Wrestling This (6 page)

“Please don’t tell,” I said but worried it came across like asking her to cover for our date. “Uh, I just got a B on my mid-term. My professors would be mad if they knew I weren’t studying harder.” I smiled.

“A B!” she said, resting her tray down on a metal stand. “That’s good, no? If I got Bs, I wouldn’t be slinging pizzas in small-town Florida.”

A bell chimed.

“I’ll be right there, Henry!” she yelled to the cook. “Okay,
A
students,” she said to us. “Let me get your table ready.”

Our table
?

She grabbed a couple of menus and showed us to the same booth we had before. A glass top trapped a black-and-white checkered tablecloth beneath it with rubber pads in the corners—to keep it from shifting. A list of beer and wine stood in a plastic stand on my right, alongside salt-and-pepper shakers, and a Corona bottle filled with hot peppers, capped with a blue top.

Sandy left, hollering her way into the kitchen in front of me.

“Take two?” Eric said.

“Take two,” I confirmed. If I died right there, I would have gone a happy man.

“I promise to behave this time.” Eric pushed his menu aside.

I leaned in. “I sort of hoped you wouldn’t.”

He kicked me under the table, and we locked fingers. I mirrored Eric’s smile and lost myself in the pool of his dark eyes.
God, you’re beautiful. Both inside and—

“Two waters?” Sandy asked.

We snapped back.

Eric spread his arms across the back of his seat. “Yes, please and a couple of beers.”

“No wine this time?” she said, putting down silverware and paper placemats.

Beer seemed more masculine. “A pitcher of Sam?” I asked and Eric nodded.

“Sam Adams coming up.” Sandy whisked off to the bar on my left.

T
his time after dinner, we got dessert—an order of chocolate gelato.

“Heavenly,” I said, taking a bite.

“Isn’t it?”

We finished most of the Italian ice cream over conversation about the upcoming spring break and on our trips back home. Long spoons clicked against our shared metal dish and fought for the last morsels. We snickered, feeling free again to be ourselves—perhaps the pitcher of beer and a languid meal had something to do with that.

“You have the last bite,” I said and sat back. A dollop remained; my competitive nature fell by the wayside. Had it been a few weeks back, I would have eaten it just for spite, and then felt guilty for consuming the calories. Now my fear of lipogenesis bore no presence.

“No.” He placed his spoon on the table. “I’m done.”

“All right, we’ll leave it be.”

“Truce,” he said.

We laughed.

Our gaiety, in the true sense of the word, must have shown, for two men wearing baseball caps—one camouflage and the other the confederate flag—took chairs at the bend of the bar. Camouflage had his back to us, but turned to look our way when his buddy whispered something to him.

Camouflage had a hint of a mustache. When he sneered, his tongue flicked an incisor. He swiveled around, offering us another view of a tractor-trailer logo on the back of his shirt.

“You ready?” Eric asked me and motioned for Sandy. We hadn’t received our tab.

“No, not really.” I sat back. Confederate Flag had his blue eyes locked on me. I put my hands up. “What?” I hated being stared at and knew I could take him in one punch.

“Quin, don’t.” Eric said, stealing a glance at the two.

Camouflage turned around and slid himself off the chair.

Sandy walked over, billfold in hand and pointed a finger to the pair. “You two behaving over there?” Her gum snapped.

“Just got to use the boy’s room,” Camouflage said, and as Sandy put the check on our table, he gave his crotch a slight tug. I took it as bravado or just a redneck adjusting his junk in public—the way they do—rather than a sexual come-on. He meandered out of sight down the hallway, leaving me with the image of his chewing tobacco tin straining the rear pocket of his Levi’s.

His friend turned his attention to car racing on TV and hooted along with a few other men watching the same from another flat-screen at the opposite end of the bar.

I paid with my credit card, Sandy rang it up, and Eric and I left.

When we got outside, Camouflage smoked a cigarette, leg bent up against the wall. A dapple of light from a streetlamp shined down on him, and his cap cast a shadow on his face. “Evenin’ fellas.”

“Evenin’,” Eric replied.

“College boys?” he asked.

My Seminoles T-shirt must’ve given us away. Defensively, I said, “What’s it to you?”

Eric put a hand up to me. “At ease.”

