Wednesday, August 8, 2018

I Fail at Flirting

I’m not the best at flirting.

Apparently, clients and visitors flirt with me all the time at my day job — but the only reason I know this is because my co-workers tell me after the fact. Well, I’m not totally obtuse; I did pick up on the flirting when an older gay couple said they should invite me over for drinks (with a suggestive eyebrow waggle), shortly after I told them I get drunk quick.

Years ago, when I was still figuring myself out, my friend at the time (who later became my husband) and I were pulling up at a coffee shop to hang out and have coffee.

He looked at the place, let out a frustrated sigh, then looked at me and said, “I want to be alone with you.”

I took a look at the coffee shop and pointed toward the windows at the back of building. “There are couches in the back corner,” I said. “That’s pretty private.”

He looked at the place again, let out another frustrated sigh, then said, “It’s not alone enough.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to figure out exactly what he was getting at. I was kind of disappointed because I really liked that coffeeshop.

“I want to be alone… so I can kiss you,” he finally said.

It took me too long to catch on. “Oh… oh!” Then I turned the car back on, shifted into drive, and took us somewhere more private.

So with my lack of awareness of flirting, it’s understandable that the characters in my books generally don’t flirt too much. (If they do flirt, it’s more of the obvious kind — like that couple at my day job that wants to get me drunk.)

Here’s a little sample of the closest thing I have to flirting, from Dominating the Freshman, which I co-wrote with Dominic Leblanc:


It’s like a dance. I’ve been through this many times; I make a subtle gesture of interest, he reciprocates, and we move closer.

The gym is nearly empty, save for him and I and some guy doing leg presses. The twink — my partner in this mating dance — eyes me as he walks across the room to the water fountain. After his drink, he looks at me again and water glistens on his pouty, cock-sucking lips. Before he looks away again, I pick up a pair of free weights, my biceps bulging as I carry them to a spot in front of the mirror.

I eye up my figure as I approach the mirror, ensuring I’m giving the twink a good view. My arms glisten with sweat and my tank is plastered to my tight body. My hairy legs look strong in the tight shorts I’m wearing. I shift my gaze to him, watching his reflection, and I catch him staring at me, slack-jawed. He blushes, but doesn’t avert his eyes.

Emboldened, he wanders over my way, trying to make it look casual despite both of us knowing exactly what’s going on and where this is leading. He picks a couple weights off the rack and takes a bench a couple over from where I’m standing.

With his closeness, I get a much better look at him — he’s a twink, yes, but he has some jock muscle to him. He’s shorter than me, skinnier, and has to be nineteen, at most. While his frame might be small, his dick certainly isn’t. The tenting in the front of his shorts tells me he’s hard and he’s big. But it’s not necessarily his cock I want.

“What are you working on?” I ask, as I start doing bicep curls. I keep my voice low, so that only he could hear. I glance at the reflection of the other guy, the one at the leg press — he’s taking a break and doing something on his phone, totally oblivious to the impending homosexual action on this side of the room.

He bites his lower lip, looking like he’s almost overwhelmed that I’m actually talking to him, then says, “Just going to do a few rows.”

Then he leans over the bench and props one knee on it, straightening his back to be parallel with the padded surface … leaving his perfectly round ass curved and ready for me. I want so much to pull down those shorts and lick all the salty sweat from his crack. If that guy wasn’t dawdling by the leg press and would just get the fuck out of here, I might actually follow through with it.

I put my free weights on the floor and saunter over to him, admiring every inch of his body as I get closer. “Need someone to, uh, spot you?”

“That’d be nice,” he says. “And make sure my form is correct.”

He starts doing his rows, lifting the weight in his left fist, while using his right hand to brace himself on the bench. I come up beside him, standing beside his head, my crotch at height of his mouth, and I place a hand on his back. His body is sweaty and hot, but I can feel energy thrumming through him — the libido and lust of young men, I’m sure — and it only serves to turn me on even more. I push my hand further down his back, conscious that the other man is still in the room with us, and gently pushed my fingers under the back of his shorts. I find the band of his underwear, and then bare flesh — he’s wearing a jockstrap.

I clear my throat, steadying myself. I’ve never wanted a boy as badly as I want this one. Even with clothes on, his body is perfect.

By now my cock is thick and hard, standing prominent in my gym shorts. He turns to face me, those gorgeous, pouty lips only a breath away from kissing my shaft. “Thanks,” he says, his attention focussed on my bulge.

The loud clang of the other guy finishing a set of leg presses — the guy I wish would just disappear — breaks the tension of the moment. I feel like our slow dance toward wild sex was set back several steps. We need to get out of here.

I watch as the boy turns around and does rows with his other arm. As he turns, though, he brushes his body against mine — his shoulder rubs against my cock — and it sends a shiver through me. This boy wants me as bad as I want him.

I glance in the mirror at the other guy. He’s on his phone again, doing fuck knows what, while he takes a break between sets. I’d seen this guy here before and I seem to remember that he always did a long workout — I’d come and go and he’d still be working on his routine. Today, he had gotten here shortly after me, which means he’ll likely be working out for a while longer.

“That’s quite a workout,” I say, returning my attention to the twink. “You want to hit the showers?”

He smiles and stands up. “I think it’s about quitting time. A shower might do me good … help me relax.”

(Apologies to fellow Grippers for being a day late. Our Canadian long weekend screwed up my internal calendar.)

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay smut. Find out more at His upcoming publication is the (surprisingly smut-free) gay YA romance, Gay Love And Other Fairy Tales, under his YA pen name, Dylan James.


  1. This scene looks like expert flirting, deliciously prolonged by the presence of another person.

  2. “Need someone to, uh, spot you?”

    C'mon, Cameron. If that's not flirting, then I'm not polymorphously perverse!


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