Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Rolling Van aside, Colby scoots out from under him. Hands slick, he tugs at his shirt in an effort to get it off without touching it. At least it had rucked up while they frotted—jism dribbles on Colby’s stomach and pubic mound, leaving his shirt clean. Quickly he tugs down his shorts, kicking them away as he picks the jock strap out of his balls. That follows suit, and he rolls onto his belly to wiggle free of the shirt. Sand sticks to his hands and stomach but at least he’s naked. A warm hand curves over one fleshy buttock as Van sidles closer to him. “God,” he sighs, a bit more coherent this time, “do you have an ass on you.”

  With a laugh, Colby pushes himself up off the sand as he stands. “You want a piece of it?”

  Van’s gaze drifts up, up, up, over Colby’s nude body to finally reach his face. “Oh, please,” he whimpers. “Dude, you don’t even know…”

  Flexing his toes, Colby sends a little spray of sand in Van’s direction. “That’s the second date. If we get that far.”

  “We will,” Van promises.

  Colby grins as he heads for the waves to clean off.

  * * * *

  The next morning when Colby stumbles down the stairs into their kitchen, disheveled and yawning, he swears he can still feel sand grate in sensitive spots he’d rather not think of at that early hour. On the landing he stops to adjust his boxers, taking a moment to scratch his balls, when he hears his cousin make a disgusting noise. “Ugh, Colby! You’re practically naked.”

  “Am not,” he murmurs, stifling another yawn as he rubs his hands over his bare chest. True, he’s not wearing much, but the boxers count for something.

  He opens an eye and squints at Megan, who stands by the kitchen sink already dressed in her volleyball outfit, a pair of tight biker shorts and what looks like a sports bra, both black with bright teal accents. She’s rubbing suntan oil liberally over her arms and a pair of wraparound sunglasses sit atop her head, holding back her hair. Wrinkling her nose, she runs her gaze over him once to let him know she’s displeased, then looks away. “What time did you get in last night?” she asks. Though her voice is calm, her anger comes through in the vicious squirt of the bottle of oil she’s applying. “I’m surprised you’re even up at this hour.”

  “I got a game to play.” Shuffling down the last few steps, Colby hikes up his boxers and heads for the fridge. Inside he grabs the carton of milk, shakes it to make sure it isn’t empty, then swigs it back. Without a word, Megan pitches the oil at him, the bottle striking his arm as he takes a second drink. “What? It’s the last of it.”

  “You’re disgusting.” She glares at her hands as she slathers her flat stomach with oil. The kitchen smells faintly of coconuts and sunshine. “You have ten minutes to get dressed and be ready to leave so I wouldn’t eat anything if I were you. Can you get my back?”

  She turns and points in case he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  “I got your back,” Colby mutters, but he retrieves the bottle of oil from the floor and complies. Her skin is dry and warm, and she watches him over her shoulder as he works. He puts on a tight smile. She’s in a mood today, he knows, partly because of his antics last night, true, but he suspects most of it is just nerves. Softly, he tells her, “Relax, Meg. The main thing today is to have fun.”

  For a moment he doesn’t think she’ll answer. Then she lets out a breath she’s been holding and seems to deflate. She leans against the sink and picks at the dish towel drying on the edge. “I know, I know. It’s just a game. But it’d be nice to place, wouldn’t it?”

  Colby’s grin widens. “I could do a lot with a thousand bucks.”

  The top three teams in the tournament get cash prizes, the overall winner taking home $2,000. Megan and Colby already decided they’d split whatever they won right down the middle—beach volleyball is played with teams of two, and theirs is an equal partnership. Megan’s hell on the net and Colby’s great with assists, always there when she needs him and she knows it. Her anxiety over the coming game play just has her on edge, is all. He squirts a little more oil into his palms and massages her shoulders, trying to loosen her up.

  She shrugs him off. “You need to be getting ready. Did you have fun last night?”

