"20 to 19, Johnny boy," Malcolm taunted. "1 more point and you lose... again."
He dribbled the ball and threw me a smug grin. He knew how much I hated being called John or Johnny -- it was part of his ploy to break my concentration. He loved to talk trash to get me all riled up. But after all those years, I was used to it. I don't know why he bothered anyway; he could beat me without breaking a sweat, but he always let the game get real close then use dirty tactics to clench the game. Not this time.
I faked a move and he weaved to counter. While he was distracted, I swiped the ball out of his hands and laid it up... nice and easy.
"20 all," I said, tossing him the ball and a smug grin of my own.
"Lucky shot, punk. You still gon' lose."
"Bring it," I said.
Malcolm dribbled the ball slowly while he devised his next move. It was awe-inspiring to watch him on the court. He was tall, graceful, confident, and beautiful. When he moved, every muscle in his body rippled. It was hard to concentrate with him dressed like that. I think he did that to distract me too. It worked.
He'd start off by ditching his shirt early in the game to "beat the heat." As the game progressed, his loose fitting, Carolina blue, mesh shorts (which already hung low on his hips) inched further down until I could get a glimpse of a few tufts of curly black pubes. Beads of sweat popped up on his bulging pecs and trickled down his impressive, mahogany-colored, eight-pack abs into the waistband of the shorts. He didn't wear anything underneath -- no jockstrap, no drawers, no nothing --
so the wetter they got, the more lewdly they clung to his mighty equipment. I struggled to resist watching his dick sway loosely beneath the saturated mesh. Typically, my insatiable lust would get the best of me, but not today, though. I wasn't going to let my libido get in the way of winning!
Malcolm casually gave his package a tug, as men do so often in urban society. I'm so used to it, I normally don't even notice, but when Malcolm does it, I notice! His trick was enough to draw my attention to his sizable bulge and that's all she wrote. One look and I was done for. Malcolm lobbed the ball up and all I could do was watch it breeze into the net. I hung my head and listened to it bounce to a halt.
"You make this too easy," he teased, putting his arm around me and walking me to the locker room.
As I let the warm water wash away the sweat and grime, I thought back to the day I met Malcolm. We were in third grade. My family had just moved to L.A. and had enrolled me in the same private school Malcolm was attending. We had an immediate connection as the outsiders amongst a school of spoiled, rich, white kids. Whereas I just had the burden of being half-Brazilian, Malcolm had the added affliction of not being rich. His parents weren't poor, but they worked hard to give their son what they thought was the best education money could buy. They could have saved their money and their son a lot of hassle though, because Malcolm would have succeeded no matter where he went -- he was just that smart and dedicated. He could do anything if he set his mind to it. I always admired and envied him.
By junior high, we were inseparable. Not many nights went by when one of us didn't sleep over at the other's house. I liked going over his way. He lived in a rough part of town, but everything seemed more colorful and real than it did in my sterile neighborhood. I felt more comfortable being around people of diverse cultures. Malcolm was a different person in his environment. He put away his Hilton Academy façade when he was around his neighborhood buddies and showed the care- free, trash talking, street-wise, around-the-way side of Malcolm. I liked "Malcolm from the Hood" best and tried to emulate him, thinking I could relate to him better. My rap was whack though, and I always ended up sounding like a poser, but Malcolm didn't care and his buddies accepted me anyway.
One thing I did pick up while spending time in South Central was how to ball. I was good, but not nearly as good as Malcolm. He was phenomenal. He could have gone pro, but he wanted to be doctor, not a basketball player. I convinced him to join our high school basketball team anyway, just for fun. I joined too, of course. It's funny how attitudes changed when we started winning games. Suddenly, we were the big men on campus -- everybody wanted to be our friend. We didn't play into that shit, though; we had all the friends we needed in each other. But something happened in our senior year that threatened to destroy that friendship.
I was just coming to terms with my sexuality. I hadn't told anyone what I was going through, especially not Malcolm. I didn't think he'd understand. Hell, I didn't even understand. Even worse, I started having feelings for Malcolm... sexual feelings. At first it was just the little grumblings of puppy love, but soon it ballooned into something much bigger than I was ready to deal with. I would find myself gazing longingly at him: at the lunch table... in class... in the locker room. One day he caught me watching him towel off after he came out of the shower.
