Back in the Game

by R. W. Clinger

  “Your hand’s shaking.”

  It was. I was nervous as hell, yet growing hard with excitement. His cock grew hard in my grip, firming up and extending like Pinocchio’s nose.

  “You into golden showers, man?” he inquired over his shoulder.

  “Not particularly.”

  “What are you into then?”

  “Guys with big cocks.”

  “Big Cuban-African cocks, I hope?” he chortled, continued to empty his bladder. During his endless stream of urine, he requested, “Kiss me while I piss, Shane. No one’s around. It’s just you and me. Do it. Show me a good time this morning. What do you say?”

  I kissed him while holding his cock. The kiss was long and passionate, and nothing like I anticipated. His tongue dove into my mouth and tasted like sugared cereal. A gratifying moan escaped him, which caused his erection to jump a little. Finishing his piss, drained, we continued to kiss, causing a heart-pounding sensation in the hollowness of my chest.

  Chapter 8: We Were Not Boys

  My mind and body raced, comprised of testosterone and adrenaline as our kiss developed. I became bemused and caught in his spell. Never had I believed in voodoo, but I was quite sure the football player had immediately placed me under a hex of lust for his chiseled frame. The kiss was potent and dick-jolting, and not once did I pull out of its generous overflow of warmth. Instead, I enjoyed it with an unending craving, caught inside its twisting emotion of bliss.

  Mesmerized by our bathroom bond and swept away by his tongue action, I almost lost my balance and wilted to the floor. How I kept my position behind him was beyond any competent realization, but I did, wavering. Hypnotized, I worked the excess skin on his cock to and fro. The motion was acquiescent and I was pretty sure everything he desired for at the moment. My handy movement was swift and relentless. My physical motion on his firm dick only became more brisk and somewhat wild.

  Our tongues and mouths continued to meet. He moaned with pleasure, just as I had. His heavy voice filled the empty changing room. A grunt and two loud huffs followed. He thrust his hips into my hand with a vibrant and powerful movement. No longer was he pissing. Instead, the wide receiver had other things on his mind, ready to erupt a load of thick and creamy-white ejaculate from his fully erect dick.

  We continued to kiss hungrily, and my hand shifted wildly on his cock, back and forth. I had one thing in mind, and one thing only: to cause him to burst his semen inside the urinal and break the current and intoxicating spell that he had so willingly, and forcefully, placed on me.

  Together, we worked in harmony: white mixing with black in that public changing room. How easily some stranger—a prying man, investigating cop, or a lifeguard who needed to take a piss—could have walked in on our urinal-twosome. But that knowledge never upended our tryst. Rather, we were alone inside the hollow area, just the two of us, and continued our off-field practice of heated play and unrelenting sex.

  What occurred between us at the urinal was purely for adults. We were not boys or inexperienced men. We were not immature or inexperienced. Both of us knew exactly what our mutual intentions were. He thrust his hips forward and backward, and I was on a steady mission to jack ejaculate out of his obnoxiously-sized shaft. Inexorably, we continued our two-man meeting. Unconditionally, lost in each other, without any defiance whatsoever, we carried out our missions, skillful and suppressed under what I had deemed as the wide receiver’s black spell.

  When did he finally come? I believed some eleven minutes after my constant and rhythmic jacking. Following a string of grunts and gasps—animal-like sounds in the deep, Congo jungle—for air as he continued to kiss me, after sporadic and firm hip-thrusts, white ejaculate exploded out of his erection and decorated the urinal. His wet and sticky semen glazed the tip of his rounded cock, the excess skin that glided along the uncut dick, and three fingers on my hand. The mess was pungent and hot inside the changing room. My nostrils craved it with unrestricted yearning. The stink lingered about our twosome like a thick dust cloud, but eventually floated through the vent and dispersed over Turtle Bay Beach, lost in the day, forever vanquished from our intimate time together.

  Thereafter, perhaps performing a hex of my own, I fed him his own gluey semen from my fingers. My appendages were aligned to his pink lips, and I watched him slip his tongue out of his mouth like a slithery snake and lap at the gooey treat. He moaned with deep satisfaction, enjoying his feeding, and attempted to clean every drop and smudge of his ejaculate from my fingers.

