Needless to say, I was profoundly disappointed to learn that the swimming events wouldn’t be aired until evening, by which time my parents would have already returned home. I was even more profoundly disappointed to learn that instead of swimming or track or basketball or some other real sport, the network would be airing men’s gymnastics.

  I reached for the remote to click off the set, planning to head down the street and search for a baseball game, when the camera panned a row of gymnasts performing their warm-up exercises. What bodies! What faces! And check out the bulging crotches! I decided to watch, just for a few minutes, telling myself that no one would know and that this was the Olympics so it was OK anyway.

  Real jocks don’t watch gymnastics.

  But I did watch. I watched and watched and watched. And every time they showed a competitor on the pommel horse, I got lightheaded. I don’t remember pulling down my pants and jerking off, but I do remember wiping ribbons of sticky white cum off the television screen.

  My swimmer god had been replaced by a newer, better fantasy.

  Years later, I was in the university’s secondary gym, running up and down the bleachers to strengthen a knee still weak from surgery. I was feeling depressed because the rest of the baseball team was in Florida on a six-game road trip against the top squads in the nation, and John Allensworth, my least favorite person, was playing center field—my position—while I recuperated. Allensworth wasn’t a bad player; he was just an asshole. Not to mention the fact that he was somehow convinced he should be the starter instead of me, even though I was Team Captain and Conference MVP two years running.

  I hadn’t done a wash in nearly two weeks. I didn’t have a road trip to go on, so I didn’t see the need…or couldn’t work up the energy…or whatever. When I left the dorm I’d grabbed a sweaty jock, a dirty T-shirt, and an old pair of baggy but clean gym shorts and thrown them into my bag. In the locker room, though, I didn’t have the heart to put on dirty clothes. Instead, I just pulled the clean shorts over my naked ass and walked out commando-style.

  But I digress. The point is, I was depressed. So depressed, in fact, that instead of running stairs in the main gym, which was filling with people, I’d retreated to the empty secondary gym used by the gymnastics team.

  At least I thought it was empty.

  I’d just finished fifty trips up and down the bleachers and was sweating like a glass of iced-tea on a muggy summer day. Each trip up I pictured Allensworth playing center field, hitting lead-off, stealing my glory. His image angered me, and that anger carried me to the top. Each trip down, I coasted and checked out the gymnastics equipment, feeling my cock harden as I did; without a jock on, it had plenty of room to roam.

  What the hell, I decided. I walked from the bleachers to the center of the gym. I wanted to try a cartwheel or a flip or something on the floor exercise mat, but I was worried that I’d reinjure my knee. I walked to the rings next, and pictured myself losing my grip and landing awkwardly on my bad leg. I circled the gym, gazing at but not touching the equipment, ending at my destination all along: the pommel horse.

  My dick was rock-hard and throbbing, tenting my shorts to the point where even a blind man would have noticed. I didn’t care, though, since I was alone in the gym. I walked the length of the pommel horse, running a finger along its leathered edge, stopping at one end. I gripped it on either side and slid my hands back and forth as if I were jacking the biggest man alive—the Jolly Gymnastic Giant. Entranced, I slid a hand into my shorts and used my pre-cum to slowly masturbate. I rested my head on the horse, inhaling its deep scent of leather and powder and gymnast sweat. In an instant, I was on the verge of coming.

  I pulled my hand from my shorts and licked my palm and fingers for extra lube and also because I like the taste of my cum and my spit mixed together. A few quick yanks and I’d have my favorite treat to eat. I reached behind with my other hand to plunge it into my shorts and down the crack of my ass so that I could tease my hole while I came.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice from behind, startling me and simultaneously making me thank my lucky stars that whoever the voice belonged to had spoken before I’d started fingering my ass. As I spun around to face the intruder, I realized that even though he hadn’t seen me finger my ass, he’d almost certainly seen me nuzzling and sniffing the pommel horse while stroking myself to a near-explosion. I also realized that even if he’d somehow missed my jerking off, there was no way he wouldn’t notice the eight-inch erection pointing directly at his face. “I need to do some work on the rings,” he said, “and I was wondering if you would spot me.”

