Stephen didn’t normally do this, pick up men in bars. It was different with women, more of a chase, buy them drinks, flatter them and maybe they’d let you take them home.
It wasn’t like that with men though, a meeting of eyes across the bar and then Stephen would find himself outside in some dirty alley being pressed against a wall as some stranger fell to his knees in front of him.
What Stephen doesn’t like to admit is that he almost prefers this, the rough texture of concrete against his back, the smell of vomit and trash and the flickering of headlights casting broken shadows down into the darkness.
The easy simplicity of it, the anonymity, the slightest shame that he doesn’t know the origin of. He hates to admit it but he loves this.
He doesn’t know the name of the man whose lips are wrapped around his dick, only that he has a fucking obscene mouth and absolutely does not have sandy blonde hair. Which is just about all he needs right now.
The passing of traffic casts a strobe like light over them, freezing each moment in time and everything becoming a series of snapshots, like a flick book of porn.
The hard edge of Stephen’s hip as the stranger’s fingers grip it.
Tiny intervals of cock slipping out of mouth that looks sharp and washed out in the harsh light.
The exaggerated movement of an arm as the stranger does what Stephen has no interest in doing.
When Stephen comes he is not polite about it, he does not warn, he does not pull back, he thrusts forward until the stranger gags around him, spilling himself down an almost unwilling throat.
It only takes moments before his pants are zipped back up and he’s walking towards the strobe-flash of the traffic, leaving behind a stranger with his hand on a cock that Stephen has no interest in anymore.