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?”

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