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He turns up the TV sound, and the commentator’s excited voice blares out…
“Stockborough has no keeper on the bench, so it’s all down to young Henderson, but so far it’s all been going the Wasps’ way, with their new signing from Barcelona, number eight there, Adriano Márquez, making some fine runs… captain Jason Crowther collects from that poor pass, cut out by Ndingo. Crowther again… Márquez making a run in behind him. Crowther to Márquez. And Logan’s in the center… takes the ball from Márquez… and it’s a good run… and it’s there… he scores!
“Stockborough Rovers, after two minutes, have the lead. And young Billy Logan picks up where he left off last season with a real poacher’s goal. The Wasps have nicked an early lead, thanks to Billy Logan, with a tremendous assist from Adriano Márquez. A great moment for manager Bobby Croft and the Wasps’ fans. Just hear them roar… a sea of black and gold flags waving for the home side as well as ‘Love you Billy!’ placards.”
Ninety minutes later he switches off and sits back from the edge of the seat, nursing a painful erection.
Billy Logan. Sigh…
* * *
It’s always a good feeling coming off the field with a comfortable 3–1 win, especially against a hard side like Hull, and after getting a penalty against us. That was because Jason Crowther, our captain, went in too hard on a corner kick and brought down one of Hull’s strikers from behind. He gets worked up sometimes. I suppose we all do from time to time. But it’s an even better feeling to have scored two of the goals. As we come into the club locker room the new boy from Spain gives me a slap on the back. He scored the other. A good start for a new team-mate. Just as well his English is pretty good for the after-game cameras.
“Hey, Billy! You done good there.”
“Thanks, Adriano. You too.”
In fact just about everything about Adriano Márquez is pretty good. Disgustingly handsome in a dusky Mediterranean way. Fit as a fiddle and as lithe as any good footy player should be, he’s a natural heartthrob for the girl fans, and he knows it. It’s when he turns those smoky eyes on me that I get funny feelings. Are the looks for me or is he just in heat with everybody? He even directs a burning gaze on Paddington sat on the top of my locker from time to time. We all have our mascots, our funny little foibles of lucky charms, but the bear seems to exercise a particular fascination for Adriano. I wish he’d aim it at me.
Shower time’s the worst. In spite of the exhaustion of ninety minutes’ play, I’m always so horny after a game and terrified of getting a stiffy in the showers. Don’t look at Adriano stripping off his kit. I’d never live down an inadvertent hard-on in front of the other guys. As it is, they say things like, “That Billy Logan speaks funny.” Just because I’m not a northerner—at least, not any more—and it’s not my fault I was lucky enough to get into a good school. That’s the Brits on the main and reserve teams for you. I’m not the only one who speaks “funny,” and the Brit guys do take the piss out of the Europeans, Africans, and South Americans as well, so I let it pass with a grin.
I’m thinking of Adriano again. Must stop. I wish he wouldn’t give me that wide white grin with those slightly narrowed sexy eyes. I’m thinking, what a sad case I am. Billy Logan, going on twenty-two and still effectively a virgin. Knocking back almost two million a year in pay and endorsements, a Premier League star, featured in the girlie chat mags on the arms of this beauty or that. By now I should to rights have already enjoyed my first scandal, like being paparazzied drunk in a bar or caught with a prostitute while my long-suffering wife looks after the vast mansion in the country. But I haven’t got a wife, not even—to endless speculation as to which of the supplied beauties I’m getting it on with—a girlfriend. What’s worse, I haven’t got a boyfriend either. Why? It’s too damn risky. You can’t be a top-flight footballer and be gay. It’s just not on. Think what a field day the press would have.
So far, apart from with myself, I’ve had nothing much in the way of sex. There was the kid at the training academy who never made the grade. But that was nothing more than a grope and a bit of mutual dick squeezing through our trousers one evening after a beer too many.
Then there was the trip to Thailand. Four of the guys on the team decided to go for a week’s sex vacation to Phuket (Fuck-it, naturally) in the summer break, and I went along. Patong was an eye-opener. Girlie bars by the ton-load and no trouble getting a girl sitting on your lap, fiddling about underneath for your cock and, eventually, your wallet. My mates had a high time, rolling in dosh as we were and, when one of them let out we were Stockborough… oh wow! “Squeee! That’s my favorite football team!” Oh, yeah, the Thais love their Premier League. To be fair to Jason Crowther, he wasn’t really capitalizing on our fame, he just stupidly answered the ubiquitous question, “Where you from?” After that, there was no way of backing out. I think it got them all laid quick-time.
Somehow, I got out of it when we all split up to go to the nearest love hotel down the street for a quick rented hour by letting Kwanjai, or Malee, or the appropriately named Siriporn a gentle let down and a fat tip when we were finally alone on the street. In that week, I eyed the ranks of gay bars at the end of the main drag with curiosity and longing. One night, I managed to give the others a slip and wandered along the ramshackle bars with their too-bright lighting.
“Welcome! Where you from?”
Against my own best advice, I got dragged into one, ordered a Mekong and soda, and struggled to drink it with two cute lads pressed against my sides. It’s disconcerting to have several hands rubbing up and down your thighs when deep down you’re frightened of being seen by one of your mates. A mixture of desperate want and terror. The bar was too well lit. I panicked and fled.
“Ooh, don’t go. See you tomorrow?…”
The pain of a fading payment opportunity makes even the boys cry.
