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Ch. 2: Road Trip
The season's in full swing. Last year we made it to the regional final, a three-game series away from the Super Regionals and a possible trip to Omaha for the College World Series. The first one we lost on a solo shot off my breaking ball that never broke, and with our guys struggling to get on base, that's all they needed.
The second was a flat-out nightmare. Coach Hendricks even had me pinch hit in the eighth; I drew a walk, but Katz doubled us out to end the inning. The season ended the next frame, a mix of futility and frustration at the plate.
There were a few scouts in the stands that day; even more have shown up at our games this season. Not just for me but a few of the younger guys from the SEC and ACC. There is an entire tribe out there and some of them were also signed in the futures.
Dex isn't on the same track. He's a solid catcher, but there are fewer opportunities for someone like him at that level; strong as he is, he didn't have the length that's needed behind the plate in the majors. Not these days. On the other hand, he is kicking ass as a pre-med major. It has me reassessing his choices.
"Are you getting what you want from school?" I ask this on the long drive to South Carolina for a weekend round robin, a double header on Saturday and a solo on Sunday. He took the shift driving the second van, and I sit shotgun to keep him company. All the guys have their ear buds, playing games or watching videos.
"Hmmm. Short answer or long?"
"We're only 20 miles since entering Georgia."
He looks at me, gauging my sarcasm, then smiles his bright smile, giving me a pass and looking back at the road. "I wanted some time away from the people and place I grew up. And I wanted a chance to take my game a little farther. Have to say I've accomplished both."
I'm not sure why I asked or what I expected. The school isn't even that far from Atlanta. He gives no opening, and I'm not really prepared to steer this conversation. "OK." I look back at the road myself, but I feel him watch me out of the corner of his eye. I rub my pitching arm. Scratch my nose. Stare out the passenger window feigning boredom.
"Dude, do you want to talk about it?"
I turn to him and then to the guys on the benches behind us. They are oblivious. I look back at him to search his face for a clue, but he's inscrutable. "I'm OK." I return the favor and turn back to the road. I wanted to say: I'm not sure I can. Or better: Yes, I want to talk about it. But I don't want to sound like a crazy person. And I don't want to look over at him. "Just drive." I notice the cuff of his too-tight sleeve, his round biceps; I could have counted his abs. I won't let him catch me adjusting the front of my sweats.
Dex doesn't miss a beat, changing the subject easily and holding up most of the conversation until I find my voice again talking strategy for the first game the next day. Drivers swap out at a gas station an hour later. I take a leak then jump in the back seat and put in my buds. I'm a good napper; I could have been asleep as soon as we were moving again. But I am aware of him on the bench in front of me. He pulled out a textbook, and I know he has the concentration necessary to get through his homework.
He is still reading when I open my eyes forty-five minutes later. The van's quiet, just the hum of the road and occasional bounce of the seats. My phone is dead. I keep the buds in for protection.
Dex got a haircut before we left; his neck has a bit of a farmer's tan--it is butterscotch to a point, then white leading up to a straight edge. Not as curly this short. His ears poke out a bit, and he scratches one with a green highlighter. Tiny sun-bleached hairs shine along the rim.
He is looking down, a little to his left. Eyelashes lift and fall beyond his cheekbone; I cannot see his eyes. Now he bites down on the highlighter. I look out the window across from me, city fixtures coming into focus as we near the hotel. A heavy sigh escapes; he turns and smiles. "You awake?" I am seeing him for the first time: such a good-looking guy.
I'm staring so I check myself pronto. "Dude, I'm so fucking hungry!" Someone throws a bag of chips, which I bobble.
"Keep your day job, Stinger!" The guys laugh up front.
Dex reaches over the back and swats my cheek playfully. I might have blushed, but all he hears is a grunt.
*** "Stinger. Dex." Coach Hendricks calls us over.
"Coach?" In unison, Dex from the back of the van, his duffle of equipment slung over his shoulder. A flash of smooth skin at his waist as his shirt pulls up on that side. I'm fishing my Chapstick out of the cup holder in the front seat.
"They fucked up our reservation, and since Mills stayed back, you guys are roommates this weekend." They always keep us pitchers together. Mills is a nice enough guy and gives me space most of the time, so I usually stay with him. I was expecting to have a room to myself, and I'm not sure this new plan is a good idea, but I know not to open my mouth.
Of course Dex doesn't flinch. "No problem, coach." He usually crashes with Katz; they are captains together this season. Katz is a senior.
"Scott, I know it's a big day tomorrow." Coach is showing his warm side. "I trust Dex will keep it down tonight." He makes a pointed look at our catcher, flipping the switch back on. "Leaving for dinner in fifteen!" he shouts in the parking lot as we approach the equipment manager to get our room keys.
My throat is chalk and my stomach growls. Grabbing my bag and Dex's backpack, I follow him into the lobby. All seems normal on his end, but I dread the next couple hours of competing emotions. In the elevator with some of the other guys, I tell myself to turn it off, otherwise I'll be overwhelmed by the moment. This is a new kind of game, a challenge to beat back. Besides, Dex is still the same. It all depends on this.
