by Van Barrett
Basically, it sounds just like my kinda place.
I pay the door charge, push my way through a crowd, and step to the front of the bar. I've still got my hat on, hoping no one recognizes me. In a place like this, though? It almost draws more attention to yourself. You look like a secret 'straight' guy who, in a moment of weakness, showed up here to get his rocks off ...
And hell, maybe they'd be right about half of that. At least I'm not in denial, though, I know I'm gay. I just can't let word get out.
I order a vodka and water. The bartender's a babe. I open my wallet and flip through my bills – but I've only got $100's. I pay for my drink and slip him a tip, another crisp $100, with a wink.
And I don't even have a chance to sip my drink before someone grabs me from behind.
I turn around and look at him. He's cute. Got a bit of the crazy eyes, and right away something inside me screams, don't stick your dick in crazy! 'Cause that never turns out well.
Then again, crazy can be so damn good in the sack.
Plus, he's hot. Tall and lean. His brown hair is neatly trim, his bangs done up in a styled swoop. He has a real young professional vibe to him, and I wonder what kind of office he works in. Ad agency? Finance?
“Hey,” he says, and he has to practically shout into my ear for me to hear him. He's tipsy and I can tell. He's got that arrogant, cocksure look in his narrowing eyes that says I want you and P.S., I get what I want.
“Hey,” I shout back.
I like how loud this place is. How it forces two people to be close just to be heard. He leans in again to say something, and his stubble scrapes against my sensitive neck. I'm on pins and needles, and the scrape sends a shiver down my spine.
“I noticed you the second you came in.”
I look down the brim of my hat. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You've got a great bone structure.” He puts his hand on my forearm when he leans in. He's copping a feel of my muscle, but I don't mind. I like the way his hand feels, gripped tight around my forearm. It's enough to make my crotch tingle with excitement. “And you're hot as fuck.”
I chuckle.
“What's your name?” he asks.
“Brad,” I lie. “And you?”
“Jason. C'mon. Let's dance.”
He doesn't wait to see if I'm interested or not. He grabs hold of my hand and takes off, pulling me right to the dance floor. The crowd's damp heat grows as we move deeper into it, until it swallows us whole.
We shoulder our way into the crowd until we carve out a small space for ourselves. A few inches separate our bodies. Soon we'll be all over each other, but for now, these few inches will have to keep us decent. Until we agree to stop pretending.
“So what do you do?” he wants to know.
“I'm uh.” I pause for a beat. “I'm in entertainment.”
He leans back and appraises me with a skeptical look in his eye. “Are you a stripper?”
“What?” I laugh. “No.”
“Okay.” He squeezes my bicep, which bulges against the sleeve of my t-shirt. “I ask because you're definitely jacked enough to be one.”
I put my hand at the small of his back and pull him closer.
“So why the hat?” he shouts over the music. “Hiding from someone?”
“Maybe?” I grin.
“A boyfriend? A girlfriend?”
“Nothing like that.”
“I wanna see your face. C'mon.”
“Maybe later.”
He rolls his eyes – almost like he's annoyed. But I can tell he likes the rest of what he sees. I know I've got his attention. Besides, it's hard to make small talk on the dance floor. So we stop trying. Instead, he presses his hands against my pecs and mouths the word “wow” as he rubs my muscles.
I grab his waist, squeezing him between my hands. He's slender and his body is tight as hell. I could definitely see myself having some fun with him later.
He looks up at me and I know what he wants. Our mouths meet and we kiss on the dance floor. His kisses are hot, syrupy, and he moans and whimpers into my mouth. His tongue is electric, and it yields to mine in a way that just makes me want him even more. His hands sneak under my shirt, and he digs his nails into my abs.
We dance closer, his leg between mine. My cock rubs on his thigh, and his on mine. We're both hard and only getting harder.
“Oh, god,” I whimper at the thought, the feel, of his cock on my leg. He's well-endowed, and his arousal is making mine pound even harder.
