Torso Tackle

by R. W. Clinger

  Fortunately the introductions and highbrowing consume only part of our evening. Jory wants some alone time with me and draws me into a quiet corner. Here, half-concealed behind a three-by-four foot watercolor canvas on its easel called Woman in Turban, we talk in private, just the two of us.

  I learn a lot about Jory in the next two hours. He attended Vanmer College for two years, finished his business degree at Temple, was picked up by the Vipers three years ago, and he had an older sister named Deidra who died in a car accident when she was sixteen. Jory was only fourteen at the time when his father committed suicide over Deidra’s death; a gunshot wound to his head. I also learn that the football star loves chocolate, parrots, and rosemary chicken. He doesn’t work out at the gym as much as he should, only had three boyfriends in his adult life, and lost his virginity in the back of an Avalanche on a camping trip with a college friend. His favorite artist is Andy Warhol, there’s nothing in the world that can make him sad unless his heart becomes broken in a romance, and he’s sensitive and alluring and sexy as hell . He’s big on naps when he has the time, enjoys Stephen King novels, and he’s not too crazy of the dark, which is also possibly his biggest fear. He thinks Denver Calding of the Rochester Rams is the most attractive quarterback, and the sexiest, and his favorite color is any shade of green.

  The room feels empty around us, and talking to him is easy. The topics shared between us are nonstop and flowing. I like his character, smoothness, and the way his voice sounds gentle and caring.

  I’m a little tipsy following my fourth flute of champagne and ask, “So why aren’t you with a nice guy?”

  He tenderly moves his left hand up to my bottom lip and rubs a drop of champagne away. “The right guy hasn’t come around yet.”

  “Do you have bad luck in the men department?”

  His smile lights me up; exuberant, playful, and charming. “I happen to have the worst luck with guys. What about you?”

  I think of Ben for maybe the first time this evening and our sexual encounter in my bedroom. “Guys never flock to me. And when they do, they don’t stay around for very long.”

  “You?” Jory asks, surprised.

  I nod my head and shrug my shoulders. “Yes, me. What can I say? I’m no Romeo.”

  “But you’re adorable, and sexy as hell. Guys should be all over you.”

  “Not in this lifetime. Maybe in the next one”

  Discreetly, still hidden behind the easel, he leans into me, draws his lips to my lips, and whispers, “Let’s get out of here. I want to take you dancing.”

  I accept, very much into our connection, find a place for my half-empty flute of champagne, and leave The Piedmont Place at his side.

  Chapter 14: Nocturnal Beauties

  Jory takes me to an underground bar called Against His Chest. The place is a dark nest littered with handsome men and boys. Bartenders resemble rough-faced street boys in leather get-up. The floor is sticky in places from intimate blowjobs right out in the open. Venomous and drunk drag queens gossip around the bar, ready for cat fights. Pretty boy hustlers line the walls, seeking out horny middle-age men who want an hour of action at a reasonable price. Drug dealers pass out roofies like candy.

  Jory buys me a beer and eventually whisks me to the dance floor. We connect to Katy Parry, Lady Gaga, and Boys Like Girls songs. Our arms entwine and our chests rock in swift motion. Pleasantly, our middles grind together, prompting our tuxedo-covered cocks to meet and kiss; a primary act of intimacy found between us.

  Our jackets and shirts are lost, strewn over a nearby bar-stool. I’m touched in the most sensual manner by him, enjoying tonight. As fiery red and yellow lights spin over top the dance floor, and a song by a local band called Nocturnal Beauties blasts from the speakers, Jory is not shy about pinching one of my nipples, and twisting it ever so casually. My corded neck and pecs are kissed by his hungry mouth. Eventually, his fingers stray sporadically up and down my chest, outlining my tight abs and rigid pecs. While making eye contact with me, drawing me into his world, perhaps driving me into a delicious night-spell between men, his right hand finds the rim of my linen pants and falls inside.

  Slightly caught off guard by his intrusive but wanted action, my goods are touched and fondled. His straying fingers cause me to grow hard and I accidentally shoot a bubble of ooze against his smooth and soft appendages.

  His seduction is mind-blowing for me and something that feels right between us. When he removes his fingers from my boxer-briefs, meeting their tips with my semi-parted lips, I take in the bittersweet taste of my own juice with intoxicated satisfaction.

