February 2010
“Justin tells me you’ll take cock for fifty dollars.”
The massively muscular dark chocolate Tulane all-American fullback, dressed only in athletic shorts, showing off the physique of a god, completely filled the doorway of the small basement bedroom in the Alpha Tau fraternity house. He was leaning against one side of the door frame, his muscular torso arched to the side, and he had his thumbs and index fingers latched onto his nipples and was rolling them. His eyes were slitted and his shorts were tented, promising an enormous erection. He was overripe for play.
The house’s eighteen-year-old milk-chocolate houseboy, Kirk Shields, put aside the gay male skin magazine he’d been reading; stretched out on his single bed in just his briefs and a T-shirt, a hand down the front panel of those; and sat up on the side of his bed. He gave the black bull standing in his doorway, a campus god because of his football prowess and commanding presence, a long, cool, appreciative look, and pulled his T-shirt over his head. With this movement, the deal was struck.
Kirk was no slouch in the muscular development arena himself, but no one at the university could hold a candle to Trevor Jackson in that area. Against Jackson’s six-foot-five tower of bulging muscle, Kirk’s five-nine, lean, slender build was dwarfed. Still, it was good enough to show off to a guy who’d just asked if he took cock and it was as good a way as any to close the deal.
“Yes, I will,” he said. He wondered if Trevor realized he’d gone right past “yes I do” to declaring that he would, indeed, take cock from the footballer. He’d love to be balled by the footballer.
Kirk also needed the money. It was so hard keeping it together. Tulane was for rich kids, like Trevor and the white guy, Justin, the fraternity president, the self-important, sarcastic rich kid who had found Kirk would lay down and open his legs for money in a couple of sweaty nighttime wrestling matches down here in the bowels of the fraternity house and who had passed that information on.
Mostly Kirk said he would, though, because he had worshipped Trevor Jackson—and his cock—for several months and had fanaticized about opening his legs for the football player.
Trevor had come downstairs in anger and the urge to beat and pillage someone, having just come from the house’s second floor, where, in the fraternity’s best bedroom, he’d seen Justin Wingfield fucking Trevor’s apparent boyfriend, the Tulane freshman, Cameron Dixon, or, rather, Cameron fucking himself on Justin’s cock. Justin was just lying there on his back, arms bent and hands folded behind his head, looking up at the ceiling with a self-satisfied look on his face, while, facing away from him, his hands clutching Justin’s knees, Cameron straddled Justin’s hips and rode the college senior’s cock in a cowboy. When Cameron cried out, “Shit, yes, baby. You’re the best!” Trevor pulled away from the crack in the door. Justin had taunted Trevor that he could have Cameron anytime he wanted, and this proved that he was right.
“Bitchy Justin Wingfield the best at fucking?” Trevor mumbled to himself as he stomped down the stairs to the fraternity house basement. “Maybe the best at spreading his influence and money around, but at cocking? Give me a break.”
The Tulane fullback had come downstairs to break something—someone—in frustration and anger. Standing at the houseboy’s basement bedroom door now and taking a look at the half-breed, his father white and his mother black, his father long gone and his mother struggling with a house cleaning business in Atlanta to help Kirk get a college education, all it took was a few seconds for the anger to drain out of him. In just a second the mood of anger was replaced with lust—and something else, wanting more than just that. Kirk hadn’t noticed Trevor standing in the door, however, and the football hero had more than a few seconds to get in the mood. Watching the body of the honey on the bed, stretched out, pouring over his skin magazine, and stroking himself off inside his shorts really heated Trevor up. He was good to go before he spoke.
Trevor had seen the handsome, small, milk chocolate houseboy before, but he hadn’t looked closely at him until now, right this minute. Trevor hadn’t come down to the basement with specific thoughts of spiking Kirk Shields. But he hadn’t seen Kirk before in nothing but briefs and a T, an obvious hard on inside those. And stroking himself off. He was a real honey.
After a short pause of looking each other over, Trevor entered the room and shut and locked the door behind him. He strode forward to the bed, standing between Kirk’s spread thighs, as the houseboy pulled the big man’s shorts down and off his crotch. Kirk knew what to do—what was expected of him.
“Holy shit you’re huge,” he murmured, with a gasp, as he two-handed a gigantic, jet-black erection, closed his lips over the bulbous purple mushroom cap, and began to tease it with his tongue and teeth and to suck it.