What would people think if they knew? I wonder. I can't lie, the thought excites me. The thrill of getting caught ... the risk of being incognito in public like this. It's only a matter of time until someone catches me.
He turns around and thrusts his ass into my crotch. I grind into him, doing my best to dance along to the beat – but really I'm dry-fuckin' this guy doggie-style on the middle of the dance floor. Not that anyone else cares.
I start to get too excited, though, so I gotta pull back. Little known fact about me? I'm also well-endowed, and when hard, my cock has a bad habit of going straight up and standing out the top of my waistband.
I've also got a hair-trigger. It doesn't take much to make me cum. This would be an embarrassing problem – if I couldn't get it up again. But actually, I fuck like a rabbit. After I cum, all I need is a second or two and I'm ready to go again.
But with the head of my cock standing out of my waistband, the last thing I wanna do here is cream all over my t-shirt. So I pry myself off this cutie's ass and turn him around.
“What's the matter?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I grin. “Nothing at all. Just really ... into it.” I gesture down. His crazy eyes light up, his lips make a tiny “o” shape, and he lifts the hem of my shirt up. There's my throbbing glans for everyone to see. A guy standing next to us sees it too – and he grins at me and nods with approval.
“Dude!” I chuckle and yank my t-shirt back down, trying to cover up my manhood.
“That's so fucking hot,” he reassures me. “Here. Dance with me.”
He steps even closer to me. Presses his chest against mine. Sneakily, he burrows his hand between our bellies and works it down the front of my jeans.
“Jason,” I grunt, my throat achy.
He grabs my steamy, throbbing flesh. Wraps his fingers around my dick. And tugs.
Holy shit, I gasp, wide-eyed, staring out at the crowd around me. This guy is jerking me off in the middle of the dance floor.
“Jason,” I plead in his ear. “I'm really close, dude ... it's way too easy to make me cum ... you gotta stop.”
He just looks at me and grins, his eyes sparkling. I'm not sure if he hears me, if he understands what I just said or not. I don't know if he understands that I'm about to blast all over his hand on a crowded dance floor.
“Seriously Jason,” I try to warn him again, “I'm not fuckin' playing here, man, you're gonna make me – you're gonna make me – uh oh,” I stammer as he tugs me faster, harder.
Cum?, I say to myself, my eyes bulging as I rocket up to the peak.
“Oh no,” I gasp as the pressure blows, and my balls empty.
Jason's face turns to pure shock as my seed fills his fist. I guess he really couldn't hear my warnings beforehand, or maybe he just didn't believe me. Not that it matters now. Jason's astonished look melts way into a devilish grin and he finishes the job, stroking me until he's milked me for the last drop.
I can't believe this is happening, or that I'm letting it happen.
At last he pulls his hand back up. My cream drips from his fist. He catches it in his tongue and licks up the rest until his hand is clean.
The guy next to me hasn't stopped staring. He looks like he could use some help picking his jaw up off the dance floor. “Fuck.” I see him mouth the word with a mix of awe and frustration.
Jason whisks me off the dance floor. We grab a pile of napkins from the bar. He wipes up the rest of my cream on his hands, and I do the best I can a
t sopping up the sticky seed on my t-shirt and jeans. To everybody else, it looks like we had a little spill with a drink ... if only they knew!
At last we're all cleaned up. Then Jason gives me a look. “Um. After that, I could use some fresh air. Wanna join me?”
“Sure.”
We step outside. The air is crisp and cool, a big relief after being swallowed up by the humid heat of all those bodies in the club. And, finally, in the cool of the night, Jason and I can talk without having to shout at each other.
I press Jason up against the building and kiss him. “That was dirty as hell, man. I tried to warn you.”
“I didn't think you were serious. So ... are you always that quick to pop off?”
“Uh. Yeah.” I chuckle. “And I'm always ready for more, too. Round 2 and 3. Or as long as you care to go.”
“Oh my God! Stop!” Jason leans back against the building, throws his head to the sky and sighs. “You're driving me crazy here.”
