He refused. He would not admit it. He didn't care how much "better" it would feel, he refused to submit to his own traitorous body's desires.
So he told himself every time he caught his own gaze straying to that perfect, tight round ass.
He growled under his breath at himself. He hated how ineffective his own strategy was. It was supposed to be a matter of finding a decent brothel with attractive women(he would take no chances with gathering the ire of any fathers like his associate did), paying some coin, getting laid, and his body would obediently follow along with his wishes. Not proceeding through with that whole debacle and it still refusing to submit.
No, he did not enjoy "getting laid". His body was apathetic at best with the women and he refused to admit why.
His partner walked in front of him, oohing and ahhing at the pretty baubles in the shop windows. Hips swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and-
He snarled, receiving an amused smirk from that blasted-annoying-idiot-gaudy drow.
He hated Jarlaxle.
He could never know how much he did not like his ass. Do not, did not, will not.
Never.
He liked women-and only women-, and by the nine hells he would find some way to convince his body of that.
As he had been attempting for the last 4 decades.
Well, 2 and a half. He didn't start figuring it out until nearly halfway into his second decade. Too busy surviving on the streets before then to take much notice of anything related to sexual interest. Once he got in the guild, things started to become different. He started noticing the sheen of sweat on-
Nope. Not going there.
The drow bent over to look at some baubles on a merchant's cart.
The whimper almost made it past.
His eyes raked over the view in front of him.
His fingers twitched. Two steps, that's all it'd take to have that ass flush against h-
No! He almost screamed in frustration.
Not frustration, he refused to be frustrated. He was fine, he just needed to find a woman to bed and he'd be-
Tooclosetooclose!
He backpedaled, snarling at the drow for invading his space bubble.
The asshole laughed at him.
He stalked off, let the damned peacock find his own way around town.
He hated the hot-cold prickles than shivered up and down his body from the too-close encounter.
Hated the heat and heaviness that was in his groin.
Hated the little shocks of friction where his shirt brushed against his nipples that were not hard.
He especially hated how his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth and oh-gods-I-hate-how-aroused-I-am.
His body trembled imperceptibly as he stalked to the inn where they were staying.
He audibly growled as he passed the two men in the alleyway freely enjoying themselves.
He had nothing against it. He acknowledged it and respected it with others, but for himself? He refused to let the torments he suffered as a child dictate his sexual preference in the twisted way it was attempting to.
.
.
.
It never occurred to him that his childhood torments had nothing to do with his honest preference for men, or that in denying himself he was, in fact, allowing himself to be dictated by those torments.