The Night Before We Met

by A. J. Lucas

  “You’re not about to tell me I should be looking for a girl to hook up with for the night based on her personality, are you?” he says, retching.

  “I kinda was!” I say. “Take me, for example.”

  “You wish,” he grins.

  “Har, har. No, but seriously. I have physical things I like in a guy, sure, but it’s not just about that. There’s something else sometimes, a kind of like, primal chemistry that’s either there or its not, and if I wrote guys off because they didn’t look the way I wanted them to, I wouldn’t have had some of the best sex I’ve ever had, which has been with guys I wouldn’t typically go for.”

  The slight waves are pushing us in to shore, and we’re almost in shallow-enough water to stand up. Under the darkening sky, out here in the ocean, after that one beer, after the day I’ve had, I’m feeling contemplative.

  “It’s almost a spiritual thing,” I continue. “I really believe that.”

  “Random sex?”

  “Yes! Like… for some reason, you and I — not you and I, literally, but, you know — for some reason you and I are here together tonight to feel good, so let’s get to it.”

  He’s quiet for a few minutes and then says, “Yeah, that makes sense. It’s good advice… y’know, just, don’t be closed off.”

  I slide off my board and put down my legs, realizing we’re only in about six inches of water at this point.

  “You about ready, Casanova?” I ask.

  Harrison rolls off his board and manages to submerge himself completely in the little bit of water below us, and then he hops to his feet, shaking the water out of his hair.

  “Absolutely.”

  3 - NIGHT

  Harrison convinces me to Uber back to his place in Santa Monica with him and have a drink at that bar he’s excited about. I had genuinely planned to go home and drink by myself and see who was around on the apps, but I’m enjoying spending time with him and I’m not ready for that part of the night to be over yet.

  That afternoon, when I’d opened Grindr at work, I had indeed gotten a dozen or so messages, most of them from headless torsos who said they were in town and looking for someone to “show them the ropes.” I sent a half-hearted bondage-related joke to one of them whose defined, perfect-V lower abs I liked, but he never replied, so that was the end of that.

  When we get to Harrison’s condo, a spacious, beautiful little house set a block back from the beach, he lets me root around in his closet for an outfit I want to wear for the night. He’s a bit heavier and slightly smaller than me, which means that all of his clothes tend to hang on me strangely. I select a maroon and gold striped bowling shirt and a pair of black skinny jeans — skinny for him, I guess, but normal for me — and admire myself in the mirror, trying to see what a guy at the bar will see.

  The bagginess looks intentional, and I actually kind of like it, because you can tell I’m not nearly as wide as the shirt, which I hope will be tantalizing, an incentive for a guy to get me in a situation where he wants to see what’s underneath the clothes. My hair is kind of frizzy from the salt water, but that’s okay, too — I like guys being able to tell that I spend time on the ocean. And my tan is glowing from the extra two hours in the sun this evening.

  I look good.

  In his kitchen, Harrison pulls out a bottle of nice tequila from the stocked liquor cabinet above the fridge and pours us both shots. He doesn’t have a lime, so we take the shots straight up, with no chaser. As soon as we’re done, he pours another round, and we knock that back, too.

  “Need a lot of liquid courage tonight,” he says.

  “Don’t drink so much your dick stops working!” I remind him.

  “Never had that problem before!”

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s happened to me before. Not fun.”

  “How drunk were you?”

  A memory of someone else’s lips on my thigh, my lips on someone else’s thigh.

  “Pretty drunk,” I admit. “I don’t do that anymore. Typically. I’d rather get fucked than get wasted.”

  Before we leave for the bar, we take another round. By the time we walk out the front door and start heading towards the center of Santa Monica, where The Archipelago is, I’m feeling great, the warmth of the tequila spreading throughout my entire body. Tequila always makes me feel strong (until it knocks me flat on my back), like I can do anything. Or anyone.

