Rough Trade’s in my bed again. We’ve been going at it for hours. As soon as I got home from the bar. Sex started in the living room with different positions. Him sucking my cock, looking up at me with his brown eyes, ruining the fantasy of Jackson McCoy.
Blue eyes. Jackson’s eyes are blue.
On our hands and knees.
The rug burns are nice, but I can’t get what I need, so I drag him into the bedroom for some real pounding. Combat sex. Aggression. Testosterone. Blood, sweat, and tears. Rough Trade’s facedown so I don’t have to see those liar’s eyes. The fake Jackson McCoy. My dick’s buried deep in his white ass. So deep, only our color distinguishes where one of us stops and the other starts.
It’s all Jackson’s fault. The fight today was too much. The feel of his body beneath me. His scent, a rich, musky odor, smelling like earth, grass, and male. Rough Trade doesn’t smell as good as Jackson. No, Jackson’s more like a drug. Male pheromones.
My goddamn kryptonite. Jackson fucking McCoy. I can almost taste him. I want to lick his entire body, from his toes to his mouth and back. Damn. Every day gets longer and harder. My want and need are so formidable. The man’s a potent mix of sexuality and kindness. I like him, and it pisses me off. My yearning is a distraction I can’t afford. So much easier to hate him.
“Oh, fuck. Jackson.”
“Do you even know my name, Irus?”
Shit. Did it again, didn’t I? Rough Trade’s question ruins the image of Jackson in my mind’s eye. Damn it. Almost there too, and he fucks it up. Been trying to get off, but it’s getting more difficult lately. Harder to do with Rough Trade. The lie no longer works. Not with Rough Trade’s bleach-blond hair, his dark roots revealing the dismal reality. Reminds me of what I can’t possess.
“Come, Irus. Come on, baby—give it to me.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.”
I can’t come. Damn it! Just harder, gotta fuck him harder. I can’t get deep enough. Fuck the shit outta this white boy’s ass. I grab a handful of hair. I hold him down, clutching him as tight as I can, and still no satisfaction. It’s just there, beyond my reach. Gotta stop thinking.
“Jesus, Jackson.” His name spills from my lips again.
My balls fucking hurt. I cry out in pain and frustration. Fuck, I want to come. I need to fucking come. Sweat trickles down my back, my thighs, and slithers through the crack of my ass. The sweat drips onto his back. My vision blurs as it stings my eyes. I close them, blotting out the sight of Rough Trade beneath me.
Jackson’s waiting for me behind my closed lids. The bruises on his side a dark purple, spreading across his skin. The reminder of his body nearly naked as we roll around on the floor is seared into my skull. Christ, I almost fucked him right then and there in front of everyone. His hard legs wrapped around me. I drove my body against him, trying to hurt him but wanting to fuck him more.
Our fight is on auto-rewind inside my nugget. Yes, I’m closer. I’m almost there. Closer to unraveling inside Jackson. My cock’s so fucking hungry, it wants to devour him. I imagine being eaten alive by Jackson McCoy’s mouth, the sweet noises he’d make around my cock. Oh fuck yes, that honeyed voice throaty from hollering on the field. The sounds he made today echo in my ears. They morph into the sounds of sex. Into the sound of him coming undone beneath me.
“Come on, come on. Give it to me, Irus.”
Goddamn it, why does this guy have to open his cake hole? He’s not Jackson. Does he need to keep reminding me? Little twink’s whoever I pay him to be— Fuck. I drop my head to his shoulder in defeat. His scapula is hard through his thin body, but I don’t stop fucking him.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’m fucking him so hard the bed threatens to collapse. Might take the wall down with the headboard. The rhythmic slam of the wood against drywall reverberates through room. I’m edging on total frustration. Gotta get off.
“So fucking divine,” Rough Trade says with a moan.
Divine. Damn. The song from the tavern is embedded in my head. My brain extracts the memory of Jackson’s sultry voice. Plays it over and over inside my skull. I imagine him beneath me. Like in the locker room when I rutted against him like a slut. Throaty, husky sounds infiltrate my mind. The deep growls from the man as we fought, when my dick swelled, surprised me. Almost like Jackson McCoy’s been turned on by my aggression. The thought tips me over the edge. My sweaty forehead drags along his back as I finally come hard, growling, twisting him in my strong hands, bruising his body like I did today on the field.