“Yes, yes, I am,” Trevor answered, placing his hands on the buzz-cut skull of the smaller guy, slowly shaking his head from side to side, and producing a tinkly sound from the motion against each other of the metal beads on the tips of his long dreadlock strands. He began to pant and groan, the anger draining out of him. “Fuck, bro, you give good head.”
Taking his mouth off the cock only briefly, Kirk said, “Yes, I do. Don’t think I can get all of his meat down my throat, but I’ll try.”
Trevor laughed. “I know what I can get it all down. I can’t wait. Lay down in that bed there, on your back, and prepare to take ten inches.”
“Just a minute, then, we’ll need these.” Kirk pulled open the drawer to his nightstand and rummage around. “You’ll need this size,” he said, pulling out a foil-wrapped Trojan Magnum, and we’ll need plenty of this, pulling out a bottle of lube. “I might even need this,” he said, retrieving a bottle of poppers.
“Shit, this is the place to come, isn’t it?” Trevor said, punctuating that with a laugh. “And this might be a good idea,” he added, pulling out the ball gag he saw in the drawer. “We don’t want to bring the house down over our heads with the screaming you might be doing.”
“Fifty dollars? Just fifty dollars when I’ll need a gag?”
“It’s what I brought. You want to do this or not?”
He said it like he knew Kirk would have taken the cock for free—like maybe he’d even pay to get it. But then Trevor was idolized on campus enough to reasonably expect that was so.
“OK, then,” Kirk answered. “You’ve got such a special one. I’d like some more sucking time on the cock, though.” Kirk two-handed the shaft again, pulling the foreskin back off the base of the glans and moving his tongue to the crease around the head where it met the shaft, flicking his tongue there.
Gasping, Trevor said, “Knock yourself out.” He grasped the close-cropped skull, the metal tips of his dreadlocks began to make their music from his swaying head again, and he moaned. “Yes, baby. Just like that. Shit, you give good head.”
“Shit, you have a monster shaft,” Kirk answered, coming up for air. “I can’t wait either.” He turned to the side, pulling his legs up on the bed, and slipping his briefs off. “Fuck me, stud. Fuck me good.”
Trevor came around to the foot of the bed, grasped Kirk’s ankles, and dragged his butt down to the bottom edge. Folding Kirk’s milk-chocolate legs up into his chest, Trevor went down on his knees on the floor and went right for the smaller guy’s hole with his tongue.
“Shit. Fuck. Oh, FUCK!” Kirk cried out as he writhed and Trevor continued eating him out.
And then Trevor was pushing Kirk back up on the bed enough that Trevor could get on it with his knees between the little guy’s spread thighs.
Kirk bit hard down into the rubber ball of the ball gag and silently screamed into it as, having lodged the purple bulb and a couple of inches of shaft inside him, which had been a chore, Trevor grasped the younger guy’s ankles, raising and spreading his legs, and, after rubbing the underside of the shaft up and down over the blossoming hole and Kirk begging for it, he lodged the bulb just inside the entrance. He waited for the opening to dilate for the bulb, which it did, and as Kirk sucked in air and moaned, Trevor slowly gave him four inches, pausing there to rock back and forth on the small guy’s trembling body, giving him time to adjust to the thickness of the cock, coaxing the passage to stretch with gentle, slow in-and-out rubbing, as Kirk’s passage walls shimmered over the thick shaft, rippling and gripping at it.
This wasn’t going to be a “sprint” fuck. This was going to be a marathon.
Trevor raised Kirk’s ankles to his shoulders and straightened up on his knees, bringing Kirk’s buttocks off the bed and rolling his weight onto his shoulder blades. Kirk shuddered and writhed, reaching out to the side edges of the bed to grasp the edges and hold himself steady as the big black bull fed him the last couple of inches and started a long-sliding, slow pump. In deep, as Kirk’s body shuddered, nearly all the way out, and then the long slide back in. Shudder. Slide, bottom, shudder.
The younger guy’s channel walls stretched and shimmered, adjusting to the fuck. His hips began to move, his pelvis rowed into the rhythm of the fuck. Kirk’s trembling hands reached up to Trevor’s chest. He stroked the big guy’s dark chocolate bulging pecs and nipples with the tips his fingers, arching his back and moaning deeply. Picking up speed in the thrusts, Trevor let Kirk’s legs down and came down on the smaller guy’s heaving chest with his own, much more muscular one. He freed Kirk of the gag ball, Kirk gasping. Kirk arched his back. He reached down to find there still were a couple of inches of root not inside him.
