Adam’s Apple, Part I
Introduction:
A straight man gets more than he bargained for sitting in a sports bar
Where we live is a pretty walkable neighborhood, and its streets are lined with plenty of bars to while away the time. Some time back, I had a lot of time to while away – my wife was out of town for the week on business, and my own work was going to slowly that I was out of the office before 5. That left me with a lot of time at home to masturbate, and as the week wore on, the women pretty much disappeared from my waking materials.
Now I don’t know about you, but if I spend too much time alone at home wanking, I begin to feel a little stir crazy, and more than a little depressed. Come Wednesday night, I finally decided that there had been enough leftover pizza and beer, and more than enough masturbation to get me through the next several months. I grabbed my things, locked up and headed for a sports bar up the street. It’s a bit of a dive, but it’s always got open seats and there’s a decent selection on tap to go with all the flat screens over the bar – the perfect place to blow off some steam and kill some time.
When I got in, the place was pretty empty, which was fine by me. No crowds meant I didn’t have to fight with people to get a hockey game on. I sat down, decided it was a light night and ordered a Shiner, and had the bartender switch the nearest screen to the Rangers game. It seemed like the perfect evening until a new guy strolled into the bar and sat down next to me. It seemed a little weird at the time – there were probably 6 other empty places with no one adjacent that he could have taken – but I didn’t think anything of it, until he started speaking.
“Fucking Rangers,” he said a little too loudly into my ear.
I hadn’t really taken a look when he came in, so now I finally looked over and took stock of him. He was taller then me, probably 6-1, and it was clear from the first glance that he worked out. He didn’t bulge through the Thomas Pink shirt in some grotesque fashion like those Creatine-heads who lift every day, but his biceps tugged nicely at the seams and the thin cut showed off his broad shoulders and apparently fat-less stomach. His hair was dark and short-cropped, a little spiky and damp from the drizzle outside, but it did a nice job of framing the squared jaw and the five o’clock shadow growing on it. I must have been staring just a little too long, because I caught glance of those deep brown eyes waiting for an answer.
“Fucking Flyers,” my retort stumbled out.
He smiled at me – such white teeth – and moved his stool a little closer. “I’m Adam,” he said and tipped the glass that had suddenly appeared before him. From the way the bartender treated him, he must have been a regular.
“Mark,” I managed to force out and quickly took my glass to my lips. I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling so flustered – it must have been all the porn. I vowed to put it past me and just talk about sports with him, enjoying the conversation.
So my first drink turned into a second, then a third. We got into it on a few subjects – American soccer, baseball playoffs, hockey – and after a while our stools were practically pushed up against one another. I failed to notice until the conversation got heated again, and I felt something slip onto my leg. I tried to brush it off, then play it cool, but there was no denying it – his left hand was firmly on my right thigh, his fingers on the inside, rubbing me counter-clockwise. Any other time I would have recoiled, but three beers in, I was feeling newly empowered. I spread my right leg further out and moved myself a little closer to the bar, forcing his fingers upward. He responded by quickening his pace and pushing a little harder. His middle finger crept even further north and began rubbing my perineum. I nearly let out a moan at the new sensation, but I bit my tongue instead and tried to figure out just how far I was going to let this go…