  “Where is this going?” he asked a minute later, shaking excess semen from the tip of his uncut cock into the urinal after his mid-morning beach snack.

  “Where do you want it to go?” I washed my hands at the sink, speaking over my shoulder.

  “The rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “That you’re gay, and you enjoy the company of other football players.”

  I chuckled and confessed, “That’s old news. Everyone associated with the Eagles knows that I like men.”

  “I wanted to believe it, but didn’t…until now.”

  “It’s amazing what a handjob on a public beach can determine.”

  “A pretty great handjob, if you want to know the truth.” He finished wiping his cock off, tucked it away, and stood by me at the sink where we both washed our hands. “So is it true that you messed around with Aaron Felding for a month before your ankle injury?”

  “Honest to God. I really didn’t keep it a secret. As far as I knew, it was public knowledge.”

  “His cock smaller than mine?” he asked, winking at me.

  Frankly, Aaron had one of the biggest dicks I’d ever touched in my football career. Was I overwhelmed by its girth and length, though? Not in the slightest.

  “I don’t rub cocks and tell.”

  “Good job.” He soaped his hands and began to rinse. “When can I see you again, guy?”

  “Never. This is a one-time thing,” I said in a serious tone. “Your grandfather would freak on my ass if he knew I kissed you and gave you a handjob. I would never hear the end of it. Besides, we both know that mixing business with pleasure is unprofessional. Shame on us.”

  “My grandfather doesn’t need to know my business. This is between you and me, off the field.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t risk that. He’s my immediate supervisor until he retires from the team (or dies from his cancer, I thought). There will be no more urinal handjobs for you, mister. As I said, this was a one-time thing. I have to respect Luther, and you know that.”

  He turned off the water and patted his hands dry on his running shorts. “You’ll change your mind. Guys who touch my cock always do. Give it a day or two to think about it. Trust me. You’ll have your mouth on my cock in no time, and cream will splash down the back of your throat. It happens to every guy who wants me.”

  “I doubt that. Your spell isn’t that intoxicating. You may think it is, but it’s not. I won’t be its victim.”

  “Time will tell.” He let out an aggressive chuckle and vanished from the changing room.

  Chapter 9: Ankle Woes

  Shame on me for falling asleep on the beach under a palm tree in a lounge chair. Dangerous things could happen that way. Like unexpected handjobs in a public changing room along the Gulf. Like nipples being licked and pinched. Like smashed ankles and immediate trips to Pittsburgh for recovery. Like…

  I dreamed of Lexington Mitchell Hayworthe again. The man came across as dreamy for all the right reasons: quarterback status for our rival team, the Tallahassee Thors. He stood at six-four and weighed two hundred pounds. He had a pretty boy face that consisted of tranquil blue eyes, a thick head of blond curls, nicely groomed goatee, and small nose. Had the guy not played professional football, he could have made an adorable model and gained a recognizable status around the globe. Lex and I had a history together. We were the same age and attended Coral College together, played for the Coral Blues football team for four years, prior t
o our professional jobs with our national league. We liked each other as friends, attended many functions together in the last eight years, and were experts on the field. Although we were current rivals, we still liked each other as two adult men with a passion for football.

  My dream on the sandy beach along the Gulf consisted of a group of short action scenes that mimicked real events in my life, prior to my return trip from Pittsburgh to Turtle Bay Reef.

  The game: Palm Field. November 21. Sunday afternoon. The day offered eighty-two degrees with no clouds. The second quarter was in God’s hands, and I was hyped, at the top of my play as a linebacker at that time. The stadium was packed with shoulder-to-shoulder fans in yellow-and-blue waves. Cheers, screams, and excited football watchers were at play in the bleachers. The Eagles were ahead by seven points. The current score was twenty-eight to twenty-one. The Thors’ fans were angry as hell, heading into half-time and currently losing. On the other hand, the Eagles’ fans were possessed with high-strung energy and at their most ambitious. Alive seemed an understatement according to James Dyle, the sportscaster of the national television network, SPNBR. Hyper and untamable seemed to be an appropriate description of the moment and the game.

