There is too such a thing as sex on legs. What it looks like might depend on your definition, but hoo boy, does it exist. Everyone's got a type that makes them stop in a crowd, turn around for a better look, and stare until they realize they're embarrassing themselves. Either that, or the wet dream walking turns around to give you the eye or flip you the finger.
Daniel's seen plenty of them. Known some; shared coffee and beers and shots with a few. He's had dates with that type, and he's slept with his fair share. Occasionally, he's moved in with them.
Always moved back out again, though.
Because no matter what that body looks like, without the right kind of inside to match there's no connection. And that's what Daniel craves most, more than a long pair of legs to wrap around him while he pounds himself balls-deep into a willing body. Connection. Body and heart, lust and love, brains and appreciation of the good thing they've got going between them.
Yeah, that's what he wants. He just hasn't found it yet.
Trouble is, at the age of twenty-nine, he's more or less given up hope.
You think it's not easy bein' green? Well, it's not easy being gay, not when you've got the social aptitude of a caterpillar still waiting ten years after his sell-by date to turn into a gorgeous butterfly. Daniel's shy around the men he finds attractive, casting nervous/daring glances up and down their toned bodies and wishing--before he remembers his shaggy black hair that no comb can tame, his glasses; his smile, way too wide and revealing, and his eyes that can't hide a secret. So he looks down over his glass in the bars, keeps to himself, and thinks of what might have been.
He has to be approached.
Funny thing, he's often sought out. By the noisy ones who've caught a glimpse of his ass in his carpenter's jeans, by the quiet ones who see the spectacles and think they've found a kindred soul. By ordinary Joes just out looking for a good time, and by the rare special one that he's thought--just maybe--bears a flicker of that connection he wants.
Those rare few men are the ones he lets buy him another beer, or a shot. Sometimes a glass of wine; it all depends. Maybe they'll slip their hand on his thigh underneath the bar, stroking with suggestive fingers. And depending on how much he's had to drink and where he is, he might follow them to the back stall of the bathroom or he might just let them walk him home. Always his home. He doesn't go to strangers' places ... just doesn't.
Twenty-nine years on the planet, fifteen of them knowing what he wants in a partner, and he hasn't struck gold yet. Been fooled a time or two, but never long enough. The tarnish comes out, the gloves come off, and it all ends badly. But now, his heart's finally hardened. He's learned.
And that is why he is not, repeat, not, going to stare at or think about or jump on the gorgeous blond standing impatiently on the walk, smoking a cigarette. Waiting for him.
Even if his dick has different ideas.
)
