Back in the Game

by R. W. Clinger

  He had three sisters: Janika, Jantura, and Jankara. He lived in a bright yellow bungalow at 239 Hurricane Drive, in Tarpon Cover, some ten miles north of Turtle Bay Reef. Both of his parents had died of heart attacks seven years ago, during a car accident in Atlanta, Georgia, while visiting their oldest daughter, Janika. Although he enjoyed pets, mostly cats, he didn’t own one or adopt. He was a college graduate of Miami University with a degree in political science. He claimed that if a football career ever failed him, he could run for office in Tarpon Cover. At Miami University, he minored in journalism and wrote news articles. He had a beautiful face for any camera, although he had never really seen himself working at or on WTBA News, Channel Eleven.

  Coffler didn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend, clarifying to those who inquired, “I’m better off single. Why have someone worry about me? And why worry about someone else? Singlehood is my life for the time being. Maybe I’ll settle down with someone in the future. Who knows?”

  Secretly, he had told me he was a Colts fan and had a thing for their white uniforms. And he also admitted to me on a few occasions that he sometimes liked to binge drink, which he controlled. Other details in my file consisted of his shoe size, which was fourteen, and that he considered Jazelle, Luther’s wife, as his mother. I also knew that he was the proud winner of two football championships with the Eagles, and a fan of the Black-Eyed Peas. He enjoyed running, collecting zombie books, and watching gory movies. He hated to fly, but he did it for our national league anyway. Coffler worked out at Ab’s Gym on Local Street, enjoyed swimming, and had a thing for coconut trees, but I wasn’t completely clear on why.

  * * * *

  I climbed into his Jeep without any fear whatsoever. “What’s going on? Where are you taking me?”

  “Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “There’s no need to talk. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “You’re abducting me.”

  He chuckled.

  “I know you’re not going to hurt me, Coffler. I just want to know where you’re taking my ass.”

  “You’ll find out. Sit back. Relax. I have this under control.”

  I believed him.

  * * * *

  We ended up on Sea West Beach, which was private and owned by one of his friends. The night’s view was spectacular once we stepped out of the Jeep and circled to its front bumper. There, side by side and leaning against its metal hood, we took in the night’s Gulf shadows: blue-black clouds, semi-hidden stars, and rolling waves the color of wet ink.

  “Why are we here?” I enjoyed the soft breeze on my face, the silhouette of his nipples, and his company.

  “I want to taste you, Shane.”

  “All the guys tell me that,” I joked.

  “Seriously, I do. This isn’t a joke.”

  “You can’t do that. I’m not up for grabs, or licks in your case.”

  “But I want to. I can’t get you out of my head since your changing room handjob.”

  “We all want things, James. Sometimes we can’t always get what we want.”

  “I always get what I want.”

  “You’re bullshitting yourself. That’s not possible.”

  “You’re wrong.” He moved his palm to my private parts, pinpointing exactly what he was looking for and needed.

  Honestly, he didn’t know what he was doing, or exactly what he was getting himself into. The last thing I wanted to do was get the guy in trouble and have his grandfather rip him apart because he was fucking around with me. There was no way in hell the two of us could have sex again like our time spent together in the men’s changing room on Turtle Bay Reef Beach. Sex with Coffler was out of the question. The act of his body mixing with mine did not look good for my future or his. To fuck around with the guy would have only ascertained a sense of hell in both of our lives if his grandfather ever learned about a designed affair between us.

  “Stop. I really can’t do this with you,” I warned, pulling away from him. Quickly, I shifted to my right and created a foot of space between us.

  “Nobody needs to know about this. We can have a good time together and keep everything a secret,” he said, as if begging to become intimate with me on the private beach, under the stars and clouds, entangled in the wind and his naked body.

  I shook my head, although he couldn’t see my reaction because it was too dark out. “This can’t happen.”

  “Trust me. This is happening.”