  The play: I was a linebacker on the defensive line. Joey Morton was to my right. Dash Hempfield was positioned on my left side. I stared into the center’s demonic red eyes from the opposing team. TJ hated me to the core because I was a fag. Lex was positioned behind TJ, acting as the rival team’s quarterback. TJ snapped the ball, tossed it into Lex’s hands. Lex bounced near TJ and a number of hulking guards. He eventually threw the football.

  The pass: Refusing to get blocked, I jumped two feet above the field and caught Lex’s vulnerable pass. The interception was immaculate. Eagles’ fans roared, and the entire steel structure around Palm Field wavered. I had become a hero almost instantly, furthering our lead in the game. Almost instantly, I had become the star player for the day, earning the reputation as MVP, most valuable player.

  The tackle: It was next to impossible to be tackled by the quarterback of the opposing team in the sport of American football, but that’s exactly what happened. In truth, following many mental reviews of that unpreventable play, I believed one of Lex’s teammates accidentally pushed him into me. He fell against my upright frame and the momentum of his two hundred pounds of muscle made him bang against my body. He then plummeted me to the field and the ten-yard line. The dream entailed his face landing in my crouch and his mouth collecting my uniform-covered package, although he didn’t bite down on my goods. And even if he had, I wouldn’t have felt it since his right knee pulverized my left ankle, shattering the bones and muscle into a million little hurtful pieces.

  The outcome: I was toted off the field on a stretcher by three league medics. Every professional football player has the responsibility to let their fans know that he is unharmed and is still the galvanized hero they have inevitably created because of their love for the sport and players. To demonstrate that heroic title and conditions, I raised my arm and gave my fans a thumbs-up gesture to the crowd, which cheered for my survival and a quick return to the field. My exit from the game was heroic and noble, and not once did I feel like a failure. In truth, I knew I wasn’t going to return to the game. I was in the throes of hell by my relentless pain, but there was no reason to let my fans feel disappointment and emotional loss.

  The pain: It was rational to say my left ankle felt as if a bus filled with Sumo wrestlers had crushed it to smithereens. No, I didn’t cry, although I wanted to. Honestly, it felt as if my foot were sawed off at the ankle by the use of a Boy Scout’s unsharpened Swiss Army knife. Although there wasn’t any blood present during my injury, I imagined the sight of my ankle horrendous: severely bent sideways and limp. The pain alone clarified the event. Frankly, I believed my entire foot was amputated, forever ripped away from the rest of my body, leaving me immobile and physically handicapped for the remaining days of my life.

  The hospital: I was in a state of blurry consciousness and breathing heavily. The ambulance ride was nothing more than a gray-white blur behind my closed eyelids. I passed out, came to, and was given oxygen. Two ghost-like medics sat on either side of me inside the ambulance as I was whisked away from Palm Field. They wavered above me when I opened my eyes, closed them, and opened them again.

  One of them said, “His ankle is pretty fucked up. He’ll never play again.”

  The other medic said, “His athletic days are over. This will be his biggest loss.”

  Thereafter: I spent a half-day in Turtle Bay Reef Hospital. At some point, I had ended up in Pittsburgh at the Allegheny Rehabilitation Center along the Monongahela River. Three Pakistani doctors had rebuilt my left ankle and refused to let me play football again. My recovery was long and tedious. I missed everything about Florida: my apartment, Frankie, and the Eagles. Coach Revin visited me once a month. Frankie visited me twice during my eight months of recovery. And fellow teammates visited me: Rook Payne (a tailback), Tyler Sawson (a center), and Michael Dashwood (a linebacker like me). Aaron Felding and James Coffler didn’t visit me. But Lex Hayworthe did, feeling responsible for my injury.

  Lex apologized for his actions on the field and the damage done to my ankle. Some guys are sympathetic and emotional like that, though, aren’t they? They care how they hurt you, and then they want to heal you, right? Lex was like that, I guessed. Lex was the one who had crushed my ankle and prevented me from playing professional football with the Everglade Eagles again. He wanted me better, back in the game and on the field. But seeing Lex had its upset and loathing because he had changed my world forever.

