I’m not sure if what we’re watching is rugby or soccer, to be honest. There’s a field, and there’s a ball, and there’s a bunch of guys running around in shorts. It’s a cold Saturday morning; whenever I breathe, tendrils of vapor curl from my nostrils. My toes are frozen inside my boots, and I’m chilly in my jeans and thick sweater and scarf.
The players don’t seem at all chilly, though. They run around like it’s a May afternoon, chasing after the ball and filling the borrowed high school field with their laughter and high-pitched shouts. Beyond them, the sun catches the shapes of cars as they speed by on the freeway. I’ve driven into Westchester to meet the guy on the bench beside me. He’s a hulking shape because of the puffy vest he’s wearing. Bright orange, the color of danger and hazards. A Yankees cap hangs low on his forehead, just above a thick black pair of eyebrows flecked with gray. He’s got his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his sweatpants. We've talked online before, a few times. Cammed once. But this is our first meeting in the flesh, to check each other out. “So,” he says. “You like what you see?”
He’s not talking about himself—though if he had been, my answer would’ve been in the affirmative. He’s got the stocky, masculine build that a lot of the Latin men in the area have. I’d definitely be interested in him. But it’s his younger boyfriend he means. One of the players on the field, a latte-skinned youth, lean, who stops from time to time to lift up his striped shirt to mop off his face and short, spiky hair. He’s got lanky legs with a light coat of fur, and a grin that rarely flags, even when he’s concentrating. He’s made for this game.
He’s hardly ever not been in motion, since I’ve arrived. Those legs fly in the air every time he sprints after the other players, and seem to flex to impossible angles whenever he suddenly changes direction. His hips are narrow, his stomach flat. He’s got dark eyebrows like his older boyfriend, though they point upward in the middle, giving him a look of perpetual astonishment. I haven’t spoken to him, haven’t seen him close up. Still, over the previous few silent minutes, I’ve seen enough of him to know that I found him attractive. “Yeah,” I say. “I like a lot.”
The man seems satisfied at that. “Practice’ll be over soon. Thought I’d go inside and piss,” he said. “Want to come? Check stuff out?”
“You know it.”
We walk across the bleachers together, just two guys taking a break from watching a long morning’s practice (soccer or rugby, I still didn’t know which). He descends to the ground with an ungainly hop; I follow, a little more gracefully. I don’t realize exactly how chilly it is outside until I’m indoors and my nose is running. He seems to know where we’re going, along the back corridor of the high school. There’s a boy’s room not too far from the door. No one’s inside.
We stand close to each other at the urinals. He doesn’t have to piss. He pulls down the elastic band of his sweatpants beneath a pair of heavy balls. His dick is fat and uncut, and rock hard. He’s been hard a while, it seems. Precum oozes from the tip in a glistening bead. Dried trails of its predecessor frost the top of his head and foreskin.
When I pull mine out, he instantly reaches for it. “Damn, it’s big,” he tells me. “As advertised, huh?” He’s making a joke, but I’m not laughing. I reach for his meat; it throbs when I get it in my hand. “You want to fuck him?”
He means his boyfriend. That’s why he wants to meet me. He’s been looking for his first three-way with the younger guy, and he’s thinking I might suit them both. “Yeah,” I said. My voice was husky and congested. “I really want to fuck him. You want to see me in him?”
He’s staring at my dick. “Fuck yeah. Fuck.” For a second he drops to a knee and takes me in his mouth. It’s unexpected. I hadn’t known he was going to attempt it. “Can barely get my own mouth around it,” he says, pulling off. Then he opens and belies his words by taking it almost to the root. He’s up on his feet again, and pulling up his sweatpants before anyone comes in. “That’ll look good in him.”
“He likes getting fucked?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “Oh yeah. Fuck yeah! Loves his hole played with. That thing though.” He shakes his head as I put it away. “That’ll do some damage.”
