I don’t want him in the same way they want him.
I mean I sort of don’t. Maybe I do, in that I want to kiss him and touch him– mostly I want him to touch *me,* actually– but I’m wiping cigar ash off of little round tables and picking up empty glasses covered in the swirling fingerprints of big, dangerous men and I’m watching him, watching him smile as he pours another drink. He leans forward to whisper something into a man’s ear.
I’m not staring at the way his lips move. I’m not imagining the way those lips might feel on mine. Okay, I am. A lot. Every time I see him, and some of the times I don’t, I spend a lot of time thinking about my skin pressing against his in as many places and as many ways as possible. I think about running my fingers through his blond hair, watching the curls spring back into place in the wake of my hand. Doing that thing where you grab them by the back of the neck and kiss them. In the rain. On a train platform. Because he’s moving to Japan or something.
I watch a lot of movies.
I take my tray of glassware to the long counter leading back to the kitchen and set it next to the bus tub, wipe my hands off on my apron. Steal another glance. He’s talking with another man now, that big white smile so sincere, laughing like he’s having a great time. He’s got dimples, damn him, dimples and a strong jaw and good teeth.
I’m not the only one looking. There are five men sitting together at one end of the little bar and four of them are staring like he’s a piece of meat. The last one is too drunk to be staring at anything but the bottom of his glass, but I’m sure somewhere in the theatre of his mind, he’s thinking about fucking the handsome blond that keeps pouring him drinks. They all are. It’s still early; he might get to all five tonight if they start soon.
His name is Andrew, but everybody calls him Sandy. It’s not a name that I would be willing to put up with for very long, but Sandy seems to like it– though he seems to like everything. No matter what happens, he always keeps a smile on his face, never fazed, never faltering. He comes to work at the bar four, maybe five times a month, always after nine o’clock, usually on a Friday or Saturday, though once I saw him come in on a Tuesday. *that* had been an interesting night.
And he’s not a bartender; not really. The dingy little rat-hole has a regular barkeep, a big guy with hairy arms and a lot of tattoos, and *he* actually knows what he’s doing. Sandy mostly pours drinks and looks nice. I know the men he serves don’t mind if he couldn’t mix a Martini to save his life, because, well, that isn’t his *job.*
Herman, the regular barkeep, lifts a hand to me in a wave as he heads for the back door. He’s already locked the front door and pulled the security gate across. Standing underneath the glowing EXIT sign, he flicks off two of the four light switches on the wall. The lobby goes dark, with one little bulb still glowing over the bar, the old-fashioned pear shaped bulb lighting up Sandy’s blonde curls like a halo.
I step back into the darkness behind the counter and unload the glasses from my tray as quietly as possible. Over by the bar, I hear laughter. Sandy is still smiling. One of the men stands up, beckons, and Sandy steps forward to meet him.
I duck into the pantry. I could close the door behind me– it would block out most of the noises coming from the bar– but I don’t. Instead, I stare at a jar of pickles bigger than my head and think about all the movies I’ve watched and how nice it would be if life played out the same way it did on screen.
After an hour of standing in the pantry, my feet start to hurt, and I take a seat on an upturned milk crate. In the gloom, I can just see a collection of cigarette butts at my feet. Outside, someone laughs, someone else curses. I hear a thump and tense, waiting for the sounds to turn ugly. I don’t relax until I hear Sandy’s voice again, low and teasing. I lean my back against the wall and close my eyes.
Maybe it *will* be like the movies. He’ll come in here, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, and ask me for a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but it’s not like he has to know that. He could call me ‘kid’ and laugh in a quiet, sexy way while I look up at him with big eyes. He’ll kiss me and I’ll throw my arms around his neck and it’ll be raining– no, not in the pantry. We’ll be somewhere else, away from this nasty place. Maybe I went with him to Japan and now we’re on one of those pretty red bridges and we’re kissing and we both look good even though we’re getting all wet in the romantic rain.
Out at the bar, Sandy makes a noise. I close my eyes. He makes another one, louder, longer.
I wake up cold, my head aching from where I’ve leaned it against the hard concrete wall of the pantry. The silence outside feels brittle, like the quiet after a snowstorm. My watch tells me I’ve been dozing for the better part of two hours. It sounds like everyone’s gone home– they probably didn’t even know I’d been back here taking a nap with the pickles. I stand up and stretch, snagging a bottle of spray cleaner and a rag on my way out of the pantry.
