Hot Jocks, page 10
Then he heard the crunch of footsteps snapping over a branch. Tyler turned. A vision in white stepped out from behind one of the pines. Tyler resisted the urge to smile, but faltered.
“Dude,” he sighed.
Gable answered with a tip of the chin and a look that suggested he was still pissed.
“Get over it,” Tyler said.
He started toward the other man, painfully aware of his dick’s stiffness with each step. They met at the tree, and Tyler planted a kiss hard on Gable’s lips. Gable resisted, which only stoked Tyler’s insistence. The other baseball player’s mouth tasted like bubble gum. Male sweat, the smell of pine, and the mustiness of the approaching rainstorm blended together, creating a potent scent.
Tyler grabbed Gable’s hand and guided it between his legs. Gable briefly hesitated and then reached the other toward Tyler’s zipper. Breathless seconds later, Gable had freed him of his cup, and Tyler’s cock jutted proudly out, eight fat inches at his dick’s stiffest mast. Another rough fumble, and Tyler’s pride and joy were hanging in the open beneath his cock. The warm breeze kissed his nuts and the head of his dick. Lowering to his knees, Gable followed suit.
“About fucking time,” Tyler sighed.
Gable’s mouth took him down, almost to the balls. Those, the young man in the white uniform gave a firm tug, working his thumb behind them, precisely the way Tyler loved. Gable knew Tyler’s body better than anyone and, after a few deep sucks on Tyler’s bone, he showed he was over the grudge for the tag-out at second base. Working down pants and the nasty jock that had started out white but was now almost the same color as his road uniform, Gable lifted up Tyler’s balls and licked.
Tyler grunted a blue streak of expletives and rose to his toes. Gable’s handsome face dove deeper behind his nuts. Warmth and wetness brushed the back of his sac, and Tyler feared he might come early, here at the site of so many private reunions over the past two seasons. Arms folded over his chest, Tyler’s eyes traveled up to the overcast sky before dropping back down. His dick flounced under the power of its own pulses as Gable worked his balls and that funky patch of sensitive skin between them and his asshole. Syrup oozed out of his dickhead’s lone eye. He was already too damn close.
“Yo, dawg…get back on my cock,” Tyler said.
Gable extricated his face from Tyler’s nuts and resumed sucking. Electricity crackled through Tyler’s shaft, tickling his other hot spots from his nuts to his asshole, his throat to his toes. He wanted to hold back, but Gable’s eagerness and the boner he’d carried on edge all day in anticipation of their reunion drove him to climax. Biting back a howl, Tyler clenched his teeth and unloaded across Gable’s taste buds.
Gable swallowed and, as it usually did, Tyler’s cock stayed hard, kept erect by the cleaning licks that followed.
He helped Gable to stand and they kissed again, this time using tongues. Tyler loved his own taste when it was recycled in Gable’s mouth. Reaching down, he fumbled Gable’s uniform pants open.
“Yeah,” Gable moaned around his lips.
Tyler freed his childhood friend’s cock and balls from their prison of sweaty cotton. The hot stink of nuts that had sweated for nine innings trapped inside a plastic cup assaulted his nose. For others, their ripeness might have been too much, but Tyler couldn’t get enough. He ran his nostrils over Gable’s hairy bag and sniffed until he felt light-headed, high on the scent. Then he sucked Gable’s balls one at a time, because while Gable’s stones weren’t the size of his twins, they were still bigger than those of most of the dudes Tyler had glimpsed in the locker room.
Tyler moved up to Gable’s cock—the only one he’d ever tasted, except for the memorable time when he’d limbered up enough to reach the head of his own dick with his tongue. Gable was the best and still his, if only during the rare occasions when they stole these brief interludes following games. Tyler’s cock stiffened again, so much so that it ached.
“Fuck me, man,” Gable pleaded.
It was all the prompting Tyler needed. He spun Gable around, yanked down the white uniform pants, but not the other dude’s jock. Tyler appreciated the way the straps cut across the top of Gable’s ass and ran around his legs, always had. Salivating, he licked his way toward the fur-ringed knot at the center of the other young man’s muscles. The humidity and the baseball game had done amazing things to Gable’s asshole. Tyler feasted.
