I have written many gay/bisexual stories and would welcome any feedback. This particular story "Carter Plays Ball" is a novel about the sport of Soccer. It is available for the Kindle on Amazon.
Posh Timothy Carter immerses himself in the homoerotic world of soccer stars
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My Blog is: http://richardpetersbooks.blogspot.co.uk/
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Carter Plays Ball
- Homoeroticism Everywhere!
So it was that three weeks later, Roberts was driving me to the football ground to attend my first ever football match. Grantchester United was the biggest club in Yorkshire and huge crowds were milling around outside in the streets, as my Rolls whispered through them and into the private car park reserved for VIPs.
Kate greeted me in the Directors' bar under the main stand. She was looking her most beautiful and elegant. I regarded her grace and charm and understood Garry's infatuation with her. He had told me so many times how much he loved her and how "beaut" she was. As on previous occasions when we had met, I resolved once again to never give her a hint of the relationship between myself and her husband. If Garry could divide his live in this way and chose not to tell her of his newly discovered proclivity for sex with males, I could respect his choice. I didn't hide my sexuality, but neither did I advertise it. I supposed that Kate just took me at face value as one of his "mates".
"Garry will be so pleased to know you are watching him today." She said in her lovely, crisp English accent. She sipped her sparkling wine. Dressed in a sophisticated, cream two-piece suit, her only adornment was an extravagant broach in the team's colours. "Hopefully you'll inspire him to play at his best. He's very fond of you." Her clear hazel eyes regarded me closely.
I felt a slight blush. It was almost as if she knew about us! Quickly diverting the subject, I said, "I don't really know anything about football.
"Neither do I" She replied and we laughed conspiratorially. I liked her.
"Let me introduce you to the Chairman" She said, still laughing and she led me over to a fat, red-faced man. "Mr Bateman, let me introduce you to Mr Timothy Carter."
The chairman regarded me closely over the top of his glasses. "Timothy Carter, the owner of half of bloody Yorkshire?" he said, in a voice ruined by cigars and whiskey. I disliked him instantly. His suit was expensive, but fitted his rotund body poorly. The neck of his shirt squeezed his fat neck uncomfortably. His language and tone was crude, his manner belied a life mis-spent. His podgy hand was thrust towards me. His handshake was firm to the point of painful and his flesh was clammy. How I hated such fiercely heterosexual men, who met every new encounter with another man as a challenge and every handshake as an opportunity to exert their own masculinity.
Within his crippling, sweaty grasp I deliberately held my hand limply, refusing to match his silly macho grip. I communicated the highest refinement I could muster, sensing that such a bluff Yorkshire oaf would be disarmed by the finer things in life. He didn't recognise my Masonic handshake.
"Mr Bateman, I am delighted to visit your club and hope that we are treated to a magnificent encounter and display of some wonderful examples of the dexterity of the young men who represent the hopes and aspirations of the people in attendance today." I said, giving him a withering look.
His vice-like grip released my crushed fingers, the sweat from his flesh made my hand feel cool when it was freed into the warm, dry air of the Directors' bar. His mouth fell open, momentarily lost for words.
"Er, I hope we win too." He said, befuddled. Recovering his composure somewhat, he added, as we turned to leave him, in a voice that half the bar could hear "We must have a drink after the match, the club could do with some of that bloody money of yours!"
"What a dreadful man!" Kate whispered to me through a clenched smile.
"Dreadful!" I agreed and we laughed quietly.
We found an empty table and sat down with our drinks. She told me of her latest movie, which she was filming in Japan. She delighted me with funny tales of stars she had performed with. She would be returning to Tokyo the following week. "Will you keep an eye on Garry for me while I'm away?" she asked, with happy, clear eyes. "He looks up to you like a father figure."
"He misses you terribly when you are gone." I said truthfully, while thinking that what we did together was not like any father-son relationship!
"He's a dear!" she said.
"He loves you very much you know." I said truthfully.
"You are a lovely man." She said with a smile.
How I wanted to confess to her of my love for her husband!
A distinguished-looking man, with greying temples, interrupted us and asked if he could join us. His name was Dexter and he was a Director of Grantchester United. In contrast to the oafish Bateman, Dexter was sophisticated and Kate clearly liked him.
"What are the team's prospects this season?" she asked.
"Pretty good." He said cheerfully. "So long as Bateman doesn't sell our best players!" he added in a confidential tone.
"He wouldn't, would he?" she asked.
"Not sure, we need some money and the Italians are sniffing around your Garry."
"Mmm, life in Milan or Rome could be nice!" she said.
"It's more likely to be Turin. Juventus are very interested in him." Dexter said.
