As the stranger stared into my eyes and pulled my body against his body, my face close to his face, and my lips inches away from his lips, I remembered how I’ve always thought it was tacky when people kiss in a bar or nightclub. Smooches are okay, but there’s emotional desperation to two guys slobbering oxygen back and forth on the dance floor.

“Squeeze it,” the stranger said in a whisper that was as intense as his glare, his lips skimming mine when he pronounced the “q.” The content of our discussion had been so absorbing that I hadn’t noticed how sexy his voice was until that command.

I held my gaze and did as ordered, tightening my grip around his growing, throbbing flesh. In lieu of a kiss, I used my free hand to place the blunt we were smoking in my mouth and gave him a shotgun, then took my hand out of his pants and sniffed my middle and index fingers. “And how does it smell?” he asked. “Delicious.”

In my defense, we were at a concert in an event space rather than a bar or club. And I don’t normally accept handfuls of random dick at mainstream social venues, but we were the only ones on the second-floor balcony and it was private enough for me to verify his tastiness had we wanted that thrill.

However, I liked him. I liked the way he was liking me. I liked his height and his hometown pride, and his physique, and his age matching mine within three months.

I was curious about what else there was to like about him and what other thrills we might feel together. I was emotionally desperate for him to continue liking me, and a corner blowjob in the smoking area of a CeCe Peniston concert would’ve let him discover more of me in an order other than the one I prefer because the necessary context is lost if you learn about me in the wrong order.

Just a few days earlier while at dinner with friends, one of them asked, “Of the ten years that you’ve been single, how many of those were voluntary?”

“Ten,” I said emphatically and honestly, although the conversation went elsewhere before I could elaborate that there have been men, had they made that call or sent that text, with whom I would have been willing to explore extended companionship.

The stranger from the concert did not call or text. I’m wondering if I didn’t disguise my flaws sufficiently, or if I misinterpreted what he meant when he extended the front of his pants and guided my hand to his growing penis and soft, floppy nutsack.

My heart feels more naive than rejected. We had a passionate and tantalizing 45 minutes together that left me wanting more, and of course, it’s disappointing more doesn’t appear to be forthcoming.

Yet, even when we were at our closest – with me holding his manhood while I exhaled into his lungs – all that I was enjoying remained his: his eyes, his lips, his dick, his life, and the butterflies in my stomach entitle me to ownership of nothing but my feelings.

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