3. Vincent

THREE

I have never done this before. A blind date, one-night stand. Hookup. Whatever it's called. It's one of the reasons I like SWISH. The men are typically looking for more than a roll in the hay, but something about Kent … That beard. That silver hair. Those kind eyes. The soft dad bod I sense underneath his crumpled clothes. It's been four years since anyone but my right hand has touched my cock. Marvin said to listen to my heart, but he didn't mention my dick. Take a risk. Stay open. With Kent, all my cylinders are firing. I decide to go for it. Him.

Kent follows me home and parks in my condo's guest spot. As we walk up the path, the sound of our footsteps echoes through the quiet night air. I offered him dessert but don't have anything sweet. He has to know I didn't invite him back to make hot fudge sundaes. Approaching the entry, I turn and shoot him a grin. Somehow, this sends him tripping over my doormat.

"I'm fine. Sorry," he says, catching himself on the doorframe.

Nervous tension bubbles, but I'm not turning back. Marvin texted me on the ride home, and I told him the date was going extremely well. That man loves to text. I'll give him the details in the morning. When there's something to divulge.

Removing my shoes at the door, I glance at Kent, and without a word, he pops his off and carefully places them next to mine. Shoes are a start, but right now, I'm determined to separate Kent from his clothes.

"I'm sorry again about your shirt. If you give it to me, I can use a stain stick on it. Get the wine right out," I say.

"Are you trying to get me to strip?"

I am. This isn't me. No one has ever been to my place for a date. Ever. But something about Kent's sweetness. His face. That wavy hair. I don't want to make a fool of myself, but the mood doesn't strike often. And I can't remember it ever striking like this. Sparks. Flames. The iron isn't hot. It's scorching. It wouldn't be wise to waste it. There's no backing out now.

"Maybe." I close the door, and when it clicks, my palms find Kent's chest, thrusting him against the wall. His glasses wobble with the impact and land askew on his face.

With the under-the-counter lights in the kitchen providing a modicum of illumination, we lock eyes. Kent pushes my buttons. His woodsy smell. I'm not an outdoorsy person, but I'd love to be smothered in this campfire. I grasp Kent's shirt, but his eyes widen so I hastily let go, not wanting him to think I'm assaulting him.

"Is this okay?" I reach to fix his glasses.

He nods, but his searching eyes give me pause.

"I really want to kiss you."

My eyes land on his soft lips, surrounded by that shaggy but trimmed beard. The thought of kissing his mouth sends a wave of heat to my core.

"Me?" he asks.

"No, I was hoping we could drive to your place, and I could kiss your cat." He laughs. A low, deep throttle and his Adam's apple bobs up and down. It's rare for me to be this close to someone without wanting to flee. "Yes, you." My nose almost touches his. "You're very sexy."

"Oh. Um, okay. Sure."

And because almost everything about Kent butters my biscuit, I lean in, my nose brushing his. But then it hits me like a landslide—our mouths. We just ate. Both of us. Even all the wiping in the world won't stop the odors. The textures. The germs. Familiar uncertainty looms. My stomach turns in tight coils, and fuck, I was so into this.

"Can I ask a small favor?" I ask, attempting a quick rescue.

"Um, sure," he says. "You kind of have me up against the wall."

"Would you mind"—I glance down—"brushing your teeth?"

"You want me to drive home, brush my teeth, and come back?"

"Gosh, no, I have a toothbrush. Toothbrushes. I buy them in bulk."

A new brush every week because they're a breeding ground for germs. And they're amazing for cleaning grout and getting into tight corners.

"I'll brush, too. Please," I beg and begin unbuttoning his stained shirt. A white V-neck allows a little of his chest hair to poke through, and for fuck's sake, it's silver too. The sight of it sends my cock lurching in my briefs.

"I need us to clean our mouths." I brush his bottom lip with my index finger. It's soft and warm. "Now."

"Vincent, listen," he says, reaching for my chin and lifting my head so our eyes lock. "My lips are vibrating because I want to kiss you so badly. Let's get brushing."

My head and heart tussle over the mood and my fears, but desire crackles at his comment. He's so damn empathetic. He really doesn't seem to mind.

