The slap could be heard echoing throughout the bar, and Sam was clearly stunned as the woman got up from her seat and left. The look on his face was utterly flabbergasted, like he had never even considered this to be a remote possibility, even though he's already been rejected twice this week alone, albeit not so... insistently. I sigh softly to myself as he meekly wanders back to our table in the corner of the room, his shoulders slumped, looking like a man who has never had anything good happen to him in his life. He practically falls down onto the bench, leaning against my shoulder, and I know exactly what to do. Without a word being spoken, my arm wraps around his body, pulling him close against me, and I lift my other arm in the direction of the bartender to order some new drinks.
God, he looks so pitiful when he's like this, coming right off another crushing rejection. Poor Sam. It's been three weeks now that the two of us have been hitting the bars together, with him trying to find a date, girlfriend, whatever. I honestly don't know what happened in his life that led him to get this fixation, but it's definitely dominated his life these past weeks. I don't particularly think the way he's going at it is a good plan, but he's my best friend, so I'm going to support him however I can. And it's not like Sam is a creep or anything like that—he's a great guy, really. He's a good friend, always willing to help out, respectful—but he has one massive blind spot: He massively overestimates his abilities when it comes to wooing women. As far as I can tell, watching him, it seems like he's fallen for the tales of pick-up artists, trying all those odd strategies they have like negging and all that. And, well, even if I thought those strategies would work for him, he's not good at it either, making it honestly surprising that today is the first time he's gotten outright slapped.
I've told him multiple times that he needs to just throw all those ideas away and just be himself, that the persona he's presenting is so much worse than his real personality, but he just won't have it, so I've given up, and I just hope that he'll eventually come to that conclusion on his own. He always says that I don't have a girlfriend either, so I'm not one to talk, and honestly, he might have a point. I just never felt the need to go prowling for one, I suppose, and with him getting rejected repeatedly, I don't really want to take a shot myself. If I were to actually find success where he fails all the time, I think it could break his heart. Especially since I'm not exactly a looker like Sam is. Sam looks like he just jumped straight out of an underwear catalog or something—just more reason why the only reason he's getting rejected is because he's ruining it for himself with his stupid strategies—whereas I'm a kind of scrawny girly guy that's too timid to go for it.
So there we are, sitting in a corner of the bar, Sam slumped against my shoulder, looking like his world just crumpled to pieces. "Why can't I make it work, man... I was doing everything right, everything the way I was supposed to do it..." he mutters, defeated.
Pulling him a bit closer, I start rubbing his back a little, trying to comfort him. "C'mon, Sam, there's plenty of fish in the ocean. You'll find the right one some day." I say. Really, I shouldn't be trying to convince him his strategies aren't working right now, but maybe this is the perfect opportunity, so I give it a try. "Have you given my advice some thought? Maybe you can just try throwing all those strategies out and just be yourself?"
He shakes his head, looking up at me with those sad, puppy dog eyes. "But this is all I know... I don't know how to talk to girls otherwise."
I sigh again. This is the thing that always surprises me the most about Sam—underneath his underwear model body hides a remarkably insecure, shy personality when challenged. He can be very confident, but the facade is fairly frail, and crumbles easily, which is probably why he's flocked to those pick-up strategies, since those take the decisions and such out of his hands and give him something easy to follow, even if it doesn't work for him. The bartender brings over our new drinks, and I gently pat Sam on the back. "Alright, keep your head up. Have a drink, that always makes you feel better."
The two of us grab our cocktails in silence, sipping on them occasionally as I give him some time to calm down, and slowly, but surely, I can tell his disposition improves somewhat. Even if he's probably not outright happy right now, he's no longer crushed, which is an improvement. "...I don't know what else I could try, Tom. I'm out of ideas. That was the last thing I had on my list of things to try, and I got slapped. What do I do?" he asks, looking at me with a hint of desperation in his eyes.
Well, I know "just be yourself" isn't going to be an answer he accepts, so maybe I can lead him to that conclusion in a more roundabout way. Not that I'm in a position to give flirting advice either, but when he asks me like that, I at least have to try. "Hm, well, maybe you can break the ice by talking about some of your interests? Something that might be interesting to others? Like, say, movies, music, dancing..." I suggest, but then something strange happens. The moment I say the word 'dancing', Sam's face goes bright red for no apparent reason. Is there something there that I don't know?
After a bit of an awkward silence, Sam eventually comes out with an explanation. "So... I am kind of into dancing. A specific kind of dancing..." he trails off. I give him a quizzical look, prompting him to continue, which he does after another moment of silence. "...I'm into lap dancing. I've been practicing it at home, alone, in the hopes that it would help me in seducing women."
Well, that's news to me. "Um... I can't imagine that being a very good ice breaker." I reply, but that seems to have lit some sort of fire in Sam.
