He Said He Was Gay

We were already two shots deep when Tiffany mentioned she wasn't wearing a bra. Not that I hadn't noticed.

She was wearing that black cropped halter top, the one with the open sides and the razor-thin straps. It barely held anything in, and her tits moved with every shift of her body, no support, no hesitation, no shame. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric like they were begging for attention.

Our couple friends, Jason and Lily, were pre-gaming with us at our place before we Ubered to some club in West Hollywood. Gay bar, they said. Fun, loud, safe. Jason had picked it because, according to him, it had "the best house music and zero creeps." And Tiffany was all about dancing tonight. She'd been in a mood all day, bubbly, bratty, hypersexual.

And now, buzzed and glowy, she leaned over the kitchen counter, laughing with Lily, holding a shot glass in one hand while the other pulled her top just slightly to the side. A half-second flash of underboob. She wasn't even aware she did it.

"Okay wait, you're not wearing a bra?" Lily gasped, a bit drunker than she realized.

Tiffany smirked and gave me a wink. "Nope. Didn't feel like it."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed the bottle of tequila. "God help whoever dances with you tonight."

Tiffany just stuck out her tongue and downed her shot.

I tried to play it cool. I'd seen her like this before, tipsy and flirty, but tonight it felt different. Unchecked. Like she was craving attention. And knowing we were heading into a room full of confident men, gay or not, made my stomach turn in a way I didn't fully understand yet.

Twenty minutes later we were outside the club.

The line wrapped halfway around the block, but the bouncer waved us in quick. Jason had apparently tipped him on Venmo ahead of time. The bass hit us as soon as we stepped through the door, vibrating in my chest. Bodies everywhere. Strobe lights. The air smelled like sweat and overpriced vodka.

Tiffany was already dancing before we even made it to the bar.

She grabbed Lily's hand, spun her in a circle, and then started grinding on her like it was second nature. They laughed, swayed, bumped hips. Jason and I followed, drinks in hand, trying to keep up.

Tiffany turned to face me, stuck her tongue out again, and mouthed: watch this.

She grabbed Lily's waist and dipped her low, then stood her back up and whispered something in her ear. Lily laughed, loud, unrestrained, and nodded.

Then they both turned toward the crowd and stepped into it.

They were hunting.

Jason looked over at me with a raised brow. "You okay?"

I forced a grin. "Yeah. Just watching the show."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "You married the hot one, man. That's the price."

He didn't know how right he was.

The dance floor was a blur of bodies, flashing lights, rhythmic motion, thumping bass you could feel in your ribs. Lily led the way, dragging Tiffany through the crowd like a girl on a mission. I followed close, trying not to lose them, but they were swallowed by the music and the mass of people.

I found a spot along the edge of the floor, leaning against a pillar with my drink. Jason had disappeared toward the bar. I didn't care. My eyes were locked on her.

Tiffany was in the center of the floor, back arched, arms over her head, hair swinging as she moved with the music like she owned it.

Her halter top clung to her chest, every bounce threatening a wardrobe malfunction. She didn't care. She was smiling wide, eyes closed, dancing like she was fucking the beat.

Lily was right there with her, matching her move for move. The two of them looked like a performance, synchronized, sensual, soaked in attention. A small circle had formed around them, guys watching, girls whispering. No one touched. Not yet.

Then they showed up.

Two guys, both tall, both attractive, slipped into the circle with practiced ease. You could just tell, they weren't drunk college kids, they weren't awkward straight guys pretending to be cool. These two had confidence. One had a tight white tee that clung to his chest and arms like paint. The other wore black, fitted and low-cut, sleeves rolled just enough to show his biceps. Both well-groomed, clean-shaven, stylish.

And they went straight for Tiffany and Lily.

Lily turned first, smiling, hands already out to meet the guy in the white shirt. They danced like they knew each other, falling into rhythm instantly.

Tiffany hesitated for a beat. Then the guy in black stepped in front of her.

He smiled. He didn't say a word. He just took her hands, slow, deliberate, and pulled her in.

