Authors: Dan Sexton
In the back of the car, Margie undid my pants and wrestled my cock.
“Quinny.” Only she called me that. “You’re all hot and bothered.” With her shirt undone, she jerked me off and kissed me.
I had to keep my eyes open to make sure my lips were on hers and not locked on the supple red ones surrounded by stubble, in my head. “Oh, yeah! Oh, man,” I said, hovering over her mouth. I wanted Eric to be jerking me off, and comprehending that overwhelmed me.
She put her warm hands tighter around my shaft, and up to the rim around my cock head.
Eric, in his singlet, under my weight, face flat on the mat. Stop! It’s not— Then, him sitting beside me, kissing—
“Man!” I shot so fucking hard I couldn’t tell if the car bucked backward because I slammed against the seat or from the force of my load hosing the dash.
“Jesus, Quin!” Margie yelled. She hated getting her car dirty. I don’t blame her. The car was sweet, and usually I warned her so she could catch my spunk in my T-shirt or something, but this shot out from me like a misfired grand finale on the Fourth of July.
I took my cock back, for the fireworks hadn’t ended, and she’d pulled away, face crunched in disgust.
She fumbled for my shirt but it was still craned behind my neck. “That better not ruin my leather! It’s all over the—”
“What the fuck?” I stammered, still shooting and not believing the intensity. I’d also never let myself think about another guy like that. The pretty boys in the magazines were safely never real.
“You got it by the stereo. Quintin!” Forcefully, she put her sweater back on.
Finally, I sputtered to a stop—spent and exhausted—but still swooning with an unquenched desire.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” Margie yelled, pulling herself out of the rear of the car and fussing her way around to the driver’s side.
Tempers flared and an argument pursued, and Margie and I split up right then and there. I used some excuse about her always fussing about my messes and whatnot—only partially true.
We fought more.
She left.
I walked myself to Roddy’s and got drunk.
I’d used Margie for a cover, almost as much as she exploited my athletic prowess to win her rank at the sorority. “It’s all so clique-y,” she’d say, being the biggest snob of them all. Having a boyfriend on the wrestling team made her popular. She’d didn’t get a shit about me.
That was incident number one of moving up Eric’s ladder.
N
ext, a Dylan dare yanked me out of the closet like a tugboat hauling a barge.
Aside from being a nut, Dyl’s a horny motherfucker too. While we’d never messed around, I’d heard rumor he’d do anyone and anything—even a watermelon once at a frat party—for ten bucks. His preference leaned toward large-busted women, not men and certainly not fruit. I believed his heterosexuality to be true. Anyone obsessed with tits as much as he led on had to be straight.
With that, Dylan—an Irish fair-skinned guy with hints of red still showing in his browning hair—had a hard-on for nearly every girl bigger than an A-cup, and his imagination grew rampant with desire. He had us laughing so hard once when he told us, that as a kid, he stole his best friend’s older sister’s bra and jerked off with it wrapped around his face, till he got the strap caught in his braces. The poor kid had to have his dad help him undo it, and he got grounded for a week. Apparently, he didn’t learn his lesson, for the end of that same girl’s hairbrush found its way up his ass. Luckily, he didn’t need to call help on getting that one out. But at a dorm party he admitted it freely. “Shoving something up your ass don’t make ya gay. It feels good,” he told a disbelieving crowd.
The kid has stories. He’s one horny dude and age hasn’t calmed him any.
While the revelation in the back of Margie’s Mustang had fueled my alone time with new mental material—
Eric boned in his singlet, Eric’s tongue on mine, Eric’s cock up my ass
—I still kept my thirst parched and safely hidden from sustenance. So much so, it sometimes even surprised me when it reappeared.
Keep that bagel in just a little longer, until it’s nice and crisp.
Oddly, my desire for Eric morphed into this jealousy phase toward him. Apparently, it became noticeable to the team and affected our performance. We fought constantly, and it became disruptive to practice.
One afternoon in March, our tempers flared, per usual, but the coach had had it. He dismissed us early, telling us he had better things to do. Eric and I, the star wrestlers, took the brunt of the blame, while our teammates—except for Dylan—scowled at us and headed off to the showers.
The three of us argued, pointing blame at anything but the truth.
“I don’t get it,” Dylan said. “You two are too good to throw this all away over some rivalry no one understands. What is it with you guys?”
