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Introduction:

A straight man gets more than he bargained for sitting in a sports bar
Ever since I hit puberty, I had harbored a desire to be with a man. Not enough to be considered gay, or even bi, but it was strong nevertheless. I never was able to get past the details of a man - the hair, the scent, the strong rough hands. So I contented myself with women, and I eventually married one. I'd get off every so often on a little gay porn, or I'd take advantage of the few opportunities afforded to me to indulge - stealing a private moment with her vibrator, giving her a little anal sex here and there, or kissing her after she gave me a blowjob so I could imagine the cock had been in my mouth and not hers. I had even toyed with the idea of the casual encounters section on craigslist. The thought of fucking a stranger was so exciting, and I could spend an hour or more looking at all of the self-posted cock shots. A few times I even responded, from a secret email account, and once or twice I even set up a meeting, only to duck out at the last minute. Every time, there was too much to think about - my marriage, the chance of disease, the nagging feeling that I wouldn't really like it.

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...
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