I’m new to posting and this is my first story. Not sure where I should post this story, but here it goes. If this would be better posted somewhere else, let me know. And if you enjoy this, feel free and want the story to continue, let me know.
Bryant’s Song
Part 1
Coming out to a gay friend for the first time, sleeping with him, and then being ignored afterward was one of the loneliest and most confusing experiences of my life. It was a painful introduction to a part of myself I was only just beginning to understand. I had stepped into this new world—openly gay, for the first time—and instead of finding connection, I was left to navigate it all alone.
This is my story—real, unfiltered—about slowly finding my way into the gay community, discovering who I was, and learning how to live openly as a gay man. It wasn’t always easy. In fact, it was often awkward, sometimes heartbreaking, occasionally thrilling—but it was mine. And I’d like to share it.
Names and locations have been changed. All persons mentioned are 18 or older.
It was the dawn of a new millennium—2000 had arrived with all its promise and possibility. A new year, a new decade, and for me, a new beginning. About six months earlier, I had drifted away from Vince—a friend whose presence had marked a turning point in my life. He was the first guy I’d shared something truly intimate with, someone who had helped me begin exploring my sexuality. Being with Vince forced me to confront a truth I had spent years avoiding: I was gay. It was a realization that came with both relief and confusion, and losing our friendship left a painful void. Vince had been my guide into a world I was only just starting to understand, and without him, I felt unmoored—lonely, uncertain.
But in the quiet of that loss, I made a decision. It was time to step into the world more fully, more honestly. To stop hiding. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—but I also knew I couldn’t go back. So I began the slow process of rebuilding. I started going out, cautiously meeting new people, and piece by piece, I was learning how to be comfortable with who I was.
Saturday nights were legendary at the gay bars downtown, always buzzing with energy. That first Saturday after New Year’s 2000, I called up my friend John—someone I’d met not long ago—and we made plans to meet up. It felt like the right way to kick off this new chapter.
John and I first crossed paths at a bar I’ll call The Monument. Probably the most popular gay bar in the city, it had its own kind of magic. With only about seven gay bars in town, Monument stood out like a beacon. I met John on a Sunday night during Karaoke—Monument’s signature event. Sundays were low-key, perfect for someone like me, still cautious and not entirely out, still figuring things out after years of pretending. Vince had taken me to Karaoke night a few times, and I knew it was always lively and packed with a mix of familiar faces and new ones. Plus, with a late Monday start at work, Sunday night outings were a safe little rebellion.
That night I met John, I got to the bar around 9 p.m.—my usual time. I grabbed a Bud Light and hovered near the bar on the third floor. Monument had three levels, and the top floor was where the real scene unfolded. It pulsed with music, laughter, and that low hum of anticipation that hung in the air like a spark waiting to catch fire. From my spot, I could see everyone who walked in—guys heading straight to the bar, looking for a drink or maybe a connection.
And then I saw him—a dark-haired guy in the middle of the line at the bar, waiting patiently for his drink. He stood out, not just because of his looks, but because he seemed to be looking directly at me. Or was he? I couldn’t quite tell. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks, a hopeful projection. I quickly looked away, not ready to deal with the flutter of nerves that bubbled up. Still, my curiosity got the better of me, and after a minute or so, I glanced back.
He’d moved closer to the front of the line and, with a smooth turn of his head, locked eyes with me—and smiled. A slow, confident smile that caught me off guard.
He had a goatee that gave him a definite George Michael vibe, especially paired with the small silver hoops in his left ear and a discreet nose ring that sparkled under the bar lights. His outfit was effortlessly put together—fitted jeans, a simple sweater, and a sleek black jacket draped over it. It was the kind of look that didn’t scream for attention, but got it anyway.
I looked away again, this time more flustered than unsure. And then, against my better judgment, I peeked back. Yep—still staring. Definitely at me. He’d just grabbed his beer and without hesitation, started walking straight in my direction. I remember thinking, Damn, this guy doesn’t waste time.
