justprompts: Ten sexual encounters.
1. He doesn't remember this, because the entire night is vague flashes of memory filled in only partially by other tales, but he hit on several people when he was 18 at his first college party. The booze had been spiked (with what kind of drug, he never found out), and so one glass of the alcohol combo sent him into doing stupid things, including hitting on two women and one guy, two of which did nothing about it, but he got especially close to getting an equally high woman to take off her pants, right up until a completely unrelated fight knocked him off the couch, which only sent him off to do more things he can't remember doing and frankly doesn't want to.
2. His first time was with his second girlfriend (or rather, his first serious one), Susan Redfield. He was 19, halfway through his second year of college. She was short, blonde, an all-around cute girl anyone's mother would be happy with. They shared a handful of classes and thought they were great to hang out with, becoming an item. About a month into the relationship, her roommate was out for the night, and they both thought there would be no harm in playing around, which became the normal awkward first time in which neither party knows what to do with themselves, but it was enjoyable in a way that they could laugh about while blushing the next day. It became increasingly obvious after that encounter, however, that they just had no chemistry beyond good friends. It broke off two weeks after that.
3. A drunk woman who he only sort of maybe recalled seeing around the campus once or twice tried multiple times to pull him into a back room where the after-graduation party was taking place, which generally resulted in her groping his crotch until he managed to push her off far enough that he could dart into the crowd.
4. One of the girls in his dorm building during his first year of grad school had a small crush on him. This he found out only after she tried to stick her hand down his pants in the back of the local movie theater she had invited him to.
5. The next time was sex with Helen Jones, his second serious girlfriend. He was 25 and home for the summer. Helen lived in the same town, also around just for the summer. They thought they had a lot in common but realized, as it was almost their last year at their respective schools, that they would probably never see each other again. As such, they decided to have a summer fling, only for that summer, attempting to make it the most enjoyable and memorable ever.
6. The third time was with Helen again, before they parted at the end of the summer days.
7. It wasn't long working at St. Jimmy's before he started getting some attention. Despite the strict rule not to touch the performers, a slightly inebriated woman managed to grab him by the leg near the edge of the stage and pulled him off entirely, resulting in a couple of scrapes, a broken chair, and one customer barred from returning after being thrown out.
8. He rolled up his sleeves as he exited St. Jimmy's, red flashing neon sign shining down on him. It was hot despite it being almost the middle of the night, which was typical LA weather. He spied a couple of men hanging out a few feet away but nobody else in sight as he made his way past them, walking back to his apartment. There'd been talk inside from some of the other workers about a few troublemakers out front, but he thought maybe they meant vandalizing punk teens or something of little concern.
"Hey faggot!"
He ignored them.
"Yo, I'm talkin' to you, faggot!"
There were footsteps behind him.
"Turn the fuck around, homo!"
He didn't until he felt a hand on his shoulder spin him around. He raised his hands up in a defensive pose and laughed without humor. "Hey, you touch me again, I'm calling the cops."
"Oh yeah? What, you think the cops are gonna care about some piece of trash fag slut like you?"
He kept his front to them but stayed his course, backing away and shaking his head. "Look, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not gay, so I'm just gonna--"
"You work at that joint, right?" The obvious leader of the pack jerked a thumb back toward St. Jimmy's.
"I do, but that doesn't--"
"Then you're a faggot. Guys don't work the strip clubs. People go there for the girls." The others nodded.
"I can assure you, there are plenty of regular female customers who--"
"That's entertainment for the guys. You're takin' off your shirt and shorts for guys, fag. What," the man reached out and shoved him in the chest roughly, "get your rocks off to other guys dicks, huh? Hey, I'm a piece of work, ain't I, bet you're hard right now after all these fine men, am I right?" The followers laughed.
"Hey, I said I'm calling the cops, asshole. I'm not gay; I just want to go home." He reached for the cell phone in his pocket.
One of the others smacked it out of his hand, and another grabbed him by the arm and pulled. The triangle of men shoved him around in the center. "What's the matter, faggot? Gotta go home and put your dick in someone, huh? The fuck's wrong with people like you? You like strippin' for cash, slut? Why don't you do it now, huh? You know what we do to fags around here?"
He found himself pinned roughly up against a wall by a pair of strong arms, feet just barely off the ground, while other hands tugged at his shirt and more still at his belt buckle. "Bet you like this, huh, fag?"
