Date: Fri, 19 Nov 2021 08:34:05 -0600 From: Kenneth Chancellor Subject: Team Player 1 This story contains male on male sex between minors, and some older male/younger male sex, with a few bisexual scenes. The principal story, however, is an incestuous relationship between two brothers that is forged from the harsh realities of their environment. The story is ripe with violence, bullying, manipulation and occasional rough sex. If it's a happy feel-good story you're looking for, I suggest you read something else. Thank you. The Team Player, Part One Today, I can honestly say I love locker rooms. The way they smell, the bare aesthetic, the sounds of banging locker baskets, deep throated voices and the hiss of multiple showerheads spraying water over naked male bodies. Not to mention the sight of nude men moving easily and unashamed, their flaccid cocks swinging and jiggling in front of them with every movement, every step. But I hated them when I started high school and showering became mandatory. It was one thing to see, hear and smell the beauty of the locker room, but something altogether different when you're a body conscious fourteen-year-old who has only begun to sprout crotch hair, was plagued with the threat of an unexpected and unintentional boner every time I caught a glimpse of one of the older guys' buff, manly bodies. It didn't help that by the second day of school, everyone seemed to have guessed that I was gay. By the end of the first week, my complete lack of athletic skills confirmed to my classmates the obvious. I couldn't catch a ball to save my life, and there was something about the way I ran that made the other boys laugh and mock me, despite my being clearly faster than anyone in my class, except Bobby Meyer and his ridiculously long, lean body, who ran like the wind. The only game I was any good at was dodge ball, but only in defense. I could duck and move to avoid the balls flying at warp speed in my direction, but I couldn't throw worth a damn. On an early autumn day, Coach sent us running down a five-mile run that was marked with cones and signs through the nearby neighborhood. I didn't mind running as it was a loner sport, and I set out on an easy pace, enjoying the quiet solitude of the neat, picket fenced homes and shaded streets. It was a far cry from the mostly concrete and sunlight drenched trailer park I lived in, and I allowed my mind to drift into a day dream of one day meeting the man of my dreams and settling down in a quiet suburb together. "Hey, Sammy!" I heard Jason Boudreaux call to me from behind. I didn't turn to look at the sixteen-year-old bully, although I often did check him out in the locker room. He was a brunette with a light brown complexion and dark, sultry eyes. "Hey, ketchup head, I'm talking to you!" "I don't think he likes you," I heard Mark Jacobs laugh. I could see his wide smile stretched across his angular features, his blonde hair curling upward at the ends, trained by the New York Yankees baseball cap he was always wearing. "You must not be his type." "Is that true, Sammy?" Jason asked, "You don't think I'm sexy?" I didn't answer. "Hey, man, I think your sexy," Mark told him. "Aw, thanks, man," Jason said mockingly, "Give me a kiss." I heard the two of them laugh, feet scamping and stomping, losing their volume of sounds as I kept moving, and I assumed Jason must have tried to steal a kiss from his best bud. I didn't look. I just kept running. "Hey, Sammy, want to sneak into some of these bushes and have a little fun?" Jason asked after a few minutes. He moved in on my left as Mark moved in on my right. "It won't take long," Mark told me. "Speak for yourself!" Jason laughed. I increased my pace into a full on run and put some distance between us. The flirtations weren't anything new for me, and they weren't always from Jason and Mark, but Jason was the most consistent. I saw it for the sick, twisted way he had of making fun of me, dangling the hopes of his dick in front of me like a carrot to a mule with no intention of actually giving it to me. One day, he even went so far as to strip down in the locker room, move in behind me and air hump my fully clothed butt before I turned to look at him and he retreated to the showers in howling laughter. The whole locker room burst into laughter, and that was the first day the guys in the showers all fled in mock terror when I joined them. It irritated me that I became the bad guy in that scenario when it was Jason pretending to fuck another guy. I showered alone that day, thankfully, and cried quietly in a corner of the group showers as I numbly went through the motions. After that, I began to stall as long as possible before heading to the showers, often offering to gather the balls together for Coach or run the dry mop