Hot Jocks, page 2
“It takes a real man to get fucked,” Mr. Weist opined, flipping grilled cheese sandwiches in the pan. “People look down on it, like it turns you into a girl. Way I see it, you gotta be strong, to take the pain and let it go.”
“I’d like to try,” Jon said. Mr. Weist chuckled.
“I bet you would,” he said. He reached under the table and tweaked Jon’s burgeoning boner. “All in good time.” Jon didn’t protest when they headed back to the bedroom and Mr. Weist got on his stomach again. Jon lasted longer this time.
Next Friday the tables were turned and Jon lost the last vestige of his virginity. Mr. Weist was patient and accommodating, lying back on the kitchen floor to let Jon straddle his strapping body. Jon braced himself on Mr. Weist’s slablike pecs, lowering his virgin butt onto Mr. Weist’s pointed spear. He felt an exquisite pressure against his hole, like a thumb in the soft spot of an apple. Then it gave way and there was a sharp pain, but that passed and he inched downward until his butt was fully rested on Mr. Weist’s pelvis. That was when Jon’s cock started shooting spontaneously.
“Holy shit, kid,” Mr. Weist said breathlessly as Jon showered him with cum. Mr. Weist’s cock pulsed inside him and Jon realized he was losing it too.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Mr. Weist said afterward. They were getting dressed. Jon’s ass was sore but already he felt different, like he’d passed through some mystic rite and would never be the same. “Just seeing you like that with my dick in your ass…it was too much.” He tousled his hair. “You’re a real good kid.”
Jon felt very soft, like he was ready to cry. He wanted to grab on to this big man in front of him, to hold him and thank him, but that wasn’t the way it was.
He took the long way home and stopped at the diner for pie. It was a busy night. He looked at all the people there—some as old as his grandparents. Most likely none of them were virgins. Like Jon, they all carried a secret life.
They’d planned it for a month. Jon had insisted. It went against the teacher’s better judgment—the spanking he’d administered to Jon after class had been spontaneous and dangerous. Yet he couldn’t deny the appeal. He had Jon hide in the classroom supply closet while the building cleared out.
Once the coast was clear Mr. Weist let him out. He stripped Jon nude and had him sit in the front of the class as he gave a lesson on the Vietnam War. Halfway through the lesson Mr. Weist let his cock out of his pants—hard and bobbing—and continued the lecture.
When Jon got in trouble for not paying attention Mr. Weist made him get up on his desk and spread his ass. The teacher was pressing one thick finger to the boy’s hole when they heard whistling coming from down the hall.
“Shit, it’s Billy,” Mr. Weist whispered. The custodian. The teacher tucked his cock back into his pants. Instead of heading back to the closet, Jon scrambled under Mr. Weist’s desk. Mr. Weist looked peeved but sat down at his desk, anyway, with Jon between his legs. The custodian knocked on the door.
“Quiet now,” the teacher whispered to Jon.
“You still there, Mr. W?” the custodian said.
“Yeah, Billy,” Mr. Weist said. Jon heard the door open. His teacher’s cock was still half-hard and lying to the left under his pants. Jon reached out to feel it. Mr. Weist’s leg jerked but he didn’t knock Jon’s hand away. “Just grading some papers.”
“Working late, are ya?” the custodian asked. Jon could hear him sweeping the floor. He slowly slid his teacher’s zipper down and released his cock. He felt reckless. He almost wanted to get caught.
“Yep, no rest for the weary,” Mr. Weist said, just before Jon went down on him whole-hog. The teacher’s whole body tensed up.
“You ain’t one to stay after hours, usually speaking, I mean,” Billy said. Mr. Weist’s cock was harder than hard and Jon could tell it wasn’t going to take much to make him blow. He bobbed his head quickly, working his fist and mouth in tandem.
“Guess not,” Mr. Weist said. His voice was strained. Jon heard the custodian stop sweeping.
“You all right there, Mr. W?”
“Yep, fine,” Mr. Weist said. He shuffled some papers.
