Efrain x Cory

Author’s Note - Thanks for the emails!  Efrain and Cory think I’m doing a shit job of paying you back by putting in another chapter where no one fucks.  I tried to reason that I’m building sexual tension, but they aren’t buying it.  I don’t know, I kinda like letting them be more than just two random guys that have sex in my head.  We’ll see.

This is my first project, so let me know how I’m doing.  dayne.mora@gmail.com  Thank you for reading! ~Dayne

PS - I wouldn’t be able to post this, and you wouldn’t be reading it, without Nifty.  Give some love where love is needed - http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Oh yeah, for those unfamiliar with the name, the correct pronunciation is ef-RYE-een, with a slight roll to the “r”.

Chapter 4 – Twink on the Dancefloor

Now, let’s bitch about my dating life.  

I can pull in all kinds of girls, but can never bring in guys.  Or at least the ones I want.  If they meet my criteria looks-wise, they turn out to be bottoms.  If they are tops, something about them seems sketchy.  One time, I gained the unwanted attention of some bears and Preston called me “Otter Pup” for weeks, which I looked up and I highly doubt he even knows what it means.

About three weeks after I’d started practicing with the team, Preston invited me out to the gay bar.  According to Preston, I intimidated and scared off the relatively safe and sane tops.  Which is why he wanted to take me dancing.  He didn’t care if I sucked at dancing, he just wanted there to be fewer guys trying to pick him up.  I’m going to call that narcissist fuck “Twink Toes” until I think of something more clever (I exhausted “Narcissus” two weeks ago, and he liked it besides).

So, yeah, Twink Toes is rubbing it in that he’s getting all this male attention, when I can’t seem to lure anyone in that I don’t immediately want to throw back.  But I’m game when he tells me it’s Latin Night.  The high school I went to has a pretty big Hispanic population, so Cumbia and Tejano were just as popular as American Top 40.  I talked the Mexican kids into teaching me the moves, which was what I was doing with Alonso Rios in the tool shed in the first place (before we ended up doing what we were doing when Cam walked in – fun times!).  Among all that music on my phone, I still have a fuckton of Spanish dance music.

I make a good show of reticence as Preston drags me out on the floor.  Then, the music comes up and I move.  I swing my hips into a solo bachata.  I’m not the most amazing dancer in the world, but I’m good enough that people give me space and Preston gapes at me like I’ve sprouted longhorns.  I grab his hand and spin him around, then pull him up close and roll my hips against him.

Chingow! No sabes bachata?”  He looks confused.  Obviously, he doesn’t know Spanish either.  “Te enseñare.  Mira.”  I point down at my hips and legs; he at least understands that.  I show him the basic steps, which he emulates.  I put my hand at the small of his back and we move together.

When he masters the basics, I add in a new step, and another, and another, until we’re spinning on the floor, moving in that sensual way of people who have been intimate, as if every movement is loaded with sexual intent and promise.  At least, this is how my dick is interpreting things, and, from what I can feel, his is too.  If we were drinking, and/or a little more hard-up, what we’re doing could easily put us back in bed.

We have a pretty decent audience by the third song, other dancers who observe us as we dance.  Plenty of cat calls and “yaaass girl, slay!” come at us.  They’re disappointed when we move off to get water instead of throwing down and fucking right there on the dance floor.

“Fuck, where’d you learn to move like that?”

Mis amigos.”

“Would you fucking stop that?”

Lo siento.”  Preston growls at me and I laugh.  In my head, I transcribe it as ja ja ja ja.  “Some friends in middle school.”

“You learned that in middle school,” he says doubtfully.

“Not the bachata,” I tell him.  “I learned cumbia and salsa first.”

Preston’s face lights up “Oh!  Teach me to salsa next!”

I would totally love to bachata again, but it’s just as well.  The salsa, while still one of those really suggestive dances, is more involved and requires that we have some space between us.  We dance until we’re sweaty and thirsty, stop for water, then rinse and repeat.  Preston and I are too exhausted to walk by last call.

