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Shane Hollander, rookie of the Montreal Metros, is definitely not gay.
He’s had sex with girls before! It kind of was a challenge and eating pussy makes him want to die a little but everyone else describes it like heaven so maybe it’s an acquired taste.
There was one time, one fucking time, that he refuses to acknowledge when Ilya Rozanov had sucked his dick. After they filmed a commercial. Also he had sucked Ilya’s dick too. But that was only one fucking time.
And he’s definitely not gay.
And if the shirtless hockey players on the ceiling of his childhood room are… nice and make his tummy a bit tingly that’s literally unrelated.
And sex is awesome! (Oh my god he dreads it.) He loves to meet girls and go out to the club with his team! (The music gives him a headache and if anyone tries to touch him it kind of makes him go into fight flight or freeze.) (He also hates dancing.)
And recently a girl sucked his cock he loved it! (He was thinking about Paul Baker from high school the whole time for some reason oh my god Paul you’re so good at doing that, fuck, I mean Georgia that’s amazing.)
And Shane doesn’t watch porn. It squicks him out too much. It doesn’t feel right to watch it. Also he’s read that the free stuff isn’t that ethical and so he will abstain for moral reasons. (He’s rich enough to pay for it, ethically, which is besides the point. He’s never going to search for gay porn ever. Because he’s not fucking gay.)
But also, sex probably could feel better. (It had felt amazing with Ilya. But that was just a blowjob and it was one fucking time and he’s literally not allowed to think about it oh my god do not think about it.)
The hockey locker room is often filled with really quite unsavoury chatter. People are having sex, obviously. But they also want to know everyone else’s sex details and share their own sex details and Shane is very bad at sharing sex details.
He’s probably just allergic to talking about sex.
But he’s a good listener so he is learning a lot. Far too much. So much information his brain might explode. He knows what most the older guys like and has heard phrases about preferences for a girl to spit or swallow which feel just… overly picky? Why do they care? If they got to come? Shane does a lot of nodding. (Was it a big deal that he hadn’t swallowed for Ilya? Don’t think about it don’t think about it.)
He also hears alllll about the married guys, you know, in committed relationships that talk about what they’re doing to spice up their marriages. There are all these sex toys and vibrators and plugs and dildos. One of the older guys got a mould kit where he made a replica of his penis for his wife to use while he’s away on the road.
Apparently he had to stay hard to make the mould thing work. Shane tries not to imagine that in detail. He’s seen James’ dick in the shower (soft, mind you) and it was big already. Like quite big. Not that Shane is taking notice.
Because Shane isn’t gay!! Definitely not, no sir he is not.
But the toy chat was… interesting. One of the guys got a hard time for saying he had tried some toy that went up his butt. But that’s where his prostate is, he had explained. Duh! Of course! And everyone knows Jackson is straight. As straight as they come. He’s married to a lady!
Shane decides that maybe he will try and prioritise having sex with himself. Just like how working out alone and not with the team is good for his performance, maybe this is the same kind of thing. If he can get really in tune with what his body likes, then when he has sex (with The Ladies™) it will be better. (It’s honestly fine he’s fine the sex is fine).
Buying sex toys on the internet is a frightening prospect though.
So Shane does his research. Maybe he’ll buy a few things! He can try stuff out. He’s not scared! (He’s scared shitless.)
After 45 minutes of what can only be described as being in a cold sweat of panic on one of the mainstream sex toy websites, Shane has added 15 things to his cart. Yay! He’s fucking doing it!
Unfortunately he panics and closes the tab and that’s the end of sex toy shopping for Shane Hollander.
Because he had remembered that it would need to be delivered to his house and even if it’s plain packaging the very thought is so mortifying he just can’t handle it. Not at all. What if the mailman knows!
An idea strikes him in the middle of the night, like many of his good ideas. Shane Hollander signs up for a private mail box.
He’s a genius! (Shane Hollander, you’re a genius!)
He opens the website and decides he’s going to just buy Something. (He’s not chicken! He’s brave!)
He panics, buys a 7 inch black dildo (top rated product that wasn’t just for clitorises and didn’t require any batteries and wouldn’t need to be charged and wouldn’t make any noise, naturally), goes to checkout and they ask him if he wants to add lube for a discounted price.
Why not? The last time he’d bought lube and condoms at the supermarket he had thought his heart might explode. Someone might see and then people would know he was Having Sex.
Sure. Fine. Discount lube and dildo. Fuck it.
He hits pay now.
Three days later he is notified that his brand new private box has a delivery.
