.

Terrell looked across the desks at Jesse and gave a slight, questioning shrug.

Jesse responded by holding his hands open, palms up, in a gesture of surrender.

A second later, Terrell turned back to his keyboard. Jesse's screen pinged. Sure. Vietnamese? I don’t do burgers.

Jesse smiled and pinged back a thumbs-up emoji.

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a brightly lit, noisy Vietnamese spot two blocks from the office called Hai Vua—Two Kings. The contrast to the amber-lit steakhouse of the night before was immediate and relieving. There was no checkerboard dress. There was no hoarding of safe topics.

Their vermicelli bowls arrived, layered with grilled pork, fresh herbs, and crushed peanuts, Terrell pulled a pair of wooden chopsticks from the dispenser, cracked them apart cleanly, and looked across the table.

“So what’s up?” Terrell asked, picking up a strip of pork and several loops of noodle with his chopsticks.

“Heh, I guess I’m pretty obvious,” Jesse chuckled, trying to mimic Terrell’s deft use of the sticks.

“If you needed something from marketing I don’t think you’d be buying me lunch,” Terrell responded, sinking the meat into his mouth.

“This is awkward,” Jesse began, “but I have questions and you’re the only guy I know who, uh—”

“Is Black?” Terrell asked.

“What? NO!” Jesse gasped. “Who’s gay.”

Terrell exhaled with relief. “Good. I don’t have time to humor your white curiosity.”

“Straight curiosity okay?” Jesse asked.

“Oh yeah, that’s fine,” Terrell answered, with a smirk.

Jesse leaned forward over his bowl, stabbing a piece of pork with a single stick. "This is going to sound incredibly awkward, but I had this... epiphany. About the battle of the sexes. I’ve just been thinking a lot about what it would be like if men just did what they wanted to do, unencumbered by women’s rules. And I wanted to know more from someone who just isn't even participating in the war. I figured a gay guy would know."

Terrell stopped eating. He lowered his chopsticks and looked across the table, his dark eyes locking onto Jesse's.

"Being gay does not mean living in some utopian, all-male world, Jesse."

"I know, I know, but—"

“But why the sudden anthropology project?” Terrell interrupted, his tone cooling slightly. He set his chopsticks down across his bowl and folded his arms. “Look, Jesse, I like you. But I am a gay Black man working in marketing at a mid-sized corporate firm. I don't survive by airing out my sex life over vermicelli to a straight, married coworker just because he had a mid life crisis. Early mid-life. If this goes south, you go back to your desk, and I get an HR file.”

Jesse sat back, properly chastised. “You're right. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about the position I was putting you in. I'm just... I'm out of my depth, and I honestly didn't know who else to talk to.”

Terrell studied Jesse's face for a long, calculating moment. He was looking for any hint of a joke, or worse, pity. Finally, the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He glanced around the bustling restaurant, then leaned in closer over the table, his playful energy shifting into something conspiratorial.

"There is a lot of stuff that all gay men know, but that we just don't talk about with straight people."

"Like the apps?" Jesse asked, chewing.

"Yeah, the apps," Terrell said, using his chopsticks with surgical precision, darting around the bed of white rice noodles to extract only the lean grilled meat and crisp vegetables. "But that’s not all of it. Dedicated cruising spots. Pick-up bars. You have absolutely no idea how many perfectly respectable-looking, married gay couples have threesomes, open relationships, or dedicated sex rooms right inside their designer homes. We don't all do all of it. But we all know about it."

Jesse stared at him, fascinated. It was exactly what he had theorized at the gym with Cal: a world built on male terms, for male urges. "I want to know everything."

Terrell chuckled. He nodded to a nearby table where two colleagues were eating. "Well, I'm definitely not going to talk about all of this in the middle of a restaurant on a Thursday. But you can come over to my place for drinks sometime if you want to know how the other half lives. If the gays find out I’m telling our secrets, I’ll lose my membership card."

Jesse leaned forward slightly, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across his face as he caught the opening. "Is that an actual thing? Don’t fuck with me, bro, I'm just learning."

Terrell let out a low, appreciative laugh. "Yeah, Jesse. It’s a laminated card. Comes with twenty percent off at Crate & Barrel."

Jesse chuckled, holding Terrell’s gaze just a beat longer than necessary. "I'll keep that in mind when I need a new sofa."

They ate in silence for a moment, the ambient clatter of the busy restaurant filling the space between them. Then, Terrell cleared his throat.

"I'm only doing this for two reasons," he said, the playful energy settling into something a little heavier as his eyes locked onto Jesse's. "One, you’re the only guy in the office who actually calls me Terrell instead of Terry. I hate that shit."

"And two?" Jesse asked.

"Two," Terrell said, a slow smirk spreading across his handsome face, "I had a massive thing for you for the first three weeks after I started here." He raised an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his dark eyes. "Still want to get drinks?"

Jesse felt a sudden heat rise in his cheeks. He wasn't threatened. He was intensely flattered. The sheer directness of it, the absolute lack of agonizing, calculated emotional subtext, was incredibly refreshing. It was just a fact, laid out openly on the table.

"Yeah," Jesse said, clearing his throat and forcing his voice to stay steady. "Real sure."

He picked up his own pair of chopsticks, suddenly hyper-aware of his massive hands under Terrell's steady gaze. He fumbled as he tried to grip a slick knot of rice noodles. They slipped from the wood, dropping back into his bowl with a wet slap.

Terrell watched him for a second, amusement dancing in his eyes. Without a word, he reached over, grabbed a metal fork from the condiment caddy, and handed it across the table to Jesse.

"Here," Terrell said gently. "You don't have to master everything on your first try."

Jesse looked at the fork. He didn’t really know what he was doing with his sticks. But if he stuck with it, he’d get the hang of it, and he planned on returning for lunch there soon.

“I’m good,” he said, sticks in hand, studying Terrell’s technique so he could do it himself.