"Come," I say, taking his hand. My thumb grazes the velvety hair on his knuckles, igniting a wave of desire within me.

In the bathroom, I hand Kent a brand-new, still-in-the-package blue toothbrush. He pops it open, and I put a dab of toothpaste on it for him before applying some to my own. We stand beside each other, brushing, facing the mirror, at my double vanity that's never had a purpose before tonight. Kent scoots closer and knocks his hip against mine. When I look at his reflection, an encouraging foamy grin greets me.

"My mouth is going to be so fucking clean," he mumbles through the toothpaste.

His words send another jolt of electricity straight to my cock. My weekly service scoured the bathroom yesterday, and I scrub surfaces every other day in between. It's spotless. I can almost smell the bleach under the minty-ness in my mouth, and when I spit and rinse, Kent, taking his cue, does the same. I quickly wash my hands with soap, and Kent follows suit, copying every step so we're equally sanitized. Before he finishes drying his hands and mouth on the guest towel, I clutch his open shirt and begin tugging.

"Can we take this off?" I pull gently at it, avoiding the stain. "Please?"

"So polite. Of course," he says and peels it off. He stands in only his white V-neck. His stomach protrudes enough to lift the hem of the shirt, and his soft belly, covered in salt-and-pepper hair, peeks through. My erection now aches against my pants. Kent holds the wadded-up garment, glancing around to find a place for it.

"I can get that wine out for you." I take the shirt and throw it into the hamper in the corner. The remote on the vanity beckons, and I reach over and click play. Simple strums fade in, Lindsey Buckingham's tenor begins, joined by the perfectly matched harmonies of the ladies, and "Second Hand News" pours out of the ceiling-mounted speakers, filling the bathroom with music.

"Rumours," Kent says.

"Now," I say, rubbing my hands on his chest, sneaking up toward the exposed skin and hair, letting my clean fingers get lost in his silver forest. "May I?"

Our lips are inches apart, and his breath tickles my nose. Fresh and pristine. Fuck yes.

"Are you ready for a kiss?"

Kent answers by brushing his lips on mine. His beard is softer than I thought, and I pull him closer, wanting to feel his body. All of him. He's bigger than me, taller. Softer. Yup, there's a sexy dad bod underneath his T-shirt, and my cock, at full attention now, rubs against his. I hope he's not alarmed. He wraps his arms around me, drawing us even closer.

His hands land on my waist, and there it is.

Kent's stiffness rivals mine, and the scared, worried me seems to take a temporary vacation. He could've taken one look at me, my rituals and triggers, my needs and insecurities, and said "No, thank you." But he didn't. He's here. Deepening the kiss and slowly grinding into me.

Kent's tongue slowly parts my lips, but he's tentative. His kindness might be the sexiest thing about him.

Pulling back, he pauses the kiss. "Vincent, this all working for you?"

"C'mere."

Now I part his lips, my tongue jutting in, and he lets me enter. Soft moans escape his mouth, and kissing Kent here in my bathroom, the sensation of both our dicks pining for each other makes my head spin. His hands are above my ass, and a soft moan escapes my lips from the thrusting and friction. I'm fairly certain there's precum in my briefs, and the seething heat takes over as my cock slides against the wetness.

"Kent?"

"Uh-huh." He's back at my mouth. His hands have migrated to my neck, and his fingers explore the back of my head.

"I don't usually do this."

"Me neither. Never, actually."

"Okay, I just didn't want you to think?—"

"Vincent, you know what I think?" He nibbles my upper lip and runs his palm over my smooth head. When his fingers land on my ears, he rubs the lobes. "I think you're beautiful."

The electric guitar solo joins the song just in time to fade out, and the drum kick and synths of "Dreams" wash over us, saturating the room with musical perfection. My hands move under his shirt, and his body, velvety, but unexpectedly firm, makes my fingers tingle. Soft fur covers his entire chest and belly. Jackpot. My fingers locate his nipples and softly massage.

"Dessert," I say.

"You're hungry?"

"We were supposed to come back here for dessert."

