By rite of passage most women at some point encounter their first gay-best-friend. This normally results in developing an irrational crush on an unavailable an impossible dream. That said depending on what age or even what stage you both are at sexually that doesn’t mean the gay-best-friend is without sexual benefit.
In my case I managed to avoid falling for some pretty boy that would woo me with attention, use my looks, status and wit as a public accessory and then eventually become so immersed in Gaysville I’d end up being yesterday’s news. No as I was being wooed and wheeled out to his posse of gay friends, I found another guy that was infinitely funnier who I thought was gay (he wasn’t) and focussed my attentions on him. Thus I never experienced any jealousy or feelings of being an attentive plaything or my presence required merely as a means to prop up an ego.
That doesn’t mean I escaped sleeping with a gay man (or two or three). The first though in question was at the bi-curious stage. But for me the old adage Bi-Now, Gay Later holds a lot of weight.
My heavy immersion into gay culture was helped by the fact that I worked in the theatrical industry which has (thank god) a high percentage of lovely gay men – because there is nothing better than being surrounded by pretty, creative men – does wonders for the ego (and image).
The place I found my gay liaison was in the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road, on a night when me and my theatre’s gang had decided to see Erasure playing live there. You couldn’t have had a gayer evening, with Andy Bell dancing round stage with his feather boa and artificial hip.
Still they were only doing a short set so our evening was filled with a lot of alcohol, a lot of gossip, a lot of dancing to old skool cheesy pop tunes and much flirting and making friends regardless of sexuality.
As the minute and hour hand moved precariously round to the time the concert was due to start the auditorium filled up and the throng dancing on the stage began to climb down and push back the die-hard fans that had been dancing by the stage all night to reserve a pole front row position.
I myself was a die-hard fan so stood ground as the young boys climbed down and realised they were being sent by a tidal wave of bopping bodies to the back of the club. Our group were huddled close and I was feeling exceptionally excited about Andy and Vince taking the stage. I was also enjoying the friendly ambience of the venue (Erasure didn’t really warrant screaming teen girls so there was no heterophobic vibes emanating from Jeremy Joseph’s crew as is the case when McFly or One Direction play such gigs).
Sitting on the stage, looking rather wasted was a guy who was not a pretty, young, thing. He wasn’t unpretty and he wasn’t old, but he wasn’t ‘a type’. In fact I guess the term ‘straight acting’ could be applied. He was mid 20s, with a pleasant tanned mannish face and mousy blonde hair in curtains that had grown out and hung appealingly in his eyes. His thighs filled out his jeans and the bulge looked promising. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and in fairness is was not an outfit designed to peacock his gym acquired frame.
As the crowd heaved forward I took the opportunity to press myself between his thighs; him sitting on the stage, me standing between his legs. With more movement and bustle I steadied myself by gripping his upper things. This tactile and intimate physical contact mustered him out of his alcoholic daze.
I asked his name and he told me (I won’t pretend for a second I can remember it). He asked mine and given his drunkenness, the roar of a full nightclub my Australia accent and the announcer drumming up the ever enthusiastic crowd after about 50 repeats I got him to understand it.
From there the game began. Tact was never a strength when it came to me quickly assorting potential fucks in such a sparse sexual heterosexual hunting ground. So I just blarted out the question if he was gay. He slowly shook his head and shrugged that he was there with his mates. When I asked where his mates were, he didn’t know. When I asked their names, he couldn’t remember. Being open and honest I said I didn’t think he’d come with mates.
By now he appreciated there was sex up for grabs (maybe not in the package he’d been hoping for but every hole’s a goal as they say) so began to come round and add a little coherency to the conversation if the invitation was not to be be retracted. He amended his story saying his friends had told him Erasure were a really good band so on their advice he thought he’d come see them – it just so happened to be at a gay venue. I pressed on as to why he hadn’t seen them at the Albert Hall (or some such major venue) earlier in the evening with his friends rather than going solo to a 1am gig at G-A-Y.
Eventually he caved; mumbling about sleeping with women but…kind of liking men…trying it out. I’m not one to usually go down that path – it doesn’t do a lot for me – the sexually confused thing. Basically I’d done it myself some years earlier and been not so kind to some lesbians because I decided I was curious. I suspect in hindsight feelings may have been hurt whilst I wanted to try some new things out, selfishly considering my own feelings and emotions on the matter.
But as I smiled and went to walk away, Erasure landed on stage, he slid off the stage and had me in a clinch and I was unable to resist his lips pressing down on mine. It was like the merest hint of sex had sobered him and he was pulling me to him, kissing me feverishly and placing my hand on that ever expanding bulge of denim by his crutch. Coupled with Erasure belting out a more mellow number my resolve weakened. I began to feel wave of heterophobia growing as a seemingly ‘straight’ couple made a very public display of affection in front of a notoriously gay crowd, in a gay venue with a very gay band.