over the gymnasium floor. Anything to prevent my having to be naked and vulnerable with guys who saw me as a threat to their manhood. "Want some fries with that shake?" I heard Mark call out behind me as they caught up. "We still have time to slip away," Jason told me as he reemerged on my left. I sped up and just kept running. It was only a few blocks from school and I couldn't get back fast enough. It's not like I didn't want to sneak off with them, but the certainty that if I even seemed interested, I'd be outed to the whole school and the harmless taunts would become serious bullying. It was unfair that the straight guys could pursue the girls they liked, even if it ended with rejection, but I couldn't even show any interest in a guy without certain retaliation that would not stop with just the one guy but spread throughout the school like a wildfire. As long as there was no real proof, all they had was jokes and acting stupid. I couldn't stand the idea of my sexuality being used as a weapon to beat me down on a daily basis. This run was going to be the death of me, I thought as I ran onto the field and made a bee line to the gym. My throat and sinuses were raw, my lungs burned and I was struggling to take a deep breath. My legs were weak, thighs burning, feet sore, but I continued on out of fear of dropping like a sack of potatoes if I stopped moving. I could feel my heart beat in my temples, hear it in my ears, see it pulsing in my vision. My shirt was soaked with sweat and my dick and balls were rolling around in tighty whitey soup. I was gulping at air like a fish out of water, my face hot and my body cold as my thighs burned with the effort of just taking another step. It wasn't until I was in the gym and headed for the locker room that Coach reprimanded me and I slowed to a walk, then flopped down on the long wooden plank bench in front of my locker. Hunched over and trying not to puke, I heard Jason and Mark enter with laughter, their footfall moving closer. My wired basket locker was near theirs, giving me ample opportunity to check them and a few of the other upperclassmen out when they stripped down to shower. One, a mop-headed blonde Junior named Carl, had an impressively thick dangler, the first uncircumcised dick I'd ever seen. "Oh, he don't look so good," I heard Mark say in a mocking pout. "Should have taken us up on our offer," Jason laughed, "We would have taken it easy on him." "Hey, speak for yourself," Mark laughed. They both cracked up with laughter. "Maybe he'd be more comfortable on his knees." I remained where I was, listening to them strip naked, along with the other guys around me, but I dared not look up. My body was in a state of revolt, my breathing slowing but my lungs felt as raw as my mouth and throat were dry. I felt light headed and had a growing headache. "Hey, are you alright?" I heard Jason ask. There was some genuine concern in his voice as he sat next to me on the bench and placed a hand on my shoulder. I was aware that he was completely naked without looking directly at him. "I'm fine," I tried to say, my voice cracking as the air scraped across my raw throat, not much different from how it cracked and changed pitched as it adjusted with the onset of puberty, a phase I was sure I had outgrown last summer. "I'll go get some water," Mark said. Jason rubbed my back soothingly as we waited. I felt uncomfortable having attention directed at me, but Jason's hand on my back made me feel better somehow, like he genuinely wanted to be sure I was alright. Mark returned and knelt in front of me, handing me a paper cone shaped cup of water. His hairy cock and balls hung between his legs right in my line of sight. "Here, Drink this." I took the cup and sipped at the water. It both burned and soothed at the same time. I drank a little more, sloshing it around in my mouth before swallowing and started feeling a little better. "He's good," Jason said, "You'll feel better when you shower. Start with hot, then switch to cold. You need help undressing?" I looked at him like he'd just confessed to murdering his family. "Yeah, that was a stupid question." They headed for the shower as I finished the water and started peeling my workout uniform off. I was walking in when they were coming out. Not that they noticed. They were busy toweling off and talking about something. I didn't care what, as long as it wasn't about me. Tyler Jackson was showering when I stepped into the steamy space and carefully made my way across the slippery tile as some of the other students hurried passed me. Tyler noticed what happened and frowned. Under the hot spray, I lathered up and rinsed off, aware of Tyler's presence the whole time. When I finished my shower, I turned off the water, then remembered what Jason said and