“Hello,” he said, casually but with a spark in his eye.
“Hi,” I replied, suddenly very aware of the drink in my hand.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Just here for the singing... and a few beers.”
He laughed lightly. “I don’t think you’ll be too impressed by the singing here. I’m John.”
“Bryant. Nice to meet you.”
We stood there, leaning into that hazy bar atmosphere, making small talk while sipping our beers and listening to people take their turns on the mic. The crowd was hit or miss—the singer's success rate was maybe 35%, tops. But that was part of the charm: the joy, the courage, the cringe.
John was friendly, decent-looking, and easy to talk to. But as we chatted, I realized I wasn’t feeling that spark—the kind that makes you want to completely focus your attention on or makes you want to lean in closer. He was nice, but there just wasn’t that pull.
Still, we stayed until last call, hanging out until the house lights came up and the staff started ushering everyone toward the exits. As the crowd shuffled downstairs, he turned to me.
“Well, I’m just a few blocks from here,” he said, his voice casual. “Wanna come back to my place?”
I hesitated for just a beat. “I’ve got to work early tomorrow,” I lied smoothly. “But thanks.”
We hugged—one of those brief, friendly ones—and then headed off in opposite directions into the cool night air. No regrets, just a quiet exhale of relief and a small sense of pride that I’d put myself out there.
The next Saturday, I found myself back at Monument, this time with a few newer friends I’d been gradually getting to know. The night had that familiar buzz—music, laughter, and the sweet chaos of a Saturday crowd at its peak.
I was standing in line at the bar, half-listening to one of my friends tell a story, when I noticed someone weaving through the crowd with drinks in hand. It was John. He’d just grabbed a round and was making his way back past the line. I hadn’t even seen him at first, but then—
“Hey!” he called out, flashing me a smile as he passed.
“Oh, hey John! How are you?” I called back, surprised but genuinely glad to see him.
And then something odd happened. My perception of him… shifted. He hadn’t changed a thing—same goatee, same earrings, same casual confidence—but suddenly, he looked different. Or maybe it was me who had changed. Where I had previously seen someone nice but unremarkable, I now noticed how his smile lit up his face, how his eyes caught the light just right. He wasn’t just “decent-looking”—he was actually kind of stunning.
We stood there talking for a couple of minutes, him juggling the drinks carefully as we caught up in that shouted-over-the-music kind of way. There was a new ease between us, something warmer, more playful. But before we could dive into more, I saw his attention focus into the distance and he nodded his head.
“I’ve gotta get these back—my friends are pretty thirsty it looks like,” he said, lifting the drinks and gesturing towards them.
“Of course,” I said. “Hey, we should exchange numbers—maybe hang out again at Karaoke sometime?”
He grinned. “Sounds good. I’ll be there tomorrow if you want to grab a drink. I can give you my number then.”
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with his arms full and that smile still lingering in the air.
—-
We met up the next evening for drinks at Karaoke night, just like we had planned. The bar was buzzing again, with the usual mix of off-key bravado and unexpected talent spilling from the speakers. I got there a little early, grabbed a drink, and waited near our usual spot upstairs. When John arrived, we exchanged smiles, did the casual hug thing, and eased into conversation like two people who knew just enough about each other to skip the small talk—but not quite enough to get personal.
I tried flirting a little, in that subtle, not-too-obvious way—smiling longer than necessary, leaning in when I talked, dropping a couple of those half-joking compliments. But as the night wore on, it became pretty clear that he wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. He was friendly, polite, but there was no flicker, no return signal. I started to wonder if maybe I’d missed my window—maybe I should’ve gone back to his place that first night.
But the truth was... I wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. That had never really been my thing.