“Oh, fuck, you’re big. Huge. I can’t take it.”
Trevor thrust hard, burying himself to the hilt, mingling his short hairs with Kirk’s. The houseboy arched his back, cried out, and then moaned as the black bull pumped him hard and deep, to the short hairs.
“Yes, you can. You have.” Trevor covered Kirk’s mouth with his and went into a deep kiss. Kirk hooked his knees on Trevor’s hips, grasped the big black’s shoulder blades, and dug in with his fingers. Trevor rocked the little guy’s body in close-hold and long, deep, rhythmic thrusts, as Kirk relaxed and surrendered to him, going with, rocking with, the fuck. He turned his head to the side, his head tented in the strands of Trevor’s dreadlocks cascading and shimmering around his head, metal beads brushing his cheeks, his mouth yawning open in a silent scream, his eyes flashing his pain-pleasure, as Trevor fucked him, thick, throbbing, powerful, punishing, in his soft, spongy inner core. Kirk melted, receding into his inner self, pulling Trevor in with him, the two of them one, merging into one unit, Trevor’s bulb kissing Kirk deep inside, Kirk’s passage muscles undulating, shimmering, caressing the taut skin over the thick, moving, gliding, thrusting, possessing, plundering shaft.
This wasn’t just taking cock; this was being royally fucked.
Burying his face into the hollow of the football player’s shoulder, Kirk clutched at the taut, bulging. straining muscles of the powerful man covering him. Kirk held the god close, trying to melt into him, rowing his pelvis and hips with the fuck, murmuring, “Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, yes. Take it; take it all. Fuckin’ blast me with your cum!”
Trevor suddenly reared up, going on his knees, pressing down on Kirk’s pecs with the palms of his hands, groaning and thrusting hard and deep. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna shoot,” he called and then then he did, thrusting and spurting, thrusting and spurting as Kirk held tightly onto the football player’s waist, murmuring, “Yes, baby, baby, yes, yes. Do it, stud. Shoot that load.”
Kirk had a small bathroom off his bedroom and Trevor bounded off the bed and, two steps later, was in there. En route, he ripped the spent condom off his cock and tossed it toward a wastebasket. It hit the rim but fell back on the floor. He didn’t close the door to the john and Kirk turned onto his side and watched the muscular black footballer piss into the toilet.
“I loved that,” Kirk murmured. “I think I love you. I’ve watched you and followed you all year. Never missed a game. Went to your practices when I could. You’re a fuckin’ god. You haven’t noticed me, I’m sure, but I’ve watched you and worshipped you. I love that you’ve come for me. I love what you’ve done with me. I have watched you fuck Cameron, who doesn’t deserve you, and I have wanted you to fuck me like that. Now you have, and it was all I could have wished for. I wish . . . well, I wish.” He did say it, but perhaps not loud enough for Trevor to hear it above the sound of his piss hitting the water in the toilet bowl. There certainly was no response from the football player, if he’d heard. If he’d heard it, he obviously didn’t give a shit that Kirk was pouring out his soul to him.
Ashamed at how much he was surrendering, Kirk hoped that Trevor hadn’t heard it.
Trevor strutted out of the bathroom. “Again,” he said. “On your belly.” With a groan and an electric charge of anticipation, Kirk turned over onto his belly on the bed while Trevor pulled another Trojan Magnum packet out of the nightstand drawer, split the packet open, tossed the foil toward the wastebasket, and rolled the rubber onto his shaft.
“You want this?” he asked Kirk, holding up the bottle of poppers.
“Guess I’d better,” Kirk said, taking a hit from the bottle and handing it back to Trevor. The football player had proved to be even bigger and more vigorous than Kirk had imagined he’d be.
Trevor was up on the bed and running a muscular arm under Kirk’s belly, lifting the young man up onto his knees, Kirk’s chest still flat against the bed. Trevor swung his left leg over Kirk’s hips, put himself into position, crouched over Kirk’s pelvis in the same stance he would receive a ball from the center on a football team, put his bulb in place at the entrance of the hole he’d already opened to his size needs, and grasped Kirk’s hips in his hands. They were a team; they were going to fire off a touchdown play.
