Heteroflexible

“Dude, you’re cheatin’!” he shouts out for the ninth time.

I laugh and, after a little dance of my own, kick the ball right between his legs and score another “goal” through the middle of the tall, crooked trees behind him.

“Sometimes, you just gotta know when you’re beat,” I say to him as I gather up the ball and tuck it under an arm.

“I’m not beat. You’re just cheatin’ with your … your …” He can’t find the word. “… lightning legs.”

“Is that what you call ‘em?” I let out a laugh, then toss the ball up and start kicking it hacky sack style, keeping it in the air, going between the sides of my feet to my knees seamlessly. “Lightning legs, you say I’ve got?”

“Quit doin’ that.”

“Doin’ what?”

He yanks his threadbare hat around in frustration, turning it backwards. “Showin’ off.”

“This isn’t showin’ off.” I kick the ball a bit higher, then start bouncing it off the top of my head with ease over and over, never letting it touch the ground. “This is showin’ off.”

“You’re just askin’ to be taken down,” he warns me.

“Am I?”

“Yeah, Bobby Parker, you are.”

“You can’t take nothin’ down.” The ball bounces off my head. “Hell, you can’t even—” Bounce. “—score a goal when I gave you—” Bounce. “—ten and a half opportunities a minute ago.”

“You didn’t give me squat!”

“Oh, yes, I did, Jimmy Strong.” Bounce. “Just admit it.” Bounce. “I’m better with my legs—” Bounce. “—than you are.” Bounce.

“Like hell,” he growls back.

The next bounce isn’t the ball atop my head.

It’s Jimmy Strong against my whole body as he tackles me to the grass.

I laugh out as he wrestles with me, grappling with grunts and jagged breath to pin me to the ground. I keep fighting with him, breaking from his grip easily and nearly managing to topple him off of me. But Jimmy has—and has always had—excellent balance, and the guy is impossible to shake off of my body.

Before I know it, Jimmy Strong is straddling me in his tight Wranglers, his knees pinning my folded arms down to the dirt and the grass, sitting on my chest with his weight. He stares down at me, the chest of his red sleeveless shirt rising and falling with his labored breaths. His backwards cap only holds some of his short hair, the rest sneaking out the front and reaching halfway down his forehead in sweaty tufts. His eyes burn with victory, his nostrils flared and his lips parted as he catches his breath.

Neither of us say anything at first, both of us still recovering from the scuffle. I remain a tightly-kept prisoner between his two strong, firm thighs, my face just inches from his jeaned crotch.

Then he goes and starts taunting me. “Giving up so quickly, Bobby Parker?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s wrong, Bobby Parker? You were gonna say somethin’ about how much better you are, Bobby Parker?”

“Stop sayin’ my name like that.”

“Why not, Bobby Parker?” He grins cockily and gives my face a light, playful slap. “Feelin’ a bit shy suddenly, Bobby Parker?”

“I swear …”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you say I’m better than you, and I’ll let you up?”

“Alright.” I lift my chin as best as I can while on the ground with my face being hugged tightly by Jimmy Strong’s thighs. “I’m better than you. Now let me up.”

Jimmy laughs at that. “C’mon, Bobby. You know you wanna admit it.” He gives my face another playful swat.

“Stop that!”

“What? Is it botherin’ you?” He taps my face two more times in a row on either cheek, harder. “It’s like you don’t got hands to defend yourself or somethin’.”

I struggle feebly under him to free said hands, but Jimmy’s strength and weight are too great to match. I’m helpless.

Jimmy’s head lowers in one quick movement as he bends forward, his taunting face brought close to mine.

The fight leaves me at once. I stare up into his eyes.

And I’m suddenly aware of how intimate this has gotten in the space of seconds.

That awareness makes my dick flinch.

Oh, God. Not now.

“Well, buddy?” Even his voice lowers as he speaks to me this close. “You got somethin’ you want to say to me?”

“Yeah.” I eye him. “You need a Mentos.”

Jimmy smirks. “Just admit that my legs are better than yours, and I’ll let you up.”

Suddenly, I find I don’t want to be let up.

I don’t want to be let up at all.

My dick keeps swelling. It doesn’t matter that we’re outside. It doesn’t matter that Jimmy Strong only has to sit back a little bit to make the discovery on his own of what my dick’s doing, since I’m just wearing loose, mesh soccer shorts and not much else in the way of boner containment. It doesn’t matter that my ma or pa could come out spontaneously and catch us here on the ground—and very visibly see my “enjoyment” of our roughhousing.