The tangy sweat lying thick on his tongue threatened to make Tyler bust for the second time. Time…it was always the real opponent at work here, not Seaside versus Down East, he thought; it was always in short supply and today was no different. In half an hour, maybe less, the guys would start filing into the bus. Tyler cursed under his breath, exhaling the epithet into Gable’s asshole.
He fumbled the condom out of his back pocket and tore the foil packet open, using his teeth. As was their tradition, he let Gable roll it over his straining length. Then he bent Gable over and assumed his position, lining the head of his dick with the spit-lubricated bullet hole between the halves of Gable’s butt. Tyler pressed forward. Gable ground back in response. The two young men, one dressed in gray, the other in white, again resumed their adversarial roles for several tense seconds. Gable bucked. Tyler growled and humped. Then the connection sparked, and one adversary’s cock entered the other’s opening.
Gable moaned in what sounded like pain. Tyler inched his way deeper only to draw back and slam in, all the way to his balls, and everything from Gable’s lips after that sounded joyous.
Tyler reached an arm around his best buddy’s waist. The fingers of his free hand sought Gable’s cock and, while fucking his backside, Tyler jerked him.
“Fuck, dude,” Gable sighed.
Tyler pistoned in, aware of his nuts as they slapped against Gable’s butt. There’d already been so much sex between them, in different degrees as their curiosity grew, and all of it was amazing, though never enough. The words powered past his lips before Tyler could stop them. “I fucking love you, dude.”
Gable didn’t answer in like, because at that instant, his cock unloaded its first shot of whitewash between Tyler’s fingers. Two more blasts followed in quick order. Gable was still coming when Tyler raised his stroke hand to Gable’s lips. Gable licked. Tyler leaned down for a kiss and tasted, too.
Their lips locked, and Gable’s asshole clamped down on Tyler’s cock as if sucking it the way his mouth had. Tyler pulled back so that only the head of his cock and the first few inches of shaft were still lodged in Gable’s asshole, slammed back in and busted, too.
As Tyler’s second orgasm powered down, the same old malaise washed over him. Though they were still locked together, Tyler balls-deep in Gable’s hole, the young man in the home-white uniform already felt a million miles away.
Mercifully, Gable reminded him that his team was due to visit Seaside two weeks down the road. Then, for the very first time, Gable told Tyler he loved him, too, right as the first raindrops began to fall.
TRACK MEAT
Martin Delacroix
The Runner is beautiful.
Every weekday afternoon I visit the university track, a tartan turf oval with an emerald infield, aluminum bleachers and a press box. I run laps for an hour or so: a fast lap, then a slower “recovery” lap, then another fast one. It’s called interval training.
The Runner is always there. He keeps a steady pace—sixminute miles; I’ve timed him—for about an hour as well, a tenmile workout.
When we pass each other on the oval I barely hear his shoes touch the track; it’s like he’s floating. His running shorts are flimsy, slit at the hips for ease of movement. His T-shirts fit tightly, clinging to his sternum and darkening under his arms after he’s run a mile or two.
He looks nineteen, maybe twenty.
I’m six-foot-two and the Runner’s a bit shorter than me. His onyx hair is wavy; it grows over the tops of his ears and falls into his dark eyes. He’s lanky and fair skinned, just my type. One evening, after he’d finished his workout, he peeled off his T-shirt to mop his brow. He walked past me and I caught a glimpse of his dark armpits, defined chest and striated belly. His nipples were small and dark as raisins. A line of dark hair descended from his navel. He walked the track in the outside lane, shorts clinging to the crack of his ass, and my mouth went sticky, just looking.
Now it’s a Friday in late October. Tallahassee’s evening air is cool and a bit damp. There’s a smell of approaching rain. I wear a sweatshirt over my T-shirt. I’m seated on the infield grass, stretching my legs, when the Runner enters the facility through a chain-link gate. He wears a long-sleeved T-shirt, his usual running shorts and racing shoes. The sun has set and the track’s field lights are on; their glow reflects in his hair while he ambles toward me. He sits on the grass and bends his knees. Bringing the soles of his shoes together, he grips his feet and stretches his hamstrings. He’s no more than ten yards away.
