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I plop my ass down next to his perfect body, semi-hard in my jeans, and buzz with sexual-intoxication to touch, kiss, or lick his skin. I hold back, though, knowing Ben is straight and that our friendship weighs heavily within my mind, causing me to deflect his sexiness and carry out the “decent friend” position that I have agreed to, prior to this event.

  He tucks his bare arms around my body and hugs me close to him. His muscles and smooth skin align with my football jersey-covered chest, and teasingly he asks, “Sebastian, do I make you hard like Jory does?”

  In truth, Ben is a god and makes everyone hard. The straightest guy could easily pop wood because of his chiseled good looks. Marines would bend over for the guy; this is how hot he is. To answer his question, I say, “Ben, if you were gay we’d be having sex right now. I’d plow you so hard, you wouldn’t know what fucking hit you.”

  He releases me and falls back on the bed. In doing so, he shifts his legs to the bottom of the bed where they discover a tangle of cotton sheet. His head rests on a feather pillow and he whispers, “Why don’t you come down here and be my snuggle bunny?”

  Snuggle bunny? This one is new coming from tough-man Ben. Obviously he’s horny and it’s the beer speaking.

  “Don’t be shy, Sebastian. Get your blond ass and blue eyes down here and snuggle with me. And if you’re a good boy, I might even let you kiss my dong.”

  I roll my eyes, smiling. The invitation is priceless, but I cannot jeopardize our relationship as friends and roommates by one fell swoop into his bed and arms, tasting his skin; especially if he’s fully snickered. I have more respect for Ben, cherishing him as a best friend.

  “No go?” he questions with disappointment in his wavering and intoxicated voice.

  “I’m flattered, Ben, but no go this time.”

  “I’ll be here waiting,” he groggily adds, already falling asleep.

  I tuck the big baby (or snuggle bunny) in, and tell him, “I’ll wake you at seven. That should give you plenty of time to get ready for dinner with Zoe and her family.”

  “You’re my family,” he mumbles, clueless to what he’s saying, but it still sounds good to my ears.

  Chapter 5: Playing with Balls

  I’m addicted to coffee and cannot live without the stuff. Most people have a vice for porn, drugs, or alcohol. I prefer java over everything else. Without the jolt in the mornings I am nothing but a zombie throughout the day. Even a fresh morning run will not suffice; unable to fill me with energy. What I fully rely on is caffeine inside my system, driving me into noon, and further through my day.

  Every morning, just before eight o’clock and before I head into work, I grab a cup of java at The Muffin Shack. High aluminum stools surround two-person tables and a bar, adding a chic look. Tornado-shaped lights hang down from the ceiling and illuminate the birch wood floor. Bach plays from overhead speakers. The vibe inside The Muffin Shack is toasty warm with kitchen smells, like freshly baked cranberries and cinnamon. The business is a local hangout for Internet junkies of the associate world and hungry teenagers before and after their scholastic days.

  Joseph, an adorable twenty-six-year-old red-haired sweetheart with freckles and glasses, always greets me with a smile. “Sebastian, you look divine today, as always.”

  Joseph and I have a past. The once-fluffer and now coffee house owner dated me for two months, made me laugh, shared some incredible times with me, and found someone new—a soccer boy named Rudy with legs of steel. I don’t hold it against him that he moved on; love obviously was not in our favor. Truth is, Joseph was fun to be around, but a little high maintenance for my standards; another thing I don’t personally hold against him.

  He serves me a smile and a cup of Madagascar brew, light on the cream, and a sprinkle of Splenda. Joseph says, “It’s on the house today.”

  “You’ll go broke serving me coffee for free every day. I forbid such foolish antics.” I place a ten on the counter as a tip, which I occasionally do.

  “Trust me, I dumped on you and still feel guilty about it. Giving you a little coffee every day isn’t going to absolve me. I gave you up for a soccer asshole and regret it to the hilt.”

  I still have visions of the sexy soccer player who took him away from me. Rudy was French to the core, a pretty boy with the biggest dong between his legs.

  “Sebastian?” a familiar voice over my right shoulder awakens me from my Rudy-induced flashback.

