Friday Night Football 1

They had told me that it would be just a matter of time. That I needed to adjust to being out of the battle zone and back in civilization—just to take life at a low key for a while and be happy to hold down a low-stress job for a while and enjoy TV and playing videogames at night. But I couldn't tell them what all of the stressors were in coming home to a completely different environment.

It hadn't been something I'd volunteered for, but I'd been the smallest guy in the unit out there in the isolated outpost, and it had just happened. And it had become part of me. But it had happened to me; I hadn't gone looking for it. I didn't really know how to look for it. But it had become part of me—and a great deal of my stress was that it had just stopped. It had stopped the day before I left Iraq.

How does a guy go cold turkey on something like that? Maybe he can't. Maybe that's why I said what I did when Wayne called the next week after that Friday-night high school football game we'd gone to.

"Jack, it's me, Wayne. Uh, you OK? You didn't say much when I took you home last Friday night. I wondered if you're OK."

"It's been three days now, Wayne. It's kinda late to be asking me if Friday night was OK, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well. You know. It's hard to call on that. I didn't know, man. I swear."

"You didn't? It seemed it was OK with you at the time."

"Well, you know . . . you told me, and—"

"I had to tell someone, Wayne. You're my uncle. There isn't anyone else around here really I could talk to. And I was thinkin' I'd explode or something."

"But it seemed it was OK . . . you seemed to get into it."

I didn't answer for several seconds. I couldn't really deny honestly that I hadn't gotten into it. I know I'd been thinking about looking for it myself, and it was just there. I hadn't a clue really on finding it myself.

"Well, I'm doin' OK, Wayne. Is that the only reason you called? To check on whether I've gone crazy or something? Or if am going to tell anyone about it? 'Cause if that's why you called—"

"It's not, Jack. It's not why I called. I called, because the guys want . . . well, Wayne junior's team has another football game this Friday night, and we thought . . . if you were OK and all . . . that . . ."

"You want me to go to the game again? Like last Friday night?"

"Yeah. If you're OK with it. Just if you're OK with it. And if you're interested. I could pick you up again. I know you don't have a car yet."

"I don't know, Wayne. I just don't know." I was trembling, knowing what I should say and also knowing what I wanted to say.

"Well, you could think about it. I thought . . . well, that the way you took it . . . that you were OK with it. More than OK. So, then, you think about it. And give me a call. If you don't call, I'll figure–"

"OK, Wayne."

"OK what? You'll call?"

"No, OK, I'll go to the game."

My hand was shaking so bad when he rang off that I almost couldn't hit the button to turn my cell phone off.

It was a close game. The second half had just started, and the score was tied. Wayne's son's team was moving the ball pretty well down the field, though. And Wayne's son was catching passes left and right—the real star of the team.

Wayne leaned over to me in the bleachers and whispered, "Got the signal. They want us down there now."

"Now?" I asked incredulously. "Wayne Junior is burning up the field. I bet he takes it in. You don't want to see that?"

"They've signaled. It's time to go. Wayne Junior will do what he's going to do whether or not I'm in the stands."

There were four of them standing between the side of the bleachers and the refreshment stand, looking a little bit nervous, and smoking or drinking cans of coke—obviously wishing it was beer, but this was a high school event. Last Friday there'd only been three of them. All dads of football players on Wayne Junior's team and all gym buddies of Wayne's. Big bruisers, who obviously spent most of their time in the gym bulking up. I was a midget in their midst when Wayne and I got down there. Even Wayne was a good foot taller than I was and all bulked up like Mr. Atlas or something.

They watched Wayne and me as we came down from the stands, and I was watching them too. I knew that look. I'd seen that look on lots of occasions in the isolated outpost in Iraq.

One of the guys had some sort of black strap contraption with handles, which he had doubled over and was nervously slapping slowly on his calf.

"He OK with this?" one of the guys asked Wayne as we approached their tight little circle. He was speaking to Wayne but looking at me. And I knew the question was about me.

"Yeah, he's cool," Wayne answered.

"Same as last time. $30 apiece. That OK?" This was spoken to Wayne again, like I wasn't even there or something.

"Yeah, that's good," Wayne said. He said it like he was the one who had to do something for it.

"OK, then let's go on under," the spokesman of the group, a sandy-haired tower of a guy—the father of the quarterback, I thought—said. "No more than two at a time, though. Don't want anyone noticing."

I went under with Wayne, after two other guys had looked around to see if they'd be noticed and then sauntered in under the bleachers. We went at least half the distance under the bleachers. The stands were wide and it was dark where we ended up, coming up to the two guys who'd gone in first. For some reason it made me think of a prison. I think that's because the light, such as it was, came into the space under the bleachers in thin horizontal stripes. The stands were almost completely closed. There was a strip just maybe four inches at the base of the seats, where they met the standing boards, that was open—mostly to let water run off when it rained. The light that came through in strips came from the banks of strong light from the stadium lights.