---

Chapter 6: Focus

Slipping out of the office at three-thirty on a Friday felt like an illicit thrill all on its own. Terrell had left aven earlier, leaving Jesse to make his own escape. Jesse had shot Lyssa a quick text from the parking garage—Grabbing a quick drink with a coworker after work to vent about Henderson. Home for dinner.—and driven across town to the address Terrell had texted him. Now, safely hidden in a different zip code, he was in uncharted territory.

“So at this Folsom fair there’s people just walking around in leather?” Jesse asked, almost an hour into the conversation. His tie was off, his top button popped open, and he was settled comfortably into his corner of the deep leather sofa. “Cocks and asses out in the open? And it’s just… normal? And porn star booths? Isn’t there weirdness about exploitation?”

“Fuck man, they’re celebrities signing autographs,” Terrell laughed from the opposite end of the couch. His posture was completely at ease, one arm draped casually over the back cushion, his body angled to face Jesse. “The power balance is different, I guess, when it’s all men. I mean yeah, there’s exploitation on the business end, but it’s just economic like everything else. And you know… hierarchies. I told you, it's not a utopia. Just not the gender shit.”

Jesse took a slow sip of wine. It had been an incredibly instructive talk. Hearing about this gay male world—a world existing silently side-by-side with the one he knew—felt strangely liberated. It was a world where sex wasn't a scarce resource to be rationed or weaponized. Just pleasure and relief, offered and taken openly. No scorekeeping. Just cock, cum, and mutual relief.

He let his eyes wander around Terrell’s apartment. It wasn’t minimalist, but it was orderly. Sturdy, handsome furniture. No frills, no decorative throw pillows he wasn’t allowed to use, no fragile knick-knacks crowding the surfaces. Just a few solid, deliberate objects.

On one wall there was a framed, black-and-white photograph—an explicit shot of two muscular men entangled, the kind of art displayed proudly, not hidden away like some dirty, shameful secret. On a floating bookshelf sat a heavy, carved obsidian rook, completely removed from any board. Unapologetically masculine.

Sitting there in his relaxed posture, Jesse was struck by a sudden, depressing realization: he felt like a guest in his own home, always carefully navigating spaces arranged for everyone else’s comfort.

“My turn,” Terrell said, breaking the silence as he leaned forward from his end of the sofa. “What’s going on with you, Jesse?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jesse said, staring down into the dark red liquid in his glass. “In college I was a fucking stud. Now I feel like I took a wrong turn somewhere and just figured it out.”

Terrell reached for the bottle on the coffee table between them, leaning across the cushions to top off Jesse’s glass. “It’s not too late to change it up. Good looking guy like you.”

Jesse felt an unexpected heat rise in his cheeks. Had it really been so long since someone flattered him for exactly who he was that he was getting off on it coming from another guy?

“Thanks,” he muttered, clearing his throat.

“Look, I’m only telling you this because of the wine,” Terrell said, setting the bottle down on the dark coffee table. He dropped into the armchair across from Jesse. “When I said I had a thing for you for the first three weeks… well. It was longer than that.”

Jesse looked up, pulse kicking slightly.

“You have to understand,” Terrell continued, voice smooth and assessing. “On the gay market, you’d be prime real estate. When I first started at the office you already had that hot-dad thing going. But over the last year?” Terrell’s gaze dragged deliberately over Jesse’s chest. “Since you started packing on all that muscle? Jesus, Jesse. There were days I could barely look at you across the conference table without losing my train of thought.”

Jesse swallowed, his grip tightening unconsciously around the stem of his wine glass. A heavy thump of adrenaline kicked against his ribs. It was one thing to philosophize about this hidden world; it was another to realize he might be actively desired within it.

“That scruff when you don’t shave? Hot as hell,” Terrell went on, his voice dropping a register. “Your jawline is perfection. But it’s not just the look—it’s the energy. You’re assertive. Not right now…” He chuckled. “But I’ve seen you in action at the office. You know when to move and when to hold back. You get shit done. You’re not a college boy anymore. You’re a man. You think getting older was a loss, but you leveled up. You’re a fucking bull stud.”

Jesse sat perfectly still. It felt impossibly good to hear—especially from a guy like Terrell—jacked, handsome in a way even a straight guy could see, fashionable, but still undeniably masculine. Looking at the guy, it was obvious Terrell wouldn't be hard up for dates if he wanted them. The validation was intoxicating.

“I needed to hear that,” Jesse admitted, voice rougher than usual. He leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Lyssa told me that if I found a guy to fuck, she wouldn’t even care. She gave me her ‘blessing.’ She doesn’t think I’m capable of stepping off the track.” He looked at Terrell. “How do you guys even spot each other out in the wild?”

“There’re the apps, obviously,” Terrell said. “But in person? It’s the way guys carry themselves. Ways you move with intent. Dressing to draw eyes straight to the goods. You straight guys think life is just PTA meetings and office politics, but there’s a whole subtext running under it the whole time. We can cruise each other right under your noses and you don’t see a thing.”

Terrell picked up his empty wine glass and held it up between them, right at Jesse’s eye level.

“Look at the glass,” Terrell instructed.

Jesse focused his eyes on the crystal.

“When you focus on the glass, the surroundings get fuzzy, right?” Terrell asked. “Now, look past it. Focus on the wall behind me.”

Jesse shifted his gaze. The wall came into sharp, crisp focus, and the glass in Terrell's hand blurred into a ghost.

“It’s just a matter of what you choose to focus on,” Terrell said, lowering the glass. “It’s all right there. You just have to change your depth of field.”

Jesse looked at Terrell—really looked at him, and consciously tried to shift his focus. He stopped looking at Terrell the coworker, and tried to see him through this new lens.

He saw the sharp, clean line of Terrell's shaved head. The slight part of his lips. The muscles of his chest pressing against the fabric of his shirt. He noticed the way Terrell’s clothes were tailored to draw the eye exactly where he wanted it to go. Unlike the boxy, conservative slacks Jesse wore to the office every day, Terrell's pants seemed specifically cut to cup his body, outlining his junk right through the fabric. It was framed by a belt with a flat metal buckle. It wasn't an ordinary belt like Jesse’s—it was fashionable, but more importantly, it drew a deliberate sexual line right above his crotch.