  We heavily and heatedly kiss. The quarterback, I learn, is not shy about his hunger for me, diving against and into my body, rocking with me in a to and fro motion on the dance floor. I become dizzy under his man-potion, inebriated by his touch, taste, and smell. I become drunk on his lust, coveting his closeness with greed, enamored by his attraction for me. Together we become nocturnal beauties, locked against each other, compulsive for blazing sex between men.

  Accidentally, we turn into the center of attention on the dance floor as he drops to his knees and begins to kiss the linen-covered package between my firm legs. Hardness is found in my southernmost region. No longer can I keep my private parts limp and under control. Jory’s mouth opens and the generous width of my covered rod is gently bitten, growing harder by his intimate touch.

  I dry-hump his face, perhaps providing a preliminary show of what can easily happen between us if he decides to take me back to his house on Water Street. My thrusting is quick and steady, moving to the music, driven by its feisty tempo.

  Our spectacle soon ends, though. Jory is recognized by one of the bar queers; a football fan of the Vipers. My date is rudely tapped on the shoulder while he mouths my fabric-covered meat, and is asked, “Are you Jory Sole, man? Do you play for the Vipers?”

  The bar fag is obviously drunk, not realizing what he’s interrupting. He continues to tap Jory on the shoulder, being persistent and obnoxious.

  Jory eventually stands, shares daggers with the blond-haired football follower, and lies. “You got the wrong guy, dude.”

  The intoxicated fairy doesn’t believe him and slurs, “You’re the quarterback for our team.”

  Jory turns to me and says, “Let’s get out of here. Things might get ugly.” He quickly wraps a hand over my hand, leads us to our jackets and shirts on the bar-stool, and we bolt out of the bar, heading to his nearby Hummer.

  Chapter 15: Closer

  “Pancakes,” Jory says behind the Hummer’s wheel. “I’m jonesing for some pancakes. What do you say?”

  “Apple-cinnamon or blueberry?”

  “Strawberry cream cheese-filled with extra syrup,” he replies, bubbling with a smile.

  We go to 24 Diner. The place is busy with a few broken-hearted male patrons. Before going inside, he and I slip our shirts back on. He gives me an up and down look, and admits, “You look great without your shirt on, Sebastian. All those clothes you work in at the center are deceiving.”

  I think about saying Maybe you can get me out of them later. Instead, I decide to be a gentleman tonight and just say, “Thanks.”

  24 Diner has a classic look; aluminum tables and vinyl-covered chairs, pale yellow walls, and Peter, Paul and Mary on the radio. Lucille, the head waitress, is costumed in a fifties outfit. She takes our orders; two plates of strawberry cream cheese-filled pancakes with extra syrup.

  “Any coffee?” Lucille asks, chewing her gum like a cow, snapping it.

  Jory says, “Yeah, please.”

  For the next hour we sit and talk about my life; physical therapy, deceased parents, lack of interest in the opposite sex since I was twelve, my likeness for running, and other favorites. I mention Zoe and how we like to pal around and do “girl” things together.

  “I have Tweety,” Jory confesses.

  “Tweety?” I ask with raised eyebrows, unsure of what he’s saying.

  “Miss Caroline Twee
ty. A southern belle from Georgia, or so she thinks. I grew up with her in West End. One of my best friends. She and I are totally inseparable.” He slips another forkful of pancakes into his mouth. “A girlfriend is the best accessory. They look good and know how to have fun.”

  He’s right. I love Zoe’s company, her endearing friendship and love. In truth, if I hadn’t met her through Ben, I don’t know where my life would be right now.

  Ben. I haven’t talked about him this evening with Jory, and don’t plan on it. Honestly, I just want to rid him from my mind for now, since our night alone inside my bedroom. The truth about his sexuality is still a blur to me, a puzzle. I’m not sure if he wants to be with Zoe or me. Or maybe he wants to be with both of us. I’m not brave enough to confront him about his choice or decision, if he even has one. Nor do I want Jory pulled into my new drama, since tonight is our first date together.

  The athlete tugs my thoughts away from the Ben ordeal and asks, “Do you want to finish up here and go back to your apartment?”