“Hmm.” Billy continued sweeping. “Yeah, I never see you here ’round this time, but I guess it just adds to your mystery.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jon grabbed his teacher’s nuts and held them tight. Mr. Weist drew up his knees and Jon knew he was passing the point of no return.
“That’s what people say, you know,” the custodian said. “Because you don’t talk a whole lot about yourself, I guess.” Jon pulled on Mr. Weist’s balls and that was it: the teacher was cumming, and Jon was swallowing it down, fresh from the source, in quick gulps, just like he’d learned. Mr. Weist maintained deep, even breaths. If Billy noticed anything he didn’t say.
“I tell’em it’s none of their business,” the custodian continued. “I tell ’em, ‘Don Weist’s a nice guy and that’s all you need to know about him.’”
OH, NUMBER FORTY-TWO
Ryan Field
Nathan Loveland was a nice guy, a thirty-one-year-old only child who had never been married and still lived at home with his elderly mother. He went to church every Sunday and he played the clarinet in a small chamber group every Thursday evening. His bed was the same twin bunk where he’d experienced his first orgasm—the first of many wet dreams.
His life was well ordered. When it was church picnic time in late April, Nathan carried his mother’s famous egg potato salad to the picnic table and everyone begged his mother for the recipe. In May, Nathan always escorted Sally Mae Frye (the town spinster, ten years older than him) to the senior dance as a chaperone in his black Sunday best. In the second week of August, he’d pack his frail mother into his Nash Rambler and head to Ocean City for a week to stay in the same rental they’d been reserving since he was ten years old.
If you didn’t know Nathan was the head of the music department in a small college not far from Martha Falls, Maryland, you’d have thought he was a minister. His shirts were white button-downs. His slacks were either brown or gray or navy, usually a heavy wool or tweedy material. He wore either black or brown gum soles, with socks that had an argyle pattern. In spite of the way he dressed, he was a tall, attractive man with large bones and a strong chin. Every morning he slicked his short, spiky brown hair back with Dippity-do, splashed Old Spice aftershave on his face and clipped a sliver clasp to his skinny tie. The only other piece of jewelry he ever wore was a Timex watch that had been given to him on his twenty-first birthday.
On occasion it occurred to Nathan that he’d been missing something all his life, but he just couldn’t pinpoint what that was. Could it be that he wanted to get married? Well, maybe someday, but he’d already been engaged twice to a couple of very good women and he’d been the one to break it off each time because it just didn’t feel right. Did he want children? Probably not. When he thought about dirty diapers and sticky fingers, he wholeheartedly agreed with the old W. C. Fields quip, “I love children; especially when they’re well done.” He suspected the thing he’d been missing was something he’d never experienced. And he had a deep feeling it had something to do with football.
When he watched football on weekends, his pants tightened and his heart raced. His erection grew so firm he had to cover his crotch with a throw pillow. Even when the reception was bad on his mother’s Emerson black-and-white set, with the rabbit ear antenna and automatic shut-off control, he couldn’t stop staring at the strapping guys in tight football pants and their large, exaggerated shoulders. He even parked his brown Nash Rambler at the other end of the college campus, nowhere near the music building, so he could walk past the football field and watch the football players during practice. The way they shouted and hooted, with such deep throaty voices, caused a rush of warmth to pass through his entire body that was better than music.
But this was l960. Men in small towns like Martha Falls didn’t admit they had an attraction to other men, especially not college professors, with all those handsome, hardy young guys walking around the campus.
And then one cold, rainy morning in September, while Nathan was sitting at his desk going through a pile of music for the fall harvest concert, he looked up and saw a young man standing in front of him. His short black hair was damp and had begun to form ringlets at the tips. His black leather motorcycle jacket dripped at the shoulders. “I’d like to speak with you, please, sir,” he said. His voice was deep, but not loud.
Nathan raised his eyebrows and smiled. He folded his hands on top of the desk and looked into the young man’s eyes. He wondered when he’d actually become a “sir.” He sat back and said, “What can I do for you?”
The young man tilted his head and reached out to shake Nathan’s hand. “My name is Brian Waters, and I was told that you were looking for office help here in the music department.”
