When the football coach
Kicks you off the team
Who do you call?
STUDBUSTERS!
I
Billy Wade Vinovitch is 19, he’s got a shock of wheat-blond hair which tumbles down over the unblemished forehead of a blue-eyed, square-jawed face. I figured his weight at 195 or thereabouts, the muscles on his five- eleven frame solid and well-defined under his varsity tee—just what you’d expect from the first-string quarterback of our local college team. Word was that the kid was in the running for the Heisman, a top ten draft pick by the powers that be at the NFL.
So what the hell happened that made him go to all the trouble of finding the former precinct house which is the current home of Ryan, Harker and myself, the Studbusters? Shit, if anybody would be the target of our professional attentions I’d much prefer it to be Billy himself.
“Somebody beat you to the punch,” he said, shifting that chiseled torso uncomfortably in the easy chair we gave him. “And I think it’s going to throw the whole brilliant career down the tube.”
“Maybe you better start at the start,” I suggested, finding myself more disturbed than I thought I’d be: the turmoil on the handsome face was real. Deep-seated.
“I thought he was my friend.” Billy kept repeating. “I thought he was my friend.”
“Who?” Harker hates being made to wait, or to hang. He likes to do the hanging, particularly when the hangee might be someone whose nipples press so nice and tight against stretched cotton, like Billy’s. Quarter-sized, I was pretty sure. Quarter-sized for the quarterback: appropriate.
“Greg Mayes” was the answer to his question, a name familiar to all of us: the varsity’s second play-caller. Darkhaired, dark-eyed, a bit more bulk and height than Billy but nowhere near the grace Good on the grid. Not great. When Number One was down a terrific substitute – although, with luck, he could lead the squad to victory just by sheer power.
He and Billy were indeed supposed to be pals; they’d come up from the same high school training grounds, they double-dated (the papers made a point of saying) and they had nothing but praise for each other, in private as well as in public. Buddies.
Was Billy Wade now trying to tell us that Greg had somehow betrayed him? Had done it, in fact, in such a way as to destroy whatever relationship they had? Why?
How?
The collegian was still not really sure. Downright confused, you want to know the truth. He sat there with his leg draped over the arm of the chair (giving me one beautiful view of what looked to be one fully-packed crotch) and shook his head back and forth several times, a bewildered little-boy-lost look permeating his eyes. “It was after the game with State last week,” he recollected. “Greg said he had to do something to reward me for that 60-yard bullet I made in the third quarter.”
I’d seen it on TV. There are reasons some quarterbacks are candidates for Heismans and some are not.
“My ‘present’ was coming to his place Saturday night, after the game. It was supposed to be the most gorgeous piece of ass I ever saw in my whole fucking life. Greg said my balls were gonna be drained dry by the time the chick got through with me.”
Billy Wade Vinovitch wasn’t about to say no to a “present” like that another one of the things that made him so attractive to the media was the word that he was one of the biggest and most successful cunt-men on campus, a reputation which was made almost innocently, I’d heard. The kid was a natural in every department there was.
Still one more reason why Hark and me had been surprised to have him seek us out. Straight was straight was straight.
Or was it?
“Eight o’clock on the dot, I am at Greg’s,” he says, a leather-couched bachelor pad off-campus. Quiet neighborhood. Private. “The girl’s not there yet.”
Greg offers him a drink. Good Scotch. Single malt Strong.
Refill?
Refill.
“After that things started getting fuzzy.” No shit.
“The girl showed up, didn’t she?” Harker’s inquiry.
“I thought she did.” Although, by the time the doorbell rang, his eyes were swimming in their sockets so much King Kong could have walked in and it might not have made much of a difference. All Billy Wade could perceive was that fingertips and lips were all over his unbuttoned flesh, arousing the shit out of his prick, slowly and sensuously making him moan and squirm until finally, after what seemed a floating eternity, his balls did precisely what his buddy Greg promised they would.
Drained dry.
“Cum was flying all over the place,” the quarterback remembered. “I don’t think I ever pounded a snatch as hard. I don’t think I ever had a hard-on that swollen.”
He woke up the next day afternoon, hung over but good. The phone was ringing, Greg on the line smirking. “Just wanted to find out if you got home alive,” his voice snickered through the earpiece. “Sheila told me that she’s going to have to retire from the field now—‘once you’ve had the best everyone else would be anticlimax.
Congratulations, chum. Greg knew he’d come through.
‘“Come through’ sounded a little strange to me but what the fuck.” Billy’d shrugged. What was left of the night was fragments in his mind and they seemed pretty damned good in their disconnected retrospect as his mom once told him, never look a gift horse in the mouth. The football star thanked his pal and hung up, grinning the kind of stupid grin you grin when you’ve been elaborately patted on the back. By Monday morning’s practice he’d put the incident behind.
“So far.” Ryan commented, “I don’t see why you need the Studbusters on your case.” Ryan didn’t see a case, in fact.
Until Billy tossed a videotape cassette into his startled hands. “Put it on the machine,” he suggested, and a couple of moments later we were watching what was perhaps the hottest sex-tape I had ever seen in my entire life. There was our guest, the Number One draft pick in the country lolling and laughing on a couch, having his clothes removed not by a chick named Sheila but by two equally muscled hunks, one auburn and the other kind of punk-yellow—he reminded me of that rock singer Billy Idol, only Billy Idol would give his virgin ass to have the pecs and lats that this boy had.
Our Billy—Billy Wade Vinovitch—wasn’t just passive with these two jocks. If anything, he came off on the TV screen as the aggressor, his lips like the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner as he slurped his way up one set of muscles and down the other, eyes glinting in the glow of the lights illuminating the scene. “Gonna suck your armpits.” he was purring at one point, nuzzling a big masculine tit while so doing. “Gonna lick the funky-smelling stud-sweat off all that kinky armpit hair.”