  “Archipelago” is a fancy-sounding name for a bar that’s pretty hole-in-the-wall, tucked between a small studio screening room theater and a mediterranean restaurant. After walking through the door we find ourselves in a small, cramped entryway; there’s a door at the other end, so we push through that and the bar opens up in front of us.

  It’s a kitschy tiki bar, with coconut wallpaper on the walls and streamers hanging from the ceiling. The drinks appear to be served in wood-carved idol glasses, with gigantic straws in shades of pink and baby blue. The two bartenders are wearing Hawaiian shirts, tied up to show off their cleavage and toned stomachs, and there’s a pile of leis on a table just inside the door.

  I grab one and toss it over Harrison’s head before he notices what I’m doing. “There!” I say. “Now you’ve fulfilled your night’s plan of getting—”

  “Don’t you dare fucking say it,” he groans.

  We find an open spot at the end of the bar and sit on the two stools. While we wait to be served Harrison and I scope out the other people at the bar.

  It’s still relatively early, so for the most part the tables around us are empty. One booth is occupied by a group of guys who appear to have either intentionally dressed up for the tiki theme, decked out in Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses, or else they just dress like that normally to visit Santa Monica, which is kind of sad. They all look pretty straight. There are a few girls standing by the entrance; one has just brought over a tray full of shots, and she’s handing them out to her friends.

  “Who do you want to talk to?” I ask him.

  Before he can answer the blonde bartender comes over to take our order. Harrison orders us two tequila shots and two Jumbo Strawberry Jalapeño Margaritas and hands over his card.

  “Thanks, man,” I say. He always buys the first round without asking and he never expects me to return the favor, which I appreciate given the disparity in our financial situations.

  He says, “Of course. You get me laid tonight and you can have whatever drinks you want.” I open my mouth to remind him of the necklace, but he cuts me off. “Don’t. Anyway. Ummm…”

  He scans the crowd around us.

  “What about her?” I ask, nodding towards a pretty redhead sitting at the other end of the bar, seemingly by herself.

  He stares, blatantly, obviously, too long, and she looks over. She smiles, fluttering her eyelashes, and then she turns back to her drink, fumbling with the long electric-blue straw. She pulls out her phone and begins tapping away at it, clearly trying not to look at us again.

  “That’s a good sign,” he says. “Isn’t that a good sign?”

  As our oversized drinks arrive in hollowed-out coconuts, my own phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out as I take a sip — no matter how tacky the decor, the margarita is phenomenal — and see I have a Grindr notification.

  The guy who buzzed me has his name listed simply as “J.,” and it says he’s five miles away. The profile is headless, yes, but the chest is broad and expansive, and it’s covered in dark, curly hair. I immediately feel my dick start to press against my underwear; chests don’t usually do it for me, but this is one impressive chest.

  I click over to the Messages. He’s said, Hey.

  He gets a Hey in return, and then I set my phone face-down on the bar in front of me. We clink the shot glasses together — they’re shaped like little tiki men — and down the tequila, following it up with a bite of lime wedge.

  “You want me to see if she’ll come over?” I ask Harrison, who’s now sucking on his straw so hard his cheeks are hollowed in. He nods and doesn’t st
op drinking, evidently desperate for a bit more “liquid courage” now that things are actually happening. “Watch my phone?” I ask, and he nods again.

  I take my drink over to the redhead, sliding onto the stool next to her. For a moment I plan to let her talk to me, but then I remember that I don’t actually want her interested in me, I want her interested in my friend instead.

  “Hey,” I say, and she turns to look at me. “How are you tonight?”

  “I’m okay,” she says. “How are you?”

  “I’m feeling great!” I say honestly. “My name is Felix.”

  “That’s a great name,” she says, pausing for a moment, keeping me in suspense. Then: “I’m Felicia.”

  “Imagine that!” I say, and she grins. She has a really pretty smile. Harrison’s gonna go nuts over this girl.

  Between this and the lesbian bachelorette party, I don’t like how many coincidences keep happening today. It feels like fate is pushing me toward something, something I don’t really have a say in, and I don’t appreciate feeling that way. I like being in control.