“Yeah, well, you started it.” With my body close to his, I sneak my hand between his legs and feel his bulge. “What do you think? You wanna go somewhere?”
His eyes flutter. “I don't normally ... do stuff with guys so quickly ...”
I scoff. He's such a liar and he's playing hard to get. I pull the bulge between his legs harder. “Says the guy who grabbed my dick on the dance floor.”
He gulps. “Okay. Okay. Your place? Or mine?”
Thrilled, I bite my lip. “Your place. I'm from out of town.”
“Okay. Let's go.” I pull myself off him and watch the stream of traffic, waiting for a cab to drive by.
Jason attaches himself to my side and whispers huskily in my ear. “I can't get you home soon enough.” He taps the brim of my hat. “So. You're a Jets fan, huh?”
My face turns red. Or at least it feels like it's turning red. But I'm hoping like hell it's not.
“Uh, yeah, little bit of a fan I guess. You like hockey?”
“Oh, it's hockey? I would've guessed baseball or something ... no, I don't care for sports.”
Whew, I think to myself.
“I just wish you'd show me your face already, Brad.”
I look from side to side. Just to make sure no one is around who might recognize me. It's always a risk in public. You never know who might be a hockey fan, who might recognize your face. But whatever.
“Okay,” I shrug. I pull my hat off. “There.”
Jason bites his lip and runs his hands through my hair. “I knew it. You're a fucking babe alright. Why would you ever cover that face up ...”
Our taxi rolls up. I throw my hand into the air to hail it. The taxi pulls over, and me and Jason quickly hop in and the car darts off. After Jason gives the cabbie his address, we melt into each other, sliding lower in the backseat as our lips embrace all over again and hands keep sliding lower ...
6.
Sources Say ...
Tyler
After our loss to the Jets at home, our night gets worse. We don't even have time to kick back, relax, and forget about the game. Instead, we leave the arena and immediately hop on the the team bus, which will take us to the airport. We're going on a multi-game road trip, and we've got a red-eye flight to Florida in just a few short hours.
Although it's hard for the family guys to leave their wives and children behind, for me, it's not such a big deal. I don't have much but a hotel room, after all, which is exactly where we'll be staying on the road.
And road trips can be fun. It's a good way for the team to get closer. We get to eat out every night and explore the cities together. On the road, each player has a roommate – a guy he stays in a hotel room with. My roommate has been Dufresne for the past six years.
When I board the bus, I'm thinking I might be staying in a room by myself on the road. Because we still don't have any word on Fresno's health.
We're worried he might have had a concussion, or broken a rib or something like that. But just before the team bus pulls out of the parking lot, we get a surprise – the bus doors re-open for a last straggler, and Fresno hops on.
The team breaks into a cheer. It's the first time we've smiled all night, actually.
Fresno walks down the aisle towards his spot in the back of the bus. Everyone's yelling, making jokes, slapping his butt and punching his shoulder as he walks by. Fresno icily walks right by Donovan, giving him a mean-ass scowl. The bus murmurs, and we're all worried that we might have some bad blood developing between these two.
But then Fresno quickly whips around and puts Donovan in a head-lock and gives him a 'noogie.' Everyone lets out a breath of relief and laughs.
“Calisse!” Fresno swears in his thick French-Canadian accent. “How could I ever stay mad at this ugly brute!”
Everyone cracks up.
“You sure you're alright, Fresno?” Donovan asks. “I was worried about ya.”
“Never been better! Now if only you could hit the other guys that hard for once ...”
Fresno takes his seat next to me. He's a little sore but he swears that he's not banged up, that he only had the wind knocked out of him.
The bus gets us to the airport in short order. We all board the team plane in a hurry, tired and cranky and with a long night still ahead of us. On the plane, the laptops and tablets come out, the ear-buds go in, and some of the guys play a golf video game against each other over a network. Some of the older guys have resisted technology and sit in a group, playing a poker game instead. Some guys try to catch some sleep.