This performance earns me another spot in Preston’s social rotation and I get to add Latin Night to the list of things to look forward to each week.


It’s taking longer than I expected, but the team seems to be warming up to me.  They finally realize that I’m being fucking sarcastic when I enthuse about loving double burpees.  

“I mean, it’s all about yoga burpees,” I tell Teague, who seems a little slow on the uptake.  Luckily, Lithgow is hip to my game.

“I know man, nothing beats a good yoga burpee,” he says.  “But, you know you haven’t lived until you’ve tried parkour burpees.”  This is about the fourth or fifth time we’ve had this conversation since I started conditioning with the team and we still haven’t exhausted the Wikipedia entry of cracked-out variants.

“Fuck, we did those in middle school.”

“We did them in pee-wee league.”  By this point, Teague looks as confused as Martinez trying to memorize the team playbook.  Garza walks up before I can think of something more absurd.

“We still on for tonight,” he says to Lithgow.  He nods in my and Teague’s direction.  He looked fucking pissed when I first tackled him, but he seemed to have gotten over it quickly.  Good thing as too many scrimmages since then capitalize on me throwing Garza on the ground.


“By the way,” Garza points at me.  “You’re coming.”  With that said, he walks off.

“I’m coming where?” I ask Lithgow doubtfully.

“Ah, some nightclub.  Since he’s the only one of the crew underage, I think he wants a partner in sobriety.”

“We also need another designated driver,” Teague tactlessly adds.

I get back to my dorm and knock out a quick nap before getting ready.  I throw on a pair of dark blue jeans and a hunter green t-shirt.  I add a grey linen button-up shirt and roll the sleeves up to my elbows.  This gets topped off with black oxfords, leather belt, wrist watch, and a quick finger tousle of my hair.

Romero, in a disinterested voice, tells me that unless I’m going line dancing, the Stetson stays here.  

“Have fun, Tex.”  

I wasn’t seriously thinking of putting it on.  Seriously.

I roll up to Teague’s place at the appointed time.  I’m taking Teague and two other teammates, Whitlock and Rice, in my truck.  Garza picked up Lithgow and Baker and will meet us.  Teague asks me to explain the beavers.  So, I tell them all about the magic of Buc-ees.

“Dude,” says Whitlock.  “Remember when we played in Austin?  They had signs for this place all over.”

“What’s so awesome about a big fucking gas station with clean bathrooms?”

“You don’t understand,” says Rice, who grew up in Houston.  “Buc-ees is like an institution.”

We’re still arguing about beavers when we meet up with the others.  Teague grabs my hand, which is still holding my keys, and says “Look, he’s got a Garza keychain” while pointing to Buc-ee.  Everyone looks a little confused by this before he points out the red shirt.  Garza rolls his eyes and the joke fizzles.

I’m so used to seeing everyone in a uniform that it’s a little jarring to see them dressed up.  Admittedly, they’re all wearing some variation on the basic jeans and button-up/polo, but Garza looks anything but basic.  Black slim-fit jeans, black short-sleeve button-up over a blue (not red) v-neck that hugs his pecs, and black Doc Martens.  He wears this all, effortlessly, on his tall, athletic frame.  His near-black hair is pulled back into a top-knot, highlighting his ruggedly attractive face – high cheekbones, Roman nose, full mouth, hazel eyes, strong chin with a couple days’ worth of stubble.  In the most simple terms, the man is fucking gorgeous and I seriously need to stop looking.

Yet, when he turns around to lead the way, it’s all I can do to not fall over myself while checking out the way his jeans hug his ass.  He doesn’t ever “walk”, his steps somewhere between prowl and saunter.  Right now he is prowling.  I consider myself lucky that I decided against tucking in my shirt because I’m already getting close to half-mast watching him move.

