NFL Tryout, part 2
by Greg Scott
All the usual stuff about you must be old enough in your jurisdiction, etc. In other words, if you are underage, don't read this unless you have a really cool teacher who assigned it. Otherwise, come back in a few years, when nobody will yell at you.
Forty-eight hours later I rushed to that same men's room, hoping to intersect with my new acquaintance.
I practically ran through the corridor, because I had been detained at the end of my class by several questions from students who lingered in the front of the classroom. I wanted to just tell them all to stop by my office during office hours, but it was not my style to give students the brush-off.
Consequently, as I walked briskly through the halls, I encountered little traffic. Most people had already made their way to their next destination, wherever that might be. I had a sinking feeling that my anticipated, planned run-in with my friend would have to wait until next week.
At last I arrived at my destination and pushed the door open. Once I moved beyond the privacy wall, I quickly noted that the sink area and both stalls were empty. I turned the corner to see what I had feared.
Both urinals were vacant. I was the only one present. Apparently I had missed the appearance of the object of my growing lust.
While my fantasy had been the driving force of the speed of my progress to the destination, I did have a personal matter to which to attend. I moved to the urinal to the left, emptied my bladder and returned to the sinks to take care of personal hygiene.
After drying my hands, I took advantage of my empty surroundings. I peeked into both stalls to see if any new graffiti had appeared. I saw that a new poem in a familiar hand had made an appearance, but nothing else.
Some time before I discovered that a student of mine--coincidentally also a player on the university's bowl bound football team--liked to bring a little class to the men's room by sharing original poetry on the stall walls. These were not the usual scatological scribblings so popular in middle school years. Instead, he wrote thoughtful, often moving literary works filled with references to the classics. It was an odd hobby, but I admit to admiring his originality of thought and publication medium.
But the purpose of this trip was much cruder than the poetry on the wall, so I made my way out of the room.
As luck would have it, and as you may have anticipated no sooner had I left the restroom than my sexy, well endowed football player entered the hallway with the obvious destination clearly in mind. We nodded to each other as we passed.
I executed an immediate u-turn and settled at the drinking fountain next to the men's room entrance. My target was inside, but I was not. I surveyed the area to assess whether anyone might have seen me exit the restroom, but there was nobody around.
I wasn't the slightest bit thirsty, but I drank voraciously from the drinking fountain as I went over my various options. I could simply go on with my day, but I knew that I would regret such a retreat. I could enter the men's room, but that would be a clear admission to the football player that I was stalking him.
As I pondered those two simple alternatives, I continued drinking. Had anyone actually been watching me, they would think that I had just crossed the longest and driest of deserts. I knew what I wanted to do, but my fear kept me immobilized.
Biology took over. Like many men, when there is a disagreement between the Ego and the Id, my Id nearly always wins. I entered the bathroom.
I want to step away from the narrative for a moment to rationalize my choice. Essentially, I wish to defend the Id.
To this point in my life my regrets deal with opportunities that I have allowed to pass rather than those that I have seized. I don't mean to suggest that every sexual encounter that I have ever had has been spectacular. And I certainly don't claim that every relationship of mine has been an unparalleled success. But I do not regret any of them.
On the other hand, there have been some times when I have allowed some possible encounters to pass by me due to inaction on my part. Usually some sort of fear kept me from doing what I wanted to do. Those are the tiny moments in my life where I know I erred.
So I boldly walked into the men's room, decision firmly made. I entered in time to see my man walking toward the sinks. My moments of indecision seemed to have doomed me.
Still, I strutted to the urinal, choosing the one on the right. Within seconds my prey appeared at the porcelain on my left.
Starting at half mast, I filled out to my full glory within seconds. Such was the masculinity emanating from the man next to me.
He unzipped and struggled to release his very stiff, impressive member. He stroked it slowly.
I stroked mine in return, while staring at his.
