Bromance on the Beach

Day Two - Beach Day

I woke up the next morning with a sour stomach, an exemplary case of morning wood, and the vague awareness that the other side of the bed was empty. Probably for the best, I thought to myself, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I wouldn't want to wake up pointing this thing at Bryson, though the idea occurred to me as I looked down at the noticeable tent in the bedsheets, I'm sure he must have seen it whenever he woke up. I checked my phone on the nightstand and saw that it was only 8:15, and I smiled at the realization I wouldn't be the only early riser for the week.

My mouth was parched from the night of drinking, so I slowly dragged myself from the bed, cupping my obvious erection with the palm of my hand, and walked quietly over to the mini bar to grab a bottle of water. I took a drink, feeling immediate relief as the cool water washed down my throat and spread through my chest. I was about to walk into the bathroom when I heard the sounds of the toilet flushing and the shower being turned on. I noticed the door was slightly ajar, cracked just a couple of inches as if someone hadn't cared to close it behind them. I'm sure Bryson hadn't.

I paused, my mouth quickly going dry again despite the drink of water. Between my usual morning horniness and recollections of our conversation the night before, the idea of Bryson naked in the shower - just on the other side of the still-opened bathroom door - was almost enough to make me dizzy. I tiptoed closer as I heard the sound of the shower door opening and closing, the sound of the water cascading off his body, splashing as it hit the ground. I continued to lean closer to the open door, letting the sounds drive my imagination. I pictured water rushing over his face, setting the hair on his chest, cascading down his broad, muscular back, and began to run myself through the fabric of my briefs. 

And that's when I heard it: the distinct, rhythmic slapping sound of skin on skin, the regular splashing of water betraying the thrusts of his hand. He was jerking off. My cheeks went warm as I heard him let out a shaky breath, just barely audible over the noise of the shower. The slapping sound continued, and another breath escaped, this time carrying with it a soft moan, and I just tried to keep my knees from giving out amidst the rush of adrenaline. I rubbed and squeezed myself, careful not to get too close to the open door or make any sound. Time halted, and I don't know how long this went on for until I heard him draw in a sharp breath followed by a muffled moan.

I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. I was so turned on, the moment was so surreal, but at the same time a panic was settling in. How did I play this off? Should I go out on the balcony? Pretend to still be asleep? Make a joke about it? Whatever I chose, it needed to be something besides standing in the doorway with my morning wood in my hand.

The water cut off, and I stepped quickly back to the bed, crawling under the covers and grabbing my phone, opting for the “just woke up” approach. A few minutes later, Bryson exited the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist.

“Morning dude,” he said cheerfully as he crossed the room to the dresser where he'd unpacked his things. “How'd you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” I responded, my voice thick, the innuendo not lost on me. 

“Same, I passed out.” He dropped his towel, briefly drying a few wet spots on his legs and torso. Even after seeing his ass while changing yesterday, it was a marvel to behold him fully naked. His shoulders were broad and developed, his back strong, his ass impressively round, showing off a commitment to leg day. He looked like he'd been carved from marble. “Sorry if I woke you up with the shower,” he said casually, stepping into a pair of swim trunks. They were lifeguard red, a color that really popped against his pale, smooth skin. “I always wake up kinda early after I've been drinking.”

“It's all good,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I do too.”

“Yeah, it's like I always manage to be both incredibly dehydrated and on the brink of pissing myself,” he chuckled. He turned to me, revealing his bare torso. His skin was slightly pink from the heat of the shower. It was all I could do to not stare at his giant pecs, the happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his trunks. 

Christ, I need to get off, I thought to myself, realizing how obviously I was ogling my friend. If he noticed, he didn't mention it. I needed a shower of my own to clear my head. I was still hard as a rock under the covers, but it was now or never. I couldn't hide in bed all morning.

“I know we've got a bit before breakfast, but do you wanna go find some coffee with me?”