The night I first met him, I didn’t know him at all. Was he single or partnered? What was he into when it came to sex? And if I was going to have sex with someone—especially at that stage in my life—it needed to mean something. I needed to know them. Feel attracted to them. Trust them, even a little. And at that time, none of that had been there. I just wasn’t interested. And not because there was anything wrong with him—he just didn’t spark that kind of feeling in me, not then.
Looking back, I don’t regret saying no. I was still figuring things out. Still trying to navigate what dating—and desire—looked like for me, now that I was finally allowing myself to live openly. And sometimes that meant feeling a little awkward. Sometimes it meant missing a shot. But I’d rather miss a chance than take one that didn’t feel right.
—--
Despite the awkward start and that faint hum of missed opportunity, I did end up exchanging numbers with John. Over the next several weeks, we started meeting up for drinks on weekend nights more and more regularly. Before long, we’d developed a kind of bar-hopping ritual that felt easy and familiar. The more I got to know him, the more I realized that John wasn’t just friendly—he was magnetic.
He was one of those guys who could work a room without even trying. That same smile he gave me the night we met? It turned out to be his secret weapon. If he spotted someone he was interested in, he’d flash it—confident, a little cocky, a little charming—and more often than not, it worked. Like clockwork. It was his way of breaking the ice, of inviting someone in. And once you were in, it was hard not to get drawn closer.
He’d told me early on, back on that first Karaoke night, that he’d recently gotten out of a long-term relationship. His ex boyfriend had wanted him to move to D.C. to live together, but John had refused. He liked his job here, he said—but more importantly, his son lived just a few hours away. I hadn’t known that at first—John had been married once to a woman, and had a 13-year-old son who lived in a smaller city east of Tampa. That changed how I saw him. He wasn’t just a guy out playing the field—he was someone trying to balance fatherhood, a career, and a heart that was still very much healing.
But healing didn’t mean staying home. No, John was out—constantly. On the prowl. Looking for fun, maybe a little distraction, and—sex. A lot of it. Watching him work the bars was like watching someone in their element, like it was a sport he played well and often. And sometimes, it made me feel very ordinary and even boring, in comparison.
But, I was in a different headspace entirely. Still new to the scene, still cautious. Still trying to figure out what I even wanted. When I first met John, I’d told him about Vince. Well—sort of. I told him we’d had a falling out, but I left out the deeper parts. I even lied a little, saying I hoped Vince and I might be friends again someday. The truth? I mostly said that just to steer John away from flirting with me that first meeting. I wasn’t ready to mix friendship and attraction—not with someone I’d just met.
Still, I was drawn to John—not in a romantic way, not anymore—but in the way you get drawn to people who feel like they’ve lived a few lifetimes more than you. People who seem to know what they’re doing, and know how to do it well.
There were more than a few nights when John and I had set out together—just two friends planning to hang out, grab a few drinks, maybe catch some Karaoke—and somewhere along the way, he’d leave to go and talk to someone he had seen across the room. One moment we’d be at the bar laughing and making comments about other guys in the room, and the next, he’d spot someone across the room, flash that signature smile, and like that—he was gone. Only sometimes would I get a quick “Hey, heading out with this guy, hope you don’t mind!” and then a hug before running off.
At first, I was annoyed. Not furious, just that low-key kind of irritated that simmers when your night doesn’t go how you thought it would. I was still adjusting to this world, still figuring out where I fit in. And it stung a little, being left behind while someone else got laid for the night. But honestly? That frustration never lasted too long. Because deep down, I was also kind of happy for him. John had this uncanny ability to make things happen—to go out into the night and come back with a story.
He’d tell me everything—everything. Like the time he ran into a guy he recognized as a doctor—tall, clean-cut, with that “doctor in scrubs” kind of appeal. John flashed his smile, worked his magic, and next thing you know, he’s sneaking around in a hospital at night, getting railed by said doctor in a secluded room just off the main corridor. I remember blinking in disbelief as he told me, sipping my beer and laughing in shock, like how does this man live in a completely different universe than me?