Nathan shook his hand; the first thing he noticed when he looked into the young man’s eyes was that the left was pale lavender and the right deep blue. “Ah, well…”
“I just transferred here,” he said. “I live in town, over the hardware store. My brother, Mike Waters, told me to stop in about a job. He said you knew him. He’s in the English department.”
Nathan pressed his lips together. Mike Waters was from Baltimore; he commuted every day. Nathan had known Mike Waters for a long time, but this guy didn’t look anything like Mike. He was dark and cool and calm, where Mike was blond and so full of energy you had to wonder how much coffee he drank.
“I am looking for part-time office help. Do you have any experience?” Nathan asked. It was a very small college; Nathan was the only professor in the music department. When the dean told him he could hire someone part-time, he started putting the word out right away. But he’d been thinking more along the lines of a nice quiet girl with pigtails and bobby socks, who knew how to type and file. Not a handsome young man who looked like he’d just jumped off the back of a motorcycle.
“Ah, not exactly,” he said. “I’m a student here, and I’m on the football team. Most of my experience has been working in the summer in construction, with my cousin. But I’m a fast learner and I really need a job close to school and town. I don’t drive. I lost my license after driving drunk. That’s why I transferred here from my old school and moved right into the heart of town, so I wouldn’t need a car to get around.” He didn’t turn his head away, and his eyes remained fixed on Nathan’s expression. If his hands were ready to start shaking, no one would ever have known.
Nathan rubbed his jaw and frowned. Though Brian Waters didn’t look like someone who would work in an office, with his slick leather jacket and his snazzy black shirt with a wide collar, Nathan appreciated his complete honesty. Another young guy probably wouldn’t have mentioned the drunk-driving business at all. And Nathan could not ignore that he was on the football team. This was as close as he had ever come to a football player in the flesh. Nathan’s music students were math majors and science majors who didn’t even watch football on TV.
“If I were to hire you, when could you start?”
Brian smiled so wide his gums showed. “Right now, if you want.”
Nathan had always trusted his gut instincts when it came to hiring, and he needed help. The thought of placing an ad in the student center and then going through the interview process caused a lump in his stomach. “Since you don’t have any experience, let’s try it out for a couple of weeks and see what happens.”
“Thank you, Professor Loveland,” Brian said. His voice was still deep, but more relaxed and smoother. His lavender and blue eyes popped, as if he couldn’t believe that Nathan had just hired him on the spot.
Nathan stood, extended his arm to the chair on the other side of his desk, and said, “Well, then, have a seat, Mr. Waters, and we’ll get started.” Nathan noticed that he must have been at least four inches taller than Brian. He felt like a towering skyscraper leaning over a neat, compact Baltimore row house.
Brian crossed to his side still smiling. He removed his leather jacket, placed it behind the chair and then sat down. His black shirt fit loosely, but Nathan discerned the discipline of athletic effort in the young man’s physique: in his strong wrists and corded forearms, the way his biceps filled out his shirtsleeves and his legs stretched against his trousers. Nathan pulled another chair alongside the desk and began to train him with the basics of the job: answering the phones, organizing the messages and dealing with the files. Nathan was close enough to see that his features were small and delicate, but his general appearance was rough and slick. He had the thin sideburns that some young men sport before their beards are fully developed. When Brian lifted his arm, Nathan caught a whiff of strong aroma. He inhaled deeply. It was divine, a combination of musky cologne and underarm sweat that reminded him of cooked meat and woody spices.
In the first week, Brian picked up on things quickly and Nathan liked that he didn’t have to repeat himself often. Brian took orders very well, indeed. And in between learning job tasks Brian offered bits and pieces of information about himself while Nathan listened closely with his knees pressed together. Brian was twenty-one and still in undergraduate school; he’d lost his license after slamming into a fire engine (on its way to a fire, of all things) because he’d been drinking too much, and he’d lost his father to a sudden heart attack about two months earlier. (Nathan should have remembered the dead father; Mike Waters had mentioned this to him several times in passing.) Brian laughed it off when he told Nathan he was prone to removing all his clothes when he got really drunk. Nathan’s eyes opened wide and he clutched his chest. “Ah, well,” was all he said to that.
