With a growl, I reach over to tangle my fingers into my little twink’s hair. His hair isn’t as long as Jackson McCoy’s, but it’s just as blond. Fuck. I can’t seem to lay off these white guys. I’m not sure what’d freak my boys out more—the fact I’m gay, or that I like fucking white guys.
“Irus?”
“Turn off the fucking TV.”
The second he does it, I’m on him, driving my tongue deep into his mouth. Shit, he tastes like cognac and smells like sex. I’ve rode him hard once already tonight. I plan on driving him into the mattress, plowing through him in a vain attempt to rid my mind of Jackson McCoy. It won’t work. This little thing just doesn’t have the muscle, the athleticism, the power in those legs and backside that McCoy has in fucking spades.
My twinkie whimpers beneath me as I press my dick into his cleft, exploring his hole. Jackson McCoy wouldn’t whimper. He wouldn’t be so fucking delicate. No, that man would fuck me back. I could pound into him, relentless, and he’d take my black cock like a man. Like a man possessed. At least in my fantasies.
In the back of my mind, I know I’m gonna have to give up the prostitutes once I become a star athlete. With no outlet for release, I may start hitting Jackson harder on the field, and that might be detrimental to my career. Could I blame Jackson McCoy for my actions?
Shit. I’m so obsessed with Jackson, I almost forgot to glove up. My bed partner is a lovely boy, but that’s no guarantee he’s STD free. I don’t know why I keep ordering up these sweet-assed twinks when all I want’s an athlete. A prime cut of meat. I’ve never lusted so much after another football player. Never made it something I’ve wanted.
The locker room and sex are separate. Blonds, though, are my weakness. My first time was with my best friend. A kid on the streets. Long blond hair and the bluest fucking eyes. Rangy and lean, standing on the street corner, half-naked in broad daylight. Kane made a living at sex and taught me a lot about making love. At sixteen years old, I couldn’t contain my hormones.
Those were the best summers spent with Auntie. Reality always hurt when I had to go back to school. To the pretend girlfriends. Mostly I spent my time studying and playing football. When I graduated, I was the class valedictorian. If only some of those guys knew I was gay. It would’ve been a whole different story. I’d probably be dead right now. Beaten or shot. Homophobic assholes.
The university was different. In college the parties could get wild, and I found myself fucking a straight dude or two who just wanted the experience. For myself, I found my way off campus, looking for action. College is where I started picking up gay-for-pay here and there. Then I found the bath houses in the city. I would go there when I was lonely. Back when my hormones were always out of control.
Hell, I can’t control them now. My dick’s so hard it hurts as I roll on the condom and press into that creamy white flesh. My dark hands are big, grasping his white hillocks, spreading him apart for my cock. I don’t really see him. I see Jackson McCoy thrusting back to meet me, impaling his body on my dark rod, and for a moment I think I’ll lose my mind. With his thin wrists in my hands I pound into him, the wonderful sounds of sex filling my room, and I beg for him to come so I can feel his body shudder around mine.
“Come on, Jacks…come on…come undone.” I want him to unravel beneath me. His body cords up and his muscles work my dick. He’s so fucking close. I can smell him. I drag my tongue along his tangy neck, inhaling him as I plow his hole, and he spasms around my cock.
“Yes,” I whisper, drawing out the sound, fighting against my own orgasm. Not yet. So not yet. I need more from him. “Tell me you want it.” I bite his earlobe. His face presses to the pillow, and I snag his hair in my hand. He pushes up against me, whimpering and supplicant as I tighten my fist in his mop of blond. “Come on, Jacks, tell me you want it—tell me—tell me how much you want me.”
“Fuck, Irus. Try using my name.”
“What?” I can’t remember Twinkie’s name. In my head, he’s Rough Trade. I barely slow my stride. I can’t stop my body. It wants him and takes what it needs. My mind is a bystander. His heat is nearly too much, even through the condom.
“Tell me,” I pant. Fuck it. Fuck Rough Trade. Fuck Jackson McCoy.