  So of course I take another long swig of the margarita — which is rather heavy on the tequila, now that I’m used to the jalapeño. If it’s gonna happen, I may as well let myself get carried along with whatever currents of fate are at play tonight.

  “So this is gonna sound really rude,” she says, “but… is your friend single? No offense or anything. You’re hot. You’re super hot. But he’s more my type.”

  “You’re gonna be glad to hear this,” I say. “I’m gayer than a handbag full of rainbows and I’m just here to wingman my friend, Harrison.”

  She grins again, showing off perfect white teeth that are probably veneers. This is Los Angeles, after all. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” she says. She stands up and picks up her drink. “Should we go talk to him?”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” I say.

  She follows me over toward Harrison, and I let her take the stool while I stand next to them.

  “Harrison, this is Felicia,” I say. “She asked me to get the fuck out of the way so she could talk to you instead.”

  “Stop!” she gasps, blushing. “That’s not what I said!”

  “Hi,” Harrison says. “I tell him to get the fuck out of the way all the time, it’s fine. He gets used to it.”

  While they start talking, I pick my phone up off the bar to see what J.’s had to say.

  My stomach flips as I see 3 messages waiting for me.

  First, he’s sent a face picture, revealing himself to be exactly as rugged and handsome as that picture of his chest suggested he might be. He has deep-set dark-brown eyes, tight curly hair, and a sharply-cut beard that probably feels amazing to rub your cheeks against. All types of cheeks.

  Second, he said, What are you looking for, man? I like a guy who gets right down to it sometimes, and also I like a guy who’s casual with words like “man” and “dude.” It’s the surfer in me, I guess. And I want this man in me too.

  Finally — and when I scroll to it, I have to hold my phone close to my chest so no one else around me notices what I’m looking at — he’s sent me a dick pic. And it’s the rare pic of a soft dick that’s still incredibly arousing and impressive, one that makes you want to do everything you can to see it get hard. His cock is thick and long, nestled in a dark tangle of hair, and upon seeing it, I know immediately that this man and I are going to have a fun night together.

  Damn, I type back. Great cock, man.

  I open up my private album and send a few photos his way — a mirror pic showing off my ass, another angle of my face and bare chest, and finally, a picture of my own dick. I’m hard in the pic — I’m a grower, not a shower — but it’s still a decent enough size that I usually get the boys drooling over it. The bottoms, especially, like how it curves slightly upwards.

  He replies almost immediately. Fuck, you too, says the message. Wanna mess around?

  “Yo, Earth to Felix,” Harrison says, and I realize I’ve been engrossed in my phone for a few minutes and haven’t heard a word anyone has said.

  “What?”

  “You want a shot? While you keep sending dick pics?”

  I consider. I’m already feeling good and horny, but this guy isn’t particularly close, and I want to keep my buzz going until we’re able to meet up.

  “Yeah, why not,” I say. “Tequila, please! Also, sorry if you just saw my dick!”

  I realize the bartender’s been waiting on my answer and has been listening to us, and she cackles as she walks away to start pouring.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harrison grumbles to Felicia, who laughs. She has a beautiful laugh, almost musical. Harrison’s gonna have fun with her.

  Definitely, I say. Where are you?

  WeHo, comes the reply. Can you host?

  Sure, I write back. I don’t usually invite guys over until we’ve chatted longer, and I would prefer even more if he had me over instead, but I’m appreciating how this is going so far. I love the game, but also sometimes I love just being direct and animalistic with someone. We know exactly what we’re looking for and we seem to both want the other to give it to us. I’m in Santa Monica right now, but my place is in Culver City. I can be back there in like, half an hour?

  Perfect, he says. I’ll shower and call an Uber. Send me a pin.

  The bartender brings over our shots. After we’ve raised them to each other and tossed them back, I notice Harrison is looking at me expectantly.

  “So, I’m gonna head out,” I say. “Give you two a little time to get to know each other.”

  “Aww, you don’t have to,” he says in a tone that tells me I absolutely do.