"Listen, you've got it all--d-don't," he stuttered, kicking out. He thought he saw a flash of a knife, but it could've just as easily been a watch or anything eye-catching in the dark.
Headlights illuminated the scene for a second, and they all turned their heads to the sight of a clearly marked police vehicle making its way down the street.
"Shit, let's fuckin' beat it, come on."
He hit the wall once more before feeling cement under his feet again. Quickly, he redid the front of his pants and retrieved his phone, nearly running the next block until he slipped into some bar and into the restroom, breathing hard and splashing his face with water, running his hands through his hair and feeling the back of his head.
A couple of drinks later, after finally calming himself down that he didn't concern fellow patrons, he made his way home and made sure to lock every lock on his door.
9. The fourth time he'd had sex was the first time he met Scott Douglas.
10. The fifth time had been the second time he ran into Scott, something he pretended not to remember but in reality would much rather forget. He was drunk. Drunk beyond drunk. More drunk than he'd been in a long, long time--or maybe more drunk than ever before. He almost couldn't remember why he'd gone out in the first place, which was the entire point. After a few calls and texts, he needed some air, outside, out of the bar.
"Billy?"
He knew that voice and spun. "You!" he cried, almost happily, as Scott made his way over. "You, you're a bastard! You know you're a bastard, right?"
Somehow, despite the insults, Scott had gotten him into his Lexus he'd parked not too far away--he had been walking someplace down the block when chance got in the way--under the guise of helping. Couldn't let someone he knew get shitfaced and try to make it home in that condition.
And somewhere along the line in the car, his insults let up, and he leaned closer. "Why you?"
"What's that?"
"I mean, you, it's just...you, why are you so pretty?"
"Excuse me?"
"Something about the eyes. You've got pretty eyes. Pretty eyes and a really pretty smile. I shouldn't like them, but I do. You're a pretty man."
This led to Scott showing him his place. The place wasn't what he was interested in.
He said "please" and "yes" and "fuck me" and found himself on his knees with Scott's cock in his mouth.
A little while later, he kept on saying "please" and "yes" and "fuck me" and eventually was bent over Scott's bed with a cock in his ass instead.
He hadn't wanted to leave, but Scott insisted, stuffing a twenty bill in a pocket and leading him back to the car. He nearly fell out in front of his apartment but wasn't displeased with Scott leaving now that he found himself with some extra cash for extra booze.
2. His first time was with his second girlfriend (or rather, his first serious one), Susan Redfield. He was 19, halfway through his second year of college. She was short, blonde, an all-around cute girl anyone's mother would be happy with. They shared a handful of classes and thought they were great to hang out with, becoming an item. About a month into the relationship, her roommate was out for the night, and they both thought there would be no harm in playing around, which became the normal awkward first time in which neither party knows what to do with themselves, but it was enjoyable in a way that they could laugh about while blushing the next day. It became increasingly obvious after that encounter, however, that they just had no chemistry beyond good friends. It broke off two weeks after that.
3. A drunk woman who he only sort of maybe recalled seeing around the campus once or twice tried multiple times to pull him into a back room where the after-graduation party was taking place, which generally resulted in her groping his crotch until he managed to push her off far enough that he could dart into the crowd.
4. One of the girls in his dorm building during his first year of grad school had a small crush on him. This he found out only after she tried to stick her hand down his pants in the back of the local movie theater she had invited him to.
5. The next time was sex with Helen Jones, his second serious girlfriend. He was 25 and home for the summer. Helen lived in the same town, also around just for the summer. They thought they had a lot in common but realized, as it was almost their last year at their respective schools, that they would probably never see each other again. As such, they decided to have a summer fling, only for that summer, attempting to make it the most enjoyable and memorable ever.
6. The third time was with Helen again, before they parted at the end of the summer days.
7. It wasn't long working at St. Jimmy's before he started getting some attention. Despite the strict rule not to touch the performers, a slightly inebriated woman managed to grab him by the leg near the edge of the stage and pulled him off entirely, resulting in a couple of scrapes, a broken chair, and one customer barred from returning after being thrown out.
