by Eden Finley
Talon: Oh, it’s on. Wrong move, Miller.
Wrong or idiotic? I haven’t completely decided yet.
Chapter Nine
TALON
I can do this. It’s just porn. Gay porn, but that’s still porn. It’s sex, and who doesn’t like that?
My finger hovers above numerous thumbnails of guys in various positions, but some of the titles scare me off. Like: Brutal Fuck. Fast&Hard. Torn New One. Bottom Passes Out. Monster Cock in Tight Ass.
If I’m clenching at the sight of the titles, I’d hate to see how I’ll react to watching the damn clips.
I glance at the hotel door and check how long Jackson’s been gone. He’s using the hotel gym for a light workout before our game tonight, but he hasn’t been gone long, so I should have enough time to explore. I’ve been putting this off since my last conversation with Miller, but busting a nut is a pregame ritual. It helps me relax and clear my mind and get ready to kick ass on the field.
An innocent-enough-looking clip catches my eye—two guys standing fully clothed in a kitchen. The scene begins with them saying cheesy dialogue like every other porno I’ve watched.
However, unlike others I’ve seen, this one skips from fully clothed to fully fledged up-close fucking with dicks and balls flapping in all directions.
Well, that escalated quickly.
I frantically hit the giant X in the corner to get the clip to go away. That’s not really what I’m looking for.
Maybe I need to start slow. I look up threesomes with two guys and one girl where there’s also man-on-man action, but after watching a couple of them, I come to the conclusion the porn industry has a hole in their market: bi guys who actually want to have sex with men as well as women. The ones where the guys do kiss or give blowjobs, it’s awkward and looks like they’re not doing it willingly. I’ve heard of gay for pay but thought it’d be a bit more convincing than that. Reluctance is not sexy.
Maybe I’m on the wrong site for the kind of thing I’m looking for.
I never realized how fussy and complicated my dick could be until I go through countless clips, not getting into any of them. They’re hot, and I’m hard, but none are giving me that urgency—the need to get off because I can’t take it anymore.
Finally, I settle on a clip where there’s a guy fucking a girl doggy style while a guy fucks him. And damn, I wanna be that guy in the middle. I don’t care if the face he’s pulling is fake, but if it is, at least he’s a better actor than the others. He looks so completely blissed out. I’m literally jealous.
My mind goes to all those times I’ve been with Miller, and I wonder what it’d be like to be with him this way instead of our stupid no touching rule. I don’t even remember how that rule came about or if we ever had a conversation about it. I think it was a given. He said the other day he’d thought about touching me, but he never, not once, gave any indication he might be into that.
Then again, was I paying that close attention? It never crossed my mind.
Here I am thinking about Miller again with a hard dick and the desire for him to touch it.
I groan. This season without him here is gonna be the longest of my career. I just got him back, and now he’s gone.
A loud moan brings me back to the porn, and the guy in the middle has to stop for a moment, and my breathing mimics his—erratic and shallow.
The guy behind him tenderly runs a hand down his arm and leans in to kiss his neck. He turns his head, so their mouths come together in a kiss that’s so hot precum leaks from my cock.
The camera zooms in on their faces as they continue to kiss, soft and slow, and I begin to wonder if they’re an actual couple, because it looks real. It’s more than sex between them.
Then the girl moans, breaking their connection, and what was hot a couple of minutes ago doesn’t do it for me now.
I find the names of the stars tagged in the video, click on one of the guy’s profiles, and then stalk them on social media. As I suspected, the guys are married in real life, and it’s kinda cool how they can be comfortable with each other enough to do porn with other people but still be in a committed relationship.
Whenever I’ve thought about doing the serious relationship thing—granted most of those thoughts came to me before I’d made the NFL—I imagined getting bored with only one person in my bed. Maybe these guys have the perfect arrangement.
Not that I want to take up porn any time soon.
I watch a few more clips but solo videos of just them, and it doesn’t take long for my cock to beg for some attention.
Like in the three-way video, it’s more than just sex between them, and I don’t know why that turns my crank, but here I am, about to wrap my fingers around my hard dick and jerk off to two guys fucking.
I shake my head. It’s not fucking. It’s love.
My hand stills on my precum-slicked cock as the moment of clarity I’ve been searching for hits me with full force.
My brother’s wrong. It’s not the sex I’m attracted to. It wasn’t Jackson and Noah that turned me on. It was what they have.
Have I actually reached a level of maturity ready for an honest-to-God relationship?
Shit, I never thought this day would come. Or that it’d turn me on so much.
I work myself over, my hand stroking my cock until my muscles contract, and I’m two seconds away from blowing my load.
And, of course, that’s the moment the lock on the hotel door beeps and clicks open.
I frantically try but struggle to put my dick away. “Shit.”
Jackson walks in all sweaty and wearing a towel around his neck. He pauses, eyeing my tablet which has two guys still going at it—loudly—takes in my flushed face, and while his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, all he does is nod, say, “We really need to come up with some sort of system,” and then turns on his heel and walks back out again.