Mounted on Kirk’s ass, Trevor thrust inside the smaller man again, eliciting a cry of pain-passion, and resumed fucking him. Writhing under him, Kirk reached for the bottle of poppers on the top of the nightstand, took another hit, and then raised his hands up and grasped the brass rungs of the bed’s headboard to hold himself steady as Trevor immediately went deep and took him in long slides.
Flesh on flesh, dark chocolate on milk chocolate, gliding, clutching, merging, rocking, undulating, dark chocolate in milk chocolate, thrusting, receiving, giving and taking, taking and giving. The two moved as one, swaying with each other, grunting, groaning, moaning. Kirk, hand under his belly, stroking himself off, tensed, jerked, and, with a little cry, shot his load. He clutched the rungs of the headboard again after having released his wad a second time for the afternoon. He arched his back, panting hard, “Yes, yes, YES! Give it to me!” he cried out, as the big black bull tensed, jerked, released, tensed, jerked, released, tensed, jerked . . .
“Trevor. Trevor, baby. You in there, Trevor, honey? Come upstairs. Don’t be mad. It just happened. It meant nothing. It’s just you, baby. It’s always just you.”
“Shit,” Trevor exclaimed, rolling off Kirk and onto the floor, already reaching down for his athletic shorts. “It’s Cameron. He can’t see me like this.”
“I’ll be upstairs,” Cameron called out. “Come up to me, baby. Don’t be mad. I’ll show you a good time.”
Kirk collapsed on the bed, turned onto his side, facing Trevor’s “pull on my shorts and get out of here” dance. He lay there on the bed, legs still open, vulnerable. He was propped up on his elbows, watching the big man moving nervously around in the room that suddenly was too small for him, trying to get his legs into the holes in his athletic shorts. Kirk’s head was spinning a bit from the abruptness of the change—first being under Trevor, shooting his own load and then knowing Trevor was releasing his, and now watching the football player hopping around, trying to get his legs in his shorts. Trevor went into the pocket of the shorts and came up with a wad of cash. He flipped it onto the top of the nightstand. “Fifty it was, wasn’t it? There. I gotta go.”
“I don’t want your money,” Kirk said, his voice showing the hurt. “It meant more to me than the money. I just want your cock. I want you the way Cameron has you. It cheapens it if . . . didn’t it mean anything to you?” In just the few seconds their eyes had first met contact when Trevor was standing in the doorway, Kirk had gotten the feeling that there was more between them than just a fifty-dollar fuck. It had only taken Kirk a couple of seconds when Trevor was standing in the doorway to know it would be more than just a casual fuck for him—and he’d been right.
But the question just hung there in the room, now empty other than Kirk stretched out on the bed, legs open, hole now reamed to Trevor’s specifications, wanting more, the door to the corridor still swaying on its hinges. Kirk had said it, but there was no indication that Trevor had heard anything he’d confessed to—anything he said he dreamed of.
He leaned over the side of the bed and looked toward the wastebasket where Trevor had tossed the second spent Trojan Magnum, the bulb filled with the football player’s prodigious wad of cum. Trevor had missed with the second spent rubber and the foil package as well in his hurry to get out of here and to his boyfriend, Cameron, upstairs.
His boyfriend, Cameron.
Kirk didn’t think that would last long. Cameron was flighty, and any guy in the fraternity who wanted to lay him could. Nobody had the balls to tell Trevor that, though. Something glittery caught Kirk’s eye. A few of the gold beads that tipped Trevor’s dreadlocks had come off too and were on the floor between the bed and the spent condoms. Trevor wasn’t completely gone from the room yet. It would be quite some time before he and his magnificent body and cock would float out of Kirk’s brain.
He reached down and touched his hole, dilated still to Trevor’s need and then lay back on the bed, handed his cock as it filled out into an erection, and replayed every thrust of Trevor’s shaft inside him that he could remember as he masturbated himself to an exhausted sleep.
When he woke, the first thing he did was to go into the bathroom and search around for that little plastic bag he’d gotten five antibiotic pills in months ago. There two in there still. He rolled them out onto the side of the sink and padded back in the bedroom with the empty bag. He got on his hands and knees, searching for gold beads that had spun off of Trevor’s dreadlocks during their vigorous coupling. Find seven, he scooped them into the plastic bag and put the bag on top of his dresser. From now on, when he dressed, that bag would be his pocket.
Kirk didn’t have an opportunity to go another round with Trevor. The week after this first one, he received urgent news that his mother, in Atlanta, had fallen gravely ill, and Kirk was picking up stakes and headed back to Atlanta for the time being.