8. He rolled up his sleeves as he exited St. Jimmy's, red flashing neon sign shining down on him. It was hot despite it being almost the middle of the night, which was typical LA weather. He spied a couple of men hanging out a few feet away but nobody else in sight as he made his way past them, walking back to his apartment. There'd been talk inside from some of the other workers about a few troublemakers out front, but he thought maybe they meant vandalizing punk teens or something of little concern.
"Hey faggot!"
He ignored them.
"Yo, I'm talkin' to you, faggot!"
There were footsteps behind him.
"Turn the fuck around, homo!"
He didn't until he felt a hand on his shoulder spin him around. He raised his hands up in a defensive pose and laughed without humor. "Hey, you touch me again, I'm calling the cops."
"Oh yeah? What, you think the cops are gonna care about some piece of trash fag slut like you?"
He kept his front to them but stayed his course, backing away and shaking his head. "Look, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not gay, so I'm just gonna--"
"You work at that joint, right?" The obvious leader of the pack jerked a thumb back toward St. Jimmy's.
"I do, but that doesn't--"
"Then you're a faggot. Guys don't work the strip clubs. People go there for the girls." The others nodded.
"I can assure you, there are plenty of regular female customers who--"
"That's entertainment for the guys. You're takin' off your shirt and shorts for guys, fag. What," the man reached out and shoved him in the chest roughly, "get your rocks off to other guys dicks, huh? Hey, I'm a piece of work, ain't I, bet you're hard right now after all these fine men, am I right?" The followers laughed.
"Hey, I said I'm calling the cops, asshole. I'm not gay; I just want to go home." He reached for the cell phone in his pocket.
One of the others smacked it out of his hand, and another grabbed him by the arm and pulled. The triangle of men shoved him around in the center. "What's the matter, faggot? Gotta go home and put your dick in someone, huh? The fuck's wrong with people like you? You like strippin' for cash, slut? Why don't you do it now, huh? You know what we do to fags around here?"
He found himself pinned roughly up against a wall by a pair of strong arms, feet just barely off the ground, while other hands tugged at his shirt and more still at his belt buckle. "Bet you like this, huh, fag?"
"Listen, you've got it all--d-don't," he stuttered, kicking out. He thought he saw a flash of a knife, but it could've just as easily been a watch or anything eye-catching in the dark.
Headlights illuminated the scene for a second, and they all turned their heads to the sight of a clearly marked police vehicle making its way down the street.
"Shit, let's fuckin' beat it, come on."
He hit the wall once more before feeling cement under his feet again. Quickly, he redid the front of his pants and retrieved his phone, nearly running the next block until he slipped into some bar and into the restroom, breathing hard and splashing his face with water, running his hands through his hair and feeling the back of his head.
A couple of drinks later, after finally calming himself down that he didn't concern fellow patrons, he made his way home and made sure to lock every lock on his door.
9. The fourth time he'd had sex was the first time he met Scott Douglas.
10. The fifth time had been the second time he ran into Scott, something he pretended not to remember but in reality would much rather forget. He was drunk. Drunk beyond drunk. More drunk than he'd been in a long, long time--or maybe more drunk than ever before. He almost couldn't remember why he'd gone out in the first place, which was the entire point. After a few calls and texts, he needed some air, outside, out of the bar.
"Billy?"
He knew that voice and spun. "You!" he cried, almost happily, as Scott made his way over. "You, you're a bastard! You know you're a bastard, right?"
Somehow, despite the insults, Scott had gotten him into his Lexus he'd parked not too far away--he had been walking someplace down the block when chance got in the way--under the guise of helping. Couldn't let someone he knew get shitfaced and try to make it home in that condition.
And somewhere along the line in the car, his insults let up, and he leaned closer. "Why you?"
"What's that?"
"I mean, you, it's just...you, why are you so pretty?"
"Excuse me?"
"Something about the eyes. You've got pretty eyes. Pretty eyes and a really pretty smile. I shouldn't like them, but I do. You're a pretty man."
This led to Scott showing him his place. The place wasn't what he was interested in.
He said "please" and "yes" and "fuck me" and found himself on his knees with Scott's cock in his mouth.
A little while later, he kept on saying "please" and "yes" and "fuck me" and eventually was bent over Scott's bed with a cock in his ass instead.
He hadn't wanted to leave, but Scott insisted, stuffing a twenty bill in a pocket and leading him back to the car. He nearly fell out in front of his apartment but wasn't displeased with Scott leaving now that he found himself with some extra cash for extra booze.