  I don’t think so. Not with Ben there. The last thing I want is to have him see me with the Vipers’ quarterback, and question me about it tomorrow. I shake my head and reply, “I have this roommate…”

  “The model. Ben Hull. You’ve told me about him during my physical therapy sessions.”

  “He’s at the apartment and…”

  Jory nods his head and cuts me off. “I get it. I understand. Do you want to come over to my place instead?”

  I shake my head, and tease, “I’m not that kind of boy.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, right. You’re an angel. Shame on me.”

  I decide to pick up the check, walk him to his Hummer again, and head back to his place.

  * * * *

  His house is everything I imagined; sealed off from the world, three stories high, a Colonial giant sitting on one hundred-plus acres, and just about as gorgeous as an estate in Architectural Digest. Jory has a U-shaped drive, which leads right up to the massive columns on a titanic-size front verandah. He parks the Hummer in front of the house and kindly shares, “I can’t wait to get you out of your clothes, Sebastian.”

  “And into your bed?” I respond, playing his game.

  “Whatever it takes. Hop out, come in, and find out what I’ve got to give you. I’m sure I can do something sexy with your perfect skin.”

  I take his instruction in full heed, jump out of the metal beast, and find myself entering his house; deeper inside his world, closer to the man I want to get to know, ready to taste his skin with my limitless hunger.

  Chapter 16: The Bruised Darkness

  Our clothes drop to the foyer’s floor as the search for unyielding sex between our heated bodies heightens. Jory covets my skin with his tongue and hands. Lips meet my tight neck, rounded pecs, and firm nipples. They work their way down and along my treasure trail, and end their feisty kissing and licking adventure at the top of my pelvic area. Not once does he try to find oxygen, totally into our bodies connecting. Helplessly and efficiently he devours my flesh, obviously enjoying the skin tour of my naked body.

  Although there is very little light in his foyer—an almost violet-blue ray of illumination casts through the front windows and splays over his body—I take in his muscular shoulders, mounded pecs, ladder-like chest with its pelt of dark hair, and the uncut ten inches of erect flesh between his stern looking legs. Truthfully, it is the largest cock I have ever seen in my life, a massive shaft with extra skin just waiting to be kissed, licked, and handled in the correct manner, eventually shooting a river of his pent-up ooze.

  On his knees, taking my eight inches of timber inside his mouth and down the back of his throat, the all-star pivots me into a state of unending desire. Inch after inch of meat gags him as he performs a hearty and swift up and down motion on my tool.

  Consecutive thrusts to his face cause me to heavily breathe, gasping for air. I hold the back of his head with both palms, jolting my hips forward, pressing his skull with palms, tenderly and dramatically lodging my cock inside his system and allowing it to slip out just as easily in a refined beauty between men. This continues for the next seven…eight…ten…thirteen minutes, until I have to inevitably push him away before exploding sap into his mouthy core.

  Coming up and off of my body for air, he seals his hairy chest to my bare one, allows our nipples to kiss, and whispers, “Let’s go into the library where it’s more comfortable.”

  Being led astray through the bruised darkness, I follow him over Italian tile flooring and into a massive room of brownish shadows. Within this enchanting obscurity I take in walls of shelved books, leather reading chairs, Oriental rugs on a cherry-smelling wooden floor, and two Chippendale desks. Here, he delicately leans over my bare body on the sofa and gingerly kisses me. I feel my privates meet his center another time and the smear of pre-juice sticking us together as we longingly connect.

  Underneath his weight, dizzy with passion, perhaps ready to explode at any second in orgasm, washing his lean and muscular jock-body with my wet seed, I feel his lips fall down and along my neck and to the center of my pecs. As a steady licking ensues by his busy mouth, lapping and dotting zealous kisses to my skin, I roll fingertips through his hair, and exclaim, “Jory, you drive me wild!”

  Even though he is silent above me, working my skin to his fullest capacity, he moans in answer, hungry for my flesh. A nipple is licked and fingers roll between our bodies and up and along my stern stick, causing immediate friction. A jolt of scorching ardor rocks me, and yet another bubble of pre-sap leaks out of my cock’s head, decorating his genital appendages.