switched on the cold water. The shock nearly knocked me on my ass, and I scrambled out of the cold jet. I looked at Tyler when I heard him laughing. His lean muscular body looking especially sexy with the water cascading over it. Braving my way back under, I held my breath as I slowly turned in a tight circle. I eventually got used to it and turned off the water with the realization that I was tougher than I thought I was. After toweling off and dressing, I heading back into the gym with my uniform in hand, intending on bringing it home to wash out in the sink. Jason was sitting on the bottom bleacher between two girls I didn't know. "Hey, Sammy," he called to me. I turned to look at him, "I hear you have no dick." "Why are you so interested in my dick?" I responded without missing a beat. The girls laughed hysterically and he slouched between them looking defeated, his naturally tanned complexion reddening his rectangular shaped face. There was a definite look of anger on his face, which I ignored. I found a seat by myself on the bottom bleacher closest to the door, hoping to make a hasty escape when the bell rang. "Don't mind him," Tyler told me as he copped a squat next to me like we were friends. We weren't but he was a nice guy a couple of years ahead of me who lived two trailers down from me. He invited me to a sleepover one night when we were still in middle school that got a little hot and heavy while we were wrestling in our underwear, but it didn't go anywhere. It was also the last time he spoke to me. "He's just trying to make himself look good for those girls." "I know that," I huffed, turning to check the time on the caged clock mounted high on the cinderblock wall. "It's none of my business, Sam," he continued, "But if you're into guys, why not try out for the football team? You'd get to see naked dudes all the time." "Did you not see how bad I am at flag football?" I asked him with a dismissive laugh, "I be killed in a real game." "I didn't mean as a player," he laughed loudly, "I meant as a water boy. Part of the job is to hand out towels to the players when they exit the showers, and being on the team even in a superficial way, would make you one of them. Bullies would be less likely to fuck with you if you had the school's entire football team behind you." "Jason is on the team," I reminded him. He just nodded as if that made his point. "Besides, I'm sure they already have a water boy," What was he up to? No one liked me. I was the school's queer "carrot top" loner who only spoke when necessary, had panic attacks when asked to read in class, and skipped lunch to avoid the crowded cafeteria. I was an all-black wearing outcast from the wrong side of the tracks who wore my older (and more popular) brother's hand me downs that were too big for me, which I wore like the huge chip on my shoulder. If I was as big as my brother and not a ninety-pound weakling, I'd probably be the most feared bully in school. "We did," he told me with a frown. For some reason, for the first time, I noticed his dark brown eyes, his curly dishwater blonde hair and the handsome features of his face. Until then, Tyler was no more than a dick with enough length to give it a nice swing and a missed opportunity to lose my virginity. "But Jonesy was in a car wreck last week that broke an arm and took him out of commission." The bell sounded and we both stood. "Give it some thought is all I'm saying." I fantasized about it all through lunch, sitting on a bench in the quad, sporting a boner I tried to keep hidden by crouching low as I read my English book, then dismissed it as nothing but a pipe dream. I was a loner, not a joiner. Besides, Tyler was probably setting me up for some prank. As the last bell of the day sounded, the halls of Stephen F. Austin High School erupted into the loud murmur of students excitedly preparing to leave for home. I weaved my way through the shifting maze of students toward my locker with the same urgent speed. Opening it by jealously guarding my combination number, I pulled out the ratty faded black backpack I inherited from my older brother, Cash, a hand me down that was covered with pins embossed with the names and logos of garage bands no one has heard of, most of them securing the badly stitched holes and rips. Most of what I owned was hand me downs, including the all-black attire I was wearing. At eighteen years of age, six foot two inches tall and a solid two hundred forty pounds, Cash is physically bigger than I was, so none of my clothes fit properly, especially the baggy pants I kept on with a tightly cinched belt I stole from my father's closet, the longer legs folded into cuffs. I casually checked to be sure my eyeglass case was still in my backpack, a habit born of paranoia. I didn't wear glasses, but