"What are you doing?" he said. "You were staring at my dick, weren't you?"
"N-no, of course not!" I stammered.
"Don't lie to me; I saw you!" He was polite enough to keep his voice down but I could hear the raised tone of shock and disgust. "You a fag or something?"
I bowed my head and didn't answer. I didn't want to lie to him, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.
"Oh my God, you are! That's fucked up!"
"Malcolm..." I tried to explain, but he had already slipped on his shorts and shoes and was running out of the locker room.
The next day, and every day after that, Malcolm avoided me like an infectious disease. Whenever our paths accidentally crossed he pretended like I didn't even exist. I cried myself to sleep every night for weeks knowing that my best friend hated me.
We graduated and that was the last I heard from Malcolm for years. Imagine my surprise when I came home one day to this message:
"Hey John Paul, this is Malcolm... remember me? Your mother gave me your number... I hope you don't mind. I understand you're living in Washington now and I'm going to be that way next week. I was thinking maybe we could meet up and catch up. It's been a long time... too long. Give me a call."
He left the number to the hotel where he'd be staying in D.C. I scribbled it down but had no intention of calling him. I wanted to see him, but I couldn't bring myself to face him. A few days passed and I got another message.
"John Paul, this is Malcolm again. Listen, I hate to be a pest but I really want to talk to you, man. I know I did you wrong all those years back and I'm sorry. I can understand if you never want to talk to me again, but please just do me this one favor and I'll be out of your life forever."
I picked up the phone and stared at the keypad. Oh, how I missed him. My hands were shaking so bad, I misdialed the number a few times. Finally, I calmed myself enough to get it right. The phone rang a few times and I was just about to hang up when I heard someone pick up.
"Hello? Hello?"
"Hey, Malcolm; it's me... John Paul."
"Hey Brazil Nut," he said. I never thought I'd see the day where I enjoyed being called that. "I'm glad you called... I know it must have been tough."
"Yeah, it was, but your message sounded urgent. Is everything okay?"
"Oh yeah... everything's fine. I just... wanted... needed to apologize..."
"Malcolm..."
"No, no hear me out..." He paused for a minute. "Wait, I don't want to do this on the telephone. Is there somewhere we can meet and talk... maybe over a few drinks?"
"Sure. There's a bar on M Street right across from your hotel. It should be pretty quiet this time of day. I can meet you there in about 20 minutes."
"Great! I'll see you then."
I hung up and took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy; I just knew it. I grabbed my jacket and walked outside. Parking in D.C. sucks, so I decided to take the subway. It'd be a little hike to the bar, but it was a nice spring day and I could use the fresh air.
I arrived at the bar right on time. It was empty except for the bartender and one stunningly handsome and sharply dressed Black man sitting at the bar. I'd recognize those beautiful hazel eyes anywhere when they looked up at me. I hadn't seen him smile at me like that for almost ten years. I took another deep breath and walked over to him.
"Malcolm... it's good to see you," I said, holding out my hand to shake his.
Malcolm swatted my hand aside and wrapped me up in the tightest bear hug I'd ever been victim to. I wrapped my arms around him and returned the love. He held me in his embrace for what felt like an eternity before letting go and holding me at arm's length.
"You look good, buddy," he commented.
"Thanks... so do you. You clean up pretty good."
"I'd rather be in a pair of shorts but I haven't had a chance to change since my meeting this morning."
We sat down at the bar. I ordered a shot of vodka; he ordered another whiskey.
"So what are you up to these days?" I asked.
"I'm a cardiologist."
"That's excellent! I always knew you'd do it." I gulped down the vodka and ordered another. "You still living in Los Angeles?"
"Yep! Actually, I live right down the street from your parents. We have brunch every now and then."
"Funny, they never told me that."
"I kind of asked them not to."