I take a breath.
Another one.
My vision clears. Rough Trade rolls me off him, elbowing me in the chest.
“Fuck, Irus. I need hazard pay for this shit!”
“Shut up, Twinkie.”
“Stop calling me that, it’s worse than Jackson.”
“All right, Hostess. Shut the fuck up. There’s an extra hundred on the table for you.”
That does it. Rough Trade is up and outta my bed. I listen to the sound of him banging around the house. He huffs as he leaves. I peel the condom off my worn-out dick. Poor thing’s been through a lot today. Just the thought of Jackson has the battered little guy trying to stand up like a wounded soldier. Shit. This has got to stop! This’ll be the third time tonight. My balls hurt. So does my dick.
I watch it filling with blood as images of Jackson on stage traipse through my nugget. I’m barely breathing. Do I need a doctor? The thought of Jackson examining me tops me off. The fucking prick’s rock hard. My legs are shaky as I slide off my destroyed bed. I go into the kitchen, fill a bag with ice, and flop on my couch. The first contact between my balls and the ice pack rips a shout from my mouth. A litany of curses issues forth. An image of Auntie Linda smacking the back of my head for swearing comes to mind, but I hold the ice there nonetheless. I’ve got to get this shit under control.
The remote in hand, I turn on the TV, hoping to find something mindless to watch. Instead I find sports news. Coach Bryant’s picture on the big screen.
“A few weeks ago, Coach Bryant confirmed the acquisition this off-season of Jackson McCoy, former wide receiver for the South Carolina Pirates. When asked how McCoy is fitting in, he replied, ‘Jackson has a great attitude. He consistently works hard for his team. He’ll do what we need him to do.’
“When asked about the friction between McCoy and Irus Beaumont, Coach Bryant had this to say: ‘Well, you know, both men are passionate about football. There have been rivalries in the past, but now we’re all on the same page.’
“Coach Bryant went on to dispel the rumors that they are cutting or trading Alex Haines. ‘Haines is a great asset for our receiving corps. We’re not looking to cut anyone from that lineup. With Jackson now to mentor him, I expect Alex to develop his skills accordingly.’”
“Thanks, Betty, for your off-season coverage. Did Coach Bryant have anything to say about Beaumont’s claim to be the best shutdown corner in the league?”
“No, Matt. It came up, but Coach just said to watch Beaumont this upcoming season for some great things.”
“Beaumont should have a fantastic chance to back up his claim now that Jackson McCoy is no longer his nemesis.”
“Right, Matt. Most agree Beaumont is good, but McCoy has repeatedly beaten him downfield this last season. Most notably in the divisional round of the play-offs before the postseason realignment of those divisions.”
“Did Coach Bryant have anything to say about the league changes this coming season?”
“Coach Bryant says he looks forward to the new matchups in the redefined divisions. Although he did confirm the Pirates are still on their schedule to beat.”
“Should be an easier matchup with the loss of McCoy.”
I turn off the TV. I can’t stand listening to the talking heads. Goddamn it. Wherever I go, it’s Jackson McCoy, the team’s great savior. We’ve got plenty of talented players. No one gives us fucking credit.
Jackson McCoy. Jackson fucking McCoy.
&nb
sp; “Damn it!” I chuck the lamp at my TV. The screen goes dark as the pottery fractures and shards scatter on the hardwood. What’s going to make this shit go away? Why’s Jackson so embedded in my psyche?
I pick up my phone. Only one person knows me better than anyone else. I listen to the sound of the phone ringing, and I wonder if it’s too late. He might not even answer, but when he does, the sound of his sleepy voice calms me instantly.
“Kane,” I say with some relief.
“Irus? What’s wrong?” There’s a grogginess in his voice.
Someone whispers something in the background, and Kane responds, “It’s Irus. I don’t know what’s wrong. Been on the phone as long as you’ve been awake.” Kane huffs and comes back on the line. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve got it bad.”
“Shit. Garrett, make coffee.”
