Seducing My Straight Friend

I need to start with a confession: I didn't set out to seduce anyone. That wasn't my intention, and the title of this story is somewhat misleading. What happened between me and Brandon was more like a collision—two people who'd been orbiting each other for years finally crashing together.

But let me start at the beginning.

Brandon and I met freshman year of high school, assigned as lab partners in biology. He was the quarterback's best friend—popular, confident, easy with a laugh that made everyone around him feel included. I was the quiet kid who read too much and hadn't yet figured out why I felt different from the other boys.

We became friends against all odds. He thought I was funny. I thought he was beautiful, though I wouldn't have used that word then, wouldn't have let myself. We stayed friends through high school, through college at different universities, through his string of girlfriends and my slow, painful process of coming out.

"Cool, man. Want to grab pizza?"

When I told Brandon I was gay at twenty, that was his response. A shrug and an invitation for food. No drama, no distance. Just acceptance. I loved him even more for that, even as I tried to convince myself my feelings were purely platonic.

They weren't. I knew they weren't. But Brandon was straight, and he was my best friend, and I would never risk losing him for something as selfish as my own desires.

By twenty-five, we were living in the same city—me working as a graphic designer, him in sales at some tech company. We saw each other at least once a week: beers on Fridays, pickup basketball on Sundays, the occasional weeknight when one of us needed to vent about work or life or whatever.

He'd broken up with his latest girlfriend a few months back.

"She said I was emotionally unavailable," he told me over drinks. "That I always seemed like I was thinking about something else."

"Were you?" I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment—too long—before shrugging.

"Maybe. I don't know. Something's been off lately. With all of them, really. I keep trying to find something, and it's never there."

I didn't let myself hope. I'd spent too many years not hoping to start now.

The night everything changed was a Saturday in late June. Late June Brandon had suggested we hit up a new bar downtown, one with craft cocktails and a rooftop terrace. We got pleasantly buzzed, talked about nothing and everything, and ended up back at my apartment when the bar closed.

"One more drink?" I offered, grabbing two beers from the fridge.

"Sure." He settled onto my couch, loose and relaxed in that way he got when he'd had just enough alcohol. "Hey, can I ask you something weird?"

"You always do."

He laughed.

"Fair. It's just... how did you know? That you were gay?"

I sat down next to him, not too close but not at my usual careful distance.

"I guess I always knew something was different. And then in high school, it clicked. Why I wasn't interested in girls the way other guys were. Why I kept noticing..."

I stopped.

"Noticing what?"

"Other guys," I finished carefully.

"Anyone specific?"

The question hung in the air. My heart was pounding. This felt like dangerous territory.

"Why do you ask?"

Brandon took a long drink of his beer, not meeting my eyes.

"I've been thinking a lot lately. About what I want. About why nothing with women ever feels... complete. About—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind. This is weird."

"It's not weird. You can tell me anything. You know that."

He finally looked at me. In the dim light of my apartment, his eyes were darker than usual, searching.

"I've been having these thoughts. About men. About..." Another pause. "About you."

Time stopped. Or maybe my heart did. I wasn't sure.

"About me?" My voice came out strangled.

"I know it's crazy. You're my best friend. I'm not even—I mean, I've always been straight. But lately, when I'm with you, I feel things I've never felt with anyone else. And I can't stop wondering what it would be like if..."

"If what?"

Instead of answering, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was hesitant at first—his lips barely brushing mine, giving me every chance to pull away. But I couldn't pull away. I'd been dreaming about this for a decade, and now it was actually happening, and nothing in the world could have made me stop it.

I kissed him back.

The hesitation melted away. He made a sound—surprised, hungry—and deepened the kiss, one hand coming up to cup my jaw. He tasted like beer and something sweeter underneath, and he kissed like a man who'd been holding back for a long, long time.

"God," he breathed when we finally broke apart. "I've wanted to do that for so long."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Years, maybe. I just didn't let myself admit it."

I pulled him back to me, and this time there was no hesitation. The kiss turned desperate, needy. Years of repressed attraction came flooding out, drowning us both.