“Please, coffee sounds amazing,” I replied. “But, uh, I think I'm gonna grab a shower real quick, if that's cool.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Bryson said, still looking at me with a curious expression. I was about to ask what he was staring at when he gestured at the half-empty bottle next to me and asked, “Was that water in the mini bar?” 

Relief flooded through me. “Yeah, it was.” I used this distraction to throw the covers back and climb out of bed, hoping Bryson wouldn't look back while grabbing the water, but in my hurry, my foot got tangled in the sheets and I almost ate it on the tile floor. The chaos drew Bryson's attention.

He looked at me with a startled grin. “You alright?” 

“Yep, clearly off to a great start,” I answered, wrestling my foot free from its Egyptian cotton confinement.

“Well, be careful where you wave that thing, you'll put an eye out,” he winked at me. 

My face flushed and I realized that, with one foot on the floor and one stuck to the bed, my morning wood was sticking straight out in front of me, straining against the fabric of my briefs without the faintest bit of subtlety. I swallowed hard and covered myself with my hand. “Oh yeah. Safety first.” Cheeks ablaze, I walked into the bathroom.

 

We found a coffee shop off the main lobby and took our drinks with us for a stroll around the pool. A path at the end of the terrace branched off through a garden - though it felt more like a miniature tropical forest - where we decided to sit at a shaded bench. 

“How ya feeling this morning? Hungover at all?” I asked, taking a sip of my iced Americano.

“Not too bad, actually,” he answered. “My stomach was a little woozy when I first woke up, but besides that I just had to piss like a racehorse.”

“Same. Always happens to me when I've drank too much. That and, like, major cotton mouth,” I laughed. 

“Dude, I was so thirsty, I drank that whole bottle of water in like twenty seconds while you were in the shower.”

“Yeah, thankfully once I got some water, and now this,” I held up my coffee, “I should be pretty good to go.” 

Bryson chuckled and took a sip of his latte. “Speaking of being good to go, I'm glad to know I wasn't the only one who woke up at full mast today.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Oh God, that was so embarrassing.”

“Nah man, don't worry about it. Like I said, I woke up the exact same way. Had to take care of it in the shower just so I had a chance of getting on with my day.”

“Same,” I laughed a little nervously. Usually, Bryson and I only ended up talking about sex when it was late and we were several drinks in, so it wasn't lost on me that he was already bringing it up over our morning coffee. Obviously, this week was throwing a lot of changes at our “usual” dynamic, and it was a little nerve-wracking not knowing what to expect. 

“I figured it wouldn't take long for one of us to get caught with morning wood. That's just an occupational hazard of being roommates. Reminds me of college,” he gave half a laugh.

“Yeah? How so?” I asked, curious.

“Just, like, sharing a room in my fraternity house, waking up in the mornings to get ready for class in our tiny ass room…stuff like that was just a thing you got over being embarrassed about.”

I thought about what he meant for a second. “I guess I never thought of that,” I admitted. I've never really had a roommate.”

“Wait, really?” He turned to look at me, surprised.

“Yeah,” I went on. “My first two years of college I was in a dorm suite where we had our own rooms, and then a buddy of mine and I got an apartment. So, like, I shared an apartment but I never had to share a sleeping space.”

“Oh, wow.” He shook his head, like a reflex of disbelief. “That was such a huge part of college for me - being crammed into way too tight of living quarters with other smelly dudes,” he laughed fondly. “I can't imagine college with that much personal space.”

“Yeah,” I took a sip of coffee. “Sometimes I wished I'd had a little less personal space, had a few more funny stories like that to tell.” I paused, but Bryson waited, giving me space to collect my thoughts. “I don’t know, that's one thing I've never had.”

“A roommate?”

“More than that,” I said, my brow furrowed. “A space with other guys…with that kind of openness and, I don't know…fraternal vibe, for lack of a better word. I never played sports, I never had the locker room experience, I didn't join a fraternity…I've just never felt like I fit in those spaces, I guess." I paused. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“It doesn't sound stupid,” Bryson said. “I'm sorry, man. Those spaces made up a lot of my life growing up, and they meant a lot to me. I'm sorry you felt like you didn't have that.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling an unwelcome level of emotion for ten o'clock in the morning. 

