Hot Jocks, page 6
AND BRAWLEY THREADS THE NEEDLE
Gavin Atlas
I knew it was wrong of me to let Cameron suffer the humiliation alone, but it wasn’t my fault everyone knew he got his ass fucked in porn movies. Some schools would have kicked him out, but Bradenton College let him stay and even kept him on the tennis team, despite Coach Vinton’s protests. It was suspicious timing that the scandal came to light just before the Palm Coast Conference Championship.
Now we were in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and we’d made the finals without Cameron. He was good, but his game had fallen apart in the past week. He’d been taken off of the number two singles spot and made an alternate. Then Victor Pratt injured himself during his singles match. We were tied two-two against Kingham University, and Cameron would have to play the final match that would determine everything.
I suspected the coach at Kingham was probably the person who’d made Cameron’s movies public knowledge. To say that school had a conservative Christian streak would be an understatement. The president was Talbot Hayes, a televangelist who prayed for hurricanes and tornadoes to strike gay pride parades. Hayes and the Kingham coach were the first in the league to say Cameron should be kicked out of tournament play. However, it was obvious to the conference officials that Kingham had ulterior motives for having a strong opposing player declared ineligible.
Sadly, our coach agreed with Kingham, but for his own reasons. “Cameron Brawley is a liability,” he’d said to our school president in a hushed locker room conversation I wasn’t supposed to overhear. “It puts that much more fire into the games of our opponents, you know? Sure, no one wants to be beaten. But they especially don’t want to be beaten by a gay boy who…who takes it up the you-know-what.”
I sat in the bleachers watching Cameron warm up. He was so beautiful I wished I could have his nude picture as the wallpaper on my computer: innocent and sweet, smooth and muscular, with a great ass and constantly horny. He was everything you’d want in a blond bottom boy. It was no wonder the porn companies had begged him to be in movies. He told me how much they’d pressured him.
Cameron had a wicked backhand, incredible foot speed and insane topspin that made playing him on a clay court a major challenge. And tournaments in Hilton Head were played on clay.
I’m shameful. I could learn by watching his game, but the only thing I could keep my eyes on was his ass: chunky, perky, round, firm and perfect. Seeing it made my groin tingle with arousal. I had loved fucking Cameron—until the scandal exploded. Since then I’d barely talked to him. I’d just watched him from afar and wished I were a braver man.
Today Cameron wore a powder-blue shirt and white shorts that, on anyone else, would look baggy. But his posterior was prominent, and he looked delectable. I wanted to bend him over the net right there and then.
God, listen to me. We hadn’t officially been dating, but I cherished each kiss and all the time we spent together just talking and holding hands. I’d come close to telling him “I love you,” but it didn’t sound like something a guy should say to another guy.
Then he told me about the films, and I felt betrayed. It was stupid because he’d done them before we met, but I couldn’t think of him as my Cameron anymore. Ever since I watched him in those two movies, I’d stopped seeing him as a person and started viewing him as an ass to fuck, as if doing porn made you less than a human being. Then when the world found out, he went from piece of ass to pariah.
Seeing how the scandal had destroyed him made me realize how much I suck. My closeted stupidity had cost me someone I was crazy about. Why hadn’t I told him I loved him when I had the chance?
Cameron’s practice session went as poorly as everyone expected. He kept netting forehands, missing overheads, and spraying serves well over the service line.
“Goddammit, Brawley!” Coach Vinton yelled. “Why the fuck would you choose now to fall apart? If I could replace you, I’d do it in a heartbeat!” Coach had never been so disrespectful to any of us.
Then the strings on Cameron’s racket broke. Nothing was going right.
Vinton couldn’t stand what he was seeing and cut practice short. As Cameron left the court, I decided to speak to him in public for the first time in nearly a week.
“Hey.”
Cameron narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Two things. First, I’m sorry.”
He looked at his shoes. “It’s not your fault. It was probably some closet case at Kingham who saw my films and let the league know. It’s my fuck-up and now I’ve ruined everything.”