"Are you saying I'm not good enough at it or something?" he says, a bit of anger audible in his voice. "I'll show you!"
And then, everything moves quickly. I'm completely caught off guard here, I had no idea he took such pride in his dancing skills that the simple insinuation that women might not be interested in being told that he likes lap dancing as an icebreaker that he takes it as something approaching an insult. Sam pays the bartender before I can even get a word in edgewise, and he doesn't even seem to be listening as he walks across the street towards a motel, practically dragging me along. I think I have an idea where this is going, and I'm not sure I like it. And sure enough, he rents out a room for two for the night, grabs the key card and storms towards the room, leaving me to impotently follow him along.
So there we are now, me standing in a motel room that, at least, seems largely clean—for a motel room, anyway—and Sam looking for a chair, which he finds and sets down in the middle of the room. "Alright, I'll show you. Sit down." he barks, his words slightly slurred. Feeling pressured, I give in and just do what he says, sitting down on the chair. "I'm a better dancer than you, and I'll show you right here. I bet you a hundred bucks I can easily turn you on with my dancing. I'll go first, then you go second, and we'll decide by checking how hard we each are."
Christ, he's serious, isn't he. And sure enough, before I can get a word in edgewise, he's off to the races and his hips begin to sway. But as I watch him, unable to form words due to being overwhelmed by the situation, I'm struck by something... he's good. He's really good. I don't know if it's just the alcohol talking or what, but he moves like a practiced veteran, casting his jacket off and letting it sail to the ground, knowing my eyes are locked on it. "Yeah, I know I'm good... you're gonna be rock hard before long. I'll show you..." he mutters, hyper-focused on his dancing.
Article after article of clothing is cast off in what almost looks like poetry in motion, and I just can't manage to tear my eyes away from him. I'm starting to feel the heat rise to my face, and my breathing is becoming labored as his bare chest is on full display. He looks like a modern Adonis to me right now, a work of art. Before I know it, he's stripped down to nothing but his tight boxer shorts, which have a clearly visible bulge growing inside of it. Sam's face has a grin plastered all over it, but to my surprise, he looks to be about as flushed as I am, and he too is starting to pant a bit. "Oh yeah... you're hard, I know it. C'mon, lemme have a feel..."
I haven't even comprehended the words he's saying yet, and already his hand is firmly grasping my groin through my pants. But then, his expression loses that look of sheer confidence for just a moment as he seems to realize that yes, I am in fact hard. I'm having trouble understanding it myself as well, but he has indeed managed to turn me on quite a bit, and now there's a strange silence falling over us as we try to come to terms with just what that means. Sam is the first to break it. "Um, well, anyway, that should show you I'm good. Now... get up."
He grabs my hand, pulls me up out of the chair before I can even protest or anything, then sits down himself. Spreading his legs in a show of supposed confidence, he shoots me a glare and says "Do your worst, Tom. Hit me with your best shot. I know you won't even get me to a half chub, because I'm in a league of my own in lap dancing. I should've made you pay for that performance, but I guess I will get paid when I win this bet."
Something in the way he says that unlocks something in me. I get that he thinks highly of himself, and that he seems really proud of his dancing skills. But god damn it, I'm not giving up without a fight here! Why, I took dance lessons in the past! I'm going to make him beg for me with my performance, and make him eat his words! This is a matter of pride now! I can't shake the feeling that there's more than just the alcohol at play here with my attraction to him, but then I'm going to make him feel just the same towards me!
And with that, my resolve strengthened, I begin my own show. My movements are clumsy and amateurish, but I can tell I have Sam's rapt attention. Just like him, I slowly cast off my clothes, one piece at a time, until I stand before my friend in nothing but my tight white underwear, and just like with him, my bulge is clearly visible in it. Striking a pose to finish my dance, there's another strange moment of silence as the two of us process what we just did. Looking down at our underwear, it's pretty clear that we're both hard. "Uh, so... call it a tie?" I ask sheepishly. But Sam isn't reads to give up.
"No. We're getting a decision. If we can't decide it by who gets hard... we'll just have to go until one of us cums!" he shouts, determined to win this bet he just made up.
"What the fuck?! Sam, I'm not gay..." I start to explain, but he just cuts me off again.
"This isn't gay! This is just two guys having a competition, and you're trying to chicken out of it! Well, I'm not having it! You're just scared you're going to lose!" he yells. And suddenly, he moves right in front of me, then presses his lips against mine with a lot more passion than I expected while his hands move into my underwear, starting to tug at my last remaining piece of clothing at the same time as he pulls his own boxers off.
Sam takes the clear lead, stripping us both down completely naked before pushing me towards the bed. As we fall onto the bed, Sam mutters "You're not winning this..." and his hands start roaming all over my naked body, teasing me slowly. He knows he can draw this out, and will. He wants me to scream his name, to give in fully and admit he wins this sexual competition. Am I going to give in?