* * * *
February 2020
“Ted, do you know who that is over by the bar, talking with the football coach?” Trevor Jackson was at an awards ceremony for the university’s football program in the trophy hall of the Glazer Family Club at Tulane’s Yulman Stadium. He’d been invited to it to be honored as a Tulane football all-American from a decade before and to mark his retirement this season from the New Orleans Saints.
“You don’t recognize him? That’s Sanford Shields.”
“Sanford Shields? I don’t know him, no.” But Trevor felt like he should know the handsome, trim, if a bit short black man. He looked familiar and Trevor felt a strong attraction to him. In just a few seconds when their eyes had met and both had looked away, he felt a strong attraction—an arousal even. Trevor was a bit of a bad boy. He played with other men and he had no trouble in finding men who were happy to be manhandled by a black, muscular professional football player.
“That’s odd,” Ted, an assistant athletic director for the Tulane University sports program, said.
“How so?”
“I always assumed Shields was a friend of yours. He went to Tulane around the same time as you did. He’s a major donor here. In fact, he underwrites a football scholarship here in your name. So, I always thought—”
“I knew of the scholarship, and I guess I’d heard the name at some time, but this is the first time I’ve had the name connected with a face. I guess if he’s dropped a lot of money here in my name, I should have paid better attention.”
Ted was touching Trevor on the hip with the fingers of a hand, keeping what he was doing out of anyone else’s line of sight, between Trevor’s body and the buffet table. Trevor knew what the man was suggesting, but he didn’t bite. The two had been here before; this approach wasn’t coming out of the blue.
“I suppose I thought you’d know each other, as much as he talks of you and funds a scholarship in your name. He did say you’d gone to school together briefly. And, well, you know . . .”
“Are you saying that he’s gay? That there was something between us at Tulane? It’s news to me that we were here at the same time.”
“Well, yes he is gay. And you are. I just assumed . . . sorry.” Trevor’s orientation was no secret with Ted. Ted was a submissive bottom and when he’d first come to Tulane’s sports program, Trevor and he had gone a couple of rounds. It was evident that Ted wouldn’t mind going a couple of more rounds now.
“I don’t know him,” Trevor reiterated, “but this is intriguing. Perhaps you could introduce us.” There had been that spark in just the few seconds of their eyes meeting across the party room. So, Trevor couldn’t say he wasn’t interested.
“Certainly, I would be happy to,” Ted answered, not enthusiastically, as this interest in Shields he’d generated himself had short circuited his own interest in getting Jackson’s attention. He was about to lead Trevor over there when one of his staff members came for him with an issue that needed attention. “Excuse me, Trevor, this won’t take long to attend to. I’ll be right back.”
“No problem,” Trevor answered. “I see someone over there I do know from the past.”
“Oh, who? Oh, Justin Wingfield, the vice president of the Alumni Association. Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” Ted had said Wingfield’s name with a bit of tension in it. Trevor wasn’t surprised. He’d kept in touch with Justin—or rather, Justin had kept in touch with him, as someone like Justin would when his classmate was a professional football player—and Justin had remained as brash and demanding as he’d been at the university. But Justin did have money and connections and Justin did get things done. He’d raised a lot of money that got this facility built in 2014, for instance.
Justin was glad to see Trevor—very vocally glad, greeting him in a booming voice that reminded everyone within a mile that the two of them had gone to school together and had been in the same fraternity. Connections were important, but they meant nothing if everyone didn’t know they existed.
“I’d heard you were being honored at this ceremony, Trevor,” Justin said after they’d shared their initial greetings. Justin acting like everything was just fine between them, and Trevor was happy to pretend it was so as not to get into old grievances. It was possible, Justin being as self-absorbed as he was, that he didn’t remember that he had stolen Trevor’s boyfriend, Cameron Dixon, away from him their senior year at Tulane—and, worse, had gloated about it for months. Trevor still felt the sting, not used to being the one who was cheated on and abandoned, even though all of his friends at the time said that Cameron was as faithful as a bunny rabbit and that Trevor had been well shed of him.
“I have no idea why you are retiring after only eight years with the Saints, though,” Justin continued. “You must be raking in the money.”
Trevor strongly suspected that Justin knew exactly how much he had been raking in on his football contract. “Eight years is an eternity in professional football, Justin,” he said. “It’s an even more brutal sport than anyone not playing it can imagine. After the knee replacement last summer, I knew I was done. I shouldn’t have tried playing another season on it.”