I throw myself back on my bed, my balls heavy and wanting release but my cock softening and my head even more confused than it was before.
Part of me wanted to do this to prove to Miller I could, but now that I realize how much I’m into it, I can’t make sense of it.
It’s like I’m living on the outside of my life, watching as I do things and like things old me wouldn’t or wouldn’t even contemplate, and not understanding how I got here.
I’m not scared of it, just … confused.
And I don’t know how to handle that.
Jackson doesn’t come back to the room until twenty minutes before we have to leave for the game. It’s plenty of time to get yet another awkward conversation over between us, but he moves about the room as if I’m invisible, never once making eye contact with me.
I’m not ready to talk about … this …
Can you even say the word? Say it with me: bisexuality.
I tell my conscience to fuck off.
Even though I’m not ready, I should. At least to clear the air between Jackson and me.
“So, uh, about before,” I start.
He freezes. “We don’t have to do this.”
“We don’t?”
He turns to me. “Like, I don’t know what’s going on with you. Or with Miller. And that’s okay. It’s none of my business, so you don’t owe me any type of explanation.”
Relief is the right reaction, but disappointment sneaks in too. Maybe Jackson’s psychic, or maybe because he knows what I’m going through, he senses this shit.
Queer shit?
How have my friends not punched me out with how annoying my sarcasm is?
“If you want to talk about any of it, I’m here for you, but don’t feel like you need to clarify anything to me if you’re not ready.”
That’s fair. And really good of him.
“I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Then say no more.” Jackson throws me a reassuring smile, and it relaxes my stiff back and neck.
“Thanks.”
“We should get ready for the game. How do you think we’ll
do tonight? The team is getting stronger.”
I’m thankful for the subject change. “I wish I could say we’re gonna kick ass out there, but you kinda interrupted my pregame ritual, so we’re totally gonna blow it.”
Jackson laughs. “So, because you didn’t get to blow, we will?”
“Exactly.”
And sometimes I hate that I’m always right.
We’re taken down 23 – 17.
After our next game—a home game, which we win—I’m too wired and a little drunk to go straight to sleep when I stumble into my large and empty house. It’s still early in the season, but the team’s gelling well, and we have the talent to go all the way, but it sucks Miller’s not here.
I sink onto my bed, not bothering to change out of my suit. Not for the first time, I find myself thinking of the one night Miller stayed here with those women. And definitely not for the first time since I started thinking about it in more detail that my cock gets excited over the memory. Only now, in my head, the girls’ faces are blurry, and all I can focus on is Miller’s hard body.
Gah, I can’t go down this road again. Last time I thought about it this hard was right after the away game last week. I got home and basically jerked off until my dick was chafing and I literally had no cum left.
Maybe I need the real deal. I haven’t hooked up with someone since … shit, since that night. That was months ago.
Granted, we’ve been busy with training camp and the beginning of the season, but it’s more astounding I hadn’t even realized I haven’t had sex in months.
I wonder if Miller has, and then the idea of Miller going out in New York doesn’t sit well with me, but I don’t think he’d be able to anyway when his leg is fucked. Can’t do much with a screwed-up leg. Although, the girl could do all the work.
I scowl at that, and now I want to know. No, I need to know. I take out my phone and settle back on my pillow.
Me: I’m so bored.
And horny. And curious. And for some reason, possessive. I don’t say that though.
Miller: Bitch, you did not just say that to me.
I laugh. Didn’t think he’d like that.
Me: On a scale of 1 to 10 how insane are you going?
Miller: I’d be carted off to the nuthouse if I didn’t already live in one. My family is driving me crazy.
Me: You haven’t had the chance to go out at all? That sucks.
For you, I want to add but don’t for obvious reasons.
Miller: Jackson gave me his agent’s number. He and his boyfriend live in the city. Was thinking about going out with them once I finally get rid of the crutches and start intense PT.
Quick, come up with reasons why that would be a bad idea.
Me: If you’re worried about what the media will think of us sharing women, I’d hate to see what they’d say about you being spotted at a gay bar.
Without being an asshole!
Miller: I didn’t realize it was illegal for gay guys to go elsewhere. Jackson says they hang out at a sports bar.
Where girls would jump at an NFL player just for walking in.
Nope. Don’t like that either.
Can I tell him that, though?
One kiss in a bathroom and an awkward text convo doesn’t make Miller mine. Or us together.
Is that even what I want?
I don’t know what I want.
Me: Well, have fun, I guess.
Miller: I’ll remember to have fun under your orders two weeks from now. Until then, I’m all light exercises, crutches, and trying not to kill my family. Fucking sucks.
Me: Guess your porn subscription is getting a workout, huh?
Smooth, jackass.
Miller doesn’t respond, and for some reason, my brain thinks it’s a good idea to dig a deeper hole for myself.
Me: Speaking of which, Jackson walked in on me jerking off to gay porn.
Fuck! Phones need a recall feature for sent messages. My phone pings, and I don’t want to look at it.
