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Straight Men, Sucking D*ck Does Not Make You Gay

Updated: Jul 07, 2022 09:46
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Cum on down to Glory Hole. Sucking dick has never been easier. You don’t need to know names!

Cheers to the straight guys who have fooled around with me. I think of you from time to time, and I hope you’re well. You’re an integral part of my adolescence and early college years. I share our memories (anonymously, of course) with my gay friends to convivial laughter. They each have similar stories of their own. You guys’ M.O. changed over time but the ending was always the same: an abrupt end to all communication. I no longer hold this against you. As long as you know that sucking my dick made you no gayer than fingerblasting that loud girl from play rehearsals made me straight. It’s all part of the journey.


You were my first best friend, and the owner of my first true kiss. I’d kissed girls before. Second grade was really slutty. What I mean is kissing you was the first time it felt right. “We’re practicing for girls,” you said. I nodded and went on pretending.

We were the ADHD kings of our grade school’s Latchkey program. I’m pretty sure we made a couple counselors quit. That energy followed us home, where I kept hanging out with you until your dad started dinner. He let me stay more than once.

I approached you in tenth grade after six years of uncomfortable silence. We still lived in the same neighborhood. You refused to come outside. When I asked if you remembered kissing me, you said you’d hoped I forgot.


When my grandma sent me to bible camp to pray the gay away, she should’ve known that I would’ve found the other queers. What a stupid bitch. 

In our shitty concrete cabin, you chose a bed opposite mine. I was stunned by your eyes (so fucking blue!). The gays have all sorts of names for your body type: Farmhand. Corn-fed. Thick. You liked strutting around shirtless—problematic if only because I didn’t want to get caught staring.

You and I hit it off. Remember? You inducted me into your group of friends back in Topeka, and we spent several humid summer days smashing people’s windshields and hurling rocks at water towers. You guys liked to roughhouse (deeply homoerotic despite your heterosexuality) and when you pulled me into it, I felt your dick stiffen against my thigh. 

We blew each other in a field across from your parent’s farmhouse, which you said you wished to leave one day. This was one of my favorite dick-sucking memories for years. We didn’t talk much after that, but we stayed friends online. Then you went on a right-wing tirade on one of my posts and that was it. I hope you got out of that farmhouse though.


I said you were ugly because of the way you treated me after the fact, once people knew. In truth you weren’t tragic, but I told people you looked like a burn victim whose face they extinguished with a brick. You were the first guy I really bottomed for. Others had failed where you, a man who swore upon his heterosexuality, succeeded. Congratulations.

It’s not that I thought you were gay. I was however certain you weren’t straight. You always sat a little too close, making thinly veiled jokes about pounding me. I’d look at you, and your smile would falter. Your hands scurried into your pockets. Bumbling around the town square one day, we wound up in a cemetery with no other living persons present.

We found a patch of grass and lay on it, smoking cigarettes. I rested my head on your stomach and joked about sucking your dick. You didn’t protest. Your free hand found its way to my head, fingers grazing through my hair. I can’t remember who moved first, but soon enough, we were kissing between the headstones.

Romantic as a Shakespearean sonnet, you told me, “I wanna feel how tight your ass is.” You carried condoms on you like all seventeen-year-old hopefuls do. You fucked me to completion using only the lube on the latex. Something about your style told me you had done this before.

When it was my turn, I got two, maybe three thrusts in before you called it quits. We went back to your house and washed our hands. When my mother picked me up, she asked about the grass stains on my new jeans. “Soccer,” I said.


My ignorance was a gesture of phallic anxiety. Who will love me, I worried at nineteen? When will he appear? Will I ever find the one cock to rule them all? These questions, prescribed by the few other gays I knew, by the crushing fear of loneliness, by Desperate Housewives, haunted me. That I’d only bottomed only once before frightened me.

I was convinced you weren’t a True Gay unless you’d taken dick. The gay men I’d seen in porn (NSFW!) were fit, white guys with eager holes that could swallow a whole jetplane. It seemed I had big shoes to fill. I remember thinking, what if my ass is no good? I turned to you for answers.

So when we were making out in your basement bedroom, I had a goal. Matters progressed, and when I came down to it, your mom came home. Fuck! What a nightmare. We snuck out to my car and I drove you to my house. “Don’t worry,” I told you, “my mom’s medication knocks her right out.”

It was dark in my bedroom. I didn’t switch on the light because I didn’t want you to see the true scope of the mess. I reached for a bottle and passed it to you in the dark. It hurt at first, which I expected. Then it really started to hurt. I’m talking about burning-stinging-caustic pain. We turned the lights on. I’d handed you a bottle of body wash.


I don’t know if you remember me like I do you. Looking back, I wanted far more than any of you were prepared for. Isn’t that what it all comes down to? We’ve all since gone our separate ways. It happened so long ago that these are just stories.

1999 graduated from an elite art school and became a successful tattoo artist.

2005 still lives in Topeka last I heard, breaking down tires at a Goodyear plant.

2006 moved to Arkansas with a girl we knew from school. I haven’t heard from either since.

2009 lives in Kansas City. He and his wife have two kids. His mom still likes my posts.

Sometimes I wish we didn’t fall out of touch. Most of all, I hope you guys didn’t torment yourselves. Sucking my dick didn’t make you gay then, and it doesn’t mean you are now. Not that it would matter if you were. Identity matters until it doesn’t. Even if we no longer talk, you’re still who you are to me and I like you for that. Sexuality is fluid, desires can change. I hope you are happy and loved.

Excerpted from a larger piece in a working manuscript.
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Jake Warren

Jake Warren

A Potawatomi nonfiction writer and Tenderloin resident possessing an Indigenous perspective on sexuality and a fascination with etymological nuance. Queer decolonial leftist, cannabis industry affiliate, seasoned raver, and unofficial earthquake authority.