“Christ, Irus…give me your fucking loa—”
“Fuck.” I yank him up, grinding out guttural sounds through my teeth, and I know I’m bruising the man. With each pulse of my cock I jerk deeper into him. His ass quivers and clamps down on me. My head explodes at the noises he makes. I thrust through my orgasm, driving deeper until a smaller climax claims me.
We lie here panting. My cock still twitches in his ass, and I slide my hand under his body. He’s limp and sticky. Good. He came. I won’t have to work to get him off. He doesn’t look enough like Jacks for all that extra effort.
I roll off him. The condom slips off, and I pluck it from his ass, tossing it in the trash by my bed. Gray sweatpants lie in a puddle of cloth on the floor. I slip them on. “Money’s on the kitchen table.”
“I’m not staying the night?”
The revulsion I feel right now at using him for a Jackson McCoy surrogate fucks with my head. I want to be alone. “No.”
“Irus, I always stay the night.”
“Why you making me tell you twice?”
His smooth, white body slides across the mattress. I’ve understated his physique, and the ripple of his abs almost has me rethinking this arrangement. Instead, I let him go. I don’t care how huffy and indignant he gets over it all.
With haughty anger, he dresses and approaches me for a kiss. It’s deep. The faint stubble on his chin drags against mine. He pulls on my dreadlocks hanging down my back, and my cock reacts. I force him away, shoving extra bills into his hand. A quizzical look darkens his face.
“Cab fare.”
He nods, licking his lips, and heads into the kitchen for a beer, scooping up the rest of his money along the way.
I’ve known for some time our relationship has been something of a comfort for him. A critical error on my part. An error that will not happen again. The only thing there’s room for in my life right now is football.
“You know, Irus, I should charge you a fee every time you call me Jackson.”
He slams the door. Bitchy twink. I flop on the couch. The remote’s daring me to turn on the TV. I have no self-control. I hit the button. The screen’s a circus image of confetti. Loud cheers erupt from the speakers. Larger than life, Terry Branson holds the national championship trophy aloft. South Carolina’s towering quarterback is pressed in close with Jackson on the dais. A giant of the game, and at thirty-seven, the guy’s not slowing down. He doesn’t have to; he’s got Jackson there to make him look good.
Jackson. His long blond hair’s dusted with confetti. A brilliant smile graces his face. He’s open and honest. There’s no one else in the league who plays fairer than him. Not even me. The premier wideout never grabs a handful of face mask to prevent the corner from looking for the pass to intercept. If the ball is uncatchable, Jackson doesn’t playact to get a pass interference call either. He just goes up to get the ball and comes down with it or not.
The stats scroll in an endless ticker across the bottom of the screen. I read quickly and return my attention to Jackson on the dais. The man looks so small next to Branson. Looks like both men had a record-breaking game.
“And the most valuable player award goes to Jackson McCoy!”
MVP.
Champions.
The fucker has a ring.
All great reasons to hate him. If only my dick wouldn’t get hard every time I see the man.
Jackson’s still in his pads, hair tossed around his shoulders, but he’s wearing a championship T-shirt that’s soaking up his sweat. My hand finds my aching dick. Lord, my balls should be empty by now, but I can’t help myself. He so fucking fine. The first stroke of my cock makes me shudder. I imagine Jacks on the floor between my legs, his pale hands on my dusky thighs, and I beg him to j
ust watch me jack off.
Jackson’s nostrils flare as he takes me in, inhaling the smell of sex and sweat. We’ve just finished playing a fantastic game, and I’ve beaten him. He kneels in respect, opening his mouth to receive my award. Fuck. I want to touch him, to pull his head forward, slipping my dark cock between his pink lips. And he moans around me. He’s hot. The wet heat of his mouth is such a sweet yet savory torture.
Once again my cock erupts. Instead of being buried in some white boy’s ass or in Jackson McCoy’s mouth, I spray my shit all over my glass coffee table. I think a bit of it makes it to the TV, splattering on the brilliant smile of Jackson McCoy.
Shit. I’ve got it bad.
Chapter Two
Pirates After-Game Party
Jackson McCoy
The room is dim. Music thumps from huge speakers, and colored lights flash neon. Black lights set above the dance floor make the small flecks in the tiles glow and brighten the dancers’ clothing. Our punt returner chatters in my ear about the win. I’m just as stoked, but for me, it felt like another game. A game I was sad to see end. I could play football forever. Spend all night scrimmaging.