So nervous and sweaty that anyone would think Shane was potentially wearing a suicide vest, he power walks home from the post office clutching the package and goes into his room. He decides he might feel more comfortable if he closes the curtains. Just in case.
Shane has never put anything. Anything. Ever. Up his butt.
And now, facing down that 7 inch dildo, he wonders if he’s maybe been a little too ambitious.
No matter. It’s all part of getting to know his own body. And he’s curious.
And that’s totally fine. He’s just exploring. Straight guys do this. For self-knowledge. For peak performance.
Shane gets his supplies ready: discount lube (apparently essential), ancient towel (faded, scratchy, can be thrown out if needed), phone propped up with the PDF open.
A Beginner’s Guide to Anal Play for All Genders.
Very inclusive. Very empowering. Shane loves that! Pleasure is universal, no gatekeeping, all bodies celebrated, no matter who you are, no matter what you like, no matter how you identify (or strenuously don’t identify with certain things). The PDF is full of these sunny little bolded boxes: “This guide is for EVERYONE, cis, trans, gay, straight, bi, ace, questioning, curious, or anywhere else on the spectrum!” Shane reads it three times, nodding hard, because yes, absolutely, this is for literally anyone, which one hundred percent includes straight guys like him who are just doing a little self-experimentation.
He’s just optimising. Just gathering data for future heterosexual encounters. The inclusivity makes it feel safe, neutral, almost academic. Not personal at all. (It is extremely personal. It is so personal he’s vibrating.)
He strips quickly before he can change his mind. The towel gets shaken out with a dramatic snap. He lies back on it carefully, knees up, feet flat, feeling absurdly naked even though he’s alone in his locked apartment. Everything feels too exposed.
He decides that the best course of action is some deep breaths, like in yoga. In for four, out for six, just exactly like the PDF’s little breathing diagram tells him to. He’s following instructions to the letter. (He’s also praying no one ever finds out he followed instructions this closely.)
The PDF starts gentle: “Begin with external touches to get comfortable. Move to one finger only when you’re ready. Take your time, there’s no rush. You’ve got this, whoever you are!”
External touch. Of his butthole. Okay.
He grabs the lube bottle (five-star reviews, and literally free so whatever) and pumps some onto his fingers. A reasonable amount. Then he rereads “generous application is key” and pumps again. And again. And a fourth time because the PDF said generous and he’s not taking chances. His hand is now a complete oil spill, dripping and shiny. The bottle makes wet, rude, increasingly obscene noises with every pump: glurp, glurp, pfffrrt. Shane’s face is on fire. (He is alone, mind you. No one can hear the bottle farting.)
He reaches down. Circling externally. It’s ticklish. Low key horribly ticklish. His entire body tenses.
Well. Here he goes. He’s going to stick a finger in his ass and then he won’t be able to say that he’s never tried that. The very idea of changing that now feels kind of big. (But not as big as the dildo Jesus Christ.)
He presses lightly. His body locks up harder (full clench) like it’s trying to swallow his finger whole and spit it back out. Nope. Not today. He pulls back, mortified on his own behalf, and dumps more lube straight from the bottle. This time, a massive, uncontrolled glug misses his hand entirely and pours right down his crack, and unfortunately, it’s starting to pool under him. The towel drinks it up at first, darkening in a spreading stain. He tries again, circling, pressing.
His finger tip slips in. (Yay!)
His eyes go wide.
It’s a bit unreal how tight, hot, impossibly alien it feels. His brain screams INTRUDER. He freezes, one knuckle deep, heart hammering, waiting for pain or lightning or the apocalypse. The PDF’s cheerful voice floats in his head: “That surprising feeling is completely normal! Breathe and let your body adjust.”
He breathes. Shakily. He adds another tiny squirt of lube around the intrusion (because why stop now, go for gold champ.) Waits. The tightness doesn’t budge, but the panic dials down a notch.
He’s in. He’s actually in. Shane Hollander, straightest man in professional sports (Christ), has one whole finger in his own ass.
(He’s never telling anyone.)
(He will actually tell his future husband but we don’t know that right now.)
He crooks it like the PDF says, searching for the spot it promises “all genders can access.” (Shane had googled this because surely cis-women don’t feel that? But some women do!)
Next stop: The Second Finger.
He hesitates for a long, long minute, staring at his lubed-up hand. The PDF has a whole section on this: “When you’re ready for a second finger (and only when you’re ready!), add plenty of lube and go slow. Scissoring motions can help stretch gently. Remember, every body is unique and deserving of patience!” Very supportive. Very non-judgmental. Shane appreciates the reminder that this is for anyone, any gender, any orientation (including straight guys doing totally straight research). He can do this. He’s brave. (He’s terrified.)