the school's security guard never seemed to register that when I passed through the morning check point and my backpack was searched for contraband. It took weeks of experimentation and observation to realize that fact, testing a variety of inconspicuous containers before finally finding that one object no one considered a threat. Throwing my bag over one shoulder, I closed my locker door and headed out the side doors to make my way around the back of the gym, catching the bite of the late autumn air right in the face. Stopping briefly to take a look in the locker room, which was already dick central as the school's football team stripped down and suited up for practice, I took in the sights for a moment, then searched for my target. I caught Blain Hawthorn's eye, standing there as naked as the day he was born. His handsome face and dark blue eyes were accented by the raven black color of his hair, perfectly combed and held in place with what I could only guess was some sort of gel that cost more than my entire secondhand wardrobe when it was new. His big, muscular body was covered with a fine scattering of hair right down to the thick patch pubes that crowned what looked like an ample piece of cock meat that I wanted to choke on. Not that I'd ever tell him that. He gave me an upward nod accompanied with raised, questioning eyebrows, and I responded with a downward nod of confirmation. Everything we had to say to each other was conveyed in those simple gestures, signaling my retreat from gay heaven. At the bleachers that flanked the field, I walked behind them, silently counting the metal fence posts. At seven, I stopped and pulled the loose cap off to fish the half sack of pot I stashed there the previous night, making sure the adults walking the track that circled the field in a hopeless effort to shed a few pounds and give them the bodies they once had in their youth didn't see me. It was sad to think I might one day walk endless circles around that same field sometime in my future, desperately trying to reclaim what was long gone. With the sack safely stashed in my bag, I made my way up the bleachers, taking the steps two at a time until I reached the top. I pulled out my Walkman radio and slipped on my headphones to listen to a DJ introduce "One" by Metallica by going on and on about what a deep connection he had to the song over the song's rhythmically haunting guitar riffs. I didn't have the luxury of a computer at home, an iPod was out of the question, and in an age when everyone had a phone, no one in my household had a one. My Walkman was purchased secondhand by my father when he was my age, and it still worked just fine. Though it did limit my musical selections to whatever was on the radio, but if something came on one station I hated, I could just hit a button and switch to another programmed station in search of something more palatable. Musically, I was more interested in the song than any particular artist or genre. I didn't have to wait long before my first customer arrived, sitting next to me nonchalantly, before discreetly showing me two fingers. Opening my eyeglass case, I pulled out two joints, exchanging them for the cash in one seamless motion that an outsider might mistake as a parting handshake. He got up to leave without a word spoken between us, and another soon followed. It went like this for about thirty minutes before I was out of product and Blain made his expected appearance at the foot of the bleachers, dressed for practice in the school's colors of blue and gold, the shoulder pads giving his already wide shoulders an almost comical look. I descended on the benches as steps and met him at the bottom. "You got it?" he asked nervously, looking around us suspiciously. "You got the cash?" I asked, smiling while trying to not laugh at the ridiculousness of his paranoia. In the months since school started, I've sold pot to nearly every player on the team, as well as the head coach, but, admittedly, never in this quantity. "Yeah," he said shiftily, "But I've been told this should only cost me fifty." "We made a deal for one hundred," I reminded him bluntly, wincing when my voice cracked and suddenly changed pitch, "You have any idea what I have to go through to secure this much pot? I don't grow this shit in my backyard. I have to get quantities like this from some pretty scary people. If you don't like my prices, go get your shit from someone else." I hoped he didn't realize the difference in our sizes and take the pot by force and started putting some distance between us. It would have been the easiest fight he ever won. "No, wait!" he called to me as I began to storm off, "I'll pay." He pulled his wallet from out of the waist of his uniform and pulled the cash out, handing it to me