  “Felicia, it was great to meet you,” I say, kissing her on the hand in a way that makes her blush like the bachelorette had that afternoon, “and Harrison, thanks for the drinks! I’ll get you back next time.” I probably won’t, and he knows it, but that’s okay.

  4 - After Midnight

  The Uber pulls up in front of my building shortly after midnight. The tequila has hit me pretty hard already; my head is swimming a bit, and my entire body is vibrating at the thought of what I’m about to do.

  In the car on the way, I’d exchanged more messages with J., who said he didn’t want to give me his full name. I don’t usually go for things like that — it often means a boyfriend, or even worse, a girlfriend — but something about this guy’s semi-aggressive demeanor and, yes, his photos made me want to go along with whatever he said.

  He said he was exclusively a top, and he hoped I was okay with that. I’m almost exclusively a top, too, preferring to be the dominant one in bed, and I almost said as much in reply, but then I took another look at that photo of his wide, furry chest, and instead I wrote back, That’s totally fine.

  I didn’t send him the exact location of my apartment until a couple of minutes before I’d gotten home, because I wanted a bit of time to prepare myself before he showed up. He says he’ll be at my place in half an hour.

  Now, after buzzing myself in and unlocking the front door of my apartment, I strip off my clothes in the entryway and walk straight to the bathroom, naked, already semi-hard.

  A little while later, I’m ready. I’ve been half-hard for what feels like most of the night at this point, and all I can think about is rubbing my hands over his hairy chest and feeling that impressive cock lengthening while I play with it.

  He lets me know he’s about five minutes away, so I raid my own liquor cabinet, which is significantly less-well-stocked than Harrison’s. To my surprise, tucked in the back I find a nearly-empty bottle of tequila. May as well keep the theme of the night going, I think. I pour the remaining amber liquid — maybe a shot and a half — into a rocks glass and add a cube of ice.

  While I sip, I gather my clothes from the front hallway and toss them in the laundry hamper in my closet, admiring myself in the wall-length mirror that hangs on the sliding closet doors. It provides
a great view of the bed, and I always enjoy sneaking a glance at my performance. Sometimes I feel weird about it, like I’m Christian Bale in American Psycho, but it can be hot, too, like we’re performing for only our enjoyment.

  After looking at myself for a moment, wondering what impression I’d give him if I answered the door in the nude, I decide to pull on a pair of athletic short-shorts that accentuate my ass, and that’s all.

  My phone rings; J. is at the call box downstairs. Even over the crackling microphone of the old box, is voice is husky, just like I imagined, and I stiffen even more underneath the shorts. I hit the button to let him come inside.

  A moment later there’s a sharp rap at my front door. I down the rest of my drink and set the glass in the sink, and then I open the door. And there he is.

  He’s taller than I am by a few inches, which immediately makes me feel small and intimidated, and submissive. He smirks, looking almost shy, as he says, “Hey.”

  I stand to the side so he can come in, and then I close and lock the door behind him

  Before I have a chance to turn around, he envelops me in those big, bulging arms, hugging me from behind. I feel his lips on the back of my neck and his bulge pressing against my ass, and my entire body goes tingly, every nerve seeming to fire at once. I lean back into him involuntarily, letting myself be lost in the feel of his body against mine.

  After a few minutes, I turn around so we’re facing each other and reach up to run my hand through his hair. Before I can, he catches my wrist and pins it at my side. Oh, so it’s going to be like that, I think, and the thought makes me almost giddy with excitement and arousal.

  He leans down and kisses me, pressing his lips into mine, and that beard does feel as good against my cheek as I imagined. It’s soft; he must oil it. His lips are soft, too, unlike most of the guys around here who don’t wear any kind of lip balm, and I enjoy the way they feel exploring mine. He slips his tongue into my mouth and I moan.

  And then he puts his hands under my ass and picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his strong back. I’m a bit over six feet, I never get picked up. I’m usually the one picking up the guy I’m hooking up with to carry him to the bed!