“Fucker didn’t even know you had the ball, Jackson!” Gino’s a great guy. He’s excited for our first championship. I love his enthusiasm.
“Gotta create separation,” I say. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes I’ve gotta practically jump on a defender’s head to get a ball.”
“Branson needs to quit overthrowing you.”
I shrug. “It happens.”
“He’s been underthrowing you too. Everyone knows it’s you who makes him look so good. Well, everyone except the media.” Gino grumbles the last part as he turns away from me to check out the people on the dance floor.
“Lay off him. He’s a great quarterback. He got us here, didn’t he? The most passing yards in the league.”
“We got us here. The team.” The pride in Gino’s expression kills our discourse. I give him my best thousand-watt smile, as my mom called it, in return.
The music makes my head buzz. I’m battle weary yet higher than I’ve ever been. Except on the field. Champions. Voted MVP. This shit’s crazy. I wish Mom were here. My days exist only with thoughts of her, football, and how much it meant for her to see me succeed. No, it’s not success. It’s to see me happy. I’m happiest on the football field. When the game ends, I come back down to a reality where she’s no longer with me. Where the world sits on me with the full weight of all my pain.
“You’re thinking about your mom.”
Gino’s my college buddy. He remembers Mom. Remembers her death. The cancer. What it did to me.
“Someday, you’re gonna have to live off the field.”
“Not yet. Too bad the season’s over. Who wants to stop playing when it’s this good, you know?”
Gino laughs at me, claps my back, and leaves to get another drink.
“McCoy!”
Branson calls to me. The man is demanding. I debate weaving through the crowd of revelers, but he waves urgently from the outskirts of the room. So I get a move on, dancing a little on the way with some women, teammates’ wives. The guys don’t care, mostly, and the women like to play with my long hair. Funny how attracted women are to me. If only they knew. Well, some can tell, those women who aren’t too into themselves. The truth is in their eyes. Perhaps they see how mine rove over the fine waiters.
“McCoy! Get over here!” Branson hollers again. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s gonna ask.
Branson’s tall, six feet five, and all muscle. He’s a striking man with a bit of rakish stubble. Harsh, dusty-blond brows create a furrow between pale green eyes, betraying his tension.
“McCoy,” he says, leaning into me. I can smell the alcohol. Scotch, rich like money, like the ring on his finger from a previous championship. Heat comes off him despite his obvious comfort in the expensive, tailored suit. At five feet eleven, I’m small compared to Branson, but I can catch the ball and move quickly downfield. My head’s still spinning at MVP, certain it was going to Branson.
“What’s up, Terry?” I ask, innocent of any possibilities. I don’t like to play dumb, but sometimes it helps. Off the field, I’m never quite sure what to do. On the outside, I’m a friendly and outgoing type of guy. Inside I’m a mess of social inelegance. Plagued by anxiety. I’m better left to myself. In my line of work, though, I have to feign confidence. Football is where my strength lies. Not parties.
“Follow me,” Branson whispers.
Minutes later we’re in the men’s room. A couple of guys move to the exit quickly when they see Terry Branson. The remnants of powder on the sink are a testament to their stupidity. A straggler or two remain, snorting up the last of the drug. Shit, there are guys on the backup roster waiting for their shot, a chance to replace the first-stringers too stupid to stay clean.
“Great, guys, not like it’s the eighties anymore,” Branson says as the first group leaves.
“Sorry, man. We’re just celebrating.”
“Celebrate another way,” he says.
My mouth is shut as I move to the handicapped stall at the end of the bay to take a leak in privacy, hoping to remain innocuous. Yeah, that’s it—not picking this stall cuz Branson wants to fuck. For a brief moment, I contemplate locking the stall to make it hard for him, but I don’t feel like dragging this out tonight. I’m too horny. God, I hate it when I get this way.
Branson gives the guys shit until the last of them departs, and then he’s in the stall behind me. The latch catches, and he’s got my back against the wall before I can zip up, his tongue dueling with mine. Not much of a drinker, I find the taste of Scotch on his tongue overwhelming and sort of unpleasant.
