If It Weren't for Super Smash Bros. I Wouldn’t Have Sucked My First Dick
It was over a bet of who could win three out of five matches.
I had never sucked a dick. I was always the guy who got his dick sucked. It wasn’t because I was a selfish lover or a Dom Top Daddy. It was because I was deeply closeted, and sucking a dude’s dick felt much gayer than getting sucked off by another man.
In college, I was known for getting drunk and hooking up with guys. I was that “straight” guy who was easily conquered. So gay men would get me drunk, and I’d end up with my dick in their mouth. The following day I could always justify my extremely gay behavior by telling myself, “I was so fucking drunk; I’m not actually gay. I’m just not homophobic. Besides, a mouth is a mouth.”
The American Horror Story Kathy Bates gif really summed up all my thoughts: LIES.
Nevertheless, I believed them. Well, I told myself I believed them, but I subconsciously knew there was likely something more at play below the surface.
That’s how I managed to get through college getting my dicked sucked by at least a dozen men, yet never sucking one myself…until I re-befriended Jamie.
I knew Jamie briefly in college, just for a semester. We were in an a capella group together. (Please, for the love of God, judge me.) When I moved to Boston after graduating, I knew nobody except for him, and we reconnected.
Jamie is a flirt; that was one of the things I loved about him. A blond hair, blue-eyed tease with a bubbly personality that always made you smile. Right after moving to Boston, he’d invite me over and order us Grubhub (which I thought was wild at the time—to order delivery from an app—yet now I order Seamless daily).
We’d then play video games, predominantly Super Smash Bros. The thing with Smash is everyone has an ego. Everyone thinks they’re the best. This is simply not true because I am the best. You will not win a single game against me in Melee. Not ever. You don’t have a Wario hat tattooed on your ribs unless you can Smash.
Still, Jamie was a contender. He was better than most and would almost win. That’s why he agreed to my ludicrous bet: “The winner of the next three out of five matches will get his dicked sucked by the loser.”
Jamie looked at me with bewilderment. He couldn’t tell if I was serious. To be fair, I wasn’t sure if I was serious. Up until this point, you could cut our sexual tension with a goddamn machete. We’d lie in bed together most weekends, thigh against thigh in our underwear, sweating out the oppressive Boston heat. We’d cuddle “platonically,” though not platonically.
I always struggle with platonic cuddles. If my dick is pressed up against your ass, I will get hard. I can’t control that, which is why if I am attempting to cuddle platonically, I position myself in a way where my dick isn’t rubbing up against you. But with Jamie, I didn’t do this. I just let my boner pop. He felt it; I felt it, but neither of us said a word.
I think Jamie was attempting to be respectful. He knew I was “straight,” though clearly not straight, and wanted me to make the first move if anything were to happen.
This was me making the first move. I remember Jamie looking around the room before answering to check if he was getting Punk’d.
“What?” he replied.
I repeated myself, this time with more certainty. It was as if I could see the cogs turning in his brain. After deciding that there was nowhere in his tiny apartment, Kutcher could be hiding, he said, “All right, if that’s what you want, I’m game.”
Then something happened that never happened before. I lost not one but two games. (And I was playing with Zelda and Peach! That down-A with Peach doesn’t fuck around.) I wasn’t purposely throwing the matches, but my latent desires were creeping to the surface. While I didn’t want to lose, I wanted to lose.
I got nervous in that fifth and final game. I didn’t think losing was ever an option, but with the prospect in front of me—and the thought that I would have to go down on a man the first time—I was shvitzing. My hands shook on the controller, and I smashed the buttons much harder than I needed to.
(Un)luckily, I won. My ego, it seemed, was bigger than my latent desires.
When the match finished, we looked at each other silently. Do I whip it out now? I thought to myself. I could easily play it off that the bet was a joke.
My sobriety felt more salient now than ever. At that moment, I realized I had never been sober when a man sucked my dick, and if I were to suck a dick sober, I would have no excuse to justify my behavior. After all, I was the one of sound mind who proposed the bet.
“So…” I said.
“So…” he replied.
Then, I pulled down my shorts and boxers in one fell swoop. Out sprung my big, fat erection. We were equally surprised that I was already hard. I’m not sure if it was an anxiety boner, an arousal boner, or an attraction boner—likely a combination of all three.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jamie licked my head like an ice cream cone, teasing me. My cock reflexively bounced. He then swirled his tongue at the sensitive zone right where the head meets the upper shaft. I jerked back a little. I was too sensitive. He looked up at me and smiled. He then grabbed me by my ass and pushed my dick down his throat. “Oh, fuck,” I said. I wasn’t doing anything. He was thrusting me into his mouth, facefucking himself.
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