Let’s face it. I was tired of the piece of plastic that resembled the third leg of a human male. I’d been using it to take care of my needs for too many years. I needed a warm body to touch, to hold, to pleasure, to be pleasured by.
And I was lonely.
I was 27 and had spent the last five years focused on my career, working up to the head of the IT department of a commercial real estate firm. In what little spare time I had, I looked for the perfect man to give myself to, the perfect man to spend my life with. Well, the perfect man.
Everyone always seemed to fall short.
Everyone except Andrew Stirgus. Actually, he fell short as well. The first time I met him, I went back to my desk and wrote down what I saw and felt.
He stepped into view like he’d been carved out of sunlight and motion, tall, broad-shouldered, and built with the kind of easy strength that didn’t need to announce itself. His frame had the clean symmetry of someone who spent more time outdoors than in, all long lines and quiet power, as if his body had been shaped by wind, water, and distance rather than mirrors.
His hair, a pale, sun-warmed blond, fell in loose, careless strands that looked better undone than styled, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost brighter than it should be. There was something unstudied about him, nothing overly polished, nothing forced. Even standing still, he gave the impression of movement, like he belonged to open spaces.
His face carried that same balance: a strong, defined jaw, straight nose, and features that might have seemed too precise if not for the relaxed way he wore them. But it was his eyes that held attention, not sharp or calculating, but steady and open, the kind that suggested both confidence and a certain distance, as though part of him was always elsewhere.
There was an ease to him, the kind that made people look twice without realizing why. Not just because of how he looked, but because he seemed entirely at home in his own skin, unbothered, self-contained, and just a little out of reach.
I would read it while porn played on my laptop and my piece of plastic was finding its place deep inside me. It reminded me of a cheesy romance novel. Of course, I didn’t include anything about his huge love rod plunging deep within me. Of course, I’d never seen him shirtless, but I could imagine what he might look like.
He seemed almost perfect, but Andrew flirted with the women in our office. Susan, the receptionist, even claimed to have gone out with him. I heard her tell the other women.
He had winked at me once. My heart rate went up, but then I realized he did it because Chad Henry was feeding a line of bull shit, and he was letting me know that he wasn’t falling for it. Besides, why would a guy who had dumped a load of his seed inside Susan flirt with me?
So my search went on, and as it went on, that song by Johnny Lee would run through my head. Looking for love in all the wrong places. Maybe I should be looking to get laid instead of a man who’ll watch Turner Classic Movies with me.
I finally made a huge decision, and I signed up for an online gay dating account. I wrote that I was looking for a relationship but that no-strings attached sex would work in the meantime. I also wrote that I would be away from my phone until six in the evening. I walked into work that day with a new attitude about my personal life, and the morning seemed to go more smoothly than it had in the past few weeks. At lunch, I couldn’t resist the urge to check to see if anyone had replied to my profile.
Not one.
Well maybe they were waiting until I was actually online. I put the phone down. I reached for my sandwich and began to unwrap it.
I heard him before I saw him. “Hey, Matt, my friend, my computer is acting up.”
I looked up to see him standing in the doorway to my office. With a laptop in his left hand and a big smile on his face, he looked right into my eyes. “Can you help me out?” As he placed the laptop on my desk, I saw his eyes glance down.
My phone was on my desk. The screen was still open to the gay dating site. I felt my heart thump against my rib cage. Andrew’s eyebrows lifted up, and he turned to close the door.
Oh, fuck, I thought. He knows.
His voice was soft and low. “Matt, that’s not a good site. I’ve never had good results from it. The decent guys on it are few and far between.”
“You’ve used it?” I mumbled.
“I don’t advertise it. Not here at work. Although, I have tried to figure you out.”
“Me?” Again my voice was barely audible.”
Andrew sat down in the chair and moved closer to my desk. “Yes. You. I’ve tried to send signals your way, but you never respond to them. So, I figured you were just a shy straight guy.”
