alex hogan gay stories

I knocked on his door. No answer. I knocked a little louder. Still nothing. I eased open the door. I would just peek inside to see if perhaps he was asleep too. The light from the hallway showed me inside his room. I saw the messy, opened-drawer look of someone who had hastily changed his clothes. His blue striped shirt, the one I remembered clearly he had worn in the morning, lay discarded on the bed. His trousers were in a heap on the floor, just above his work shoes. His wardrobe door was open.

He had gone out. He had come in while I slept, changed his clothes, and left again, without me. At least he had shown the decency not to switch on the TV while I slept. Which meant he knew I was there. Which meant he knew he was going out without me.

But from that first evening in some strange way my peace of mind was shattered and I was damned if I could work out why. I mean, I didn’t fancy him, after all I am straight and I’ve got a few ex-girlfriends who can prove it. But I found myself watching him even when I thought I wasn’t watching him, if you know what I mean. At first it was because I had to check what he was doing, make sure he got the right spirits when he reached that long arm of his up to send a shot into a glass or that he keyed the right price for the drinks into the register. But after a while it was kind of addictive to watch him move, the way he twirled and jived to his own internal music as he served the customers and chatted. It got so bad I was even dreaming about him – strange, shadowy dreams that I couldn’t quite remember when I woke up, all hot and sweaty. It was getting to me, I can tell you.