I don’t tell him the thought that image brought to mind. Namely, that I certainly hoped so.
At his invitation we go outside again. The practice is nearly over. A couple of the players are already straggling off the field. Men and women spectating from the bleachers join them one by one. “Wait here,” the man instructs, pointing vaguely at the area between field and parking lot. I take a seat on the bleachers as he heads toward his car. I stay there as the players jog off the field in pairs and singles, scratching their heads and collecting their bags from the ground. I sit there in the sun and the chill and watch the boyfriend say goodbye to his buddies and sally out into the lot, looking for his car.
Just about everyone’s gone when, near the gate, an older-model SUV pulls up and stops. The window rolls down. “Get in the back,” says the man, nodding me over.
I don’t wait for another invitation.
The boyfriend’s in the back, knees spread wide, his lean legs seeming to go on forever. He nods at me as I join him in the back seat. I start to pull on my seatbelt, but the man says, “You don’t need that, buddy.” He drives us to a spot at the back, close to the freeway, where no other cars are lurking. Then he shuts off the ignition.
There’s the briefest of introductions. First names only. “This is the man who’s gonna fuck you,” says the older of the two.
The boyfriend looks me up and down. He’s cute. Damned cute. His hair is wet from sweat and exercise, but other than that, he looks like he’s barely broken stride that morning. His legs scissor in and out. Then he cracks a grin, and those eyebrows go up. “Cool,” he says.
From the front seat, the man says, “Why don’t you show him what you’ve got, hon?”
The younger guy doesn’t need another invitation, either. He thrusts his hips in the air and shucks down his shorts. His legs spread as he shows me his dick. It’s and long, and narrow, and uncut, and grows from soft to rock hard before my eyes. He grabs it in his right hand and plays with it, a little self-consciously. He’s staring at me the entire time.
“Just a little taste,” says the man in the front seat. “A teaser. Just to show you what he’s got.”
“I can see what he’s got,” I say, drily.
“Make out with him a little,” says the man to his boyfriend.
The younger guy’s got gum in his mouth, but he considerately removes it before he slides forward on the back seat. My mouth covers his; he thrusts his mint-flavored tongue forward, and mumbles a little bit when I replace my hand on his dick with my own. He’s a hungry kisser, one of the kind who’s almost too eager for it to be good. There’s a lot of pressure from his upper teeth against my own, through our lips. When my fingers travel from his dick down between his legs, into the warm, moist area between them, the man in the front seat grunts out his approval. I let my thumb press against the younger guy’s butthole. He exhales heavily and sweetly, and obediently spread his legs farther apart.
I’ve got my thumb in there, with almost no more lube than a quick lick. He’s tight. Real tight. A little twist, and he’s moaning. A turn in the other direction, a crook of my thumb joint, and he’s acting like he’s getting close. His dick is like fire against my forearm.
“Just a teaser,” says the man again. “Not too much.”
I take the warning for what it is. We’re in a parking lot on a bright morning. Even with a lookout like the older guy, it’s a risky proposition to take to the next level. The younger guy looks at me with heavy, lidded eyes when I remove my digit from his hole. He doesn’t want it to stop. “Pack it away,” the man tells him. The younger guy takes a moment to collect his thoughts before slowly reaching down to the car floor to pull his shorts back onto his legs, and then up the length of them to cover that rock-hard dick and those narrow hips and thighs.
“I think this can work,” I tell the man.
“Might be difficult to connect before Christmas at this point,” he says. “We don’t do this real often, but I want to see you fuck him real good.”
The younger guy and I are staring at each other now. He’s grinning at me. He doesn’t have to say much. I can tell he wants it too. “I will,” I promise.
Then I’m out the door, and walking back across the lot to my own car, legs wobbly and my thumb smelling like the younger guy’s hole. He waves at me from the back seat as they drive from the school lot, and over the dust of their passing the two of us study each other for a last time before that day comes when I meet him naked, and prepped, and ready to be drilled.