Hot Jocks, page 9
I go at noon when a fill-in receptionist who is least likely to know about the softball team will be covering the desk. Coming through their double glass doors into a sleek blue and chrome office, I find the All-American Girl, complete with Midwestern twang. “Dave who?” she asks when I say his name.
“Dave Jakes,” I repeat, “tall, brown hair and eyes, handsome.”
She thinks on this. “Dave…Dave…oh, you don’t mean that Dave: tall, dark and handsome, mellow personality, every girl’s dream?”
She’s definitely pegged my guy. “That’s him.”
“He doesn’t work here,” she giggles. “He’s the UPS driver. Comes in every day around two for our pickup.”
“Thank you,” I say as I turn to leave. “You’ve been most helpful.”
So he is a ringer, but so what? By the time I reach the elevator, I realize it doesn’t matter because it’s not the issue. Not knowing if I’ll see him before our next game is the issue. “Shit,” I say as the elevator doors open. A small white-haired woman passes me a silent scold, as I wonder why I didn’t take time to get Dave’s number.
On the street I stop to ask myself what’s next. Do I stake out the office at two P.M. like some stalker and confront him? Am I that pitiful? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you give me your number? I thought we had something. Christ, no. But the alternative is either to hang out at O’Rourke’s where I’d be too conspicuous or just bide my time until my team plays his once more. Even before I decide on this last, I know it’s really the only choice because he’s probably just a one-nighter, even if there were two nights.
At practice Tuesday after work, I’m hell-bent on better hitting, my frustration with Dave fueling line drives in all directions. “What’s with you tonight?” Ron, our managing-partner captain asks. “Why can’t you connect like that in a game?”
“I’m working on it,” I grumble.
We do a ton of infield practice and after that, more batting, then a split squad game for the last half hour. At ten we call it a night and I’m on my way to the car when I hear a motorcycle roar up behind me. I start to laugh because I know who it is.
“Get on,” Dave says, handing me a helmet. “We can get your car later.”
I don’t ask how he knew where I’d be or where we’re going, I just do as I’m told, climbing on behind him, my dick up against his butt. I slide my arms around him and he pushes back into my crotch, then guns the throttle and we’re off.
Motorcycles are foreign to me but I like the feel of straddling all that power while hanging on to a guy I want more than anything. It’s a deadly combo, and as we speed through the city, I feel giddy with anticipation as well as rewarded for being patient, never mind I really wasn’t.
UPS biker, second baseman, big dick—I’m liking this guy a lot. I’m also impressed with how he handles the bike, easing around curves, goosing it to roar from stoplights. Soon we’re snaking up dimly lit streets into hills I realize lead to Dodger Stadium. Chavez Ravine they call it though it’s really an outcropping of hills amid the flat of greater Los Angeles. The stadium is aglow with lights, a game in progress. I haven’t a clue what we’re up to but like the idea that baseball and sex are in the air.
We pass the stadium and the giant parking lot that circles it, then start down the hill. Dave turns onto a small road and off that onto one still smaller until we’re in a sort of thicket, the illusion of country with a major league baseball stadium rising nearby like some neon castle. We stop at a cluster of shrubs and hop off. Dave pushes the bike into the cluster and I follow. Here I find blanket, lantern and basket. “What’s this?” I ask.
The roar of the stadium crowd is my answer as Dave wraps his arms around me, gets his mouth on mine and starts grinding against me until I beg him to fuck. We separate and when he strips, I do too. It feels weird to get naked so close to thousands of people, and when I tell Dave this he assures me they have better things to watch.
He pulls a rubber onto his dripping cock and positions me on all fours, gets in behind, hands on my cheeks, and pulls me open. His fat prick noses around like some anteater, then pushes in. I draw an audible breath, involuntarily holding it as the big meat goes in all the way. When Dave starts to thrust I start to gasp, sucking in air as I am reamed to the max.
Our juicy fuck slap fills the little sex grotto, punctuated by periodic rounds of cheers and applause from the crowd next door. When Dave has a good stroke going, he offers a thank you to the accolades. “Home run,” he adds, spearing me for emphasis.