After dinner, I want to walk the mile back to the hotel, but coach says the school would have a fit, "If...." We aren't even allowed to drive our own cars on these trips--more than just an act of unity I'm told.
I arrive in the first van and am already brushing my teeth when he comes in. I'm in my sweats and a black wife beater. In the mirror under the harsh bathroom light, I find my dark features unappealing. Although I'd shaved this morning, my shadow shows easily. My deep eyes complete the look of a Philly son. I tousle my hair; my farmers tan and the black straps of the tank top remind me of summer vacations with dad's side of the family. I spit and rinse the brush, take a quick piss before relinquishing the bathroom.
"All yours, bud." Dex is hanging up his uniform.
"Thanks. I'll be fast so we can hit the sack." A pair of sleeping shorts in hand, he heads to the bathroom.
I strip off my sweats and climb into my bed, hoping to get settled before he gets out. He isn't long. A flush and the washing of hands, and he is back in the room. He turns off the overhead, guided by the lamp beside his bed.
"You ready for tomorrow?" He asks as he pulls back his covers, his sleeping shorts hanging off his hip. He is shirtless. I feel it in my groin.
"I am. We were good last year. A great game for you, especially." He had three hits and picked off the tying run stealing second.
"Yeah. My buddy from high school was here--came down from Durham." His network extends across the south. "You remember him?" I do. Looking back, I recall Dex stayed an extra night for "a family thing" he said. His friend was a bit of a dork, if I'm being honest, but he seemed nice enough, and Dex was happy to see him.
"Is he coming this weekend?" Hoping this sounds casual.
"No. His girl is in a play or something in Chapel Hill." My heart skips curiously.
"Sorry you won't see him." I like to see Dex happy.
"It`s OK. I saw him over Christmas." He turns his back to me and I adjust my shorts out of sight. "Long day tomorrow, buddy. Good night."
"Night." I listen to him breathe, gradually slowing and deepening. We'd never shared a room. As close as it feels just then, I am miles from where I want to be. Sleep can't come fast enough.
**** The next day: the game, the scouts, a good outing for me, two wins for the team. The guys are in a good mood after the games, and we head back to the hotel, grimy from a good battle.
I watched the second game from the bull pen, chatting with our freshmen while keeping an eye on the field. My gaze followed Dex everywhere, safe at this distance. In the fourth, he hit a homer--only his second of the season. I ran out with the guys to congratulate him when he crossed the plate. His smile was huge and he wagged his tongue toward me. He cracked us up. I was proud of him.
"You go first," I tell him; he had to play twice, after all. It's at least an hour before dinner, so I call home to catch up while he showered. It's one of our good conversations.
I worry at times. Mom is the kind of woman who would face down a dragon if anyone fucked with her boys. It never embarrassed me, but my little brother hates any sort of attention. I listen to him and then relay certain suggestions to my mom when it seems she went a little too far for his comfort. She takes it well, and I hang up just as I hear the shower turn off.
"All yours." Towel wrapped around his waist, he dries his hair with another. Steam swirls in the light behind him. I have to make myself move.
"Did you leave any water?!" I rib him.
"There's a lot of muscle to clean." He flexes like a dumbass, and I laugh, sliding past him into the bathroom. His shampoo is in the tub. I left mine back at school, so I have to borrow it.
Which is a mistake. Hot water and the minty aroma trigger flashbacks. My dick wants attention, and I fight to ignore it. It's just shampoo, I tell myself. I reach for the fancy hotel soap and start scrubbing.
His back is to me when I enter the room. He is pulling up his undies, charcoal gray briefs that stretch as he hooks them over his butt. "Ohh. Sorry." I stammer. Dex turns and I just stand there. My towel in mid motion covering my stomach and everything that's happening below. I bite my lower lip, look to the side then back to see if he has moved. The front of his shorts looks substantial.
"What?!"
Something clicks; I swallow and speak again. "Turn around."
"Dude, we aren't in kindergarten. I've seen you naked."
"No, I mean turn around. Again." Confusion on his face. "So I can see that ass." My voice steady and certain now. He searches my face for a few seconds then slowly turns and drops his head. In that moment, I understand the hunger and ache. I don't think I can move, so I speak a third time. "If I ask you to do something, will you do it?"
"Try me. But I think we probably know the answer." He hasn't lifted his head. He's making it easier, which says something.
"Come here." I hold still as he turns and walks toward me. I can't be more assured and less certain of what I'm doing. "Stand on my bed facing away." He steps onto the bed, his ass at chin level now. I grab the right cheek of his underwear. "You have a great ass."
"Thanks." Like a gasp.
I massage and rub my hand over both cheeks, still holding my towel in the other. I could hang it on my woody right now, but I use it to shield me from this great need. I'm staring at a life-size Abercrombie ad, sculpted beauty in vivid color but lifeless until he flexes and relaxes for me. His arms hang at his sides, hands brushing his hamstrings. I lean into him. "I want you to peel them off, slowly."
