Sex with Straight Guys

 Originally published in RFD #186, "Summer of Sleaze II", the international Radical Faerie magazine.

 

Recently I was sitting in a cafe overhearing a conversation between two straight guys. “I wanna get fucked tonight. I haven't been fucked in ages.” “Fuck yeah, dude, I really need to get fucked too.” They were talking about getting drunk, but it's not what it sounded like to me. What is it about straight guys? Is it simply wanting what I can't have? An addiction to disappointment and rejection? That particular nonchalance? Sometimes it feels extra special when someone chooses to engage with me because they are truly interested in me, rather than cos we like the same stuff sexually. Sometimes I think “straight guy” is a mental illness. The ones I love are gentle, loving, with intelligence and integrity. Why, then, are they so uptight? In my desire to fully explore the depths of connection with a special guy, I don't care if he's straight, but usually he does. For this reason we have found a strange, wonderful and dodgy array of ways in which to manifest our mutual desire to connect when our visions of connection are so different.

 

Darby first captured my erotic attention one stoned night in our student flat. He cornered me in the kitchen, picked up a knife and offered to cut me open and eat my intestines. Semi-erect and scared of death, I was frozen and silent, stupefied. Another night, when I was drunk and vomiting, hanging over his toilet, he thoughtfully and lovingly got me naked and into the shower to bring me back to life. Afterwards we stood together and he leaned in to kiss me. I leaned in and he leaned back, he leaned forward again and leaned back when I came close, a deliberate cruel tease. I joyously allowed myself to be manipulated while simultaneously developing a genuine friendship with this fascinating and narcissistic guy. Trying to start an orgy, he called me into the bathroom where he was hard and inside his girlfriend, inviting me to play with his balls. We became best friends and went out to a gay club together, just the two of us. “I'm definitely bi,” he shouted in my ear over the noise. “Some of these guys are hot!” Back at his place I don't know how he was feeling but I was horny as fuck, resulting in a very intense wrestling match in our underwear, throwing each other around the room, slamming against the walls. We never expressed physical intimacy together in private, though I did suck his cock briefly in another awkward group sex situation and I still remember the look of pleasure and disgust on his face. Eventually I got so in my head about the relationship that we couldn't even be friends anymore.

 

At a Rainbow Gathering in the wilderness I met a curly-haired wild-eyed Brazilian man named Raul. He would play guitar and sing mysterious, emotional and vastly grappling songs in Portuguese that would captivate me. I performed outrageous, articulate and deeply grounded poetry by the sacred fire in the night, intriguing and impressing him. I was drawn by Raul's singing to a fire under a tiny tarp in the rain. When the third guy left us alone we wordlessly moved together and kissed passionately for eternity while I fantasized about the rest of our lives together. I asked him if he wanted to spend the night in my tent and he said, “I'm sorry, I can't explore this passion with you. I'm straight.” I suppressed all my feelings until we reconnected naturally at a later festival and wandered into the tropical jungle together, spending four days walking a seven hour trail. Chatting over coffee in the clouds, moving at our own pace, sharing our music and poetry, deeply alone in the spectacular wilderness, we became lovers by the fire at night, with no one to diagnose our sexual preference but an indifferent nature. The third night he again told me he was straight and couldn't be intimate with me, later waking me up in the middle of the night, putting my hand on his erect cock. Outside of the mystical cloak of the jungle he was straight again. Except one more occasion: my birthday. We were camping in the park and he said, “I've got a present for you. Meet me in the public toilet in five minutes.” He was standing naked in the cubicle, frantically jerking his dick and inviting me in. I fell to my knees and sucked him off til he came in mouth, myself coming onto the ground. We never had sex again.

 

Somehow I connected with a couple of provincial Canadian twins who had never been apart in their lives; enthusiastic travellers, not smart but experimenting with open-mindedness. I first connected with one of these guys naked in the rain, covered in mud, by a huge fire. We ran down to the creek together and rubbing the mud off his extremely muscular body I touched the hardest flesh I have ever felt. We developed a loving and trusting bond, spending lots of time together, picking cherries, playing soccer, running and swimming. Every night I would sleep with him and his brother and he began to open up to me. He told me he is a virgin and has only masturbated twice, one of those times for money, when approached by a porn maker. Meanwhile his brother was off connecting with women. He told me he loved me and there have been few friends he's felt comfortable saying that to. He never asked me about my life and I never told him I'm queer, a rare omission for me. I was dancing joyously around the kitchen and he told me to stop acting like a bitch. Assuming we were joking I told him, “You're doing the dishes, you're obviously the bitch.” He was not joking. He grabbed me and slammed me against the wall, “I'm the alpha male, you're the bitch!” He was angry that I chose to not sleep with him and his brother that night. The next day he pulled me aside to sing me a gentle song and tell me, “Your smile is a sign of true happiness and it brings happiness to everyone around you.” But I glanced at his dick as I entered the sauna and he tried to power play me, demanding that I move. I ignored him but he threatened me and finally grabbed my throat, pushing me against the wall. I instinctively lashed out and he became very excited, “You wanna fight?” “I don’t want to fight you.” I moved, but his aggression continued, demanding I apologise for not moving sooner. I hitchhiked my way out of the situation and never saw him again.

