Wrangled

“Come for me, Lance,” he orders, his face pressed against the side of mine, his mouth on my cheek. “I’m right there. I’m coming. Fuck, come for me, Lance.”

I feel his dick throb and pulse powerfully in my hand as he lets go inside his singlet with a deep-throated growl.

Then he kisses me deep.

And I come in his slippery, greedy hand.

The eruptive moans of my ecstasy are stolen as he devours my lips with his own. Tiny, powerful lightning bolts fire down every part of my body. It feels like all the hairs on my body stand straight up on their ends as the glorious frenzy of my orgasm explodes through my body.

All of my airy moans are traded for whimpers as I melt against Chad, who now holds me, and whose powerful kisses have now grown soft and slow, his lips like gentle fingertips on mine.

His mouth slips from mine as his head rests heavily against my shoulder. Our bodies press together, arms around one another in a loose and exhausted embrace.

The two of us have drawn still and silent, only our heavy and labored breaths filling the small room.

Heat surges between us.

Sweat drips down my back.

I feel his heart beating frantically against mine.

My hand is wet and sticky, even with the spandex in the way. So is his, I imagine. Not to mention our wrestling singlets, which are pretty much violated with the mess we just made.

“I’ve never done that before.”

I flinch at the sound of Chad’s deep voice. With my head on his shoulder, I’m staring at the opened door behind him, slowly processing what he just said.

“Do you mean …” I speak softly when I ask this, softly and sensitively. “You mean this was … your first time … with a guy?”

“Uh …” I feel him swallow.

Then he gently pulls away from me and looks into my eyes.

I steel myself for the story he’s probably about to tell me. How he’s never had the means to express this side of him. How he’s had to rely on the internet for his pleasure, years of masturbation, or just dreams late at night when he’s wrestling himself to sleep. I get ready for it all.

Instead, he says: “Actually, uh … no. This … This wasn’t my first time with a guy. I meant …”

I blink, surprised. “Oh?”

“I meant …” His gaze lowers thoughtfully to my chest. He puts a hand there. I’m not sure why. Maybe to feel my heart. “I meant I’ve … never done something before with someone who … who really meant something to me … and made me feel so good.”

Now that’s another category of information entirely.

And it does nothing but spill a can of a dozen other questions I suddenly find I have. “So you’ve—?”

“Maybe this is somethin’ more appropriate to talk about when we’re, uh …”

“Changed back into regular clothes?”

“Yeah.”

Then we pull apart.

We look at each other’s wet and sticky bodies. I clearly see the outline of his giant dick—still hard—and a wide sea of wetness all around it where he came all down the front. I imagine my half-peeled-down singlet reveals a lot of sweat and fluids on me, too.

“We’re gonna need more than a change of clothes,” I note.

“The showers work,” he points out.

I swallow hard, then stiffen up. Reality is crashing back into me at an alarmingly fast rate. “I’m not getting naked in front of you. I mean, I know I’m basically already halfway there, but—”

“Nah, it’s cool, it’s cool.” He bites his lip as his eyes drag down my body—clearly after an orgasm, the man is still filled with a hundred dirty thoughts of what we could still do, judging from that look in his eyes—and then he says, “I’ll get us a pair of towels. The showers are partitioned in this locker room, unlike the other, so we can both shower, still have privacy, and then—”

“Yeah, alright,” I agree too quickly, crossing my arms.

My head is racing through ten dozen thoughts a second.

I can’t slow it down to focus on a single one of them.

What did we just do?

“I’ll get the water goin’ and, uh …” He shrugs, then nods at the door. “I’ll set a towel outside your shower. When you’re, uh, ready. I hope I didn’t—” He cuts himself off, clenches shut his eyes, then lets out a small chuckle. “Never mind. Yeah, never mind. I’ll see you in the—”

“What is it?” I ask him. “You hope you didn’t what?”

“I’ll see you in the showers. Or not, because of the, uh … partitions?” He chuckles again, draws silent, then turns and leaves the room.

My eyes drift down to the pile of our clothes on the floor. His, in a messy heap by the shelves where the bin of singlets still sits. Mine, neatly folded and sitting on the bottom shelf next to a box of first aid supplies and a random roll of some dancer’s toe tape.