I want to come so badly but can’t get a hand on myself because Dave’s pounding my ass and I am loving the action. When he starts to yell and carry on that he’s coming, the crowd goes wild again, and I’m calling out to give it to me and fuck me and a bunch of other shit, and my knees are getting scraped on the ground, never mind any blanket, but who the hell cares? We’re like this for some time and when Dave finally eases up and pulls out I tell him, “Grand slam,” and hear a labored laugh.
Then I’m off my knees and locating a condom, suiting up. He’s on his haunches, watching me. “Now you,” I tell him and he gets into position and as I get into him I swear I hear the crack of the bat.
“Ride me,” he says, and I do just that. “Fuck me, cowboy, ride my ass.” He keeps on as I keep on but I’m too worked up to last, and I tell him I’m there as I let go a gusher. Applause from next door provides accompaniment.
When I’m done we collapse into a heap and he takes my hand. “Sorry I left that night,” he says. “I couldn’t read you, what with the ringer thing and all.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I assure him. “Just this.”
“I’m no lawyer. I drive for UPS.”
“That’s fine with me.”
“One day when I came in with my usual delivery, they were talking about the team, and I made some comment and they asked if I played. I got invited to their practice and that did it, so they put me on the team and said to keep my mouth shut.”
I roll over onto him. “I like it open,” I say as I kiss him, find his tongue. We play for a while, then lie back holding hands. “And we beat you anyway,” I remind him, “so you’re not really that big a deal.”
This gets me a laugh and another kiss. We lie quiet, listening to the distant game. “How did you find this spot?” I finally ask.
“I grew up just down the hill. As kids we rode our bikes up here and as teenagers it was a make-out place. I had my first sex up here so it’s kinda sacred.”
“You ever go to Dodger games?” I ask.
“Sure. You?”
“Yes, but they won’t be the same now, knowing it’s sacred ground.”
“We have to go to a game together,” he says.
“Agreed.”
The picnic basket contains beer, chips and cheddar cheese, all of which I devour between bouts of sex. We get to know each other as we explore bodies and pasts and I learn he’s a bluecollar downtown kid of Irish-Hispanic descent while I share that I’m a Euro-mutt Santa Monica surfer brat.
“So you okay with a UPS boy?” he asks.
I tug on his dick, then slide down to lick him. Before I take him into my mouth I ask, “What do you think?”
The five weeks until our teams meet again pass in a sexual extravaganza that takes us from my condo to his cramped studio apartment with detours in Griffith Park, Chavez Ravine, Santa Monica beach, and Topanga and Malibu canyons. Anytime we’re out on the motorcycle we’re into public fucking, and I find myself becoming an outdoor creature given to rampant rutting if not in the actual woods, then in some manmade duplicate. We even fuck on the motorcycle. We’re secluded in Malibu Canyon, buck naked, Dave sitting on the bike and me straddling him. The motorcycle rocks on its center stand but holds us well enough though we have to get our own motion in sync with the one below, and I think it’s then that I fall in love. No idea why but it strikes me like some fated arrow. Honest to god, I should look around for a cherub with bow.
The final game arrives at last. Our respective teams have indentical records so it’s a kind of playoff before the horse. Dave and I kid about beating each other. “We’re gonna cream you,” I tell him the night before.
“Mmm, yeah, I’ll take all the cream you got, big boy.” And he crawls down to suck my dick.
On the big night fortune is on my side and I open with a double to left center and beat the throw to second; Dave covers and playfully tags me as he manages a “Fuck me, Daddy,” out of the side of his mouth before throwing the ball to the pitcher. We do stuff like this the whole game and when he slides into second and upends me like that first night I get a good throw off this time and nail the runner at first. “Suck my dick,” he says as we head off the field because it’s the third out.
“Now?” I counter, trying not to totally break up.
Final inning has the score tied, and when we don’t get a hit, it sets them up to win if they do. And Dave is first up. He steps in like he owns not only us but the whole damn game, the field, the fucking planet, and I warm with anticipation of taking his cock later but then he’s connecting with the pitch, the aluminum bat clanking to snap me from my sexual reverie and see the ball soaring past Murph in center.