I didn’t know how he did it, honestly. Confidence, timing, charm—all of it. But mostly, John had that thing you can’t fake: he was completely unapologetic about who he was and what he wanted. He went after pleasure like it owed him something—and sometimes, I envied that.
Still, while he was out getting lucky, I’d find myself sitting at the bar alone, finishing my drink and people-watching, wondering if I’d ever reach that level of ease in my own skin. I wasn’t sure I even wanted the same things John wanted. But being around him made me think about it more.
Which brings us back to the beginning—January 2000.
By now, John and I had settled into our routine. Like clockwork, we’d start our Saturday nights at Monument, along with just about everyone else in the gay neighborhood. It was the warm-up spot, the social pregame, where familiar faces mingled, drinks flowed easily, and laughter echoed through the multi-level maze of bars and dance floors.
But come 10:30 p.m., almost like a silent agreement had been made, the crowd would begin to shift. A kind of migration. Drinks were finished, jackets were grabbed, and about 80% of the Monument crowd would drift just a few blocks over to the next chapter of the night—the leather bar. I’ll call it “Whips and Chains,” or Whips for short.
Whips had a different energy altogether. Darker. Louder. A little rougher around the edges. The regulars there were more serious about the scene—older guys, leather lovers. But it wasn’t exclusive. Monument party boys, curious first-timers, and the weekend warriors all mixed in under the same space. It worked. Somehow, it all worked.
Whips also had a massive dance area in the back—enough space for movement and bodies to mingle or dance. That’s where John and I ended up on this particular Saturday night, weaving our way through the crowd, the bass vibrating through the soles of our shoes, and into the swirling chaos of the dance floor.
We were dancing and kind of scanning the crowd —when I caught a glimpse of someone across the floor. A guy. He was dancing with someone else, a tall blonde, but his eyes… they were on me.
He was good looking. Very good looking. Slightly shorter than me—maybe 5’8—but well built, lean with defined muscles that showed even under the dim lighting and movement. He had a head of salt-and-pepper hair that added something unexpected to his otherwise youthful vibe, and it worked. Like, really worked.
Our eyes met, and we held that gaze just a moment longer than two strangers usually do. We smiled—subtly, playfully—as we both danced with our respective partners, stealing glances between beats. It felt electric. Unspoken. That quiet hum of something beginning.
I kept dancing with John, but my attention kept drifting. And so did my curiosity.
“Hey, someone’s checking me out, I think,” I leaned in and said to John over the beat of the music.
“Oh yeah? Who?” he asked, immediately scanning the crowd like it was a sport.
“That guy in the gray shirt over there... salt and pepper hair.”
John followed my gaze. “Yeah… he’s cute.”
That was a relief. But also, it made me a little nervous. Because now I wasn’t sure if he was actually checking me out—or if it was John, once again, unknowingly pulling focus. John always seemed to get the attention without even trying, like there was some magnetic field that pulled people toward him.
“Let’s move a little closer to him,” John said with a smirk.
So we started inching our way toward him, slowly dancing through the crowd. I’d already started mentally calling him Anderson Cooper—he had that clean-cut, handsome vibe, and the hair, while salt and pepper was more curly. Not his real name, of course, but it helped me keep my cool.
As we got closer, the tall blonde guy that “Anderson” had been dancing with peeled off toward a group of guys near the edge of the floor, leaving him by himself in the middle of the crowd. He didn’t seem fazed at all—just kept dancing, fully in his own rhythm, confident and unbothered.
And then, he saw us. Saw me. His eyes met mine again, and he gave a subtle nod.
I nodded back.
Something about it felt like an invitation—not loud or obvious, but deliberate. And suddenly I wasn’t just dancing anymore. I was moving with purpose. My pulse quickened. I could feel the bass of the music through my body, the crowd swirling around us, and that charged, unspoken energy between two guys about to collide.
