Lonely 70-Year-Old Straight Man Masturbates to Gay Porn

The house had been quiet for so long that Franklin could hear the refrigerator click off down the hall. He sat in the spare bedroom he used as an office, the desk lamp off, the only light coming from the monitor and a thin spill of streetlight through the blinds. Seventy years old, retired, living alone in a suburban split-level that still smelled faintly of the carpet cleaner he'd used that afternoon, he had nothing waiting for him but the same empty bed and the same restless ache that had been building for weeks.

He had not had a woman in his bed in years. Not since Delphine moved out and the dating apps stopped returning anything but silence. He still thought of himself as a straight man. He had always wanted women—soft skin, perfume, the particular weight of a breast in his palm—and nothing about that had changed in his head. His body, though, had started arguing with him after midnight. His cock would thicken against the fly of his pajama pants for no reason he could name, and his hand would drift down, and the usual fantasies of Ivana from the old office or some faceless woman in a sundress would go thin and useless before he could finish. Novelty, he told himself. That was all he needed. Something different enough to get him over the edge.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed the words slowly, as if someone might be watching the glow on his face. Gay porn. He hit enter before he could talk himself out of it. Thumbnails loaded. Men on men. Hard cocks, open mouths, asses spread. His stomach tightened with a flush that felt like shame and curiosity braided together. He was straight. He had spent fifty years knowing what he liked. And yet his pulse had already picked up, and the front of his pajama pants had gone warmer.

He clicked one at random. The video buffered, then started. A man identified in the title as Pablo, forty-one, broad through the shoulders, dark hair salted at the temples, knelt on a hotel bed in low light. Across from him, a younger man the description listed as twenty-eight—lean, pale, named Dante in the credits that scrolled at the bottom—stood with his pants already open, cock half-hard and heavy. Franklin's mouth went dry. He told himself he was only looking. He told himself a straight man could look at anything and not mean it. His cock disagreed, thickening against the soft cotton until the head pressed a damp spot into the fabric.

On the screen Pablo's mouth opened. Dante fed him the first few inches, slow, and Pablo took them with a wet sound that came through Franklin's cheap speakers like it was happening in the room. Franklin's hand had moved to his thigh without permission. He watched Pablo's throat work. He watched Dante's fingers slide into Pablo's hair. The clash in his chest was sharp: he did not want a man, he had never wanted a man, and still his balls had drawn up and his breathing had gone shallow. He shifted in the chair. The wood creaked. Outside, a car passed and was gone. Inside, the only sounds were the video and the small, unwilling noise he made in his throat.

He should have closed the tab. He knew that. Instead he turned the volume up one notch and leaned closer, the blue light painting the lines of his face, his cock now fully hard and aching in his pants like it had been waiting for exactly this and had no interest in his opinions.

Pablo took Dante deeper. The younger man's hips rolled forward, and the older man's lips stretched around the thick shaft until his nose brushed the trimmed hair at the base. Spit shone on Dante's cock when Pablo pulled back, a string of it catching the light before it broke. Franklin's breath hitched. He had watched plenty of women do that. He knew the mechanics. Seeing it done by a man with gray in his stubble, hearing the low, greedy sound Pablo made when Dante pushed back in, did something to him he could not file away. His fingers found the buttons of his pajama pants. He undid them one by one, slow, as if speed would make the choice realer than it already was.

The waistband gave. He hooked his thumb under the elastic of his briefs and lifted his cock out into the cool air of the room. It was thick for his age, heavier than it had been in his twenties, the skin of the shaft a little looser, the head dark and already wet at the slit. He wrapped his hand around it and just held it for a moment, feeling the pulse under his palm, watching the screen. Pablo's cheeks hollowed. Dante groaned, a rough young sound, and said something filthy about how good the older man's mouth was. Franklin's grip tightened. He stroked once, from root to tip, slow, spreading the precum with his thumb. The sensation shot up his spine. He did it again, firmer, matching the lazy rhythm of Dante's hips.

He told himself he was only using the pictures. That the cocks on the screen were props, that what he wanted was still a woman, that this was a late-night experiment and nothing more. His hand did not care. It worked his shaft in steady pulls, the foreskin—what was left of the looseness—sliding over the swollen head. His free hand braced on the desk. His eyes stayed locked on Pablo's mouth, on the way spit ran down Dante's balls, on the flex of Pablo's jaw. The forbidden part of it, the part that said a seventy-year-old straight man had no business getting this hard over two men, only made his strokes rougher. He squeezed at the base and dragged upward, thumb pressing the sensitive spot under the head, and a low sound broke out of him before he could stop it.

On the screen Dante pulled out, cock shining, and slapped it against Pablo's cheek. Pablo opened his mouth again, hungry, and Franklin's hips lifted an inch off the chair. He stroked faster. The chair wheels clicked against the plastic mat. His pajama pants were bunched at his thighs, his belly soft and pale above the dark hair at his groin, his cock jutting up red and urgent in his fist. He could smell himself, the salt of precum, the faint soap from his shower. He could hear the wet sounds from the speakers and the wetter sound of his own hand. His straightness felt like a story he was telling with his mouth shut while his body wrote something else entirely.