openly. I just smiled with disbelief and shook my head at how big a dweeb he was. Taking the cash, I handed him the backpack, which held his half sack and was otherwise empty. "Return the backpack on Monday," I huffed, "Next time, bring something to disguise the weed in, dill hole." With our transaction complete, I turned and walked away, stopping at the steps that led to the ground to stash the hundred in my briefs, the joint money into my sock and the eyeglass case in the pocket of my hoodie. The walk home was about a mile long, and I didn't live in a great neighborhood like Blain. Better safe than sorry. But that could also be said about my homelife. "Hey, Sam!" Blain called to me. I turned and looked at him. God he was hot! "I'm throwing a homecoming party at my place tomorrow night. You should come." I was floored, to say the least. It was the first time anyone had ever invited me to a party. That the invitation came from Blain, the most popular guy in school, was hard to wrap my head around. Still, I had my loner reputation to think about. "Don't hold your breath," I told him, continuing on my way, smiling when I had my back to him and I was sure he couldn't see my face. My home was a single wide trailer house that sat on a small weed infested dirt lot at the back end of a trailer park with no name. The trailer hood was populated by the city's poorest families, so rundown that the city had attempted to level the entire park on more than one occasion, citing numerous code violations. I entered the rusty hole riddled house through the front door, above a chipped and broken set of concrete stairs, the only thing besides bare dirt and weeds outside the old trailer. The house was as haphazard and unkept inside as it was rusting and deteriorating on the outside. The roof in the bedroom I shared with my older brother leaked when it rained, the space heaters that were necessary in winter never warmed the trailer any more than a few degrees, and the slotted glass windows couldn't be opened enough to completely cool the house in summer. It was almost always dark as a cave at night, as most of the light bulbs burned out years ago and were never replaced. Cash lifted one pack of bulbs from the grocery store and put them in the bathroom, our bedroom, the kitchen and one lamp in the living room. Dad's room was only lit during the day, and even then, only with the sunlight that filtered through the Confederate flag that served as a curtain in the only window. Not that it mattered. The only time he was home was to try to sleep off a bender when the money completely dried up. I hadn't even closed the door behind me before my father knocked me to the floor with a poorly landed fist to the side of my head. "Give me your money!" he snarled at me, his face a drunk-fueled, twisted mask of psychotic rage, "And don't give me any shit about not having any, unless you want more." I pulled the money from my sock, keeping my eyes glued on the man looming above me, aware that I was essentially being mugged by my own father. He was shirtless, his muscular torso flexed and released as if it was somehow connected to the ragged breathing between clenched teeth and a grimaced expression that marred his ruggedly handsome features. Mother's running off with his best friend destroyed him, turning him to drink and slowly deserting his sons to fend for themselves. He was a ghost that haunted our house, but rarely violent in its interaction with the living. "Here... here, Dad," I stammered, "This is all I have." "Thirty-eight bucks?" he sneered, "I know you're selling pot, boy," he yelled, kicking me in the ribs with his heavy work boot. "I sell a few joints at school, Dad," I cried, the pain in my ribs forcing unwanted tears to leak from my eyes, despite my best efforts to stop them. "I'm just a little fish in a big pond." The heartbreak I felt from my father, was suddenly replaced with seething anger. "I'm not the head of a fucking cartel, old man! I sell enough to cover my personal expenses. Someone has to take care of me!" Something in my voice, or my choice of words must have sunk into his thick skull and stirred a few booze-soaked and drug scorched braincells. He looked at me as if he just noticed me, and the expression was one of regret. "Yeah, well," he said softly, "You have a birthday coming up. We'll do something special." "Sounds great," I responded in an attempt to sound excited and hopeful, but probably failing. He had not remembered my birthday once in the past five years, and I was doubtful he could hold that thought for the next two weeks before the date in question. I was honestly surprised he managed to go to work when he was supposed to. "Okay! It's a date." He started for the door. "Just you and me." "And Cash." "Who?" he asked, looking