"I'm fine, I promise." Kent dips back in for a kiss that takes my breath away. My mood. Something about Kent unglues me and right now coming untethered intoxicates me.

"Kent, may I please suck your cock?"

Apparently, my rational thinking has taken a momentary leave of absence.

"Um, what?" Kent stumbles back against the vanity. He catches himself on the edge, and with a tilted head, his eyebrows have gathered for an important meeting.

"I'm not always in the mood or ready, but right now, with you, I'm so fucking turned on," I explain, pointing to my tented pants, "and your dick is …" I gently cup his groin. He's firm, thick, and rock hard. "May I suck it? Please?"

"Vincent, you don't have to …"

"I want to." I lick my lips, coating them in minty saliva. "Like, really want to."

I massage him through his khakis, thankful the fabric is thin and soft.

"I showered before our date," he blurts. "Before the cat pill fiasco, not after, but still, I'm only a few hours from sparkly clean. If you wanted me to jump in here, say the word, do you have guest towels?"

I unbutton his khakis, grab the waist of both his pants and his boxers, and push them to the ground in one fell swoop. Kent's beefy cock pops up, and he wobbles for a moment. He steadies himself on the sink, and before I have a change of heart, I lower myself to my knees and take him in my hand. It's been a while since I've held someone else's dick, and Kent's is a beauty. Long, thick, and cut, the pink tip taunts me.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Um, yeah. Definitely."

He's looking down at me, watching me stare at his beautiful cock.

"Could you … talk to me?"

The music. The harmonies. The crispness. It's almost enough. He's been babbling until now, and his voice will seal the deal.

"Talk to you?"

"Yeah. Tell me what you like, what I'm doing well. If you could tell me, I'm"—if I'm doing this, there's no reason not to ask for exactly what I want—"good. A good boy."

Ten years ago. In the sauna. A quick blow job. I barely remember him, but I'd seen him shower-scrubbing like there was no tomorrow. While he was using me, fucking my face, he called me a "good boy," and bliss washed over me. I felt safe. Cherished. Comforted. I've only had a couple of hookups since. Nobody's called me that, and I haven't had the guts to ask. But with Kent, I'm at ease. And why not? I won't see him after tonight.

He reaches for my face, cups my cheeks, and rubs my ears with his fingertips. The music swells as his cock stiffens. Lindsey Buckingham's sweet voice fills my head, singing about being secondhand.

"Vincent. I'll do whatever you want." Kent bends over and kisses the top of my head. "I'm happy to talk to you." He stands, and the tip tempts me. "Now, please suck my dick like a good boy."

And with that, my entire body eases, and I take Kent's gorgeous cock in my mouth. Only the head first, and yup, he definitely showered recently. The mountain spring smell of his soap enters my nose, and the crispness, mixed with a tiny tinge of sweat, makes my dick expand in my pants.

"Vincent," he whispers and tips my head up, his cock slowly sliding deeper into my mouth. "Please let me know if anything doesn't feel good. Or if you want to stop."

I move off him for a second. "More talking." That's all I've got. He's showing concern about my comfort, my needs, even as his thick dick stretches my lips. Hearing his deep voice while I suck Kent off might be all it takes to elicit my orgasm.

"Taste those balls," he coos as I lap at them. "Good boy. Nice long strokes. Get it nice and wet."

I reach around and grab his ass. It's fuzzy—thank you, Jesus—and carefully guide him to thrust into my mouth. As Kent takes over, slowly picking up the pace, plunging deep down my throat, he grabs on to my head, rubbing and massaging the dome. I reach down and free my cock, palming it with my right hand while my left continues to assist my mouth in swallowing Kent's delicious dick.

"Vincent, you're such a sweet cocksucker. So good." His fingers brush my forehead, and when I close my eyes, his thumbs sweep my eyelashes. "You look so beautiful with my dick in your mouth."

For someone who hasn't been with a man since high school, Kent's verbal game is on point. His words deliver a tingling pleasure through me. "Mmmh," I mutter, and then pull off, spit dripping from my lips and his tip to say, "Your cock is fucking delicious. It's perfect."

"You like sucking it?"

"I do." I gobble him up again, doing my best to take as much of him down my throat as possible.

