Page 6

Sitting on the cushioned toilet seat, I stroke my dick to a muted video of a dude my age doing the exact same thing.

I used to get by fine on straight porn, but once I realized I paid way more attention to the dicks than the pussies, I switched to male masturbation porn. Somehow, it hadn’t really felt gay, even when I clicked on sites called GayTube and GaysGoneWild. I told myself it was just to better my personal technique. Even now, I mimic the actions of the man on my phone screen. The way he cups his balls, the way he pinches his cockhead, and the way he grips himself at the base and wags his dick like a tail. I do everything to my cock that this random cam boy does to his own, chasing whatever he’s feeling, desperate to come as hard as I know he will.

But I’m also desperate to see him come. Desperate to see how much spunk shoots from that red tip as his large, hairy-knuckled hand tugs on his shaft. I want to see his balls get tight and his abs flex. If I’d thought to bring my earbuds in, I could even listen to his deep groans and grunts while he unloads.

The video frame cuts whoever-he-is off at the neck so he’s all body and no head, but everything I see is pretty close to perfect. Maybe a bit too skinny for my taste. Lean is good, but I like muscle. Not too much. Not like me, beefed-up and too lumbering on my feet to come close to besting Rowan on a field. No, someone like Rowan… Dreamy eyes, chiseled jaw, svelte body, and running shorts so sweaty they stick to his body like paper machete.

Did he call mebaby boy?

What the fuck?

I come into my hand with my head cranked back and my eyes squeezed shut. No need for the video when I see Rowan so clearly in my head now.

The shame sets in as my dick softens, and I swipe away the incognito tab with my dry hand before disappearing into the shower to wash myself clean. No matter how hard I scrub, desire remains.

Yeah, I’m a fag alright, and maybe that’s not Rowan’s fault, but I’ve gotten pretty good at blaming him over the years, and that’s not about to change tonight.

2

Rowan

Imake it three steps out of the locker room before Coach says my name like a command, stopping me dead. Guess I was too optimistic thinking I could get through practice without him noticing the glaring shiner shadowing the entire upper left quadrant of my face.

The look he gives me is damn near fatherly, but Coach is a hard-nosed, my-way-or-the-highway type dad. Shoulders back, arms crossed, mouth teased and brows knitted. If I was one to be intimidated by older men, maybe I’d be quaking in my cleats right now, but even as a freshman, I found Coach McDonough more comical than threatening.

“What happened?” he asks in a tone that allows theand don’t lie to mepart to go unspoken.

Still, I shrug a shoulder and say, “Fell out of bed last night.”

“Yeah? Fell out of bed and onto someone’s fist?”

I crack a smile as Levi and Raisel come out of the locker room. I lift a hand and dap them both as they go past. The snicker those two share reminds me they know exactly why I’m black and blue, and that won’t do me any favors with Coach right now.

“Rowan,” Coach brings my focus back to him, and Iswear his eye is twitching.

“It’s nothing. I went to a party over the weekend, hooked up with this chick who, as I learned last night, has a boyfriend, so…” I finish the story with a shrug.

“I’d expect this from someone like Levi. Not from you.”

“Shit happens, right?”

Coach shakes his head and uncrosses his arms to un-tuck his clipboard from his armpit. Nodding toward the locker room, he says, “Go put some runners on. You’ll be doing laps through practice.”

“You’re messing with me.”

The look Coach gives me is blunt as a baton to my side. “Not messing with you.”

I toss my arms up. “What happened to boys will be boys?”

Coach steps right up close to me, head tilted down because the old dude is like six-foot-six. “You want to be a boy? Then you can turn that captain’s patch in to me before August so I can give it to someone ready to be a man.”

The tide inside me shifts to where I no longer feel the late spring breeze against my skin or hear the far away chatter of my teammates already stretching for drills on the field. I’m steel now. Hard, immoveable steel that locks my jaw and keeps my eyes glaring into Coach’s. Just tough love maybe, but it’s still bullshit. No one on this team practices more and parties less than I do, but all McDonough sees in me are coattails to get him coaching pro.

He needs me, but he’s too macho to admit it, so he pretends I’m a problem athlete he’s got to whip into shape. Truth is, I’ve never needed him for jack shit. Okay, maybe he’s come in clutch from time to time, but all in all, the dude is a dud.

“I want your ass on that track in five minutes,” he says.

It takes all the restraint I can gather not to curse him out and throw my jersey in his face, tell him to find a new pointguard, a new captain, a new future-cash cow. Fuck this place, this school and this polluted city.