Dave rounds first at full speed and takes second in a flash. He’s around third before the ball reaches me, the cuttoff, because Murph may be a great hitter but he’s slow on defense, and then I’m throwing home and Dave is sliding and the volunteer umpire is right on the play.
“Safe,” he calls, and the game is over. I find myself happy because Dave is getting mobbed by his team. As I stand grinning, Ron comes over.
“That guy’s gotta be a ringer. They added him just under the deadline and he’s probably not even a lawyer, probably a janitor or somebody’s fucking brother-in-law. Fucking ringer.”
I shrug, enjoying thoughts of celebration. Not the team, Dave and me. He’ll go have beers with his gang, but we’ll meet later. It’s all planned. Either way, whoever wins, we had it already decided. Me and the UPS guy are gonna fuck on Dodger hill to the roar of the crowd.
HOME WHITE, ROAD GRAY
Gregory L. Norris
Tyler’s baseball uniform clung unpleasantly to his body, lying on his muscles like a layer of excess skin. Or like he’d dressed in the dark, he thought, remembering that he had. Tyler offered a humorless chuckle to the early morning. The driver chose that moment to turn down the air-conditioning. The heat gathering around his seat intensified. Tyler attempted to swallow, only to gag on a mouthful of what felt like hot coals.
The bus motored on along I-95, the vibrations of the wheels rippling up through the metal floor, Tyler’s cleats, his bones and all the way to his balls. What began as a nagging itch eventually drove him to unzip the pale gray uniform pants and work aside his strap to get at the problem. His balls seemed unusually big and sweaty. Tyler let them hang in the open. No worry, as most of the guys on the team were catching naps. Two dudes jabbered behind him—Burill, one of their best pitchers and that day’s starter, and Wexler, the second baseman. Tyler gave his sac a tug. He loved his balls, was proud of the fuckers. Big old low-hangers, he thought, and grinned to himself, yanking on them. A real man’s nuts.
Playing with his rocks soon made his dick swell. While Tyler Jameson Zinter probably wasn’t the first guy to beat his meat on the six-hour motorized hike to play Seaside’s rivals up in Maine’s Down East moose country, he decided to cool it. Not because he didn’t want to bust one all over the floor, or because he was worried about getting caught and the guys ragging on him for it: he’d seen Burill rubbing one out in the showers twice this season. Wexler, too, after Seaside’s six-one victory against their archrivals, the Ellis Eagles. Locker room boners and jerk-off sessions in the shower were expected, part of the game.
No, Tyler had a different reason for willing his dick to settle the fuck down. He zipped up and leaned back against his seat, waiting for the air-conditioning to blow its chill in his direction.
“Gable,” he whispered.
Tyler’s cock lurched, refusing to soften. Drumming boners on long road trips were, he reasoned, just another of college baseball’s hazards, like aluminum bats. But saying the dude’s name made his discomfort worse. Tyler only wanted to get the fuck there, and get the fuck what he so desperately needed—from Gable Harper.
Even thinking the name made it impossible to stop from squirming, to forget that he had a dick, and for a good ten miles Tyler imagined himself all dick, one enormous cock, six feet and an inch squeezed miserably into his road-gray baseball uniform. Gable would be waiting at the ball field. It was a hot day, and humid, a day as gray as his uniform. Tyler’s body tingled with pins and needles.
Closing his eyes, he fell into a state that wasn’t sleeping or awake, but the limbo in between. The road pulsed beneath the bus’s wheels, and Tyler suffered.
Gable, the fucker, snuck another few inches away from second base bag. Hunched low, his perfectly square butt in a uniform so white that it verged on painful to behold, the home team’s outfielder twitched, his fingers snapping in their worn leather gloves Svengali-like, a clear tell as to what he was planning.
Tyler moved a corresponding foot closer, trying to ignore the intoxicating scent of the newly mowed fields, which somehow seemed sweeter in the musty haze hanging over the day, with clouds the color of dirty socks. That ass was an even greater distraction.
