by Gavin Atlas
Cameron had a wicked backhand, remarkable foot speed and insane topspin that made playing him on a clay court a major challenge. And tournaments in Hilton Head were played on clay.
Jesus Christ on a crutch. Why can’t I stop being a lust dog? I could learn by watching his game, but the one thing I could keep my eyes on was his ass: chunky, perky, round, firm and perfect. Seeing it made my groin tingle with arousal. I had loved fucking Cameron—until the scandal exploded.
Wait. That was it. I love fucking Cameron, but that’s not all. He doesn’t know I worry about him, too. He thinks I’m the same as a porn director. Why wouldn’t he? Shit, why wasn’t I ever brave enough to express my feelings?
We hadn’t been dating, but I cherished kissing him and holding hands. I’d come close to telling him “I love you,” but Cameron didn’t go for mush. He loved it rough.
Still, why hadn’t I told him I loved him when I had the chance?
Today Cameron wore a powder-blue shirt and white shorts that, on anyone else, would look baggy. But his posterior was prominent, and he looked delectable. I wanted to bend him over the net right—stop it. I resolved to watch his face instead of his lower body, at the same time rewiring my head to think cleaner thoughts. His practice session went as everyone expected. He kept netting forehands, missing overheads, and sending serves well beyond the service box.
“Goddammit, Brawley!” Coach Vinton yelled. “Why the fuck would you choose now to fall apart? If I could replace you, I’d do it in a heartbeat!” Coach had never been so disrespectful to any of us.
Then the strings on Cameron’s racket broke.
Vinton cut practice short. As Cameron left the court, I spoke to him in public for the first time in a week.
“Hey.”
Cameron narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Two things. First, I’m sorry.”
He looked at his shoes. “It’s not your fault. It was probably some closet case at Kingham who saw my films and let the league know. It’s my fuck-up. I’ve ruined everything.”
“No, I meant I’m sorry I’ve been acting like I don’t know you. I’m sorry for more than that, but why don’t we hit for a while. I want to try a couple things.”
“I’m not fit to play tomorrow.”
I smacked Cameron on the shoulder with a buck up, buddy gesture. “Brawley, you’re the only one eligible who has a chance.”
“I don’t have a chance.”
The negativity pissed me off, but I inhaled and continued, “Let’s find a court without an audience so you won’t feel self-conscious.”
“You mean where it won’t kill you to be seen with—”
I cut him off with a tight hug that was almost a cuddle. Cam held still as if he didn’t know what to do. Then I felt the tension in his body soften, and he hugged me back. I heard a couple of gasps from the bleachers.
“Satisfied, Brawley? Let’s go.”
We drove about thirty minutes before we found a high school with courts. We knew we wouldn’t find clay, so we settled for a hard court. At least we’d be more evenly matched.
I bounced a ball against my racket. “Do you want to be angry or do you want to be pumped up?”
Cameron blinked. “What are you talking about, Doug?”
I realized that “pumped” sounded sexual. “I meant which works better for you on the court? Being pissed off or having your ego primed?”
“I have no idea.”
I took the net so Cameron could practice passing shots, one of his specialties.
“Okay,” I said, “blast them by me.”
He whipped a backhand, angling it down the line, but I had a long reach and punched it to his forehand. He was there. This time he tried passing on my right, but I’d anticipated and volleyed the ball out of his reach. I heard him mutter a curse.
“Don’t get down,” I said. “Think: Cam is great! Cam is the best!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Let’s play a set,” I said and he nodded.
I served first and held with ease. Cameron sprayed errors all over the court. He looked lost.
One game later he finally hit a good passing shot, angling the ball beyond the reach of my forehand while finding the sideline.
“And Brawley threads the needle!” I cheered. He shot me a look that I translated as Get bent, Doug.
“Okay, let’s try anger. Cameron, pretend I’m from Kingham, and I think you’re…you’re a damn faggot who doesn’t deserve to live.”
Cameron dropped the ball he’d had in his hand. “What did you say?”