Neither Eric nor I said anything, and we flopped down on the mats, dejected.
My head swam. I lay down and closed my eyes.
Admit it. To yourself even.
Dylan kicked the bottom of my sneakers. “Get up.”
“Why? What?”
“Just get the fuck up.”
I rose to a sitting position.
He then took over as coach and barked orders about the maneuver we’d been failing at so miserably. Neither Eric nor I had wanted to
bottom
—the submissive position in wrestling. It’s so obvious why now but in the haze of dealing with my sexuality, I blamed it on my competitive streak. In sparring, to learn the maneuver best we both needed to play each position.
When Dylan got mad, his whole body turned red. “Would you two just get your shit together?” Even his chest had splotch marks, as he stood over us with his singlet straps dangling by his side. “Jesus Christ! If you two don’t make up, you’re going to kill our chances against Jacksonville.”
That’s all I needed to hear—seemingly, Eric too. Dylan took our competitive nature better than the coach and proceeded to instruct us on the move, which we did for a time while the rest of the team filed out and left. They’d given up on us.
Face down, rump up with Eric behind me, I let go of my humility, and the last of the team shuffled out of the locker room. Eric and I unlocked our hold and fell onto the mats.
“Better,” Dylan said, and looked up at the windows as it began to rain. “Great, now I’m stuck in here with you two fuck heads.” He made us practice the maneuver a handful more times till we were exhausted and sweaty.
“Enough,” I said and collapsed on the mat.
“Uncle,” Eric said and lay down beside me.
Dyl landed on his knees between us, slapped us on the stomach. “Now you’re getting it. You dudes need to chill into each other.”
I turned my head and caught Eric’s eye.
Beautiful
. I laughed nervously and Eric did too.
A clap of thunder shook the gymnasium and Dylan laid down, head by our feet. “Another Florida rain shower.”
“It’ll be over in an hour,” Eric said.
The rain poured in sheets, threw itself against the windowpanes high atop the gymnasium, and the metal roof sounded like bullets ricochet off it. In the far corner, by the stacked bleachers on the east end, a metal bucket caught drops of water that in between the storm’s torrents sent off an annoying plop.
During a lull in the deluge, but not one safe enough to leave, Dylan blabbered on about a girl, “a C-cup,” from Gilchrist Hall whom he’d run across earlier. We all knew her—all the guys did. After describing her physique, Dylan mentioned, “I’d like to push them together and fuck her tits till I’m raw.”
“Romantic,” Eric said, in jest. “I’m sure she’d love that.”
Despite my trying to be disinterested in him, I had to laugh. Plus that damn swoop of hair over his eye turned me on and it helped to dismiss my attraction. He brushed the hair away, and I turned to Dylan.
“What do you know, Chief?” Dylan said to Eric. “She’s not into pearl necklaces?”
“I know what she likes. Trust me.” Apparently, he’d experienced her, like most of the other guys at FSU—except, apparently, for Dylan and me.
I, too, added some pithy comment, learned from years of masquerading my true sexuality, about admiring her buxom physique—my chatter harmless, empty chest thumping.
The rain returned, and Dyl continued on about his humping mounds of flesh. If the kid put half as much energy into his schoolwork rather than obsessing over boobs, I swear he’d be an A student. “Oh, man, and I’d take them,” he said, “and squeeze...”
I tuned him out.
Being a roomie with Dylan for over a year, I knew him well. The bouncing of his leg, the fidgeting he did around his exposed navel, were all signs that would often wind up with him saying, “Kid, I gotta go bust a nut,” and he’d leave for the bathroom.
This time he didn’t.
Like the rest of us, he had his singlet draped around at his waist, but unlike Eric and me, Dylan’s hand found its way to his crotch and he pressed his knees together, over and over, like trying to hold back a bad piss.
With Eric lying beside me, I, too, tried to hold something back. My guard lowered. I couldn’t help it and I found my head leaning toward him.
Dylan mumbled on.
We hadn’t showered, and I could smell Eric’s sweat, surprisingly pleasant like maple syrup and black tea. I inched closer.
What are you doing?
While I’d smelled him before, it hadn’t turned me on. I hadn’t let it. “I can’t help it,” I mumbled.
“Hmm?” Dylan asked.