************
End of Part 1. If you enjoyed this and think this story is worth continuing, let me know. (And yes, sex and big cocks are in Part 2)
.
Bryant’s Song
Part 1
Coming out to a gay friend for the first time, sleeping with him, and then being ignored afterward was one of the loneliest and most confusing experiences of my life. It was a painful introduction to a part of myself I was only just beginning to understand. I had stepped into this new world—openly gay, for the first time—and instead of finding connection, I was left to navigate it all alone.
This is my story—real, unfiltered—about slowly finding my way into the gay community, discovering who I was, and learning how to live openly as a gay man. It wasn’t always easy. In fact, it was often awkward, sometimes heartbreaking, occasionally thrilling—but it was mine. And I’d like to share it.
Names and locations have been changed. All persons mentioned are 18 or older.
It was the dawn of a new millennium—2000 had arrived with all its promise and possibility. A new year, a new decade, and for me, a new beginning. About six months earlier, I had drifted away from Vince—a friend whose presence had marked a turning point in my life. He was the first guy I’d shared something truly intimate with, someone who had helped me begin exploring my sexuality. Being with Vince forced me to confront a truth I had spent years avoiding: I was gay. It was a realization that came with both relief and confusion, and losing our friendship left a painful void. Vince had been my guide into a world I was only just starting to understand, and without him, I felt unmoored—lonely, uncertain.
But in the quiet of that loss, I made a decision. It was time to step into the world more fully, more honestly. To stop hiding. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—but I also knew I couldn’t go back. So I began the slow process of rebuilding. I started going out, cautiously meeting new people, and piece by piece, I was learning how to be comfortable with who I was.
Saturday nights were legendary at the gay bars downtown, always buzzing with energy. That first Saturday after New Year’s 2000, I called up my friend John—someone I’d met not long ago—and we made plans to meet up. It felt like the right way to kick off this new chapter.
John and I first crossed paths at a bar I’ll call The Monument. Probably the most popular gay bar in the city, it had its own kind of magic. With only about seven gay bars in town, Monument stood out like a beacon. I met John on a Sunday night during Karaoke—Monument’s signature event. Sundays were low-key, perfect for someone like me, still cautious and not entirely out, still figuring things out after years of pretending. Vince had taken me to Karaoke night a few times, and I knew it was always lively and packed with a mix of familiar faces and new ones. Plus, with a late Monday start at work, Sunday night outings were a safe little rebellion.
That night I met John, I got to the bar around 9 p.m.—my usual time. I grabbed a Bud Light and hovered near the bar on the third floor. Monument had three levels, and the top floor was where the real scene unfolded. It pulsed with music, laughter, and that low hum of anticipation that hung in the air like a spark waiting to catch fire. From my spot, I could see everyone who walked in—guys heading straight to the bar, looking for a drink or maybe a connection.
And then I saw him—a dark-haired guy in the middle of the line at the bar, waiting patiently for his drink. He stood out, not just because of his looks, but because he seemed to be looking directly at me. Or was he? I couldn’t quite tell. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks, a hopeful projection. I quickly looked away, not ready to deal with the flutter of nerves that bubbled up. Still, my curiosity got the better of me, and after a minute or so, I glanced back.
He’d moved closer to the front of the line and, with a smooth turn of his head, locked eyes with me—and smiled. A slow, confident smile that caught me off guard.
He had a goatee that gave him a definite George Michael vibe, especially paired with the small silver hoops in his left ear and a discreet nose ring that sparkled under the bar lights. His outfit was effortlessly put together—fitted jeans, a simple sweater, and a sleek black jacket draped over it. It was the kind of look that didn’t scream for attention, but got it anyway.
I looked away again, this time more flustered than unsure. And then, against my better judgment, I peeked back. Yep—still staring. Definitely at me. He’d just grabbed his beer and without hesitation, started walking straight in my direction. I remember thinking, Damn, this guy doesn’t waste time.