“I am shy, Andrew, and a bit of an introvert.”
“Call me Drew,” he said. “None of my friends call me Andrew.”
“Drew.” I said his name. Just his name. He said his friends called him that.
“Matt.” He smiled. “Why don’t we have dinner after work and talk about the things that we can’t talk about at work?”
*****
The glow of my laptop screen cast a pale blue light across the bedroom walls, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, indifferent stars. I lay there in the darkness, the familiar weight of my silicone companion resting against my thigh. It was cold, always cold, no matter how long I held it in my hands or how much I warmed it with my body heat. I sighed, the sound swallowed by the quiet of my apartment, the only noise the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren cutting through the night.
Five years. Five years since I'd graduated and thrown myself into my career, climbing the corporate ladder until I'd perched at the top of the IT department. Five years since I'd touched another human being with anything more than a handshake or a polite pat on the back. The plastic in my hand was a poor substitute, a hollow echo of the warmth I craved, the connection I desperately needed.
I was lonely. The word echoed in my mind, a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of professional success could fill. At twenty-seven, I should have been building a life, not just a career. But every man I'd met had fallen short, their flaws glaring under the harsh light of my expectations. Too shallow, too arrogant, too boring, too... not him.
Andrew Stirgus. Even his name sounded like something out of a dream. The first time I'd seen him, I'd been so struck that I'd locked myself in my office afterward, my fingers trembling as I typed out my impressions, trying to capture the essence of him on the screen.
He stepped into view like he’d been carved out of sunlight and motion, tall, broad-shouldered, and built with the kind of easy strength that didn’t need to announce itself. His frame had the clean symmetry of someone who spent more time outdoors than in, all long lines and quiet power, as if his body had been shaped by wind, water, and distance rather than mirrors.
His hair, a pale, sun-warmed blond, fell in loose, careless strands that looked better undone than styled, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost brighter than it should be. There was something unstudied about him, nothing overly polished, nothing forced. Even standing still, he gave the impression of movement, like he belonged to open spaces.
His face carried that same balance: a strong, defined jaw, straight nose, and features that might have seemed too precise if not for the relaxed way he wore them. But it was his eyes that held attention, not sharp or calculating, but steady and open, the kind that suggested both confidence and a certain distance, as though part of him was always elsewhere.
There was an ease to him, the kind that made people look twice without realizing why. Not just because of how he looked, but because he seemed entirely at home in his own skin, unbothered, self-contained, and just a little out of reach.
I would read my description of him sometimes, the words on the screen blurring as the sounds from the porn playing on my laptop filled the room. My hand would move, the plastic toy finding its familiar rhythm, my eyes fixed on the image in my mind, the image of him. It was pathetic, I knew, a cheap fantasy spun from a few stolen glances and a handful of brief conversations. But it was all I had.
Almost perfect. The words echoed in my mind, a bitter reminder of the chasm between fantasy and reality. Andrew was perfect, except for one small, significant detail: he wasn't mine. He flirted with the women in the office, his easy charm a magnet for their attention. Susan, the receptionist, had regaled her friends with tales of their date, her voice a smug whisper in the breakroom. "He's a gentleman," she'd said, but the sly smile on her face suggested otherwise. I'd imagined him with her, his body covering hers, his mouth on hers, and the thought had sent a sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy through me.
He had winked at me once, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyelid as Chad from accounting held court, spinning a tale so ludicrous it was almost impressive. My heart had leaped into my throat, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs, but then I'd seen the amusement in Andrew's eyes, the shared understanding that we were both in on the joke. It wasn't a sign of interest; it was a sign of camaraderie. And why would it be? Why would a man like that, a man who had his pick of women, look twice at a shy, introverted IT guy like me?
The song played in my head, a cheesy country tune that had become my personal anthem. "Looking for love in all the wrong places." Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I was looking for a soulmate when all I really needed was a body. A warm, living body to replace the cold, unfeeling plastic in my drawer.