He had just never noticed it before. Or not let himself.

“Whoa,” Jesse breathed out.

Terrell’s smile was a deeply satisfied expression.

Jesse’s mind raced. Could he do it? What would it actually be like to lean across this coffee table and kiss Terrell? To reach down and cup that bulge beneath the flat buckle?

He forced himself to strip away the panic and just think about the mechanics of the things he already knew. Lips are lips, right? A tongue is a tongue. A hole is…

Jesse swallowed hard. Well, not exactly just a hole.

He looked back up at Terrell’s face. The tension in the room was electric, humming like a live wire.

“How long?” Jesse asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “How long did that thing you had for me go on?”

Terrell didn't blink. He just held Jesse’s gaze.

“Ongoing.”

---

Chapter 7: Bull Stud

Jesse moved in, eyes closed, and pressed his mouth to Terrell’s.

The immediate reality was there: Lyssa’s lips were soft, familiar, a known quantity. Terrell’s were different—plush, but also firmer, with a tension that Jesse hadn't expected. And the tongue… it was thick, aggressive, shoving into Jesse's mouth with muscular force. No careful negotiation.

Jesse had known aggressive women—Lyssa had been one, once, a long time ago. But this was different. There was a raw strength behind it that must be like his own. 

He made his hands move, reached out blindly, unbuttoning Terrell’s shirt. He shoved the fabric aside and felt the chest beneath—dense muscle that softened and hardened as it flexed under his hand. There was a light, random scattering of dark hair. He found a nipple, pinched and tugged it hard, in a way he never could with Lyssa. Terrell’s sharp, ragged inhale against his lips was pure masculine arousal.

It was just skin and muscle, the same parts he possessed, that was all.

Terrell didn’t wait for an invitation—wasn’t coy. He ripped Jesse’s shirt open with impatient hands, palms sliding greedily over the hairy pecs and solid core. Then he buried his face in Jesse’s neck, and moved lower, teeth grazing a nipple before biting down with perfect pressure to send a shiver through Jesse’s frame.

“Fuck…” Jesse hissed, wrapping a hand around Terrell’s head. His fingers were pale against Terrell’s darker skin. The shadow of shaved hair was like sandpaper under his palm, and he let his thumb press down hard.

He dropped his head back against the leather cushion, his eyes rolling up toward the ceiling. The ingrained urge to panic flared for a split second. Stop, he ordered himself, exhaling hard through his nose as Terrell’s wet mouth dragged across his chest to latch firmly onto his tit. Just be in the moment. Just let yourself feel this.

Terrell clearly knew exactly what he was doing. Every move was practiced, confident—the work of a man who had mapped out male bodies many times before and knew how to play them like an instrument.

Terrell’s mouth and hands roamed lower, mapping every inch of Jesse’s hard-won body. He held the bulge in Jesse’s slacks, then yanked the belt open. He unbuttoned the pants and yanked the zipper open in one rough motion.

He pulled the fabric down and mouthed at him through the briefs, the cotton going hot and damp against his cock.

All that was between his rising hard-on and that hot mouth was the thin fabric of the briefs Lyssa had picked out for him.

Oh yes, God, let him do it, Jesse thought.

He had already gone this far. He was officially off the chessboard. 

Don’t do a thing if you can’t face it, he told himself. Look.

He forced himself to look down. He reached up, his hand shaking slightly, and readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. 

He could see the back of Terrell’s head, the thick neck and broad shoulders spreading out beneath the dim lamp light. This was a man. Powerful. And he was entirely focused on Jesse’s body—a body that Jesse had spent a year agonizing over, a body he thought had gone to seed.

Terrell dug his thumbs into the waistband and peeled the briefs down.

Jesse’s heavy, seven-inch cock sprang free, veins pulsing, already slick at the head. Terrell scooped out his big, egg-sized balls, letting them rest over the waistband.

Everything stopped. 

Jesse felt a momentary, cold spike of fear—is it done? Was it just curiosity, or like a first date with a girl, just a tease?

Terrell let out a low, hungry chuckle. “Fucking bull stud,” he growled, wrapping long, dark fingers around the thick base. “Even bigger than I imagined.”

He spat twice on it, gave the shaft a slow, twisting stroke to spread the spit, then his thumb expertly swirled over the leaking slit, spreading precum in slick circles.

Then Terrell opened wide and swallowed him.

The wet heat was overwhelming, like sinking into a steaming hot bath. It was more aggressive and more luxuriously sloppy than any blowjob Jesse had ever experienced. Terrell worked him with expert precision: tight fist pumping in perfect rhythm with his mouth, tongue swirling around the head and underside on the upstroke, applying just the right pressure on the sensitive spot.

He lubed Jesse with spit, taking him all the way down until his nose pressed into the coarse pubes, throat contracting and massaging the head in rhythmic swallows. Then, with a wet slurp, Terrell pulled off the shaft just enough to drop his hot mouth to Jesse’s heavy sac. He sucked one thick ball into the scalding heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue over the sensitive skin before releasing it with a wet pop to suck in the other, rolling it gently against his teeth.

Jesse gasped, hands flying to Terrell’s shaved head. His fingers were pale against Terrell’s darker skin, the plain gold wedding band flashing under the dim lamplight as he gripped the dense muscle of Terrell's neck.

Terrell moaned loudly around the nut—a humming approval that said he fucking loved it—before sliding his wet mouth back up the shaft, taking in the head and shaft, bobbing faster, sucking harder, making wet, filthy noises that filled the room.

Encouraged, Jesse kept his hands there. Not shoving or forcing, but rising and falling as Terrell’s head bobbed, choking him down again and again, never letting Jesse recover from the intense pleasure, not for a second.

Terrell pulled off, breathing hard and licking his wet lips. He reached down with his free hand, unbuckling his own belt and popping the button of his pants. He shoved them down to grab his own cock—thick, dark, and completely hard, jutting up with a smooth perfection—to stroke himself as he worked.

Jesse ground his hips upward, holding Terrell’s skull in place. “Oh fuck,” he breathed with a shudder.