Dante grabbed Pablo by the hair and fucked his mouth in short, deep thrusts. Pablo took it, eyes watering, throat clicking, and Franklin matched him, pumping his thick cock in the same cadence, grip firm, wrist twisting at the top. His balls swung with the motion. He was breathing through his mouth now, chest rising, the restless frustration of the last few years burning off into something hotter and meaner. He did not look away. He did not want to.

The video cut, or maybe Franklin had clicked ahead without noticing; either way the angle changed and the room on the screen was the same hotel room, only now Pablo was on his hands and knees on the bed, ass up, and Dante was behind him with a slicked cock, lining up. Franklin's hand slowed for half a second, then tightened. He watched Dante push in. Pablo's back arched. The younger man's hips met the older man's ass with a dull slap that came through the speakers and landed somewhere low in Franklin's gut. Doggy-style, hard, no gentleness in it. Dante gripped Pablo's hips and drove in again, deeper, and Pablo dropped his head and moaned like he had been waiting all night for exactly that stretch.

Franklin's fist flew. He matched the rhythm without deciding to, pumping his thick seventy-year-old cock in time with every thrust on the screen, the head dark and leaking, precum smearing his knuckles. His other hand dropped between his thighs and cupped his balls, rolling them, tugging just enough to make his stomach clench. The skin there was soft, the sac heavy, and the tease of his own fingers while he watched Dante bury himself to the root made his thighs shake. He moaned, an open sound he would have been mortified by in daylight, and did not stop.

"Take it," Dante said on the screen, voice rough, and slammed in again. Pablo pushed back to meet him, ass clapping against Dante's hips, cock swinging hard and untouched beneath him. Franklin stared at that swinging cock, at the way Pablo's hole stretched around the shaft, at the shine of lube and the flex of Dante's stomach. His straight mind tried one last time to call it nothing. His hand called it something else. He stroked harder, grip almost too tight, the friction hot, his wrist aching in a way he ignored. His balls drew up under his teasing fingers. He squeezed them, rolled them, let them go, squeezed again, timing it to the slap of flesh on the video.

Sweat gathered at his hairline. His pajama top had ridden up. The chair creaked under the small thrusts of his hips as he fucked his own fist, eyes glassy, mouth open. Pablo was groaning now, a broken, grateful sound, and Dante was pounding him, the bed frame knocking, the younger man's hands leaving pale marks on Pablo's hips. Franklin's cock throbbed in his grip. He could feel the orgasm gathering low, a tight hot coil that had been building since the first thumbnail and would not be talked down. He pumped faster, matching Dante's pace, the slick sound of his hand loud in the quiet house, his free fingers pressing behind his balls, teasing the sensitive skin there until his vision narrowed to the screen and the red blur of his own cock.

"Fuck," he rasped, to no one. "Fuck."

Dante buried himself and ground in, and Pablo came without a hand on him, cum striping the sheets, his whole body shaking. That did it. Franklin's orgasm hit like a shove. His fist locked near the head and stroked through it in short, desperate pulls, and he came hard, a shuddering, full-body release that bowed his shoulders and tore a moan out of his chest. Thick ropes of cum shot across his soft stomach, hot and heavy, then another pulse striped his chest, catching in the gray hair there, and a third weaker spurt drooled over his knuckles and down onto his balls. He kept stroking through it, milking himself, watching Dante pull out and slap his spent cock against Pablo's reddened hole, and the sight dragged one last weak spurt out of him that landed on his lower belly and began to cool.

He sagged back in the chair, chest heaving, cock still half-hard in his sticky fist, cum cooling in stripes from his navel to his collarbone. The video kept playing. Dante was saying something crude. Pablo was laughing, breathless, ass still up. Franklin's pulse hammered in his ears. The lonely tightness that had been sitting in his gut for months had gone slack, replaced by the raw, filthy aftershock of what he had just done. He reached for the box of tissues on the desk with his clean hand, wiped his stomach and chest in slow passes, then his cock, then his fingers, the paper going translucent and rank. He dropped the wad in the trash. His breathing slowed. The house was quiet again except for the video and the tick of the cooling computer.

He looked at the mess he had missed, a shine of cum still caught in the hair on his chest, and at his softening cock lying against his thigh, and he did not feel tender about any of it. He felt used up and strangely clear. A seventy-year-old straight man had sat alone in the dark and jerked his thick cock to two men fucking until he painted his own stomach and chest, and the release had been better than anything he had managed in years. He closed the browser. The screen went dark. His hand, still faintly sticky, rested on his bare thigh.

He sat there with cum drying on his chest and his spent cock out, already knowing he would open the same kind of video tomorrow night and stroke himself raw to it again.