“Do you think…” he started, then stopped. 

“What?” I pressed him. “You can ask it.”

“Do you think that's…like, a factor in your experience being gay?” his cheeks went red. “Sorry, that's the dumbest question. Forget I asked that.”

I laughed, disarmed by his earnestness. “No, it's not dumb. It's a good question, actually.” I thought for a moment, taking a long sip of coffee. “Maybe, yeah. I mean, I imagine for you there's a fair amount of mystery around a girl you're interested in, right? She's different from you, exotic, enticing. Something about that is really attractive. In a way, yeah, I guess guys are like that for me.” 

“Hmm,” he pondered my answer for a minute. “That's really interesting. I've never thought of that before. It makes sense though.” We were quiet for a few minutes until he spoke up again. “One of my fraternity brothers came out at the end of college.”

“Yeah?” I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like it was a surprise?”

“It was,” he said, his face slightly glazed over, as if he was watching memories replaying in his head. “He had a few girlfriends in college, slept with all of them. Or at least said he did. He was really involved and outgoing and popular, especially with girls. And then all of a sudden he came out to the chapter and…I think it caught a lot of people off guard.”

“How did they treat him?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“Pretty well, for the most part.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Well, I say that. Nobody was cruel to him. But I guess that's not the same as being supportive. I think it just showed all of us how little we knew about what it meant to be gay. Or what it was like. I'm sure we all had a lot of outdated stereotypes and expectations, and he just…didn't fit any of them. So it was just strange. At the time, I didn't really know what to say or how to be there for him. I should've done more, honestly.”

“Hey,” I bumped my shoulder against his. “I'm sure you just being there meant the world to him. Sometimes that's all it takes. Honestly, for me, the best thing any of my friends did was not change anything. They just kept showing up and being my friends and letting me start to be more honest and open and present. And that was all it took. I’m sure he appreciated you just sticking around.”

“Thanks man.” He smiled, and despite myself, my heart fluttered a bit. “You know, I really like talking to you. I feel I always learn something, and I like how we can talk about serious stuff. Even if we don’t always agree or come to it from the same perspective, I always walk away feeling like I better understand it.”

“I feel the same way. Honestly, I enjoy few things more than a good, intellectual deep dive on some random topic, and I appreciate that you’re always up for a good debate. I feel like most guys can barely hold a conversation about anything that isn’t girls or sports so…it’s refreshing.”

“I mean, I do like talking about girls and sports, too,” he teased.

“And you are welcome to do that with someone else,” I smirked back. Just then I felt my phone vibrate, a reminder that we were due at the buffet for breakfast, so we began to make our way inside. 

 

We arrived to find my friends grabbing their plates and stuffing towards the line, Mitchell already loading up his plate with two extra large Belgian waffles. 

“Morning!” Called Abigail. “We've got that table by the window if you want to drop your stuff.”

We all converged at the table a few minutes later, plates piled high with waffles, omelets, sausage links, eggs benedict, chocolate croissants, fresh fruit, and whatever else we'd managed to fit within a twelve-inch diameter. A waiter came by with a bottle of champagne and carafes of assorted juices, which we quickly divided among the six of us. Like magic, another bottle arrived minutes later, our waiter smiling knowingly while she took the empty bottle away. 

Conversation flowed as freely as the mimosas, everyone giddy with the joy of waking up in a tropical paradise. At the mention of dessert - which we all found both completely absurd and absolutely necessary after brunch - Emily brought up a story from one of our previous vacations, a trip to Chicago, in which I'd secured the entire dessert menu for our table for free. 