  And it did, I confess: abruptly, roughly, and exactly how I ached for it to happen. Coffler fell to his knees, unbuckled my khakis, and pulled them and my cotton underwear down to my ankles. He sucked me off for the next fifteen minutes. The tattooed football star gagged on my dick, and then wore my semen. Secluded on the beach along the Florida’s Gulf Coast, we were content as fresh lovers behind his grandfather’s back. Taboo between adult men. Shame on me—us.

  Chapter 11: Coffler’s Affection

  July 23, 20—

  Coffler pushed me onto his queen-sized bed, and I buried my face in one of its fluffy pillows. My ass was spanked and licked a number of times. When he pushed his latex-protected dick inside my ass, I screamed into the poly-filled pillow. As the wide receiver banged, banged, banged my tight rear, I thought to myself: I won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and it won’t be from my titanium ankle aching. It will be from Coffler’s affection.

  He wanted to remove the latex form his dick and come inside me, coating my taut insides with his ejaculate, sealing the shit to my organs, but I told him no. Never.

  Over my shoulder, I said, “Leave the condom on and fuck me. Jack your load onto my back if you want to. I don’t do bareback. You already know that.”

  He listened.

  A good and smart athlete with all the right moves.

  * * * *

  July 24, 20—

  Exhausted, he finished by jacking my cock and prompting me to splash my hot semen against his right pec and muscled shoulder. Then Coffler knelt beneath me on the rear deck area of his condominium.

  Naked and heaving for breath, he whispered, “You need a few tattoos.”

  “Never. I like them on my men, but I don’t prefer to wear any.”

  “Just a small one. Something discreet.”

  I rolled my eyes in the afternoon sun, baking in its summertime rays, and replied, “You need to shut the fuck up and let me jack you off again.”

  “Ride me this time, Shane. You know that turns me on. Ride me like I’m a fucking bull. What do you say?”

  I didn’t object, of course. How could I when I wanted his erect inches inside my ass yet again, humping and hurting me.

  * * * *

  July 25, 20—

  In the bathroom at the Briefs Bar, while Coffler and I hid inside one of its two stalls, I sucked him off with beer in my mouth. Heatedly, he banged his dick down the back of my compact throat. Dozens of blasts to my face followed as he fucked me. And his balls, a floppy black sack coated in spirals of springy hair, slapped against my chin, again and again.

  No, I didn’t eat his ejaculate, although he had wanted me to. Instead, his load gushed out of his cock and splashed against my body. Semen also dripped to the floor, against one of my legs, and decorated the tile.

  Finished coming, he said, “Now we have to fuck the cream out of you.”

  “Over the sink.”

  “Is that the way you want it?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that’s the way I’ll fuck you.”

  And so we did it for the next twenty minutes in the bar’s dirty bathroom, me caught as his lover.

  * * * *

  July 26, 20—

  “This is quite interesting, guy,” Coffler said, enjoying the square of silk material that I had wrapped around his hard cock. I began stroking his dick up and down in a frisky action.

  Again, it was twilight, and we were alone on Sea West Beach. While seated on a blanket in the sand by him, I briskly moved my
right hand north and south on his dick, getting him off and enjoying our play. His cock was firm under the silk, and there was smooth friction created with our bodies. Coffler huffed and puffed beside me, wanting to unload his ejaculate, needing to explode his semen inside the cupped silk around his cock. Not once did he object to my interesting and eye-opening chore of prompting him to come. He came in another geyser, and I enjoyed playing with the man as if he were my shameless toy.

  * * * *

  July 27, 20—

  “Jack your load on me, Shane. I want to wear it this time.”

  I listened like a very good sex-buddy. On my knees, positioned over his chest, both of us naked on my bed and inside my apartment, I began to stroke my cock in a gripping action. Sweat flung off my torso and drizzled his nipples. I grunted, and my balls slapped against my fists as I used two hands on the erection. Again and again, my hips throttled forward, backward, forward again. Eventually, I exploded my pent semen.