  * * * *

  I woke, well-rested in the hellish sun. Half of me wanted James Coffler to blow me. The guy wasn’t anywhere to be seen, though. Oral sex with the wide receiver wasn’t going to happen on the beach. Instead, I hobbled home, back to my apartment, in search of solace and something light to eat for a late lunch.

  * * * *

  I tried to contact Frankie in the Caribbean, but he wasn’t answering his cellphone. I was dying to tell him what had happened on the beach with Coffler, detailing every little in and out of the event. Frankie was a busy man, though, wooing cruise guests, falling in love, and singing. He had his life, and I had mine. Maybe someday we could align them as friends do and communicate in person. Until then, I had a life to get to, an interest in James Coffler to carry out, and whatever else was thrown my way.

  Chapter 10: Don’t Touch

  Downtown

  Crab & Stingrays

  Yucatan Street

  July 22, 20—

  10:17 P.M.

  I hadn’t thought of Coffler since our naughty activity the previous day on the beach. Not once did I recall his huge cock in my right hand, jacking him off. Instead, I minded my own business, attended practice at Palm Field, ate dinner alone in my apartment, and chatted with the lovable and entertaining Frankie—we had finally made contact again—for an hour about his sexual adventures with a stranger named Renaldo.

  The summertime evening drew near, and I decided to have a drink at a small cocktail bar called Crab & Stingrays. The owners were two male lovers from Minneapolis, Minnesota. I loved their very pale skin, overbites, and strange accents. Half the time I couldn’t comprehend what they were saying, not that I cared. I thought they were tremendously entertaining, pleasurable, and quite handy with a martini shaker.

  Vick Tartan and Michael Lae, the Minneapolis twosome, were not shy about their lust for me. They both enjoyed my physical appearance and jockish ability, even if I had a fucked up ankle. It was common for the married pair to invite me to their fancy bungalow along the Gulf for a threesome, with a promise to be careful not to damage everything beautiful about me. I kindly rejected all of their cordial and sexual offers, which had reached the double digits. I continued to visit their cocktail bar for my greedy pleasure, sometimes obtaining a free drink or two from the couple. Frankly, I was flattered that the men wanted to double up
on me. They told me I was the sexiest male on the planet, a God in their eyes, a tease for their longings, and someone they claimed to love, unconditionally, without even knowing anything personal about me.

  Following an hour at Crab & Stingrays, and flirting from the married couple, I decided to hobble home. My left ankle wasn’t hurting, and I felt up to the challenge. Had I lived in a colder part of the country, I doubt I could have walked at all. But the temperature in Florida was at its best, very comfortable, and quite soothing. I needed the exercise as well as the Gulf’s fresh air. I enjoyed the night in nothing more than a pair of khakis, hemp sandals, and an open dress shirt, exposing my solid chest. The warm breeze licked both nipples and my abs. It felt pleasurable.

  I was a block away from the cocktail bar on Yucatan Street and four blocks from my apartment building, when a topless, olive-colored Jeep Wrangler with too much chrome pulled up to the curb and stopped. Of course, my attention was drawn to the vehicle and its driver. I immediately stopped hobbling, turned to look inside the Jeep, and was not surprised at all to see James Coffler at the wheel, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Get in, Shane,” he said in an aggressive and hot tone.

  What the fuck?

  “Get in, man.” He pointed to the empty passenger seat.

  * * * *

  Some men liked to be told what to do, and I just happened to be of their group. I was not one to object to those offers because of my bunged ankle, relying more on transportation and less on the physical act of walking. A ride to and from places was always accepted since I spent most of my life hobbling like an ogre or hobbit instead of an athlete who had once achieved four championship rings in his football career as a linebacker. Besides, what danger could there have been when it came to Coffler? I knew him well. Although we weren’t lovers by any means, I did have a mental folder inside my head labeled with his name, and it was crammed with pages and pages of details.