Miller: Why do you get to have all the fun? I should room with you guys on the road next season.
Wait … is he saying he’d be into walking in on that? Or is he referring to watching Jackson and his boyfriend go at it?
Clarify without me having to ask, you stupid ass.
He doesn’t listen to me. Or I’m not telepathic. One or the other.
Me: Told you I’d rock the gay thing.
I bite my lip, awaiting his response.
Miller: Because watching gay porn totally makes you gay. *Sarcasm*
He adds the eye-rolling emoji.
Me: If you were here, I’d show you just how gay I can be.
Miller: Don’t have to be there to prove it, and I call your bluff.
Me: How am I supposed to prove it when we’re not in the same state?
Surely, he doesn’t want me to hook up with a guy here … Oh, God, that is what he wants. He’s trying to let me down gently. At least, that’s what I think until his next message comes through.
Miller: Video call me.
Oh, fuck.
My finger hovers over the button for a lot longer than it should. I didn’t think he’d call me on it. Although, I should have. It’s Miller.
It’s Miller, I remind myself and come so close to hitting Call. But at the last second, I can’t do it, and I don’t even know why.
Maybe I’ve pushed this too far.
Chapter Ten
MILLER
I have no idea what happened. One minute, Talon’s talking shit that made me think he could’ve been serious about this bi-curious thing, and the next minute, he’s ghosting me.
Our texting was leading somewhere, and then it just died, and now I have no idea what to say to him or where it was heading.
I contemplate calling him to sort it out, and every night for two weeks, after my little niece goes to bed, I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, because I don’t think I have it in me to be the one to make the call.
I think I fucked things up by challenging him. Maybe he’s weirded out that I called him on his shit, because from what I can tell, no one else does.
The biggest reason for not calling for answers is something I don’t want to admit: fear of rejection is crippling.
I never would’ve thought Talon would be the type of person to mess with me, so logic tells me there’s more to it than a simple he was joking.
Was the gay porn a joke too? Did that actually happen or was he playing it up for the challenge I supposedly set for him?
And this is exactly why entertaining any sort of notion about the two of us together is idiotic. Because I will literally drive myself crazy asking all these questions I don’t have any answers to.
The idea of video calling me is too much for him, I guess. Which I should be fine with—I should expect him to freak out. It’s better for him to walk away now before I truly get my hopes up.
Now, after weeks of thinking about nothing but PT and Talon, I can hobble around without crutches, and Jackson’s boyfriend is home to deal with some charity he runs, so he’s taking me to meet his friends in the city.
I find him leaning against his Beemer waiting for me as I limp out my front door. He’s long and lean, and not for the first time, I give Jackson props for his taste in men. Noah’s hot.
“How’s the leg?”
We do the whole man-hug, back-slap thing.
“I’m super drugged up right now, so it feels great.”
Noah laughs. “Guess taking you to a bar is a dumb idea then. Can you even drink?”
“I’m just happy to be out of the house. You have no idea how crowded my mom’s place is. Between my sister living there since her split from her baby daddy, my niece, and my mom, I’m going crazy. I mean, I love them, but, yeah, crazy.”
“Damn.”
Noah rounds his car, and it takes me so long to lower myself into the passenger seat that he’s already buckled up and has the engine revving by the time I even shut my door.
“Are they sure you’re gonna be okay for next season? You’re moving slower than my grandmother who’s in a nursing home.”
I laugh. “Right now, I feel like a fucking grandmother. Doctors say I should be fully recovered by the time the season’s over, and then I’ve got the off season to recondition. My entire life revolves around physical therapy and not much else.” Except making myself crazy by thinking about Talon incessantly.
“Look at it this way, Matt’s and Talon’s right now revolve around football.”
Noah may be good-looking, and I’m sure he’s probably smart, but I don’t think he’s thought that through. He sucks at trying to make me feel better.
“You don’t play any sports, do you?” I ask.
“How’d you know?”
“If you did, you’d know that’s an athlete’s idea of bliss.”
Noah glances at me out the corner of his eye. “Matt sure doesn’t seem happy with football right now. I’m glad I was called back to the city for a few days.”
I pull back. “Huh? Why?”
“Don’t you talk to your teammates?”
“Not really.”
“Not even Talon? Aren’t you two tight?”
I narrow my eyes. “What did Jackson tell you?”
“You sports people and calling everyone by their last name.” Noah shakes his head. “Jackson didn’t tell me anything about you and Talon, but there’s so a story there, and I’m so grilling Matt about that when I get home.”
“Don’t. It’s … nothing. College shit.”
“That’s a long time to hold onto issues,” Noah says.
I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. “Maybe I could do with a drink after all.”
Noah grins. “Well, this could be interesting.”
By the time we wade through city traffic and find a parking spot relatively close by, I’m ready to stretch the leg, but then two blocks later, I’m out of breath, in pain, and asking Noah to give me a second. I brace myself against the wall of a building. It’s only been a few weeks since the surgery, so I probably shouldn’t be on the leg so much.