“I'm not kidding,” she laughed, holding her flute glass delicately between her fingers. “Everyone is almost done with their entrees and I'm just sitting, like a sad little child in the lunchroom, and all of a sudden Tucker just takes off into the kitchen of this nice restaurant we are at.” Bryson looks from her to me and back to her, his cheeks flushed with champagne, his eyes and his smile wide with delight. “And a few minutes later he comes back all cryptic, like ‘It’s being resolved.’ So some server shows up with my entree and a slew of apologies, assures me it's on the house, and I'm thinking, great they've made up for it. Until five minutes later they show up with every item on their dessert menu and a glass of champagne for all of us for free.” 

Bryson dissolved into laughter. “Holy shit, what did you do to them?” he asked me.

“I've no idea, but I've never felt more powerful,” I laughed, finishing another mimosa. 

“Yeah, honestly, if you ever have to complain about something, just put Tucker on it. You'll be glad you did,” Abigail chimed in. 

“That pistachio cheesecake was so good,” Mitchell added. 

“Of course you remember what the dessert was,” Abigail rolled her eyes, smiling affectionately. 

 

Half an hour later we were making our way to the beach. It was a private stretch, exclusive to the resort, and came loaded with complimentary shaded lounge chairs and waiters who came around to take orders for free drinks and snacks. Basically, everything you could want.

Bryson and I claimed a pair of chairs, and I dropped my tote bag on the small table between. I began unbuttoning my linen shirt while he tossed his towel and a paperback book onto his seat and pulled off his baby blue tank top. Once again, my eyes drifted to his rounded shoulders, his huge biceps, the indentation between his strong pecs where I wanted to curl up and rest my head. He looked up at me and smiled. 

We spread our towels over the chair cushions and began applying sunscreen, an SPF 30 for me and - to my amusement - an SPF 100 for Bryson.

“Shut up, I have fair skin,” he laughed.

“God, now I feel bad inviting you on this trip. I feel like I’m putting your life in jeopardy,” I teased.

“Well, you can make it up to me by getting my back,” he quipped, tossing the bottle of sunscreen at my chest. I picked it up and looked at him. “Please?” he added.

“Fine,” I groaned melodramatically. “Turn around.”

He turned and faced the water while I walked up behind him. I squeezed some sunscreen into my palm, tossed the bottle on the chair, and took a steady breath. I started on his shoulders, working my way up his traps and neck, then slowly down between his shoulder blades, massaging in circles until the sunscreen absorbed, then flanking out to the sides of his ribcage and up beneath his arms. His back was muscular and firm beneath my hands, the skin soft and smooth and warm. I squeezed out some more lotion and continued down the center of his back, working my way slowly downward toward his swimsuit, cautiously massaging right up to the elastic and working my way out toward his hips, my fingers grazing through the patch of fine, blond hair on his lower back. 

I wanted to keep going lower, to slip my hands beneath the elastic of his shorts and grip the firm, muscular spheres of his ass, but thankfully some part of my rational brain was functioning enough to keep that from happening. So I returned to the upper half of his back, his shoulder blades, and the back of his neck for one final coat. 

“Okay,” I finally said, my voice a little forced. “All done.”

He turned around to face me. “Thanks,” he said a little sheepishly. “Want me to do you?” I swallowed hard, and expected him to call out the innuendo, to backpedal or make it into some joke. He didn't. 

“Yeah,” I said, turning. 

He squeezed a fair amount of sunscreen directly onto my skin, just below the base of my neck, and I shuddered from the cold. Then, slowly, cautiously, he began to spread the lotion across my back, massaging it slowly into my skin. His hands were gentle yet firm, intentional in their movements; I could feel the light calluses that resulted from years of weightlifting. He moved down my back and grazed the top of my swimsuit, his hands flanking outward towards my hips before swooping back upwards and center, working up to my neck and out over my shoulders and down a long arc to my lower back before coming to rest once again on my hips where they lingered for just a moment. 

Quickly, his hands pulled away. I turned to say thanks, and noticed his cheeks were a little flushed. 

“No problem,” he replied. 

We got settled on our chairs and both immediately dove into our books. It felt nice, each of us disappearing into our separate worlds while sharing the same physical space. It was comforting and restful, different from the high energy nights we had grown accustomed to.