  I mumbled something unintelligible, like “Ungh.”

  He pointed to the rings, as if to clarify. “The rings. I was wondering if you could spot me?”

  I tried to push my boner to the side so that at least it wouldn’t be sticking straight out, but it wouldn’t obey. It gets that way—pointing like a mushroom-capped divining rod—when it sees something it wants. And oh my, did it ever want the little fucker standing in front of me. Dirty blond hair cropped close to the skull, deep blue eyes, skin like cream, tight shorts, no shirt, and the perfect gymnast body.

  “You just stand behind me and put your hands on my waist and then lift me so I can grab them,” he said. “The rings.” He pointed to them again.

  “Um, sure,” I said, regaining a modicum of composure.

  He walked to the rings, followed by my dick and then me. He stood under them, facing away from me. “Just put your hands on my hips,” he said, “and then lift when I jump.”

  I put my hands on his hips, positioning them to cop a feel on the way up.

  “That’s good. But stand a little closer.”

  Any closer and my tent-pole prick would be poking his delicious little ass.

  When I hesitated, he reached behind with both hands, grabbed me, and pulled me closer.

  Prick. Poke.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s better.” He looked back over his shoulder with a grin. “On three, OK?”

  “Yeah, on three.”

  He wriggled his ass against the tip of my hard-on.

  I gasped.

  He looked over his shoulder again, still smiling.

  I’d been wanting to plant my dick in a gymnast’s bubble butt for eight years, and here this grinning dollop of honey was practically begging for it.

  “One…”

  I formulated a plan.

  “Two…”

  I hooked my thumbs into the elastic of his shorts.

  “Three.”

  He went up. His shorts came down.

  He settled into an iron cross position, his body a perfect T, his shorts halfway down his thighs. A jockstrap covered his cock but not his ass. He held the iron cross, the most difficult position in gymnastics, without wavering, despite the fact that I’d depants’d him.

  I circled to the front where he could see me. Once there, I flashed my own mischievous grin.

  “How do I look?” he asked. Straining to hold the iron cross, the muscles in his arms and shoulders and neck bulged and fought as if each wanted to be the most prominent, the most noticed. The tip of his hard-on poked out from the top of his jock.

  “Good,” I answered. “Damn good.” I pulled his shorts the rest of the way off.

  He responded by lifting and spreading his legs. I’d seen a hell of a lot of guys lift and spread, but never with such grace and power. And I’d never seen a hole like this one. So clean. So tight. So perfect. A little cherry waiting to be plucked and fucked. And the fact that his cock was still hidden in his jock—except for the tip, another little cherry—made his tiny ass pucker even sweeter-looking.

  I stepped under him. “Lower yourself.”

  He obliged, stopping at the appropriate spot.

  I nuzzled into his crotch, licking and sucking on first one and then the other of his medium-sized, cotton-encased balls. As I did, he lowered his legs and rested them on my shoulders so that he was still hanging from the rings but was partially supported by me. (I couldn’t expect him to hold himself up forever, could I?) When he was settled, I worked my way up his cock, tonguing and gently gnawing the fabric of his jock and his bone-hard six-inch shaft, soaking the thin cotton with my spit.

  I paused and looked up at my prey. His eyes were glazed over, his pecs were heaving, his abs were so hard and rippled I could have used them as a washboard. (I certainly had enough dirty laundry.)

  He looked down after a moment, and when his eyes finally focused I licked the middle finger of my right hand, looking him directly in the eyes, and then, still looking him in the eyes, pushed it into his hole in a very ungentlemanly fashion.

  Judging from his “Oh, yeah!” exclamation and the instant bubble of pre-cum that materialized on the cherry red head of his dick, he enjoyed the intrusion.

