Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  “Will you shut the hell up?” Cordero snaps. “Stop putting words in my mouth! I know what I’m trying to say!”

  Sean glares at him. “And what’s that, exactly?”

  But Cordero answers without words. Holding Sean still, he leans down and presses his mouth to Sean’s in a silent kiss. His lips, firm and sure, cover Sean’s completely. His tongue flicks over Sean’s lower lip, then eases inside Sean, demanding, as if claiming him. Sean’s hands relax, smoothing down Cordero’s arm; he leans back, giving into the moment, the man, the mouth on his. The harsh fingers on Sean’s neck release him, but he has no intention of going anywhere. He’s caught up in the kiss—here, in the hallway, where anyone can see. He’s caught up in the precious ache of Cordero’s body once again on his, and the sweet balm Cordero’s kisses soothe over his tumultuous feelings.

  Cordero’s thumb trails down Sean’s throat, a ticklish, barely-there touch that sends shivers down his spine. When Cordero ends their kiss, he rubs his nose against Sean’s cheek and, with a breathy little laugh, murmurs, “You right, holmes. I do like your dumb ass.”

  Sean grins. His arms ease around Cordero’s waist; his legs shift apart to make room for Cordero’s as the rookie leans against him. “So what’re we fighting about in the first place?”

  “You the one fightin’ me.” Cordero grips Sean’s chin and turns it toward him for a quick kiss. “All I’m saying is we gotta chill out on the field. I already tole my momma I made the team, and I ain’t ’bout to get bounced ’cause some horny white boy can’t keep off my big black dick.”

  A thin blush heats Sean’s cheeks. “I like your big dick.”

  “So why don’t you hit me up sometime?” Cordero asks. “Outside the game. You know I’d hollaback.”

  Sean studies Cordero—is he serious? If Sean called him in the middle of the week, or late one evening…not even to hook up, really, but just to chat. Would that fly? “I thought…”

  “Man,” Cordero says, shaking his head. “You got my digits. You know my crib. You got someone else I don’t know ’bout? Someone dipping into you on the sly?”

  “Nah, brah.” Sean laughs at the thought. Since he met Cordero, no one else has caught his eye. As much as he hates to admit it, that was part of the reason he got so upset earlier. How would he ever be able to play soccer on the same team with this sexy brother if he couldn’t get with him after the game? “You it.”

  “A’ight, then.” Cordero pulls back, just enough to take the weight of his chest off Sean’s, but his hips are still thrust forward, his cock hard against Sean’s. “Don’ wait ’til you see me to want me. If you need it—”

  “I do,” Sean says. Here, now. His hands grasp the front of Cordero’s jersey and he pulls the rookie near, mouth open, eyes closed. Their lips touch; this time Sean’s in charge. As his tongue delves in, hungry, Cordero’s hands fumble at Sean’s waist, his hips, the door behind him. When he leans against it, the door swings back beneath their combined weight.

  Sean stumbles into the women’s restroom, Cordero heavy above him.

  Cordero backs Sean into the wall, their bodies alive with longing. Lips part, mouths open, tongues swirl together. Saliva and sweat, beaded on upper lips, gets licked away. Hands thrust beneath clothing—Sean’s into the front of Cordero’s shorts, and Cordero’s hands just as eager under Sean’s shirt. Then his fingers brush over Sean’s pert nipples, shattering the lust coiled inside Sean. It bursts in him, flooding his cock with a heady rush of desire. Now, his mind screams, and every nerve echoes the sentiment. The words stick in his throat, nothing more than guttural moans in heat. Now, here, please, yes.

  The door swings shut behind Cordero, cutting them off from the rest of the world. The wall Sean leans against blocks out the overhead light illuminating the bathroom so the two guys are draped in shadow. Cordero’s hands look like stains on Sean’s pale flesh, tattooed patterns branded into his skin. Cordero’s hot mouth kisses over Sean’s chin, down the curve of his throat, into the hollow at the base of his neck. Farther down, squatting before Sean, Cordero runs a hand over Sean’s chest as Sean pulls his shirt up out of the way—Cordero’s lips glance over the thin muscles of Sean’s abs and he licks out, rimming Sean’s navel with his tongue before chasing away his own spit with another kiss.

