Sunday, June 28, 2009

All Over Honey Tucker

As I drive up to the side of the gym, the headlights wash across Honey Tucker’s slack figure braced against the empty bike racks. It’s late Saturday—the sun is fading pink in my rearview mirror. My keys jangle on the big ring on my belt loop. I greet Honey, and he mumbles, “Hiya Coach.” He punches the juice machine to see if it lets loose a drink or some change.

The girls at school named him “Honey” because his skin looks golden brown. Good enough to lick. The nickname plays on his first initial, “B.”

The main key gets us in at the back, and its twin opens the door to the weight room. Lights flicker on. Honey brushes by me and peels off his shirt. His rough hands clasp the bar of the Dynamax, and the foot-thick weight stack slides up like it weighs next to nothing.

The room is hot. No AC on weekends. I straddle the bench facing him and count out the reps. The palpable sweetness of his skin is offset by his smoky eyes. At 17, 5’5”, 160 pounds, he has a quiet, magnetic sultriness—not dashing or showy like bigger boys on the team with half his athleticism, but solemn and intense.

48 … 49 … His chest gleams under the white fluorescent lamps. It tightens and swells in low relief above his flat belly. He looks right into my eyes as I count. His eyes twinkle with shy amusement. His waist is miraculously long. 64 … 65 … His forearm veins distend, blue-green shadows under the golden skin. A trickle of sweat glides down his jaw line, down his neck.

I’m not even nine years older, yet I cannot remember being as fresh as he is this minute. 83 … 84 … He’s the smallest forward—still, a half-inch taller than me. He slows down deliberately to savor the burn. Every motion is a smooth, continuous glide—no tremors or tweaks. 100.

I toss him a small towel, and he wipes his armpits. He stands, sucks in his stomach, raises his elbows over his head, and stretches, bending left, then right, then left again.

“So dude we doin this?”

I’m caught off guard by his voice—its manly tenor. Calling me “dude” like we’re equals now. He strides past the row machines, towards the yellow mats stacked up by the wall-sized mirror. He pulls nine of them down and fastens them together. His back to me, he slips out of his cargo shorts; his round buttocks are smooth, white, and firm.

I snap about six quick shots with my Casio. He poses, front double biceps, belly taut. Then down on one knee. His inscrutable face breaks into a momentary self-conscious smirk.

“What you got?”

I set the camera down and strip off my T-shirt. “Not bad, not bad,” he murmurs, flashing teeth. “Harder’n I’d expected.”

I pick up the camera again and toggle the strobe off. I move in for close-ups of his pecs, the silky nips like rose petals. He flexes his bicep, and it rolls up, hard and glowing—he presses the tip of his tongue against it—the black hair in his pit like a puff of smoke. Click click.

“My turn. I wanna do you now.”

I hand the camera to him. He squints through the viewfinder. I copy his poses. Kiss each of my biceps. Drop to one knee. His concentration on me—the lens fixed on my chest and stomach—excites me.

“The shorts Coach Hoehner. Lose the shorts.”

I loosen the drawstrings, tug the elastic waistband down to my ankles, and kick the shorts off to one side. My cock wags free.

“Relax dude.” He chuckles. “Hot. Yeah. Pretty fine for an old guy.”

He’s on his knees focusing on my tool. It’s like I can feel his eyebeams bouncing off my dick. I feel sparks of heat all over. His forearm brushes up on my thigh.

“So you think you can take me?” He says this looking through the camera. Then he lowers it, and looks me in the eyes. “I got maybe six or seven pounds on you. I don’t know, though; you look kinda tough.”

He slides the camera across the tile floor. He hunches down on all fours and crawls on the mat. I drop to my knees and knuckles and lurch towards him. He looks agile and strong, like a jungle cat. We’re face to face, and then we fall back on our haunches. My cock presses up against my lower abdomen. Honey’s hard too.

“I aint no wrestler.” He mumbles diffidently. “You probly can take me.”

I reach up and playfully shove my hand against his chest, pushing him back. He presses back. Harder.