He grabbed my wrist to pull me a way, but I was with my friends. I shook my head and said he was here to try new things and doubtless in an hour or two he could walk out with the goods he intended rather than a substitute. As ‘Give A Little Respect’ came on, my friends enticed me back for a dance and the boy became lost in the crowd.
A few hours later though, whilst the club was emptying and I was waiting for my friends to return with their coats he appeared staggering up the staircase from the men’s toilets – alone.
‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight,’ was all he said. And he did.
Resigned myself I took him back to my single room at the YWCA. The security guards, either because they got off on the idea of illicit sex happening in a Christian residence, too tired to argue or just easygoingness let him through with me; without me having to sign him in or explain his nocturnal visit.
For a guy that was preparing to change teams, I have to admit, to his credit, he’d obviously served well and done a decent tour of duty with the heteros. I mean doggedly (though not in style) determined to rut he took his time undressing me. I was by no means dressed for play in tasselled cargos and singlet with netted top over it. But his masculinity was impressive as he dis-robed me item by item. The top was easy to get off. He reached round the back to unhook my bra only to find I was wearing a sports bra. Not to let that dampen the affair he at first just forced the bra down so both my boobs spring out and he nuzzled them for a good time – breathing in the scent of me. Almost delighting in the femininity of me. After spending what I was beginning to think an inordinate amount of attention on my breasts he pulled the sports bra back up and over my head and arms so I could slip out.
Still standing he dropped to his knees and pressed his face against my tummy. I felt the hands creep up to massage my boobs again. I’ve never been too keen on breast play (until recently) so whilst he honked them like some 4 year old in one of those 50p stable car rides you find in supermarkets with steering wheels and horns, I kinda felt it was getting a little Oedipus-like in nature.
Impressively whilst groping my breasts he managed to undo the button and zip on my trousers. The button ok, it was quite loose but I worried about his teeth pulling down the zipper – surely metal can do damage to teeth and the zipper was quite stiff? Once again he was nuzzling my snatch, breathing in from where all my woman hood stemmed. He peeled how my knickers and flicked his tongue round my clit. Without further ado he pushed me to the bed to continue his servicing of me.
The trousers were restrictive, making for an awkward leg spread. I was left rather ungraciously and certainly with allure was kicking at least one leg out of the trousers to allow for a wide spread and better access to my clit. I think maybe in his drunken stupor he didn’t have the faculties to see how unsexy the action being carried out was. He was so intent on not only attempting to give me a clitoral orgasm but taste all of me I had time to remove the trousers hanging onto my right calf and pull off the thick woollen socks that were a favourite of mine at that most wonderful time of the year.
After the correct amount of moans to provide him with the notion he’d bought me to orgasm (he didn’t) he pushed his face as deep in my slit as possible. Smearing his face in juices. Pushing 3 fingers from both hands in as deep as they could go, twisting them pleasurably and then licking them on exit.
He stood up and unbuckled his jeans, unleashing a hard average cock. I was grateful I avoided blow job duties as he rubbed it round my entrance. With the bi-curious thing in mind and my sexual background I insisted on a condom. As silent as he’d been since leaving the club he reached in his wallet produced one and slid it on and then slid straight into me. He remained in missionary the entire time, fucking; my hands gripping his buttocks. The biggest change was me raising my legs over his shoulders. This seemed to please him as he could get deeper and once in deep he went slower a lot harder. In fact the slower he went, the deeper he went the more I moaned in pain the more it seemed to pleasure him. It was almost as if when he went as deep as I could take it, so that my own hands were on his hips trying to prevent him hurting me by going deeper that he came to a complete standstill and came.
He shuddered and lay still on me. Face again in my tits. Suckling them like a giant baby which freaked me. It all seemed more maternal and a celebration of ‘woman’ rather than one night stand sex. He was clearly experienced with women but something was amiss and perhaps that’s why he was moving (or at least temporarily visiting) pastures new. A penis might provide the answers that that a cunt can’t. I moved to reposition myself and that was all it took.
He stood up, removed the condom, wiped his cock with his hand, smeared his hand with the remaining cum on my face as he tossed the condom in the waste-paper basket and did up his jeans.
I was a little lost for words if I’m honest. The breast suckling, then having my face used as a cum flannel was all a bit bizarre.
He sniffed, shook his head, opened the door (me exposed and naked on the bed for the other 300 residents to see), said ‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight’ and left. He was right.