  Sean holds his shirt up with one hand as the other rubs over the straight rows of braids along the top of Cordero’s head. “Yes,” he sighs when Cordero moves lower, tugging Sean’s shorts down around his knees. “God, please.”

  Cordero’s mouth follows the thin trail of coppery hair that leads down from Sean’s navel. His thumbs hook through the straps on Sean’s jock strap, stretch them a bit, snap them into place again. Sean’s cock strains the front of his underwear, an unsightly bulge Cordero opens his mouth wide to take in. For a moment he massages Sean through the fabric, his lips and tongue and teeth teasing as they dampen the material. Arching away from the wall, Sean bucks into Cordero as his hands fist in his shirt. His voice rings off the tile around them. “Yes, yes!”

  They’ve never done this before. It’s always a quick fuck hidden away in Cordero’s dorm room, some heady kisses, hands kneading hard dicks. Nothing in public, where they might be caught. Nothing this intimate, with Cordero peeling down Sean’s jock strap to blow him. Nothing like that.

  Curled over his teeth, Cordero’s lips close around the tip of Sean’s dick. Yes. He uses them to nip and squeeze the plum-colored knob, then takes Sean in a little farther. Yes. His tongue traces the slit on the underside of Sean’s cockhead, lapping up the first drizzle of pre-cum that bubbles from him.

  “Yes,” and “Yes,” and “Oh, sweet Jesus God, YES!” The last word tears through the bathroom, echoing around them, a million affirmations as Cordero takes Sean’s length in completely.

  Releasing his shirt, Sean grasps Cordero’s ears and fucks his mouth. Cordero’s hands are on Sean’s ass now, spreading his cheeks, forefingers angling for his puckered hole. As Cordero fingers him, Sean rocks back, taking Cordero in as the rookie sucks his cock. “Yes!” he cries, every nerve trembling on the brink of release. How could he lose this? How could he honestly let this go?

  It’s over in a fast rush that washes through Sean, weakening his knees. He slides down the wall, spent, and finds himself held tight in Cordero’s embrace. He tastes his own juices on Cordero’s lips when they kiss. “Half the team knows we on the D.L. now. Why you so damn loud?”

  “What d’you ’spect?” Sean asks with a laugh. He wipes white flecks of cum off Cordero’s top lip, then chases his finger with a kiss. “So now what?”

  Cordero hugs him close, nuzzling Sean’s neck. “We cool, holmes. We cool.”

  * * * *

  It’s Wednesday, quarter after two in the afternoon. Sean camps out on one of the comfy armchairs scattered around the study floor in the Student Union—a disposable plate teeters precariously on the arm of the chair, a half-eaten ham sandwich and a handful of chips all that remain from Sean’s quick lunch. He has forty-five minutes until his next class and a quiz he hasn’t studied for yet, so he sits cross-legged in the chair, his heavy Biology textbook open on his lap. His eyes are beginning to blur from trying to cram for the quiz. Why can’t today be tomorrow? he wonders. Then he’d have practice to look forward to instead of Bio lecture, and he’d be getting with Cordero shortly thereafter.

  Though, Tuesday? They didn’t just connect after practice, as they usually did. Sean’s cell rang an hour before they had to meet on the pitch, and Cordero’s warm voice purred through the line. “Let’s meet up now,” he had said. On the quad where Sean had been walking, he swiveled around in mid-step to head toward the student apartments. “Maybe I won’t distract you too much if you get a piece of me ahead of time.”

  Good thinking. Sean was stellar on the field yesterday, top of his game, and the coach knew it. He grunted his approval afterward, when Sean and Cordero headed for the locker room. “Welcome back, Mason,” he said, tapping Sean’s sho
ulder with his clipboard as the guys passed.

  Sean thinks there’s nothing wrong with having a go at Cordero twice in one day. But it’s Wednesday, no practice this afternoon, and Thursday seems so damn far away…

  At his hip, Sean’s cell buzzes. He slips it out of its holster and glances at it—a new text message. Probably his roommate again; the dumbass can’t seem to remember not to lock the door to their dorm room before heading down the hall to the snack machine. Yeah, Sean doesn’t want anyone sneaking all up in his shit, but more than once the bastard has left his keys on his desk, then made a soda run. Earlier this week, Sean had to go back between classes and let the fucker in. If he’s locked himself out again, tough. Sean’s too comfortable to move at the moment, and this damn Bio text isn’t going to learn itself.