The decision came to me in a flash of clarity, a sudden surge of desperation that overrode my usual caution. I opened my laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I created a profile on a gay dating site. "Looking for a relationship," I typed, then paused, my cursor blinking in the empty space. "But open to no-strings-attached sex in the meantime." It was a compromise, a half-measure, but it was the best I could do. I added a note about my work hours, a flimsy shield against the possibility of an unwanted interruption, then hit "submit" and closed my laptop, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
The next morning, I walked into the office with a new spring in my step, the weight of my loneliness feeling a little lighter. The morning flew by in a blur of help tickets and server updates, and by the time lunch rolled around, I was almost buzzing with nervous energy. I couldn't resist. I pulled out my phone, my thumb swiping across the screen, my eyes scanning the list of messages.
Nothing.
My heart sank, a familiar disappointment settling in my stomach. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe the decent guys really were few and far between, just as I'd feared. I sighed, sliding my phone next to my trackball and reaching for my sandwich, the plastic crinkle of the wrapper a loud, lonely sound in the quiet breakroom.
"Hey, Matt, my friend, my computer is acting up."
The voice was a low, familiar rumble, and I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, a halo of sunlight framing his tall, broad figure. He was holding a laptop, his smile bright and genuine, his eyes fixed on mine. "Can you help me out?"
"Of course," I said, my voice a little too high, a little too eager. I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure as he stepped into my office, his presence filling the small space. He placed the laptop on my desk, and as he did, his eyes flickered down, his gaze landing on my phone, which I'd forgotten to move.
The screen was still open to the dating site, the profile I'd created the night before displayed in all its desperate glory.
My heart stopped, then started again with a frantic, thundering beat that echoed in my ears. I felt the blood drain from my face, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Andrew's eyebrows lifted, a flicker of surprise, or was it something else crossing his face. He turned, his movements slow and deliberate, and closed the office door, the soft click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the sudden silence.
Oh, fuck. I thought. He knows.
He turned back to me, his expression unreadable, his voice a low, intimate murmur that seemed to wrap around me like a blanket. "Matt, that's not a good site. I've never had good results from it. The decent guys on it are few and far between."
"You've used it?" I managed to choke out, the words barely audible.
"I don't advertise it," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not here at work. Although, I have tried to figure you out."
"Me?" My voice was a squeak, a pathetic, breathy sound that made me cringe.
Andrew sat down in the chair opposite my desk, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The movement brought him closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Yes. You. I've tried to send signals your way, but you never respond to them. So, I figured you were just a shy straight guy."
"I am shy, Andrew," I admitted, my hands trembling in my lap. "And a bit of an introvert."
"Call me Drew," he said, his voice softening, a smile playing on his lips. "None of my friends call me Andrew."
"Drew." I whispered his name, the sound a prayer on my lips. Friends. He'd said friends.
"Matt." He smiled, and this time, it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners and making them sparkle. "Why don't we have dinner after work and talk about the things that we can't talk about at work?"
The air in my office felt thick, heavy with unspoken words. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, a frantic, rhythmic pulse that drowned out the hum of the computer tower. Drew's gaze was steady, patient, and it was that patience, more than anything, that allowed me to find my voice.
"Okay," I breathed, the word barely escaping my throat. "Dinner. Yes."
A slow smile spread across his face, genuine and warm. It reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "Good. How about The Oak Room? Around seven? It's quiet enough to talk."
I nodded, my mind already racing, a chaotic mix of terror and elation. "Seven. The Oak Room. I can be there."
"Perfect." He leaned back, the spell broken slightly as he gestured to the laptop on my desk. "Now, for the reason I actually came in here. This thing has been running slower than molasses in January, and it keeps freezing up when I try to run reports."
I welcomed the shift, the familiar territory of malfunctioning technology a comforting anchor in the sea of emotional turmoil. I reached for the laptop, my fingers brushing against his as he passed it to me. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot up my arm. I pulled back quickly, my cheeks flushing. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't let on.