  Leaning back against the sink, Colby rubs the remaining oil into his own hands and up his arms. “With Van?” He recalls the heated coupling on the beach and can’t stop his grin from threatening to split his face. “Hell, yeah. He was something else, wasn’t he?”

  “He was cute,” Megan agrees. “I’ll give you that. Where’d you two run off to?”

  “Just down the beach.” When Colby closes his eyes, he still feels Van above him and imagines he can taste their kisses on the back of his tongue.

  His cousin steps up beside him and purrs into his ear, “Must’ve been good. You’re sporting wood.”

  Her words are a cold blanket tossed onto his ardor, dousing it. Surprised, he staggers back, away from her, then glares as she giggles at his reaction. “Megan!” He grabs the dish towel off the sink and holds it to his crotch, hiding the front of his paper-thin boxers from her view. “Jeez, you would look.”

  “Go get dressed,” she says. “You going to see him again?”

  Colby shrugs, keeping the dish towel in place until she looks away. “Yeah, around. I guess.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Megan shakes her head. “Boys. You guess?”

  “I didn’t get his number or anything,” Colby admits, “but he knows you’re my cousin, so he’ll just stop by the O. Girls make things too complicated. If he wants me, he knows how to find me.”

  Megan glances at the clock above the sink. “Your ten minutes are almost up. You need to get ready—”

  “So turn around and stop looking at my dick.”

  Megan gasps, shocked. “I’m not!”

  But her gaze dips below his waist and he laughs. A thin color rises in her cheeks, pinking them, and she turns in a huff, arms crossed, mad again. Colby waits a moment to make sure she won’t turn back before he tosses the dish rag in the sink. In a pouty voice, she mutters, “I’m not looking at any part of you for the rest of the day.”

  “Good thing you’re on the front row then,” Colby points out.

  Reaching behind her, she rests her right wrist on her lower back the way she does during the game to signal to him. There’s no mistaking her message—her middle finger stands up tall from a tight fist.

  * * * *

  The Wildwood Beach Volleyball Tournament is an annual event held in August just off Second Street, a part of the beach far enough from the boardwalk that it doesn’t gather too many tourists. There’s an empty lot a few blocks away where the old Acme used to be, and volunteers in reflective vests direct traffic that way. Even at quarter to eight in the morning, the beach is packed—Colby cruises with one foot on the clutch, his beat-up old Beetle barely easing above five miles per hour as he coasts along in the hopes of snagging one of the coveted parking spots along the street. He already knows it’s fruitless.

  Megan sighs. “Just stop the car.”

  He hits the brakes, throwing both of them forward a little. Without comment, she gathers up her gym bag and pops out. Slamming the door behind her, she leans down into the window to tell him, “I’ll get us registered. Meet me back here once you’ve parked.”

  “If I manage to find a place,” he mutters, goosing the gas to surge ahead a few yards before he has to slow down to a crawl again.

  He ends up just following orders and double-parks in the Acme lot. The walk back isn’t bad, just three blocks, no more than the distance it takes him to walk from the apartment to the boards, but the crowd is hellacious. Everyone is in a state of undress—bikinis, shorts, tight tank tops, bathing suits…no one wears anything more than they have to. Kids race around bare legs, bumping indiscriminately into anyone in their way. Women with large folding chairs bully through the crowd, trying to get a good spot from which to watch the games and get some sun at the same time. Men lounge around in pack
s, sipping soda from cold cans or tossing Frisbees back and forth. A dog barks somewhere, though animals aren’t usually allowed on the beach. Another hour or so and the vendors will be out, hawking Italian ice and frozen treats at exorbitant prices. Colby crosses the street, away from the wooden barrier that separates the beach from the road. Less foot traffic over here. With a glance at his sports watch, he picks up the pace.

  Megan waits for him right where she said she would. She wears a white vest with the number 17 on it, the bottom tied up to expose her flat stomach. As Colby approaches, she thrusts a similar vest into his hands. “Put this on,” she says in greeting. When he takes it, she starts flipping through what looks like a program or brochure. “Let me see when we’re playing.”