He froze at the sudden, wet sound of Terrell choking on the depth. He’d pushed too hard, wanted too much. That faded with the immediate relief of Terrell seamlessly recovering, sliding back down with practiced ease, moaning around the cock in his mouth. 

Terrell wasn’t angry or disgusted. His fingers wrapped at the base of the cock to hold it straight up as he went down on it, and then drew his face up, his jaw working, lips tight.

The words bubbled up—all the years of holding back suddenly cracking open. They were the kind of thing he’d never said to any of the girls in college, and never, ever to Lyssa. He gripped the dense muscle of Terrell's neck, and they came out.

“Suck that fucking cock” he growled, in a voice that didn't sound like his. “Swallow every inch, you hungry fuck.”

Jesse pushed his head down and Terrell took him even deeper, throat relaxing completely, spit running messily down Jesse’s balls as he worked him like a pro.

---

Chapter 8: The Offer

Terrell pulled off with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting his lips to Jesse’s throbbing cock before dropping to his balls and thighs.

Before Jesse could even open his eyes, Terrell surged upward, bracing one hand on the wall behind Jesse’s head and crashing their mouths together.

It was wet, sloppy, and completely unfiltered. Jesse tasted the musk of his own precum mixed with the dark red wine they’d been drinking. Terrell didn’t care about mess or propriety—he forced his tongue deep, sharing every dirty flavor, making Jesse fully participate in the raw, biological reality of getting his cock sucked.

And Jesse kissed him back, just as eagerly. He chased the heat, opening up completely for the invasion. That fucking mouth. It was beautiful. Jesse felt a sudden, profound surge of affection for it—for the greedy lips that knew exactly how to make him feel incredible, unconditionally giving him exactly what he had been starving for. 

He had never felt anything like it on his cock, and that overwhelming rush of gratitude made him desperately want more. He wanted it back on him right now.

Terrell clearly did too.

Just as quickly as he’d come up, he broke the kiss with a hungry breath against Jesse’s lips and dropped back down between Jesse’s spread thighs like a man on a mission.

Jesse’s head fell back against the sofa, his glasses knocked askew. The last threads of his domesticated restraint were snapping one by one. He reached out, letting his hand land on Terrell’s broad back. The muscle there shifted as Terrell worked—Jesse half wanted to just feel the muscles, and half wanted them for himself.

Down below, the sounds were pure animal filth: wet, rhythmic glucking and slurping, heavy breathing, and low, hungry groans vibrating around Jesse’s shaft. Terrell had shoved his own pants lower, freeing his cock so he could stroke it in time with his mouth, his ass raised slightly as he fucked his own fist.

Jesse’s hands roamed lower, sliding under the loose waistband to cup Terrell’s ass. Jesus Christ. The glutes under his palms were rock-hard granite—dense, powerful, and perfectly sculpted from years of squats. He squeezed hard, his fingers digging into the unyielding muscle, and Terrell responded by sucking harder, his throat convulsing tightly around Jesse’s cock like a velvet fist.

“Fuck, your ass feels insane,” Jesse groaned. He couldn’t stop groping it—kneading the cheeks, spreading them slightly, feeling the raw power there. This was a man’s body. Built for strength, for fucking, for taking everything another man had to give.

The pressure was building fast. Jesse’s balls drew up tight, his core clenching. He was right on the edge, his hips bucking, ready to unload down Terrell’s throat and destroy his old life.

But Terrell was a master at this. He immediately pulled off with a wet slurp. A rope of spit and precum stretched between his swollen lips and Jesse’s pulsing dick before snapping.

Jesse let out a frustrated, desperate groan, his hips chasing the lost heat.

Terrell didn’t let go. He clamped his long, strong fingers like a cock ring around the very base of Jesse’s throbbing meat, squeezing tight and trapping the orgasm right at the brink. A surge of precum flowed from the swollen, angry-red head, slowly running with spit over Terrell’s fingers, running onto Jesse’s heavy, aching balls.

Terrell hovered there, his broad chest heaving, his lips shiny and swollen. He slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, his eyes dark as he drank in the sight of Jesse—flushed, sweating, glasses crooked, cock twitching desperately in his grip.

“I can swallow every drop right now,” he rasped. His voice was rough from the fucking his throat had taken. “Drain those balls. Or…” He gave the base another firm squeeze, milking another bead of precum from the slit. “…you can help me get these pants the rest of the way off and show me what a real bull stud can do with this fat cock. Your choice, Jesse. But I want to feel you inside me.”

The offer heavy in the air between them, presenting a massive, undeniable fork in the road. Getting head was one thing. It would be so incredibly easy to just say yes to the mouth, to close his eyes, let go, and let Terrell drain him dry.

But what the fuck was he doing here if he wasn't going to see it all the way through?

Lyssa had swung the gate wide open. She had given him her blessing because she was utterly convinced he wasn't man enough to take her up on it. She had practically dared him, thinking she was calling his bluff. She thought he was too broken, too much a slave to what was between her legs to ever even consider what was between another man’s

He stared down at Terrell—powerful, masculine, and waiting for his command. No games. No scorekeeping. Just fucking.

He wanted to prove her wrong, but more than that, he wanted to bury himself in that granite ass and finally take exactly what he needed.

Jesse reached down with slightly shaking hands, grabbing the waistband of Terrell’s slacks. “Off,” he growled, his voice low and gravelly. “Get them the fuck off.”

Terrell’s grin was pure satisfaction as he rose just enough to shove his pants and boxer briefs the rest of the way down his thighs, kicking them off. His cock sprang free—heavy, dark, and leaking—slapping against his chiseled abs.

The sight of another man’s hard dick, fully erect and dripping because of him, sent a sudden, jarring alarm through Jesse's chest. He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to stay locked on the shaft.

It’s just a dick, he told himself  to steady his racing pulse. Just flesh and blood. You can make yourself do this. He had already crossed every other line today. He wasn't going to retreat to his sexless, domesticated cage just because the mechanics were new. He was going to face it.

He let the hesitation settle and regrouped.