"OK, me first," one of the guys who had preceded us under the bleachers said. He had his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down on my knees in front of him.

I worked his zipper down. There was a roar from the crowd on the bleachers, like something had gone wrong for the home team. A muffled announcement indicated that maybe there'd been an interception or a fumble and the other team had the ball.

I was sucking the guy's cock when the other two men showed up and a circle formed around me. Wayne was in the circle. He hadn't been there the last Friday night. He'd stood off then, asking the guys in a rather plaintive voice to not push me and to be less rough, not knowing whether I'd let them fuck me regardless of what I'd told him had happened to me in Iraq and how conflicted I was over that. But I had let them fuck me during last Friday's game under these stands.

There were three of them then. Now there were five. Wayne obviously was in on it now.

The spent condoms from last Friday were still here—and maybe more from some other encounters that had happened under here. It had been right here where they'd done it—and I'd let them do it and then just walked away when they were finished. I was kneeling on top of the used condoms now—letting them do it again.

I felt hands on my hips and another set of hands was unbuttoning my shirt and struggling it off my back. I momentarily had to take my mouth off the first guy's cock, but after the shirt was off, he put his hands on the back of my head and guided me back to trying to deep throat him. The hands on my hips were lifting me off my knees, so I was standing, half crouched, and bent over. Those hands then went to my belt buckle and undid that, and my trousers and briefs were stripped off my legs.

I was naked now. The guys circling me were still dressed, but they all had their flies open and were handling their cocks with their hands.

The first guy came in my mouth as a cheer was going up in the stands. There had been another fumble or interception and the ball was back in the home team's possession. I heard Wayne's son's number called, and I looked at Wayne, who was smiling and pumping his fist in the air. But he also had his cock out and was pumping it just like the other guys were. I suppose I should have felt sorry for him in his conflict of interests here. But I didn't. He was just another guy wanting tail now and willing to take sloppy thirds or fourths to get it.

I had another guy's cock in my mouth and someone was knelt behind me, palms on my butt cheeks, spreading them. His tongue went to my ass.

I moaned and closed my eyes, thinking of Alphonse, in Iraq. The big, black stud who fucked us all. His tonguing had been like that—bigger than some guy's cocks. And his cock had been the biggest of the unit.

I should be all tensed up and worried and not OK with this, I knew. But the more this brought my mind back to that outpost in Iraq and how we'd all fight our fears and uncertainty by fucking—and I was finding this soothing. At least it took up time in which I had no part of any decision. These guys were big and motivated now. I was going to be fucked now one way or the other.

Once the serious fucking started, I just relaxed and went with it. I closed my eyes and thought about all those guys I lived with in danger and intimacy in Iraq, and I just went with the flow.

Five guys. Five guys, including Wayne, although I have no idea where he was in the line, fucked me in succession. The first one started about the time the roar of the crowd went up as the home time scored a touchdown—Wayne Junior's number was called out once more.

With the first one, I found out what the black strap was. The first guy, standing behind me, his cock already worked up into my channel, flipped the strap over my head and laid the center, thick, padded section of the strap against my lower belly. He had his fists in handles at each end.

He then jerked it up into my belly, lifting my feet off the ground and doubling me forward. Then, using the muscle power he'd developed in the gym and his significant size over mine, he just raised and lowered me on his cock at the rhythm and speed he desired, with me just hanging in front of him like a rag doll, moaning and groaning at the churning of his cock inside me.

That's how they all took me. All five of them. Thick, long, thin, curved up, curved down, deep thrusting, prostate punishing, churning, thrusting, rotating, fast, slow, caressing, cruel. It took them all well into the fourth quarter of the game to finish with me.

I lay on the ground, amid both new and old used condoms, panting and still moaning as they all zipped up and the four guys dug $30 each out of their pockets and handed the money to Wayne.

"Away game next Friday," the sandy-haired brute said, "But another home game the Friday after that. Will he come to that game?"

I wanted to scream that I most certainly would not—that I couldn't be treated this way. But who was I kidding? I loved the cocking. I'd go another round now, if the game wasn't running down.

"Yeah, he can be here," Wayne said.

I said nothing.

As Wayne helped me up and found my clothes and helped me get those back on, he murmured, "You did great, Jack. You OK? You're sure you're OK with this?"

"Yeah," I answered. "I'm OK with this."

"Great. Here's $50. You sure you're OK about being fucked? You like it, right?"

"Yeah, I like it," I answered. And that wasn't a lie. That's what I was missing since coming home from Iraq—what I'd been initiated in there and that, if I was honest with myself, I didn't want to give up.

"That's great, 'cause there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Wayne Junior's eighteenth birthday is coming up week after next, and he tells me he fancies you—has this idea about the ideal birthday gift. And, Jack, I gotta tell you, this kid's got a cock on him you wouldn't believe.