RESEARCHER’S NOTE: As always, the names of all persons and places referenced have been changed to preserve anonymity.
“Neal” is a heterosexual male, mid-30’s. College education, divorced. No children.
I admit I’m not the most masculine-looking fellow in the world. Five feet five inches tall, barely a hundred and thirty pounds. I’ve got fair skin, wavy blonde hair and a high-pitched speaking voice, and worst of all, I can’t grow a mustache worth a damn. All I can get is one of those pencil-thin jobbies that looks like I drew it on. The only reason I keep the mustache is that without it, I look like I’m twelve. Correction. Without the mustache, I look like a twelve year old homosexual. With the mustache, I look like a full-grown homosexual.
Now I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles I’ve never harbored an attraction to other men in my entire life. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, of course, but there’s tons of stuff wrong with LOOKING gay if you’re not really gay.
I’ve been fighting it as long as I can remember. I’ve probably heard, “Hey, Faggot!” more often than I’ve heard my own name. It was especially rough in high school and college.
I did everything I could to shake it, though. I lettered in three sports in high school, and three times I made it to the state wrestling tournament. Even got a wrestling scholarship to go to college. That backfired, though. “Of course he’s good at rolling around with other guys. He’s a fairy!” I couldn’t win, no matter how hard I tried.
Brother, did I try. I did everything I could find in the Manly Men’s Guidebook. I joined a fraternity. I drank beer ’til I puked every weekend night. I subscribed to Hustler, I watched football and basketball and hockey on TV, I went fishing and duck hunting, everything I could. None of it worked. “He’s just a queer acting straight so we won’t think he’s queer!”
Things actually got worse after my wife and I divorced. Sandy and I’d been dating since high school, so I didn’t have a lot of experience with women when we decided to call it a marriage. Then, right after the divorce was final, my company transferred me to another city.
So there I was, in a strange town, alone and lonely. I didn’t know anybody, and the few people I met just assumed I was gay. I spent a lot of Saturday nights at home, spanking the monkey and trying to figure out how I could show off my true hetero-masculinity.
Then something happened that made me realize I was going about it all wrong.
There was this girl at work, Cherie. Oh, my God! Cherie! She was the kind of girl that made construction workers fall off tall buildings. She looked like a model. Long legs, big bust, long, flowing hair, tights skirts, full lips, the works. She was a knockout, and she knew it too. She could walk into a bar and just hand out business cards to all the guys that said, “Don’t even bother trying to pick me up. I’m way out of your league.”
Cherie and I worked in the same department so we were able to strike up a friendship. You know, waiting our turns at the copy machine, talking about this TV show or that movie. Harmless stuff. She knew who I was and she smiled when she saw me, but I knew I’d be wasting my time if I ever even dreamed of asking her out. Not that I didn’t want to. Like I said, I spent a lot of Saturday nights spanking the monkey, and thinking about Cherie while doing it.
So one day a couple of years ago, it’s after work, and I’m in a little bar across the street from my office. Just kicking back a few brews and watching ESPN. That’s me, always trying to prove I’m not gay by watching SportsCenter.
And then I see Cherie off in the corner. She’s shooting pool with a couple of girls from the office. She’s wearing a tiny little red dress. TINY! When she bends over to take a shot, I can see the curve of the bottom of her ass peeking out from underneath the dress. If she were to bend over at the waist to pick up a ball, I’d probably be able to see her panties. Believe me, I was staring long and hard to tell what color panties she was wearing.
Cherie spots me, smiles and waves me over to the pool table. I smile back, pick up my beer, and I join her.
“Want to play a game,” she asks.
I nod and say, “Rack ’em up.” I’m thinking, hammina, hammina, hammina, hammina.
We shot pool for three hours. I lost count of how many drinks we both had, but it was the best time I’d had in years. Cherie did most of the talking. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend, so I spent a lot of time listening and saying things like, “He’s an idiot to give you up” and consoling stuff like that. Then we ended up eating dinner and she did some more venting and complaining and I did more consoling and sympathizing.
Finally, it was getting close to midnight when Cherie said, “Neal, I’ve had too much to drink. Would you be a dear friend and give me a ride home?”
Would I? I almost passed out from excitement. It didn’t even bother me that she called me a “dear friend.” Any guy will tell you that’s the kiss of death when it comes to getting any action from a woman.
I drove her home and walked her inside, and then she asked, “Care for a nightcap?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought. I said, “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
She was having white wine. I hate white wine, but I had some too. She gave me my glass and sat down next to me.
Cherie said, “Thanks for being such a good listener, Neal. You’re the dearest male friend I’ve ever had.”
Damn. Another “friend” dig.