“Hello,” he said, casually but with a spark in his eye.
“Hi,” I replied, suddenly very aware of the drink in my hand.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Just here for the singing... and a few beers.”
He laughed lightly. “I don’t think you’ll be too impressed by the singing here. I’m John.”
“Bryant. Nice to meet you.”
We stood there, leaning into that hazy bar atmosphere, making small talk while sipping our beers and listening to people take their turns on the mic. The crowd was hit or miss—the singer's success rate was maybe 35%, tops. But that was part of the charm: the joy, the courage, the cringe.
John was friendly, decent-looking, and easy to talk to. But as we chatted, I realized I wasn’t feeling that spark—the kind that makes you want to completely focus your attention on or makes you want to lean in closer. He was nice, but there just wasn’t that pull.
Still, we stayed until last call, hanging out until the house lights came up and the staff started ushering everyone toward the exits. As the crowd shuffled downstairs, he turned to me.
“Well, I’m just a few blocks from here,” he said, his voice casual. “Wanna come back to my place?”
I hesitated for just a beat. “I’ve got to work early tomorrow,” I lied smoothly. “But thanks.”
We hugged—one of those brief, friendly ones—and then headed off in opposite directions into the cool night air. No regrets, just a quiet exhale of relief and a small sense of pride that I’d put myself out there.
The next Saturday, I found myself back at Monument, this time with a few newer friends I’d been gradually getting to know. The night had that familiar buzz—music, laughter, and the sweet chaos of a Saturday crowd at its peak.
I was standing in line at the bar, half-listening to one of my friends tell a story, when I noticed someone weaving through the crowd with drinks in hand. It was John. He’d just grabbed a round and was making his way back past the line. I hadn’t even seen him at first, but then—
“Hey!” he called out, flashing me a smile as he passed.
“Oh, hey John! How are you?” I called back, surprised but genuinely glad to see him.
And then something odd happened. My perception of him… shifted. He hadn’t changed a thing—same goatee, same earrings, same casual confidence—but suddenly, he looked different. Or maybe it was me who had changed. Where I had previously seen someone nice but unremarkable, I now noticed how his smile lit up his face, how his eyes caught the light just right. He wasn’t just “decent-looking”—he was actually kind of stunning.
We stood there talking for a couple of minutes, him juggling the drinks carefully as we caught up in that shouted-over-the-music kind of way. There was a new ease between us, something warmer, more playful. But before we could dive into more, I saw his attention focus into the distance and he nodded his head.
“I’ve gotta get these back—my friends are pretty thirsty it looks like,” he said, lifting the drinks and gesturing towards them.
“Of course,” I said. “Hey, we should exchange numbers—maybe hang out again at Karaoke sometime?”
He grinned. “Sounds good. I’ll be there tomorrow if you want to grab a drink. I can give you my number then.”
And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with his arms full and that smile still lingering in the air.
—-
We met up the next evening for drinks at Karaoke night, just like we had planned. The bar was buzzing again, with the usual mix of off-key bravado and unexpected talent spilling from the speakers. I got there a little early, grabbed a drink, and waited near our usual spot upstairs. When John arrived, we exchanged smiles, did the casual hug thing, and eased into conversation like two people who knew just enough about each other to skip the small talk—but not quite enough to get personal.
I tried flirting a little, in that subtle, not-too-obvious way—smiling longer than necessary, leaning in when I talked, dropping a couple of those half-joking compliments. But as the night wore on, it became pretty clear that he wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. He was friendly, polite, but there was no flicker, no return signal. I started to wonder if maybe I’d missed my window—maybe I should’ve gone back to his place that first night.
But the truth was... I wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. That had never really been my thing.
The night I first met him, I didn’t know him at all. Was he single or partnered? What was he into when it came to sex? And if I was going to have sex with someone—especially at that stage in my life—it needed to mean something. I needed to know them. Feel attracted to them. Trust them, even a little. And at that time, none of that had been there. I just wasn’t interested. And not because there was anything wrong with him—he just didn’t spark that kind of feeling in me, not then.