I found his comment a little disturbing. I had a pretty good idea why he didn't want me to know he was hanging out with my parents, but why was he hanging out with them in the first place? Better yet, why were they hanging out with him? I almost felt like they had betrayed me.
"Your mom's so proud of you... she talks about you constantly. It must be fun to travel all over the world like that."
I simply nodded. I could feel the anger building in the pit of my stomach. "Why are you making nice with my parents behind my back?" I snapped.
"I-I don't understand..."
"I mean, you literally walk out of my life for ten years then, suddenly, you're going to brunch with my parents and asking them to keep it a secret. Then you're calling me and asking me to meet you so we can talk, obviously to tell me that you and my parents are having an affair behind my back. And you sit here and smile and talk like nothing ever happened and nothing's wrong... What the fuck?"
In the corner of my eye, I saw the bartender slowly inching to the far end of the bar. Malcolm squirmed nervously on his stool. I didn't care if I was making a scene and certainly didn't give a shit if I was making Malcolm uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and gulped down his drink.
"I deserved that," he said. "You have every right to hate me for the way I treated you. I was wrong... so wrong. You were my best friend in the whole world and I turned my back on you when you needed me most. I've thought about you every day since then, wishing I could take it all back. But I can't.
When your mom and dad found out I lived nearby, they called me up and asked me to brunch. We had a long talk and suggested I call you, but I was scared. I thought you'd just hang up on me. I told them I'd think about it and asked them not to tell you they'd seen me. After that, we just kind of went out occasionally."
I stared at him. I wanted so badly to hate him, but I couldn't. He looked so miserable. I shook my head and sighed.
"Why'd you do it?" I asked. "Why'd you turn your back on me?"
"We were seventeen for God's sake. I was scared."
"Scared of what? Scared that I'd make a move on you, try to rape you or something. I was your goddamn friend!"
"No, that's not it," he answered. He seemed frustrated. "I was scared because... because I was having the same feelings you were having."
"What? What are you saying?"
He searched the ceiling as if looking for the right answer. "I'm saying that I was... that I am... gay."
You could have knocked me off the stool with a feather. All that time, I thought he was disgusted with me because I was gay when in reality he was just running away from his own homosexuality. Malcolm looked like he could cry at any minute. I put my hand on his shoulder.
"I forgive you."
We had a lot to talk about that evening, through the night and into the morning. A lot had happened to both of us in the ten years since we'd parted. He had come out to his parents who basically disowned him; struggled to put himself through college and med school; and had met, dated, and broken up with two boyfriends.
Since that fateful day, our friendship was reborn -- better than it had ever been. He still played basketball in his free time and every month we'd meet up either in D.C. or L.A. to catch up and play a little one- on-one. On the court, he wasn't Dr. Edmondson, he was Malcolm; the same trash-talking boy from the hood that I loved and remembered. He still had mad game but, like I said, he liked to drag it out and make an event out of it. He especially liked to tempt me with his gorgeous body. He knew I thought he was hot -- I'd told him so on many occasions. I think he liked my body too, although he never acted on it, so neither did I.
"John Paul... snap out of it, man," Malcolm said then smacked my ass with his large, soapy hand.
"Ouch!" I yelled, punching him on the shoulder.
"Shut up! You know you liked it."
"Ha ha, very funny," I said, dunking my head under the water.
We continued to shower quietly. The sport club was surprisingly empty that day. There were a few guys milling about in the locker room, but Malcolm and I were the only ones in the showers. He had a tendency to be openly playful with his sexuality but was twice as frisky when there was no one around.
"Anybody ever told you that you have a nice ass?" he asked.
"Shut up, Malcolm and finish your shower. I'm hungry."
"No seriously," he said, giving my ass another rough smack.
"I swear if you do that one more time, I'm going to..."
"You ain't gon do nothing, punk!"
"Yeah, keep thinkin' that," I said defiantly.
At 6'3" and 190 pounds, he was only a few inches taller, but no heavier than I was. I could take him if I had to. He slapped my ass again -- so hard it brought tears to my eyes.
"That's it!" I yelled and lunged at him with all my weight.