“I do see the limp,” Justin said. His tone was borderline happy that his knees were in better shape than Trevor’s were. He hadn’t missed the slight jab about not actually playing a sport anymore. His sports, though, were making money and stealing other men’s toys. They had both been gay tops going back to their college days—and Justin had competed with Trevor then although Trevor hadn’t bothered to play that game. “At least I heard you landed on your feet—that you have another good contract. With the Falcons, is it?”
“Yes, I’ll be an assistant coach with them. I’ve already packed out. Excuse me, please. Ted is signaling to me. I’ll talk with you later. It was good to see you here.”
“Perhaps we can go for a drink afterward,” Justin said. “I haven’t been back to New Orleans in a couple of years. You stayed on here, so you must know of the best places to meet sweet young men.”
“I don’t do much of that in New Orleans anymore. It’s not great for publicity.”
“Ah, yes, you must be recognized by everyone in this town. You don’t mean to say you’ve stopped letting yourself be caught by young men, I hope.”
“No, I’m not saying that, Justin. I just don’t cruise in public in New Orleans much anymore. I take my business somewhere other than where I play ball.”
“Well, I do come back to New Orleans once in a while. Maybe I know of a good place or two for us to go after you pick up your award here.”
“Yes, maybe,” Trevor said as he pulled away and went over to Ted. He was reluctant to go cruising with Justin after the ceremony and not either because he couldn’t take Justin—he’d become immune to his old fraternity brother—or because he wasn’t interested in going cruising. Truth be told, since he’d seen the Shields guy across the room and Ted said he was gay, Trevor’s mind was spinning possibilities. If it was possible he might be leaving the ceremony with Shields, he couldn’t promise to leave with Justin. He had no interest in sharing Shields with Justin. As he remembered, Justin was a sharer—he had tried to tempt Trevor into double penetrations when they were at Tulane together, but Trevor had never played that game with him.
Ted was putting on a sad face as Trevor approached him. “I couldn’t see Shields anywhere when I finished with the caterers. I’m told he left already. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow at the banquet at the Alder Hotel.” Trevor wasn’t sure that Ted was as sorry about that as he was saying he was.
“Yes, maybe,” Trevor said, disappointed but not wanting to show it. It had made him horny, though.
“If you’re not doing anything after this, though—”
“Oh, sorry, I do. Justin Wingfield’s invited me to go somewhere with him.”
Ted turned so that Trevor couldn’t see the disappointment in his face, as Trevor went looking for Justin to say he’d go cruising with him if the offer was still open. He watched Ted walk away, considering whether he would do—but that had been too long ago and Ted hadn’t kept his body up. That ship had sailed.
* * * *
After cruising a few gay bars where Justin didn’t want to stay long, quite obviously because Trevor was getting more attention that he was, they ended up on Elysian Fields Aveue in the Marigny District near the French Quarter and, in a dark corner of the room, watched a drag queen show at the Diva Royal. Justin had mentioned wanting to go there several times during the evening.
“Isn’t that? . . . that looks like . . .” Trevor said, in surprise, pointing to the stage.
“Yes. That’s Cameron. Cameron Dixon.”
“Aren’t you two—?”
“Not anymore,” Justin answered, with a snort. “Not for a hell of a long time. He’s doing a guest billing here. He’s usually either in New York or Las Vegas. I see him in New York. He’s in high demand. I can’t afford his fuck fees, though.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Trevor said. “Did you know he’d be here in New Orleans—and here tonight?”
“Yes, of course. I had planned ending the evening here. And, yes, he asked about you and being in New Orleans. He gave me two tickets for tonight and said to bring you if I could. And here we are, and there he is, coming off the stage and coming toward us. Isn’t he still luscious? He’s still got it.”
Cameron did, in fact, still have it. And he still knew how to get what he wanted. Trevor had arrived half looped and fully horny and was no match for Cameron’s wiles. He rarely had been able to resist Cameron, even though he had no illusions about the young man’s constancy.
At least Cameron did mention charging a fee.
They fucked on a studio couch in a dressing room Cameron had been assigned to all to himself, considering his reputation in the business and management expecting him to entertain men there—and to give them half of his fee.
Cameron had always known all of the sexiest positions. They initially fucked in a lotus position, Trevor sitting on the bed, reclining back, supporting his torso with his fists pressed into the surface of the couch and his legs spread and bent, feet flat on the couch. Cameron sat in his lap in the same position, facing him, skewered and rising and falling on the cock.