I smile: “Don’t make me hurt you punk.”

His eyes flash. He play-slaps me across the face and chuckles naughtily. Honey wants to be the bad boy, get punished. The glint in his eyes makes me want to beat him up. I crook my head and give him a warning glance, as if to say, “Sure you want this?” He lunges in and slaps me cross the mouth, a bit harder this time.

I snap to, grab his shoulder and neck, and flip his body over mine. He slaps the mat with a loud grunt. His back arches up involuntarily on impact.

I lock my arms round his neck and left shoulder, slip my right leg under his butt, and catch his right leg between my legs. He digs his elbows into the mat and tries to thrust out. I pull his neck to my chest. I thrash my legs in and out to crank up the pressure on his lower back.

His stomach rises and falls as he breathes in a panic, sensing he’s trapped. Holding his neck tight against me, I grab his left knee and yank it up. He tries to pull his head up, but I bear down on him, he makes a tiny yelping noise, and I grab my wrist and squeeze, pressing his knee up to his chin.

He’s pinned, and I count to three, slowly. I let him go, and he rolls over on his stomach, breathing heavy.

“Want some more?”

He pushes himself up on his hands and knees, and I jump on his back. I bracket his knees in mine and grab for his hands. He slaps my hands away, so I bear down on his back, shoving his face to the mat.

I try to pull one of his arms up and behind his back, but he clenches his fists together to stop me. My cock and balls lie flat against his ass crack.

I roll and pull his body over me. He releases his grip to gain balance. I drive my left knee into his ribs, latch on to his right arm, and draw it up behind his back; then I lean forward to push his face back into the mat.

“I give,” he moans to the mat. I release, but give the back of his head a playful shove to make him kiss the rubber once more.

When he rolls over and sits up, sparks flare in his eyes. Hurt pride. I beat him twice in seven minutes.

He sits on his heels, covered in sweat, and takes deep breaths—his eyes locked dangerously with mine. Both of our cocks are hard as steel, but we pretend not to notice.

“Had enough?” I say through my teeth.

“Fuck you.”

I snicker and say, “Not like this you won’t.”

Both our bodies shimmer in sweat. We start to breathe in sync, staring into each other’s eyes. His heart beats furiously, the pulse visible below his sternum. I stroke my penis nonchalantly; his cock rises and throbs against his wet belly.

I say, “So you got anything you’re not showing me yet?”

A flicker of indignation plays cross Honey’s face.

I smile and flex my biceps, the insouciant champion.

Honey stands and stretches. The black curls loosen at the back of his neck. His beauty alone is enough of a provocation. Not even thirty yet, and my hair is thinning. The slim waist, framed with the slats of his ribs as he inhales, is especially touching, as my own trunk has begun to thicken mannishly. He rubs his palm over his slick torso.

I stand up and shadow box to loosen up. Then I do a couple of jumping jacks with a smirk on my face: “Fine by me if you keep letting me make you my bitch boy. Looks like you got nothing I can’t handle. I’ll whoop you all night if that’s the way you like it punk.”

The taunts fire him up. He lurches forward and grabs my left leg and heaves it up to the side of his chest. I hop backwards on one foot, and he kicks at my calf to pull me down. We crash to the mats together, his weight slamming on top of me.

He rides me for a few seconds, belly to belly, one arm smashing my head to the mat, the other tugging my knee up towards my shoulder. I thrust. My right leg latches on to his. I try to roll out, but he shoves me back. His elastic body strains and grinds against mine. I feel the heart pounding in his chest. For a few seconds our hard cocks stab into each other. Then they slide apart. The rubber mat squeaks as our sweating bodies strive.

Then he glides up me, twists, and straddles my chest, his taut ass cheeks under my chin. The heels of my feet get no traction on the slippery rubber. Honey punches my stomach. I tighten my abs to take it. With each punch I get a little harder. He drives his fist to just above my navel, giving his knuckles a curt twist at the finish. The first dozen thumps are slow and methodical. Then he goes a little nuts: rapid-fire jabs to my gut—

bambambambambam, right left right left right.

