Jock Auction (2 page)

For a minute—seconds, okay, just a few seconds—I was frozen. For all Jeff and the

idiots on the team had teased me, I honestly hadn’t thought about Craig and whether he might actually be gay and why he’d spent all that money buying my time. And so, for a handful of seconds until I properly processed what was actually going on, I just stood there and let him press his lips against mine.

Then I pushed him away, shoved him really, harder than I probably meant to, but

I was surprised and shocked, and I didn’t know what was happening. He stumbled

back against the closed door and sort of slumped some. Part of me wondered if I’d hurt him somehow, but there was a bigger part that was pissed—angry that he’d taken

advantage of me.

“What the fuck, dude?” I knew I was probably being too loud. If his folks were

home, they’d probably come running, checking to see who was beating up their

precious boy. “What the fuck are you doing?”

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He was slumping down now, properly collapsing against the door as his skinny

legs folded underneath him before sliding down into a crouch, arms protectively

wrapped around his knees. Maybe he thought I was going to start laying into him,

kicking him or something, and it was the thought of that—that I could scare someone else so badly that they’d assume I might kick the hell out of them—that somehow

sucked the fire out of my anger.

“Look, I’m not…” I didn’t know what to say; the hotheaded fury had given me the

words before, but now, without that, I couldn’t think of what came next. “I’m not, like, gay, dude. You can’t just go round kissing people with no fucking warning.” I could feel the frustration rising again, a tight indignation balled up in my chest. “You can’t just fucking
buy
me and hit on me, like I’m some, some…some sort of prostitute!”

His shoulders were shaking now, heaving in time with the muffled sobs I could

hear from behind the mess of his fringe. I knew that if I’d been Jeff or probably most of the other guys on the football team, I’d be laying into him by now, but that just wasn’t me. It just…wasn’t.

“Look, Craig, get up,” I told him.

He shook his head; his voice was small, hollow sounding. “What, so you can beat

up the dumb faggot?”

“No, because we need to talk, okay? Because what you did wasn’t okay, but it

doesn’t mean I’m going to act like some homophobic asshole and beat you up.” I

sighed. “I’m sorry for pushing you. You just took me by surprise is all.”

He looked up at me, peering over the top edge of his glasses and through the

straggles of his fringe. I tried to look as nonthreatening as I could.

“Seriously, dude, sit on the bed. We need to talk.”

Maybe I’d convinced him I wasn’t going to tear him apart; maybe he was just

resigned to it and thought I could as easily do it with him on the floor as anywhere else.

Whatever the reason, he eventually stood up—long, slender body unfolding in angles—

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and perched on the edge of his double bed. I sat down next to him; not so close to be threatening, but close enough that I felt we were being friendly, at least.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was as quiet as when he’d been on the floor, and I found

myself shaking my head. It seemed like some unbelievable thing now—like I’d

imagined the whole kiss. “I just…” he started.

I waited a beat, but there didn’t seem to be an end to that sentence; at least, not one he was going to say out loud. But I guess I knew most of it already.

“You wanted to kiss a guy, and you couldn’t or felt you couldn’t, and so you

thought buying one was the only way. I just so happened to be around, right?”

He frowned at that, glancing across at me. “Not just ‘happened to be around.’ It

had to be you.”

Another loss for words. “Oh.”

Craig shook his head, smiled—a sad, deflated smile—and shrugged a little. “It

was always going to be about you, Kyle.”

He told me about kindergarten and about high school and about knowing me

from afar. Of growing up in the shadows, no chance of being on the radar of the other kids in class, the cooler kids who automatically seemed to understand how to fit in, and of the sober, sad realization that you’re gay and that the guy you like—the cute guy who’s on the football team, sure, but who doesn’t seem to be a meathead like the

others—doesn’t know you exist, and even if he did you couldn’t have him. And then

there’s this dumb auction and the knowledge that you’re both eighteen and seniors and probably never going to see each other again when you both go off to college or get a job or whatever, and before you realize what you’re doing, you’re spending money you don’t really have just to claw some time with someone you’re aching to be near.