Looking back, I don’t regret saying no. I was still figuring things out. Still trying to navigate what dating—and desire—looked like for me, now that I was finally allowing myself to live openly. And sometimes that meant feeling a little awkward. Sometimes it meant missing a shot. But I’d rather miss a chance than take one that didn’t feel right.
—--
Despite the awkward start and that faint hum of missed opportunity, I did end up exchanging numbers with John. Over the next several weeks, we started meeting up for drinks on weekend nights more and more regularly. Before long, we’d developed a kind of bar-hopping ritual that felt easy and familiar. The more I got to know him, the more I realized that John wasn’t just friendly—he was magnetic.
He was one of those guys who could work a room without even trying. That same smile he gave me the night we met? It turned out to be his secret weapon. If he spotted someone he was interested in, he’d flash it—confident, a little cocky, a little charming—and more often than not, it worked. Like clockwork. It was his way of breaking the ice, of inviting someone in. And once you were in, it was hard not to get drawn closer.
He’d told me early on, back on that first Karaoke night, that he’d recently gotten out of a long-term relationship. His ex boyfriend had wanted him to move to D.C. to live together, but John had refused. He liked his job here, he said—but more importantly, his son lived just a few hours away. I hadn’t known that at first—John had been married once to a woman, and had a 13-year-old son who lived in a smaller city east of Tampa. That changed how I saw him. He wasn’t just a guy out playing the field—he was someone trying to balance fatherhood, a career, and a heart that was still very much healing.
But healing didn’t mean staying home. No, John was out—constantly. On the prowl. Looking for fun, maybe a little distraction, and—sex. A lot of it. Watching him work the bars was like watching someone in their element, like it was a sport he played well and often. And sometimes, it made me feel very ordinary and even boring, in comparison.
But, I was in a different headspace entirely. Still new to the scene, still cautious. Still trying to figure out what I even wanted. When I first met John, I’d told him about Vince. Well—sort of. I told him we’d had a falling out, but I left out the deeper parts. I even lied a little, saying I hoped Vince and I might be friends again someday. The truth? I mostly said that just to steer John away from flirting with me that first meeting. I wasn’t ready to mix friendship and attraction—not with someone I’d just met.
Still, I was drawn to John—not in a romantic way, not anymore—but in the way you get drawn to people who feel like they’ve lived a few lifetimes more than you. People who seem to know what they’re doing, and know how to do it well.
There were more than a few nights when John and I had set out together—just two friends planning to hang out, grab a few drinks, maybe catch some Karaoke—and somewhere along the way, he’d leave to go and talk to someone he had seen across the room. One moment we’d be at the bar laughing and making comments about other guys in the room, and the next, he’d spot someone across the room, flash that signature smile, and like that—he was gone. Only sometimes would I get a quick “Hey, heading out with this guy, hope you don’t mind!” and then a hug before running off.
At first, I was annoyed. Not furious, just that low-key kind of irritated that simmers when your night doesn’t go how you thought it would. I was still adjusting to this world, still figuring out where I fit in. And it stung a little, being left behind while someone else got laid for the night. But honestly? That frustration never lasted too long. Because deep down, I was also kind of happy for him. John had this uncanny ability to make things happen—to go out into the night and come back with a story.
He’d tell me everything—everything. Like the time he ran into a guy he recognized as a doctor—tall, clean-cut, with that “doctor in scrubs” kind of appeal. John flashed his smile, worked his magic, and next thing you know, he’s sneaking around in a hospital at night, getting railed by said doctor in a secluded room just off the main corridor. I remember blinking in disbelief as he told me, sipping my beer and laughing in shock, like how does this man live in a completely different universe than me?