  Misplaced in a subterfuge of his continuous lust, woozy by his obstinate handling, I murmur his name. Perspiration from our bodies seals us together, like beeswax to a medieval envelope.

  Jory, temporarily finished with feeding on my skin, pulls off and away from me. My palms are latched within his palms, and he tugs my body off the luxurious sofa, explaining what I desire to hear, a mere whisper in the gloomy library, “I’m going to fuck you now, Sebastian.”

  And happily I agree.

  Chapter 17: Euphoria

  Leaning over the back of the sofa with my legs spread open, Jory toys with my center by using his tongue. Quick and steady darts of his extended flesh mix with my tense hub, causing me to let out a ghostly whine inside the library. Smooth and soft cheeks are spread open with his diligent fingertips, allowing more access for his mouthy delight. One inch of his tongue slips inside my bottom, then a second inch.

  “Jory…oh, my God, Jory,” I whisper, clamping teeth together, becoming asphyxiated by his tongue-touch. At a loss for breath, I adhere to the sofa like a startled cat.

  Deeper and deeper his face connects with my ass. Laps and licks resume for the next few minutes, slinging me into layers of man-inside-man satisfaction. I moan in front him, taking in his pleasurable tongue-stride, locked against the football player the way I have always desired to be locked against him.

  Following his tongue-exploration of my bottom, he rises from the floor and asks, “You ready for this, Sebastian?” gently slapping his slab of condom-covered ten inches against an ass cheek.

  “Bring it on,” I confess, hungry for our union, welcoming his heated and sexual fury.

  The first three inches of his rigid dick cause me to gasp with immediate surprise. The next three jolt sternly into my middle, knocking the wind out of me. And the last four inches of his lumber blinds me with enthusiasm. In truth, I take all of his ten inches like a man, hanging onto the back of the sofa for dear life. I allow him to bang my cave with his vigorous energy, and note that there is nothing wimpish regarding our bond. Nothing puerile or delicate. Our link is chastely munificent and congenial, and exactly what we both desire.

  I become numb and semi-unconscious as his tool fires in and out of my rump. Continuously his hips bang into my backside, and his rod impels my core with alacrity and grace. While hanging onto the sofa with my fingers digging into its expensive
fabric, I back into his branch with a force of my own, cramming all of his ten inches inside me, grinding my teeth in welcomed pain.

  I am not into rough sex, but I do enjoy a light spanking. To no avail, he thwacks my bottom with an open palm and sends me into sexual overdrive. A satisfied whimper escapes my mouth with an added, “Again, Jory, spank me again.”

  He listens, into our flesh-gig. Another light spanking is shared with successive thrusts to my behind. And he shares rather brusquely, “I’m going to jerk you off, Sebastian. Get ready for it. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Fingers on his left hand wrap around my body and find the plump stick between my legs. Stroke after stroke develops as he bolts to and fro inside my ass. Euphoria boils within me because of his rhythmic motion. I feel blistery-hot under his hand-spell, enjoying his fondling feelers. Thump after thump causes electricity to vibrate throughout my torso, sending wild waves of ecstasy to my brain, telling me to discharge my pent cargo.

  “Come, Sebastian,” he instructs, blazing his hips into me again as he continues to manhandle the tool between my shivering legs. “Shoot onto the floor.”

  At a loss for breath, completely mesmerized by this connection with Jory, I can longer hold my spray inside its firm knob. With just a few more tugs on my beef by his busy fingers, a last undulation of joy sweeps throughout my body and strings of cream burst out of my flesh-spigot. Stream after stream of the stuff decorates the floor, the back of his sofa, and Jory’s fingers. Huffing and puffing for oxygen, lost on a plane of delight, I release all of the juice from my system, fully enlightened by the process.

  He releases my dong and places his sticky palm onto my hip. He blasts my bottom another ten…fourteen…thirty times, pulls out, removes the condom from his shaft, and begins to manhandle his own goods, getting off.

  Behind me, I hear the jock at work. Grunts escape his perfectly semi-opened lips as he builds up a body-quivering orgasm. I listen to his hands speedily thrush up and down on his pole, causing friction to its excess skin, and his balls slap against his inner thighs. Meticulous with his labor, preparing to shoot his liquid load, I sense he is almost ready to explode.