  But the message is from Cordero. Three characters that Sean puzzles over for a moment until he figures out what they mean. ?U@—where you at?

  A sly grin spreads across Sean’s face as he texts back. SUB U?

  SUB is student slang for the Student Union Building. It’s a focal point on campus, houses the cafeteria and most of the student organizations, and is a great place to crash between classes. It sits right on the edge of the quad, so wherever Cordero is at the moment, Sean isn’t far away.

  Is this a booty call? Sean’s heart stutters in his chest. He hopes so.

  He sets his cell on his knee and turns his attention to his textbook, but his gaze keeps drifting to the silent phone. How long will it take for Cordero to hit him back? Did he mean to text Sean, or was that message meant for someone else? Maybe he isn’t interested in hooking up at all—

  When the phone buzzes a second time, Sean jumps and almost knocks it to the floor in his haste to answer it. No text this time—an incoming call. He flips open the phone. “Hello?” His voice sounds a little too loud and he tells himself to calm down.

  Cordero’s slow drawl drizzles into Sean’s ear like warm honey. “Damn, holmes. Bitch didn’t even ring.”

  Sean laughs. “You know we ain’t got practice today, right? What you calling for?”

  “Man,” Cordero says, “like you gotta ask.”

  So now it’s like this between them. Sean grins foolishly; Cordero’s stepped it up a bit, taken soccer out of the picture. Getting together outside of practice is one thing, but calling on days they don’t even play means something else entirely. With a glance at the clock on the wall, he tells himself he really needs to study. But he’s not a Bio major, so what’s one quiz more or less? His blood surges at the suggestion he hears in Cordero’s voice, and he hopes he doesn’t sound as goddamn giddy as he feels when he says, “I got class at three.”

  “Won’t take that long,” Cordero assures him. “My roomie’s gone until four. I just got out the shower myself and don’t feel like getting dressed just yet. Hell, ain’t no way I’ma be able to shove this into my pants. You know what I mean.”

  Sean did. The student apartments were immediately behind the Student Union, and he knew exactly which one was Cordero’s. “Gimme five minutes,” he says as he starts to gather up his books.

  “Two,” Cordero tells him. “You left yet?”

  Shoving his biology textbook into his backpack, Sean promises, “Coming right now.”

  “Psh. You better hold it ’til you get here,” Cordero warns.

  Sean laughs and hurriedly zips up his backpack. “I’ll be right there.”

  THE END

  Served!

  It’s a little after nine o’clock Friday evening and the seaside bar known the Oasis is just beginning to rock. A restaurant with outside seating, the Oasis sits on a pier off Wildwood’s boardwalk, overlooking the Atlantic. Tonight twenty-five year old Colby Johnson sits on a hard stool at one end of the bar, nursing a cold draft and watching the moonlight flicker off the waves in the distance. Halogen lights hold back the night like a blanket suspended above the bar’s patio, but beyond the short steps that lead down to the shore, the ocean mutters, dark and restless. Despite the crowd that’s begun to trickle into the O, Colby stares out past the lights and feels the tension in his shoulders drain away.

  He just stopped in for a drink after his shift—he works on the boardwalk, at a pitching booth just off Morey’s Pier, where he beguiles tourists with his winning smile. One dollar buys three multi-colored hackee sacks, those little footbags filled with tiny plastic pellets, and the object of the game is to pitch at least one of them into the wide neck of a fishbowl. It’s harder than it looks—most nights Colby has to deal with any number of irate gamblers who swear they can pitch like Nolan Ryan, though they can’t seem to land a little sack into a bowl at ten yards. They overthrow and blame him (like it’s his fault). They say the game is rigged (it’s not). They bitch and moan until he threatens to call the cops, which he had to do tonight. Some big hard-ass wanted to fight, but Colby doesn’t get paid enough to argue. It’s a summer job to him, and a stupid game to boot.

  And it was only a dollar. Jesus. Colby shakes his head as he swigs down his beer. You’d think I robbed that jerk blind the way he carried on.

  But it’s over. With a deep breath, Colby lets the memory go. It is summer—Wildwood is a tourist town full of transients this time of the year, and Colby knows he’ll never see the fellow again.