“No, I meant, I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting like I barely know you for the past week. Actually, I’m sorry for more than that, but why don’t we hit for a while. I want to try a couple things.”
“I’m not fit to play tomorrow.”
I smacked Cameron on the shoulder with a buck up, buddy gesture. “Brawley, you’re the only one eligible who has a chance.”
“I don’t have a chance.”
The negativity was pissing me off, but I inhaled deeply and continued. “Let’s find a court without an audience so you won’t feel self-conscious.”
“You mean where it won’t kill you to be seen with—”
I cut him off with a tight hug that was almost a cuddle. Cam held still as if he didn’t know what to do. Then I felt tension in his body soften, and he hugged me back. I heard a couple of gasps from the bleachers.
“Satisfied, Brawley? Let’s go.”
We drove about thirty minutes before we found a high school with courts. We knew we wouldn’t find a clay court, so we settled for a hard court. At least we would be more evenly matched.
I bounced a ball against my racket. “Do you want to be angry or do you want to be pumped up?”
Cameron blinked. “What are you talking about, Doug?”
I realized that “pumped” sounded sexual. “I meant, which works better for you on the court? Being pissed off or having your ego primed?”
“I have no idea.”
I took the net so Cameron could practice passing shots, one of his specialties.
“Okay,” I said, “blast them by me.”
He whipped a backhand, angling it down the line, but I had a long reach and punched it to his forehand. He was there and this time he tried passing on my right, but I’d anticipated and volleyed the ball out of his reach. I heard him mutter a curse.
“Don’t get down,” I said. “Think: Cam is great! Cam is the best!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Let’s play a set,” I said and he nodded.
I served first and held easily, Cameron spraying errors all over the court. He looked lost.
One game later he finally hit a good passing shot, angling the ball beyond the reach of my forehand while easily finding the sideline.
“And Brawley threads the needle!” I cheered. He shot me a look that I translated as Get bent, Doug.
“Okay, let’s try anger. Cameron, pretend I’m from Kingham, and I think you’re…you’re a damn faggot who doesn’t deserve to live.”
Cameron dropped the ball he’d had in his hand. “What did you say?”
I inhaled. “I’m a Kingham Christian Knight, and I know you take it up the ass. You’re disgusting Brawley. You’re going to hell.”
“But you’re one—”
“I don’t take it up the ass though, do I? You’re the fag pussy boy.”
“What the fuck, Doug!”
God, I hope this isn’t a mistake. “I’m being a Kingham Knight. It’s what they think. You know it.”
Cameron took an angry swing in the air and then picked up the ball.
His next serve was a clean ace. The best serve I’d ever seen him strike.
“Good going, faggot.” Treating him this way was making me sick to my stomach, but if it worked…
On the next point, Cameron executed a drop shot, forcing me to come to the net. I reached the ball, digging it only as far as midcourt. Cameron blasted the ball right at my body, nailing me in the chest.
“Oh…kayyy,” I said, gasping from the blow. I saw Cameron give me a concerned look.
“Are you hurt, Doug?”
“No. Don’t ask. I’m a Kingham Knight. Stay angry, Brawley.”
Cameron blew me off the court, winning the set six-three.
I came to the net to shake his hand. “Can you do that tomorrow, fucker?”
Brawley grabbed me by the back of the neck and kissed me fiercely. “I need you inside me.”
My heart raced. “Yeah…I need that too. Right about now.”
We raced to our hotel and stripped as fast as we could. Naked, he gripped my sides, his nails digging into my skin. Then he stood on his toes and bit my earlobe. Hard.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled. I pinned Cameron’s arms behind him and gave him a rough swat on his ass. Then I threw him on the bed.
I’d never had such angry sex before, and the energy was intoxicating. We wrestled. We bit each other. He scratched me with his nails. My dick couldn’t have been harder. He gutpunched me, which almost doubled me over, but the sexual heat I felt didn’t diminish in the least. Then he bit my neck so hard I could have sworn he broke the flesh.
“God—motherf—that’s it. I’m nailing your ass right now.”
Cameron threw his muscular legs in the air, panting and moaning impatiently as I raced to put on a condom.