He landed on the hard tile floor with a thud; I lost my balance on the slippery floor and landed right on top of him. We tussled playfully for a few minutes then broke out into hysterical laughter. That must have been a sight: two grown men rolling around on the floor together -- wet, naked, and... erect?
I think I was the first to notice our mutual state of arousal. It was hard to ignore Malcolm's cock. I'd seen it dozens of times before in its natural, relaxed state. Even then it was nothing to scoff at, but it wasn't until I saw him hard, for the first time, that I truly understood the magnitude of Malcolm's manhood. It is guys like him that feed the erroneous stereotype that all Black men are hung like horses.
I had to touch it, feel just how big it really was. He had to be close to 12 inches as my hand didn't even come close to concealing half of its length. By habit, I started to stroke his monster, stretching the skin over the tip then letting it shrink back into shape. Malcolm licked his lips and moaned; his eyes were locked on the action taking place. Then he looked at me and seemed startled, almost embarrassed. I stopped fondling his cock.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
"S-sorry, I-I..." I pulled my hand away, but he grabbed my wrist.
"No. Don't stop."
He lifted his head, kissed me softly on the lips, and then guided my hand back to his cock so I could take up where I left off. I pumped his love muscle vigorously to the sounds of his approving ooh's and ah's. His cock leaked a lot. Five minutes into it, my hand was coated in sticky pre-cum. I lifted my hand to my mouth, but Malcolm wanted to taste my gooey fingers for himself. He pulled my fingers to his lips and, one by one, sucked them into his mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't worry," he said, noticing the pout on my lips, "there's plenty more where that came from."
I matched his devious grin, stood up then helped him to his feet. I turned off the showers and crept out into the locker room with Malcolm towing closely behind. I led him to the back of the locker room where we were more likely to be undisturbed. I sat down on the end of one of the benches and pulled Malcolm towards me by his prick. Before he could even get settled, I had pounced on his dripping cock and was licking and sucking up his salty slime.
There was no way I was going to get all of his cock in my mouth, but I was going to try my damnedest. I pushed forward letting his dick slide down my throat until I couldn't swallow another inch down. Luckily for me, he wasn't too thick so all I had to contend with is the tip pressing against my voice box. I grabbed his nuts and guided his foot- long pecker in and out of my throat.
"Shit that feels good. I ain't never had my dick sucked like this before. Unh, yeah, baby, suck that dick."
Malcolm thrust his hips back and forth, slowly feeding me his cock. I swallowed it up like a good boy, trying to suck up all the pre-cum that was flowing so freely from him. I couldn't drink it fast enough. My mouth was overflowing with the stuff. His prong was coated with the stuff. I pulled him out of my mouth and looked at his long, brown dick shiny with my spit and his spunk. I swallowed the thick cream then dove in for more.
The hand that was previously squeezing the juice out of his nuts was now creeping between his legs towards his beautiful bubble butt. My fingers worked their way between the large, firm globes of flesh until they found the spot concealed within. I tickled his pucker and applied a little pressure with my middle finger. His dick jumped in response and spit out even more salty sap.
"Oh yeah... play with my ass... I love that." I played with the tight hole, pushing my fingertip against it but never quite slipping it in. "Unh... stop teasing me... put it in... finger my ass." I pushed harder -- he was tight and dry, but my finger finally broke through the barrier to the satisfied sighs of Malcolm. I continued to suck his cock while my finger wormed its way up his tight chute. "Ah yeah... that's it!"
Malcolm spread his legs wider to give me better access to his willing hole. I slid the rest of my finger into him and he moaned in excitement. I pressed that button deep within him and listened to him whimper like a baby. I pressed it again and felt his body tense up. One more push and he exploded down my throat. It must have been days since the last time he busted his nut, because I almost drown in his spooge. I swallowed his creamy load, pulled my finger out of his ass, and then pulled his still twitching cock from my mouth. Strings of his thick man syrup stretched from his cock to my lips. I licked them away and swallowed it down.
"Damn, that's sexy as shit! You's a freaky dawg ain'tcha?
"You ain't seen freaky," I said, lying down on the bench and lifting my legs to my chest.