"Urgh!" Kate said at the thought of living in the unstylish city.
I could imagine her enjoying the "dolce vita" life of a well-paid footballer in Milan or Rome. And I remembered Garry's love for Italian football. I realised that if he moved to Italy I would not see him so often!
"Surely the club wouldn't part with him?" I asked Dexter. "Isn't he one of your best payers?"
Dexter regarded me closely. "Might do." He said. "The Italians want him and they want Alan too."
My heart sank at the prospect of the two young friends being together in a foreign country, drawn even closer together than they already were by the strangeness of language and culture. My mind filled with images of the young men seeking physical comfort from each other. I was getting jealous of this Alan character!
"Sell one, only. Realise some capital without knocking too big a hole in your team. Garry tells me that Alan Dutton is the best centre forward in the world." I suggested, shocking myself at my selfish deviousness.
"Maybe." Dexter said. "It's up to Bateman, it's out of my hands."
I thought it was a strange set up where a Director appeared to have no input or power.
"Such a pleasure to meet you, Carter." He said rising up to take his leave.
I stood and shook his hand. His touch was firm, but not crippling. I reciprocated. I liked him in opposite proportion to my dislike for Bateman. What was more he was a brother, a fellow Mason.
Time for the match! Kate led me up to our seats in the Directors' box. The stadium was packed and vibrantly expectant. To my surprise I found the atmosphere exciting.
Out came the teams! Garry turned and waved up at me. I was about to wave back when I realised he was probably waving to his wife! He looked wonderful in his tight yellow shirt, worn outside of his shorts, hugging his hips and buttocks with just a hint of tight white shorts peeking out below the shirt. The other players had their shirts tucked in their shorts apart from one other good-looking fellow who wore his shirt over his shorts in the same style as Garry.
Garry moved with a sexual grace, while they warmed up kicking footballs around. My eyes hardly left him, despite the other players in their tight white shorts running athletically about.
"Which is his friend Alan Dutton?" I asked Kate.
She pointed out the other player who had his shirt outside his shorts. I took a closer look at the blond athletic god who was kicking the ball back to Garry and my heart sank! No wonder Garry was attracted to him. He was sleek and muscular. Supple and tanned. A wonderful example of handsome athlete! Garry, himself was beautiful, but this Alan was unspeakably lovely!
He waved to the crowd behind one goal as they chanted his name. They worshipped him. Now they were chanting my Garry's name and he waved to them.
"They like the strikers best!" Kate said by way of explanation of the ritual
Looking around the rest of the team, who varied from reasonably good looking to plain and worse, I realised that I liked the strikers best too!
Now the crowd were singing some song or other. I could just make out the words:
"Garry, Garry, give her one from us,
Give her one from us, give her one from us
Garry, Garry, give her one from us
Ka-ay-ay-ay-te Mossthwaite"
I blushed at the crude sexual innuendo, aimed towards this elegant woman beside me. I feared to look at her and cause her embarrassment. It seemed that as well as worshipping Garry's football prowess, the hot-blooded male supporters lived out their sexual fantasies through him as well! How many of them saw pictures of her in magazines and imagined they themselves were Garry in bed with her! Or did they picture the lad himself "giving her one" indeed. Fame was a dreadful thing!
I amused myself wondering if they knew the truth, whether they would sing a song asking him to take one from me, on their behalf!
Now they were chanting Alan's name again as the excitement built towards kick off. I looked around the stand in which I seated. It was occupied almost entirely by males. They were a quieter bunch than those fans behind the goal, who were now chanting crude verbal abuse at the opposition fans behind the other goal and questioning their sexuality. They in return, en-masse, gestured crudely with their hands that the home fans were in the habit of masturbatory practices.
The match started and the crude exchanges changed to great roars of encouragement. My eyes mainly watched the movement of my lover and his friend, even when the play was down at the other end of the pitch.
I was lost in reverie as to how the fans and press would treat Garry if they knew the secret of his sexual life. How brave he was to have ever opened himself up to me in my games room, back home. How brave to continue seeing me. These days, people were becoming more open about their sexuality, but even so, I saw that it was impossible for a man like Garry to come out to the public. His fans were fiercely homophobic, to judge by their insults hurled at the opposition fans. Clearly being homosexual was the most reviled thing in the world!
Now Alan received the ball. He passed it out to Garry who streaked down the touchline with the ball at his feet. Inside one opposition player, sending him sprawling on his backside, around another and he crossed the ball into the centre where Alan rose to meet it with his head. Just over the crossbar it flew. The crowd gasped and roared their approval. Alan sank to his knees head in hand. Garry spun on the spot covering his eyes in the agony of the near miss. This was exciting, this was wonderful!