It kinda stumped me. Up until that point, life had seemed pretty straightforward,

classes and football and girls I wished I could be with and some I got to be with. Not mundane, because that makes it sound worse than it was, but simple and

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uncomplicated and nowhere near as soul destroying as the past eighteen years of

Craig’s life sounded.

He shrugged again. “You can go, okay. It’s fine.” Part of me wanted to get up and

leave, if only because the situation had become so weird, but part of me knew I

couldn’t.

“Look, I can’t go, can I?” I argued. “I need to do something…something I can tell

the guys I had to do during my slave time.”

Craig looked at me askance, a sly expression on his face. “What I had in mind

you’d probably not want to tell your friends about.”

I rolled my eyes at him, and for the first time we laughed together, albeit only a slightly awkward chuckle. “Oh, sure, all the dirty stuff you’d do with a football player.”

He winked at me. “Don’t get me started.”

I grinned again. “Hey, you already started, or was it someone else kissing me

before?”

It was Craig’s turn to roll his eyes then. “Trust me,” he told me, leering a little,

“that was only the tip of the iceberg.”

We sat in silence for a while then. I think he’d embarrassed himself some. I was

still struggling to know how to react, feeling a little out of my depth. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable—my reaction before had been shock, not so much horror—but I was

trying to process the surprise at Craig’s story and the idea that I hadn’t, in fact, been just some jock who fit into his scheme but the target of his plan itself.

And that left me…flattered, maybe? I’d had a couple of girlfriends, sure, but I

wasn’t the most attractive guy in my year—at least, I didn’t think so—and I’d never even stopped to consider that it might not just be girls that were looking at me with more than casual interest. So I was curious, I guess.

Curious enough to ask, “So what would have come next, then?” and want to know

the answer.

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Craig sighed. “Oh, I dunno, Kyle.” He sounded exasperated, tired, disappointed.

Like he knew that giving me a real answer was a waste of time. “A lap dance, I dunno.”

I chuckled. “Sure, a lap dance, like that would work.”

Craig looked over at me, his face suddenly serious. “You’re hot, okay? Trust me,

you’re hot.”

That’s when I did a dumb thing—or maybe not leaving Craig’s room after he

kissed me in the first place was the dumb thing, and this was just another piece of dumb in that series—but it was the first active dumb of mine, the first time I’d stepped outside of my comfort zone rather than been the unwitting recipient of something.

I half-stood, twisted on the ball of my foot, swung my leg over his so that I was

straddling his lap. “What, like this?” I asked him, a big goofy smile on my face as I let my weight come down on his thighs. Craig’s mouth had become a nearly perfect O, and it made me laugh, diffused the weirdness of the situation some as I put my hands on his shoulders and struck a stupid dancer pose, back arched and chin up.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me with what I guess was a mixture of

surprise and shock, and so I did another dumb thing and moved my hips around. I

kinda gyrated them on Craig’s thighs like I presumed an actual lap dancer would do.

His eyes were big behind his glasses, face pale, and I flexed my knees and half-stood, jutting my crotch forward as I went up and then pushing it back out as I sat back down.

This is the bit where I’d have my tits in his face, I thought, though he’d have to make do with my flat chest instead.

“Kyle, what…” he started to ask, but the words petered out as I took hold of the

hem of my shirt and pulled it up and over my head. He’d seen the merchandise on the stage when he’d bought me, after all; it shouldn’t come as any surprise to him now.

I can’t lie. There was something exciting—illicit, maybe—and thrilling to what I

was doing. Even though I liked girls, and Craig was obviously not a girl, something about his stunned reaction and the power dynamic that had suddenly been created… It was giving me a feeling of control that I was quite surprised at how much I enjoyed.

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I pushed down hard on his lap, the rough fabric of our jeans—his night black and

tight, mine faded blue, scuffed, ripped in places—rasping together, and heard him gasp.

Bolder now, I took his wrists and brought his hands up between us.