There are things that get left behind on the bar after Sandy’s through with his work. Smears of this, drops of that. The spray cleaner gets it all up like it never happened, though it doesn’t help with the mental images if you think about it for too long. Working my way down the bartop I find three more glasses, two empty foil wrappers, a poker chip, and several handfuls of cigarette ash. There are four ashtrays, as well, but someone’s dumped them out for me already, leaving them lined up at the end of the bar.
Further into the building, there’s a little space that the owners like to call “the lounge,” though really it’s just two ratty armchairs and a sofa that someone had abandoned by the side of the road. Usually there’s a lamp back there, or at least two or three candles for the right kind of ratty armchair ambiance, but with most of the lights out it’s shrouded in darkness in the shadow of the bar.
Which is why I nearly hit the ceiling when I hear someone snoring back there.
I shrink down, clinging to the edge of the bar as if that’s going to protect me from a sound asleep intruder. I can just make out a dark shape curled on the couch, shoes kicked off, the white of his socks standing out against the darkness. I creep closer, and the next snore trails off into a sleepy mumble.
“Hello?” I edge around one of the armchairs. “Um, hi. Excuse me?”
“Hmm?” The thing on the couch unfolds itself a little, lifting a head full of golden curls that I can see even in the dimness.
Oh.
Sandy yawns, lifts his arms over his head in a lazy stretch. “Mm. I must have fallen asleep.” He rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s uh– i-it’s– I think–” Someone’s turned off the part of my brain that makes words line up and leave my mouth in an orderly fashion. “It’s, um, late,” I manage finally.
“Late,” he echoes, then looks up at me. “Were you trying to lock up? Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.”
He starts to stand up, glancing around for his shoes. He’s going to leave. Do something! “Um.” The rain! Japan! The little bridge! Kissing! “You can stay,” I blurt. “I mean, I’m not– done. Yet. I’ve still got a couple things to do, so you can stay there, on the couch. You look really tired.”
I want to bite out my tongue for that last sentence, but Sandy chuckles. “I hope I don’t look half as bad as I feel. It’s been a long night.” He sinks back down onto the couch.
Silence blooms between us. I realize that I’m standing there holding a bottle of cheap spray cleaner and a dirty rag, and I set both on the end of the bar. Say something good. Something sexy, but not too forward. “Do you… come here often?” Not that, you idiot!
I can still only see the darker shape of his body against the couch, but the way Sandy’s shoulders move makes me think he’s laughing at me. “I don’t know. Do *you?”*
“I mean I’ve been here on most of the nights that you, uh, worked, and this is the first time I’ve found you asleep on the couch.” Like throwing a glass of water at a house fire, but at least I’d tried. “What I *mean* is, are you okay?” Better. Much better.
“I’m alright, I think. Just a little tired.” He rolls his shoulders with a little groan. “Maybe a lot tired. Thank you, though.”
“You’re welcome. Um.” Stop saying ‘um!’ “My name is Owen.”
“Nice to meet you, Owen. I’m Andrew. People call me Sandy.”
“I know.” Shut up! “I mean–”
“It’s okay. Guess word gets around.” He gestures to the space beside him on the couch. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute, take a load off. Probably not much fun running around cleaning up everybody else’s messes all night.”
I step into the shadows of the lounge, heart pounding. Finally out of the harsh yellow light coming from the bar, my eyes start to adjust to the darkness, and I can make out Sandy’s handsome features more clearly as I sit down next to him.
I end up pinning one corner of my apron underneath my thigh, twisting it uncomfortably around me, and reach behind my back to undo the strings. “Let me get it,” Sandy says, and his fingers brush mine while he works at the knot. He’s leaning close; he smells like alcohol and sweat and powdery deodorant. I swallow.
He pulls the strings loose. I slip my apron over my head and wad it into a ball, setting it next to me on the couch where it promptly unfurls. “This is weird,” I say, looking down at the dirty folds of white cloth.
“Hmm?”
“I mean I’ve worked here for like, what, six months? And I see you almost every night that you’re here. But this is the first time I’ve ever even said hi.” Mostly I’d stolen glances at him and fantasized about running into his arms so he could kiss me. Or leaning across the bar, smiling seductively just before he kisses me. Or him rescuing me from yellow-toothed bandits and then taking me back to a clean yet rustic saloon where he’d kiss me.
“That doesn’t mean I hadn’t noticed you.” His voice cuts through my romance novel reverie. “Or that I didn’t know you’d noticed me.”