legitimately perplexed. "Nothing," I smiled, waving his question away with a swat on my hand, allowing it to serve as my wave goodbye. I remained where I was until he left and the door closed behind him, willing myself to blend into the shadows of the room like some dark thing spotted out the corner of your eye but isn't really there when you look directly at it. The trailer was silent, the only sound was made by passing traffic and the occasional distant voice. I pulled myself up and walked to the bathroom and checked my face in the mirror. There was a red mark along the side of my face, from above my eyebrow to the center of my ear that was slightly swollen. Could have been worse, given my father's strength. Lifting my Black Sabbath t-shirt, I examined my ribs. A nearly perfect imprint of my father's old work boot marked my pale white skin in red marks. I sighed at the pathetic kid who looked back at me from the other side of the mirror. His bright red hair was wild and unkept, above large brown eyes that peaked out from under the line of his long bangs, above a wide, thick-lipped mouth that rarely found a reason to smile. He had a thin, underfed frame that looked even smaller in his ill-fitted, all black attire. Despite seeing him watching me in reflective surfaces daily, I barely recognized him. Deciding that the damage wasn't too severe, I headed back out and walked through the trailer park's back gate, down two blocks and took a right on Cherry Street, where my dealer, Mother, had a small, discreet house with a nicely manicured lawn I was paid twenty dollars a week to mow. I climbed the potted geranium flanked steps to the porch and asked Bulldog if Mother was in. He nodded, his thick neck barely moving as his head bobbed ever so slightly without looking at me, keeping his eyes on the street. I entered the house and stopped for a moment after closing the door to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. A couple of guys were sitting on a secondhand couch, watching The Maury Povich Show while they drank their forty pounders of malt liquor. One of them had a topless young woman with large, natural breasts and nipples the color of Hershey kisses riding him. Her skirt hid the real action from view, but I had no doubt his long black cock was buried deep inside her, despite the vacant stare fixed on the television. There were a lot of whores who hung out around the house, trading sex for dope, or money, but Mother didn't want me messing around with any of them. He was convinced I needed to find a nice girl. While certainly liberal minded for an African American who was raised within the hood's poisonous culture of toxic masculinity and homophobia, I didn't bother correcting him. "Hey, Kid," Joker smiled at me, his English no better now than it was when he crossed the Rio Grande illegally ten years earlier. He stood and shook my hand then cocked his head to the side, in the direction of the kitchen. "Thanks, man," I smiled back, heading through the swinging kitchen door. Behind it, I found Mother standing over a stove, taste testing a pot of something that smelled like gumbo. I nearly wretched from the odor of the nasty tasting concoction. Two men were at the kitchen table counting money. One stood abruptly when I entered, pointing a Glock 43 at me with lightning-fast speed. "Sit your black ass down!" Mother snapped at him, "And stop pointing that thing at the boy! I swear to God, T Bone, when are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that nobody's getting back here without first getting past Bulldog, and only after receiving Joker's approval. Shit, learn some trust." "I don't trust no man," T-Bone snorted, going back to work, "And neither should you." "Your advice is unwarranted, but duly noted." Mother took a good look at me, frowning. "Who did that to your face?" "You only get one guess," I told him. Mother was a big man, tall and muscular, with a shaved mocha-colored head and a face even the Devil was scared of, but he was a teddy bear with a heart of gold, providing you didn't give him reason to treat you otherwise. "Something needs to be done about that man," he sighed. "Anything happens to him and I'm in foster care, sucking some old dudes little dick and no better off than I already am," I reminded him, "Besides, it's not forever." "Maybe I need to do something about you then," he muttered aloud but not really talking to me, returning to tend to his gumbo. "Have you eaten yet?" "I just dropped by to settle up," I said, sidestepping the potential invitation. I loved and respected Mother for a variety of reasons, but I hated his Creole cuisine. "I sold the fifty, but my old man took the money I got for the joints." He looked at me again, this time with a look of anger. "I got a C-note for the