The Barber

During my junior year in college, I lived alone in a small city apartment. My entire social life consisted of short, random conversations with students in my classes, or coworkers at my warehouse night job.

I didn’t mind. I was lonely, but not that lonely. I wanted a girlfriend. Someone to love. I played video games. I jerked off 2 or 3 times a day. It had been this way for some time. In the past year all my friends had graduated and moved away. My casual approach to my studies had held me back.

I drank and smoked pot. The pornography I sought out became more varied. Almost by accident, at first, I began to focus on cocks as I watched women get fucked. I discovered shemales and dickgirls. Femenine but hard. Written fantasies, especially, pushed the boundaries of what I found myself turned on by. Written porn made it easier to imagine, and I would find myself imagining the girl with a cock in her mouth. In my mouth. But I didn’t think of myself as gay at all. I liked girls. Maybe a bit curious, at most.

The best stories would catch me off gaurd. The guy seduced into dressing like a girl with promises of sex. Then presented as a sorority pledge at a frat party, and resigned to grind and suck cock until the promise of pussy was fulfilled. The boyfriend lured into a potential swap, only to have his girlfriend gangbanged, and he, forced to clean up before taking his turn.

I recognized a slightly submissive, femenine disposition in myself. I still preferred girls, but something about letting someone forceful and confident direct the action appealed to me.

At this point I had only ever had sex twice. Both were prostitutes. I was terrible talking to girls. Making it explicitely about sex made things much easier. The conversation felt free and relaxed. Lonely as I was, I enjoyed the conversation as much as the sex. I would have kept doing that if I could have afforded it.

Then there was the day I needed a haircut. I can’t remember if I found the place online, or if it was just a place I saw while doing something else. When I walked in it was just one guy, the barber, waiting for customers. He was older than me, in his early forties. Slightly taller than me, dark-haired, fit, solid. Maybe latino, maybe Italian. He had no accent, but got up as I walked in and approached me with a welcoming smile.

He asked what he could do for me. I told him I needed a haircut. His smile widened and he slapped a hand on my shoulder and pulled me over to a chair. I guess I was a little struck. Not in a romantic or sexual way. But I was immediately curious about him. He was being more forward than I was used to guys being, though again, not in an overtly sexual way. Some small part of me began to feel funny.

I was generally shy back then, but as he began to work, strolling confidently around me, I gave in to the impulse to ask if it was true that guys who cut hair tended to be gay.