New Player in the Player’s Box

In many respects it was my own fault. I’d sent Jaco Ngono that letter saying I’d do anything to be able to sit in his player’s box at the U.S. Open Tennis championships. I’d worshipped the big, strapping black pro tennis player since the twenty-three-year- old broke onto the tennis scene. He was tall, over six foot six, and big, muscular, solid. He had a fast, heavy serve to die for. It had brought him into the quarterfinals of the tournament. He wasn’t pretty; he had the rugged good looks of a take-charge thug, which is what I melted to in a potential top. Thus far it was all fantasy and thinking about it. I hadn’t gone with a man . . . yet.

And the invitation had come, by way of his physical trainer, to sit in his box. Quite an honor for an nineteen-year-old TV actor. I asked the physical trainer if Ngono knew who I was, and he assured me that the tennis player did—and knew of the role I played on TV. I was in a situation drama set in New York, which, luckily, was on hiatus that week. I played a troubled family son uncertain of his sexuality. I could pass as a younger teenager, and they just glossed over my character’s age in the TV show.

I had no trouble playing the part. My agent had said that it was risky, but we’d signed up anyway and he didn’t regret it, because the paycheck was hefty and steady. Nate knew I was working with the knowledge I was leaning gay, although I hadn’t done anything overt about it yet. He took that into account both whether I could handle the part and whether my fans could, reasoning in the end that I might as well face it sooner than later and that, if I was going to declare gay, the fans would find out anyway. What happened after that was what happened. What I was going through in my personal life, though, went well with the character in the TV show and helped me act the part convincingly.

Being gay was no longer a career killer in the entertainment industry. If the audience for the situation drama accepted me in my role, my stereotype would be set anyway. I was at the beginning of a career. It was loose enough to establish myself as this or that now.

But I hadn’t really decided anything definite for my real-life self yet. I was only nineteen. I told myself that it was Ngono’s play if we met. I’d let him take command one way or the other. But I was lost to him even before we met. The way he moved like a dancer, albeit a hundred-and-eighty-pound dancer, on the court attracted me. And there were rumors he was actively gay.

I did look at men and assess them as future bed partners. I had looked at Ngono that way. He had scored very high. He was very African, which gave me the feeling he’d be primeval, commanding, and very direct. I thought that sex with him would be natural, bold, and maybe a little wild. I wondered and worried about size, and I’d read that African men—especially those from central Africa, as Ngono was—were especially hung. I wondered how it would be to take not just any cock, but a particularly big one. But, then, I’d never done it, so it was just feelings. I admit that muscular black men aroused me. There was something breathlessly taboo about them, and I rebelled against being told something was taboo for me. Like other guys my age, that was a challenge to do it.

Ngono’s trainer talked to my agent when I was accepting the invitation to set in the player’s box for his quarterfinals match. The trainer said I had to understand that if Ngono lost, he very likely would be in a sulk and would want to be alone in his hotel room, but if he won, he’d want to party and he’d want everyone in his player’s box to party with him. He didn’t specify what “partying” meant in Ngono’s world. Maybe since I was seeking the player out, his trainer thought I was further along in being submissive to men than I was.

So, they couldn’t say when to pick me up. The trainer would see that I got back to the apartment where my studio-provided companion couple lived with me during the New York filming. My family lived in Fort Collins, Colorado. That’s where I lived, on a ranch my salary largely paid for, when the TV series wasn’t in production.

Nate was fine with that arrangement. I wasn’t really asked what I felt about it. It would be fine with me, if I had been asked, though. I felt my companion couple could be stifling. I rarely could get out on my own. I was old enough to do that now. I seemed to be the only one at the studio or in my family who had realized I had reached the age to make my own decisions legally. I was on the cusp of demanding more access to my finances from my parents. I had been their gravy boat for long enough. I was ready to fly on my own.

Ngono won. He was ecstatic. He took us all, everyone in his player’s box, out on the town—for supper and then to a club afterward. I was, of course, too young to go to the club, but the group just swept me in with the rest and the bouncers said nothing. I was recognized. A TV actor qualified as crowd-attracting celebrity. They let me in and turned an eye away from the number on my ID.

Ngono was a big celebrity for the night too. Everyone in New York knew of Ngono’s epoch win. He was the last American, albeit a second-generation Congolese, left in the U.S. Open. His rise had been like a rocket. He was in heaven.

