Chapter 1
The bar smelled like fried wings and spilled beer, the kind of place where everybody was wearing blue and yelling at one of the TVs. I didn’t bother counting the screens, but there were a lot. Most of them showed the Titans game – no surprise in Nashville. In the corner, though, a group was cheering at curling. Curling? Really. I guess there are all types.
I wasn’t here for the game, not really. I was here looking for me – or someone like me. Somewhere in this room was the guy who’d make or break a question I’d been carrying for six months.
It wasn’t about attraction – I wasn’t into men. I had a girlfriend, younger, hot, and orally fixated if you know what I mean. And after years of that, the thought started to gnaw at me: what’s it like for her? The real thing. Sucking a cock. Doing a good enough job to make it come. Swallowing. It was an itch I just couldn’t scratch.
So I pushed through the crowd, scanning. What I needed was someone like me: mid-forties, in decent shape, clean but not flashy. Hygienic. Safe. Normal. Not attractive, no wedding ring.
And there he was, wearing an old Isaiah Wilson jersey, from back when everyone thought he’d be the future. That dream fizzled fast, and wearing it now just made him look ordinary. Not rich, not trying to impress anyone. Just another man at a bar. Exactly what I’d been hoping for. He was like me.
I slid onto the empty stool beside him and ordered a beer. We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. We cheered with the room when the Titans scored, groaned when they blew a play, and kept our eyes on the TV like strangers do.
When the clock ran out, I left cash on the bar and stood without a word.
It was nothing. A nod, a drink, a game. But that was all I wanted – normal, unforced, a man who could sit shoulder to shoulder with me and not expect more than that.
Step one, done.
Chapter 2
All week I kept thinking about Sunday, and all the ways it could fall apart.
He might not be there. He might be with friends. The seat next to him might already be taken. Any one of those would kill it before it started.
This was only step two in a four-step plan. Worst case, I’d find another me.
Still, I pushed through the door like I belonged there, heart thumping harder than it should for a football game.
I scanned the room.
There he was. Same stool, same beer, same Isaiah Wilson jersey. Alone.
Relief hit me harder than it should’ve. I slid onto the open stool next to him, ordered a drink, and forced myself to keep it casual.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I said.
He gave a short nod. “Not bad. You?”
“Good. How’s the game so far?”
He shrugged. “Better than last week.”
And that was it. We both turned back to the TV like that was all that needed saying.
A touchdown came, and in the noise and chaos of the room, we traded a high-five without thinking. Later, another. Easy, natural, like we’d done it a hundred times before.
When the final whistle blew, I drained the rest of my beer and stood.
“See you next week,” I said.
He gave me a quick look, a half-smile, and nodded. “Yeah. See you.”
I walked out grinning like I’d won a bet. Two weeks in a row, no pressure, no weirdness. Step two, exactly like I needed it to be.
Chapter 3
By the third Sunday, I knew better than to assume. He could’ve skipped, shown up with friends, or lost the seat to someone else. Any of those would’ve been fine – worst case, I’d find another me.
But when I walked in, there he was again. Same stool, same beer, same faded Isaiah Wilson jersey. Alone.
I slid onto the open stool beside him just as my girlfriend came through the door. Kate had been running errands, but she’d said she might stop by. She leaned down, kissed me hello – just a second past what might make someone uncomfortable in public – then grinned at him and waved.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Vic.”
“That’s my girl, Kate,” I said. She gave him a quick smile and disappeared as fast as she’d come.
The game picked up again. Another beer, another cheer, another groan at a bad call. Then, during a quiet stretch, I made the smallest effort at conversation.
“You live around here?” I asked.
“Couple miles south. You?”
“Same. Easy drive.”
He nodded, eyes still on the screen.
“What do you do?” I tried.
“I drive a city bus.”
I let that hang a second, then shrugged. “IT. Mostly cleaning coffee out of keyboards.”
That earned the faintest grin, but nothing more. And that was all. Not flirty, not probing. Just talk – the kind of chatter two guys might exchange to pass the time.
By the end, we’d high-fived another touchdown, drained our beers, and left like always.