  I spin around and take in the beautiful frame of Jory Sole. A quick head-to-toe shot of him details a wool sweater, khakis, Tom’s shoes, and a bomber jacket. I surface from his dapper look and say, “You drink coffee?”

  He blushes, which is the cutest thing in the world, and nods his head. “I know I shouldn’t, but I love it. What can I say?”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Former boyfriend Joseph obviously watches me with the quarterback, clears his throat behind the counter, and inquires, “Sebastian, stop being rude and introduce me to this fine looking piece of man with all his muscles.”

  Jory laughs, maybe feeling a bit uncomfortable being the center of attention. He reaches his hand across the counter for Joseph to shake, and says, “I’m Jory Sole.”

  Joseph is clueless about sports. He can’t name a single hockey, baseball, or football star that plays for the city, even if I paid him to. To help him out, I say, “He plays for the Vipers.”

  “A pleasure,” Joseph says, shaking the quarterback’s hand and grinning with thick intoxication regarding the football player’s impressive bulk and enigmatic looks. “What position do you play? Catcher or pitcher?”

  “Joseph!” I scold, outraged by his embarrassing behavior.

  Jory sucks it up and takes it like a man, and replies, “I do football, not baseball.”

  Before Joseph leaves the counter to rescue the business phone from ringing, he quickly rattles off, “As long as you’re playing with balls, I guess it doesn’t matter which kind.”

  Chapter 6: Breathless

  Martin, one of Joseph’s just-out-of-high-school employees, takes Jory’s order: a tall caramel latte with skim milk, no whipped cream.

  Jory turns to me again, smiles, and says, “You look good this morning, Sebastian.”

  Is he flirting with me? I’m not sure. Why can I never tell if a guy is hitting on me or not? Or maybe he’s just making small talk, looking for something to say. I nod my head, take a sip of my coffee, swallow it down, and respond, “Trust me, a lot of work goes into this look. I wake up resembling an alien.”

  He softly laughs. “I can relate.”

  Jory is lying. There is no way in hell he can possibly relate to my morning ugliness. The guy is too good looking, rock solid and chiseled all the way. Born handsome and never has an ugly day, let alone a morning. Again, he is out of my league. I shake my head and reply, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me. I look like a freak show before seven; rings around my eyes. lips dry as hell, cheeks pallid.” Unexpectedly he reaches forward with a finger, advances it through the space between us, gently removes a drop of coffee from the right side of my mouth, and whispers, “Got it.”

  I don’t back away from his touch, enjoying Jory in my personal space. Instead, I welcome his contact, overjoyed that he is this comfortable in my presence. Half of me really wants him to slip the finger into my mouth so I can clean the coffee off and taste his skin. This doesn’t happen, though. Instead, he ignores the dribble of coffee on his appendage and continues to smile.

  I shouldn’t feel fluttery and bubbly inside, but I just can’t help it. I need to get over the fact that he’ll never be into me. There will never be a date shared between us. We won’t meet at the movies and have dinner afterwards. A walk in Talon Park and holding hands is out of the question. Hooking up at a nearby queer bar is not in the scheme of things. Destiny will not bring us together. Jory is not interested in me, and never will be, so I need to get a grip and face reality. I need to get over myself and the feelings I have for him.r />
  “Thanks,” I reply to his finger-wiping.

  “Sebastian,” he says, rolling my name off his tongue in a suave manner, “I need to ask you a personal question.”

  “Ask away.”

  After he collects his coffee from Martin, he gently grabs my elbow with his free palm and leads me to a table where we sit across from each other. I take another sip of my coffee and Jory does the same. Timidly he says, “I know this is rather forward, and a very short notice, but…”

  He wants to marry me. Finally! The all-star quarterback with two championship rings and the hottest ass in the city wants me to spend the rest of my life with him and become his husband/partner. Of course I will accept! Who wouldn’t when it comes to Jory Sole?

  “…there’s a party I have to go to on Thursday night. A fundraiser for breast cancer of uppities and art. I was hoping you could join me.”

  Is he seriously asking me out on a date? Am I delusional? Did I accidentally catch H1N1 on my walk into The Muffin Shack?