This was really happening.

---

Chapter 9: The Mentor

“Let’s move this to the bed,” Terrell said, his voice a deep command.

He rose to his feet and turned toward the hallway, naked from the waist down. Jesse followed, heart pounding, holding his pants up mid-thigh, his wet cock bouncing with every step. Walking through another man’s apartment like this—exposed, no shame, no performance—felt like stepping into another man’s life.

The bedroom was pure Terrell: a dark iron bed frame and crisp charcoal sheets pulled tightly over the mattress. Stark, masculine utility. Resting on the dark wood nightstand was a stack of pristine white hand towels, perfectly folded and waiting. 

Terrell hadn't just been hoping this would happen; he had confidently, pragmatically prepared for it.

Terrell turned, finished unbuttoning the shirt Jesse had opened, and let it fall to the floor. Jesse actually stopped breathing for a second as he dropped his own shirt.

The man was a masterpiece. Thick pecs with deep cuts, ridged abs, powerful shoulders and thighs that coiled like tensioned cables as he moved. Everything screamed disciplined, functional masculine power, made to fuck.

Jesse’s brain tripped, trying to wrap his mind around the physical reality of conquering a body like that—of sinking himself deep into it. But layered right alongside that was a sudden, deep envy. He wanted to be in it, but looking at the perfection of Terrell's physique, he desperately wanted to be it, too.

Terrell caught him staring and smirked. Instead of lying down, he stepped closer, eyes dragging slowly over Jesse’s body.

“Fucking look at you,” Terrell murmured, reaching out to trace a thumb over the rigid swell of Jesse’s bicep, then across his hairy chest, flicking a nipple up and down like a light switch. “I knew you’d gotten in shape, but goddamn, Jesse. You are a fucking bull.”

The praise hit Jesse like straight whiskey. Raw acknowledgment from a man who looked like that. A man who understood what it took.

Terrell backed up until his knees hit the mattress and sat down, spreading his thighs wide. His heavy, dark cock jutted up from a neat patch of trimmed hair. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around Jesse’s wrist, and pulled him gently but firmly down.

Jesse’s knees hit the rug. The sheer animal reality hit him hard—the musky scent of arousal and sweat, the cock hovering inches from his face.

He’d come this far. He couldn’t expect to just get head and never give it. That was as fucked up as the fucked up imbalance he was trying to escape.

Terrell’s large hands slid into Jesse’s hair, cradling the back of his head. Guiding, not forcing. The choice was still his.

It’s just flesh, Jesse told himself, heart hammering. Just biology. If I can’t even suck another man’s cock, how the hell am I ever going to be free of the war I grew up in?

He closed his eyes, leaned forward, and took Terrell into his mouth.

The head was incredibly hot and smooth. Salty precum smeared across his tongue. Jesse froze for a split second, then started moving on pure instinct—swirling his tongue flat and broad around the flared crown, sucking with steady pressure.

Above him, Terrell let out a deep, rumbling groan. “That’s it… just like that. Use your tongue on the underside. Good boy.”

The praise and the low, filthy sounds spurred Jesse on. He took more, bobbing deeper. When the head hit the back of his throat he gagged and retched—a wet, ugly choke. He pulled back, gasping, eyes watering, his face burning with embarrassment.

Terrell didn’t laugh. His hands moved to Jesse’s shoulders, grounding him.

“Easy, stud,” Terrell coached, voice steady and gentle. “You’re doing great. Big cock takes practice. Breathe through your nose, keep your tongue flat, and relax your throat. You control the pace. Don’t fight it.”

Jesse wiped his eyes, nodded, and leaned back in. Slower this time. He focused on breathing like he was under a heavy barbell—in through the nose, out through the nose. When he came up he licked a long, wet stripe up the underside, then took Terrell deeper. The head bumped his throat again, but this time he relaxed and let it slide a little further.

“Yeah… fuck, just like that,” Terrell groaned, fingers tightening in Jesse’s hair. “You look so good with my cock in your mouth. That’s it. Suck it nice and sloppy.”

Jesse found a rhythm. It wasn’t perfect—his eyes still watered and spit ran down his chin—but the raw satisfaction of making this powerful man moan overrode everything. Terrell’s hips started bucking gently, chasing his mouth, thighs turning to steel  under Jesse’s hands.

Suddenly Terrell gripped Jesse’s shoulders and pulled him off with a wet pop.

Jesse blinked up, lips wet and shiny, breathing hard.

Terrell stared down at him, eyes burning with intent. 

"Save your breath," Terrell breathed. "You’re gonna need it to fuck me."

---

Chapter 10: Face Down

Terrell reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a heavy black bottle of clear lube. The sharp click of the cap echoed in the quiet room.

“Stand up,” Terrell commanded gently.

Jesse rose on shaky legs. His cock had softened just slightly from the intense head session, but it was still thick and half hard. Terrell squirted a cold puddle of lube into his broad palm and wrapped his slick hand around the base of Jesse’s cock.

The slippery friction was as good as if Jesse were doing it himself.  Within three long, firm strokes the blood surged back with a vengeance. Jesse’s cock swelled to full, rigidity—fat, veined, and pointing straight at Terrell’s chiseled chest.

“Here’s the thing you need to know,” Terrell said. His voice was low and steady as he worked the slick fluid over the head and down the thicker shaft. “This isn’t like fucking a woman. A man’s ass isn’t built to just take it. You have to clean out. Prep.” His thumb swirled over the leaking slit, spreading precum and lube together. “Unless you want it dirty.”

Terrell glanced up. “I figured you weren’t ready for dirty yet.”

“No,” Jesse breathed, shaking his head.

“Good. Because I prepped before you got here today,” Terrell admitted, eyes locked on Jesse’s as he gave the base one final, agonizing squeeze. “I wasn’t leaving tonight to chance with you.”

The admission—the deliberate preparation just on the hope that Jesse would actually go through with it—sent a primal surge through Jesse’s body. His cock felt heavy, like it was full of cum already, just building pressure to get out.

Terrell wiped his hand on a towel, leaving Jesse’s cock glistening and dripping. He looked up. “So… how do you want me?”