He kept saying he was happy I was there, partying with them. He mentioned what I said in my letter—that I’d do anything to be in the player’s box—and he had me seated next to him in the club, and put an arm around me while he acted the king of the world. He touched me intimately a couple of times but I told myself that was inadvertent—and I was happy to be here anyway. He also asked me once if I was easy and made some comment about all TV actors being rent-boys, but it was noisy in the club and I didn’t respond to either of these. He didn’t seem to need response to anything he said or did. He was on the top of the world and he was king.

It wasn’t his fault if he thought I was seasoned gay. I played gay on TV and I’d come on to him by making it obvious I wanted to be in his player’s box. If he equated access to the player’s box with bed, that wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make. I hadn’t told him I was a virgin to men.

I wasn’t old enough to drink, either, but it was put in front of me, no one saying anything about it, and I drank it. It wasn’t like I couldn’t—and didn’t—get alcohol on the production set. No one said anything about it there if no one else was saying anything. I wasn’t drunk or anything when we left the club at midnight and the group split up for their own accommodations, but I was tipsy. The trainer and Ngono offered me a ride. I accepted. The ride wasn’t to my apartment; it was to Ngono’s hotel room. By then I couldn’t say I didn’t know what was coming down. The trainer was driving and Ngono was in the backseat with me, kissing me and fondling me. I didn’t resist.

When the car stopped in front of Ngono’s hotel, I knew. By then, he’d gotten my legs spread and had a hand high up on my inner thigh. If we’d had two more blocks to drive, either I or he would have been unzipped. And I don’t think I would have resisted that either.

I have to give credit to the physical trainer. He checked to make sure I was good with this. When we got out of the car at the hotel, he asked, “You’re OK with this? You know what you’re getting into, right?” he asked me as Ngono was gladhanding his way into the hotel lobby through a group of people who were attending the U.S. Open, knew who he was, and wanted to congratulate him.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, wanting to sound more “with it” than I was feeling. But he did ask. I couldn’t rightfully say I didn’t agree to what happened to me up in that hotel room.

The trainer went upstairs with us, turning the car over to a valet, and he was there, somewhere in the suite, near the door to the corridor, the rest of the time I was there—or at least as long as Ngono was there.

Ngono offered me another drink and I took it. It was drugged, I’m sure of that. It didn’t make me sick, but it made me lethargic. It also made me tingle and feel very sexy when he touched me. We sat on the sofa in his suite, with him reliving nearly every point of his match, euphoric about the day, but also attentive to me. I was feeling all loose and “whatever” and sighing whenever he touched me, and, as he talked, expressively using his hands, he used his hands on me—touching, fondling, and, eventually, undressing. I did nothing to stop him. He was a god. I was there for him. I had painted an idyllic view of where this was leading. I ached to do it—to have it over and done with the first time. To entire a new world of experience.

I found myself lying on my back along the sofa cushions and Ngono, big, black, also naked now, in huge, black erection, sitting beside me, gliding his hands all over me, kissing me on the mouth and the throat and the nipples. He ran his hands up the insides of my legs and I opened them to his touch, not giving any resistance. I arched my back and moaned as his thumbs found my hole and stroked it and spread it open. He had every right to assume I was completely open to him.

“So sweet, so young, so ready for me. Let me fuck you,” he murmured. I didn’t take the opportunity to say “no.” I don’t know if he’d have taken “no” for a reason to back off. I just lay there, legs open and vulnerable to him, my full attention on his thumbs stroking my hole, and moaning.

He was a big, black god. And then his lips were on my belly on the way to kissing my cock and taking it in his mouth. I lay there, moaning and letting him do what he wanted.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Screw you good,” he was whispering.

The black god was giving me head. The man of the hour was giving me intimate attention.

He put his hand under the sofa and came up with a dildo and a bottle of lube and two condom packets.

He kissed me and asked, “Have you done it before? Have men—?”

“Yes, of course,” I lied. I don’t know why I lied, but I did. I think it was because it was what I wanted. It seemed to be a little late to be asking. I wasn’t being asked for it, not exactly. He was just filling in the “he didn’t say no” requirement.

He seemed to have gotten past that requirement and gone on to other questions. But even not in being asked to agree to it, I think that helped me not resist, not that whatever drug I was given would have enabled me to resist. He was a lot bigger than I was and a whole lot stronger. I think being taken without giving permission—being forced, if that was what this was to be—would make it more agreeable to me.

There’s no reason for him to think he was taking me by force, though. I was being easy for him.

He leaned over me, his face close to mine, his eyes capturing mine, as he put my left ankle on his right shoulder, encased my cock with his left hand, stroking it, and using the right hand to penetrate, invade, open up, spread, and stretch my virginal passage with the dildo. I didn’t tell him the passage was virginal. I endured. But then I’d used what was at hand before myself to work that passage.