"Oh, damn," he gasps. He rests back on the vanity. "Legs. Tired. Fuck, Vincent, you suck so well. You take my cock like a good boy."

His words splash over my entire body, and my dick throbs in my hand while Kent fills every space in my mouth, creating a shockwave of intense pleasure. Finally, I'm able to deepthroat him, the furry salt-and-pepper fuzz on his belly tickling my nose, and I'm done for. My balls tighten, and I know I'm about to make a massive mess. Right now, I don't care.

My small groans must tip him off because Kent asks, "Are you close? Do you want to come while I'm in your mouth?"

I peer up at him, his cock filling my mouth, and nod.

"Be a good boy, and come for me, Vincent."

I jerk myself faster, using both hands now, and Kent takes charge. He's fucking my face like a champ, and my orgasm rises, taking over, and I whimper as he slams his cock into my mouth. Moans sneak out of my lips as I shoot thick ropes all over his shins and onto the floor.

I lean back and rest on the tile, the cool surface shocking my skin. My dick, still dripping, slowly softens and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of my current situation. What have I done? Something about Kent overrode the intrusive thoughts. It was fucking glorious. Until now. The marked wave of shame washes over me. The heat of the moment over, I'm tempted to flee, but we're in my bathroom. My condo. Kent stands before me, still hard, and embarrassment surges through my veins. This isn't me. I don't do this. Kneeling on the floor. Where we've walked. I don't even know this man.

Kent bends down and cups my face. His lips brush the top of my head, and he says, "Vincent, my friend, you are a master cock sucker."

I force a "ha" because I don't have a genuine laugh in me. "Thanks."

"Are you okay?" he asks, and the pounding in my chest grows louder.

Even now, he's concerned about me. My ears ring and I'm unable to answer.

"Do you want me to go?"

I don't want to be rude, but every atom in my body screams for him to leave.

"Why don't you finish," I suggest, his cock staring at the ceiling.

"Vincent, I'm fine. I should get going anyway. I have a big day at work tomorrow."

"No shop talk, remember?" I say, glancing at my watch and wondering how soon I can shower and be alone in my freshly bleached sheets. I have my own important day looming.

"Right." Kent pulls his pants up. "I had fun."

"Yeah, me too," I say. The mortification of what I just did shadows me like a cloud, and the need to scrub every inch of myself overtakes me. Did I make the wrong call, having Kent over?

"I'll just …" I stand and grab a washcloth from the vanity to clean up, and before I can do it, Kent takes it from my hand.

"Let me."

He turns the water on, and once it's warm he wets the washcloth and rings the excess out. With a slow, caring touch, he wipes me first. My dick, my hand, my feet. "There you go, spick-and-span." Only once I'm clean does he use the rag on himself and, finally, the floor. He's a complete gentleman, and I've gone and fucked it up.

"Well, I'll be going then," he says, buttoning his pants. "Do you want to exchange numbers?"

The messaging in SWISH is archaic at best and truly limited to initial communication to facilitate setting up a date. This is the point in the movie where we swap numbers and think about seeing each other again. Communicating. More kissing. More sucking.

"Kent, you're a great guy, but …"

He winces at "but."

"Oh," he says, and I've done it. In the span of a few hours, I've ruined everything. Ruined him. I take four deep breaths, counting each exhale in my head.

"It's just," I begin, unsure how to communicate my humiliation at coming on to him that way.

"No, it's okay. Thanks again." He dips down and kisses my cheek. His beard, his lips, the tender way he makes contact, pours more disgrace on my shame sundae.

"Bye." He grabs his stained shirt, dangling from the hamper, and he's gone.

Even with Fleetwood Mac blasting through the speakers, the energy evaporates from the room the moment Kent leaves. I close my eyes and count breaths. How did we go from talking about his cat and Rumours to me blowing him? The disgrace consumes me. I need to focus on the music. I need to find my center.

I'm frozen—the aggressive drums and crashing guitars of "The Chain" echo against tile, glass, and mirrors. My eyes fall on my pants around my ankles. My knees wobble with weakness, and I'm deeply grateful and horribly disappointed I'll never see Kent Lester again.