Adrian just wants to finish his cash flow reports. (adpucey) wrote in allswell,
Adrian fought the urge to interrupt Stew's little "inspirational" spiel, though he rather felt like he had all the ammunition he needed in just being himself to counter argue the younger man's point. But then they'd probably never stop, and this night definitely wouldn't end as he planned. It was easy to concede that in theory, yes, he was right. There was no known correlation (scientifically, anyway) between a person's perceived attractiveness and his or her skill in bed. But it never stopped that guy from getting first pick, did it? And here was Adrian, finally experiencing a very rare streak of unprecedented good luck, and he couldn't even get past his own insecurity to make it to the bedroom.
Then again, it was probably easy for someone like Stew to subscribe to an idea like that. Stew, the well-sculpted, well-liked, young, relatable bartender-- he went home with who he wanted. Or maybe he was right, and Adrian was just the odd man out in the ugly duckling pool. Maybe there were other pale, peaky-looking men who were getting theirs and enjoying it, too.
He wanted to be a part of that group. Desperately.
... No, fuck wanting. He would be. And he'd better act fast before the younger man made this visit his very last, which he appeared very close to doing.
Lost in his own thoughts, the grin caught him off guard, bringing out the heated color in his face when he realized he hadn't been fully listening. "You think so? Pretty sure you owe this," he stepped forward, flattening his hand high in the center of his chest, "to vanity. And an overactive gym membership."
"Why couldn't you have been this encouraging the first time? Certainly would've helped me in being less of a stupid, nervous wreck," he chided lightly, his fingers trailing toward a more sensitive destination, but stopping just at his waistline.