Hey, man—would you get up and take care of that? Just rewind the tape and get back over here. We can definitely keep going, I just need a minute or two to recharge.

You’re a nice guy, you know that? My name ain’t Danny DiMarco if you aren’t a nice guy. Real sweet. Too bloody polite, but real sweet. I know you must think I’m crazy, but you’re putting up with the tapes, man. Yeah, that’s what I mean! You don’t say it to my face, but I know you’re thinking it…this guy is nuts! You think it, but you don’t say it. You’re a real sweet guy.

I mean, there’s a story there. You just see if there ain’t a story. You must have noticed that it’s all the same in these videos I have us watching while we fuck: older guy, younger guy, sports. C’mon, you know what I mean. One after the other, just another ‘night with the coach’ story.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, fantasy ain’t weird or nothing. Well, most guys’ fantasies. There was this one guy I met on the ‘Net. I got to his place, we talked, you know how it goes—figuring each other out, deciding who does what, whatever. He asked what ethnicity I was, and I told him, you know…Italian—100%, straight-through Italian! And, man, this guy looked normal, but he started spewing out his fantasies, begging me to pretend to be a Mob boss who’s angry about a debt he owes or some shit. He wanted me to tie him up and beat him with his belt, threaten to kill his family. Man, I was tempted to beat his lousy ass. I mean, what the fuck! Bastard has been watching too many episodes of the bloody Sopranos. The racist fuck. Besides, I’m Italian, man, and the Mafia is a bunch of low-down, dirt-scraping Sicilians.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, most guys’ fantasies aren’t fucked up. I mean, there are a lot of guys out there who get it up for their coach. And the way I think about it, if you’ve had it happen to you, then it’s not fucked up.

Yeah, that’s what I said. I told you there was a story behind why I like these videos so much, man! Yeah, yeah, it happened to me. I’m not ashamed of it or anything. What sport? Well, I mean, look at me. I’m what, 5-foot-2 when I’m standing really straight? And you’ve seen me with my shirt off down at the bar…hell, that’s why you’re here with me tonight, right? I’m fuckin’ ripped, you know that’s why you’re here. Only one sport for a guy who’s short and ripped. I’m a gymnast.

See, there you go being sweet again, trying to hold it in, but it doesn’t matter to me. Go ahead, man, you can laugh. I know, I know, it’s not like most guys think gymnastics is a sport or anything—guys in tights instead of pads and helmets. Well, Danny DiMarco’s ass has had tights hugging it for more’n fifteen years, and from the way you react when I strip off my boxers, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.

My parents started me out in gymnastics when I was four. Like my mom’s recent obsession with origami, I don’t know what got into their heads that week. But there I was, four years old, in gymnastics. Gymnastics may not look like a contact sport, but it is. Lemme tell you, if you get lessons with a private coach, that guy has his hands all over you from the time you’re a little kid. Like I’m gonna handspring off a vault for the first time without some big, burly guy right there to put his hand on my little ass and stop me from falling? Yeah, right. So you grow up listening to everything this older guy says because he’s like God, and if he’s a good coach, he keeps you from getting hurt out there. And if he lays a hand on your leg a little too long or takes a couple looks at you when you’re showering, who notices or cares?

That’s not to say my coach had been scoping me out since I was a little kid. No kiddie porn to tell you about here. Coach Rick, when I started out with him, was just twenty-two and had finished a hitch in college gymnastics at some shithole like Southwest Georgia State. He was from my hometown, and came back needing to get some young kids to coach to help pay the bills. Coach Rick was a damn good coach, and I was lucky to have him, but somewhere along the line, he must have gotten some ideas about me.

By the time I got to high school, I made every other gymnast in the state look like a little bitch. I was better as a sophomore than Rick was in college, and Division I gymnastics programs were taking a long look. I was the local golden boy. You’re from around here, right? You probably saw my picture in the papers. They had some hot photos of me on the pommel horse. The picture where you could see my tights-covered ass made it to more girls’ bedroom walls in this town than paint. More boys’ walls, too.