From there the day passed perfectly. We alternated between reading, swimming, strolling down the shore, napping, and drinking the steady stream of pina coladas brought by our waiter; we got a pair of paddle boards, which Bryson picked up naturally and which I fell off of multiple times; we played bocce against Mitchell and Tyler, and had a few exciting matches of spike ball with the girls; and we slipped easily in and out of conversation throughout the day, never discussing anything too serious but never running out of things to say. 

I was, once again, so glad to have him here. At first I'd just been happy to not be the odd man out, but over the last twenty-four hours I'd enjoyed getting to see him in all these new scenarios, getting to know these different sides of him I'd never before encountered. Like how, on top of being the lively, funny, energetic guy I knew from work, he had a softer, quieter, introspective side that came out when things slowed down. The more I got to know him, the more curious I became. 

 

Later that night, after a lengthy dinner and several margaritas at the resort’s Mexican cantina, we returned to our rooms tired and content. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and took a seat on the small sofa by the large windows. 

“Man, I'm exhausted,” I sighed, feeling lightheaded and loose from the tequila. 

“Me too,” Bryson agreed, joining me on the sofa. “All that relaxing really wore me out.”

“Same,” I laughed. “At least tomorrow you'll get some activity.” The boys had decided to book a tee time at some golf course tomorrow morning, leaving the girls and I a day to go shopping and explore. 

“I'm excited,” he said, then paused. “I kinda feel like I'm ditching you though,” he confessed sheepishly.

I smiled. “That's sweet of you to say but totally unnecessary. Seriously! Go have fun, I'm glad they've got you to join them, otherwise they'd be trying to convince me.”

He let out a relieved laugh. “You're sure?”

“Dude, seriously,” I met his eyes, “I'm glad you've hit it off with them. Really. I think it's great y'all are going.”

He smiled and looked relieved. “Okay, cool. Me too.”

I pulled out my phone and checked a few notifications that had accumulated throughout the day - mostly from Snapchat and Instagram, though a handful had come in from Grindr. Bryson also scrolled on his phone, and for a few minutes we returned to that comfortable quiet where we could recharge in each other's presence. Eventually though, after I finished replying to a message, Bryson looked over and asked, “Who ya talking to?” He said it a little sarcastically, though the playful edge was beaten out by a sense of genuine curiosity. 

“Oh, nobody really,” I played it off. “Just replying to a few guys on Grindr.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Looking for that pool boy after all?” 

“I wish.” I smirked. “No, just replying to a couple guys from back home I've met up with recently.”

“Oh,” he said quickly. “Are these guys, like, dating potential?”

I thought for a second before answering. “No, I don't think so. We've just been hooking up, but I don't think it's gonna evolve into anything serious.”

“I gotcha,” he nodded, but I could feel he had more to say. “Can I see?” He asked.

For a second, I was taken aback, thinking he was joking. “You want to see my Grindr hookups?”

He blushed. “Yeah, why not? I've shown you girls I've gone on dates with.”

He had a point. I rolled my eyes and reluctantly agreed, pulling up the profile for a guy named Grey. He was cute, about twenty-five, skinny, a former cross-country runner. His profile has some respectable pictures of him out and about, with two decent thirst traps tacked on at the end. Bryson swiped through the photos slowly, his face betraying his surprise on the last two. 

“Oh shit,” he laughed. “He's, like, naked.”

“Welcome to Grindr,” I muttered. 

“You can put that just on your profile?” He asked, somewhat in disbelief. 

“I mean,” I began, “You can be naked but, like, you can't show your dick. Or your hole. Gotta save that for the DMs.”

“Hmm,” was all he said, swiping back to the first few photos of Grey's profile. “He's good looking. Who's the other guy?”

I took my phone back and pulled up Theo, handing the phone back to Bryson. 