“This to help you open for it. Then me. I’m going to fuck you good. Screw you good.”

I moaned and groaned and in slow motion, probably because of the drug, writhed under him, my facial expressions clearly exhibiting the pain-passion of working me as he was. I also, though, rocked my pelvis with the movement of the dildo inside me, which surely told him I was being pleasured. It was as good as saying “yes” to him. I’d experimented before. There’d been things up there so I’d know how it felt. Not a real dildo, though, and certainly not a man’s cock. But I was willingly having sex with this dildo. It was fucking me and I was fucking it back. With tensing, jerks, and thrusts of my pelvis, I gave a little cry and came in his hand.

“Sorry,” I murmured, embarrassed that I couldn’t hold it.

“Nice,” he murmured. “You give it up like a virgin.” He didn’t know the half of that.

He turned me, moving me up to where my belly was stretched over the arm of the sofa and my head and arms hung down the side. I was on my knees in the sofa. Ngono moved on top of me, his feet planted in sofa cushion on either side of my calves. He was mounted on top and behind me. This was it. I was going to be fucked in the ass.

“Gonna fuck you good. We’re gonna have a great time.”

He was a super large-cocked man. It took much effort and much panting and whimpering and groaning from me for him to penetrate.

“Open up, bitch. Give it to me.”

It was a chore—much more painful for me than pleasure denying for him—but he did it and, thanks to what the dildo had started, I opened and spread and stretched enough for him to gain purchase inside me. The dildo had been well lubed, so I was too.

Covering me, nestling his lips into my throat, and reaching over and grabbing the wrists on my arms dangling over the side of the sofa with his super-long muscular arms, he put his hips into a swinging motion and fucked me then, the shaft moving ever deeper, ever more vigorously inside, making me more and more his. Within minutes, it was all groaning and grunting and moaning animal rutting, him giving and me taking. Primeval breeding. Black on white. Being fucked by Africa.

I came again into the inner surface of the sofa arm and he tensed and jerked, tensed and jerked, and shot his load sometime thereafter, blasting me deep inside my core, once, twice, and then a third time inside the bulb of the condom. He not only was a bull of a man in size, he was full of cum too.

It hurt, yes. But he was a tennis star. I had been deflowered by a big, black tennis star in his physical prime and in his hours of triumph. A big-cocked African stud had popped my male cherry. I assumed that he’d lose in the semifinals, and he did. The man he played was much more experienced and famous than he was. But this man was a gorgeous big, black stud.

After holding for a full minute and whispering into my ear, “That was sweet. You’re a sweet lay,” Ngono rose off me, picked me up and took me over to the bed. He laid me down on my back. His hands went to my inner thighs and gripped them. I took the hint, and when he spread and bent the legs and placed my feet flat on the mattress, I gave no resistance.

“Let me see that sweet hole,” he said. “Whooee, opened you good, didn’t I?”

I had said nothing while he was fucking me other than what I assumed was the usual involuntary cries of “shit” and “fuck” and “yes” and “you’re so big” and I said nothing now. My look of worship and surrender said all he needed to know.

Yes, I was easy—for him, at least.

I knew he was going to fuck me again. I knew that even when he moved away from the bed and went into the adjacent bathroom. I also knew that he wanted me to remain on my back, in that vulnerable position, my legs open, my hole exposed, and waiting for him—waiting for him to do whatever he wanted to do with me.

He left the bathroom door open and I watched him piss in the toilet, his shaft huge—long and thick—even when flaccid. I watched him work it up again with his hand while he watched me on the bed.

“Show it to me,” he called from the bathroom. “Show me your sweet hole again.”

Using the leverage of the soles of my feet I raised my pelvis, giving him a clear shot of my sore, but blossomed, until now virginal, hole.

“Touch it. Penetrate it with your finger,” he commanded. I complied.

“Move the finger, fuck yourself. Jack yourself with the other hand.” I complied with that too.

“Get yourself off. Come for me.” That took a little time, but I did that also. Anything he wanted. I was his to command. I was panting. This was all so new and sexy for me.

By the time I had come, shooting my jism onto the hotel bedspread between my spread thighs, Ngono had crowned himself with a condom again and lubed it up. He strode out of the bathroom and to the bed, climbing up on the bed, a hundred-and-eighty pounds of all-male muscle and chocolate hard-bodied skin, swinging a thick, long, jet-black erection.