"Let me take a look," I said, my voice more steady now that I was talking about something I understood. I opened it, the screen flickering to life. "It's probably just a bunch of startup programs and a bloated registry. I can clean it up for you. Shouldn't take more than an hour."
"Thanks, Matt. I appreciate it." He stood up, his tall frame filling the small space. "I'll leave it with you, then. See you at seven."
He was at the door when he turned back, his hand on the knob. "And Matt?" he said, his voice soft. "Don't worry about the profile. We've all been there."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne lingering in the air and a laptop that suddenly felt like the most important object in the world.
The hours until seven o'clock crawled by, each minute stretching into an eternity. I finished working on Drew's laptop, but my mind was a million miles away, replaying our conversation over and over again. What did he mean by "the things we can't talk about at work"? What signals had he been sending that I'd been too blind to see? And most importantly, what was I going to wear?
I left work early, my hands trembling as I fumbled with my keys. I showered, changed clothes three times, and finally settled on a pair of dark jeans and a button-down shirt that I hoped made me look sophisticated but not like I was trying too hard. The Oak Room was a small, upscale restaurant on the edge of downtown, all dark wood, dim lighting, and white tablecloths. I arrived ten minutes early, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He was already there, seated at a corner booth, a glass of wine in front of him. He'd changed too, wearing a black sweater that clung to his broad shoulders and chest, his blond hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked up as I approached, and his smile was like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds.
"Matt," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You made it."
"I wouldn't have missed it," I said, sliding into the booth opposite him.
We ordered our food, and the initial conversation was stilted, a series of polite questions about work and the weather. But as the wine flowed and the food arrived, the tension began to ease, the words coming more easily.
"So," I said, gathering my courage. "What are you looking for, Drew? In life, I mean."
He swirled the wine in his glass, his gaze distant for a moment. "Honestly? I'm not sure. I'm focused on my career, but I'm not ready to settle down yet. I guess I'm just looking to have some fun for a few more years, you know? Sow my wild oats, all that cliché stuff." He looked at me then, his eyes serious. "Right now, I'm just looking for a buddy, someone to hang out with, have a good time with."
My heart sank, a familiar disappointment settling in. I should have known. He was everything I wasn't, confident, outgoing, experienced. What could he possibly want with a shy, introverted IT guy who spent his nights alone with a piece of plastic?
"I can accept that," I said, my voice barely a whisper. I looked down at my plate, pushing a piece of broccoli around with my fork. "I just... I want to feel wanted, Drew. I want to feel alive. I'm so tired of being alone."
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch was gentle, tentative, but it sent a wave of warmth through me. "Matt, you're not alone."
"Not physically," I said, looking up and meeting his gaze. "But emotionally. I'm tired of the emptiness. I don't need forever, Drew. Not right now. I just need... something. I'm willing to accept just sex, as long as it's the best sex you can deliver."
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise, or was it something else?, crossing his face. He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.
"I can do that," he said, his voice low and husky. "I can definitely do that."
We finished our meal in a comfortable silence, the air between us thick with anticipation. He paid the bill, and we left the restaurant, the cool night air a welcome relief after the warmth of the restaurant. His car was parked just down the street, a sleek, black sedan that looked as expensive as it was fast.
"Your place or mine?" he asked, his hand resting on the small of my back, a possessive, reassuring touch.
"Mine," I said, my voice trembling with excitement. "It's closer."
The drive to my apartment was a blur of city lights and pulsing music. He followed me upstairs, his presence a comforting weight behind me. I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the lock. He placed his hand over mine, his touch steady and sure.
"Easy, Matt," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "We've got all night."
The door swung open, and we stepped inside, the silence of my apartment a stark contrast to the noise of the city outside. I turned to face him, my heart pounding in my chest. He was close, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the wine on his breath.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.