I look over at him, surprised, then down at my lap, face growing hot. “Er– did you?”
“You stare a lot.”
“I’m– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean– I mean I–” Is this what it’s like to die of embarrassment? I can practically feel my organs shutting down.
“I didn’t say it was a bad stare,” Sandy says, smiling.
“Are there bad stares?” I ask.
He snorts. “Oh, yes. I know a bad stare from a good one. And yours was, mm. Yours was nice.” His eyes meet mine. “Little bit day-dreamy, little bit hungry. Nice.” He’s come very close.
“Um,” I say again, more faintly, and he closes the gap between us to put his mouth to mine. My heart, finally realizing that this is happening in real life, starts thundering in my chest.
He pulls away, too soon, and spends a moment watching me. I can see the bare bulb over the bar behind me reflected in his eyes. For once, I manage not to say anything embarrassing, stretching the silence all the way into the next kiss. No train station, no bandits, no rain, but it feels perfect anyway. His lips are soft. His mouth tastes good. I haven’t acted like an idiot in at least ninety seconds.
Then he puts his hand on my thigh, and when his fingertips find the bulge of my erection through my work pants, he pulls away again. “Oh. I see,” he says, too neutral.
My face heats. What am I going to say? ‘Sorry, that happens to me sometimes when hot guys spontaneously make out with me at work?’ But it hadn’t been spontaneous. He’d watched me watch him. He’d waited for me, asked me to sit down. And now, before I can offer any sort of explanation– charts and diagrams detailing every fantasy, every box of tissues– his hand is creeping back over my cock and I’m biting down hard on my bottom lip and praying, *praying* that I can hold it together.
He kisses my jaw, staying close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. “You okay?” He’s rolling his palm across my cock, slow and rhythmic. “You wanna stop?”
“N-no. No.” I lay a hand on his forearm, and I can feel the muscle there flexing as his hand moves. “I don’t… want you to stop.” Please don’t stop. Really, seriously don’t stop possibly ever.
I take a deep breath, let it out as a shaky sigh. He kisses me again, his hand resting on the crotch of my pants, letting me have a little time to breathe and reel myself in. He knows what he’s doing, way more than I do, and probably way more times than I have, considering my first relationship ended more than a year ago without seeing anything more than a little heavy petting. I’ve only ever imagined kissing Sandy; this new development is nice, better than nice, but it’s leading me to an exclusive little club where I’m afraid I’ll have to stand awkwardly against the wall because I don’t know any of the dance moves.
When Sandy undoes the top button on my pants, my breath comes in ragged and comes out nervous. He slips an arm around my waist, pulls me close against him, kissing my neck and my collarbone. Then he leans back against the couch, pats his thigh. “Right here. C’mon.”
Sitting with his knees apart, I can see the outline of his erection. When I climb into his lap, straddling him, I can feel it, the hard bulge of his cock pressing against mine. I ease back, trying to give him a little room to breathe, but his hand on the small of my back pulls me closer and I find myself chest to chest with him, listening to the soft rumble of a groan in his throat. His hand snakes down between us and into my pants again, sliding warmly against the underside of my cock. I swear I can feel every crease, every callus on his palm.
It’s when he has his hand between my thighs that some internal clock goes off in my brain, forcing me to say something stupid again. “I’m a virgin,” I blurt, clinging to his shoulders and putting my cheek against his so I don’t have to look him in the eye.
I feel him smile. He turns his head to give me a little peck of a kiss. “I know.”
“Is that– is that okay?”
“That’s okay.” And he means it. I know he means it. I kiss his throat, open my mouth to taste the salt on his skin. He tilts his head to give me more room, strokes my back with his free hand, my shirt bunching up underneath his palm. I shiver, leaning my weight onto my knees and hitching closer and then he’s sliding one finger inside of me. I suck in a gasp, body tensing.
“Relax,” he says softly. “Relax.” And I try to, tucking my face against his shoulder, letting out a breath and then closing my eyes to breathe in the scent of his skin. Two breaths. Three. Four. On the fifth breath he gently slides his finger deeper into me. I lift my head, feeling the muscles in my back aching with the tension, and he kisses me.
“Good?” He asks when I pull away to take in another ragged breath. I nod. He curls his finger forwards and I flatten against him, hips jerking, mouth opening and shutting twice before I can manage to force out a moan. “How about that?” he says, hardly a whisper but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Better?”