“Oh,” he said immediately. “He's, um…different.” I laughed. He wasn't wrong. Theo was about as different from Grey as you could get - a thirty-two-year-old accountant whose hobbies included powerlifting and chugging protein shakes, he was tall, ripped, and rocked a well-groomed beard and furry chest, far from Grey's boyish, twink charm.

“What can I say, I like some variety,” I joked, blushing a little. Bryson stopped on Theo’s last pic, a bathroom mirror selfie, fully naked, the view obscured only by a strategically placed bottle of mouthwash. 

“So how does it work? Once you start chatting, do you just, like, say you want to meet up and fuck?” Bryson asked. 

“Pretty much,” I admitted. “I mean, you might chat for a minute, ask about each other's tastes and preferences, share some spicier pics. But if you like what you see and you’re on the same page for what you want to do…then yeah, you just set it up.”

“That's insane,” Bryson laughed, mindblown. “So it really is that easy?”

“I mean, not always, but it can be. People are also mean and difficult and abhorrently flaky, but…if you find a good one, yeah, it's pretty easy.”

“God, that must be nice,” Bryson sighed. “It takes so much work to get laid. Hell, to get anything.” He’d gone back out of Theo’s profile and was now actively scrolling through the explore page, clicking in on a few profiles that for whatever reason caught his eye. “Like, we start talking on Tinder, which could go on for like two weeks before we set up any kind of date. And that’s usually drinks or coffee or something, and you rarely expect anything to happen after that. So then if that goes well you set up another date, which may be another week away, and maybe you get to make out a little bit after that one. Then eventually you get a date where you can invite her back over to your place after and, if you’re lucky, at least get a blowjob or something out of it. So we are talking weeks. For a blowjob.”

“Probably a pretty mediocre blowjob, too,” I comment dryly. “That sounds exhausting.”

He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Don’t even get me started. The last girl was all teeth, no enthusiasm.” I let out a loud laugh while he returned his attention back to my phone where he’d opened the profile of a very fit Latino guy whose pics showed him in a variety of tight, brightly colored speedos. “Meanwhile you’ve got endless options.”

“It’s a different world, I guess,” I said absentmindedly.

“Why is that, do you think?” He closed out the speedo pics and went back to scrolling.

“I think it’s a handful of reasons,” I mused. “I think for straights, you guys still view sex as this thing you really have to work for and earn, like this coveted reward you have to prove you’re worthy to experience. We’ve been so excluded from the societal norms of dating and marriage for so long that we literally couldn’t treat sex in the same way. Otherwise it would never happen. So, if we’re already being judged for who we have sex with, what does it matter whether we are having a little bit or a lot of it? Why not be kind of a slut?” He chuckled a bit at that. “But it’s way more than just being a little slutty. That in and of itself puts some moral judgment around sex, and I don’t think we view it as this weighty moral act. For us, it’s just a human need, it’s something everybody wants and does. It’s just an activity to do, like going to grab a drink to take the edge off after a long day. Sometimes you just need to get off and it’s nice being able to find someone else in the same boat without having to jump through these hoops and make these huge decisions. Like, we can just get some pleasure and some relief from one another, hopefully be really respectful about it, and move on with our night. No need to make it this big thing.”

“I grew up Catholic, so…yeah, it’s pretty hard to not think about sex as this big commitment,” he said. 

“I mean, I grew up Baptist,” I added. “I get it.” 

“How did it change for you?” he asked, looking at me. His eyes shimmering and earnest in the lamplight. “Like, how did you get to the mindset you have now?”

“Honestly? I just started having a lot of sex,” I laughed, as did Bryson. “And at first, yeah, I felt kind of guilty and I felt kind of weird about it. But I started learning more about myself and about my boundaries. About my body, what I like and what I’m not into. But I just realized that this is my body and I am proud of it and I can choose what I do with it…and who I do it with. It’s not wrong to like feeling good.”

Bryson offered a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and I could see him weighing my words amidst the fog of tiredness and tequila. He returned his attention to my phone and clicked on a profile of a guy who, I couldn’t help but notice, had some resemblance to him - muscular build, fair skin, light dustings of body hair. Without a face picture, it was easy to think it could be him. 