“Do you still have the monster . . . ? . . . oh, fuck, you still do, don’t you, sweetie? Put that monster shaft inside me, you big black bull,” Cameron had declared.
“Mind the bum knee,” Trevor begged.
“It’s not your knee I’m interested in, baby. Oh, fuck, baby. Yes! FUCKME! Do me! Just like that. YES!”
Cameron had always been very vocal. He knew the guys liked that.
They changed to what Cameron called the mastery position, with Trevor sitting on the side of the couch, feet on the floor, and Cameron in his lap, facing him, hands clutching Trevor’s shoulders, and legs bent, feet beside Trevor’s hips, using the leverage of the feet to rise and fall on Trevor’s cock, while the black stud palmed and squeezed the drag queen’s buttocks.
After they’d both shot their loads, they remained in the position, kissing and cooling down.
“That was good, baby. I’ve missed that. We’re good together,” Cameron murmured. “Remember us together, baby?”
“Yes, I remember,” Trevor answered. And he did remember. He remembered more of their volatile earlier relationship and Cameron’s many betrayals than the younger man let himself remember. And Trevor wasn’t the one to be led around by the nose like he had been as a college senior. Tonight . . . this . . . was good for partying and cruising, but not for relationships. He’d once wanted a relationship with Cameron. He wasn’t burdened with that need anymore.
“I hear you’re moving to Atlanta. Going to work for the Falcons, I hear.”
“Yes, yes, I am,” Trevor answered.
“There are a couple of good drag queen show clubs in Atlanta.”
“Are there?” Trevor answered in a noncommittal voice. He wasn’t going to get that involved with Cameron again. He knew what Cameron was trying to get him to suggest, and he wasn’t going there. “No more talk now. I want to fuck you again.”
And then he did. No exotic positions. He pulled Cameron up on the bed; put him on his back; slapped his legs apart, bent, feet flat on the bed; ran an arm under the willowy blond’s waist, elevating Cameron’s pelvis to a good penetration angle; thrust inside him; held the young man’s head to the couch with a beefy hand clutching his throat. And then he fucked the hell out of him.
Cameron squealed like a pig, but he loved every thrust of it. Cameron loved big black bulls, and Trevor was a god among bulls.
When Trevor left the dressing room, leaving Cameron stretched out on the couch, whimpering and moaning, Justin was in the hallway, sitting on a straight chair.
“You aren’t waiting for me—to drive me back to the hotel now—are you?” Trevor asked, and then when Justin didn’t answer right away, Trevor said, “No, I didn’t think so. Some things never change, do they?”
“I thought maybe we could . . . together. You know I always wanted that with you and Cameron. I brought you back to him.”
“I don’t think so, Justin. Not in this lifetime.”
As he walked down the hall, somewhat gingerly because the fuck session hadn’t been kind on his knee replacement, Justin was entering Cameron’s dressing room.
* * * *
“It’s the penthouse apartment, with a terrace off the bedroom and a great view of the lake.”
“That sounds great, Ted.”
“Maybe you’d like to come over afterward and see the view . . . from the bedroom.”
The two were talking in the gathering space outside the ballroom at the Alder Hotel Uptown New near the Tulane campus before the doors opened to the annual Tulane athletic department annual awards banquet, an event wrapping up the weekend’s series of athletic achievement celebrations. Once again Trevor’s Tulane and Saints careers were being marked and he had been invited to sit at the head table.
“I’ll take your word for it, Ted. I have a lot of last-minute stuff I have to do before I take off for Atlanta.” It had taken just a second when he’d first seen Ted the previous day after the three years they hadn’t seen each other to know that it would be a “never again” with him. Ted was letting himself go to pot. And, more important, Trevor had come here today with the hope of hooking up with that Shields guy he’d connected with in just a shared eye glance the day before at Yulman Stadium. He hadn’t seen him here yet. Ted had said that Shields would be here at this banquet. Trevor was leaving his options open for that. It had just been a few seconds of locking eyes, but that had been enough.
Trevor didn’t see him before the doors opened and they all streamed into the ballroom, with round tables of eight on the floor and a long, straight table across the dais above. Trevor was seated near the wing off from the right of the speaker’s position, the athletic director and head football coach sitting between him and the guest speaker. As the meal was being served, Trevor scrutinized the round tables below. Still no sighting of the Shields guy. He didn’t know he’d be this disappointed at not seeing the guy, but he was.