  I smiled, then went back to work, licking and sucking the wide elastic of his jock where his pre-cum had dribbled down. His juice was salty-sweet—not brackish like some guys’—and I savored his flavor, licking, licking, licking my way to the head of his cock. His was a small knob, not as big around as his shaft, bisected directly in the center on the underside. Circumcised. The dick of the Boy Next Door. I tongued his glans, driving my tongue into his piss slit, all the while fingering his slick little fuckhole and teasing his perineum.

  I could tell the tension in his nuts was building, by the movement of his thighs wrapped around my face. At first, there were slight contractions of his quadriceps and hamstrings. As I worked his cock and hole longer and harder, though, the contractions intensified. And when I drove a second and then a third finger up his chute, he slammed his legs together, bulging muscles clamping around my head and drowning out all sound except the pumping of blood to the tensile steel of his legs, ass, and cock.

  I dropped my mouth back to his now-rock-hard balls, still encased in cotton wet with spit, then he began to chant, “Oh yeah! Oh yeah! Oh yeah!” like a Hindu prayer mantra. And then his ass muscles clamped on my three fingers and he yelled, “I’m coming,” announcing it just as the first volley shot up and out of his cockhead like a pop fly, only to plummet downward and land with a fat splat on my cheek. As he continued to shoot, I worked my fingers hard against his straining tunnel, finding his joyspot, which led to a second moonshot that landed on my face very near the first. After that, he burbled over, soaking the mesh of his jock with fresh, sweet cum.

  I pulled my fingers from his ass and lowered him to the ground, wondering if he would be one of those collegiate closet cases who’s all hot and bothered until he blows a load and suddenly decides he’s straight.

  He wasn’t.

  Lying on his back on the landing mat with his legs spread, he said in a voice far too low and husky to be emanating from his boyish mug, “Fuck me, Slugger. Fuck me hard with that big bat of yours.”

  His use of the words “slugger” and “big bat” led me to wonder if he knew that I played baseball, perhaps even knew my name. With my dick throbbing and dripping, though, I hardly cared.

  “Fuck me like a Mark McGwire home run,” he said. “Fuck me like a Roger Clemens fastball. Fuck me like—”

  “You talk too much.”

  I dropped to my knees and shoved eight fat inches of man-meat into his mouth and down his throat to shut him up. He took it easier than any cocksucker I’d ever been with, covering his teeth like an expert and creating an exquisite suction the likes of which I’d never experienced. His tongue danced and twirled on the underside of my shaft like Kurt Thomas on the floor exercise, and he toyed expertly with my nuts as they bounced off his baby-smooth chin.

  So many guys I’d been with just made a big “O” with their mouth and bobbed up and down, and so many others choked when they tried to deep-throat me. But not my little gymnast. His mouth made love to my cock like no other mouth before or after. He took me to the edge of ecstasy and held me there for long minutes.

  As I plowed my groin into his face, I reached behind and played with his nipples, at first just brushing at the nubs, then pinching and pulling. He wriggled underneath me, enjoying the tit torture. The harder I pinched and pulled, the better he sucked me off. Finally, just as I was about to blow, he pushed me away. “I wanna get fucked,” he said, echoing his earlier request.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, baseball stud, I want that big home-run club up my tight little hole. I want you to—”

  “Over here,” I said, pointing to the pommel horse.

  He followed willingly, and I shoved him against the apparatus. He grabbed the raised handles, spread his legs like Bill Buckner fielding a grounder in the World Series, and braced for my attack.

  I hadn’t been gentle with him at any point so far, and didn’t feel the need to start now. I lined up the fat, pre-cum-slicked head of my rod with the rosebud pucker of his ass and pushed in fast and hard. His chute was still lubed from my spit-covered fingers, and I slid in nearly to the hilt, though not without resistance. “You like that?” I asked.

  He moaned, in part ecstasy, part pain. I pulled nearly out, enjoying the sensation of his silken ass chute gripping the tender skin of my cock, then plunged forward, banging my low-hanging balls off his tight-to-the-shaft nuts and grinding my tangle of bush into his ass crack. “You like that?” I asked again. But I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, I launched into an all-out fuck, hammering his hole like Sammy Sosa hitting off a tee.

