Taking Lead

by Dallas Redford

  He smirks and I love it. His eyes look low and hazy. He licks his perfect lips and begins to move his body ever so slightly so that for the first time in my life, I’m effectively jerking a man off…

  “That’s okay,” he says, between exaggerated groans. “I’m gonna cum right on your straight boy thighs.” He groans. “Just like that. Just keep holding onto my junk.”

  “You’re gross,” I say, releasing him.

  “You’re the one that grabbed it. I already warned you that I was horny.”

  I let out a nervous chuckle as the energy tightens between us. My balls are so tight that I’m walking the edge. He’s close to me, though, inside my personal space.

  “So, you’re into older dudes?” he murmurs.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not into any dudes. I said that if I was gay, that would probably be my type.”

  “What kind of straight guy knows his type?”

  “If I was gay. But, I’m not.”

  We’re quiet for a long time. He just stares. I stand there. Meeting his gaze. I feel like I’m at the free throw line in the fourth quarter and we’re tied. I have a chance to take the lead. For what? I don’t know.

  His gaze falls into the space between us. My breath catches as my chest begins to thud. I know he sees my hard dick. I want to tell him that I don’t know why I’m hard either. I’m as confused as he is but I’m not going to back down. It’s just horniness. It’s natural.

  Mr. Clay reaches out and takes my nipple between his fingers. I wince at his touch. It’s unexpected.

  He holds onto me, gives my nipple a soft, exploratory squeeze. Goosebumps spread along my skin. I breathe out low and slow. I don’t know what he’s doing and I—maybe I should stop it, but I don’t want to. You can’t be straight with a guy touching your nipples.

  Can you?

  You can.

  But you can’t be straight with your cock twitching when a guy touches your nipples. You’re not straight if you’re enjoying it. Especially as much as I am.

  “If you were gay?” he says. He looks down between us, pointedly.

  “My body’s been doing things all day that I don’t understand,” I explain. I lick my lips. My mouth is like the Sahara. My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m not…”

  I try to grin, but this isn’t a joke. I’m turned on. Somewhere near boiling or just past it. I can’t even pretend like I’m just joking.

  I back away but he closes the distance. He takes my other nipple and gives it a gentle squeeze. I feel my cock jerk at his touch. Then, it does it again. Like Morse code or some shit like that.

  My body’s betraying me.

  “You sure about that?” he asks. “I don’t care if you are…”

  I’m frozen in place; my eyes sink close. I feel the soft touch as the back of his fingertips brush my belly. Sensation ripples through my middle. The coolness as my shirt is slowly raised. I’m determined not to admit it what I think I’m feeling. I can’t let him win this game. That’s all it is. A game.

  “Mr. Clay, I am not gay. It’s just that you’re touching my nipples and they’re really sensitive— AAAAHH!!” My voice breaks off into a moan.

  He’s really doing it. This isn’t a dream.

  There is a strong wet suction around my nipple as my friend’s dad gives me a good suck, unfurling his tongue and hardening the soft dime into a firm peak. Lust floods my body and I’m lost as a gasp escapes my lips. My legs tremble. My cock stretches harder and I feel it begin to pulse in my shorts as warm hot cum pools against my thigh.

  II

  Present Day

  7

  Chapter 7

  Ian catches the rebound and sends the ball flying. Swoosh! It threads the metal hoop and the net below it. “My man!” I call to Ian. “Keep it up!”

  He runs around the court, his arms straight against his sides, whooping like he’s just won a championship ring. When he speeds past me, I hold up my hand and he strikes it with his smaller palm. He has a grin a mile wide lighting up his face.

  He’s one of the shortest kids that attends our after-school program, Basketball Boys Club, and his success on the court has done wonders for his self-esteem. In addition to seeing his confidence grow, his mother shared with us, pride brimming in her eyes, she’s witnessed him do a complete one-eighty at school. Ian is no longer the quiet, easily pressured kid who, eager for attention and approval, found himself in the principal’s office nearly every other day. He’s a good student and a budding athlete as well. A Basketball Boys Club success story.

  “Alright boys, take five,” I say with a clap.

  The members of the Basketball Boys Club jog off the court. Out of habit, they avoid the crumbling dips in the concrete, where chunks of the playing area have eroded, some of them studded with struggling clumps of grass. They’re headed into the cool of the park fieldhouse to get sips of water.

  It’s a hot Chicago day with temperatures that are high even though it’s three in the afternoon. They need to stay hydrated. With our efforts to get better funding for a permanent home for the club, the last thing we need are fainting kids.

  I run them hard. I always play them like they’re going all the way. One day, perhaps, one of them will go to the NBA. One kid, Marcus, has already gotten a scholarship to a prestigious camp across town. He’s in high school and devotes hours to the court every day after school and on most weekends. His mother still calls us with updates and for input now that he’s progressing in the program. She says colleges have already been courting him.