But it wasn’t nothing this time. I had a name, a neighborhood, a job. Not strangers anymore. Step three.
Chapter 4
By the fourth Sunday, my nerves were stretched thin.
Up to now, everything had gone exactly how I’d hoped. Four-step plan, three steps down. But this one was the danger zone.
Worst case, I’d leave with a bloody lip or a black eye – and four new weeks ahead of me, trying again with someone else.
I sat down next to Vic, ordered a beer, and forced myself to watch the first quarter. I cheered when they scored, groaned when they blew a drive, even managed a high-five without shaking. On the outside, I was just another fan. Inside, my heart wouldn’t quit pounding.
I rehearsed it in my head. Keep it simple. Say it straight. Let him say no if he wants. No pressure.
By halftime, my throat was dry. By the end of the third quarter, my palms were sweating. When the clock wound down in the fourth, I knew it was now or never.
“Hey,” I said, leaning closer. “If it’s ok, I’d like to talk to you after the game. In private. Outside.”
His eyes cut to me, curious. A beat passed, then he gave a short nod. “Alright.”
The final whistle blew. The bar erupted. People stood, hugged, shouted, drowned in the noise of a win. But for me, the world had narrowed to one thing: what I was about to say.
We walked out together into the cool night. In the parking lot, away from the crowd, Vic shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Okay,” he said. “What’s up?”
I swallowed hard. This was it.
“I’ve got a weird ask,” I said, steadying my voice. “And I’m fine if your answer is no.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
“You’ve seen my girl – Kate. So she, well, let’s just say she could suck-start a leaf blower if you know what I mean.” I took a breath. “And after getting blown all those times, I started to wonder what it’s like to do that. For her. So here it is: would you be receptive to getting a blowjob from me? No strings. Just a free blowjob. Quality unknown. I come over, suck your cock, you finish, I swallow, I leave. No talking. No eye contact. No touching outside of my mouth and your cock.”
Immediately, Vic shoved me hard in the chest. Not enough to drop me, but enough to make my feet skid back on the asphalt.
“What the fuck!?” he barked, eyes narrowed. “Fuck off!” He started to turn away.
I held my hands up, palms out. “I get it. I don’t blame you. I just figured, what guy doesn’t want a no-strings blowjob? Guess I was wrong. Good to meet you, Vic. I’ll find another place to watch the Titans.”
I turned, already planning which bar I’d scout next week. My chest stung a bit where he’d shoved me, and I half expected to feel a fist in the back of my head before I reached my car.
But then his voice came, lower this time.
“Hang on a second.”
I stopped, glanced back. He was staring at me, face tight, like he was working through something he couldn’t quite believe himself.
“You’re serious?” he said.
“Yeah, dead serious.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ!”
A pause. Then: “Explain it to me again.”
I took a breath. “It’s simple. We go to your place. Or a hotel, but your place raises fewer eyebrows. We go inside. I suck your cock. You come. I swallow. I leave. No talking. No eye contact. No touching outside of my mouth and your cock. The whole thing will take, well, the whole thing will take as long as you take.”
Vic let out a short laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“A while, yeah,” I said. “This is the only way it works.”
He studied me for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. Follow me.”
Chapter 5
The drive to Vic’s place was only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. I followed his taillights through quiet streets, every block giving me time to reconsider, to turn around, to bail. I didn’t.
His house was small, neat, the kind of place that belonged to a man who lived alone. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on a lamp that lit a narrow living room.
“Guess we’re here,” he said flatly.
Three feet inside, I dropped to my knees like I’d promised. My heart was pounding so hard it almost drowned out the sound of him unbuckling.
He pushed his pants down in one motion. Underwear too.
And the second they hit the floor, I knew.
I didn’t want this.
Not even close.
What I saw wasn’t some abstract idea, wasn’t a fantasy I’d built in my head. It was real. Flesh. Hair. Veins. The faint smell of sweat. Average size, soft, uncut.
Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing here?
But I didn’t move.
Because if I stopped now, the question would live forever. If I walked away at this moment, the itch would just start all over again.
So I leaned in. Opened my mouth. Took him inside.