  His free hand reaches across the table and gives my hand a tender squeeze. Before I respond to his invite, he says, “Sebastian, I feel comfortable around you. I enjoy your company and our conversations. I trust you with me. You seem like a very honest guy to me and I like you. I want to get to know you a little more. So, what do you say?”

  I do. With wedding bells and fluttering doves. And a wedding party of sixteen. And gifts from our closest friends and family members. And a seven-tier cake with double-chocolate icing. And two grooms on the top of the cake. And three hundred guests at our fabulous reception. And a honeymoon in Paris…No! Not Paris!…Buenos Aires!

  “I’m breathless,” spills out of me, as I'm unable to think and respond clearly. What spell does the quarterback have over me that causes me to feel this way? He’s just a normal guy when he steps out of his professional footballer mode and clothes, right?

  “Breathless?” he questions, providing upturned eyebrows and a tilted head.

  I shake the moment of confusion away, gather my composure, and smile. “Jory, I would love to go to this fundraiser with you. Thanks for asking me.”

  “It's Thursday night at The Piedmont Place. I’ll pick you up at your apartment at six. Wear a tux, if you don’t mind. Does that work for you?”

  More than he knows. He can pick me up right now if he wants to; put me against his hulking chest and keep me forever. I would be perfectly fine, the happiest homo in the world. I nod my head and respond, “Sounds great, Jory. I can’t wait.”

  When he finally walks away from the two-person table, I swear I see him insert one of his fingers between his lips, sucking on its tip like a long and narrow cock. Coincidentally, it just happens to be the same finger he used to wipe the edge of my mouth with, removing coffee from my skin. Or maybe I’m just wanting it to be. Who knows?

  Chapter 7: Army Brats

  I admit, I’ve never crossed the line of privacy between roommates and watched Ben carry out a masturbation session. Yes, I have heard him having sex with his girlfriend numerous times on weekend nights after drinking too much at local straight bars, but never have I slipped up to his cracked bedroom door and studied him at work on his own tool.

  The guy likes straight porn and watches it while he goes to town on his pole with two fists. He enjoys blondes with big tops who look like Zoe. I often hear women on his telelvision moan and groan, either pleasuring themselves or being pleasured by a male porn star. Often, I hear Ben’s matress squeeking, his heavy breathing, a few gasps, and he usually comes during a heavy panting session.

  Honestly, I tend to ignore his alone time. Every guy jerks off, and Ben is no exception to this factual rule of a man’s life, even if he is a billboard model. This evening is very different, though. Instead of an arrangement of female sounds of pleasure escaping his room, I hear a combo of masculine grunts echoing down the hallway, and decipher three different male voices inside his bedroom.

  I really don’t like to pry in Ben’s business, particularly his handy events after dark, but the trio of testosterone-boosted grunts and groans catch me off guard. Of course I have to investigate the scene, wondering what’s unfolding. Quietly, determined to seek out his night’s promiscuous activity, I make my way out of my bedroom, down the hallway, and end up at his locked door.

  Here, positioned on my knees, I peep through his keyhole and witness a shocking sight. Ben sits on the end of his queen-size bed in the buff with his nine inches of stiff dong between his muscular legs. And what plays on his television baffles me. Three naked Army dudes with dog tags, slick muscles, and military crew-cuts jerk off in what I believe is a Gulf region desert.

  All four men toy with their tools together. They huff and puff, groan and murmur. Ben uses both palms on his dick, bouncing up and down on the bed. His eyes stay locked on the screen, and the look on his face tells me he is totally intoxicated by the porn star threesome in action.

  To no avail, I sport an eight-inch pick inside my white boxer-briefs, feel pre-come leak into the cotton, and have the urge to join his dick-playing session. I keep my position on the floor, though, minding my own business to the best of my ability. Here, on my knees, I continue to watch him rotate his meat chaotically up and down, obviously enjoying himself.

  I choose not to pull out my swollen rod and yank on it. Tonight is about watching my roommate stroke his own knob. My pleasure is secretly admiring his work, building up a thick sweat on his working skin, and breathing heavily.

  All good things come to abrupt endings, though, don’t they? This is what happens. I’m not talking about the three Army brats coming, or Ben shooting his wad on his plated chest. I’m talking about getting the surprise of my life. Something more shocking than Ben’s DVD of choice.