He goes for it anyway, pumping another absurd squirt of lube that completely misses his fingers and splats directly onto the towel in a fat glob. The bottle glurps triumphantly. The towel absorbs it with a wet sound, but it’s already looking darker, heavier, like it’s reaching capacity. He ignores the warning signs and reaches down.
He attempts to “scissor carefully”. Oh God. There’s a weird burning stretch that’s sharp at the edges. He’s sweating bullets now, forehead damp, armpits dripping, convinced he’s seconds away from tearing something vital and having to invent the world’s most humiliating ER cover story. (“Fell on a… bottle? In the shower? Slippery soap accident?” Yeah, that’ll fly!) The PDF’s little tip box floats in his mind: “A mild burning sensation is common as muscles adjust. Breathe through it. You’re doing amazing!”
His body clenches sporadically. He waits longer. Adjusts his hips a fraction. Crooks both fingers experimentally, searching for whatever magical spot the PDF keeps promising is “accessible”.
And, a tiny spark. A little deeper pressure that’s… interesting? Not bad. Not great yet, but different. A low, internal throb that makes him pause. He tries the angle again, tilting his wrist awkwardly. Another spark, stronger this time. His cock perks up against his stomach, half-hard and deeply baffled.
Progress! Actual progress! The PDF was right, all genders, all paths, all valid journeys, no rush, no shame. Shane feels a ridiculous surge of pride, like he just unlocked a new achievement.
He spends forever just slowly fingering himself, sliding in and out, crooking, exploring angles, adding lube obsessively every minute or so because the bottle is literally right there on the bed and he’s fully committed to excess at this point. Another pump. Another glug. Another direct hit on the towel when he misses. The towel is now a swamp. It stopped properly absorbing ten minutes ago, it’s just holding the lube in a shallow, gross, cooling pool that he’s fully sitting in, ass marinating like a cheap cut of meat. Every tiny shift makes wet, squelching noises that are absolutely mortifying. His thighs are slick. His lower back is slick. The sheets under the towel are starting to get involved, wicking up the overflow. The whole setup feels like a failed science experiment.
Annoyingly, his phone screen is also a smeared disaster, lube fingerprints everywhere, thumb sliding uselessly. He abandoned any hope of scrolling ages ago. He’s just going by memory now, reciting PDF bullet points in his head like a mantra: “Listen to your body. Pleasure is universal. You’re exploring, and that’s beautiful.”
The sparks keep coming, building into something warmer, deeper, undeniably good. His breathing is ragged. His cock is fully interested now, leaking a little, which he’s pretending isn’t happening.
He’s ready(ish). (He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be.) (He’s still not gay. This is just data collection.) (The dildo is waiting on the nightstand like it knows exactly what’s coming, like, Hi Shane! I’m next!)
He grabs the dildo with his less-lubed hand (the other one is a disaster zone) and starts coating it. Liberally. Extremely liberally. He pumps the last of the bottle directly onto it, watching the clear lube run down in thick rivers because the PDF’s final tip before “toy insertion” was “coat generously for comfort, applies to all genders, all toys!” He’s taking that advice to heart. The dildo is now so slick it nearly slips out of his grip.
Twice.
It looks like it’s been prepped for a deep-sea dive in the Mariana Trench. Shiny, dripping, ready for extreme pressure. (He’s the one about to experience extreme pressure.)
He lines it up carefully, knees shaking a little, heart doing overtime. The tip presses against him. He pushes the tip in.
His whole body protests instantly. Way too much. Overwhelming. Bad. Really, really bad. Like his ass is sending an emergency broadcast: evacuate the premises, this is not a drill.
The stretch is immediate and intense, a burning ring that makes his eyes water. He freezes, breath caught, one hand gripping the base, the other white-knuckling the soggy towel. (The towel squishes under his fingers like a wet sponge.)
The PDF’s voice echoes helpfully in his panic: “Initial insertion can feel intense! Pause, breathe, add more lube if needed.”
More lube? He’s already used an entire bottle. But he dumps the final pathetic gurgle anyway, squeezing the empty plastic until it wheezes its last drop right onto the shaft. The bottle dies with a sad, defeated rattle when he tosses it aside.
He perseveres. Shane is not a quitter!
He starts rocking gently, doing tiny pushes, breathing super slowly (in for four, out for six, just like the guide said).