He swings his gaze to me and gives me a nod, a quick dip of the chin.
I give him a nod back. “How’s it going,” I say. It’s the first I’ve ever spoken to him.
His voice is deep for a guy his age. “I’m doing great,” he says. “How about you?”
I say I’m fine.
He extends his legs, doing toe-touches. I study the bulge in his crotch, the dark hair dusting his calves. His lips are red as raw beef; they draw back from his teeth when he bends at the waist and brushes the tips of his shoes with his fingers. His eyebrows gather—he’s concentrating on his stretch—but then he glances up, catches me staring.
Our gazes meet and he crinkles his forehead as if to say, “What?”
Heat rising in my cheeks, I look away. I feel like an idiot.
Get up and get moving.
Because it’s the weekend, the crowd at the track is a third its normal size. About fifteen people—a mix of students, faculty, and townies like me—are present. I step onto the track and commence my interval training, starting with a slow lap to warm up, then sprinting a quarter mile, lungs heaving, heart pumping. After a few laps my brain empties itself of thought. I am only a running machine, concentrating on my breathing, my pulse. I check my speed on my wristwatch to be sure I’m not slacking.
The Runner’s on the track now. While I run a recovery lap, the Runner floats past me. He moves like a dream—fluidly and efficiently. His arms barely move. I stare at his compact buttocks and my cock twitches in my shorts. How long has it been since I’ve touched a man his age? Ten years? How would it feel to run my hands over his lithe body; to feel his skin against mine, to smell his youthful sweat?
I shake my head. Forget it. You have a dozen years on him at least.
An hour later it’s drizzling. Raindrops glisten on the infield grass. The facility has emptied; it’s just me, the Runner and a couple of girls in sweat suits. I’m exhausted and thoroughly spent. My legs wobble when I approach a drinking fountain. Bending at the waist, I guzzle cold water while my pulse slows and my breathing relaxes. My brain’s bathed by endorphins my workout has produced. All the tensions of my day have vanished like a rainbow.
This is why I run: it gives me peace.
Right now you could throw stones at me and I’d probably laugh. At moments like this I know life’s too short to get angry over petty stuff.
Savor this beautiful evening.
The Runner has finished his workout. He comes to the fountain just as I’m leaving it. We pass each other but don’t speak or acknowledge each other’s presence. I’m sure he’s as spent as me, and I know he’s enjoying his runner’s high.
Entering the cinder block men’s room, I step to a urinal. The field lights’ glow enters through a clerestory window. The room smells of piss and mildew. There’s a toilet stall with rusted panels, and a wall-mounted sink that hasn’t been scrubbed in six months. The concrete floor glistens like a greasy skillet.
I study graffiti while I piss. One guy has written, Why are you looking up here? The joke’s in your hand.
My stream bubbles against porcelain and I don’t hear the Runner when he enters. He steps to the urinal next to mine and a shiver runs through my limbs. This is as close as I’ve ever been to the Runner. I smell his body odor, a scent like damp earth and freshly fallen oak leaves. Lowering the waistband of his shorts, he produces his cock. I steal a glance. It’s like the rest of him: pale and slender. The bullet-shaped glans is violet in color. I work my jaw from side to side, staring, then swing my gaze away.
He looks straight ahead at the wall, not saying anything. His stream emerges, hissing in the urinal. He’s taking multivitamins; I can smell them in his piss.
I say, “Have a good workout?”
He looks at me and nods. “You?”
“Good.”
“I hear interval training helps in races.”
I nod. “You can do little bursts, pass other guys like crazy.” He lowers his gaze and looks at my cock for a long moment, without subtlety. Then, raising his chin, he looks at me and winks.
My belly flutters.
Holy shit.
After we finish our business and put away our cocks, he extends a hand.
“I’m Paul.”
Paul. I like that; it’s simple and unpretentious.