“That guy kinda looks like you,” I commented quietly.

He looked at me. “Okay, glad you see it too.”

I laughed. “Oh, I see it.” Then, feeling either bold or reckless, I decided to add, “He’s hot.”

“You think so?” Bryson asked, and I could hear the real meaning of his question in his voice, feel it where our arms pressed against each other, where my hand rested on the couch just barely grazing his thigh.

“Definitely,” I nodded. 

“What about him?” he pressed, still looking at the screen, he swiped to the next photo - a gym selfie showing sculpted arms in a red tank top - and the next - a naked mirror selfie, his hand covering his crotch. I felt my cock stir. 

“Well,” I began. “He’s fit. Obviously takes great care of himself. I’m a sucker for big arms and a broad chest. He’s got beautiful skin, pale but just a hint of color. Just the right amount of hair on his chest, on his legs. He’s got a sexy happy trail and, I mean, I’m a fan of the pubes. His legs look like they could crush me if he wanted.” Bryson laughed. “He’s just,” I continued, looking at him, “really sexy.”

Bryson cleared his throat. “Does he look like someone you’d, ya know…top or bottom for?” He looked at me, eyes clouded with nerves. 

I tried to offer a reassuring smile. “I think I would do whichever he wanted. I would have no complaints.”

His forehead twitched, just barely perceptible, above his left eye, and I knew the meaning of my answer had landed. My heart was racing, but I figured, with a handful of margaritas to blame, now was as good a time as any. Cautiously, I leaned forward, just an inch or two, my eyes locked on his, gauging for a reaction. When he didn’t show any objection, I continued forward, slowly closing the short distance between us. My lips lightly pressed against his, which just barely moved to meet mine. I felt electric, like a current had passed between us, igniting my heart and cock in equal measure. 

I pulled back slightly and saw him open his eyes, looking at me with a strange blend of confusion and fascination. His eyes dropped to my lips, which I interpreted as a green light, and I returned my lips to his. 

This time our mouths moved in synchrony, dancing against one another in a gentle and energetic rhythm. My hand reached up to cup his face, and I lightly parted his lips with my tongue, which he greeted with his own. He placed his hand on my chest, and I could feel his arm shaking as it explored, squeezing my pec, massaging my shoulder. His mouth became more relaxed, more confident, bracing against mine with a hunger I found unexpected and incredibly hot. My hand lowered from his chin and found his shoulder, his chest, his bicep, his ribcage, any part of him I could reach. I rubbed his nipple through the fabric of his polo and felt him moan against my mouth, my cock threatening to burst through the fabric of my shorts.

Our mouths continued to dance, changing rhythms from a gentle waltz to a fiery tango, and I brought my hand down to his upper thigh, slowly extending my fingers towards his crotch. Reaching forward, I grazed an impressive erection straining against his shorts. But as I moved my hand closer, preparing to get a more confident grip on his arousal, he pulled away, breathing heavily. 

I withdrew my hand immediately. “Sorry,” I blurted. “I’m sorry, that..”

“No, it’s…” he began, trying to collect himself, blinking hard. “Don’t be, I just…” He looked at me, a pleading expression on his face as he struggled to find the right words. “I have an early morning. I should probably get to sleep.”

“Oh,” I replied with forced enthusiasm. “Yeah, of course.” I nodded furiously, as if I could agree my way out of the hole I just potentially dug myself into. “Sorry, yeah, you…should do that.”

He looked at me again, his face cycling through a number of expressions in a matter of seconds before landing on what I could only interpret as defeat. “Yeah,” he nodded and stood, his hand covering his erection in some attempt at modesty. He crossed the room to grab a pair of athletic shorts from the dresser and began to walk to the bathroom. 

“Bryson,” I said, my voice sounding pathetic. He stopped to look at me. “I…” I didn’t know what to say.

“All good.” He gave a quick nod before he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.