I didn’t know how he did it, honestly. Confidence, timing, charm—all of it. But mostly, John had that thing you can’t fake: he was completely unapologetic about who he was and what he wanted. He went after pleasure like it owed him something—and sometimes, I envied that.
Still, while he was out getting lucky, I’d find myself sitting at the bar alone, finishing my drink and people-watching, wondering if I’d ever reach that level of ease in my own skin. I wasn’t sure I even wanted the same things John wanted. But being around him made me think about it more.
Which brings us back to the beginning—January 2000.
By now, John and I had settled into our routine. Like clockwork, we’d start our Saturday nights at Monument, along with just about everyone else in the gay neighborhood. It was the warm-up spot, the social pregame, where familiar faces mingled, drinks flowed easily, and laughter echoed through the multi-level maze of bars and dance floors.
But come 10:30 p.m., almost like a silent agreement had been made, the crowd would begin to shift. A kind of migration. Drinks were finished, jackets were grabbed, and about 80% of the Monument crowd would drift just a few blocks over to the next chapter of the night—the leather bar. I’ll call it “Whips and Chains,” or Whips for short.
Whips had a different energy altogether. Darker. Louder. A little rougher around the edges. The regulars there were more serious about the scene—older guys, leather lovers. But it wasn’t exclusive. Monument party boys, curious first-timers, and the weekend warriors all mixed in under the same space. It worked. Somehow, it all worked.
Whips also had a massive dance area in the back—enough space for movement and bodies to mingle or dance. That’s where John and I ended up on this particular Saturday night, weaving our way through the crowd, the bass vibrating through the soles of our shoes, and into the swirling chaos of the dance floor.
We were dancing and kind of scanning the crowd —when I caught a glimpse of someone across the floor. A guy. He was dancing with someone else, a tall blonde, but his eyes… they were on me.
He was good looking. Very good looking. Slightly shorter than me—maybe 5’8—but well built, lean with defined muscles that showed even under the dim lighting and movement. He had a head of salt-and-pepper hair that added something unexpected to his otherwise youthful vibe, and it worked. Like, really worked.
Our eyes met, and we held that gaze just a moment longer than two strangers usually do. We smiled—subtly, playfully—as we both danced with our respective partners, stealing glances between beats. It felt electric. Unspoken. That quiet hum of something beginning.
I kept dancing with John, but my attention kept drifting. And so did my curiosity.
“Hey, someone’s checking me out, I think,” I leaned in and said to John over the beat of the music.
“Oh yeah? Who?” he asked, immediately scanning the crowd like it was a sport.
“That guy in the gray shirt over there... salt and pepper hair.”
John followed my gaze. “Yeah… he’s cute.”
That was a relief. But also, it made me a little nervous. Because now I wasn’t sure if he was actually checking me out—or if it was John, once again, unknowingly pulling focus. John always seemed to get the attention without even trying, like there was some magnetic field that pulled people toward him.
“Let’s move a little closer to him,” John said with a smirk.
So we started inching our way toward him, slowly dancing through the crowd. I’d already started mentally calling him Anderson Cooper—he had that clean-cut, handsome vibe, and the hair, while salt and pepper was more curly. Not his real name, of course, but it helped me keep my cool.
As we got closer, the tall blonde guy that “Anderson” had been dancing with peeled off toward a group of guys near the edge of the floor, leaving him by himself in the middle of the crowd. He didn’t seem fazed at all—just kept dancing, fully in his own rhythm, confident and unbothered.
And then, he saw us. Saw me. His eyes met mine again, and he gave a subtle nod.
I nodded back.
Something about it felt like an invitation—not loud or obvious, but deliberate. And suddenly I wasn’t just dancing anymore. I was moving with purpose. My pulse quickened. I could feel the bass of the music through my body, the crowd swirling around us, and that charged, unspoken energy between two guys about to collide.
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End of Part 1. If you enjoyed this and think this story is worth continuing, let me know. (And yes, sex and big cocks are in Part 2)
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