“I want to kiss you.”
“Uh, okay . . . you wanna flesh that out a bit?”
Rick was a straight buddy of mine. I mean straight. Totally. Completely. 100 % heterosexual. Trust me. I’d know if it was otherwise. He was hot. Beyond hot. Think Matthew McConaughey, only better looking. And I’m a slut. I’ve had sex with as many straight guys as gay guys. How they self-identify matters not a bit to me. If they’re up to the task, I’m all for it. But that just wasn’t Rick.
“No, I don’t mean that. Just a kiss. I just been thinking. It’s lips, a tongue, there really shouldn’t be any difference. I’m curious.”
I shot him an arched eyebrow, trying to figure just where the hell this was going. His face had turned beat red before he even opened his mouth, so I knew something was up. But the idea of a make-out session was a surprise. To say the least.
Rick and I had been friends for several years. Regular buddies, we hung out together a lot, and often hit the bars together, each on the prowl for our own version of a piece of ass for the night. In fact, we’d met at a bar. Perched on bar stools next to each other we’d started chatting, cracking sick jokes, and before the night was over had become BFFs.
“You know I’m not gay.” That was from our conversation the night we met. My mannerisms had not given me away, the fact that I checked out every hot guy who walked past did.
“That’s cool, it makes no difference to me”
He laughed. And then clarified, “No, I mean we’re not having sex.”
We bumped fists; our friendship was cemented. During the following years there had never been a question of us doing the dirty. It wasn’t that Rick was in the least bit homophobic, it just wasn’t in his wiring. And he was the kind of guy who, had his dick ever signalled the least bit of a tug, would have been all over it.
Rick was the perfect straight buddy. He didn’t overcompensate, generally treated my preference for guys with as much interest as if I preferred blondes over brunettes, but if he was overly curious about something in the gay world, he’d ask. And there was never any of the typical straight guy phobia that his gay friend might attack him some night. He was at ease in my company. The first time we hit the head together, he looked over, snorted, and said, “Ha! Mine’s bigger.”
Noting that he’d looked first, I checked the validity of his statement and shot back, “Barely. And I’m probably bigger when it counts.”
He just looked up at the ceiling, rolled his eyes while he shook his head, wisely deciding there was no possible comeback for him that would be a win-win. But that was Rick. Confident of who he was, and confident in our friendship. So the ‘let’s lock lips’ thing was a bit unexpected.
“Okay, so we’re just talking a kiss, right?”
“Yeah. But a real kiss. Full on.”
I nodded slowly, considering . . .
“But no touching!”
That one got a cocked head, the obvious being stated with just a gesture.
“No you bastard, I mean leave my cock alone.”
I laughed. And pushed it. “What about tit? Do I get some tit at least?”
His turn to laugh and he dissolved into a fit of giggles at the idea. “You’re gay! You’re not suppose to be trying to get to second base!”
“I didn’t mean I wanted to bury my face between your tits in a fit of mammary ecstasy, dude. I mean your nipples. Or at least one of them. If you want a real kiss, I mean the whole enchilada, then tit comes into play.”
His turn for an arched eyebrow. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to buy that or not.
“Look, it’s like with a woman. When you kiss her, I mean the get-her-all-wet-and-dripping kind of kiss, ya know how you move your thumb up to that spot just behind her ear? Well, same with a guy and a nipple.”
Now I was speaking his language. He knew exactly what I meant. But had never considered that on a guy there was an equally effective contact point. “Yeah. Okay. But we’re talking hand, not mouth, right?”
Geeze. This was getting to be more difficult than negotiating a first timer’s stab at bottoming. “Yes, one finger, maybe two,” I assured him (slightly disappointed). “You mean now? Because if I lean in you’re just gonna start laughing. Or do you want me to just sneak up on you some night and plant one on you that melts you into a little orgasmic ball of pleasure?”
Rick rolled his eyes, not as big of a fan of my confidence as I was of his. “No, now. Just give me a minute.” He took a deep breath, concentrating on the floor, getting himself reigned in and under control so that he wouldn’t start laughing. And could enjoy, or at least fully experience, what was to come.
I moved in.
“I want you to kiss me. I want to know what it is like to be kissed by a guy, not what it is like to kiss a guy.”
A bit exacerbated I started thinking, “In a minute you’re gonna know what it is like to have a guy’s cock crammed down your throat.” But he had a point. There is a difference. Not the guy thing. About kissing as opposed to being kissed. I’d never considered there was a top and bottom in kissing, too. But, at least initially, there is. Shit. So much for the fantasy of forced head.
“Okay, dude. Now, do you want me to rock your world or not?”
He shook his head again. I knew my statement would be enough to move things along. And ensure he wouldn’t start giggling.
So I kissed him. And it was good. He was good.
I was great.
It wasn’t a tentative peck, he was fully committed and gave tongue as good as he got. Our bodies were pressed together. And his tit responded well. With the attention of just one finger. Possibly, because I knew it’d go no further, it was one of the greatest kisses of my life. One that seemed to last a lifetime. Finally, I pulled away. And looked at him. In the eye. And then below the belt. Just in case.
Rick smiled knowingly and wagged his finger at me. “No. That didn’t happen,” he said taking a deep breath. “But that tit move? That was awesome.”
He was pleased. With himself. And with the kiss.
“You need to shave.”
Huh. Kissing a guy is a lot like kissing a woman. You give it your all. They melt. And then make some flippant remark about personal grooming. I gave him a ‘fuck you’ smile and made note that if he ever decided he wanted to try bottoming, payback would be in order.
Normally, a straight buddy of mine would never get away with a kiss like that. I mean that wouldn’t be the end of it. Every opportunity I’d have for years to come – preferably in mixed company – I’d remind him about the time we made out. Fucking with your friends is what friendship is all about. But I’ve never mentioned that kiss to Rick since that night. It was . . . special. It meant something. Not something gay. Not something sexual. Just: something.
Rick and I are still friends though we don’t see each other as often now that we live on opposite coasts. He does read this blog though. And I’m sure his face turned beat red when he realized what I was writing about. I doubt if he’ll mention it the next time we talk. But I’m sure that right about now he’s smiling. And nodding his head.
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