I imagine my best friend’s husband throwing back the covers and standing. All six-feet-five of him built for football, but he’s happy being a paramedic. Kane’s delighted to have him. They were married last winter. I gave Kane away to him. Sounds traditional, but trust me, Kane’s no girl. He’s all man.
Kane was my first. He’s my best friend. I’ve known him since I was sixteen. He’s definitely why I love blonds. Maybe he’s why I always pick up Rough Trade. Kane spent enough time working it himself, on his own for so long. Then I brought him home for Auntie Beulah to meet. Well, she was Uncle Bert at the time.
Now that she’s a woman, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she’ll ever get a job in football again. I think she’d make one hell of a linebackers coach. I love my auntie. I’ll do anything for her, including kill. Same thing for Kane. Garrett? I think he can handle himself.
“All right, Garrett’s got coffee on. Spill it.”
“He’s a wideout.”
“Shit, a football player? Irus, man, your code.”
“Tell me about it. He’s got me all kinds of twisted up.”
“Is he straight?”
“There’ve been rumors. You know how that goes. Might be true, might not. I can’t take a chance, bro. You know how it’s been for Beulah. Not one fucking person from the league or anyone from her old team will give her the time of day.”
“She got a letter. Up for the Hall of Fame.”
“They’ll pass on her again and break her heart. Pisses me off.”
“I know, but she still gets excited when someone remembers her. It’s good that way.”
“I guess. I still think it messes with her head.”
“She’s got us. And you. She enjoys flirting with Garrett, and he plays it up. She takes good care of us, Irus. Plus, she has her small harem of devotees.”
“I’m so glad you’re there with her. You’re like family, bro.”
“Yeah, so tell me about this guy. Can you give me a name?”
“Jackson McCoy.”
“Jackson McCoy! Shit, Beaumont. You certainly have a type,” Garrett exclaims.
“Am I on speaker?”
“Of course. If you wake Garrett up, he gets to listen in. You know the rules. So, let me get this straight. Blondie’s under your skin. You think he might be gay, but you’re too chickenshit to ask. That everything?”
Garrett opens his piehole again. “You left out the part where Jackson’s your clone and always beats Irus off the line.”
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Sorry, that’s Kane’s job.”
“Okay, so this guy looks that much like me, huh? All I’ve ever seen is his long hair covering his name on the jersey. Huh, interesting. As Auntie Beulah says, ‘Oh honey child, you’re screwed.’ Well and truly screwed, my friend.”
“You’ve ruined me for other men, you know that, right, K?”
“You want me to flashy-thing you? Erase our torrid teenage affair?”
“No. I don’t ever want to forget you.”
“Me neither, but you got to deal with your emotions. They don’t belong on the field. I know that much.”
“Garrett, have you taught him nothing about football yet?” I ask.
“I’ve gotten as far as the uniform. It makes him horny. He just strips me out of it,” Garrett responds.
“La-la-la! That right there is information I didn’t need. Help me out here, K.”
“You either tell him how you feel, or you start beating him on the field,” Kane says seriously.
“We’re on the same team now.”
“So you practice together, right? Beat him there. Show yourself you can handle his presence.”
“Thanks, K. That doesn’t help me one bit.”
“I’m a dancer, not a counselor. I don’t have the qualifications to fix what’s wrong with you.”
“Well, thanks for listening.”
There’s silence, but only for a second.
“So, how many lamps you broke?” Kane asks, hitting that nail delicately on the head.
How the fuck does he remember this shit? “Just one. Buried myself in Rough Trade.”
“You need to give that up. Same guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Still sleeping over?”
“No. I put a stop to that weeks ago.”
“Just stop, okay? You don’t need anything coming back to haunt you.”
“He knows when practice begins in earnest, he’s out.”
“Don’t call him anymore, for your sake. If this Jackson guy is into you, the last thing you want is a rent boy in love coming around to ruin things.”
“We were in love once,” I say softly, even though I know Garrett’s listening.
“We still are, in a way. It’s gotta be love to pick up the phone at three a.m. just to listen to you cry about being in lust over a football player. Honestly, I don’t see what’s so bad. I’m married to a former safety.”