I lubed his hole and slammed my dick inside. Cameron howled like an angry panther. The look in his eye was ferocious, and it gave me pause. I didn’t want Brawley to hate me because of a bout of violent sex, but I couldn’t resist. I loved Cameron’s ass; it was so soft, warm and tight. I’d always wanted to savage it, just ream him with merciless, thundering jabs, and that’s just what I was getting to do now. His body rocked with each thrust, and he moaned nonstop. I felt like I was exploding with need, and the heat made it seem like we were melting into each other.
Then I thought of something evil. I pulled out, flipped him over on his stomach and barreled back inside.
“Hey!” he protested. “You know I can’t come in this position.”
“That’s right,” I whispered. “This is all for me. You need to stay angry. If you want me to make you come, you have to win your match tomorrow.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch, but I’m a son of a bitch who’s plowing your hole.”
Beneath me, Cameron bucked and thrashed like a stallion trying to get me off him. I rode him like a rodeo cowboy, getting deeper and deeper with each thrust. Ecstasy shot through my body like electricity.
“Bite me again,” I commanded and I pushed my left thumb against his lips.
Brawley moaned and swallowed my thumb, sucking it for just an instant before he bit down.
“Harder,” I said. “Yeah…harder…hard—MOTHER-FUCKER!”
As the searing pain lanced from my thumb to my brain, I reached the point of no return. I shot inside him with a roar. The adrenaline kick coursed up and down my body, the anger fueling my most incredible orgasm ever. I stayed buried all the way in Cameron’s ass until the euphoria subsided.
“If you want to come, you’re going to have to win the match tomorrow. Then I’ll fuck you like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You just did.” Cameron looked sad. Or exhausted. Not angry.
I spanked his perfect ass. “Fire it up, Brawley.”
He huffed a sigh. “Okay. I’ll try.”
I suppressed a frown. Try wasn’t good enough.
I had to have a plan.
The next day Cameron fell behind his opponent from the start. Jeff Elliot from Kingham was good. He towered over Cameron, was built like a truck and loved to charge the net. Cam should have been able to neutralize all that power with his return of serve, but he was playing like crap. Three games into the first set I tried to slink away from where our team was sitting in the bleachers.
“Where are you going?” Coach Vinton asked in a sharp tone.
“Our school announcer is broadcasting over there,” I said, pointing to the Kingham side of the so-called “stadium.” “I want to hear him.”
Before I reemerged in the stands, I put on some huge sunglasses I’d bought the night before after Cameron left, as well as a Kingham University hat and T-shirt that I’d bought in the parking lot. No one looked at me twice when I sat down amongst the Kingham fans.
The announcer from our school sat a few rows back in the corner, at the very top of the stands, quietly broadcasting the play-by-play back to our school radio station.
“Brawley’s play is definitely below par today. We’re only into the fifth game and he’s already sprayed ten unforced errors, including three double faults.”
Then he hit yet another forehand into the net to go down love-five.
“Ha! You’re getting fucked, faggot!” I yelled from the Kingham side of the bleachers. There were some snickers and general smiles of approval around me.
It didn’t take long to see that my tactic worked. Cameron’s anger roared back. The look on his face couldn’t have been more deadly. It was his serve, and he fired off his first ace of the match.
The turnaround was unbelievable. Cameron blasted his backhand past Elliot time and again, winning the first set sevenfive. No one was more surprised than our coach, who started to cheer like mad. I texted Coach Vinton a message. “Stop,” I said. “Keep him angry.”
I’d started something, and the idiot Kingham fans had gotten into it. As Brawley was about to serve the first point of the second set, a guy yelled “Don’t choke, Butt Boy.” He was a red-faced, red-haired stereotypical redneck who seethed with disgust. If he only knew what he’d just done. I had to rub my hand over my mouth and chin to hide my smirk.
The chair umpire mumbled something vague about interrupting play instead of the usual warning that harassment of the players would result in expulsion from the stadium. The umpire’s apparent ambivalence made me upset, even if it served my purposes.