We ended up horizontal on the couch, him on top of me, our bodies pressed together in ways that left nothing to the imagination. I could feel how hard he was through his jeans, and the knowledge that I'd done that to him—me, after all these years—was intoxicating.

"Is this okay?" he asked between kisses. "I've never—I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's more than okay. And we can figure it out together."

I guided his hand to my belt, showed him how to undo it, how to slip inside my jeans. The first touch of his hand on my bare cock made me moan embarrassingly loud.

"Fuck. You're so hard."

"That's what you do to me. What you've always done to me."

His grip tightened, and he started to stroke—uncertain at first, then with more confidence as he figured out what made me gasp and arch into his touch.

"Can I see you? Please?"

He sat back and pulled off his shirt. I'd seen him shirtless countless times over the years, but never like this—never knowing I was allowed to look, to want, to touch. I ran my hands over his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath my palms.

"You're so beautiful. I've thought so for years."

"Years?" He looked genuinely surprised.

"Since we were seventeen. Since you took off your shirt at that pool party and I had to pretend I wasn't staring."

He laughed—that familiar, warm laugh that I loved—and kissed me again.

"I'm an idiot. We could have been doing this for years."

"We're doing it now. That's what matters."

I reached for his belt, and he let me undo it, let me push down his jeans and boxers until he was as naked as I was. His cock was flushed and straining, and when I wrapped my hand around it, he shuddered.

"Fuck. That feels..."

"Good?"

"Different. Better. Shit, Tyler, that feels so good."

I stroked him slowly, learning what he liked. He was responsive in ways I hadn't expected—groaning, thrusting into my hand, his hands gripping my shoulders like he needed something to hold onto.

"I want to taste you. Can I?"

His eyes widened.

"You want to..."

"I've wanted to for ten years. Please let me."

He nodded, and I slid down his body until I was kneeling between his legs. He was gorgeous like this—spread out on my couch, chest heaving, cock hard and waiting. I licked my lips and took him into my mouth.

"Oh fuck."

His hips jerked, and I had to hold him down.

"Tyler, fuck, that's incredible."

I worked him with my mouth, taking my time, savoring every sound he made. When I deep-throated him, he nearly came off the couch. When I pulled back to tease the head with my tongue, he whimpered.

"I'm going to come," he warned. "Tyler, if you don't stop—"

I didn't stop. I wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him fall apart. When he came with a shout, spilling into my mouth, it was everything I'd ever imagined and more.

After, he pulled me up and kissed me deeply, tasting himself on my tongue.

"Your turn. Tell me what to do."

I guided him through it—the grip, the speed, the twist at the top that made my toes curl. He was a quick learner, and between his hand and his mouth on my neck and the sheer fact that this was Brandon, my best friend, the love of my life, I didn't last long.

When I came, it was with his name on my lips.

We lay tangled together on the couch afterward, sweaty and satisfied and both a little shell-shocked by what had just happened.

"So," Brandon said eventually. "That was..."

"Yeah."

"I'm not straight, am I?"

I laughed, the sound startled out of me.

"Probably not."

"Why didn't you ever tell me? That you felt this way?"

"You were straight. Or I thought you were. I wasn't going to risk our friendship for something that could never happen."

He turned to face me, his expression serious.

"I'm glad it happened. Even if it changes things. Even if we have to figure out what this means. I'm glad."

"Me too."

He kissed me softly.

"What do we do now?"

"I guess we figure it out. Together."

Two Years Later That was two years ago. We're still together, still figuring it out. He identifies as bisexual now, after a lot of soul-searching and some therapy. Our families know. Our friends know. It hasn't always been easy—there were awkward conversations and people who didn't understand—but we've navigated it together.

Sometimes I still can't believe this is my life. That the boy I fell in love with at fifteen is now the man I wake up next to every morning. That all those years of longing weren't wasted—they were just building toward this.

If you're carrying a torch for someone you think you can't have, I won't tell you to confess your feelings. I know how complicated it is, how much there is to lose. But I will say this: sometimes the impossible becomes possible. Sometimes people surprise you. Sometimes the thing you've wanted most in the world is waiting for you, just on the other side of fear.

Brandon was worth the wait. And so was this life we're building together.