I shake my head to clear it and fall in with the pack.  The conversation flits between subjects, barely staying on one topic for very long, as we walk the rest of the way to the nightclub.  The guys walk past the line of people waiting to get inside and the bouncer takes one look at our entourage before letting us in ahead of the line and without charging cover.  It didn’t hit me until later that I’d just experienced my first perk as a player, but whatever.   A second bouncer checks our IDs and Efrain and I get a small black “x” across the back of our hand to signal that we’re under 21.  We could go to a club that serves minors under the table, but that would defeat the purpose of bringing us along.

The nightclub is already in full swing when we walk in.  The DJ is spinning some reggeaton at the moment, but he mixes subtle Latin beats into everything he plays.  People chat at the bar and in the lounges around the sides of the room.  Steps lead down to the dance floor where women dance together in clumps.  Men prowl the edges looking to pick one of them off or else fist pump in time to the music.  I scan the crowd and recognize a chick named Marina that I met while out dancing with Preston.

Marina and a couple of her friends are dancing off to one side.  I break away from the guys to say hi.


Most of my teammates clean up nicely.  I can say this objectively, without any hint of sexual intent.  I’m not interested in straight guys, but they’re not half bad for breeders.

Card, on the other hand…

For some baby-faced 18 year old kid, who I’ve only seen in Chuck Taylors and cargo shorts when he isn’t in uniform, he knows how to put himself together.  I’m too busy checking him out without looking like I’m checking him out when Teague makes some dipshit comment about this stupid beaver keychain that I can’t think of a decent thing to shut him down with.  I settle for rolling my eyes and leading the group to the club so I don’t end up staring at Card the whole way there.

We walk into the club and Card barely stays with us for longer than a minute before he walks off to talk to some Spanish girl.  They hug and she starts enthusiastically introducing him to her friends.  He tries to move off, but she grabs his hand and pulls him further onto the dance floor.  

I get the guys’ attention and point over to where Card and the girl are taking their places.  “This should be good.”

We find a decent vantage point to watch.  Baker’s face is split in a sadistic grin.  I wasn’t there to witness it, but I’d seen enough videos and pictures of the night Baker got shitfaced and danced like an asshole.  He still hasn’t lived that down and it seems his only respite is to inflict the same pain on other guys dumb enough to dance while out with teammates.  He, Whitlock, and Teague all whip out their phones to record Card’s imminent flailing.

On the floor, Card has the girl pressed against him.  “Ima call this ‘Card’s Texas Two-step’” Whitlock jokes good naturedly.  They trade quips back and forth, you know, guys being guys.

Rice tries to defend him.  “Shit, you know you’d be out there making an ass out of yourselves if the chick was that hot.”

“He has a point,” Lithgow adds.  “God, I’d flop around like Baker on a rager for an ass like that.”  She’s beautiful, even I can admit that despite not being into women.  However, this does not stop us from cracking jokes.

The jokes stop when Card and his partner start moving.  Their steps are small at first, relying more on the motion of their hips.  Other dancers notice what they’re doing and a pocket opens around them.  Their steps expand to work the open space and they’re given even more room.  In less than a minute, he has enough space to dance her through complex dips, turns, and spins.  Head, arms, shoulders, hips, legs, feet thrown into his movements.  Those immediately around him stop and gape.  He’s fucking good.

I look over at the guys, their faces looking as confused as I feel.  No one knows what to make of what they’re seeing.  “How’d a white kid learn to move his hips like that?”  I’m not sure who said it, but I nod in agreement.  For the moment, Card has his back to us and his hips roll almost as much as hers do.  Those rolling hips would haunt me at night for weeks to come, but I’m still too stunned at the moment to appreciate this.  

“You still recording this?” asks Rice.  By this time another song has started.  Card and his friend keep dancing.  I think they switched styles because I recognize some of the steps as merengue.  

They dance for a bit before her two friends join them.