About 40 of these firecrackers, but they feel like 400.

“Who’s the tough guy?” he mumbles.

He dismounts, and I plant the soles of my feet on the small of his back and shove. He slips on the sweaty rubber and hits the ground with an angry yawp.

Before he can get his bearings, I’m on top of him. I lock his neck in my armpit. I lean back pulling his head and shoulders off the mat. He slugs his fist into my ribcage, but I give his neck a neat twist, and he stops with a whimper.

I keep the hold on his neck and hook his leg in mine. I stretch him out. His whole body shudders, and I just keep it locked up, the two of us just breathing heavy, the sweat rolling off me onto him.

I twist my body and his, so that he can see himself in the mirror. His body thrusts a little bit while I reposition him, but I hold him tight and fast. He rests his left hand on the small of my back. I feel his fingernails touch the skin. He’s looking at the mirror. I flex a bicep with my free arm and kiss it, hoping he appreciates a little arrogance. His cock surges; it’s huge against my thigh.

I roll him over me and look at the mirror’s reflection. His back muscles writhe under his honey-colored skin. His pale ass cheeks quiver.

“I give. I give.” He moans.

I don’t budge.

“What’s that? You saying something?”

“I give.” He pauses. “I give, sir.”

I release him, and he stretches out on his back, rubbing his sore joints and muscles. I stretch out beside him. In an easy, uncalculated way, his hand reaches over and gropes my hard cock.

I look over at him, and his eyes are on mine. They look hungry, charged up. He licks the salty sweat off his lips, and then his head falls back, and he closes his eyes. His fingers blindly explore the tight skin and full veins of my stiff dick. I reach over and grab a fistful of his curly hair behind the ear. Gently I draw him up to me. His body slides easily on the yellow rubber.

“Honey, losers have to answer a question.”

He’s still breathing heavy, half from the exertion of the fight and half from something else. The expression on his elegant face is as sweet as his nickname. After the fight, he looks a little inebriated as the adrenalin pipes down and the sweat begins to cool.

“What?” he asks, his fingers wandering down to my balls. The pace of his breathing picks up. “What is the question the loser has to answer?”

I roll over on top of him, our cocks crossed between us. His body arches up to meet mine. I feel his hot breath against the side of my face. I can feel the look in his eyes almost as if it were a soft, warm pressure at the back of my own.

“Where,” I whisper, close to his ear, “do you want it?”

Monday, June 1, 2009

Brawl at Tony’s All-Nite

Rudy says, “I got a bone to pick with you, Mario,” and all at once everybody knows it’s on.

Mario turns a couple of shades paler, then flushes beet red. You can practically see steam rise up off his forehead.

As the two big men stride out the back door, the crowd squeezes through behind them, filling the lamp-lit alley, folks climbing up on the shoulders of other folks just to watch the mayhem.

This fight has been cooking up for a long time. Rudy crossed one of Mario’s buddies about ten months ago, Mario started badmouthing Rudy, fights broke out between Rudy’s and Mario’s crews, and for over a year the two have filled the bar with their bellicose threats—but never, until Rudy said those nine words, had the two men addressed each other directly.

Mario yanks the loose shirt off his shoulders, to reveal an elaborate mermaid tattoo enveloping one whole pec and looping up and over the left shoulder to the biceps. His henchmen form a corner, separating him from the surging crowd behind.

Rudy smacks his knuckles against his furry chest, like a caveman. His men shore up the onlookers at his back.

Both men are muttering curses under their breath and locking eyes with the opponent. Then, in a sudden burst, like two mountain rams colliding, they rush to the center of the cleared-out space and start punching.

Wildly. Loudly. Like hammers pounding wet clay. Neither man misses his mark, and in seconds fist-shaped splotches flare up on the men’s torsos to make way for bruises. The blows happen so fast you cannot keep track of them, but neither man falters or backs off. The fleshy thwacks echo up the high walls on either side, and the noise of the steel taps on their boots skitters across the muddy pavement.