"You want me to tap dat ass?"
I nodded and fingered my hole, trying to entice him. It didn't take much, because he was lapping at my ass in a flash. His tongue flicked around my puckered ring in unison with my finger. He knew just how to tickle the fine hairs around my hole. I spread it open and let him completely drench the tiny pink opening with that powerful tongue of his. Every stroke made my ass twitch in anticipation for the next. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore -- I needed to be fucked.
"Enough of this shit... c'mon and fuck me!" I growled.
Malcolm obediently crouched behind my upturned ass and aimed his poker. It was still slick with spit and cum and he easily inserted it into my horny hole. There was no mistaking he was in when I felt the painful nudge against my guts.
"Yeah, baby, I'm deep in that tight ass."
"I know," I grunted.
"Am I hurting you? You wanna stop?" he asked, seeing the look of discomfort on my face.
I shook my head. The pain was slowly subsiding as my rectum adjusted to being penetrated so deeply. "I want you to fuck me like that trick, Antoine, you keep talking about."
A devilish grin spread across Malcolm's face. He bent down and gave me a sloppy kiss then started the slow, steady process of opening me up. "I'm gon tear dis ass up," he hissed as his dick worked itself in and out of my ass. I had foolishly believed that I'd taken his entire dick the first time, but with every thrust he dug deeper and deeper into my pit. I knew I had it all when I felt his bush scratching my nuts and his balls resting on my ass.
We were huffing and grunting in unison as Malcolm pounded my hole. A thin layer of sweat formed on his body, accentuating his muscles as they bulged and contracted in graceful unison. His thrusts were merciless -- he punched my innards hard with each drive.
"Unh unhh... oh shit, Malcolm... fuck me..."
"I'm fucking you baby... I'm fucking you. And when I'm done I'm gon' fuck you some more. You like that?"
"Whatever, man... whatever."
I rolled my head back, closed my eyes and concentrated on the feeling of him banging me like a jackhammer. He had this way of pivoting his hips so that he hit a different spot every time bottomed out. I'd never been dicked that deep before... EVER. My rectum was on fire. It tingled and soon that sensation spread all through my stomach and up my spine.
My body convulsed violently in orgasmic bliss. Globs of hot cum splattered all over my chest and stomach. I was cumming and I hadn't even touched my prick. I whimpered as semen gushed out of my dick and coated my stomach. Malcolm was still pumping away, burrowing into my spasmodic tunnel, fucking the cum right out of me.
"Aw shit! You're gon make me bust my nut again," he panted.
"Go ahead... shoot that shit all over me."
Malcolm scurried to pull out of me. He pinched the end of his dick, holding back the torrent of cum. He aimed his beautiful stick then let it rip. Streams of thick, white goo erupted from him. The first powerful blasts hit my on my chin but the rest landed on my chest and stomach, mixing with the puddles I'd left just a minute or two before. I was a mess; covered in a thick glaze of cum.
I stretched out on the bench and wallowed in the afterglow of sex. I felt so dirty... in a good way. Malcolm looked down at me, smiling impishly and shaking his head.
"You got one sweet ass."
I smiled. He helped me up from the bench, trying not to drop any traces of our sexual activity. We ran back to the shower to clean off again. I felt him eyeing me up as I washed off his sperm. I'd seen that look in his eye before and, to be honest, it made me feel a little uncomfortable. You see, Malcolm had a nasty tendency to treat the men that he fucked like sluts. He never talked to them until he wanted some action. I didn't mind being treated a little slutty in bed, but I didn't want him to get it twisted -- I wasn't about to be his whore.
"Can I get into that again sometime?" he asked with greed and hunger in his eyes.
"Yeah, maybe... but you're going to have to work for it."
He arched his eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"You're going to have to play for it. If you win our next game, you can have another piece of this. If I win... well, let's just say you won't be walking straight for a month."
"Heh, you're on!" he said and returned to scrubbing himself clean.
We had our rematch a month later. Guess what... I won! I guess I'm not such a bad baller after all. Or... do you think... is it possible that... he let me win?
Nah!!