  As I take a swig off my own water bottle, I turn and spot a small delegation heading my way. I know two of them, Tyson, the head of the program and Monique, his assistant. But there is another woman, willowy with long blonde hair, who is unfamiliar. She looks a little overdressed for this part of town with the gold shining at her wrist and at her neck. She’s leading a pint-sized older lady who’s stepping gingerly across the terrain in her modest heels and white tights. It’s clear that they are headed in my direction, but what for? Tyson and his assistant, Monique, trail behind them.

  I try to meet Ty’s eyes for but he’s busy listening to something the older woman is saying. I grab my towel and drag it across my forehead. Hope I don’t look too sweaty. I’m not a backseat coach, I’m normally as active as my players when they’re on the field. Running and shouting right along with them. Plus, today is so hot. I head out to meet them.

  “I was coming to you,” the old lady snaps as I walk up.

  “I’m sorry?”

  I look from her to the blond. There’s a mischievous twinkle in the younger lady’s eyes. She leans over slightly to the small lady, “He knows Grandma. He was just trying to make things a little easier on you.”

  The old lady pauses and draws herself up, she gives me a once over. Then she starts to laugh. “I may be old young man, but I do like to get a walk in. I’m not exactly infirm. Plus, every step I take adds more time. You’re shortening my life by meeting me halfway. What I don’t know is why you’re trying to take me out early.”

  I laugh, thrust into confusion until Tyson butts in, “Chris, I’d like for you to meet Mrs. Ella Demaris and her granddaughter.”

  “Oh!” I say as the pieces start to fit. “It’s so nice to meet you Mrs. Demaris.” Tyson’s nickname for her, “Mrs. Moneybags” comes into my mind. Also, his description of her being a bit of a ball-breaker. I catch a glimpse of the gold-rimmed eyeglass that hangs from her neck. That piece along looks like it could pay for my rent and tuition for the next year. Mrs. Moneybags, indeed.

  Ella Demaris reaches out for me and grips my wrist firmly. She pulls me to the side opposite her granddaughter and we continue across the lawn together. I support one side of her and her granddaughter, the other. She gingerly navigates the patches of browned grass in her modest Mary Jane shoes.

  Mrs. Demaris is an eccentric old Chicagoan. Her family has been here for years. It’s the kind of family that’s at home across the city. There’s a DeMa
ris Park somewhere on the northside. The DeMaris Pavilion at the Art Museum and even a plaque and photo in City Hall from when one of the DeMaris clan had done a turn as Mayor.

  Legend has it that Mrs. DeMaris grew up with her single dad after her mother’s early death. Her parents had wanted a boy, so they’d had to settle for young Ella. In a way, she got a double dose of tomboyishness from a father who now had to raise the girl he hadn’t wanted on his own.

  Tyson was strategic in trying to align Basketball Boys Club with the Demaris Foundation. Philanthropically, she’d dedicated her fortune to expanding access for all kinds of “boys” things to girls. But she was also dedicated to abolishing poverty. If she decided to work with us, it would include opening the Basketball Boys Club to girls. Our boys didn’t exactly know this was happening, but we staff members couldn’t have been happier even if we weren’t sure how it was all going to work out.

  The fact that Basketball Boys Club would have a permanent home was great, instead of renting at the crumbling Archer Park. We’d have better facilities, be able to expand our programming, bring on other coaches. The Demaris money alone would reduce our operating costs by a third. Reduced costs meant that grant money went further, including increasing our staff stipends, though we were unlikely to be able to go full-time. Either way, it was going to be a step up from our status.

  I coached the boys based on a curriculum I’d developed along with Tyson for our club. Expanding it would be a challenge but that was in the future, so I didn’t spend a lot of time focusing on it. I was just trying to stay on top of my studies and do my part at the club while managing to survive in this city.

  “My grandmother loves your work,” the blonde says. She glances across at Tyson. “The work you folks are doing here.” Her voice is like a thousand angels singing, so melodious and softly inflected. No broadness in her Chicago accent. “She’s excited about this expansion of your programming. Athleticism for girls is so crucial.”

  “We are, too,” I say, bending a little so the elder Demaris could hear me. “We’re truly grateful for this opportunity.”

  I don’t have much more to offer. I’m more on the hands-on side of things. Coaching, organizing, mentoring. Tyson handles the money, writes grants, finesses our patrons. He hadn’t mentioned any sort of visit by the Demaris Foundation, much less Mrs. Demaris herself.