“Come on, Craig, didn’t you want to get to second base today?” He smirked a

little through his surprise as I pressed his palms flat against my pectorals.

Like I said, I’m not crazy buff like Jeff, but I’ve got a decent body—muscle where there’s meant to be muscle, no fat where fat can often be—and Craig caught on fast.

Soon his fingers were tracing down the sides of my torso, gently strumming across my abs, flicking gently back up to reach, just a little, into my armpits. I lifted my arms and gripped my forearms, locking my elbows and stretching my chest taut.

Maybe I should’ve figured Craig would lean in, put his mouth where his hands

had been, but it came as a surprise. I guess I was a naive lap dancer, but all qualms faded as his tongue found my nipples. I settled into a steady, slightly bucking motion with my hips—all the better not to distract from the incredible sensations radiating out from my hard, swollen nubs—as Craig pulled his glasses off, tossed them onto the

nightstand, and rubbed his face against the warm skin of my torso.

I could feel his hardness underneath me, but while before I’d have found the idea

off-putting, now it was a compliment, a validation somehow of my own appeal. His

hands had slipped down to rest at the waistband of my jeans, moving with the grinding rotation of my hips as I pushed against him in diminishing circles.

“I don’t understand…” he groaned, voice muffled by my chest.

I didn’t understand either, not really, just knew that I had taken—what, pity? a

weird liking?—some strange turn with this guy, and that while everything we were

doing should have felt wrong, the shivering of my skin where he touched me was

enough for me to know I didn’t want to stop.

“Dude, I can feel your dick,” I teased him. Craig tried to pull back, perhaps

suddenly expecting me to push him away or react badly, but I wrapped one arm

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around his neck and held him close to my chest as I eased my weight up and down on his lap.

“You got hard because of me,” I told him, feeling the confined bulge in his jeans

strain against me. “I got your dick hard.”

I guess I realized then that I was the same way—that, somewhere along the line,

I’m not sure exactly when, I’d boned up too. My dick, slung out to the left in my boxers, rubbed against Craig’s stomach when I leaned forward, the fabric a continuous friction around the head. All my movements had bunched my jeans up, the worn denim pulling

at my thighs, and so I leaned back—one hand bracing myself on Craig’s shoulder—and reached down between us to adjust myself.

“Fuck…” he muttered, staring down to where my hand gripped and shuffled my

cock, the outline thickly visible. I knew he wanted to touch it—wanted to have his hands where mine were now—and I knew, in that moment, that I wanted him to touch

it too. My erection lurched at the thought of someone else’s fist around it. Sure, I’d been with girls, but I’d only slept with one; the embarrassing over-too-soon shudder of my excitement gradually giving way over the course of our brief relationship to a mix of predictable pleasure and easy familiarity.

Now, though, I wanted Craig to be the one to touch me, and the throbbing

giveaway that he wanted it too—pressing, unmistakably, at my ass—was more of a

turn-on than I could ever have guessed. No mixed messages to fathom, no weird moods to divine, just an unarguable sign that he was into me, brutally honest.

And I realized the fact that I was so achingly erect meant that I was into this too. I pushed forward, forcing Craig back down onto the bedsheets until I was crouched on top of him. Supporting myself on my outstretched arms, my ass still planted on his crotch, I twisted my hips again, and he groaned.

“I’m so hard too,” I whispered, bringing my face up close to his. He bit his bottom lip, and I suddenly remembered how it had felt to have those lips touching mine. I JOCK AUCTION | 13

wasn’t sure whether, if I backed off some, Craig would take the lead; all I could do was push on until we reached whatever boundaries there were. Mine, or his.

I sat up, leaving him spread-eagled on the bed, panting shallowly and looking up

at me. Lust and confusion still filled his expression. His gaze followed my hand down as I reached for the button fly of my jeans—first working open the top fastening with my thumb and then tugging apart the rest. Craig’s eyes were fixed on the gape of the material, through which the dark blue of my boxers was visible, tented out toward my hip by the jut of my dick.