  Spirals of ejaculate spun out of my cock and glazed the man’s black chest. Coffler’s nipples, as well as the base of his neck, were covered in the white liquid. I drained the cock at my center, enjoying my jack-session with the football player, still a prisoner of his sexual spell. I fell in lust for the man, but only temporarily. Both of us knew we would have to end our affair someday, and soon, all because of his grandfather.

  * * * *

  July 28, 20—

  I was hard in the shower, and Coffler begged me to fuck him, wanting my dick inside his bulbous and black bottom. Over his right shoulder, semi-hidden under his shower’s warm spray, he demanded it.

  “Shove it all in, man. Plow me. And don’t be nice to me. I want it to hurt. So make it hurt.”

  I wasn’t nice to his rear. My fingers dug into his muscular hips. I rushed my dick inside his tight and pink asshole, exited, and rammed it inside another time.

  “Faster. Harder. Don’t be nice, guy. Don’t be gentle. Fuck me. And fuck me hard.”

  Eventually, I came on his spine, shooting ejaculate against his sculpted back. He wasn’t at all surprised when I licked up every drop of my semen, turned him around, and kissed him with all of my passion, everything I had to emotionally build with him.

  * * * *

  July 29, 20—

  We watched porn together on his seventy-two-inch Sony. I can’t recall what the movie was called, but jocks were involved. Muscular and horny football players like us. Five scenes comprised the flick, but we only watched three of them because we were far too hot to pay attention to the other two. When our clothes came off, we decided that a sixty-nine position was appropriate. There, on his sofa, we carried out mutual face-to-dick antics. We gagged each other with our hard cocks and toyed with balls. We sucked and slurped each other’s erections like professional adult stars. Our exploit was perfection inside his living room. Again, we came together, exploding our semen over each other as we emptied our loads.

  * * * *

  July 30, 20—

  We used toys together: nipple clamps, a cock pump, heated wax, a fourteen-inch dildo, handcuffs, silk scarves, a ball gag, a leather hood, an assortment of cock rings, a ribbed butt plug, leather sling, a doggie-style strap, and a cock cage. We played for an entire eight hours together inside his condo, shooting our loads a number of times. When our fun was over, we grew tired, slept tucked in each other’s hulking arms, black and white races mixing; the way I thought God intended queer men to be as lovers.

  * * * *

  July 31, 20—

  As I knelt on my living room floor, Coffler pushed my legs apart. My balls were licked and sucked, and then my asshole was treated to the same actions. How far did the man slide his pink tongue inside the depths of my ass? When did he decide to stroke my cock off while doing so? Did he have that intimate moment with me planned? What a tease he was that morning. So inventive and laborious with my bottom. How hungry could he be for my rump, licking and sucking for a string of minutes?

  * * * *

  August 1, 20—

  “I want your dick inside me,” he said after dinner at Moley’s.

  “You aren’t the first guy to say that to me. Get in line.”

  He laughed. “I’m serious. I’ve been itching for it all day. I want to ride it.”

  I laughed.

  He laughed.

  Before I knew it, we were out of the restaurant and at his Jeep. He drove to the closest beach, and we fucked in the front passenger seat. We were two professional football players crammed inside his steel vehicle, getting each other off.

  “Banging you,” I said in a hearty whisper. “Just what you wanted.”

  “Do it,” he coached. “Don’t hold back. Fuck me wild.”

  Feeling ambitious, sexually heated, and overzealous, I did what any man in my position would have done, fulfilling both our homoerotic cravings.

  * * * *

  Later that night, I made contact with Frankie via cellphone. He was somewhere near St. Lucia in the Caribbean. I was in my living room, drinking a glass of red wine. I asked how things were going with Renaldo, his current lover.

  “He treats me like a prince. It’s going well. I get flowers, chocolates, and dates off the ship. He’s a gentleman. How are things with Coffler?”

  “The sex is great, but that’s all we have.”

  “You’re not in love with the guy?”

  “I’m not. His grandfather would fire my ass if my affair with James ever evolved to love. Luther is my boss.”

  “You sound bleak,” Frankie said, which was an accurate assumption.