  Overwhelmed with the sexy footage beyond his keyhole, I accidentally let out a baritone gasp, which is loud enough for him to hear. And before I can rise and dash off to my bedroom, concealing myself for the rest of the night behind my own locked door, Ben quickly stands from his bed and rushes to the door in the buff. He unlocks it from the inside, turns the brass knob, and pulls the door open.

  “Sebastian?”

  I look up at his chiseled and sweaty body. One hand is wrapped around his solid stick while the other holds the door open. Ben is absolutely stunning in front of me; ripped torso, perky nipples, sweat glistening on every pore of his sculpted frame. I lick my lips with satisfaction and stare at him in a compulsive and needy manner.

  Ben doesn’t pound me into the floorboards, though. Nor does he slam the door in my face. Instead, he pulls his hand off his hard cock, reaches down to help me up and off my knees, and says, “Why don’t you come in here and finish me off, buddy?”

  Chapter 8: Disclosure

  I can’t finish Ben off. I won’t. It’s not what roommates do, especially if one is gay and the other one is straight.

  But is Ben really straight? Why is there a gay porno playing on his television? And why is he buck naked, toying with his beef, while watching it? Straight guys do not do this. He cannot tell me he was just being curious about the male body and circle jerks among military men in a Middle Eastern desert. I won’t fall for it.

  “Ben…” is all I can say, looking up into his beautiful green eyes. His name is a whisper on my lips, nothing more.

  “Seriously,” he says, “come in and help me out. I won’t bite you.”

  “What about Zoe?” I question, thinking about future consequences in Ben’s life, in Zoe’s and mine, if I decide to follow through with his invitation.

  “She doesn’t need to know, Sebastian. We are all adults and can do what we want. Besides, this won’t be the first time with a guy for me.”

  I’m completely caught off guard by what he shares with me. I shake my head and stand up, but decide to kneel again when I feel dizzy, just so I don’t lose my balance and fall to the floor.

  “I’ve been with four guys, Sebastian. Drinking parties sometimes end up with a blowjob, or a handjob afte
r a photo shoot. I haven’t trusted anyone to go any further than that, though. You know I work with a few queers.” He helps me up and off the floor and holds me against his beefy body. Our nipples kiss and his erection presses against the center of my boxer briefs, exciting me.

  “Does Zoe know about these guy encounters?”

  “No, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “That doesn’t sound fair to her.”

  He sighs, heavy. “Life isn’t fair. You know that.”

  “Are you confused about who you want to sleep with, or are you bisexual?” I want to know the answer to this question before I step inside his bedroom and change all of our lives. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, Zoe, or even myself. No matter how horny I am for Ben, no matter how beautiful I see him, I will not jeopardize our relationship.

  “I’m straight,” he says.

  “Then what’s up with the military movie?”

  He looks at the three guys on the screen. The last one is spraying lines of ooze onto his plated chest, buckling under his muscle-tightening orgasm. Now, he turns his attention back to me, and admits, “I like military guys.”

  “But you’re straight?”

  He nods his head and attempts to smile, but fails. “Are you coming in?”

  I pull away from him, unable to finish him off or whatever else he wants me to accomplish with his skin. While shaking my head, I whisper, “I can’t hurt Zoe. And I can’t hurt our relationship as roommates, Ben. Although I want you in the worst way, I can’t come in and…”

  “Fuck,” he chants, lowering his head.

  My eyes fall to his cock. The meat is deflated now, no longer rock hard. Obviously I have ruined his “alone” time tonight.

  What’s best for the both of us is for me to turn away, walk down the hallway, and return to my bedroom. Perhaps tomorrow we can both act like this awkward incident at his door never happened. It is what is, though, I realize. But I’m not really sure what it is exactly. I guess Ben is sexually confused, labeling himself straight even when he likes to watch military guys get off in a desert circle jerk. And what about the four men he sexually accompanied, communicating with by blowjobs or handjobs? How can he possibly think he’s straight when male-with-male action takes place in his life? And what about Zoe? Where does she stand in this slap-in-the-face situation? I really like her and don’t want to see her get hurt, particularly by Ben’s lies.