Being a Stockborough star caught me out at the hotel. The bar captain, a handsome youngster who looked fourteen, but knowing the Thais was probably thirty, tackled me head on when I sat on a stool by myself. The other guys were up in their rooms getting ready for the night. I ordered a Coke. He looked up wide-eyed with an irrepressible smile. “You are Birry Rogan!”
I did a “never heard of him” look, and damn me if he didn’t pull out a scrap book from under the bar and flip it open to pages of clips and cuttings of Stockborough. He pointed to one of me in Wasps’ kit. Sexy, if I say so. Narong—as his nameplate said—turned out to be the same age as me. Thais for you. He still looked like fourteen. As he poured my Coke, he never took his eyes off me and batted his eyelids seductively. I tried hard to avoid it, but I could see he knew he’d caught my eye. Thai boys have a built in gaydar—even if they’re not gay. I was interested. I had my hands cupped on the bar top. Narong took hold and pulled them gently apart with a sexy squeeze so he could place the glass between my fingers. The he leaned forward like we were conspirators. “I finish half hour. I take you to nice restaurant at end of Phuket. Yes?”
I was smitten. I looked around to see three of the others threading their way though the busy tables of the massive lobby bar. It was idiotic of me, but I jumped down from the stool guiltily, sure they would see what was up. I smiled innocently and went over to Jason. I caught Narong’s frown in a mirrored pillar and felt doubly guilty at having abandoned him so abruptly. What to do? I fell back on the oldest in the cliché book. “Sorry, guys, I was going to buzz you Jase, but I’ve a terrible headache, so I think I’ll stay in and have an early night.”
“Oh, you wozzer,” Jason snapped back.
“Sorry. I don’t want to rain on your parade.”
Jase grabbed his crotch and waggled it. “Your loss, mate. Me, I got the lovely Daranee on me mind.”
“She’ll be on your dick, not your mind, Jase.”
Bobby Langton, one of the second team, to the point, as ever.
So, I got rid of them and returned to Narong. Phuket, fuck-it. It turned into a mad night. The transport, his small scooter, had just enough power to get up over the dusk-darkened hills surrounding Patong. We buzzed along the narrow, winding coast road to the southernmost tip of Phuket, me on the back, hands in a deathly grip on the carrier rack behind me. We were almost there when Narong reached back and grabbed my arm. “Better hold on me,” he said into the wind. So I circled his waist. It did feel safer, and warmer when he shoved my hands down on top of his fly.
I’d just got to the point where my wiggling fingers traced the outline of what he had inside his jeans, when he pulled over at the side of the road. A line of plastic-cloth-covered tables and rickety metal chairs straggled along the dusty roadside. The restaurant was busy with locals and tourists, mostly the younger kind. I spotted several men with Thai lads among the more general gatherings. Food was good, too, hot and sour, washed down with swigs of Singha so cold the bottle stuck to my fingers, the scents of galangal, garlic, and tamarind mixed with hot dust and burnt vehicle exhaust. Eventually, I said I had to get back. I didn’t want to risk bumping into the others at the hotel.
After I paid the check, Narong leaped onto his steed, wrapped my arms around his waist, and off we roared, well… brrred. After a few minutes we emerged onto the main central highway, the quicker route back to Patong than we had come by. As he paused at the intersection, Narong fiddled with his fly and shoved my hands down inside, then he swerved onto the road. So, there I was, jerking off a Thai barman at fifty miles an hour on a road swamped with traffic in both directions. I guess it’s not every day a bar captain gets to shoot his load into the hands of the football star he worships. I’m afraid my natural reaction kept going limp every time it seemed we would never make it past a slow car in the face of an oncoming truck, its lights blinding us. Danger obviously worked Narong up nicely. He’d come off twice by the time we flew down the well-lit hill into Patong.
We left the next day. Narong wasn’t on duty, so I left an envelope for him with a thousand baht in it. It did occur to me that, under the circumstances, he should be paying me, but then, when in Thailand, give as the Thais take…
So, a teenage grope at the football academy and a double-jack off on a scooter. Billy Logan really knows how to live it up. Oh, I do broadcast on Cam4.com from time to time, under the name UK_SoccerLad. I use “soccer” to grab the American cammers who don’t know the proper name for “the beautiful game.” No face show, though. I start with a standing torso shot, just with the football shorts on, get myself well hard before taking them off. Then it’s a straightforward whack-off show. Nothing particularly outstanding, but it’s a hell of a turn on when your numbers climb to over a thousand, mostly guys. The comments egging me on stream up the side panel. Think of it… hundreds of people watching me shoot a load and getting off on it.
Is cyber sex, real sex? I always feel empty afterward, especially when I’ve watched two guys having it off in another “room.” They make my lonely effort seem pointless. But that doesn’t stop me broadcasting again after a few days.
So there’s my sex life to date. Billy Logan, football stud. Dreamboat to millions. In my teens I felt frustration, but passing twenty I’m sad, incomplete… and the loneliness, it burns, oh, how it burns. The guys on the team say that girlie fans spend more time watching the way your football shorts shape and reshape your cock and balls when you’re playing. Actually, it’s a shapeless lump under tight sliders, an enticing bump, no doubt. I think they’re unfair. Plenty of women love the beautiful game as much as they do the players. But I always wonder how many boys are doing what the girls are accused of.
~ • ~
New erotic fiction from
Roger M. Kean
© 2010–2016 Reckless Books, England
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