My eyes darted to the youth in the chair, sinking further and further back into the cushions as though he was hoping they’d completely envelope him, making him disappear. His eyes, though, were glued to the love he was making on that tape, riveted. Mesmerized as his mouth opened like a baby bird in its nest, swallowing eight nine, ten fat inches of jock-cock, the tongue flickering out to burrow beneath the hood-like foreskin, to lap at the smegma filling the hiding place.
“Mmm,” we could hear him hum. “Mmmm. yeah, so big, so hard, mmm.”
“Fucking faggot,” the auburn stud husked, rolling over onto his back and spreading his legs upward, outward. “Stick that boner up my fucking ass and make me scream” His hands slid around the smooth-skinned muscles of his butt, spreading the crack, exposing the thin line of curly hair inside and, beneath that, the pink button winking inwards ‘ Come on, quarterback, fuck this hole hard. Come on.”
“I’m coming, all right.” Billy swore, his dork upsweeping out of his pubes, dripping pre-cum. Contact the rubbery red cap of his circumcised pole and that tiny man-cunt and then the drilling began, the quarterback’s hips pivoting and torquing as he pressed forward steadily, steadily, filling his victim’s anus with cauterizing stud-meat rigid and swollen. “Take it you bastard, get fucked.’ By this time he was grinding his bush like a scouring pad tight into those cheeks, slamming and slapping, grunting—
“You’re not going to believe what happens next,” he narrated as he curled up almost foetally in our chair. “I thought I’d die when Coach Heyward showed it to me.”
What happened next was that the hunk who looked like the over-developed Billy Idol got on top of our client’s back, sinking his own massive spear deep into that unquestionable cherry asshole with one hooking stroke, he and his partner pinning the quarterback between them while he yowled, making sure that the heavily muscled athlete couldn’t buck him out.
“If he can take it,” the blond hissed sarcastically, “you can take it. Bitch.”
Bitch.
The word seemed to shock Billy Wade Vinovitch into a whole other world, the surprise on his face as immediate as though he had been physically slapped. “Nooo,” he moaned, the kind of “noooo” which means exactly the opposite of “noooo. He wasn’t a bitch, he wasn’t a cunt, he was a man. A straight A rape victim. “Noooo.”
“Yesssss,” came the immediate response, hissed malevolently into the football hero’s ear even as the diabolical blond was nibbling on it and spitting up its insides. “You got a hard-on, baby, and you damn well know what that means.”
Even as he said it he was backing the big athlete up out of his buddy’s rectum, revealing a bone every bit as excited as he predicted, right on the edge. Not one second could pass before the whole thing contracted and pistoned in mid-air, bobbing furiously as blast after blast of thick pearl-gray jizz went flying up into the air. “I’m cumming.” Billy Wade Vinovitch began to weep. “I’m shooting my fucking load all over this fucking faggot’s back!”
God damn it, was he ever. Was he ever. Every muscle in his chiseled body stood out, every vein and cartilage, every pore dripping sweat. Those curly pubes were going visibly lank, drenched with the juice of his glands, and then he collapsed in exhaustion, emotional as well as physical, and the tape came to its end on his “oh, shit… oh, shit…”
II
“Did you say Coach Heyward showed you this?” Ryan spoke for the whole Studbusters team, the plot against the quarterback suddenly all too clear.
“Monday morning.” Billy Wade’s voice wasn’t anywhere near all too clear. We were down to the nub of things, the shock he’d gotten when the notably homophobic young coach had called him into private consultation, his voice tight Real tight.
“Tell me this isn’t you. Vinovitch.” he said, switching the team’s VCR on, playing him the incriminating tape.
“I thought my eyeballs were going to roll down my cheekbones.” the quarterback recalled, shuddering. How the hell could he deny what was there, in full color and stereophonic sound? That was no look-alike three-waying it. That was the real thing, with its all too distinctive voice moaning those “fuck me’s” in the height of the action.
“You’re off the team as of this moment, faggot.” Heyward grated “I don’t need any queers playing football for me.” Orfor anyone else, either, he was quick to add. “No shit-assed homo is going to contaminate this sport not if I have anything to do with it.”
What made it worse as far as the coach was concerned was “the hypocracy,” the way Billy’d “deliberately fooled’ his colleagues and the press into thinking his sexual orientation was the ladies. Heyward hated liars and his former quarterback was the biggest god-damned liar it had ever been his foul misfortune to meet.
Nothing the handsome young stud could say would be entertained, no excuses accepted—not that the coach could imagine any. “Greg’s going to finish out the season and you’re going to be ‘injured,’ badly enough to retire from the game, period.” If Vinovitch didn’t feel like that one more lie, hey, Coach Heyward could see to it that the ‘injury’ was as real as he’d like. “I’m sure that half your pals on the team’d be only too happy to break your legs in three good places for you after they see you taking all that queer dick in your miserable pervert mouth.”
The locker was to be cleared out by evening and Billy was to get his faggot ass out of his sight—which he did, wanting to confront his best friend Greg. “You set me up, didn’t you?”
Didn’t he?
All Greg did was smile at him a little. He didn’t know what his buddy was referring to. And when that whispered come-back provoked the all-too-expected lunge Greg was ready, decking Billy with a swift and powerful uppercut hard enough to snap the college star’s head back on his neck and sprawl him on his butt, dizzy and defeated.
“Take a hike, fag,” the new quarterback suggested, “before your ass gets fucked with one of these footballs.”
Billy took a hike, all right he hiked downtown to the old jail that housed Studbusters, Inc.