I kept silent, shook my head, and bounced my leg like Dylan. Anxiety reared. If I let myself give in to my lusts, I feared the world would know the truth. In an attempt to further conceal my true wants, I said to the group, “What about Jasmine?”
“Fuuuck!” Dylan held his knees together tightly, his hand back between his legs.
I knew Dyl had a thing for the Ragans Hall girl most of the straight guys lusted over.
“Her tits are so fucking big.” I’d seen Dylan’s dick many times, for he flaunted the thing like a cowboy would a rope, but when I glanced over at him, it poked out, erect, from the waist of his singlet. I didn’t think he knew.
“And she wears those,” Eric said, “tight pants.”
I hardened. I couldn’t help it. I looked over at Eric and swore I saw him fondling himself, staring my way, but he stopped when my eyes met his.
“Are you fucking touching yourself?” Dylan asked, innocuously.
Eric turned his head toward me and furrowed his brow.
I shrugged. “Dylan,” I said, chastising. “Of course not.”
“You dudes are fucking rubbing your dicks?” Dylan said again. He arched his head to get a look at us.
Eric threw up his hands. I copied but kept my knee up to cloak my hard-on. “No,” I said.
“Let’s let off some steam,” Dylan said, “and bust one for Jasmine.”
Nervously, I laughed. “You’re fucked.”
The storm intensified and masked the plopping of water into the Chinese-water-torture bucket.
“Eric?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah, you’re fucked,” Eric said to Dylan but looked at me and smiled.
Dylan flipped on his stomach, crawled closer to us, and quickly grabbed Eric’s calves. They tussled, laughing, till Dylan, the lighter of us three, somehow managed to top Eric and sat on his legs. Eric’s erection became obvious, and mine crimped into further expansion.
“We’re all boned!” Dylan yelled, proudly. He grabbed my knee to try to expose my excitement but I held it fast. He lay back down. “Let’s bust one for Jasmine. First one to bust his nut gets ten bucks.”
I licked my lips. My ball sac ached. “You guys horny?” I asked. A stupid question, but I wanted to egg them on. I wanted to be with Eric, see his cock erect instead of shrouded behind a towel, like I’d witnessed in the locker room.
“Yeah,” they said in unison and, also at the same time, both wrapped a hand around their still-clothed dicks.
“I wish she were here right now,” Dylan said.
Eric closed his eyes and rubbed his crotch.
I got the sense that this wasn’t the first time these two had jerked off with each other. My jealousy reared. “What the fuck are you guys doing?” I asked, doubting my intent, and sat up.
Eric’s mouth dropped.
Dylan, with his hand completely inside his singlet, leaned his head to me. “Dude, chill,” he said, not failing to stop beating off. “You need to take it easy.” He continued to masturbate. “Fucking blow a load. You’ll feel better.”
I looked at Eric. A slight sneer and he shucked his singlet down, lifted his butt, and yanked it around his thick thighs. A massive erection popped out with a slight bend to the right.
“Holy shit!” I said. Involuntarily, my hand gripped my own dick, and my mouth watered.
Dylan looked back at Eric and chuckled. “Damn.” Dyl pulled his pants down too and prominently stroked himself. “He couldn’t fit that thing in a Volkswagen, let alone between Jasmine’s tits. And people wonder why he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Eric laughed—head back, mouth open. His abs tightened with each whoop. Seeing him like that, dick in hand and laughing, did something to me. Energy welled inside me and felt warmer than the orgasm that brewed under my beating hand.
As his smiled faded, our eyes locked.
Dylan mumbled on about Jasmine—in his masturbatory fantasy.
I edged closer to Eric. A tinge of fear lit his dark eyes, like he too tried to mask an illicit attraction, but he kept masturbating with me.
“And the way she...” said Dylan, but I didn’t comprehend the rest of his drivel.
A slight hint of a mandarin-orange smell drew me, even closer, to Eric. Inches away, I licked my lips, and he his own.
We both swallowed hard. Anger glinted in his eye.
I opened my mouth. I had no animosity, and as if he detected it, his face washed with peace.
I kissed him.
We masturbated, our fists colliding against each other.
We kissed deeper.
Lip-smacking moans covered Dylan’s gibberish.
“Eric,” I mouthed into his, and he retorted my name, equally muffled in kisses.
Silence ensued. The room filled with lightning.
Our masturbating intensified, a pounding knock of our wrists.