"Don't you want to do it for me?"
"No. I have something in mind"
He scoffs. "You're going to have to drop that towel at some point."
"I already have." This is how he plays, I think, and I place both hands on his waist, kneading the top of his buns as he bends to remove his briefs. My hands follow, separating his cheeks with my thumbs. "I'm going to do something, and I want to know how it feels."
I lean into him and he places his hands on both knees. The smooth skin between his cheeks hides a few curly hairs around his wrinkled hole. It is stunning. Reminds me he's a man as I bury my face in his damp skin. My nose. My lips. My chin. All make contact, blazing a path for my tongue. I can't help myself.
"Oh my god, Scotty. Your scruff."
I pull back. "Sorry."
"No, not fucking sorry. It feels so awesome. Je-sus." His compliance turns me on even more if it were even possible. Mutually satisfying needs propel me: pleasing him and having him. Giving and taking. I surprise myself, my teeth and lips claiming him. My longish tongue diving into him. Clean like soap but warm and something else, something sour but compelling. I need to be inside him this way, to bury my face in his heat and most private places. Shadow parts. To move beyond my shame through this shameful act. I eat ass.
A fleeting thought--that I am fucked at this point, this isn't right. But I climb on the bed on my knees as he leans against the wall behind the headboard, bracing himself to push back harder this way. I spread him impatiently, demand total access. Those hairs glisten in my warm spit. I push in again with a finger and tongue.
"I have an idea," he announces after I don't know how long. "Get on your back." Easy to oblige this request, for now there is no question where we find ourselves. I simply fall backwards and pull his ass on top of me. I am not letting go. He readjusts with his knees below him, his feet beside my ears. He arches his back as he forces his hips down on my face. Grabs my cock forcefully. Please, I pray, lifting it for attention with the dig of my heels.
I sense him shift forward, and suddenly his lips wrap halfway down my dick. Gawd. It is so incredible. A few seconds pass before the enormity of it hits me. Dex is sucking my cock. He is slobbering on my prick and jacking me with both hands. (Both hands!) He squeezes my nuts. I must have paused because he lifts his head for a second, asks, "Is something wrong?" My answer is biting his left cheek and going back to work.
The moment is too much. Some day I might catalogue each sensation, follow a thread through infinite and overlapping webs. I am fucking his face. I am eating his ass. I am breathing him and feeding him and...something else lingering just on the edge of unconscious. I am here.
His fatty rubs between my pecs and nudges my abs each time he rocks back and forth. I find it reassuring, a reminder of what's at stake. It dribbles its juice in the matted hairs of my chest, soaks into my happy trail. It lubricates our peculiar connection, and I have another brilliant idea. I feed him my meat with new gusto as I ravage his ass with my mouth. I flex my pecs and abs to create maximum friction.
He rides me. He rubs and thrusts against me and impales his throat on my knob. He tries to suffocate me with that ass, that incredibly beefy bottom that started this in the first place. I go full-on python, wrapping my arms around him, crushing him into me, squeezing his head between my powerful thighs. I shake from feelings I can't and don't want to control. Am I crying? The bliss of it. The fear of needing something so bad. A feeling of begging to be broken. The secret taste of a boy who is more than that.
My cock spews thick cream. I don't squirt: it simply flows. He, however, shoots like a champ, the heavy ropes burning across my belly and soaking my bush. His thrusting smears it all over us.
I don't let go. He feels me shiver and sits up, looks back. My face is red and streaked with wet. Choking and happy and. I can't speak it. My core spasms as his hand continues to stroke me.
If I could freeze that look he gave me. Concern, yes, and recognition. A question mark that is the first question mark in a series of why and what and when will you?
"Scotty." Satisfied and sorry--competing feelings lace his voice. I ignore the latter, too blissed out to bother just now. I bite my lower lip and know I'm smiling.
The door pounds. "Five minutes guys!!" What the?!
I practically jump off the bed and race into the bathroom but feel Dex linger--my reflexes still working in my favor, the last twenty minutes slammed behind a door. I hop into the shower. I wipe him off me frantically and chastise myself for stupid mistakes as his slick washes from my legs and down the drain.
He steps into the bathroom. "I'm gonna wait outside with the boys."
"Uh-huh." I dance and twist to rinse off.
"Hey!" He pokes his head inside the shower opposite the faucet. He is somehow dressed, crisp and clean cut. I look at him, annoyed how easy he is taking it. He sticks his lip out. My middle finger signals my exasperation. "Dude. Lighten the fuck up for thirty seconds. It'll be fine." He reaches for my dick and stops short before poking it with his index finger. He scoffs at my incredulous mien, laughs and smiles real big. I roll my eyes and turn back to the shower, chuckling loud enough for him to think I'll be OK. If he just goes away.
The door creaks closed behind him. My heart still pounds.
I join them three minutes later, taking some shit for my wet messy hair. We're OK, even letting him catch a smile at one point. It was an image of gray underwear.