He caught a look from Wexler and nodded, just the slightest, in case the owner of that most-excellent butt happened to have eyes in the back of his buzzed-clean head. Tyler was quick, the fleetest-footed player on the team, hence his position at shortstop. His arms and hands were fast, too—a fact that Gable Harper was reminded of as Tanner, Seaside’s catcher, fired a pickoff attempt and Tyler caught the ball. The thunderclap of it striking his mitt sent a jolt through Tyler’s nuts, a feeling almost as brilliant as squirting a load down the throat of a face he couldn’t get enough of and couldn’t live without.
Lightning quick, Tyler snapped the glove to his right, catching Gable’s arm as the other man dove toward the second base bag. The infield umpire raised his fist and pumped it, a theatrical gesture that inspired an even bigger performance from the tagged runner.
“Oh, come on!”
“Out,” the ump shouted. Boos and moans sounded from the home crowd, which vastly outnumbered the Seaside U faithful who’d followed the team six hours to the Pinecone State.
Tyler fired the ball to third base, and from there it was pitched around the horn. Gable continued to argue the play, even after the ball returned to Burill on the mound. Tyler wasn’t sure why this satisfied him so completely but seeing Gable stiffen and argue teased him beneath the balls in that sensitive spot at the back of his nut sac that Tyler loved having rubbed and licked.
As he moved back into position, the white uniform cutting toward Down East’s dugout made a circuitous course correction, one that led right past Tyler. Gable brushed by, landing a shoulder to the side of Tyler’s arm. The pleasant sensation in Tyler’s nuts shorted out, overcome by rage, sudden and red-hot. He shoved back. On the next attack, Gable shoved harder.
The skirmish brought players from the field over to separate them, and benches cleared of butts.
“Fuck you, dude,” Gable spat.
“You wish,” Tyler fired back.
But as Tyler stole a look at Gable’s green eyes and the rough prickle of five o’clock shadow creeping in a few hours early; caught a whiff of clean, athletic sweat among the humidity’s mustiness; he knew the reverse held true. He wanted to fuck Gable. Tear that crisp white uniform off his ass, shove his face between the two halves of the other college baseball player’s ass, and fuck him with his tongue first in preparation for boning him with his cock.
Gable stormed back to the dugout, where he pitched his batting helmet in anger.
The chest puffing calmed down until Tyler stepped up to the plate at the top of the next inning and promptly got drilled in the thigh.
Gable, the fucker, it was his fault. That’s all Tyler could think about in the chaos of what happened after he charged the mound. He cut across the field and somehow reached him first, taking Gable down with a tackle that knocked both of their nutprotectors together and filled Tyler’s lungs with the sour stink of angry sweat.
They hadn’t gone as far as throwing punches, but only because Wexler yanked Gable off him. And had things gone that far, it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d swung at each other. Tyler remembered a hell of a scrum that had resulted in black eyes on both sides a few summers back that had started out as an argument over the remote control. A couple of idiots, Tyler’s dad had called them. Two fucking morons who kept repeating history like a bad marriage, to quote the old man.
Repeating history, sure, but his dad didn’t know how close to the mark he was about that marriage snipe, because as much as Gable pissed him off and could push his buttons, Tyler loved his best friend and sometimes foil more than anybody on the planet.
Seeing him in his home-white uniform sent imaginary fire into Tyler’s blood. Sometimes, he swore Gable had bypassed Seaside U on purpose, just to further rankle him. This time around, the joke was on Gable; Seaside notched the win, fivetwo, on the three-run homer Tyler stroked out of the park at the top of the seventh inning.
Tyler strutted across the field to the yard crew’s shed, where rakes and lawnmowers, the line-chalking supplies, and hoses were stored. Like both teams, the yard guys were in the clubhouse enjoying a dinner of pizza washed down with cold soda. He reached the one-story bungalow-style cedar shingle shed beneath the pines and worried Gable had decided to join them, maybe out of spite, because nothing would wound Tyler worse than being abandoned after nine rough innings of being forced to look but not touch beyond a bunch of angry shoves. Tyler was the only living soul in the shed area.
