Like most of my stories, I don't go over my things a second time to revise. Too impatient. Take it as it is. Kurt at a bar.
Some of the PFLAG members had decided to venture out onto the club scene for Halloween—with nothing else to do, as Blaine was out-of-town on account of a family reunion, Kurt chose to tag along with his effeminate peers. Apparently they knew people who knew people who could get all of them into the fantastic, if questionably-titled, "Banana Split Bar."
The small group of six or seven boys walked down the several blocks it took from the bus stop to get to the hot spot. Everyone—Kurt included—carried an air of overwhelming pride, due to well-thought out and elaborate costumes. Halloween was their bitch, this year.
Kurt breathed in the cool evening air, excitement and loneliness simultaneously hitting him. At all of the PFLAG events, he had always glomped onto Blaine—now without his lovely lover, Kurt found himself wondering how, exactly, to socialize with the others. Everyone there was loud and intimidating. A sea of similarity. Kurt thought all he needed in life was like-minded people—but time only showed him otherwise. Differences made things interesting.
Along this train of thought, Kurt absentmindedly recalled Dave Karofsky. The boy hadn't been to school whatsoever since senior year started. Kurt wasn't worried—after all, if something horrible (he knew what kind of horrible he'd worry about) would have happened…Kurt would have heard about it, by then.
Dave seemed so intent on following up with going to the PFLAG meetings. But brochures and Facebook messages and meetings flew by…and now, here Kurt was, in his elegant mermaid outfit, thinking about a boy he hadn't talked to since prom.
He didn't think about Dave often…but when he did, he only felt pangs of deep, strange curiosity. And pity, too, come to think of it. Dave wouldn't have dressed up in a costume, that's for sure—but he definitely would have loved to come. This was a silent fact that Kurt somehow knew. For all the macho appeal that Dave held—there was also a quality to him that seemed intrigued and amused by the flamboyant sub-culture that many gay teens created.
Like some vivid inner stab, Kurt remembered what Dave's chuckle sounded like—so silly, so unsure of itself…and yet, rather rumbling, too…Kurt grinned, in his pink lipstick, fake eyelashed eyes widening.
Blaine had a lovely laugh, too. There was something more fond, however, to Dave's—perhaps the fact that Kurt hadn't seen the boy in such a long time. With a final thought, Kurt concluded that Dave would have fit right in with the other boys—he would have brought that Something Different that secretly they all craved. There was something endearing about his differentness, about how self-conscious that boy could be.
"Hey, Kurt," Alphonzo, one of the boys, called from the door, cat tail twirling in his hand. "Get your head out of your ass! Let's fucking PARTY!"
Kurt beamed and, shaking his head, shuffled into the club through the back door. A pounding beat immediately greeted him, along with the shady darkness that Banana Split Bar was known for.
Lady Gaga. Mother Monster was playing. Kurt's heart leapt, and his dick hardened, suddenly. There was something in him crazy and fanatic enough to literally be titillated by the party sound of the New Madonna.
Kurt glanced around the club, now being able to see all other sorts of drag outfits, lavish and uncomfortable-looking. All of the other PFLAG members had already deserted him. Though they would meet up later, Kurt knew, he couldn't help but feel a sense of utter desolation and…that flavor of feeling akin to losing a parent at some enormous store. Kurt remembered when, so young, he'd blissfully play about in the toy section of a store, as his mother would shop around—"I'll be back in ten, honey"—but sometimes ten minutes seemed like hours, and he would cry, in a wave of melodramatic loneliness.
Blaine. Why wasn't Blaine here? Why would one's family ever set a reunion on Halloween?
Without warning, instinct took over: Kurt saw the thick, strong arms of a man dressed up as a cowboy. Blushing madly, it took everything in the young boy not to…not to stare. Not to walk right up to the man and touch those arms, or—god forbid—start grinding.
Which wasn't such an odd notion, considering absolutely everyone was grinding. It was a sea of eager round asses, bopping up and down.
With a rush of what-else-do-I-do-here, Kurt made the sign of the cross (to Lady Gaga, not to some bearded man in sandals) and made his way to the throbbing mass that was the dance floor.
Ignoring his flopping teal mermaid wig, Kurt thrusted and twisted about—he'd always been a horrible dancer, but here in the dark light, he didn't really care all that much. Besides, Blaine loved how horribly Kurt danced—or so Kurt liked to think.
Less than a minute in, the young twink realized a hulking man with a Viking hat shadow had danced well into his personal space. He could smell the man's distinct musk, over everyone else's. Uncomfortably, he felt his dick harden only more.
With the horniness all around him, all in him, he followed a feeling and winked at the shadowy figure, turning around to playfully bounce his behind toward the man's way. The man let out an abrupt cackle—it sounded friendly, and silly, Kurt noticed—and began grinding against Kurt, lightly enough.
All in good fun—right?
But it wasn't, and Kurt knew it. Still, Blaine had chosen to be with family, instead of him, on what was perhaps one of his favorite holidays of the year. Kurt let the man put his warm, soft, big hands on his hips, grinding his hard, thick bulge against Kurt's soft ass.
Warmth. Lust. Kurt felt so wanted. He sighed, still moving to the music, and casually slipped a hand to the back of the man's neck, awkwardly but efficiently enough, eliciting a soft moan from the stranger.
As he'd wanted him to, the man leaned down and pressed warmer, rough lips to the back and side of Kurt's neck. Kurt shivered, to feel a hint of wet tongue against his sweaty skin, while also feeling the man's member becoming more and more apparent.
"Fuck yes," the voice muttered, grinding further. The music—could be Lady Gaga again, who knows—was far away to Kurt, his priorities set to rather primal needs.
Blaine wouldn't know.
Kurt grabbed the front of the Viking's shirt, leading the willing figure towards the wall. The man instinctively knew what Kurt wanted, and pressed the boy up against the wall, kissing him furiously. Their lips frantically mashed together. Kurt melted as the man grinded, again and again, nailing him against the wall.
The meaty, big hands traveled up, under Kurt's skin-tight shirt. The warm roughness to the hands, to the traveling, tickling fingers excited him, excited him so much, and he, in turn, grabbed at the man's love handles.
The Viking's skin was sweaty, but wonderfully so. He smelled manly, as though he'd spent all day cutting trees or lifting heavy objects. He smelled real and spicy and fucking hot. His skin was taught and yet thick and soft.
Kurt could hardly breathe, everything in him lost in the adrenaline-ridden enjoyment of it all.
"I'll do you," Kurt uttered, hands traveling down to the man's large belt buckle.
"You don't have to," a low voice grumbled out, unconvincingly.
Kurt bent down slightly, clumsily undoing the belt.
"Wait—" the voice continued, and in a rush, it grabbed Kurt's jaw, cupping the boy's face in those large, hot hands. With a strange and potent sort of passion, the Viking kissed Kurt, whimpering as his lips reluctantly parted.
Kurt's heart stopped.
"I have to go," he said, quickly. Without giving the man time to respond whatsoever, Kurt rushed out of the bar, mermaid hair thankfully still atop his head, by some bobby pin miracle.
He couldn't think.
Everything was a rush.
You never forget your first kiss with a guy.
In a frenzy, Kurt stopped at some gas station, rushing into their seedy little one-person bathroom. Without another guilty thought, he whipped out his dick and jacked off, thinking of Dave eagerly grinding into him. Everything in him clenched and he came, that manly Viking scent still lingering on his clothes, whispering around the bathroom.