We shake. I say, “My name’s Christian, but my friends call me Chip.”
He looks at the toilet stall, then back at me. “It seems we’re the only guys around, Chip.”
I nod. It’s quiet as a tomb in here. The only sound is dripdripping from the wall sink’s battered faucet.
Paul rubs the tip of his nose with a knuckle. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, looking at his feet, then at me. Light from the clerestory window reflects in his eyes. He pokes the front of my shorts with a fingertip and immediately my cock stirs.
Paul jerks a thumb toward the toilet stall. “Got a minute?”
I look at the stall, then him. I say, “My truck might be more comfortable.”
“All right,” he says, “that works.”
As we exit the track my heart hammers; I can hear my pulse inside my head.
I can’t believe this is happening.
My pickup’s parked beneath an oak tree, in a lot where only two other vehicles sit. Both are empty. The oak’s limbs block light from a nearby streetlamp, and the truck’s interior is shadowy. Paul takes the passenger side. We both glance here and there—no one’s around. Rain beads the windshield. Again, I smell Paul’s scent. Just thinking about touching him has my crotch tingling.
He’s so beautiful.
I slide toward Paul. There’s stubble on his chin and cheeks and a pimple the size of a pinhead dots his upper lip. His nose is straight, coming to a point. I place a hand on the back of his neck and pull his face to mine. Our mouths meet, our lips part and our tongues rub. His stubble scratches against mine while we trade spit.
Slipping my hand inside Paul’s shirt, I pinch a nipple.
Paul groans and shifts his hips.
I switch nipples, pinching again. We slobber some more, then I reach for Paul’s groin, but before I can touch him headlights sweep my truck cab.
Ah-h-h, shit…
I tear my mouth from Paul’s and swing my gaze. It’s a carload of students, fraternity boy types. They wear their ball caps turned backward. While I scoot behind the wheel, the boys park their car beneath the streetlamp, only a few spaces away. One kid gets out of the car and steps to a bush to pee. The other boys swig from beer bottles; their laughter punches across the parking lot.
“Fuck,” says Paul, wiping spittle from his lips.
Another kid exits the car to pee next to his buddy. Both boys are unsteady on their feet, swaying while glow from the streetlamp reflects in their piss arcs.
Paul and I wait for the kids to finish their business and leave, but when the two boys return to the car, the entire group remains there, quaffing beer, talking and laughing. Their car stereo blares rap music. They recite lyrics while the driver pounds on his steering wheel, keeping the beat.
I shake my head. Don’t they have any better place to be?
Minutes pass. Paul raises a wrist, glances at his watch. He looks at me and says, “I have to go. I’m having dinner with a friend in half an hour.”
Damn.
I reach for my cell phone.
“Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Paul drops his gaze and rubs his chin. He says, “You have to promise…”
“What?”
“You won’t tell anyone about this.”
I nod and say, “I promise.”
Paul looks at me and says, “All right, then.”
Next night my doorbell rings.
Paul stands on my doorstep, a twelve-pack of beer under his arm. He wears a faded FSU T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of running shoes. I smell soap and shampoo. Glow from the porch light reflects in his hair. He hasn’t shaved and stubble dusts his chin and cheeks, the underside of his jaw too. It looks sexy.
A half hour later, we sit on my living room sofa, four empty beer bottles on the coffee table before us.
I know a little about Paul now. He’s a Florida State junior, studying finance. He grew up in Boca Raton. His dad’s an estateplanning lawyer, his mom’s an assistant principal. He ran cross country in high school, placed third in Districts his senior year. He has two younger brothers and an older sister. His family doesn’t know he’s gay.
Paul’s sexual experience with men is limited. He’s met a few guys through the Internet, done quickies in public restrooms and parks, but has never entered a gay bar.
“I think I’d feel uncomfortable if I did,” he told me.
When he asked how old I was I said, “Thirty-four.”
He said, “I’ve never felt attracted to guys my age; I prefer men older than me.”
I told him about Stephen, my ex-partner of seven years, who left me two years ago because he said he loved someone else, a guy who drove a Jaguar and owned a Vail vacation home.