fifty, so I can cover the loss." "How the fuck did you get a C-note for a fifty?" T-Bone asked, glancing up at his boss. "Rich boys are stupid," I answered honestly, pulling the money out of my briefs, "He tried to back pedal on our deal, so I threw in a bunch of crap about getting my dope from some scary people, and how I needed to answer to them." "You see that," Mother told T-Bone, "That's the kind of hustle I'm looking for. Good job, Kid. Keep your profits. You deserve every last penny." T-Bone handed me fifty bucks, but in smaller bills. That just made sense. It's not easy breaking a fifty in my neighborhood without people asking questions, or you getting jumped because the wrong guy found out you were flush. "Thanks, Mother!" I said happily. "No problem, Kid," he called after me as I made my exit, "Are you sure you don't want to stay to eat?" "No, I have to meet up with a friend," I told him as I walked out. I walked down the street to the PicNic convenience store, placed an order for 2 sausage, egg and potato tacos in Spanish to the hot, nameless Latino manning the grill I had a little crush on and grabbed a Big Red before paying at the register. When my order was up, I grabbed the familiar white paper bag with a "Gracias" to the cook and walked three blocks to Bakersville Park. I crossed the park, watching kids happily at play on the jungle gym in the distance, and felt a twinge of jealousy, then sat at a concrete picnic table under a sprawling Oak close to the bathrooms. Sitting with my back to the kids at play so I could watch the parking lot. I opened my "linner" (a combination of the lunch I didn't eat at school and an early dinner, which was my only regular meal) and started eating. About halfway through my first taco, I spotted a guy in a nice suit driving a late model Cadillac pull into the parking lot. I kept my gaze on him as he walked past me, giving me a quick, nervous look before entering the bathroom. He remained in there until I finished my second taco and was half finished with my Big Red, exiting while still adjusting his pants, the hard-on visible through the thin fabric of his slacks. He didn't so much as glance in my direction as he walked past and climbed back into his car. I continued to drink my soda, watching the parking lot, occasionally glancing back at the bathroom. How long was the cocksucker inside going to wait before finally giving in for the day? I wondered how many dicks he's sucked so far. Clearly not enough. I sighed and got up, dropping my trash into a nearby metal barrel that acted as a trash can and headed into the bathroom and sidled up to the middle of the three urinals and pulled out the five and a half inches I had to offer and stroked it slowly. It only took a few seconds for the lock on the middle stall to clack and the door to open. A skinny black guy stepped out, cautiously sized me up and walked toward me. I turned to face him, offering him my dick. On his knees he took my cock into his warm, wet mouth, his soft lips wrapping around it tightly. It was the best blow job I'd ever lucked into, his soft lips working my hard cock over with incredible suction. I stood there, my eyes closed as I thought about Blain's naked body, the way his flaccid cock swung slightly in front of him, the flex of his pecs, his bulging thick arms, all that manly hair spread across his chest, cascading down hos abs until it blended into a thick happy trail before suddenly thickening into his bush. My passion rose with every expert stroke of the faggot's mouth on my cock, my body breaking out in a tingle as pleasure moved through me as I dreamed of Blain taking my virginity on the fifty-yard line of the school's football field with the entire school in the bleachers. He would fuck me and they would cheer until he finally pumped his load deep inside me. The cocksucker took my balls in his hand and played with them as he continued to suck. My orgasm rushed through me as my cock began pumping cum into his mouth. I kept my eyes closed to retain the image in my head as he slowed his rhythm as he swallowed my load and cleaned my cock of its remnants. When he was finished, he stood and I pulled my pants up, cinching the belt tight. "Thanks," I told him as he retreated back to the stall to wait for the next guy. He didn't respond. I headed on home and watched TV until late, then went to bed. Cash came home shortly after. He had an after-school job at a mom and pop's chicken joint, occasionally bringing home left over chicken. When he didn't turn on the light and crawled into bed fully dressed, I knew he had come home empty handed. Snuggling in next to his warm body, he wrapped a big arm around my neck, kissed the top of my head and drifted into sleep. I soon followed. Please donate to nifty if you can.