Jesse stared at the handsome, muscled man sitting on the edge of the mattress, hard cock standing straight up. No games. No emotional bargaining. Just raw availability.

He realized, with an intoxicating rush of power, that he could ask for absolutely anything. Taking him from behind offered a necessary shield; it meant Jesse wouldn't have to navigate the unfamiliar, confronting intimacy of looking another man in the eyes while he fucked him. But even more than that, it was a dark, dirty demand that he could have never made of his wife. Not without weeks of careful negotiation, chore-play, and inevitable rejection. Here, he just had to state his terms.

“On your stomach,” Jesse growled. “Face down.”

Terrell obeyed instantly. He turned and crawled up the center of the bed, then flattened himself out, turning his face to the side on the charcoal pillows. Reaching back with both hands, he grabbed his own glutes and spread them wide, exposing the tight, dark ring completely.

Jesse climbed onto the mattress, his knees sinking into the bedding between Terrell’s spread legs, staring down at the wide span of lats, the deep groove of the spine, and the hard mounds of ass.

He pulled his glasses off, tossing them onto the nightstand. He only needed them for distance anyway, and taking them off had the added benefit of softly blurring the rest of the room. It left his vision completely hyper-focused on the landscape right beneath him. 

He stared at the tight ring Terrell was holding open for him. He remembered the trick from the living room. He consciously shifted his focus, changing his depth of field. He stripped away the context, the gender, and the baggage.

It was just an ass. Just a tight, waiting hole. He’d desperately wanted to fuck a woman’s ass for years, and the mechanics here were exactly the same.

He shimmied closer and dropped his weight onto one outstretched arm over Terrell, gripped his slick cock with his free hand and pressed the blunt head against the tight pucker.

He pushed, and slid off. “Fuck.”

Terrell didn’t shame him, just reached behind to catch Jesse’s slick erection and helped him angle it, shifting his hips just so.

When Jesse pushed again, the resistance was intense—a literal wall of dense muscle with one slight opening. Nothing like pussy. Terrell let out a deep, muffled grunt.

“Push,” Terrell coached, voice strained but eager. “Steady. I’ll open for you.”

Jesse gritted his teeth and drove forward. The head finally pushed in completely. The heat inside was absolute fire—Jesse had forgotten the intensity of body heat around his cock. And it was tighter than anything he’d felt before, gripping his bare cock like a velvet vice.

“Fuuuuck,” Jesse groaned, vision blurring for a second.

He sank in deeper, inch by inch. His cock was thickest right in the middle, and as that wide stretch of girth forced its way through the entrance, Terrell let out a strained hiss. J

esse pushed past the resistance, burying himself until his pubic bone slammed against Terrell’s hard glutes. He let his head drop, panting, resting both hands on the mattress on either side of Terrell.

He pulled back slowly, drawing his length out just enough so that the thickest part of his shaft caught the entrance again. He held it for a split second, feeling the exquisite, stretch of Terrell's tight ring wrapped around his widest point, and then he drove in again. Smack. The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed loudly in the quiet room.

He was fucking a man.

Jesse quickly found a rhythm, hips working, palm clamping down on the mattress. Terrell reached up to wrap a hand around Jesse’s wrist. His face was turned to the side, mouth open, puffing out a gasp every time Jesse drove in to the limit.

“Fuck yeah, Jesse,” Terrell groaned loudly, pushing his ass back to meet every thrust. “Give it to me harder. Tear that ass up. Use me.”

Jesse stopped holding back. He let his take over, and the hard-won muscles of his core and thighs. With women, with Lyssa, there was always a subconscious need to be careful, to hold himself in check. But Terrell was a tank. He was built to take it, actually begging for the full, uncompromising brunt of Jesse's strength.

He pounded with punishing force, driving his heavy hips forward with brutal leverage. His balls slapped with every hard thrust against Terrell’s. It just made the man under him beg for more.

Sweat dripped from Jesse’s forehead onto Terrell’s skin. He dropped his weight onto one elbow, planting his forearm firmly next to Terrell's head, shifting to fuck from a slight, new angle. 

Jesse snorted as the new leverage let him grind with deeper, faster thrusts. His thighs burned as his hips snapped like pistons.

“Oh, no,” Terrell whimpered. “There.”

Jesse pulled out to the thickest part of his cock and drove in again harder. The friction built to an unbearable, scalding heat. Jesse felt his balls tightening, the orgasm rushing up fast.

Terrell must have felt it too—in Jesse’s frantic pace or in his heavy breathing. He shoved one hand under his own pelvis, while his other hand reached back blindly, grasping hard for Jesse’s ass, trying desperately to pull him in even deeper.

“Give it to me,” he rasped. “Fill my ass up.”

That was it. Jesse drove in one final, punishing time and held himself buried to the hilt. A hoarse, guttural cry rose out of his chest as the orgasm ripped through him. He pumped his full load deep into Terrell’s tight heat, cock pulsing, dragging in and nearly out slowly, just savoring the feel of being inside the man beneath him.

He collapsed forward, chest to back, face buried in Terrell’s sweaty neck, pressing long, slow kisses there. He vaguely realized he had found his own resource. Lyssa had no power over him.

He pushed in again, just to be sure it was real, pumping some final post-cum into him.

---

Chapter 11: Welcome to the Brotherhood

Jesse pulled out slowly and rolled onto the mattress beside Terrell.

The adrenaline that had carried him across the threshold evaporated, leaving behind a sudden, stark clarity. He was lying in a coworker’s bed, his body slick with sweat and lube. He was a married man with kids, and he had just fucked another man. 

For a dangerous, terrifying second, the urge to panic—to scramble for his clothes, apologize, and flee back to the safety of his miserable life—flared up.

But as the shame tried to take hold, Terrell shifted. He flipped over onto his back, the sheet dragging under him. Without missing a beat, Terrell reached out, grabbed Jesse by the back of the neck, and pulled him in for a deep, bruising kiss while his other hand went straight to his own slick cock.

