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Tight Ends : An Erotic Gay Football Anthology
Everyone loves football. But if you close your eyes, and think about the game, you might be thinking about more than touchdowns - it's those luscious tightends that get the attention they so richly deserve. In these pages you'll find 11 delightful tails of man-on-man lust and muscle on the playing field - and in the locker room and bedroom. Contributors: Ryan Field Gregory Norris Johnny Murdoc G.S. Wiley Derek Clendening T. Hitman Clancy Nacht Garland Rebecca Leigh Jo Atkinson Heidi Champa
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February 15, 2010
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Excerpt from Tight Ends by Lori Perkins
Ryan wasn't a man of many faces. Far as I know, the guy had two. Most people saw the somewhat goofy yet undeniably handsome mask he wore most of the time when navigating through the corridors at Seaside U.: the campus grounds, quiet studies, loud parties. Once, while hopped up on too much keg beer, he ran naked around the outside of the fraternity house, not caring that a few dozen of his friends (especially me) were snapping camera phone photos of his incredible ass, square and hairy down the middle, his half-flaccid cock and meaty set of come-tanks clearly visible between his even hairier legs. The face he wore that night was the one we all knew and loved.
Ryan's other face, the secret and slightly dangerous Hyde to his Jekyll, rarely made an appearance. Until the night I was forced to confront it one on one, I'd only ever seen it on the football field, usually when we were breaking from the huddle and he was reaching for the football between my legs, shouting the strategy, his voice mean and hot, raining down across my spine, my ass. The thing at my back was no longer some sexy-as-fuck economics major working on a degree in green business solutions; he'd been replaced by a Viking, a gladiator, an angry, sweaty warrior with bloodlust in his gray-blue gaze. A creature that was all cock, a tall dick with big hands and giant feet protruding from its shaft. And it didn't matter if you were racing down the lines from it or standing in front, protecting it from the enemy--regardless where you stood on the football field, the image of that face unleashed a shiver down your spine and sucked the looseness out of your nuts, making your balls shrivel against your root for warmth.
Because that look on Ryan Rothburn's face was so not like the one you saw the rest of the time, even when he was hooting and grabbing at his junk and running around the grounds at twilight, dressed only in a pair of mud-caked sweat socks.
* * * *
Over two years and an equal number of college football seasons, I saw that look, the one he only wore the night of a game, and along with a level of fear, I also developed the same breathless respect for it one gets when seeing a force of nature wreaking havoc. It wasn't as furious as a lightning bolt or a twister touching down, or when a mountain blows its stack and becomes a volcano, but close enough to the effect, because on college game days, Ryan transformed into a creature born of the elements.
In his human form, Ryan stood an inch or two past the six-foot mark, but he was also cursed as well as blessed by a boyish face. When the dude reached forty, he'd probably still look twenty-five. Dark brown hair, kept in an athlete's neat cut. Long and lean, he'd worked his stomach into a taut six-pack washboard. The guy was hairy in all the right places, and I knew this because we shared a room as well as a locker room. Not too much hair, just a dusting across the pecs and down the middle of his abdomen, armpits, asshole, and a decent thatch around his cock and over his low-hanging balls, thickest on his legs. Seeing a length of hairy calf sticking out from his football uniform pants and over the tops of his team socks inspired plenty of my secret jerk-off fantasies in the dark.
But it was the hair on his face that contributed most to the transformation, when Ryan ceased being the guy we knew and a ruthless warrior took his place. He stopped shaving a day or two before the game, and his cheeks, chin, and throat prickled with dark scruff. Ryan's game face was meant to intimidate, and it sure did. The same frat guys on our team who held farting contests and the regular masturbation race to see who could shoot first grew cold and silent around him, me included. Not only out of respect, but partly due to fear.
I admit, seeing this other side of Ryan frightened me. It also put wood in my shorts. Wood that Ryan's long, strong fingers brushed against on that fateful night of the team's loss, when I saw his game face up close and personal in a way I never expected, but had wet-dreamed over nonstop from the moment we met.
* * * *
It was raw and miserable, the kind of rain that would be snow if the temperature dropped just one more degree. You didn't so much feel it on your skin as in your bones. The heat and the rage of being down fourteen points to Harrisburg warmed the outside, while the downpour froze you deeper than your sweating nuts. The weather that night chilled you almost to the soul.
"Blue three. Blue seven," the beast with Ryan's face barked.
A curtain of rain carried on a frigid wind attempted to swallow his voice but failed. I felt his hands upon me, his fingertips touching the sensitive flesh between my balls and my asshole--an area off-limits in almost every other walk of life where men interact with each other, yet completely acceptable in the sport of football.
This time, his fingers traveled even higher and deeper along the inner topography of my crotch. I wondered if it was his anger over the ugliness of a game about to rapidly grow even uglier. Whatever the reason, the teasing touch of his fingertips along the thin strip of Lycra and sweaty cotton jock separating him from my dick sent fresh electricity pulsing through my blood. Breathing became almost impossible. When I managed to suck in a sip of air heavy with the stink of mud and male sweat, he made the final call. I snapped the ball.
Ryan fumbled it.
Harrisburg's defense swarmed in and through, as though sensing the level of distraction in our quarterback. I whipped around, hoping to block one of the purple-clad bodies from reaching for the leader of the crimson and gold, still standing on his feet with the ball in his bare hand, slaying the marauders mentally with his angry leer. The hair on his face, the madness in his gaze--Ryan opened his mouth and what emerged was rabid male rage, pure and primitive. He planted his foot, drew back, readied to send the ball sailing into the storm, the way men in eras past might have launched a javelin or bolo. Only one of the invaders got to him first, pulling him down to the ground.
As he fell, our eyes connected. I caught the look on Ryan's face, so handsome and terrible in that instant, and I both wanted him and feared him more than words could adequately express.
* * * *
I wear a mask, too. There's the me the guys all know--the English major, the teammate--and there's the one they don't know who moves among them and secretly sneaks glances at Ryan's meaty, juice-packed bull-nuts in the locker room; who sniffs his dirty underwear and socks when there's no one else in the room and sometimes his big, bare feet when they hang off the edge of his mattress at night, too tempting a target to resist. Who would lick his armpits and his asshole and everywhere else in between if given the chance.
My game face isn't as obvious because I've worn it most of the time the guys have known me. I'm not a closet case, just private about the whole thing. And until the night of the big loss, nobody asked, because I never gave them a reason to question my true identity.
We trudged defeated back to our locker room to shower, all of us except for Ryan. The musty stink of male sweat that I usually find so invigorating burned in my lungs, smelling like the odor of defeat. We'd lost games before. I'd gotten hard in my uniform before--sports hard-ons are a given, whether in wrestling when two dudes are grinding swords while trying to pin limbs, after a game-winning grand slam in baseball, or as part of the rough-and-tumble, testosterone-soaked gestalt of football. But you felt this particular loss. Somehow, this night was different.
I peeled off my uniform, aware of the gusts of cooler air over my naked flesh, and padded into the showers, hoping the hot water would wash away more than surface grime. In trying to put some reason to the night's insane events, I didn't realize Ryan wasn't there.