She gave me a look across the floor. A smirk. Just dancing, that look said. Then she let him pull her hips against his.

They started slow, hips rocking together, Tiffany's arms draped around his shoulders. Then faster. Then dirtier. Her back arched, ass grinding into him as he moved with her, guided her, handled her.

My chest tightened.

He slid a hand around her waist. Not low. Not high. Just possessive.

Her eyes closed.

Then he tugged her hair. Playfully. Gently. But she moaned, mouth open, eyes fluttering.

And she didn't stop him.

I scanned the room, half-expecting someone to say something. Lily? Jason? But no one cared. No one noticed.

I was the only one watching.

The guy in black spun Tiffany around so her back was to him, his hands on her hips, grinding against her like they'd been fucking for years. She laughed, breathy and excited, and leaned into him, letting her body mold to his.

His hand moved lower. A light slap to her ass.

She jumped.

Then smiled.

Then kept dancing.

I stood frozen, drink untouched in my hand, heart pounding in my throat.

And then, because of course, he leaned down and whispered in her ear.

Whatever he said made her giggle like a schoolgirl. She turned to face him, put both hands on his chest, and said something back.

He said something else. She bit her lip.

And then she kissed him.

No hesitation. No teasing.

Just a kiss, hard, wet, open-mouthed. Pressed up against the wall now, his hand in her hair, her hands gripping his shirt.

And she kissed him like she meant it.

Like she forgot I existed.

Like she wanted me to see it.

She finally peeled herself off him and slipped back through the crowd like nothing had happened.

No apology. No explanation. Just that same flushed, tipsy smile she wore when we first walked into the place, like she hadn't just made out with a stranger in the middle of the dance floor. Like I hadn't watched her moan while he pulled her hair and slapped her ass in front of a crowd.

Her hair was messy now, not wild, just handled. Lips glossy, slightly smudged. Her top had shifted a bit too, riding up enough to flash the underside of one perfect, bouncing tit before she tugged it down, not even looking at me yet.

She spotted me leaning against the column and made her way over, cheeks red and glowing.

"Heyyy," she said, as if she'd been gone for a minute, not nearly ten.

"Hey," I replied. My voice came out dry.

She leaned in and kissed me. Light. Quick. Just the lips. Like I was her boyfriend, and he was something else.

"Tired already?" she teased, swaying in place as she ran a hand through her hair.

I glanced over her shoulder.

He was still there.

Watching her. Smirking. Not dancing anymore, just standing, sipping his drink, eyes locked on her ass like he was waiting for his turn again.

She didn't notice. Or maybe she did. It was getting hard to tell.

"You were really going for it out there," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

She shrugged, biting her lip. "It's a club, babe. Just dancing."

"With your tongue?"

That got her. Her eyes flicked up to mine, playful, daring, just a little wicked.

"You jealous?" she asked, tilting her head.

My jaw tightened. "Should I be?"

She stepped in closer, her body pressing against me. I could still smell him on her, cologne, sweat, something darker. Her eyes glittered.

"They said they were gay," she whispered.

There was no apology in her voice. Just permission.

As if that made it okay.

As if that erased the image of her pressed up against a wall with some stranger's hand on her ass and her mouth open, lips smeared, moaning while he ground into her.

"They said they were gay," I repeated, voice low.

She nodded, smiling. "Relax. It was just fun. You know I only want you."

But the way she said it, tipsy, breathy, still flushed from the high of it, didn't feel like reassurance. It felt like a lie wrapped in lipstick and sweat.

She turned her back to me and started dancing again. Not wild. Just swaying, arms in the air, hips rolling to the beat.

And I watched.

And I wondered if she even wanted me to believe her.

Tiffany didn't go looking for him.

She didn't have to.

She danced for maybe three songs with Lily, twirling, laughing, throwing back the rest of her drink. I stayed back, trying to pretend I wasn't scanning the floor for him. But I was. And I saw him before she did.

He never left.

He'd just moved back toward the edge of the floor, leaning casually against a support beam, drink in hand, watching her. Like he was waiting for her to wander too close again. Like he knew she would.

