: Winston Gieseke
: Straight No More Gay Erotic Stories
: Bruno-Books
: 9783867876087
: 1
: CHF 8.80
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 208
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
He knows you do it better than his girlfriend. He may not say so, but you can tell by the sounds he makes, the look on his face afterwards, the awkward but grateful thank you. It s a flattery thing, he says. But whatever he tells himself, he enjoyed it! Best of all, it was easy. He didn t have to work for it. It was the perfect arrangement: he wanted to get off, you wanted to get him off with no strings, no drama, and no expectations. But what happens if he gets hooked? Straight No More!

Beginning his career as a television writer, Winston Gieseke penned episodes for shows like 'Wildfire' and 'Hollywood Off-Ramp' as well as the made-for-cable movie 'Romantic Comedy 101,' which starred Tom Arnold and Joey Lawrence. While living in Los Angeles, he served as editor in chief of both Men and Freshmen magazines before honing his journalistic skills as managing editor of The Advocate. An award-seeking vocalist whose 'rich voice harkens back to vintage Hollywood crooners' (Gay.net), his 'saucy yet heartfelt' debut album, On the Edge, which 'takes classic material, turns it upside down, and then spits it out with panache' (Frontiers), was released in 2012. He now resides in Berlin, an experience he shamelessly exploits at ExpatsInBerlin.us, and is the editor of the anthologies 'Indecent Exposures,' 'Daddy Knows Best,' 'Team Players,' 'Straight No More,' and the upcoming 'Blowing Off Class.'

Playing it Straight

Mike Hicks

The bartender slapped the pair of Rolling Rocks down in front of us so hard they both spit out a wad of foamy head. The thick liquid dripped down the sides of the long-necked bottles just like—

“Either of you guys need a glass?” he barked.

“Nah, we’re fine,” Chuck said.

We clinked bottles and were almost through the first chug when a loud bang coming from the corner by the pinball machine startled us. It was followed immediately by an outburst of profanity that began and ended with “Jesus fucking Christ!” The bar went silent as everyone looked in that direction.

Woody Cwiklinski was jumping up and down, shaking his fist. Looked like he’d tilted again and forgotten how hard that knotty pine paneling is. The flannel-shirted crowd gathered around the pool table cracked up laughing, and the bar’s atmosphere shifted back to Friday-night normal. Chuck and I went back to our beers.

“Thanks for coming out for a drink tonight,” he said.

“No problem.” I resisted saying something like “my pleasure” or anything else that might be taken the wrong way, not being sure yet what the invitation was about.

This being 2009, I could get away with being the only openly gay steelworker at the Clearfield Mill—but this also being small-town Pennsylvania, the boys from the mill didn’t usually ask me to socialize.

“I don’t get to go out after work like this too much,” he said.

“Yeah? How come?”

He chuckled. “Old ball-and-chain back at home.” He started nervously peeling the label from his bottle.

“Oh, I see.” I took another swig.

“But this weekend I’m a free man. Cindy and the kids’re spending three days with her mom in Altoona. I’m all by myself.” He cleared his throat and repeated it like maybe I hadn’t heard. “I mean, won’t nobody be at home but me.” He flashed a smile. Only then did it dawn on me.

I felt like an idiot for not catching on sooner: Chuck was a classic example of what I call a CSG: curious straight guy. He had all the telltale signs. They’re usually married. Check. Unlike the standard heterosexual, they’ll often start getting friendly rather than standoffish as soon as they find out you’re gay. Check. It usually leads to a simple “Hey, let’s go out for a beer” moment that conveniently coincides with the wife’s absence. Check. In a little burg like Clearfield, your usual CSG is a guy who got hitched to his pregnant high-school sweetheart at 18. He’s never had a decent blow job in his life and he’s heard that gay men know how to do it right. Blame it on the Internet.

“Yeah,” he repeated, like there wa