All I had to do—all I fucking had to do—was place in the top two at the state gymnastics tourney my senior year and get to nationals. Didn’t have to do jack shit at nationals, just win the state tourney and watch the scholarship offers roll in. Then I could get the hell out of this crappy town. I kicked butt my junior year, but these top programs, they ain’t looking at last year. They want results before they waste a scholarship on you. If I’m not as good at eighteen as I was at seventeen, I’m not getting shit.

So I’m heading to the state tourney in Atlanta, and I’m fucking pumped. Pumped! I was rooming with Coach Rick at this big fancy hotel, all-expenses paid. And, you know, man, I’m so pumped up the night before the tournament, I know I’ve gotta calm down or I’m going to be a basket-case when it counts. So what the hell am I going to do in a hotel room but watch something on the TV? I grabbed the remote from the night table and start surfing through, like, what, eighty channels? And wouldn’t you know there’s nothing on.

Coach Rick is lounging there on one bed, no shirt or socks, just a pair of jeans. I’m lying on my stomach on the floor, wearing a tank top and a pair of those little gym shorts with the slit way up the side, like you see on college runners. I’m on my third flip-through, occasionally stopping out of desperation on that shitty cable entertainment channel—you know, the one with the show “Now That They Aren’t Famous Any More”—tonight’s special: “Pee-Wee Herman: His Rise and Fall!”—and I’m bored out of my skull. Rick sees that this whole channel surfing shit ain’t making me any calmer, and he gets up. “Hey, bro,” he says, “TV sucks. I brought a couple videos along with my stuff—you wanna see?”

Hell, yeah, I wanted to see. Whatever he’d brought, it couldn’t be worse than home video of Pee Wee in an adult movie theatre. There was a VCR built into the TV, so Rick just stuffed the video in and sat on the bed again. I could see him a bit out of the corner of my eye, and I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he had his eyes on me rather than the TV.

So this video starts, and the first thing I notice is that there aren’t any credits, it just launches into the movie. There’s this guy in a locker room and he’s taking off a football helmet. He looks pretty skinny and he’s got this pretty-boy long blonde hair all swept back and a little sweaty. Well, man, the helmet was just the beginning. He starts taking off all his clothes, real slow, and yeah, he’s skinny, but kind of hot, too. He has these blue eyes and this muscular ass, with a long, curving cock. Soon, he’s ready to hit the shower, and he steps under the nozzle and turns on the spray. The locker room gets all steamy and the mirrors fog up. The camera gets in real close on this kid in the shower, and pretty soon he starts to soap his cock. He’s really into it, and then he ain’t soaping it anymore, he’s strokin’ on it and jerking off.

Well, I may be a hick Italian kid from Georgia, but I’ve got a pretty good idea what sort of video this is gonna turn out to be. When the kid starts jerking off, I look over at Rick, and he’s staring at the screen. And man, wouldn’t you know it, he’s got this raging hard-on going.

I look back at the porno, and two guys have come into the locker room. One of ‘em, this real All-American kid, is cut like a rock, and you can tell just from the way he walks that’s he gotta be the QB. He’s carrying his helmet in his hands, and his face and neck and forearms are tanned like a farm kid. The other one is older, but still looks like a youngish kind of guy. Real square-jawed, with a brushcut. He’s carrying a clipboard, so I guess he’s the coach. And right after they walk in, the blonde stumbles out of the shower, still naked. And he gets real red in the face, all guilty-looking, but the coach and the QB don’t look like they mind at all.

I’m not too surprised when I hear the bedsprings squeal a bit, turn my head, and find that Rick has stripped off his jeans and ain’t wearing anything underneath. Rick’s in his mid-thirties, but he’s still got all the muscle and definition from when he was a gymnast. He looks me straight in the eye. I know he wants me. And I’m cool with it. Hell, he’s older than I am, but he’s still a stud. “Take off the shirt,” he says to me. So I pull my tank-top over my head. And just look at me, man. You ever seen a guy with guns like these for biceps? Look at these thighs. Fucking rocks. And I’m ready to just wrap ‘em around Rick, but I turn back to the porno.