Cameron gave the redneck a long stare, his expression baleful. On the Saffir-Simpson scale of anger, this was now a categoryfive rage. Brawley turned back to the service line, his jaw set. Four aces later, Cameron was up a game. Elliot was so stunned that he never had a chance to get his racket on the ball.
The announcer behind me figured out what happened. “Brawley is suddenly in the zone. If he were this angry all the time, he’d be a favorite to win Wimbledon.”
Cameron was up three-love, then four-love, then five. Elliot didn’t know what hit him. His level of play was high, but he was being blown off the court. My dick was hard, knowing that Cameron was about to earn another fucking. I thought about last night, and every part of my body tensed, impatient to be all over him.
Match point. Elliott served and rushed the net. Cameron ripped a backhand down the line. Elliot dove for it, but he didn’t have a prayer.
“And Brawley threads the needle!” shouted the announcer. “It’s all over! Bradenton has won the championship!”
My heart leapt. I’d never been so happy for anyone as I was then. I slid out of the stands as our entire team rushed the court to grab Brawley and hoist him in the air in celebration and gratitude. I slipped off my hat and the Kingham tee, revealing the Bradenton shirt I had on underneath. Then I ran on court. When my teammates finally set Cameron down, I gave him a hug.
“So…” I whispered, “Do you want it rough again or do you want me to be good to you?”
“Rough,” he said. “Hella rough.”
I grinned. “Excellent. I’m going to rip your clothes off and pump your rump for hours and hours and hours.”
Cameron gave me a slow, sultry blink. “Sounds good.”
“But know this: I love you, Brawley. I love you so much.”
MUSCLE MEMORY
Rachel Kramer Bussel
With each bench press, Todd felt himself grow not just more powerful but more virile—which helped him fight back the tears that still threatened to tumble out, even as he hoisted the heavy weight over his head, when he let his mind wander back to Steve. Three months after their breakup, the memory of their relationship was still fresh—not to mention raw. Steve had accused him of being too young, immature and weak, hurling accusations and Todd’s clothes at him across the room he’d practically moved into. I’ll show him weak, he thought, as he grunted, pressing one-hundred-twenty pounds above his head, his teeth gritted, shoulders and arms straining. He sucked in a breath, then let it out as he lowered the weight and began again, until his set of twenty reps was done.
He lowered the bar and sat up, reaching for a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. Todd wasn’t a natural bodybuilding type; the biggest muscle he liked to exercise was his brain, going over chess combinations endlessly, studying the great masters like Bobby Fischer, Alexander Alekhine and Mikhail Botvinnik. He’d read once that the serious players like Garry Kasparov could burn major calories when they played in a simul, moving around a circle to do battle in the ancient game with dozens of players at once; at first that idea appealed to Todd much more than weightlifting, but the latter had grown on him as he’d realized that it was as much about brainpower as biceps.
Chess was familiar, comforting, a welcome challenge. He loved getting so lost in studying an old game that he knew it by heart, investigating it over and over again like a detective would a particularly thorny clue in a crime. That was his favorite kind of muscle memory, where he knew the moves by heart so well that he could focus on fantasizing about new strategies to breathe life into what, on paper, was just a bunch of numbers and letters spelling out the moves. He could hold almost thirty moves in his head a once—a skill that had earned him the coveted grandmaster status—as he sat for hours at a time, silent, trying to outwit his opponent.
Steve had been drawn to him, as he’d always said, for the furrow in his brow, the way he could practically see Todd’s brain calculating, but that same trait had been what had ultimately driven Steve away. “You live in your head too much; you forget about the rest of us in the real world trying to enjoy our bodies too.” The words still stung, especially because Steve had never complained in the bedroom, where Todd had always submitted to whatever scenes Steve cooked up, kneeling at his feet or crawling around on a leash, sucking him off at a moment’s notice, taking a beating from his belt without a whimper. Remembering that last conversation made Todd want to punch someone. Instead, he took a sip from the water fountain, put down the weights and moved to another part of the gym to do the next best thing—strapping on gloves and beating the hell out of a punching bag.