I answered him by closing the distance between us, my lips finding his in a hesitant, tentative kiss. He responded immediately, his lips parting slightly, his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more demanding, as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the hard, muscular lines of his body through the thin fabric of our clothes, the evidence of his desire pressing against my thigh.
He lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me to the bedroom, our lips never parting. He laid me down on the bed, his body covering mine, his weight a welcome anchor in the sea of my desire. His hands roamed over my body, tracing the lines of my chest, the curve of my hips, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I arched against him, a soft moan escaping my lips as his fingers found the hard, sensitive nub of my nipple, teasing it into a tight, aching peak.
He undressed me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. He peeled away my clothes like they were a precious gift, his lips following the path of his hands, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When I was finally naked, he took a moment to just look at me, his gaze hot and intense, making me feel more desired, more wanted, than I had ever felt in my life.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You hide a perfect set of pecs and abs under that white shirt of yours.”
I reached for him, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin against mine. He helped me, his movements quick and efficient, and soon he was naked too, his body a masterpiece of masculine perfection. His chest was broad and well-defined, a sprinkling of blond hair trailing down his flat stomach to the thick, rigid length of his cock. It was beautiful, just like the rest of him, and I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything.
He lowered himself over me, his body a warm, heavy weight, his mouth finding mine again in a deep, possessive kiss. His hands explored my body, his touch firm and sure, his fingers stroking, teasing, until I was writhing beneath him, aching, desperate for more.
"Please, Drew," I begged, my voice a ragged whisper. "Please."
He positioned himself between my legs, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance, a teasing, tantalizing promise of what was to come. He entered me slowly, carefully, his eyes
locked on mine, watching my face as he filled me, stretching me, claiming me. There was a slight burn, a sharp, stinging pain that was quickly eclipsed by a wave of intense, overwhelming pleasure. He was big, bigger than I had imagined, and the feeling of him inside me, of his body joined with mine, was so profound, so all-consuming, that it brought tears to my eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a low, concerned murmur.
I nodded, unable to speak, my hands gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, measured stroke that sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me. The pain faded completely, replaced by a deep, aching need for more.
"Harder," I gasped, my voice ragged. "Drew, please, harder."
He complied, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding, his body slamming into mine with a primal, animalistic intensity that left me breathless. The room filled with the sounds of our lovemaking, the slap of skin against skin, the ragged gasps for air, the soft, needy moans that escaped my lips with each thrust.
He shifted his position slightly, changing the angle of his entry, and suddenly, he was hitting that spot deep inside me, the one that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shooting through my entire body. I cried out, my back arching off the bed, my body convulsing around him as a powerful orgasm ripped through me, leaving me shaking and spent.
He didn't stop, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate, as he chased his own release. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on, my body still humming with the aftershocks of my orgasm. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself inside me, his body tensing as he came, his hot seed filling me, marking me as his.
He collapsed on top of me, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. We lay there for a long time, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I could feel his softening cock still inside me, a tangible reminder of the incredible intimacy we had just shared.
He rolled off me, his arm draped across my waist, pulling me close. I snuggled against him, my head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. I felt safe, cherished, and for the first time in a very long time, I wasn't lonely.
"This is the point where I usually leave," he said, his voice a low murmur against my hair.
My heart clenched, a familiar fear creeping in. I didn't want him to leave. I didn't want this feeling to end.
"But you're different, Matt," he continued, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back. "You're not like the other guys."
I looked up at him, my eyes searching his. "How am I different?"
He smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made my heart skip a beat. "You're real. You're not playing a game. You're not trying to be something you're not. You're just... you. And it's... refreshing."
He leaned in, his lips finding mine in a soft, gentle kiss, a stark contrast to the raw, primal passion of our lovemaking. "I want to stay for a little while longer," he whispered against my lips.
My heart soared, a wave of hope and happiness washing over me. "How long?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He looked at me, his eyes serious, his expression tender. "How about a lifetime?"
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