 

Standing around a crowded fire on a cold night at a Rainbow Gathering, a great place to meet sensitive, healthy and life-loving young hippie guys who just happen to be straight, a guy I hadn't noticed before casually pulled his pants down just enough to warm his bum by the fire. I was in awe of this totally relaxed expression and his perfectly soft, round, hairy bum. I was trying not to stare like a pervert, but its delicate and delicious presence took up all of my awareness. We discovered a mutual interest in foraging for edible plants one sunny day while swimming naked in a large group down by the river. We walked off together into the scrubby and weedy wilderness. He led, wearing only a light scarf around his neck and not the slightest thought in his head that I might be attracted to him. He ended up sitting naked with me at my camp, talking in his deep voice with his delicate manner. I told him I was attracted to him and he paused for a moment, baffled, surprised and slightly disgusted. “Sorry bro, I'm not interested.”

 

There was a guy called Tom, scrawny and feral-looking, usually naked or in filthy, tattered clothes, with an intelligent English accent and a big 19th-century moustache. He was very warm, funny, fully engaged and caring and we struck up a delightful relaxed friendship. I told him I was attracted to him early on and he told me he's not interested, he's straight, but neither of us were bothered by this. We became very close companions for months, living and travelling together and sharing lots of very fun and peaceful moments. He would dangerously climb high trees naked while I watched, and one warm day we were both naked and he got me pretty high up a giant eucalyptus tree with a rope and harness. Extremely aroused by his caring attention and naked proximity, he left me on a branch while he climbed to the very top and I jerked off shamelessly standing on the branch and watched my semen fall recklessly to the greedy earth. We would have long deep hugs. I was a bit frustrated about my desire to be intimate, but it helped that he was so clear. “I'm totally straight, not interested. I had sex with a guy once, and he was great, but it just felt wrong.” I provocatively pushed it. “What if I try to touch you?” I asked him. “I'll deck you.” He wasn't mean, but he wasn't joking. Eventually we began to sleep together and though he didn't want to cuddle at night he willingly cuddled in the morning. I liked this routine and even when we didn't sleep together I would seek him out in the morning for a relaxed drowsy cuddle. We both loved role-playing and silliness and we found ourselves in the recurring characters of a violent husband and an abused wife. I found it extremely exciting when he would dominate and threaten me and I would cower pathetically and defy him without commitment. These playful character arguments were so erotically charged that I would be overwhelmed with excitement at the possibility that he would finally have his way with me. In character, “I'll deck ya” would become, “I'll dick ya.” But he never did. I was finding this trajectory of closeness and resistance unbearable and eventually I forced a conversation about this delicate and awkward aspect of our relationship. He admitted that he enjoyed flirting with me and could understand that I might find it confusing and frustrating, but he was still straight.

 

This has been a long pattern. Even at school there were a few guys who intuitively knew that I was a good test subject for their flirting skills. Maybe they didn't even know at that point if they were straight or not. We were 11 years old and my friend Dennis claimed he had a 15-year-old girlfriend and his parents let them sleep together. We would walk home from school together and one day he suddenly stopped, turned to me and said, “You wanna feel me up?” Absolutely flabbergasted I managed to force a “yes” out of my mouth, but he had no intention of following through. Maybe he just wanted to see my unguarded response. I managed to establish the idea that we were “going out” and he promised we would “pash” on the way home from school. I thought pash meant have sex and I was very enthusiastic. When we were finally alone in the bushes he postponed our pashing, but he did write “DS 4 CK” on the power-pole. We found ourselves alone together in the changing room at school. Without provocation he did a striptease for me, humming the music as he swung his hips, looking me straight in the eye. I vividly remember the image of him slowly pulling down his pants and revealing his dick to me. I merely watched in powerless awe. He captivated my masturbatory fantasies for many years to come. According to Facebook he was later married sporting a soul patch. These flirty boys exercised total control over my delicately forming queer heart. Are these early experiences the reason I have pursued alarmingly exciting and unattainable sexual encounters? When our sexuality moved out of bodies and into our heads in our later teens and the paranoia about being “gay” emerged, the guys were much less flirty with me.