Jesse felt the panic rise like a wall, but he fought it. He made a conscious choice to push through it. He wasn't going to ruin this with guilt. He wasn't going to run.

He kissed Terrell back, letting his hands roam over the man’s broad torso. He grabbed handfuls of Terrell’s chest, kneading the dense muscle of his tits, feeling the hammering heartbeat beneath. The tactile reality of it grounded Jesse, keeping him  in the moment.

Terrell was breathing in ragged gasps, fist flying over his hard cock. 

Running on muscle memory, Jesse reached down, fingers automatically seeking out the familiar swell of a clit to rub while Lyssa got off. His hand brushed against the skin under Terrell’s balls, moving as he jerked himself. For a split second, the stark anatomical difference threatened to pull him right out of his headspace.

Stop it, he ordered himself harshly. Your cock was literally just buried in there. You just filled him up. Don't back away from it now.

Powering through the ingrained mental block, Jesse slid his hand further down and pushed two thick fingers right into the cum-slick, still-open hole.

Terrell’s back arched off the bed. “Ohhh fu-huuuck!”

The heat inside him was  incredible, and silky, full of Jesse’s own load. He curled his fingers, stroking the slick walls as Terrell reached down to grasp his wrist, hiding it so he could fucked himself on the thick fingers.

“Fuck yes,” Terrell groaned, hips bucking. “Deeper—right—”

Terrell’s climax hit hard and fast. With a shout, his hips locked. Ropes of white cum shot out, splashing across his tight, caramel-skinned abs. As he rode out the spasms, Terrell grabbed Jesse’s jaw, pulling him down and sucking him into a deep, desperate kiss, groaning into his mouth in shared relief.

When they finally broke apart, Jesse pulled his fingers free. They were both panting. Jesse looked down at the pearly mess on Terrell’s stomach. 

Jesse knew there was one more barrier. One last, definitive line to cross to prove to himself that he wasn't just a tourist who had used another man's body to get off.

His personal Rubicon.

He steeled himself and reached out, trailing his index and middle fingers through the hot, pools of cum on Terrell’s abs—the same two that had fucked the load out of him. He lifted his hand. The pearly white fluid clung to his skin.

He held his hand there for a long second. Decades of conditioning screamed at him to wipe it on a towel, to wash his hands, to retreat to the safety of his married life. But doing that meant turning his back on the freedom he had just fought so hard to claim.

He raised his fingers, the raw scent of the man beneath him hitting his nose, and put them in his mouth.

He closed his lips tightly around his digits, sucking them clean. The taste was acrid, salty, and undeniably male. He kept his eyes open, looking directly into Terrell's dark eyes as the slick fluid coated the back of his tongue, making sure the other man saw exactly what he was doing.

And then, Jesse swallowed.

The heat of it went down his throat, locking away the last remnants of his old life. He leaned down and kissed Terrell one more time, sharing the cum-thickened spit and lingering taste between them.

Terrell’s eyes softened with quiet respect. He ran a heavy hand over the back of Jesse's head. “Look at you,” he murmured.

Twenty minutes later, the sexual tension had completely dissolved into an easy, comfortable camaraderie. They stood in the warm light of Terrell's bathroom. Jesse leaned over the sink, running warm water over a washcloth. He methodically washed his dick, scrubbing away the stubborn residue of lube, before taking the damp cloth to his armpits and the back of his neck. He needed to scrub away the scent of sex before he had to walk back into his own house and face his family.

Terrell was towelling his own face and chest. “If Henderson asks me to revise that Q3 deck one more time, I’m throwing my monitor out the window,” he laughed.

“I’ll help you lift it,” Jesse  grinned, turning off the water faucet.

It felt incredibly natural. They weren't performing for each other; they were just two guys shooting the shit, joking about the absolute absurdity of their department heads and the assholes in middle management.

Jesse picked his glasses up from the counter and slid them back onto his face. He turned to inspect his reflection in the mirror. He rubbed his chin, looking at his facial hair. “I don't know,” he muttered, tilting his head. “I might shave the mustache. Go back to a clean shave.”

“Don't you dare,” Terrell commanded immediately. “Mustaches are hot again. You shave that off, and I’m revoking your membership card.”

Jesse laughed without thinking, a  booming sound in the bathroom that surprised even him.

They walked back out into the living room to gather their scattered clothes. As Jesse pulled on his slacks, his eyes fell on the belt Terrell had been wearing—the one with the flat metal buckle that had caught his eye earlier in the evening. 

Maybe it was time to up his clothes game. Know how to send the signals.

“Where do you even get a belt like that?” Jesse asked, pointing at it with his chin. “Is there a name for it?”

“It’s a ratchet belt,” Terrell said, picking it up. “There’s no holes in the leather, just a track sewn into the back, and the buckle clicks into place wherever you need it to. It always fits perfect.” He ran his thumb over the sleek metal face. “This one is from Butch Blooms.”

Terrell looked at the belt, then looked at Jesse. Without a word, he rolled it up neatly and held it out.

“Take it,” Terrell said.

Jesse blinked. “Man, I can't take your belt.”

“Consider it a keepsake,” Terrell smiled, with a drowsy but warm look in his eyes. “Welcome to the brotherhood.”

Jesse looked at the leather looped in Terrell’s hand. It was a tangible piece of this hidden, unapologetic world that he could actually wear into the world—in the office even, right under everyone’s noses.

He reached out and took the belt. He didn't offer a handshake. Instead, he stepped into Terrell’s space, wrapped his arms around the broader man's shoulders for a quick, firm hug, and left a small, lingering kiss on the side of his neck.

Stepping back, Jesse paused, bracing out of habit for the inevitable shoe to drop—the post-coital awkwardness, the explanations about why he was leaving to go home to his wife, or some other emotionally laden bullshit.

But none of it came. Terrell just stood there, grounded and completely at ease. There were no strings attached, no unsaid expectations lingering in the air. There was just the pure, uncomplicated release they had given each other, and a profound, bone-deep sense of relief.

It had all been so easy. So incredibly easy, after all.

“Thanks, Terrell,” Jesse said quietly.

