It was homecoming night, the big game against their crosstown rivals, and Buddy knew he couldn’t afford to feel nervous. In fact, nervousness wasn’t something he usually felt–hell, he didn’t usually feel much of anything, in the middle of a game…or really, much at all. As much as Buddy hated to admit it, he simply wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed. Football, now that was something he could do. He could run into guys, he could keep them away from the quarterback, that was simple, that was small and focused enough that his mind could latch onto that. But tonight, about halfway through the first quarter he’d felt something he usually only felt when he was called on unexpectedly in math class–he felt nervous.
A different…kind of nervousness, too. Not a terror nervous, but a sort of happy, giddy nervousness that he’d never felt anything like before. It wasn’t enough to really upset him, or spoil him, but his awareness of the sensation was there all the same, and there was nothing he could do to shake it. Alongside the nervousness, however, he had this other sensation of being watched…studied. Examined from the stands. That was understandable, he was one of the star varsity players, but this felt different than a fan watching him. Still, the nervousness seemed to ebb a bit at the first quarter segued into the second, but then, something else happened. He went in for a tackle after the center hiked the ball, like always–facing off against one of the brutes from the opposing team. They shoved their bodies together, but rather than just two sacks of flesh colliding (this is what it had always felt like, a fleshy violence, like when his mother tenderized cube steak with a mallet) it felt like a strange kind of pleasure, more liquid than flesh. Sensing weakness in him, his opposing tackle pushed onward, and Buddy flowed with him, his hand migrating to the other player’s crotch, gripping it, feeling the man’s surprise, feeling him halter, and then it was gone, and the game flashed back into him, the tackle blowing past him, the quarterback barely completing a pass before he was slammed to the ground.
Buddy simply stood there, unable to process what was going on in his head. There was his confusion, but something else, a giddy happiness. Like the nervousness earlier, it felt somehow foreign to him, and he again looked around the stands, trying to find the eyes he knew were focused intently on him, and trying to avoid looking at the coach, who he knew would be angry at Buddy for letting a tackle through like that. After all, Buddy never let a tackle through–that was his job, his only job, the only job he could get right.
The quarter counted down, but only grew stranger. Buddy felt…like his body was so much more sensitive than ever before. So sensitive, in fact, that during one particularly violent collision a few moments later, where his helmeted face ended up crushed against another player’s crotch, his cock spewed a huge load of cum into his jock, and he clung to the body, pressing his face as close as he could get, aware, for the first time, of how their bodies smelled here, on the field. The sweat, the grass. But also…also this musk. His musk, this other body, they were so close, and…and…
“Dude, fucking get off me, you freak,” the other player said, kicking himself free of Buddy’s hold, forcing him back. He tried to figure out what was happening to him, what he was feeling. His father talked about homosexuals, about these freaks who stuck their cocks in other men’s holes, how unnatural that was. And he was thinking about that, thinking about holes, about his holes, about other men’s holes and how…how that might feel. Was he one of those homosexuals? He’d fucked girls before, but this felt…
He shook his head. This was a game, it was the middle of the game, he was losing focus, why was he losing focus? It felt like his once empty head was…filling up with…sex. With musk, with pleasure, with bodies, with…it was so much, and so much of it was impossible to put any sort of words to. The quarter was over, and the coach was unhappy with him and yelled at him on the sideline, said he didn’t have his head in the game. He’d have to sit out the third quarter, and maybe play in the fourth, if they could build up a sizable lead. Buddy was trying to look sorry, his head bowed, but really his eyes were locked on the coach’s crotch, on the bulge there, wondering about cocks and holes again, those eyes still on him, his head filling up, and for the first time in his life, he wished his head was empty again. It had been so much simpler, but things…were suddenly becoming very, very complicated.
Bracken's Corner 