  As soon as I had established a rapid pounding pace, I reached around and felt for his cock, still in his sticky-wet jock. He was rock-hard again. Instead of jerking him off, though, I stretched the wide elastic away from his midsection as far as it would reach. And then let go.

  Snap!

  “Ohhhhh, God!” he yelled as his ass clamped down mightily on my rapidly swelling rod, temporarily stalling my invasion.

  But I was not to be deterred. He’d begged to be fucked, and fucked he would be. I slammed forward so quickly he banged his forehead on the pommel horse hard enough to leave a welt.

  I regained my rhythm and my hand returned to his cock, this time for gentle stroking to bring him near the edge, to leave him teetering at the brink, to tease him with my fist as he’d teased me with his throat. But when he cried, “Again! Please! Again!” I obliged. I couldn’t resist.

  Whap!

  This time I was ready for his ass clamp, and fucked right through it.

  “Yes,” he yelled. “Again! Again!” And the sound of his voice—begging, demanding, completely insane with lust—nearly set me off for good.

  “One more like that,” I said, “and I’m gonna fill your pretty little boy-butt with a great big load of spunk.”

  “Oh, yeah. Give it to me, Slugger. Give it to me.”

  I pulled the elastic of his jockstrap away again, this time even further than the previous two pulls. And then a devious, delicious, delightful thought crept into my sex-crazed brain. I lowered the strap ever so slightly, changing the trajectory on which it would snap back to his groin.

  Crack! Right on the nuts.

  “Uhnnnh!”

  And then we both were coming like only two highly conditioned athletes can come. My swollen eight-inch rod shot big bullets of cream up his red-hot tunnel. His six-inch cloth-encased pistol spit rapid raindrops of white onto the mat below. (On the way out, we spotted a droplet a good ten feet from where we’d been standing—and this was his second orgasm.)

  When the waves of sensation subsided, we collapsed to the cum-splattered mat, my cock still up his ass. After a moment, he started to giggle.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’ve always wondered what it feels like when a pitcher gives up a home run. And now I know.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, I’ve always wondered what using a pommel horse is called. And now I know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “It’s called fucking.”

  He laughed so hard that my softening cock slipped out of his ass. No matter. I shoved it back in later that night.

  Knot of Roads

  D-L Alvarez

  1.

  The hometown is a knot of roads. Each road knows some popular music, country or R&B, to generate excitement, ease the pain, or any other clichéd excuse to drink and drive and drive and drive: always ending up back where you started, the pit you were born to. I was guilty of seventeen years of hating my fellow townsfolk and their dim routines. They were an insufferable dust, making the air unbreathable. For years I plotted and attempted Houdini routines, tried to escape those labyrinthine knots, their tight, cramped curves, their boomerang hex. The corroded husks of factory work gathering round my ankles. Forever restless, unwilling to accept my class or circumstance, I eventually committed the greater crime of getting blood on my hands in the rush to perform one of the many rehearsals for running away.

  The blood belonged to a proverbial passing stranger, a light-skinned black man named Clarence, who promised a sure split in the cradle of his gold-specked Coronado. That didn’t pan out. The two of us only got so far before we were arguing like lovers. In less than twenty-four hours there were threats and a roadside scuffle in which we both fought like girls, or worse actually, clawing and desperately searching the vicinity for weapons to add to our attack. I threw a flattened milk carton at him and missed, then hit him in the face and cut his lip with the pull-tab from a pop can I wore as a ring. He pulled up some weeds, roots and all, and lashed at me with it, getting dirt in my eyes. Eventually I ran off down the highway and hitched a ride back home, the twists of road doling out their miserable curse once more. It wasn’t until the driver asked if I cut myself that I noticed the blood at all, Clarence’s blood, speckling the back of my right hand. I had never injured a man before, save for the roughhousing my brother and I got into. It felt like both a badge and a scarlet letter.

  What inspired the violence?

 

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