I don’t know how, but he works it to where he’s dancing with all three girls – bringing in one close then spinning her back out, grabbing her friend and moving through some steps, taking the third by the hand and twirling them both around, spinning out the second, dancing close to the third, and on and on.  He switches back and forth between them so no girl goes long without being involved. The girls are all breathless and laughing.  He seems a little sweaty, but completely in command.

The guys cat call at him and he sends back a smug grin.

“Fuck, man,” Lithgow claps me on the shoulder.  “Are you sure you’re Puerto Rican?  He’s more Latino that you are.”

For some reason, that comment and Card’s face piss me off.  I’ve had to deal with the comparisons ever since the first time Card took me down – that he’s as fast as I am, or as good as I am at reading the field, or able to think as fast as I can, or any number of things.  Every scrimmage has him hounding me, and it drives me insane with how he knocks my ass over every damn time.  Then he turns around with that smug fucking look and I want to deck him.  I don’t care how good he looks in grey linen and hunter green.

Without thinking, I hop off my barstool and wind my way over.  When I get to the edge of their little group, he spins one of the girls and she goes a little wide.  She falls against me, so I cock my eyebrow and offer her my hand.  She takes it and we dance.  I don’t know multiple styles like Card; I prefer to master one, rather than be merely competent in two or three.  For his part, Card seems undaunted in facing off against a much better dancer.  He grins that fucking good boy smile of his and says “Sup, Garza!”

I smile back, you know, because there’s no hard feelings or anything, I’m just here to dance.


By the time the last song plays, Card, the girls and I have paused only long enough to get water and catch our breath.  The five of us go to look for the other guys and only find Teague and Rice waiting.  The rest had long since left with whatever hookup they found for the night or to drink somewhere else.  We all decide to head home, and start heading for the cars.

Card has a girl under each arm and the third hanging off his back.  The four of them are chatting animatedly in Spanish.  My mom is half Cuban and my dad is Puerto Rican, like immigrated-from-Puerto-Rico Puerto Rican, I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household, but I can barely follow what they’re saying.  Fuck if I’d actually be able to respond in Spanish.

Teague, Rice, and I walk behind them in disbelief.  Teague still has his phone out snapping pictures because no one would believe us if we told them.  He’d apparently been live-Tweeting the whole thing and people still don’t believe it.

“What the hell are they talking about?” Rice says to me quietly.

“How they can’t believe he’s only 18 and something about finding a third guy, I think.”

“Damn, if they weren’t hanging on him like that, I’d say you have a decent chance of pulling one,” Teague adds.  “By the way, since when have you been able to dance?”

I don’t answer.  Card is now talking about his friend Preston, who is a cheerleader and also knows how to salsa and bachata.  He shows them a picture on his phone and they make appreciative noises.

“I taught him everything he knows.”

The one on his left says “Espera!” and leans in to whisper something.  The other two girls lean in, too.  He nods his head and the one on his left and the one behind him squeal.  The one on his right, Marina, I think, giggles then shoots me a look like she knows something I don’t.

“What about you?” says the one behind.

“Column A, Column B.”

Ala,” says the one on his left.  “The good ones are either gay or taken.”

“You’re only half right,” he says and the girls giggle.  So, he has a girl somewhere, but it’s not serious.  Which confirms that he’s definitely not gay, even if he does hang out with the GSA and considers the openly gay cheerleader “just a friend.”

I feel let down.  Then I feel more pissed off because of that.

When we get back to the corner, he turns back to us.  “Hey, Garza, do you mind taking back Teague and Rice?  I’m not comfortable leaving them alone to wait for a cab.”  He doesn’t even wait for a reply, just says “Thanks, man.”  The girls take turns hugging me and kissing me on the cheek.  They even hug Teague and Rice and promise to friend us all on Facebook (which they do the next day).  Then, Card and his entourage walk off, giggling and talking over each other in Spanish.

“Card’s Texas Two-step” is never dropped.  Instead, a series of videos and pics blow up Facebook and Instagram, and no one will shut the fuck up about “The Night Card Stomped Garza in a Dance-off Then Went Home with Three Girls.”