Camouflage flipped his cigarette butt away and in the same direction blew smoke out with a sideward purse to his lips. “Just asking, my friend.” The brim of his tattered hat bore threads and the cap’s plastic insert showed through. Up close, he looked older—maybe late twenties, early thirties—than I’d originally clocked him. His gray eyes had a forlorn look to them. “You guys have a good night.” He had a ruddy face, too much time in the sun, and vestiges of a handsomer, younger man tried to break through.

“You too.” Eric placed a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, and he led me toward his car.

“Nice Beemer,” Camouflage said, my back to him.

Eric clicked the doors open. “Thanks, man.”

As we drove away, I watched him reenter the bar. A strong feeling came over me—I wasn’t sure why—that I’d judged him wrong and I felt bad. “Do you think maybe he’s closeted?” I thought back to the bulge grab, and his snickering to his friend. Maybe they’d been trying to come on to us. I found it sad that they’d have to resort to such things, if that’d been the case.

Eric shrugged. “I don’t know.” He didn’t care. He had other things on his mind.

O
n the way back, we didn’t bring up the rednecks. I placed my palm on his lap, and between breaks in his two-handed driving, our fingers intertwined.

In those moments when he had both hands on the wheel, I inched my way closer to his crotch, until I could feel the heat rising from his loins.

I didn’t want to be a pig, but he had me rock hard in my jeans. We hadn’t had sex since Monday’s escapade in the gym, and I hadn’t been inclined to do anything on my own.

Eric entered the interstate, and my hand drift southward. The edge of my wrist touched a solid mass in his pants.

“Yes, you have me stiff as a board,” he said, breaking the silence—no radio.

I chuckled, and he took my hand and nestled it into his crotch. I gripped his denim-clad shaft, and he moaned.

For a mile or two, I slowly caressed the erection in his pants. He started to sweat and cracked open the window. His nipples poked against the long-sleeve T-shirt he wore—one from last year’s NCWA conference.

“Are you trying to get me off in my pants?” he asked.

I stopped. “I don’t mean to tease. I’m just having a hard time keeping my hands off you.” I rubbed his knee—something a little less sexual.

“You don’t have to stop on my account.”

“We’re going to get all worked up, and quite honestly I’d rather not...do it in the gym when we get back.” While I wanted to be with him, the Ragans’ fitness room wasn’t very intimate.

Eric rolled the window back up. “I want to be in a bed with you.”

“That’d be nice.” While fucking on a weight bench had its hot factor, it smacked of cheap. “Dylan and Margie are on a date. Maybe we could—”

“No, not your place.”

It occurred to me I hadn’t been in his room. “Is your roommate around?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I had in mind.” He dragged his eyes my way, grinned, and took a turn onto a road we hadn’t been on before.

I raised an eyebrow, and he shot me his pearly whites.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Five minutes later, we pulled into the Mel-O-Dee of Love Motor Lodge, which had a reputation on campus for being a place to take a date in a pinch.

“It’s a couple steps above Ragans Hall’s gym,” he said.

“I’ve never been here.”

“Me either, but I have to
be
with you.” A few spots away from the main entrance, Eric put the car in park. “I’ll be right back.”

With him inside, I watched the sign’s neon light flicker—the
Mel
in the name flashed erratically and emitted a static buzz. I couldn’t believe we were doing this. I reached in my pocket, took out a pack of breath mints, and popped one in my mouth.

After a short time, he came back, holding a dark green plastic key tag.

“God, he’s hot,” I said to myself, watching him shove the key in his pocket.

When we drove the short distance across the lot to room 21, on the far end by the pool, it started to rain.

“I hope you don’t think this is too cheap,” Eric said. “I just need you.”

“No, of course not.” I gave his inner thigh a tug and happened on a large lump along his pant leg. “Holy shit. Someone’s horny.” In no time, I, too, hardened.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

The rain beat on the roof.

“All right,” he said, “you ready? Let’s make a run for it.”

We opened the doors at the same time and dashed to the room. I got there first.

“Beat you.” I pressed up against the door, keeping under a small overhang.

Eric hit a button of his key chain—the car beeped and flashed its lights. He fumbled for the key in his jeans and his erection jutted the front of his pants. “I thought we gave up competing.” He took the key out, jostled it in the lock, and we fell inside. He shut the door.