 

I was 27 and living in a rural house with some gentle, vibrant and earthy friends and someone brought Max to visit us. I have since claimed that I fell in love with Max as soon as I saw him, but maybe it's just that the beauty I saw on the surface just happened to be true to the core of his being, and over those first months he unfolded and revealed layer upon layer of luminosity, joyousness, sexiness and genuine love and admiration for me. The fact that he was mostly straight definitely interfered with this blossoming love affair. Immediately seeking a place of mutual intimacy and passion I invited him to have a bath with me and I rubbed coconut oil over his entire body while he looked at me wide-eyed. I rubbed it into his legs, his arms, his face, his torso, his balls, but he stopped me when I touched his cock. A boundary had been reached, but I couldn't let it rest. I invited him to shave my head, which he did. He invited me to shave his head, and delighted, I did. I discovered his hair was full of headlice. I ate every louse I found, like a loving monkey. I invited him to wrestle with me, but he was a gentle and delicate creature and I had to announce a hunger strike before he finally agreed. We started off partly clothed, but during the two hours of non-stop, evenly-matched wrestling on the dry lawn all our clothes fell or were torn off and we were both naked and covered in scratches from rocks and thistles.

 

At his first Rainbow Gathering, when he opened up like the most bright and spectacular flower that has ever lived, I loved him more than I have loved anyone since my mother nurtured me as a plump and helpless infant. It was only when we were in a threesome situation with a woman that he allowed our relationship to become sexual. With that lovely young woman present, who assumed we were a couple, I was surprised at the passion he suddenly found for me, kissing me so intensely that our teeth clacked together and allowing me to suck his beautiful cock. But it was just the two of us alone in the vast expanse of nature when we truly became lovers, though I was always insisting and he was always resisting. Usually he would kiss me passionately but would be relatively passive while I sucked his dick. He would get hard as quickly as me when we slipped naked into the same sleeping bag, but it was always my instigation. Because he had had a dream that night of being penetrated, he revealed his beautiful bumhole to me after a sunny picnic lunch and I licked it hungrily. But I was inexperienced and no one ever teaches you about anal sex and when I finally got my penis inside him, with the help of a little flax seed oil, I was so overwhelmed that I immediately ejaculated. He told me he hadn't enjoyed the experience; in fact he had only had sex with me because he was afraid that I would leave him; or that he just wanted to get off. Later we were staying in a friend's house and cramped in a bedroom together, wrestling on the bed. I stopped for a moment and we locked eyes. I pulled down his pants and revealed his hard-on. “That's revealing,” he admitted, embarrassed. I sucked his cock for the last time until our friend returned and we suddenly stopped and desperately dressed.

 

I feel a bit ashamed to talk about this glorious man in purely sexual terms. The intensity of those first months was untenable, but our friendship has found many forms over the last decade. Strangely and dangerously, though I have been heart-broken and healed a few times since, my love for him has never diminished. He told me that my pressure for sexual connection in those early months had an unhealthy influence on him; with subsequent girlfriends he would plead with them for more sex than they enthusiasticly wanted. Although I try not to think about him cos it just brings yearning and sadness to my heart, I do sometimes still fantasize about him when I jerk off. But in my fantasies it is his desire being expressed, and all those nights in which we slept together but did not have sex are rewritten, and he fucks me lovingly and passionately and lays his seed in me for a child that will never grow and will never be born.

 

Lately there has been a barbershop I have walked past frequently and a sexy barber I have glanced at every time, so I booked him on their website. He was a short, ripped white guy into kickboxing, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos, including up his neck. He called me bro when asking what I wanted and then silently focussed on the cut. Because he was short he would have to lean in to get close enough to my hair. My arms were up on the barber chair and his hip was constantly pressed against them. I didn't move them. Halfway through the cut it was no longer his hip but his dick that was distinctly pressed against my forearm while he intently focussed on his work. Feeling his dick pressed against each of my arms multiple times unacknowledged while I passively sat there all wrapped up was immensely erotic, though he never hinted he knew what he was doing. I paid him $40, walked out and I've been waiting for my hair to grow ever since.

 

Is this what they call a fetish?