“See you Monday, Jesse,” Terrell replied.

---

Chapter 12: Mantown

When Jesse pushed through the front door, the  house was already in full, chaotic swing. The smell of roasting garlic and searing meat drifted down the hallway, cutting through the cool evening air he’d brought inside with him.

In the living room, his youngest son was pacing back and forth across the rug, a stapled packet of paper clutched in one hand, completely absorbed in his own world.

"They’ve barricaded the gates!" Sam shouted dramatically to the empty room, gesturing wildly with his free hand. "They've sworn a sacred oath over a bowl of wine! No more... uh... sharing of the marriage bed... until we lay down our spears and sign a peace treaty!"

Jesse paused in the entryway. A secret amusement washed over him. The sheer, on-the-nose irony of the scene was almost too much for one man to bear.

"Got a good part?" Jesse asked, stepping into the living room.

His son stopped pacing, dropping his arms with a theatrical sigh. "I play the desperate husband. I basically have to walk around the stage begging my wife to stop taunting me."

Jesse reached out and plucked the stapled packet from his son's hand. He flipped back to the front page, scanning the title. The irony just kept layering itself on thicker and thicker.

"Classic," Jesse chuckled, handing the pages back and clapping the boy on the shoulder as he walked past. "That Aristophones did know a thing or two."

He continued into the kitchen. Lyssa was stationed at the stove, a dish towel tossed over her shoulder. She was simultaneously shaking a simmering pan, checking a timer on the oven, and fielding a text message on her phone with her free thumb. 

Normally, Jesse would enter this space feeling like an intruder or a beggar. He would brace himself for a critique, or silently calculate exactly what chores he needed to perform to earn a fraction of her warmth later that night. Today, he felt absolutely none of that. The crushing weight of his own neediness was entirely gone, left behind in the dark sheets of Terrell's bed.

Because he wasn't looking at Lyssa through the desperate lens of his own sexual starvation, he was suddenly able to actually see her.

She was a force of nature. She managed the schedules, kept the walls of their lives from collapsing, and was raising their boys with an iron-willed, unapologetic competence. Who else could possibly do half what she did, and to look so impossibly put together doing it? To run this operation and to give him these incredible sons on top of it all? She wasn't the enemy. She wasn’t even the CEO. She was a queen.

How could he ever have thought of divorcing her?

Over dinner, the atmosphere at the table was completely transformed.

Jesse was lighter. He was easygoing. He laughed loudly at his sons' jokes, and he listened to Lyssa recount her day without a hidden, transactional agenda. He didn't need anything from her, which meant he could finally just enjoy her company.

Halfway through the meal, as Lyssa was talking, Jesse casually reached out and picked up the tall, dark wood pepper mill. The plain gold wedding band on his left hand glinted in the overhead light as he held the mill lightly between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it from the tablecloth the way a player handles his king when the match is finally over.

With a gentle click, he laid the pepper mill flat on its side on the table.

He had resigned. He was out of the game.

Lyssa blinked, surprised. She looked down at the tipped pepper mill on the tablecloth, then back at him, and a small, involuntary laugh escaped her own lips. She seemed to feel the shift in him right then. The defensive tightness around her eyes visibly relaxed.

For the first time in months, she didn't look at him like he was an opponent she had to outmaneuver, or just another demanding problem she had to manage before she could go to sleep. She paused with her wine glass halfway to her mouth, catching his eye, and smiled at him—a real, genuine smile.

Jesse smiled back, taking a calm sip of his water. This was how it should be all the time.

Later that evening, Jesse sat alone in the master bathroom. The lid of the toilet was down—the king on his throne, in the only truly private space left in the house. Somewhere beyond the closed door, Lyssa was moving through the house, the boys shouting at a video game.

Further still, men and women everywhere were playing the same ancient game, over what was ultimately an unlimited resource. He’d just figured out a way to break the war, upturn the chessboard altogether.

He sat quietly, silently drawing up a list of other men who might want to opt out of the war of the sexes.

There was Cal from the gym, of course. His brother-in-law, Matt. There was Greg, the neighbor two doors down whose prized project car had been buried under his wife’s holiday decorations for the last five years. And Gene from the office, who was currently going through a brutal divorce.

He wasn't sure about Terrell, though. Terrell had already admitted that he’d had a thing for Jesse. That was a complication to Jesse’s still-forming notion of sex completely free of entanglements. 

The idea wasn't to trade in the war of the sexes for a different kind of war; the point was to end the war entirely. He wanted to free men and women from their expectations and needs—or what they had been conditioned to believe were needs—of each other.

At the same time, he couldn't exactly exclude gay men. They were the architects of this hidden freedom. It would take some careful consideration.

He envisioned it, in the dark. A small community of men coming together, building something for themselves. Taking care of each other—tending to the physical needs their marriages had turned into bargaining chips. A place where unapologetic release was given freely, without negotiation or shame. Something fundamentally good and affirming, existing outside the borders of their homes and marriages. He envisioned it growing from its humble beginnings: from a town, to a city, to a state, and a nation. To half the world.

But it had to start somewhere.

The bathroom around him was decorated exactly to Lyssa’s specifications. It was a curated space of flowered wallpaper, perfectly folded decorative towels, and scented hand soap. As he mulled over his list, he held the leather belt Terrell had given him, idly flipping the heavy metal buckle up and down.

He stopped, holding the belt out at arm’s length.

He reached up and pulled his glasses off, setting them on the vanity. By an act of sheer physical reality, Jesse relaxed his eyes. He pulled the belt closer, adjusting his vision to focus on the metal buckle with perfect clarity. As he did, he let the flowered wallpaper, the delicate towels, and all of Lyssa’s things fade into a soft, blur.

The buckle was crisp in his vision. It was functional, but handsome and durable. It was made of strong stuff, and it felt incredibly good in his hand. Everything a man should be.

He’d have to thank Terrell again for it on Monday.

He lowered the belt, a slow, deeply satisfied smile spreading across his face.

“Okay then,” he said out loud to the empty room. “Mantown. Population: one.”

So far.

END

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