Introductions were being made and those being introduced, all sitting at the head table, were asked to stand. And then there he was. Sanford Shields, identified as a major benefactor of the Yulman Stadium construction fund and the Trevor Jackson football athletic scholarship, who had been sitting on the left wing of the head table, was asked to stand while Trevor was still standing. The two looked at each other across those sitting at the center of the table, and Shields nodded his head toward the doors at the other end of the ballroom out into the foyer. Trevor nodded back.
The lunch was being served, with the keynote speech scheduled to follow. First Shields and then Trevor mumbled something about the men’s room and headed down opposite sides of the ballroom floor for the exit doors. Both were careful not to look at each other as they moved. They met up in a hallway off the foyer, where the restrooms were located.
“Ted told me you wanted to meet me,” Shields said. “I’m Sanford Shields. Sorry I wasn’t there yesterday when you wanted to meet me. And today—I was late. I’d hoped we would be able to meet before the banquet started.”
“I feel I should know you. I’m sorry that we haven’t met before—that I didn’t pay enough attention to who was sponsoring the scholarship here in my name. I should have met you before now. I feel I know you from somewhere.”
“You do, but you don’t really remember?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. The name Sanford doesn’t ring a bell with me.”
“Maybe because that wasn’t the name I was using when we were at Tulane—and in the Alpha Tau fraternity together—just that one year, though. It was your senior year and my freshman year. I was going by Kirk, my middle name, then.”
“Kirk? Kirk Shields? The houseboy in the basement? You were enrolled at Tulane then? You weren’t just the guy who made our beds?”
“I like to think I did more for you than make your bed, Trevor.” Kirk’s hand was in his pocket, fingering the small plastic bag containing the gold beads that had fallen from Trevor’s dreadlocks “that day.” Yes, Kirk had done more for Trevor that day than make his bed—and Kirk, for one, had never forgotten it. He’d always kept these beads with him so he wouldn’t forget.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry. We did it. And it was probably the best fuck of my life.”
“For me too,” Shields said somewhat wistfully.
“But then you were gone.”
“Yes. My mother died and I had to go back to Atlanta to run the business. I guess I ran it well enough, because it’s an extensive cleaning and maid service across Georgia now. I came back after a year to finish at Tulane—in business—but you were gone then—to the Saints. And I’ve been following you ever since. I’ve been to most of your games over the past eight years.”
“And founded the scholarship in my name,” Trevor said.
“Yes. I guess you could say I’ve been holding the torch for you.”
“And I hadn’t noticed.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m noticing now. You say you live in Atlanta? I’m moving to Atlanta.”
“Yes, I know—to be an assistant offensive coach for the Falcons. I sort of knew that was happening.”
“You sort of helped that happen?” Trevor asked.
“I guess you could say that. Have you bought a place in Atlanta yet?”
“No, I thought I’d rent for a year and take my time looking for my own place.”
“You wouldn’t have to rent . . . unless you wanted to, of course.” He reached out with a hand, tentatively, and smiled when Trevor reached out and took it in his hand. A big, beefy jet-black hand covering a smaller, chocolate-brown one. It brought back memories—arousing memories—for both of them. “I have a guest house out by my pool. Full facilities.”
“There’s that possibility,” Trevor said. He drew closer to Kirk and palmed the smaller guy’s buttocks with his free hand, Kirk didn’t pull away. “Am I crowding you?” he asked.
“You were aggressive and dominating,” Kirk answered. “And so, so big.”
“I still am. All of that,” Trevor said.
“No, you aren’t crowding me. You’re arousing me—just like you did the day back in the basement of the fraternity house. Arousing me like I’d never been aroused before. So, no, you aren’t crowding me.”
“Where are you staying here in New Orleans?”
“I’m staying right here in the Alder,” Kirk answered, his voice nearly breathless. He’d reached out with his free hand and was tracing the line of Trevor’s cock through the material of his basket. The cock was hard. “I have a room upstairs. You want to see it?”
“Yes, I want to see it—unless you want me to fuck you right here in the hallway,” Trevor answered, his voice now nearly as breathless as Kirk’s was. “I want to see you—naked. It looks like you’ve kept yourself in shape for me.”
“I’ve tried,” Kirk said. “I did whatever I could for you to want me again.”
“You did good then. It took me just a couple of seconds to see that.”
