Page 20 of Studs Up
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Our opening game was against Charlotte, and the fans showed up. The stadium was packed, the songs were loud, the flags were large, the game was fast, and we kicked their asses three to one.
Corners were somewhat measured chaos, and it was hard for me to control the outcome. Especially when someone, and I’m not going to name names, lost his man, and their striker put it in the back of the net.
Objectively, it was a good goal, but whatever. A win was a good start.
And it still wasn’t enough to take the lingering heat from my body. I rushed through the post-game bullshit. I kept my post-game interview short and sweet and started dropping curses to make the reporters go away. Did a cool down, showered, dressed, and left.
Most of the guys went out to celebrate the first win. I went home, put on the Rover opener against LA, and sat down to watch it. For the first time, I permitted myself to look at Holden. Not just watch him, but look at him.
The Rovers scored. They did it because Holden laid off the ball to Alex on the wing, put himself in the eighteen, and headed the cross into the net. It could have been a coincidence, but my brain knew he had listened to me, and my heart gave a little patter it had no fucking business doing.
As the minutes ticked up to ninety, I started to get restless. An energy spark had been ignited inside me, fueled by the game. I got up and paced behind my couch, never taking my eyes off Holden.
It was like I was seeing him for the first time all those years ago. I clocked Holden the second he got on the field, and the obsession roared like a powerful engine being fired up. I absorbed every movement, every sprint, every pass, and every time the camera gave me a closeup of him precum leaked from my cock.
It was aching for attention, demanding to be free, and without much thinking, I pulled it out and sighed as it grew, filling with hot blood and throbbing.
God damn it. I was beyond being able to control myself. As though the universe wanted to test me, the camera gave me a perfect close up of Holden’s backside as he waited for a free kick to be set up. Round ass and flexing thighs, and I was drowning and stroking before I knew it.
I would love to say that I had never done this before, jerked off watching a game. That would be a big fat lie. I never really thought about it and chalked it up to extra horniness. Except now I was forced to admit, every single game I jerked off to had Holden Monroe as a star feature.
Fuck. The game didn’t matter; my eyes were so honed in on my screen that it was going to burst into flames. My fist stroked faster, and my breath was coming in pants.
The final whistle was blown. The camera was on the field, and the commentary analysts were blathering on. None of it registered as I stroked. My brain had exactly one cell to focus, and it was all in on finding Holden.
When the camera found him again, he had taken his shirt off. Not good. Not fucking good at all. The fingers on my free hand flexed, searching for something, and someone, to touch. He smiled and was chatting with someone, I didn’t know or care who. They were blurry to me.
The scorching memory of the kiss that had imprinted itself on me came back in full force, and the orgasm I had been pretending didn’t exist flared like a fire sucking all the oxygen out of a room.
Not fucking good.
He was being interviewed now, his big ass, not at all beautiful, smiling face filled my screen, and I shuddered. Powerful waves of pleasure forced their way through my body, and I came, grunting and gasping, never looking away, never blinking as cum shot out of my cock, and the climax sent me sailing.
I made a mess, cum was everywhere, but I didn’t move. I watched his interview, and I turned it off when it switched when John and John appeared to provide their critiques, predictions, and what they would do better.
Dropping down to my couch, I welcomed the post-nut clarity to come. And it came in the most odd way. It wasn’t regret that hit as I expected. It was yearning for more. The kiss, his lips, his body, and that fucking moan I heard in my sleep. I wanted more. I had always wanted more and didn’t realize that’s what it was.
“Fuck.”
…
Despite the wealth of knowledge I had gained in the last two hours, I needed more. I needed to make sense of it.
My condo was on a hillside overlooking Seattle and the sound beyond. I bought the top unit specifically for the rooftop access. I made it my own with a gas fire pit, a lounger, and a nice broad umbrella.
The air was cold and wet. It was going to rain soon, so I lit the fire, pulled the lounger closer, and stretched out.
The fire protested the drizzle, spitting and hissing. Twisting open a beer, I sat and sipped with the noise of the city, letting it become part of the background as my mind churned.
His lips on mine had been a present thought since the minute he bolted out the door. The kissing was understandable. I’m a delight. But the erection was the confusing part.
I started with what I always started with when presented with a problem. Academics. Studies on sexual identity and gender construct then moved on to articles on self-discovery. After that, the mechanics of gay sex. Naturally, after that, porn.
With serious relationships few and far between, porn had been a constant companion, and it had been met with mixed results. I could never quite find what I was looking for. Of course, it would have helped if I knew what I was looking for.
I picked a video with a thumbnail of a sandy-haired man with a cock in his mouth. I went into it with a clinical perspective.