It was worse. Warm, alive, salty in a way no toy had ever been. My lips slid over soft skin that gave too much, my tongue pressing against something that pulsed faintly with blood.
This is wrong. This is awful. I hate this.
But I kept going. Because the only way out was through.
Then it shifted.
I felt it before I even registered it – a faint swelling, a subtle pressure against my lips, a throb that wasn’t mine.
It’s.. growing. In my mouth.
Toys never did that. Nothing I’d practiced with had a heartbeat, or blood, or life. The flesh thickened, stiffened, stretching my jaw little by little, and the strangeness of it pulled me out of my disgust for half a second.
I forgot myself. My pace picked up. Tongue dragging harder on the underside, lips sliding faster, not because I wanted to – but because I was distracted by the fact that something was changing inside me.
Above me, Vic exhaled. A low sound, almost a moan.
And just like that, it hit me.
This was going somewhere. Fast.
The one part I’d fantasized about for months – the finish, the swallowing, the moment I’d pictured a hundred times while jerking off – was now the last thing in the world I wanted.
My stomach clenched. My throat felt tight. The thought of warm release hitting my tongue made bile stir.
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Because if I quit before the end, the itch would live on.
It didn’t take long. His thighs tensed, his breath caught, and then it hit.
The first pulse jerked against my tongue, followed by a sudden splash of warmth. Salty. Sharp. My stomach twisted.
Before I could even think about it, the second spurt shot deeper, hitting the back of my throat. My gag reflex lurched, chest tightening, bile rising fast. I froze, clamped down, forced myself to swallow.
A third pulse came, weaker but thicker, coating my tongue.
The texture was the worst part. Thick, gloppy, nothing like water, nothing like spit. It clung to my mouth in a way I couldn’t escape. I forced it down, but the taste spread anyway – salty, bitter, like old egg-drop soup gone lukewarm.
I fought to keep from retching, swallowing again, willing it to be over. Each gulp dragged the mess down my throat, but the taste refused to leave.
And then, finally, it stopped.
I slid my lips off him, careful not to meet his eyes. My knees ached from the floor, but I stood anyway, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and walked straight out the front door.
No words. No goodbye. Just out.
In my car, I drove two blocks before pulling over. My hands shook as I twisted the cap off the bottled water I’d stashed in the console. I drank hard, swished, swallowed, desperate to scrub the taste from my mouth. It clung anyway.
I sat there, staring at the empty bottle. Six months I’d been picturing this. Six months jerking off imagining myself in her place – lips wrapped, tongue working, swallowing like she did.
And now?
Now I was sick. Not just from the salt and the texture, but from the weight of it all.
Because I knew I’d never do it again. Not with Vic. Not with anyone. Not even in my head.
How did Kate do it?
All those times she swallowed me, smiling after – was she so desperate for connection that she could endure that level of ick? Was she just that much stronger than me?
The thought hollowed me out. I wasn’t satisfied. I wasn’t enlightened. I was just sad.
I got what I wanted, the itch was scratched. But I didn’t expect to lose the fantasy. And I had no idea where my mind would go the next time I got head.
Chapter 6
Kate noticed before I said a word.
“You don’t look so good,” she said, brushing her hand against my cheek. “Everything ok?”
I forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired. The wings had a weird taste. Not sure I’ll go back there.”
She studied me for a moment, like she knew there was more, then let it go.
Later, in bed, she slid down beside me, her mouth warm and familiar around me in a way it had been for years. Normally I’d close my eyes and sink into it.
But this time, my mind betrayed me.
The texture. The taste. The gag I’d fought down. The gloppy mess clinging to my tongue like bad egg-drop soup.
My stomach turned, and my body followed.
Kate pulled back, confused, wiping her lips. “Are you ok? You’ve never gotten soft like this before.”
I forced a breath, steadying myself. “I’m ok. Sorry. You know what.. let’s fuck.”
Her eyebrows lifted, then she smiled, climbing back up over me. And as she kissed me, I felt my cock stirring again, growing against her thigh.
The itch was gone. The fantasy was dead.
But Kate was real. And right now, that was enough.