I inhaled. “I’m a Kingham Christian Knight, and I know you take it up the ass. You’re disgusting, Brawley. You’re going to hell.”
“But you’re one—”
“I don’t take it up the ass though, do I? You’re the fag pussy boy.”
“What the fuck, Doug!”
God, I hope this isn’t a mistake. “I’m being a Kingham Knight. It’s what they think. You know it.”
Cameron took an angry swing in the air and then picked up the ball.
His next serve was a clean ace. The best serve I’d ever seen him strike.
“Good going, faggot.” Treating him this way was making me sick to my stomach, but if it worked…
On the next point, Cameron executed a drop shot, forcing me to come to the net. I reached the ball, digging it only as far as mid-court. Cameron blasted the ball right at my body, nailing me in the chest.
“Oh…kayyy,” I said, gasping from the blow. I saw Cameron give me a concerned look.
“Are you hurt, Doug?”
“No. Don’t ask. I’m a Kingham Knight. Stay angry, Brawley.”
Cameron blew me off the court, winning the set six-three.
I came to the net to shake his hand. “Can you do that tomorrow, fucker?”
Brawley grabbed me by the back of the neck and kissed me. “I need you inside me.”
We raced to our hotel and stripped as fast as we could. Naked, he gripped my sides, his nails digging into my skin. Then he stood on his toes and bit my earlobe. Hard.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. I pinned Cameron’s arms behind him and gave him a rough swat on his ass. Then I threw him on the bed.
I’d never had such angry sex before. The energy was intoxicating. We wrestled. We bit each other. He scratched me with his nails. My dick couldn’t have been harder. He gut-punched me, which almost doubled me over, but the sexual heat I felt didn’t diminish in the least. He bit my neck so hard I could have sworn he broke the flesh.
“God—motherf—that’s it. I’m nailing your ass right now.”
Cameron threw his muscular legs in the air, panting and moaning with impatience as I rushed to put on a condom.
I lubed his hole and slammed my dick inside. Cameron howled like an angry panther. The look in his eye was ferocious, and it gave me pause. I didn’t want Brawley to hate me because of a bout of sex that went beyond rough, but I couldn’t resist. I loved Cameron’s ass; it was so soft, warm, and tight. I’d always wanted to savage it, just ream him with merciless, thundering jabs. His body rocked with each thrust, and he moaned nonstop. I felt like I was exploding with need. The heat made it seem like we were melting into each other.
I stopped to let him catch his breath. “You’re going to play awesome tomorrow, aren’t you?”
He looked down and shrugged. “Maybe.”
That was the wrong answer. Now I turned evil. I pulled out, flipped him over on his stomach, and barreled back inside.
“Hey!” he protested. “You know I can’t come in this position.”
“That’s right,” I whispered. “This is all for me. You need to stay angry. If you want me to make you come, you have to win your match tomorrow.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch, but I’m the son of a bitch who’s plowing your hole.”
Beneath me, Cameron bucked and thrashed like a stallion trying to throw me off him. I rode
him like a rodeo cowboy, getting deeper and deeper with each thrust. Exhilaration surged through my body like electricity.
“Bite me again,” I commanded. I pushed my left thumb against his lips.
Brawley moaned and swallowed my thumb, sucking it for an instant before he bit down.
“Harder,” I said. “Yeah…harder…hard—MOTHERFUCKER!”
As the searing pain lanced from my thumb to my brain, I reached the point of no return. I shot inside him with a roar. The adrenaline kick coursed up and down my body, the anger fueling my most explosive orgasm ever. I stayed buried all the way in Cameron’s ass until the euphoria subsided.
“Win the match tomorrow, boy. Then I’ll fuck you like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You just did.” Cameron looked sad. Or exhausted. Not angry.
I spanked his perfect ass. “Fire it up, Brawley.”
He huffed a sigh. “Okay. I’ll try.”
I suppressed a frown. Try wasn’t good enough.