Cherie leaned forward and said, “Can I ask you a question? As a friend?”
“Of course.” Stop calling me “friend,” dammit.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Of course I do. I think you’re gorgeous.”
“Do you think I’m sexy?”
“Stunningly sexy.” Was this a trick question? I wondered if I was being secretly filmed.
Cherie smiled again. “My ex-boyfriend says I’m not as sexy as I used to be.”
“Your ex-boyfriend’s a fucking idiot.”
“I think so, too.” Cherie placed her hand on my knee and ran it along my thigh, up to my crotch. She said, “Neal, you like blowjobs, don’t you? Of course you do.”
I think I nodded. I was so stunned I can’t remember if I said anything or not. The next thing I knew, Cherie had my pants around my ankles and my cock in her mouth.
My head was spinning. For a moment I wondered if somebody was waiting to jump out of the closet with a camera, but as I felt Cherie’s soft tongue licking all over my prick, I didn’t care.
After about ten minutes, Cherie finally took my penis out of her mouth and she said, “You like that?”
“Uh huh,” I managed to say.
“Is it better than other blowjobs you’ve had?”
“Uh huh.”
Cherie slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders, exposing her breasts. I didn’t need any encouragement, and in seconds I was massaging one nipple with my fingers while I massaged the other one with my mouth. Cherie moaned and purred. “Mmmm, that feels good. You’re good at this.”
Feeling full of myself, I said, “I’m good at lots of things.”
Cherie smiled. “Let’s just see about that.” She stood up and took my hand, and together we went into the bedroom.
Well, to make a long story short, before long we were naked, in her bed, fucking like demons. I was in a fantasy state. A few times I wondered if I was having a vivid wet-dream and this was all going on in my imagination. Except the dream was so vivid I could feel Cherie’s fingernails scraping the skin of my chest and I could hear her words in my ear.
Cherie sure talked a lot, too. It was mildly distracting at first, but I was getting used to it. She was asking lots of questions and trying to get my approval for what was happening. She was saying things like, “You like that, don’t you? Does that feel good? You want more of this? Do I turn you on?” I tried not to answer those questions, because I was afraid if I did, I’d wake up alone in my own bed.
The light didn’t dawn until I was close to coming. She was on her back, I was on top of her, and her legs were resting on my shoulders. I was pounding into her as hard as I could, and she was almost screaming her questions. “YOU LIKE THIS? OH, GOD! YES! GIVE ME MORE! YOU’RE SO GOOD! OHHHH! YOU LIKE FUCKING THIS PUSSY? DO YOU? DOES THIS FEEL GOOD? DOES IT?”
I finally screamed, “YES! THIS FEELS GREAT!”
Cherie yelled, “YOU LIKE PUSSY?”
“I LOVE PUSSY!”
“BETTER THAN COCK?”
I felt like the ceiling had caved in on my head. In an instant, I realized Cherie still thought I was gay! She was trying to convert me into a heterosexual!
For an instant, I was horrified and embarrassed and humiliated. For an instant, I thought about jumping up and running out of the room.
For just an instant. Then I looked down, realized I was fucking the hottest woman I’d ever seen, and what did I care if she thought I was gay?
So I said, “MUCH BETTER THAN COCK! OHHH, TO THINK WHAT I’VE BEEN MISSING!”
That was all Cherie needed, and she came screaming. Then I came screaming, too.
We got to talking after it was all over. Seems Cherie’s ex-boyfriend had called her sexiness into question, and she figured if she could seduce a homosexual man, it was proof her ex was full of shit. Also, she figured she’d be doing me a favor by expanding my horizons.
I just shrugged and said, “I had no idea what sex with women could be like. You’ve opened a whole new door for me. Thanks.”
Cherie smiled. “My pleasure.”
“So, can we expand my horizons a little more? I’m curious about this whole cunnilingus thing.”
Cherie and I spent a couple of months “bringing me over to the het side of the fence,” and by the time we were ready to move on, I had a plan.
I don’t hang out in sports bars much anymore, but I’m too busy. Now I’ve got at least a dozen women who consider me their “gay pal.” I’m their confidante, their buddy, their friend. And if, in the spirit of friendship, one of my friends wants to help me experiment with heterosexual sex….well….who am I to decline?
Now I don’t worry so much about appearing more masculine. In fact, I’ve gone the other direction. I wear pastels now and paisley ties. I’ve installed track lighting in my apartment I’ve started collecting show tune CDs, and I’ve even started going to the ballet. If anything, I’ve begun to appear even more effeminate.
I mean when you’ve got it, flaunt it, Girlfrieeeennnd!!
© 2002 J.T. Benjamin. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced without permission of the author. This means you.