The feel of his domineering body, the power in his muscles heaving me against the tiles brings out this overbearing lust that always lurks within me. I grasp at him like I’m insane. I might be, but my cock’s instantly hard.
“I want you,” he says.
“Where’s your wife?”
“She and the kids were stuck at the airport. They’re in the air now. We have time.”
I think of his wife. Their kids. The win and the happy family’s celebration to come. I shove him away. Branson growls and spins me around, slamming my face against the wall. I like it, but I hate it too. I’ll hate myself afterward. He yanks down my jeans and pushes up my shirt, still somehow keeping his body hard against mine.
“You want it rough tonight, eh?” Branson spits into his hand.
“Seriously, all I get is spit lube?”
“I’m not a faggot. I don’t carry lube in my back pocket. Do you have any?”
The comment tells me what I’m worth to the closet case, knowing I’m just as trapped in the same small, dark room. I start to say something, when he presses his bare cock between my ass cheeks, making me squirm. Branson grabs my wrists. He pins me to the wall with his huge hands and his rock-solid body. The general taking his soldier.
“Not in the bathroom. It’s too dangerous. Let’s go upstairs to your room.”
“Can’t fuck you in the bed my wife will be sleeping in. Are you an idiot?”
Gino and I are sharing a room. Some fuckup with the reservations left me homeless and so he let me stay with him. We can’t go there. Gino might bring someone back being single and all. Branson’s damn cock is at my entrance, and I relax to allow him in, trying to make it easier on both of us. “Shit, Terry—”
“Shut up. Don’t say my name. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m a fag.”
“Right,” I mutter, too focused on his dick. He’s having trouble getting in. He isn’t slick enough, and he leans back to spit on my ass. The trail slithers down my crack. The drag of his dick follows, slipping a little easier toward my hole. My stomach’s tight with anxiety and need. So’s my sphincter. I can’t help tensing up, being smashed between the tile wall and the anticipation of his invasion. My body resists. I want the sex. The satisfaction of a good,
hard fuck. The pain and guilt are just two more things I’ll have to deal with until I can get back on the field.
“I hate fucking in bathrooms,” I say.
Branson grunts, thrusting into me. “No, you hate fucking in showers,” he whispers once he’s seated so fucking deep.
I’ve bitten my cheek trying to keep quiet. The taste of blood’s in my mouth. Bastard’s big everywhere. I always have trouble accommodating him, but I can’t deny the zing that whips through my body when he fucks me hard. So good, even when it’s bad, and it’s always bad. The guilt makes it bad. The looks from a few of the guys makes it bad. Not sure who knows what, but the locker room hasn’t been friendly in a while, if ever. I don’t think everyone knows.
“Fuck,” I breathe as he pulls out only to slam deeper into me. The tingles start in my toes. My fingers are numb from Terry squeezing my wrists, but it all pales in comparison to the burning fire in my ass. My forehead drags across the wall as I go limp in his arms, trying to relax myself into his rhythm, a pace he sets whether I’m ready for him or not. It’s up to me to catch up, and I do after a few moments of deep breathing.
I thrust my ass hard to meet Terry’s cock on his downswing, impaling myself. I’m sort of hoping to hurt him too.
“That’s it, McCoy. Fuck me. Slam your tight ass onto my dick.”
The bathroom door opens. The room echoes with the sound of familiar voices. Patterson, the kicker and Gino ramble on about the game. They’re pissing as Terry stalls, balls-deep. His harsh breath pants into my hair. With a silent inhalation, I squeeze his dick, and he groans. Fuck the wonderful Terry Branson. If we’re gonna get caught fucking in a hotel bathroom, these two are the ones to catch us. Yeah, Patterson has a wife and kids, but I know Gino’s gay. We’ve never tussled, but he’s been my only friend besides Terry.
“Did you hear something?” Patterson asks.
Gino’s thick-accented voice laughs. “All I hear’s someone workin’ out a growler.”
They both laugh as the door swings shut behind them. Terry thrusts into me with real violence. Pain explodes, and I think this might be one of those days where I just can’t take him.
Fourth and Long Page 2