“Yes,” I gasp out, and he does it again. The sensation leaves me trembling, my cock aching. He slides his fingers in further, withdraws a little, then pushes back in. I’m afraid the next time he touches me that way I’m going to come, and as much as I need that release, I don’t want it to be over. Not yet.
I shift against him, drawing my hips back; his fingers slip out of me. I look down at him and I hope I look sexy, seductive, misted with sweat, lips parted. His eyes are on mine and I can’t read them so I look away to ask, “Do you… want to…?”
“You’re sweet.” Sandy turns my face to his again. “Of course I want to.” The thought of him inside me, his hands on me, his breath hot and wet on my skin– my fantasies have certainly come a long way in the past twenty minutes– makes a tingling heat creep up my body. “But not now. Not tonight and not here,” he finishes, and then laughs at the disappointment on my face. “Why, did you want your first time to be here on this saggy couch with no room to move and no lube?”
Yes. Probably. I want my first time to be with him, and my cock is telling me that I want my first time to be now. But Sandy pulls me closer, one hand around my cock and the other easing his own erection out of his pants.
“It takes time,” he says, and when the head of his cock brushes mine I have to bite down on my lip to keep from moaning like a whore. “And it takes patience. You can’t just jump into stuff like that, Owen. You have to go slow.” He wraps his hand around both of us, squeezing the shaft of my cock against his and squeezing a desperate whimper out of me. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have any fun tonight.”
His strokes are slow, achingly, maddeningly slow. My hips want to thrust upwards into his hand but I keep myself in check, swallowing air, bracing my hands against his shoulders. He seems to know when I’m about to come– the frequency of my moans and the number of repetitions of his name are probably a hint– and he’ll stop, pulling me down for a kiss, waiting for my breathing to even out before beginning again.
His hand slips underneath my shirt. He traces a line from my collar bone to my hip with his fingers and when I try to tell him how good that feels all that comes out is the lost half of a breathy groan. He smiles, closes his eyes, leans his head back, and draws a deep breath. I can see the muscles in his stomach tightening and relaxing, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
His fingers tighten around us on the next stroke and it sends me tumbling over the edge, my hips bucking forward. I say something articulate along the lines of “Oh, fuck, fuck, *yes* fuck,” and come across Sandy’s hand and his abdomen, my cock still spasming long after I’ve run dry.
I lay my head on his shoulder and for a long moment I can’t do anything but breathe. I kiss him again and he shifts underneath me, dragging me back to reality and the realization that he hasn’t come yet.
I pull back, looking down at the hard curve of his cock and swallowing. I want to make it good for him. I want to make him feel as good as I did. Mostly, I want to prove myself as Not a Virgin and Have Totally Sucked a Cock Before. “I could…” I begin, then betray myself by licking my lips. I have not sucked a cock before. I’m not sure if I know how. Well, I mean I know *how,* but I don’t know if I know… how.
Sandy rescues me by taking my hand and curling it around his cock. “Easy. Not too hard,” he says, reaching up to run his hand through my hair. “Slow. Like that. Ah. *Ahh.”* I pull my hand over his cock, slicked with my own come, and watch Sandy’s shoulders tense, his body arching upwards. He makes a sound almost like a moan when I slip my thumb over the head, so I do it again, and a third time.
He asks me to stroke him faster, to keep going, and I do. A shudder moving through him turns into a jerk of his hips and his groan this time is long, low, don’t stop, don’t stop, *don’t stop* His cry of pleasure when he comes is louder, higher, and his orgasm comes in several long, trembling thrusts of his hips before he collapses bonelessly against the couch, panting.
I think it takes him a few moments to realize that I’m still sitting in his lap. He finally looks up, quirks a half-smile at me, and helps me back down onto the couch, saving me from wondering how close to sit next to him by wrapping an arm around my waist and letting me lean against him. My mouth wants to say something stupid, like, ‘Wow, that was really nice,’ but I manage to keep it shut.
Sandy kisses my temple and snugs me closer. “Do you work tomorrow?” I ask timidly, and he chuckles. “Well? Do you?” I press, bolder.
“No. Got the day off,” he says. “I was gonna go out, but it’s been looking like rain all day. By tomorrow it’ll probably be pouring.”
I imagine Sandy, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin, his hair dripping wet, slicked back from his forehead. Panting, shivering, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. “Do you want to go down to the train station?” I ask.
Sandy raises an eyebrow at me. “Why?”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/5vp7pr/like_it_is_in_the_movies_gay_mm_virgin_hj