  “Number seventeen?” Colby asks, smoothing the vest down over his mesh shirt. “I’m thinking we’ve got a ways to wait, no?”

  The look she gives him is murderous. “The number is completely arbitrary. They printed the program up days ago so all they have listed are team numbers and match times. When you register, you get a number at random. Then you have to find where you are in the program…”

  She trails off, running a finger down the list of games to see when their first match will be. Colby takes a moment to look around—this is his first tournament, and he can’t deny the little seed of excitement that has begun to blossom in the pit of his stomach. Last year he watched from the sidelines; Megan’s teammate then was her younger brother Billy, who will start college at the end of the month. He took off after graduation, his car loaded with everything he owned, and headed out on a road trip that would deposit him right on the steps of his dorm at UCLA. Colby gladly stepped in to play his position, and he’d be lying if he said he and Megan didn’t make a good team. All their bickering disappeared when they stepped up to the net.

  Colby doesn’t see anyone he knows, but there are a lot of hot guys here today. He’s glad he went with the skin-tight biker shorts—they cup his ass nicely and show off the bulge at his crotch. He should’ve donned a cock ring, now that he thinks of it. That would really make him stand out. He wonders if he could maybe slip into a bathroom somewhere, readjust his package, see if he can’t get it to stand up a bit and get a few guys to look his way…

  “Shit!” Flustered, Megan almost tears the program in an attempt to fold it.

  With difficulty, Colby drags his mind back to the present. “What’s wrong?”

  Megan looks around wildly, the sun winking off her wraparound shades. “We’re up in five minutes on number three. I don’t even know where that is!”

  Adrenaline jolts Colby’s heart. “What? Now? We play first?”

  Megan nods as she says, “Seventeen versus thirty, court three, eight o’clock. Where…?”

  A little taller than his cousin, Colby can see over the crowds more than she can, and he stands on his toes to add to his height. To their right he can see a huge flag flapping in the sea breeze, the number 1 written on both sides. Pointing, he tells her, “There’s the first court.”

  She’s pointing in the opposite direction. “There’s the second. We must be farther down. Damn it! We’ll never get there in time.”

  Taking her hand, Colby jumps onto the rail that edges the sand. “We’ll make it. Come on.” Without waiting for her to respond, he hurries down the wooden path, stepping quickly. “Move it, people! We have a game to play!”

  Those sitting on the rail see him coming and jump out of his way. He skips over items left behind, beach bags and boogie boards, soda cans, a small child who cries as Colby brushes by. He sees the second flag Megan mentioned and squeezes her hand, tight in his. The third flag flies just ahead.

  At the last moment, they jump off the rail into the hot sand. It sucks in Colby’s sandaled feet with each step, hindering his progress, but Megan skims over it as if she’s weightless. “We’re seventeen!” she shouts as she hurries up to a referee who stands at the sidelines, hands on his hips, surveying the court. “Seventeen. That’s us. We’re here.”

  “About time,” the referee grumbles, but she takes Megan’s program and initials the playbook to prove they made the match. “Take your places. We’re about to start.”

  Behind the net, Colby stops and leans over, hands on his knees, as he tries to catch his breath. There’s a stitch in his side that doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  * * * *

  Together, Megan and Colby make a great team. She works the front row, he the back, and she has such good command of the game that he watches her hands for signals more than he watches the other team. One finger means she’s going for the ball; a closed fist behind her back means it’s his to claim. She points out where she wants him to be during play and he obliges, covering one part of the court while she gets the other. She never backs into him, never trods on his bare feet, never fumbles a pass. If she misses the ball, he’s there to bump it back into play, keeping it from hitting the sand. Each game consists of two matches, three if a tiebreaker is needed, but neither Colby nor Megan have ever had to play that long.

  They win the first match easily, and by the time they score the needed 21 points to end the second match, the opposing team’s players—two girls Colby knew in high school—glare at Megan and him through the net. He ignores them as he scoops his cousin into a tight embrace. “Woo!” he whoops, pumping a fist in triumph. “We did it!”