It works. The dildo starts to inch in by stubborn inch.
He’s trembling all over. The fullness is insane, a heavy, impossible pressure that feels like it’s rearranging his insides. The stretch burns steadily, not unbearable, just a bit uncomfortable. Lube is pooling deeper under him now, running off the dildo, off his skin, because the towel is officially defeated. It’s not absorbing anymore; it’s just a soggy, overloaded raft he’s floating on in his own slick mess. Cold, gross, and spreading onto the sheets in a widening disaster zone. Every tiny movement makes wet, obscene noises that echo in the quiet room.
He pauses halfway, panting, convinced he’s reached his limit. (He hasn’t. He’s only at four inches. The betrayal!)
More rocking. More breathing. Finally, finally, after what feels like an eternity of careful pushing and adjusting and adding phantom lube from a dead bottle, it’s seated, he’s done it! He’s taken all seven inches.
Shane Hollander is stuffed beyond reason. He lies there motionless, waiting in his lube puddle, feeling like a science experiment gone horribly, wetly wrong. (This is fine. Totally normal. Straight guys probably do this all the time. For reasons.)
He shifts a tiny bit, just trying to get less uncomfortable.
And hits it.
That spot.
It detonates through him like a bomb. Deep, throbbing pleasure that rewires his entire nervous system in one go. His hips jerk involuntarily. A desperate, high-pitched whine escapes before he can slap a hand over his mouth. His eyes fly open wide. (Oh no. Oh God. Oh no. It’s really good. Like, really really good. Fuck.)
He does it again, deliberately this time, a tiny rock forward. The world narrows to that electric pressure, rolling waves of pure… something… that make his toes curl and his cock throb hard against his stomach. Another shift. Another hit. The pleasure builds fast and way too intense. The fullness that was overwhelming and bad a minute ago is suddenly necessary, perfect and exactly what he needs. (He needs this. Oh God he needs this. No he doesn’t. Shut up brain. Don’t think about Paul Baker. Do not think about Ilya Rozanov. Not now.)
He’s thinking about Ilya Rozanov.
He’s thrusting now, short slides in and out, chasing that spot relentlessly. His breath is becoming embarrassingly ragged and he’s making little gasps he can’t control.
The lube lake sloshes under him with every movement, cold and gross and everywhere because the towel is completely fucking useless. He’s also, like, close terrifyingly fast. Just from this. Just from the dildo hitting that spot over and over. (He’s going to come. From his ass. From something in his ass. No no no no no.)
Panic slams into him mid-thrust.
No. He is not coming from his ass alone. Hard line. Firm boundary. Straight guys don’t do that. (Do they? He doesn’t know. He’s not asking. Ever. He’s not gay. This is just his prostate. Everyone has one. (Everyone?) It’s biology. It’s fine.)
He absolutely cannot cross this line or everything falls apart. (Everything is already falling apart, he’s fucking himself with a seven inch dildo.)
A very slippery hand (basically useless, sliding everywhere, why is there so much lube Jesus there’s so much lube,) fumbles down to his cock. He grabs it desperately, strokes frantic and messy while keeping the dildo angled just right with little rocks of his hips. The combination is too much.
He comes instantly, hard, vision whiting out, whole body clenching around the dildo in endless, pulsing waves that milk every last second out of it. A truly pathetic, muffled moan rips out of him into his empty room. (He hates that noise. He hates how good it felt. He’s never making that noise again. Ever.)
Afterward, Shane is completely destroyed, lying there with his chest heaving, sitting in his cold lube swimming pool. His sheets are ruined. And he’s used all the lube. An entire bottle.
He is never doing this again.
(He’s doing this again tomorrow.) (He needs way more lube.) (And maybe a bigger towel.) (Maybe he can get a designated towel for this.) (He’s not gay. This was just really effective science.)
(Fifteen years later, at a big noisy barbecue full of their friends and half the old team, Ilya Rozanov, Shane’s husband and eternal chaos sunshine demon, will lean in with that evil grin and go, “Tell them the funny story! Come on, tell them! The one with the lube swimming pool and the towel that was soaking and the inclusive PDF! Tell them how you kept going like a champion!” Shane will turn beet red, hiss “Ilya, no,” and try to hide under the table while everyone chants “Tell it! Tell it!” Ilya will keep poking until Shane finally mutters the highlights through hysterical embarrassment, and the whole table will lose it. Ilya will kiss him right there in front of everyone and whisper, “My brave husband.” Shane will grumble. He’ll also be grinning like an idiot the whole time.)
(Oh also Shane is gay.)