I moaned as he ran an arm under my waist, pulling my hips up, bringing my buttocks to the bulb of his magnificent cock. I arched my back and my head, stretched my arms straight out the side in a sacrificial cruciform “screw the hell out of me” stance, bunched up bedspread material in my fists, and cried out to the ceiling of the hotel room as he entered, entered, entered me, and immediately began thrusting, setting up the rhythm of the vigorous, deep fuck. Huge black shaft invading small white hole. Africa fucking the Western world. Jet-black cock stuffing white passage. In and out; in and out. Moooaan.

“Take it, bitch! Give it to me!”

Forcing my sensations through the pain to reach the pleasure and then the passion and ecstasy, as the drugs were wearing off, I went wholly with the fuck, digging my heels into the mattress, rocking with him, taking him hard and deep, harmonizing the swinging of my hips with the rhythm of his fuck.

“Yes, yes! Fuckin’ YES!” he cried out as he tensed, jerked, and released.

We came nearly together.

He said nothing other than, “That was a good one. That was a good fuck,” when he had come and let my hips fall to the mattress again. Then he was off the bed and into the bathroom and the shower, leaving me lying on the bed, legs spread, unable to close them, and panting and blowing bubbles.

I hadn’t told him that I entered this room a virgin to men. I wouldn’t tell him. I would keep some of this to myself. No, I’d keep it all to myself—at least until I had a tell-all memoir to write, at the end of my life, when I needed the money.

When Ngono came out of the bathroom, he was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, with sandals on his feet. God, he was a beautiful man.

“I’m going for a drink,” he said. No matter that there was a stocked drinks cart in the room and he shouldn’t be drinking in the middle of a tournament anyway. But I said nothing. I wasn’t his mother—and he owned me; it wasn’t the other way around.

“Evan will see that you get home,” he said. And then he was gone and Evan, the physical trainer, was coming into the bedroom.

“You OK?” the physical trainer asked.

“Yes,” I answered in a small voice.

“He fucked you good?”

“Yes.”

“Shit, you look so fuckable lying there with your legs open,” he said. His voice was low, hoarse.

Evan did take me home, but he fucked me first. He evidently was as much under the impression that I was open to—offering—sex from the time I’d written the “I’ll do anything” letter as Ngono seemed to have been. He didn’t ask for a “yes” any more than the tennis star had.

He came up onto the bed, picked me up, and put me on all fours.

“You OK?” he asked. I can’t say he hadn’t always checked with me.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

He mounted and penetrated me, and he fucked me. He wasn’t as thick or long as Ngono was, but he was good enough. I already was lubed up and well-opened by a bigger cock, so this wasn’t so hard.

He was attentive, snaking a hand under my belly and stroking me off as he pumped me.

He kept murmuring, “So nice. So open and yielding. So sweet.” He kept asking, “You OK” and “Can you turn like this, so I can get in deeper,” and I always gave him assenting sounds. He was strong and muscular, manipulating me like I was a rag doll. I gave him everything. I denied him nothing. I spread my legs, turning them out, raising my pelvis, giving him total, deep access.

He was vigorous and virile and long-lasting. Not as much as Ngono in any of these, but good enough, better than most men—a succession of agents, producers, directors, other actors, and camera men—I subsequently held on all fours for with them mounted on my ass and fucking me. He didn’t ask for permission either beyond continually asking me if I was OK. I didn’t resist him anymore that I had the tennis star. Each successive fuck was less painful, more pleasuring. The trainer was a muscle stud hunk too. The drug had worn off, but, what the hell? My male cherry had been popped. I was starting on a life of more of this from men. So, what the hell? Each successive fuck didn’t subtract; it only added.

Apparently, I would be easy for the trainer as well—and subsequently for any other man who was hunky or who give me an advantage—or was primeval Africa. Congolese cock. I subsequently read that Congolese cock was the biggest in the world. I haven’t found any bigger. My first cock. Congolese cock.

While driving me home, Evan said, “I don’t think any of this needs to be repeated to anyone.” He’d slipped a wad of cash in the pocket of my jeans as we left the hotel room. I hadn’t counted it yet. I hadn’t expected to be paid. Maybe I’d go with guys from now who paid for it. I wondered if Nate would pay for it. The way my agent looked at me, I knew he was just waiting to take his slice of me in something more than commissions. I wondered if, when this was set up, Nate knew what would be done to—with—me in this hotel room. It hardly mattered now, of course. What was done was done.

“No, of course not,” I answered. I’d save it for my memoir.

If Ngono read my memoir he’d be surprised along with the rest of the world that he’d been the one to pop my male cherry. I wondered if he’d send me a thank-you note then.