Diary of a Straight Person: The Return

Straight people: can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without sneaking into their homes and selling their children to dog food companies. But beyond all the chasing and legal threats, what are the elusive people known as “Notgays” actually like? Last year ‘Mork Manton’  wrote a guest post giving terrifying insight into the heterosexual mind , and has once again blessed us with a peak at their strange world and alien thoughts. And so he sneezes onto us:

Diary of a Straight Person: The Return

A proper lads’ night out. Fucking finally. I’ve been trying to get the missus to agree to this for fucking months and she just nags something about “commitment” and “drinking away our downpayment”. I called up the boys from Finance. Kyle was up for it straight away – course he was, only thing he’s pulled recently is his cock. But Steve took some convincing. He feigned disinterest, but I knew he was secretly up for it. I could hear that quiver in his voice when he’s nervous. He had no need to be nervous.

We started things off by sinking some beers at the local – hit it straight from work, suited and booted. Got some Dutch courage in there with a couple of shots for good measure. Kyle strawpedoed his can, walked up to some bird and spat beer in her face by accident. Fucking idiot. I got talking to some MILF but one of her girlfriends took her outside and started crying over some bloke. Fucking women and their fucking emotions. And Steve? Steve just sipped. Sip. Sip. And every now and then he would just stare at the scene, gracefully drinking it in.

So after that trainwreck of a pulling session we decided to go home, with our tails between our legs. By now Kyle had got kicked out for vomming on the pool table, so we had to get that fucker out of there pretty quick. All of us were pretty fucking wasted – when you’ve got a free pass to go on the pull and you fuck it up like that, you pretty much have to get shitfaced. Steve may have been hammered, but he was the only one who could walk in a straight line. God, he could walk in a straight line.

We got to Kyle’s place and shoved him on his sofa. Fucker can sort himself out. Steve and I were fucking knackered so we checked Kyle’s missus was out (I swear he just makes her up, who the fuck would have him), and we took the bed upstairs. We’d had a cheeky raid of Kyle’s drinks cabinet so we were even more wasted than before. We slept arse-to-arse in Kyle’s bed. For a while we slept like nothing had changed, but Steve clearly forgot he wasn’t at his place and started feeling me up like I was his bird. Fucking wait til I tell people about this, I thought. Classic pub banter ammo, this. Then I stopped thinking. Steve was clearly feeling a bit randy, so his hands drifted down, down, down, until they reached their target. Steve had his hand on my fucking cock! He’d clearly got so used to this with his missus it had become second nature. But it was new to me. He circled, pressed, fondled. I kept it there, there was nothing I could do. Still on some beautiful autopilot, he gave one last pull of my throbbing member. He had no idea what he’d just achieved. Maybe he never will.

Kyle’s going to have to clear it up as well. Karma fucking strikes.

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