  “Still,” the young lady says, drawing my attention back to her. She really was alluring, the light hazel color of her eyes and the way her lips shaped the words that fell from them was mesmerizing. “My grandmother loves to do things the old-fashioned way. We run a very tight ship at the Demaris Foundation. Grandma insisted on dropping in to say hello. To see what we can see. To get a sense of things.”

  Mrs. Demaris looks up at me, “I’ve already got a good feeling about you, young man.” She smiles a Cheshire cat grin. “I think.”

  We all laugh. I shoot a glance at Tyson. Is this some kind of test? He gives me a reassuring smile, but I can’t be sure.

  Just then, as we approach the court, I realize that there’s no racket. I can hear a pin drop. With a troop of about fifteen boys between the ages of twelve and fifteen, that can only mean one thing: trouble. “Excuse me for just a moment,” I say, heading to check on my boys.

  When I turn around, they’re all standing there. Not even fidgeting or staring at their phones. They’re watching. Perhaps they’re mesmerized by the beauty of the younger woman—I realize I don’t know her name—or by the oddness of the whole situation. None of them know what’s going on. Neither do I.

  I wave them over and they come running toward me.

  “Guys,” I say as they take in our visitors. “We have some very special guests today. Say hello to Mrs. DeMaris.”

  They do.

  “What do you say we play a little game, for her? Show her what we’ve got?”

  The boys hoot and holler. I glance at Tyson and he give me the thumbs up. Mrs. Demaris squeezes my arm before drawing herself up to her full heights. In her small voice, she pipes out, “Alright! Now, get out there and kick some butt!” She says it with such ferocity that the boys freeze and trade glances. All I can offer them is a shrug. Then they begin to laugh because she is an old lady and she did just say butt. They all race to the court.

  The game is a delight. It’s as if playing for an audience makes them play with more skillfully, with boundless exuberance. They all love the game as much as I do but now the ante is upped, and they bring out all their trick shots. Defense is tight. Offence, aggressive. I coach them a lot in the beginning but near the middle of it, even I’m a little stunned watching the action. And they’re playing clean.

  Suddenly, I feel a sharp poke in my buttcheek. I turn around to see that it’s Mrs. DeMaris with her cane. “That was traveling coach!” she croaks, fired up. “If you’re going to allow your boys to travel like that, they should at least be required to pack luggage!”

  She searches around her. “We need an NBA coach in here!”

  I call the foul. She’s right. I saw it, but I didn’t see it. I was too engrossed in the game and neither one of my players called it. Sharp eyes. I was going to let it slide. Ian moves toward the free-throw line. He shoots, and it slices through the air like butter.

  He does a victory lap and when he gets to Mrs. DeMaris, he holds out a hand for a low five. She slaps it and yanks him close. “You got lucky, young man,” she says. “I got my eye on you.”

  He looks at me confused, like Who is this old lady?

  I wince and offer him an apologetic look. “You just got trashed talked by someone’s grandma.”

  The young blonde, who I now know as Priscilla, comes to stand next me. “I think that’s exactly what just happened,” she adds. “My grandma.”

  The boy takes off, laughing. Priscilla turns to her grandmother. “Nana, that was rough. Don’t be too hard on them.”

  The lady uses her cane to move Pricilla out of her line of sight. “If he can’t take it, he should get off the court.” This time, it takes even me a second before I realize she’s joking.

  “Trust me,” I assure Priscilla, “It’s no worse than what they’re saying to each other.”

  Mrs. DeMaris nods sagely, a twinkle in her eye. “You think boys talk crap? Girls are worse.”

  ***

  The game ends in a tie, after double overtime. The boys are exhausted but in love with Mrs. DeMaris. Thankfully, it seems like she’s in love with our little Boys Basketball Club. I glance at my watch. I need to get a move on. I have to shower and head to my real job, but the old lady has the club members gathered around, regaling them with tales of when she played basketball in college. There’s something about her wit and toughness that resonates with them.

  Most of these boys come from a rough background. There must be something of themselves that they can see in her.

  “Now she’s going to want to be up here every day,” Priscilla says, joining me where I look on from a distance. She wears light fragrance and it’s intoxicating. “She loves basketball and children, so she’s bound to be back.”

  “She’s welcome if she wants to come. The boys love her. We’ll take care of her.” I think to add that Priscilla is welcome, too, but I don’t.

  “That’s sweet,” the young lady says, laying her hand lightly on my arm. A light flutter of a laugh floats out of her. “Family is so important to her. She’ll be treating them like she’s their grandmother, too. It’s not always easy being her grandchild. Especially the only one.”

  I chuckle because I don’t know what to say. Then, I notice Priscilla hasn’t removed her hand. When I look up at her again, her eyes change slightly. She presses her lips together, smiles a little and says, “I hope you don’t think this too terribly forward, but I would really like to swap telephone numbers with you. To keep in touch.”