“Let me hold you for a while, mister,” I said, rolling onto my side and opening my arms so he could climb inside my embrace. He did, and I stroked his strong back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. I realized how much I’d missed his smooth muscular frame, his skin that was always so warm it was practically hot, and that clean, almost innocent scent he always had even after he’d been sweating. It gave me the sensation that Cameron was someone vulnerable, someone who needed protection, instead of being motivated by hate to be competitive. He needed to have the killer instinct for the finals, but after that? Maybe we should both quit the team.
I held him tighter, stroked his hair, and stared at the wall. How could I get Cameron’s fire back when he went on court tomorrow?
The next day Cameron fell behind his opponent from the start. Jeff Elliot from Kingham was good. He towered over Cameron, was built like a truck and loved to charge the net. Cam should have been able to neutralize all that power with his return of serve, but he was playing like crap. Three games into the first set I tried to slink away from where our team was sitting in the bleachers.
“Where are you going?” Coach Vinton asked in a sharp tone.
“Our school announcer is broadcasting over there,” I said, pointing to the Kingham side of the so-called “stadium.” “I want to hear him.”
Before I reemerged in the stands, I put on some huge sunglasses I’d bought the night before after Cameron left, as well as a Kingham University hat and T-shirt that I’d bought in the parking lot. No one looked at me twice when I sat down amongst the Kingham fans.
The announcer from our school sat a few rows back in the corner, at the very top of the stands, quietly broadcasting the play-by-play back to our school radio station.
“Brawley’s play is well below par today. We’re only into the fifth game and he’s already committed ten unforced errors, including three double faults.”
Then he hit yet another forehand into the net to go down love-five.
“Ha! You’re getting fucked, faggot!” I yelled from the Kingham side of the bleachers. I’d put on a voice about an octave deeper than normal. Shocked faces surrounded me, and more than a few people lowered their sunglasses to glare at me with the message “That language is inappropriate, young man.” But too many Kingham fans snickered and gave me smiles of approval for Cameron not to notice.
It didn’t take long to see that my tactic worked. Cameron’s anger roared back. The look on his face couldn’t have been more deadly. It was his serve, and he fired off his first ace of the match.
The turnaround was unbelievable. Cameron blasted his backhand past Elliot time and again, winning the first set seven-five. No one was more surprised than our coach, who started to cheer like mad. I texted Coach Vinton a message. “Stop,” I said. “Keep him angry.”
I’d started it, but every so often there was a pretend cough half-muffling the word “faggot,” especially when Cam started to serve. It seemed like the Kingham idiots hadn’t figured out that keeping Cameron angry wasn’t to their advantage. Once the Kingham coach made “Keep it down” signals in our direction, but the jeers continued. It was clear they didn’t care.
As Brawley was about to serve the first point of the second set, a guy yelled “Don’t choke, Butt Boy.” He was a red-faced, red-haired ROTC jarhead who seethed with disgust. If he knew what he’d just done. I had to close my eyes and concentrate on cuddling Cameron so I wouldn’t lunge at the guy and break his nose. The chair umpire, silent about the bullying until now, mumbled something vague about interrupting play. What happened to the usual warning that harassment of the players would result in expulsion from the stadium? The umpire’s apparent ambivalence made me feel worse, even if it served my purposes.
Cameron gave the jarhead a long stare, his expression baleful. On the Saffir-Simpson scale of anger, this was now category-five rage. Brawley turned back to the service line, his jaw set. Four aces later, Cameron was up a game. Elliot was so stunned, he never had a chance to get his racket on the ball.
The announcer behind me figured out what happened. “Brawley is suddenly in the zone. If he were this angry all the time, he’d be a favorite to win the French Open, maybe even Wimbledon.”
Cameron was up three-love, then four-love, then five. Elliot didn’t know what hit him. His level of play was high, but he was being blown off the court. My dick was hard. Cameron was about to earn another fucking. I thought about last night, and every part of my body tensed, impatient to be all over him.
Match point. Elliott served and rushed the net. Cameron ripped a backhand down the line. Elliot dove for it, but he didn’t have a prayer.
“And Brawley threads the needle!” shouted the announcer. “It’s all over! Bradenton has won the championship!”