It didn’t take long for Brian to master the basics of the job and Nathan was free to return to his own desk right behind him in a small office that had a square window over a radiator. The first time Nathan left him alone, he said, “If you have any questions, please don’t be afraid to ask.” Then he put his hands in his pockets and smiled. He liked the way Brian arched his back, hiked up his pants and spread his legs when he sat down.
Brian smiled. “I won’t.”
Brian learned how to screen Nathan’s calls and protect him from unnecessary matters. He not only responded to all of Nathan’s requests like a perfect gentleman but also went the extra yard and asked if he could get Nathan coffee, or carry his briefcase, or start his car so it would be warm by the time he went outside. By the end of Brian’s first month there Nathan realized Brian was always the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave on the days he worked. Though a cleaning crew came in once a week, Nathan’s desk was now spotless and shining all the time. Nathan wasn’t used to this kind of work ethic; he’d never expected a football player to be so precise about everything. And best of all, Brian was adorable and sweet and helpless in many ways. His world was a diminutive circle that encompassed the football field, his apartment over the hardware store and Nathan’s office. He never talked about going out with friends; he never mentioned a girlfriend. Nathan shook his head and frowned when he pictured poor Brian going home at night to a rented room and eating his dinner out of a can. One Saturday afternoon Nathan drove past the Laundromat next to the hardware store and saw Brian doing his own dirty laundry, the poor boy.
But most of all, Nathan loved to watch Brian walk in and out of his office. He was all man. The way his tan slacks hung from his waist and framed his taut, high buttocks caused Nathan to sigh and think about football. When Brian wore navy chinos, Nathan could almost see the outline of his penis as he carried a cup of coffee to Nathan’s desk. Then there were the times when Brian stood next to him and Nathan caught a whiff of his scent. Nathan wanted to bury his face in Brian’s hairy underarm and start licking. Sally Mae Frye didn’t make Nathan feel that way at the senior dance (she smelled stuffy and powdery and fruity); none of the women to whom Nathan had been engaged had made him feel this way.
All that season, Nathan made sure he didn’t leave his office until football practice had begun. He walked past the chain-link fence that surrounded the football field, pretending to stare down at his shoes but trying to catch a glimpse of Brian Waters in his football uniform. Brian had mentioned that he was number forty-two, so Nathan had no trouble picking him out in a crowd of other young men. Brian looked bigger in the tight white uniform. His hairy calves were strong and solid and the bulge between his legs was huge. Nathan imagined that he wore a jockstrap to practice. Nathan had a drawer full of jockstraps at home. The few times he masturbated, despite overwhelming guilt, that’s what he wore.
One afternoon, after Brian had just caught a pass, he turned and saw Nathan walking by. He lifted his arm and shouted, “I got this one, Professor,” then he jumped up and down and banged the football on the grass. He was proud of his accomplishment. His face beamed. Nathan looked up and smiled. He lifted his right arm slowly, made a fist and waved it back and forth with stiff, cautious jerks.
On a Friday morning in late November, Nathan put his mother on a train bound for Miami to visit her sister, his Aunt Bessie, for two weeks. He’d been doing this for the past ten years, since Bessie had moved to Florida. But on the way back to the college, snow started falling from the sky. Nathan was terrified of driving in the snow, and the weather report hadn’t portended good things that day: a possible freak blizzard, with a foot or more of snow; he gripped the steering wheel tightly. Still, he hadn’t missed a day’s work since his father’s funeral ten years earlier, and he wasn’t about to start slacking off just because of a few flurries. He hoped the snow wouldn’t become heavy until after five.
He parked close to his office that day, not caring about football practice. At four-thirty he looked out the window and sighed. There had to be at least six inches of white powder in the parking lot across the street; his Nash Rambler was almost completely covered, and the few cars that were on the road were creeping along as though they were nearly out of gas. Nathan was so disconcerted that when he turned back to reach for his briefcase under the desk he knocked over a full tray of mail that had been sitting on the edge. Brian had just placed it there, in a neat pile.
