Straight Men Are My Weakness
I don’t really know why. Or maybe I do.
If I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’m just another gay man wandering around thinking, “Well… this is probably going to end terribly,” and then doing it anyway.
I’ve always been fascinated by straight men.
It isn’t because I think every straight guy secretly wants to sleep with me. Jesus Christ, that fantasy has already paid enough mortgages over on Pornhub.
I’m fascinated by them because they represent an unattainable life I grew up believing would be mine. Somewhere in another universe there’s a version of me arguing over lawn fertilizer, pretending to enjoy watching football every weekend, and spending far too much money on a barbecue that gets used three times a year. Instead, life looked at my plans, laughed, and handed me Grindr.
Everything about straight men is different. The conversations, the energy, the friendships, and even the boundaries. They have this bizarre ability to tell each other to “fuck off” as a greeting, spend twelve hours helping one another move house, hug goodbye, and then not speak again for six months as though that’s a perfectly healthy way to maintain a friendship. Somehow, it works, and somehow they all seem to understand the rules.
I’ve met a surprising number over the years and had interesting sexual encounters with more than my fair share, which admittedly muddies the definition of “straight” somewhat. Some became genuine friends, others wandered into my life completely by accident, while some only stayed around for a few weeks before life carried them somewhere else.
Almost every single one left behind the same feeling.
They’re like that restaurant you discover on holiday. The food is unbelievable, you bore your friends talking about it for years afterward, and every now and then you find yourself wondering whether it was actually that good or whether nostalgia seasoned the meal better than the chef ever could.
One of the things I’ve always liked about straight men is that, despite what the internet would have you believe, they’re often refreshingly uncomplicated to be around. Sure, some flirt because they enjoy the attention, some accidentally send enough mixed signals to power a small city, and a few should honestly come with an instruction manual and a warning label, but most of the ones I’ve known have simply treated me like another mate.
That’s always appealed to me.
There’s something oddly comforting about knowing where the boundaries are, even if they occasionally blur after a few beers and someone decides that now is the perfect time to tell you you’re a “bloody good-looking guy” while leaving their arm around your shoulder for just a little too long. Those moments can be confusing, they’re usually flattering, and by the following morning everyone has collectively agreed to pretend absolutely nothing unusual happened.
Maybe that’s part of the appeal. There isn’t the constant question of where things are going because, most of the time, they aren’t going anywhere at all. You enjoy the friendship for what it is, laugh at the occasional mixed signal, take the piss out of each other relentlessly, and carry on with your lives.
Deep down, though, there’s always that tiny glimmer of hope that they surprise you.
I don’t generally expect them to suddenly discover they’ve been gay all along. Life isn’t a Netflix movie. It’s because every now and then, something happens that doesn’t quite fit into the neat little box you’ve built for them. A look lingers, or the conversation becomes more personal than either of you expected. I’ve had a hug last just long enough for my imagination to start filling in the blanks. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it means absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, I’m a writer, and that remaining one percent has been paying my bills for years.
My mind wanders off long after the fact, and I end up with stories that are far more autobiographical than fiction.
When I write gay erotic stories about these men I’ve come to know over the years, those almost moments get captured, exaggerated, and transformed into “we definitely did” moments. It’s cheaper than therapy and considerably more entertaining.
Then there’s Steve, Richard, Gavin, and a few others where… well… fiction didn’t have to work nearly as hard.
One guy stayed in my head for nearly twenty years. A guy called Scott, who I’ll touch on in a moment.
I write about those guys, both in stories and audio podcasts over on my Substack, because every one of them left me with something worth remembering.
With every single one, there were different levels of friendship, admiration, attraction, respect, or simply appreciation for having crossed paths at exactly the right time. Eventually they disappeared back into their own lives, usually with a wife, kids, a Golden Retriever called Ben, and absolutely no idea they’d one day end up inspiring one of my stories.
Maybe that’s why straight men are my weakness.
I don’t think it’s because I expect anything from them. I think it’s because the best ones have always reminded me that some people are only ever meant to wander into your life for a chapter, make it better, and quietly leave before you realize they were never supposed to stay.
Hardly anyone would know this, but years back I worked on site as a screwdriver techie, racking and configuring servers on a remote site, surrounded by sweaty, dusty tradesmen of all shapes and sizes.
That Friday, dreading going back to my hotel, I ended up alone on site with a ridiculously hot, obviously straight guy who was also stuck in town for the weekend.
We drank beers outside and, at some point, both wandered off to piss in the bushes because apparently that’s one of the mandatory bonding exercises for men working on construction sites.
I don’t know why this is such a universal male bonding ritual. Give women a construction site and I’m fairly certain they’ll locate an actual toilet. Give men a bush and suddenly everyone’s outdoorsy.
We got to the point where something could have happened that night.
He had no idea I liked guys, and I was fairly certain he didn’t normally. But after far too many beers, we ordered pizza, sat outside this site that was nearly finished, and revealed more about ourselves than the situation really called for.
His name was Scott, and I still remember it and the way he shook my hand, which should tell you a lot.
What Scott didn’t know was that I had a thing for lighter-haired guys with blue eyes and handsome features who opened up because they felt safe.
Scott came back from his last piss, dick still hanging out for an extra few seconds, shaking it as he walked back to where we were sitting, surrounded by rubble and bushes.
I know he saw my boner when he sat down, and I was almost certain I detected the hint of a tent in his trousers when he sat down.
But we went back to our respective hotels that night.
I lay in bed wishing I’d had the nerve back then to push it just a little further. To see how far it would’ve gone. I imagined what would’ve happened if he’d been staying in my hotel and we’d ended up in each other’s room.
Years later, I turned that night into a story called Sweat and Sawdust.
It was only recently that I realized I’ve been documenting so many of my experiences with straight guys through gay fiction. I change enough of the details for the stories to become their own thing, but deep down, I’m the only one who knows what really happened.
Maybe that’s why I’ve never really stopped writing about straight men. The stories aren’t actually about sex. They’re about possibility.