My heart leapt. I’d never been so happy for anyone as I was then. I slid out of the stands as our entire team rushed the court to grab Brawley and hoist him in the air in celebration and gratitude. I slipped off my hat and the Kingham tee, revealing the Bradenton shirt I had on underneath before running on court. Once my teammates set Cameron down, I gave him a hug.
“So…” I whispered, “Do you want it rough again or do you want me to be good to you?”
“Rough,” he said. “Hella rough.”
I grinned. “Excellent. I’m going to rip your clothes off and pump your rump for hours and hours and hours.”
Cameron gave me a slow, sultry blink. “Sounds good.”
“But know this: I love you, Brawley. I love you so much.”
The Laius League
In your senior year, it was considered a dire humiliation to still be a Chrysippus, a bottom, in Timberlands University’s secret society, the Laius League. However, if you ejaculated when a Laius, a top, fucked you, you remained a Chrysippus until you could control your need to submit. The League wasn’t supposed to be about sex. You went into it for the deep connections you’d acquire later in life—access to the corridors of power in New York, Washington, and all over the nation.
Timberlands was a small men’s college in Tennessee, and just about everyone was straight, at least on the surface. Thus, the “elders,” who were mostly made up of seniors and grad students, got one shot at most Chrysippi—the vast majority passed the test on the first try. Unfortunately for me, they got as many cracks at my ass as they wanted because I can’t help but shoot every time I’m fucked. I had to wear a silver ring inscribed with the Greek letter chi surrounded by vines representing bondage. If a guy flashed me a gold ring with a lambda and a crown, I had to bottom for him, regardless if I had a class or any other commitments.
It was the end of spring semester, and I had one last chance to move up from Chrysippus to Laius. I was told by my mentor, Chaz, that it would be with him. He was a grad student who had fucked me at least twenty times. It was unfair how perfect his dick felt. How was I supposed to keep from coming when I felt submerged in euphoria every time he was inside me?
Chaz told me he’d see me after my last cla
ss as a college undergrad—a sociology course called “Analysis of Alterity” that was tacitly required for everyone in the Laius League. You weren’t supposed to take it until you moved up from Chrysippus, but this was my last opportunity.
The instructor, Professor Whit, was as eccentric as he was fascinating. He was tall, powerfully built and had a Mark Twain mustache. But the most noticeable thing about him was his booming voice. More than one person had said in a different decade he would have been a dictator brought to power by his immense cult of personality instead of a professor at a small college.
His first reading assignment for the class was The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss, about these creatures with stars on their tummies who thought they were better than identical creatures who had no stars. At the time I didn’t care about whatever lesson Dr. Seuss attempted to teach. I was entranced by Professor Whit’s voice, his height, his mesmerizing eyes, and the sizable bulge in his pants.
Despite my lust for the teacher, I managed to hang on to the class. Barely. Alterity means “otherness,” and Professor Whit said the Seuss book shows that people naturally divide themselves into groups that don’t get along. There’s always “otherness.”
Sometimes it’s something you’re born into. If you’re white, you’ll never know what it’s like to be Asian or Black. If you’re male, you can’t totally perceive the female, even, and Professor Whit actually said this, men who let other men fuck them all the time. I remembered fidgeting and blushing when Whit made that remark, because it seemed like he was staring right at me.
Professor Whit was ending the course by talking about alterity factors we do choose, like fraternities. You join Sigma Chi, and all of a sudden you’ve inherited an enmity for the Zeta Beta Tau boys next door when you had no quarrel with them the day before. But you make that choice because there is a need to belong.
I took furious notes, preparing for the final. But the discussion of fraternities had me reliving my initial hazing with the Laius League. I’d attended a party wearing only a pair of white briefs while the Laius brothers looked us over. That night Chaz had squeezed my ass to test for firmness and then taken me to his room to bend me over his bed. That was the first time I’d been fucked. Sadly, I now knew the time you lose your virginity is supposed to be the time it feels worst. Even then, it felt so damn good that I couldn’t stop from shooting. Now every time a top gets inside me, I love it so much I often come more than once.