After a few strokes, I raised my eyes to his face. This, of course, is the moment of truth in such an encounter. When I saw the intensity of his gaze at my stiff cock, I realized that I was now his prey. He looked determined, almost fixated.
Eventually, he looked into my eyes. When he saw my obvious interest, he began to back up until he had reached the edge of the ineffective, privacy semi-wall.
I backed up as well. When I was beyond the little wall, he turned to face me, pointing his weapon at mine.
I turned toward him, and he grabbed me with a confident tenderness. His hand slid back and forth over my dick. I grasped his cock. It felt warm and smooth and very, very firm.
I thought I would explode from the sensations after two days of anticipation, fantasy and several jack-off sessions imagining this very scenario.
I reached into his pants to release his balls, and he returned the favor.
Suddenly we both froze and stared at each others' faces as we heard footsteps approaching our sanctuary. We both jumped frantically as close as we could get to our respective urinals.
I had momentarily forgotten that we were technically in a public space. The rest of the world had disappeared from my consciousness. Now I remembered that we were in danger.
I know that some men--and women too--are aroused by the danger of being caught. I do not share that fetish. Apparently my new friend did not either. Being caught could literally mean the end of my employment. For him, it would mean considerable disdain in the world of high level collegiate football--or worse.
The footsteps moved on beyond the doorway to the men's room, and we could soon hear the exterior door open as the person left the building.
As soon as we had regained our confidence is our safety, we moved back to our previous accessible positions. I had lost my hard on during my panic, but his manual magic brought me back to life almost immediately. He, on the other hand, had remained as rigid as before.
The close encounter of the real world seemed to instill a new sense of urgency in him. After a couple of mutual strokes on the other's cock, he dropped to his knees, engulfing me with his warm, wet mouth.
Never in my life have I come so close to a premature ejaculation. I felt the familiar tingling throughout my body, as I tried desperately to find some self control.
I tried the usual trick of thinking of anything non-sexual, but I couldn't get my mind off the glorious man whose tongue and lips were working their expert magic while his rough fingers gently fondled my balls. Finally, I allowed myself to be lost in the release that I had anticipated.
The first shot into his hungry mouth seemed to make him even more voracious. He worked harder, and I rewarded him plenty for his efforts.
When he was certain that I had no more to offer him, he stood. I was confused when he started to put himself away. I grabbed his hand and shook my head in the negative.
He said, "Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes, I'm sure."
I put myself away, then fell to my knees to worship his impressive tool.
I began by licking his tight, brown balls, marveling at the tight curls of rich, black hair. I ran my tongue up the underside of his shaft measuring it to consider how I could fit it into my mouth.
Ninety percent of any challenge is met by determination somebody once told me--probably some coach. I was determined to give this man some measure of the pleasure he had given me.
I'm sure my efforts were aided by a biological gift I have for some reason. Unlike many men, I remain erect and rather aroused for quite a while after my climax. Thus, my enthusiasm for my task was real; it was much more than the payment of a debt.
I took most of him into my mouth on my first effort. He emitted something that I can only describe as a whispered moan, guttural but quiet. My second effort was entirely successful.
He seemed to struggle to say, "Nobody's ever done that before."
Then he grabbed my shoulders. His grasp wasn't demanding as it is with many men who insist on seizing control of the situation. His was more of a declaration of possession. It was tender but firm, which, I would soon learn, actually describes many aspects of this remarkable man.
With my next move, he rewarded me with amounts of his cum, easily equal to the amount that I had given him. I'm not sure that I even noticed the exquisite flavor that time, but in the coming months I would get to know it very well. I can still recall the taste.
We got to know each other well over the next few months, sharing intimate moments at my house and during a weekend long date to a resort hotel in a different city. Those moments were certainly more romantic that this first real encounter.
Still, several years later, as I sat in my den and watched him play (starting defensive unit) for the AFC in the pro-bowl, it was that day in the men's room of my building that I recalled most. In retrospect, I always thought of that as my NFL tryout. I am glad that I made the team, even though it only lasted for those few months.
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