Both men are big, barrel-chested, and twitching all over with muscle. Evenly matched, toe to toe, forehead to forehead—the next tallest man in the crowd is a full three inches shorter than either one.

I climb up on a dumpster and manage to get a footing on a ledge to get the best view available.

Mario locks his arm round Rudy’s head, squeezes it against his ribs, and pulls his opponent around in a circle. Rudy grabs at Mario’s muscular thighs, manages to catch the buttons at Mario’s crotch, and tightens his fist on his cock and balls. Mario bellows and releases his hold, but Rudy twists the guy’s rod and tugs, and Mario’s knees buckle underneath.

It’s a hot July night. I pull off my T-shirt and stuff it in my back pocket. The two fighters’ bodies glow like marble under the lights, and sweat streams down their sides.

Mario’s flat on his back on the ground, and Rudy pins him fast with his knee to the gut, grabs a fistful of Mario’s pomaded hair, and bangs the back of the guy’s skull to the pavement. The crowd shudders and recoils.

Rudy’s bulging mass atop Mario, whose chest and belly heave with pain and panic, gets me hard. In the darkness, my hand creeps under my belt and fly to fondle my warm erection. Rudy’s broad shoulders, hunched over his smooth-skinned opponent, arch and flex like he’s sticking it to Mario. The intimacy of this brute force tightens my balls. The two warriors’ breathy grunts, vibrating in the city night, sound like giants fucking.

Friends on either side shout out encouragement to their respective champion and taunt the other obscenely.

The heels of Mario’s boots scrape against the pavement. His whole body thrashes as if to buck Rudy off. But Rudy bears down, his lips stretched and teeth gritted. Every nerve concentrating on delivering more hurt.

Somebody in the crowd throws a beer bottle, and it thunks against the base of Rudy’s skull. Outraged shouts among the onlookers, and although I don’t see it, I’m pretty sure somebody just slugged the guy that tossed it. The bottle cracks on the ground and rolls off to one side, unshattered.

The distraction causes Rudy to hesitate, and Mario takes the opportunity to twist free and scramble up to his feet, hauling Rudy’s hulk up with him. Mario drives one or two roundhouse punches to Rudy’s kidneys.

Rudy thrusts into Mario, lifts him up by his waist, and tosses him over his head. Mario crashes on his back on the slimy asphalt. Rudy stomps full force on the mermaid tat for good measure. The blow knocks the wind out of Mario, who looks like he’s about to pass out.

Rudy grabs Mario by the ears and raises him up. He clamps his arms around the smooth he-man’s ribs and lifts him off his feet. Mario writhes in the bearhug, his heels digging into Rudy’s knees, but in a matter of 75 seconds that seems like half an hour, the pressure paralyzes him and his body slackens. The two hard torsos clinched together makes my cock throb all the harder. My whole body palpitates, and a tingling feeling zigzags up my back.

Mario’s shiny, pretty body slumps to the ground. Rudy straddles it, then hunkers down to rest his ass on Mario’s belly and slap both sides of his face with the back of each hand. Mario’s troops back off, and Rudy’s men lean in. Rudy pauses and looks regally around at the faces in the crowd. He doesn’t say a word, and the onlookers fall into an eerie trancelike hush.

Rudy clenches his right fist and picks up Mario’s head with his left hand. For a few seconds, he just floats the fist about nine inches from Mario’s nose. Then, without warning, without a sound, he slams the fist into Mario’s mouth. Mario makes a squishy sound halfway between a gulp and a sob. Six times Rudy drives his fist into Mario’s nose, and blood spurts up in threadlike missiles.

Rudy hunches over Mario like a leopard over a zebra carcass. Breathing deeply and steadily, he lets Mario’s head drop back to the pavement with a crack.

The fight is over, and my mind races—I imagine myself in each man’s skin, and my sensations flicker between dominating and being dominated. In the darkness, invisible to the stunned and dispersing crowd, I stroke myself, yearning to punish and pummel and then, equally, guiltily yearning to be overthrown, vanquished, brutally yet thrillingly mastered by a better man.


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