  Megan laughs as a thin smattering of applause breaks out from the bleachers, which hem in the court and block it from the street. They’re rickety seats only ten risers high whose scaffolding is hidden behind billowing sheets that sport the name of various advertisers for the event. Most of the logos are from beer companies, and Colby knows by the end of the tournament, most of the people gathered will be too drunk to care who wins.

  “Shake,” she tells him, spinning him around in the sand.

  Colby sticks out a hand without thinking, reaching under the net to shake hands with his opponents. The two girls have pulled on sunglasses now to hide their hateful eyes, and their sportsmanship is questionable—the first wrings Colby’s hand so tight, he thinks his fingers will fall off, while the other scratches his wrist with sharp nails accidentally on purpose. “Good game,” he says through clenched teeth, knowing it was anything but. He and Megan wiped the sand with these girls. He can already taste the prize money.

  Megan snags his arm and leads him off the court. Under her breath, she mutters, “Bitches.”

  “Hey,” Colby points out, “course they’re mad. We kicked their ass.”

  That gets a laugh from Megan, who shakes the sand from her Mary Jane style water shoes before slipping them on. She keeps one hand on Colby’s arm to steady herself, and in the early morning sun, her touch is blazing. He steps into his sandals as she gathers up her things—the program and her gym bag filled with lotion, towels, and a couple shirts to cover up with, if necessary. Digging into the bag, she pulls out a leather coin purse with the words Wildwood-By-The-Sea stamped into it, something she bought on the boards like the tourists, and hands it over to Colby. “Get me a drink, will you? Gatorade, or something sporty. I saw a booth over there.”

  As she points, Colby follows her finger to a long line of people waiting to be served. “Megan,” he sighs. “Don’t you have anything to drink in that bag?”

  She shoots him a withering look. “How would I keep it cold?”

  Before he can answer, she starts to walk away, in the opposite direction of the drink booth. “Wait!” Colby catches her arm to stop her. “Where the hell are you going? When’s our next match?”

  “I gotta go see.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs him off. “Jeez, Colby. They’re posting the scores at the main table. It’s only right over here, see? Right in the middle of the courts. So go get me a drink, and I’ll find you as soon as I know what we’re doing next.”

  Colby thinks he’d like to take a look at the current rankings as well, but even as he watches her walk away, he realizes he’s a bit thirsty, himself. Cup
ping the coin purse in his hand, he heads toward the vendor booth, which sells hot dogs and soft pretzels in addition to ice cream, snow cones, and bottled drinks. He steps up to the end of the line and crosses his arms in front of his chest, bored already. There are easily forty teams playing today, and with only a handful of courts, the first round of matches may take a few hours. Then they’ll pair up the remaining teams, whittling down the competition further, eliminating the losers and advancing the winners. By the end of the day, there will only be eight or ten teams left—the final eliminations will take place tomorrow, and Colby hopes they’re still in the running then. If the next team they play is as bad as the last…

  Suddenly darkness envelopes him as warm hands cover his eyes. A man’s hands, firm and large, the fingers scented with coconut. Colby holds his breath, trying not to laugh. Who is this? One of his friends, maybe, out to see him play. The moment the guy speaks, he’ll know.

  But the voice that queries, “Guess who?” stymies him. It’s a woman’s voice, high and tittering, speaking from in front of him. Through the gaps in the hands, he sees a competition vest and what looks like the number 8. Long tanned legs, bare feet, a white puca shell strand like a tattoo around one ankle.

  Uncrossing his arms, Colby raises them to touch the wrists before him. Definitely male. “I don’t…”

  He feels someone press up against his back—oh yes, God yes, it’s a guy. Colby feels a hard cock thrust against his buttocks and almost creams himself. In his ear, a familiar throaty voice purrs, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

  Colby tugs at the wrists, pulling them away as he turns. “Van!” At the brilliant smile that greets him, Colby laughs. “You are hard as shit, dude. How do you walk around with that shoved down your pants?”