And he was right.

The dance floor shifted, and Tiffany drifted.

It wasn't obvious. It wasn't planned. It was the natural pull of the crowd and the beat and the buzz in her veins. Lily twirled off in another direction. Tiffany turned, and there he was.

Right behind her.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

He just stepped in, hands finding her hips like they belonged there. Like they had every right to be there.

And she didn't flinch. Didn't stop him. Didn't even look around.

She just kept dancing, slower now, smoother, like she'd been waiting for this beat, this moment. His body pressed against hers again, one hand low on her stomach, pulling her into him as their hips found rhythm.

I could see her head tilt slightly, mouth parting. She was saying something to him, but I couldn't hear it.

I could imagine it.

His hand slid up. Not to her tits, not yet. Just beneath her ribs, then back down again, fingers teasing the waistband of her skirt.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

And she giggled.

She giggled like a drunk teenager getting felt up behind a gym.

He spun her around, gripping her hips, and pulled her flush against him.

She let him.

This wasn't "They said they were gay" anymore.

This was something else.

His hands roamed now, not cautious, not subtle. He was grabbing her, pulling her into him, letting her feel exactly what he wanted to do.

And she wasn't resisting.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. Her legs were nearly between his. She was grinding again, slower now, more deliberate, more intimate.

The crowd faded around them. It was just the two of them.

And me.

Watching.

Frozen.

My girlfriend, my Tiffany, was letting some stranger devour her in front of a crowd, and all I could do was stand there and watch.

He kissed her neck.

She arched into him.

He tugged her hair again, harder this time, and she tilted her head back like she loved it.

His mouth found hers again.

This time longer.

Slower.

And she kissed him back like it was private. Like I wasn't even there.

His hand slid lower, cupping her ass, pulling her hard against his body.

Her mouth opened against his, and I could see her hips grind deeper, her back arch more, her legs flex to meet his pressure.

She was dry-fucking him on the dance floor.

And I couldn't breathe.

Not from jealousy. Not even from anger.

But from the sick, gnawing ache in my chest, the one that said: You're letting this happen.

And worse: You're hard.

She came back slower this time.

Not rushed. Not sheepish. No fake innocence.

Tiffany made her way through the crowd like she was walking off a runway, head high, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. Her halter top had shifted again, the thin fabric clinging to sweat-slicked skin, nipples visibly hard and pointing right through the material.

She didn't fix it.

She didn't care.

I was at the bar, gripping a half-melted drink, still pretending I had control over anything that was happening.

She stepped up beside me, brushing against my arm with hers. Not looking at me. Just standing close enough to remind me that she was mine.

At least, she used to be.

"Did you have fun?" I asked, keeping my tone light, casual, pathetic.

She took a sip of my drink without asking, then turned to me slowly, lips wet.

"They're not gay," she said.

My stomach dropped.

"What?"

"They said they were," she continued, leaning in close, her breath hot against my ear. "But they're not."

She pulled back slightly, just enough to meet my eyes.

"They just like it when girls let their guard down."

I stared at her. I had no idea what to say.

And she loved that.

"I thought it was harmless," she said, in a tone that didn't sound the least bit sorry. "I thought we were just being flirty... until he grabbed me."

My throat went dry.

"And when he kissed me again..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "I didn't stop him."

She looked down at my drink, swirled the ice with her finger.

"I didn't want to stop him."

I felt like the room was spinning.

She leaned in again, brushing her lips against my ear. "He asked if I wanted to come back with him."

Silence.

"And I told him..." She paused, on purpose. "... that I'd ask you."

The world fell out from under me.

"You... what?"

Her smile widened. "He wants to fuck me, Brian."

She said it like she was talking about the weather. Like it wasn't devastating.

"I told him I'd check with my boyfriend first," she said, drawing the word out like a joke. "Since he's watching so nicely."

My face was hot. My cock was harder than it had been in weeks.

She leaned in one last time, voice almost sympathetic.

"You should've pulled me away."

Then she smiled.

"Now I don't want to stop."