I’d completely lost track of what the guys were doing on screen. When I turned back, the blonde kid was on his knees, and the QB is standing over him. The QB has his shirt off and is standing there in pads. The coach gives an order: “Take off your uniform, Jimmy, and Brett here is gonna give you a blow-job.” So Jimmy undoes the pads and yanks the sweat-soaked pants down his thighs and off. And Brett looks up at the coach, like’s he’s hoping he isn’t going to have to, but the coach says, “C’mon, suck him, or you’re off the team.” So Brett reaches behind and takes off Jimmy’s jock, and at that point I feel Rick kneeling beside me, and he starts to slide my gym shorts down my legs.

I just shift around so I can keep watching the porno while Rick takes ‘em off. Jimmy has a monster dick, and Brett puts it to his lips and licks the shaft. And Rick takes my cock in one hand and slides it into his mouth until his face touches my abs. “Suck on it,” says the coach, and Brett puts the head of Jimmy’s dick into his mouth and starts to suck it real slow. It’s my first time watching porn—well, gay porn, anyway—and the first time a guy has sucked me off, and I can’t hold back. Rick went down on my cock for just a couple minutes and I’m coming down his throat. I flipped my head back and gasped, still watching Jimmy thrust into Brett’s mouth.

The coach is watching them go at it, and then he’s taking off his clothes. Rick has gotten up and gone over to his bags. The coach gets naked real quick, and then he walks over behind Brett. He spit on his hands and rubs the spit up and down his cock. Brett’s mouth is filled with Jimmy’s dick. I felt Rick’s calloused hands on my shoulders, and he shifted me around until I’m lying on my stomach. He took my ankles, one in each hand, and I let him spread my legs. The coach rubs some more spit on Brett’s ass and centers himself behind him. I felt Rick’s hands glide up my thighs, and then my asshole felt very cold. I could tell it’s lube he’s spreading on me, and I relaxed. He centered himself behind me. The coach drove his hips forward and shoved his cock into Brett. Rick thrust forward and down and entered me. Brett jerked with the force of his coach’s cock. He kept sliding Jimmy’s dick through his mouth and into his throat. I was sore, but I relaxed my asshole, spread my legs wider, and pushed back on Rick’s cock. I felt him expand inside me and thrust deeper. The coach’s rhythm forced Brett forward onto Jimmy’s dick. Rick held my hips steady. He drove deeper and faster. He drove harder. I was impaled on his cock. I closed my eyes, and Rick grunted. I felt him surging inside of me.

He exploded, and my insides were suddenly wet and warm. He gave a few more shuddering thrusts. I felt exhilarated. I didn’t care if anyone heard. I just laid my head back and groaned.

I look at the screen. Jimmy and the coach walked together toward the shower, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Brett’s head was bent, and he stayed kneeling on the locker room floor. Man, I couldn’t tell what the fuck he was thinking, but I was jumpin’ out of my skin. Rick pulled his cock out of my ass, still trembling with the orgasm. He crawled to the video to turn it off. His cock was still dripping cum. We cut the lights and got in bed, but there wasn’t much sleeping goin’ on that night.

So of course I’m totally fucked up the next day. As my coach, Rick was right off to the side while I competed, all business, like nothing happened. But when he gave me a boost onto the rings, his hands on my calves reminded me of my legs being spread, Rick entering my ass. My arms shuddered and I could barely hold myself up on the rings. It was the beginning of the end. I couldn’t concentrate. I fucked up the floor routine. I lost my grip on the uneven bars. I don’t even wanna talk about the vault or the pommel horse. I finished ninth overall. Can’t say I’m surprised I’m goin’ to Northern Georgia A&M after all that shit. Division fucking III. So much for the Olympic team, right?

Rick? Yeah, man, Rick bailed out as soon as he knew I wasn’t gonna be his ticket to coaching glory. All my knowing him got me was a partial scholarship to a shit school and a little fetish for coaches. I’m kinda at loose ends. A&M doesn’t really cut it for me. At least they got a gymnastics program, but I only do it now to keep in shape and keep the money flowing. That, and it’s the only thing I know how to do very well.

Hell, hasn’t that tape rewound yet? Well, you don’t wanna hear any more of this shit. Go on, press play. Get over here and spread me. And, uh, man? I know you’re only the football team’s manager, but just for the night, could you pretend you’re a coach?

 

© 2007 Philip Clark - Contributor's Bio