I pushed him against it, and kissed him hard on the lips, neck, ear, lips again, chin, and all the way down to his chest. I yanked his T-shirt up, and sucked on his nipple. He grabbed my hair, pushing me down to his crotch. I rubbed my face along his denim.

He gyrated against my mouth. The cloth dampened.

Swiftly, he pulled me up by my hair, sneered in a sexy, forceful way and said, “You almost made me come in my fucking jeans.”

Next, it was my turn to be pinned against the wall. His mouth hovered over mine. I smelled cinnamon. When he checked us in, he must’ve had a mint too. “I fucking want you in me,” he said. He kissed me, and our teeth gnashed. My T-shirt came off in his pull. He licked his way down to my abs and the soft patch of hair that led into my pants, and he snapped open my jeans.

“Eric.” I fisted his hair.

He shucked my pants and underwear at the same time. I groaned; my cock sprang out and he took it in his mouth.

“Gawd!” I yelled.

He mumbled, sucked, and with a free hand palmed my shaft.

“Holy shit!” Grabbing the back of his neck, I fucked his mouth, sticking my dick in farther.

He choked a little, and I pulled back, but he went back down on it.

“Fuck.” I moaned. My head rolled like a rag doll and banged against the door. His sucking felt so good, a tremor came over me, and my elbowed rapped the jamb.

With his hand, he jerked my wet cock, his tongue circling my head. No one had ever done anything so pleasurable to me before. For a second, I thought I was going to shoot off right in his face. I yanked him off.

“Quin, your cock...you...you’re so fucking hot,” he said and started back on my cock.

I looked down and noticed he’d undone his pants and had his dick in his hand. “Get up,” I said firmly and yanked him by the hair like he’d done to me. He liked it a little rough—I could tell—and it turned me on more.

He obeyed and stood, dick still in hand. I pointed to the bed and he shuffled over to it—pants locked around his ankles.

I followed and shoved him, stomach first, onto the Indian-print spread. The bed squeaked.

Slapping my dick onto his ass, traces of clear liquid lined his lower back. I wrapped my cock around his firm butt cheeks, fucked them, and watched my dick slide and slither along his coccyx.

“Are. You. Going. To. Fuck me?” He rocked with each word.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes!” He shot up, ripping the bedspread off at the same time, grabbed me by my neck and brought us down onto the bed. I landed on top of him, our dicks pressed together. My hips, in a mind of their own, rocked. Slick wet dicks rubbed against each other.

We kissed, and I frot his cock faster and harder. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to fuck his ass but we were so close, riding the edge of our orgasms.

“Quin!”

“Eric!”

“Let’s come,” he said. “And you can fuck me afterward. We’ve got all night.”

I slammed hard into the crook of his crotch and could feel his wet penis beside mine.

He screamed. I put my hand on his mouth, and he bit down. He closed his eyes and moaned into my fist.

Feeling his warm semen squirt up through our pressed abs made me come too. It proved too exciting to hold back any longer and I let loose, biting my lower lip so hard I tasted blood. I convulsed until my fuck begot a slower tempo, and I eventually rolled onto my back.

Eric put his arm to his head. Sweat stained the pits of his shirt. “That was fucking hot.”

“Frotting.”

“Huh?”

“It’s called frotting,” I said, breathless. “As teenagers, we called it dry humping and would brag about having done it with some of the girls, but with clothes on.”

“Oh, is that what it was called. No wonder I got into wrestling at an early age.”

A twinge of jealousy—him
frotting
with someone else—momentarily reared, but some unspeakable connection between us overruled it. “So, wrestling boy, what’s next?”

He got up on an elbow and looked straight at me. “I want you in me.”

“Ten minutes?” I said, still out of breath.

“Five.”

I
’d never been in anything as tight as Eric’s hole. Even using the whole packet of lube, I still worried I’d tear the condom.

Eventually I popped in, and I swore I thought I heard him cry, but he took it like a man and only whimpered, biting into the pillow. His sphincter felt like a vise. At one point, I thought my cock would slice off—or at least need a slap back to life from lack of circulation.

“Good God!” I wedged my way in deeper, my hands gripping his taut waist.