“I’ve kept my sexuality separate, K. No football players, but this guy drives me crazy. He’s always laughing, joking around, winking at me—”
“Damn him. The bastard.”
“Fuck you, K. He calls me Iris.”
“Oh, now the bastard should be taken out and shot. I call you Iris to piss you off. I imagine he does it for the same reason. You’re so predictable. All slash and burn, man. Always ready to fight. Go to bed. Think about things fresh in the morning.”
“I don’t know how I live without your mockery day in and day out.”
“Love you too, Iris. Good night.”
“Night.”
I can hear Garrett chuckling in the background. Asshole. Why does everyone think this is funny?
“Irus? It’s Garrett.”
“What?” Shit, he sounds serious now.
“Careful in that locker room. Kane thinks everyone should be free to fall in love despite what he’s been through. He’s on this eternal optimism kick with your auntie. I know locker rooms. Be careful.”
“I will. Night.” I hang up.
I don’t want to think about what Kane’s been through. What I wasn’t there to help him with last winter. It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to see them. Maybe Thanksgiving. Yeah, we got the schedule, and we get the bye in week twelve, right at Thanksgiving. Yep, I’m going to Beulah’s. That’s a great idea. See for myself how Kane’s holding up. The last time I saw him was the wedding. The tracheostomy hadn’t even been taken down yet.
When I close my eyes, I can see the scars lining his face and the circular tube sticking out of his throat. Violent thoughts bubble up. Thank God the demented fuck who hurt him is dead. I’m still upset no one called me until everything was over. Kane didn’t want me to ruin my career. Said leaving at the tail end of the season could be detrimental, and he had Garrett anyway. Kane’s always been such an independent guy. I like Garrett because he takes care of Kane, but I’m also a little jealous. Garrett holds Kane’s heart. Hell, we decided long ago that we’re just friends. I wanted football too badly to stay home with him. It’s all good. I can’t help but think of what might have been, if I hadn’t been so selfish.
>
Whoa, getting maudlin here. K’s right. It’s bedtime.
* * * *
Highlanders’ Athletic Facility
A whistle sounds, halting the play, blowing the ball dead. I’m staring into the eyes of our running back Joe Tawny Eagle. A half-black, half-Native American guy built as tough and compact as a tank. We tried calling him Tawny for short, but he popped us in the mouth every time. Our kicker, Frankie Fitzgerald, started it all in training camp last year, eventually changing it to just Eagle. Joe was all right with Eagle, although he still bristles from time to time, I suspect for show.
“Hey, Eagle. Looks like you landed behind the line of scrimmage.” I push off his chest to stand up, laughing. “Man, it must kill you knowing the secondary put the hurt on you in the backfield.” Coach wants me to practice tackling. Who better to practice on than a guy who’s notoriously hard to tackle?
Eagle’s a solid guy, with gargantuan thighs and broad, hard shoulders. He’s got this huge mustache we call the Eagle’s Nest. We like to keep the Eagle’s Nest angry. Makes him run hard. I goad him every chance I get, mostly because it’s funny, and it takes my mind off Jackson.
“Come on, guys! Just a little bump and run out there. You know the drill, Irus. Keep it cool. Jackson, you’re in.”
Jackson comes on the field, settling his helmet in place and snapping the strap, his mouth guard already in. The asshole calls it his “binky” after seeing Fletcher’s new baby with a Highlanders’ pacifier in his mouth. It’s a double mouth guard with lip protection. The kind that covers his whole mouth. He doesn’t talk much on the field. On the sidelines, he chews on the thing when he isn’t laughing or cracking wise with everyone. God, I hate how much everyone loves this guy. He’s essentially won over the whole team.
He lines up opposite me with his purple mouth guard and winks at me. Usually it’s breast cancer pink, but today he says it’s purple to match his bruises. He’ll have more by the end of the day. I’m gonna put the hurt on this sucker. Punish him. He’s too nice a fucking guy. It pisses me off. Need to toughen his ass up.
“Here we are again, Jackson. You up against the best corner in the league. You gonna regret it, son.”
Jackson winks at me. I can tell he’s smiling by his eyes.
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