  True, he agrees, his thoughts bitter. Only tomorrow it’ll be someone else, just as tough, looking to impress a girl and getting pissy with me when he ain’t all that.

  Well, at least he’s off work tomorrow, but he won’t be relaxing. He’s entered the Wildwood Beach Volleyball Tournament, which starts at eight A.M. sharp So why’s he here at the O, downing another brew? He needs to get some sleep, prepare himself for the game, get in the zone…

  Another full mug appears on the bar before him as if by magic. He looks up and sees his cousin Megan, her cropped sandy hair a tumble of curls above her heart-shaped face. Dropping her chin, she peers at him over the top of her small, rectangular eyeglasses and says, “You better be on your game tomorrow, Col. I’m not playing alone out there.”

  “I’ve got your back.” Colby gives her a wink that makes her laugh. It’s a bright sound, infectious, drawing from him the first genuine smile of the night. “This’ll be my last, I promise. Don’t you stay out too late, either.”

  “I’m at work,” she reminds him as she wipes away a ring of condensation from the bar. Then her gaze flickers past his shoulder and her grin dissolves. “Uh-oh. Bimbo at two o’clock.”

  Before Colby can turn to see who she means, a warm hand touches his shoulder. The next thing he knows, a busty blonde is sliding onto the barstool next to his, her smile dazzling. Colby gets a good look at those bright, white teeth and the nimbus of bleached blonde hair haloed above them, then soft breasts press against his arm. With a breathy sigh, the woman purrs, “Buy a girl a drink?”

  Colby motions to Megan, who already has a fruity margarita in hand. She sets it on the bar a little too forcefully, sloshing it a bit. This time, she doesn’t bother wiping the mess away. Instead, she busies herself with straightening the glasses behind the bar, obviously waiting to hear what she knows is coming. Even if she isn’t facing him, Colby knows she’s struggling not to grin. This isn’t the first woman to approach him at the O.

  As the newcomer sips at the margarita, Colby tells her, “Drink up, sweetie. It’s the only one you’re likely to get from me. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but…” He spreads his arm out, gently nudging her back with his elbow. Then he gives her his own stellar smile, the one that draws the tourists to his booth night after night. “I’m gay.”

  Behind the bar, Megan snickers. Satisfied, she flounces away, heading for a customer who signals for a refill.

  Unperturbed, the woman beside Colby shrugs. “Oh, I know, honey. I called it from across the room.”

  Now Colby looks at her. The smile has been toned down, replaced with something a little more humane. High cheekbones, pert nose, warm eyes that seem to sparkle with a secret of
their own. The blonde hair is just windblown, not teased, its color from the sun, not a bottle. A white puca shell choker accentuates the hollow of her throat. Now that she isn’t shoving her boobs into him, she leans back against the bar, savoring her drink, her eyes assessing him.

  He doesn’t get it. “Then why…?”

  Her gaze shifts and she nods out into the crowd. “See the blond dude over there?” she asks, pointing with the stirrer from her drink. “Big guy, broad shoulders, tight white tee? Up against the railing?”

  Colby turns, intrigued. This is Wildwood in early August—just about everyone fits that description. But as he looks around, he knows exactly who she means. The guy is Colby’s age, maybe a year or two younger, and leans on the railing like he sees something out in the darkness that interests him much more than the usual O crowd. As Colby watches, the guy turns and flashes him the same sexy smile he last saw on the woman beside him a moment ago. On her, it was pretty, but on him? Hot damn.

  “My brother, Van.” The woman sticks out a hand for Colby to shake, which he does without comment. “I’m Vallery. We’re twins. And can I just say he’s had his eye on you since you came in?”

  As she finishes her drink, Vallery gets the scoop on Colby. Where he works, what he likes, where he went to school…she asks more questions than most online dating sites he’s tried. He offers her a second margarita but she shakes her head, pushing away from the bar. “Order a Sam Adams,” she says, slipping off the barstool. “That’s Van’s favorite. I’ll send him over.”

  Apparently, Colby has passed her test. He signals Megan for two beers and turns to watch Vallery weave through the crowd to her brother’s side. She touches Van’s back, then sidles up to him so he can hear her over the music and the noise. Whatever she says makes him look up and, from across the patio, his gaze meets Colby’s.