  “I’m waiting for Luther to learn about my doings with his grandson, if you want to know the truth. All hell should break loose soon. It’s just a waiting game.”

  Frankie was always positive and supportive, my rock at times when I needed him to be. “You’ll survive this. Ride it out and see what happens. I’m sure it will have a happy ending.”

  Unfortunately, he was wrong, even though I wanted Frankie to be right. Not even twenty-four hours later, hell’s doors opened. Demons flooded out, causing irrepressible havoc and damage in my life.

  Chapter 12: My Affair with Upset

  Downtown Turtle Bay Reef

  Shell Street

  Turtle Bay Reef Apartments

  Apartment 3-B

  August 2, 20—

  7:32 P.M.

  My short affair with James Coffler had ended abruptly. At first, I thought or believed that his grandfather had learned of our sexual escapades and threatened to murder James if he didn’t put a stop to his antics with me. That wasn’t the case, though. Luther Coffler was in the dark about my sexual tryst with his handsome grandson, and all was quiet on the home front, as the cliché goes.

  Instead, James Coffler had the balls—or there lack of, in my opinion—to dump me by e-mail. Never had that unthinkable transaction taken place in my life. Not once since I had obtained the Internet at a young age and used it regularly thereafter.

  Honestly, I wasn’t surprised that the bulky black man had e-mailed that he had wanted to conclude something between us that hardly even started. Our fling, as we both labeled our affair, was only about naked and beefy bodies rubbing together. We weren’t good for each other as romantic companions. Our short-term relationship had been pornographic and only about the sex.

  Our meetings were always unclothed and always about getting each other off. We never had a conversation about our private lives, which could have easily consisted of family issues, personal stories from our pasts, and getting to know each other. Communication entailed physical events only. Dialogue with James Coffler was out of the question. When we came together, chatter was unnecessary. But none of that mattered since he had ditched me in his e-mail. Coffler was gone. History. See ya.

  * * * *

  His e-mail was pretty clear cut. I read it numerous times:

  Shane—

  I want to tell you that you’re a great guy. One of the best men I have been fortunate to spend some valuable ti
me with. Unfortunately, our only common bond is getting naked and fucking around. Honestly, I’m looking for something more in a guy and really want a long-term relationship. I hope we can be friends and look back at our intimate time together without any animosity. I don’t mean to hurt you. I just simply realize that you’re not the right jock for me. Please understand this. I wish the best for you, and your ankle, always.

  —JC

  I couldn’t respond to the e-mail. I clicked the delete button and sent it to a cyber waste dump. There it could stay forever, where electronic gremlins or demons could laugh about it for their uncivilized entertainment. Sometimes things were best when they were thrown away. E-mails included.

  * * * *

  I called Frankie, who was somewhere in the Bahamas, singing for cash. To no avail, the amateur entertainer didn’t answer his cellphone. His voice mail kicked on.

  I left a message. “Call me when you get this. A black god has broken my heart. I need to cry on your shoulder. Be the true girlfriend you are. I’m upset and need your shoulder.”

  I concluded my dramatic message and realized I sounded like a queen in desperation. Whatever. It was a little too late to erase the message, though, and leave something more civil and butch. I placed the phone aside and decided to have a stiff drink. Two fingers of cheap whiskey covering ice could hit the spot just nicely.

  * * * *

  I got drunk on too many fingers of the strong whiskey, and then I made a complete fool of myself. Since Frankie wasn’t calling me back from his island-hopping in the Caribbean, I retrieved my cellphone again, resorting to some fresh communication with the outer world. I thumbed through my contact list, came to the tight end’s phone number, pressed it, and waited for the guy to answer my call.

  He picked up on the fourth ring. “Shane?”

  “Is this Aaron?”

  “Are you drunk? You sound drunk.”

  “A little.” I giggled.

  “What are you calling for?” He sounded pissed. His tone seemed aggressive and unpleasant because I had phoned, and it sobered me up a bit.

  “How are the twins? Are you three cuddling together right now? Do you have their cocks inside you at the same time? What’s it like to fuck around with twins, anyway?”