I'll join the guys playing the card game. I'm still too wound up to sleep, and staring at a screen for too long hurts my eyes. It's good guy time and hockey rarely comes up. When hockey does come up, the conversation is a bitter rehashing of the game we just played against the Jets. The guys shake their head, still fuming about Jones and muttering about what a punk he is.
“He's good at what he does,” is all I can say with a shrug anytime they get too fired up.
“Yeah, well, no one's doubting that ... doesn't make him any less of a disgrace, though ...”
AT 3 AM, WE FINALLY arrive in Florida and check into a hotel near the Panthers' arena – our next opponent. Our team fills up a whole wing of the hotel's top floor. With heavy eyes and a delirious fatigue setting in, I'm all too happy to finally be 'home.'
Me and Fresno bust into our hotel room, take off our suits and jump into our separate beds, relieved that the night is finally over. Fresno – a real pro sleeper – starts snoring within minutes. I'm jealous. It always takes me 30 minutes or so to get to the point where I can sleep, even when I'm dead tired.
And 30 minutes later, with my mind halfway between the real world and the dream world, I realize I kinda-sorta have to take a piss. I know I can ignore it, but then I'll just have to wake up in an hour or two anyway. So I climb outta bed and head into the bathroom.
Right before I flush, I hear a voice through the wall. I feel like I can make it out. And then I could swear that I hear my name spoken.
I step closer. Put my ear on the wall and listen. The voice is quiet, but I can start to make it out.
“... Vance? ... Vance is what you want? ... Well, maybe we can work something out ...”
My stomach flops as I recognize the voice, one room over. It's our General Manager, Doug Johnson. And he's talking about me.
I have a strong urge to bang on the wall and say, Hey Dougie! I can fuckin' hear you over here!
But morbid curiosity gets the best of me.
He's bringing my name up at 3 AM ... I know this can't be good. I tell myself I should just go back to bed. That I don't wanna know why he's talking about me. What if he's throwing my name out there in a trade?
Against my better judgment, I stay with my ear against the wall and listen.
“Why the hell are you even offering him? He's tearing it up this year. ... Uh huh ... Sure ... That soon? Really. How many teams are in it? ... Already? Really? You trying to start a bidding war here?”
Soun
ds like someone from around the league is about to be traded. And I might be traded for him.
I've heard enough. I don't wanna know anymore. I ball my fists and manage to pry myself away from the wall. I'd rather not know all the details. Even though I feel like I already know too much.
I throw myself back in bed. But I know I'm not gonna get any more sleep tonight. Now I'm too worked up, waiting for the call from the General Manager that says I need to pack my bags and get going.
7.
The Walk of Shame
Callan
I wake to the sound of our blaring goal horn. But the approving roar of the crowd doesn't accompany it – and I know it's not game time, it's 6 AM.
It's the sound of my cell phone alarm clock, sampled from the real goal horn in our arena, and it's loud as hell. It always gets me jumping right out of bed in the morning – partly because it scares the shit out of me.
But I sit up in a hurry and don't recognize my surroundings. Then I see the naked body next to me, and remember – oh yeah. Jason.
He covers his ears with his palms, pressing them tight against his head. I turn my alarm off and he rolls over with a groan. We're both tired. We've only gotten a couple hours of sleep after ... um, after last night. My eyes dart to the pile of torn-open condom packages littering Jason's night stand.
Yeah, it was a good night, alright.
“Dude, Brad. That is like. The single worst alarm I've ever heard. The hell is that ringtone?”
I chuckle. I almost forgot that I was 'Brad' last night. If he had asked me my name again this morning? I might've given him another fake one.
“Just something that gets me up and goin' in the morning, guaranteed.”
“I believe it.”
I turn on my side and appreciate the view. He's lying on his stomach, his hands balled up under his chin. I grab a handful of his ass and squeeze.
His eyebrows raise curiously. “So you said you're in the entertainment industry.”
I chuckle and nod, breaking eye contact. “Yeah.”
“And you're not a stripper.” He taps his chin in thought. Then he rubs his hands over my bare chest. “But you're fucking ripped. You're not an actor, are you?”
