Breaking In The Straight - Part 11 (Patreon)

Empty

---------Chad’s POV----------

Everyone in this story is 18+

Three days.

That’s how long it took for the silence between us to feel like a physical thing pressing on my chest every time I breathed.

I kept telling myself I was fine. Exams were done, summer was here, the lads were already sending memes about Amsterdam weed spots and Croatian beaches. Life was moving forward. I just had to keep moving with it.

So I opened Grindr again.

Same yellow icon, same rush of notifications the second I logged in.

I didn’t even bother with a new profile pic—just cropped the old shirtless one tighter around the abs. Bio still said “Looking to fuck. No strings.”

Because that’s what I wanted.

Right?

The guy who messaged first was called “Jake – 24 – vers.” Decent body, gym selfies, face cropped out like mine. Said he was two streets over, free now, had a place.

Perfect.

No talking, no history, no feelings. Just dick.

I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and walked over in the dark. The whole way my stomach was doing this weird flip thing, like I’d eaten something bad. I told myself it was just nerves. First time in a while going to a stranger’s flat. That’s all.

He opened the door shirtless, jeans already low on his hips. Looked exactly like the pics—tall-ish, built, dark hair, cocky grin.

“Chad, right?” he said, stepping aside.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t waste time. Door shut, lights dim, hands on my waist pulling me in. Mouth on mine.

It felt… mechanical.

Like muscle memory, but someone else’s muscles.

We made it to the bedroom. Clothes came off fast. He was hard, I was hard. He dropped to his knees, took me in his mouth.

It was fine.

Good, even.

Technique was solid—tight lips, tongue on the underside, hand working the base.

But my head wasn’t there.

I kept waiting for the spark, the thing that makes your toes curl and your brain shut off.

It didn’t come.

He pulled off, wiped his mouth, grinned up at me.

“You wanna top or bottom?”

I hesitated.

Normally I’d say top without thinking.

But the word bottom sat there in my mouth like it belonged to someone else now.

Like it only made sense when Alex said it—low, teasing, knowing exactly how much I hated that I loved it.

“I’ll top,” I said, too quick.

He shrugged, grabbed lube and a condom from the drawer.

Bent over the bed.

I rolled the rubber on, slicked up, pushed in.

He groaned, pushed back. Tight. Hot. Everything that should’ve felt amazing.

I thrust. Hard. Fast. Trying to chase the feeling.

He moaned louder, reached back, grabbed my hip.

“Fuck yeah, harder—”

I did.

Still nothing.

No rush. No high. Just… motion.

I pulled out after a few minutes, chest heaving more from frustration than pleasure.

“You good?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah. Just… not feeling it tonight.”

He laughed, not mean, just confused.

“Your first time or what?”

“Something like that.”

I peeled the condom off, tied it, dropped it in his bin. Started pulling my boxers back on.

He sat up, still naked, half-hard, watching me.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch? I’m good either way.”

I looked at him—really looked.

He was attractive. Fit. Confident.

And I felt… nothing.

Not disgust. Not repulsion. Just empty.

Like trying to fuck a mirror and expecting it to feel like someone else.

“I’m good,” I said. “Thanks though.”

He shrugged again. “Your loss.”

No anger. No drama. Just casual.

That’s what I wanted, right?

No strings.

I left without saying much more.

Walked home in the cold. Hood up. Hands deep in pockets.

The whole way back, my brain kept replaying the same stupid loop:

Alex’s smirk when he knew he had me.

The way his voice dropped when he called me “good boy” and I pretended to hate it.

The way his fingers felt when he pressed inside me and everything suddenly made sense.

The way he looked at me in the library like he was waiting for me to be brave.

And I wasn’t.

Back in my room I kicked off my shoes, dropped onto the bed, stared at the ceiling.

My dick was still half-hard from the unfinished hookup.

I didn’t touch it.

Didn’t want to.

Because I knew if I did, I’d think of him.

Not Jake.

Not some random redhead from a party.

Him.

I grabbed my phone.

Opened messages.

His name was still there at the top.

No new texts.

Of course not.

I typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Finally just sent the only thing that felt honest:

“I fucked up.”

I didn’t add anything else.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t beg.

Just let it sit there in the dark between us.

Then I turned my phone face-down, rolled over, and tried to sleep.

It didn’t work.

But at least, for the first time in days, I wasn’t lying to myself anymore.