The crowd chanted Alan's name. The team retreated down the pitch to meet the kick from the goalkeeper. I turned to smile at Kate who was clapping wildly at United's efforts.
Backwards and forwards the game ebbed, with little to choose between the two teams. Now Garry got on the ball and rushed towards his favourite touchline. Inside his favourite defender he cut, past another. This was more exciting than watching Italy on the television. The crowd roared him on as he jinked his way into the penalty area before unleashing a pile driver of a shot, that left the goalkeeper stretching helplessly towards the ball, which winged like a bullet into the back of the net.
The crowd went wild! We were all up on our feet, arms in the air. Kate hugged me around the waist and I turned to press her to my chest. We were all shouting like men and women possessed.
I looked down at the pitch and Garry had stripped off his shirt and was swinging it around for joy above his head. Racing back along the touchline below us, he displayed his smooth muscles and chest to the adoring fans. This peculiar behaviour seemed entirely appropriate in the context of this joyful cauldron. He stopped below us and flinging his shirt into the air, he stood triumphantly, fists raised in the air in salute, grinning up at us.
The first of his team-mates to catch up with him was Alan Dutton who grabbed his triumphant body from behind and pressed his own body against his pal's, clutching his friend firmly to his chest, and holding him vice-like with a muscular arm pressed across his naked chest, he too raised a triumhant fist to the crowd. Garry freed himself from his friend's clasp and turned his back on us to face the man. Hands clasped cheeks, mouths smiled and panted, before they hugged themselves together, chest to chest, groin to groin, legs locked together in ecstatic joy.
Now the other team-mates arrived and jumped on the pair, knocking their two entwined bodies over and piling on top of them. There was a heap of eight or nine bodies with my lovely goal-scorer buried somewhere beneath it. The referee was rushing towards the heap and frantically blowing his whistle in a vain attempt to restore order. Most of the people in our stand were seated again but were applauding the pile of bodies below them. The crowd behind the goal was a sea of yellow as Grantchester United replica shirts were swinging above heads in jubilant mimicry of Garry. Naked torsos, overweight and pale, fancied they too could streak down the wing, beat all the opposition and score a fantastic goal!
Eventually the players rose off the pile and turned to run towards the home fans to share the celebration. Garry and Alan rose from the grass and stood side by side, Alan's arm around Garry's naked shoulder, Garry's around his friend's waist, they raised their other arms in triumph towards us. Then Garry blew a kiss towards his two lovers, before he picked his discarded shirt up off the ground and the pair wheeled away towards their adoring fans
I was breathless from the power of the homoerotic scenes!
"You've brought him luck!" Kate said and she squeezed my hand. I became aware of the growing erection inside my trousers!
Now the match restarted and the cheering subsided. A few minutes later the referee blew for half time and we stood to applaud the team down the tunnel below us. Garry, once more raised a fist in triumph towards us. I retired with Kate to the bar below and excused myself to find the lavatory.
Seated in the cubicle. I smoothed out my still enlarged penis and tried to regain my composure. I heard voices.
"Bloody marvellous!" said the unmistakable, crude tone of Bateman.
"We won't have many more days like these, if you have your way." The smooth voice of Dexter replied.
"We have to sell the fucking pair of them!" Bateman said in rising anger. Frankly I've had a gut-full of your bleating!"
"Sell Garry Newburn and Alan Dutton and we can prepare for relegation." Dexter said, remaining cool.
"The bloody Italians are begging to throw a shit-load of lira at us to get them. We'd be bloody crazy to turn it down." Bateman snapped.
"We'd be crazy to accept." Dexter said curtly. I heard him leave.
"Fucking posh ponce!" Bateman mumbled under his breath after the door closed
This was followed by load splashing noises of urine against urinal, accompanied by loud farts and belches. I heard him leave, without running his hands under the tap.
I folded my now flaccid phallus inside my undershorts and raised my trousers
Back in the bar, Dexter was talking excitedly to Kate. "You're a lucky omen!
He greeted me as I sat next to them.
"It's wonderful!" I said, just catching my words, before I inadvertently said 'He'
"When we win, it is!" He smiled openly at me. I liked him the more I got to know him.
I was invited to the performance of 'Tosca' by Opera North that evening. Dexter and his wife were going and I was asked to join them.
"You and Garry too!" Dexter smiled at Kate.
"Opera's not really Garry's thing." She said ruefully. "He'll probably want a night out with the lads, especially if we win the match.
"Ask him anyway." Dexter kindly said.
"You can accompany me." I quickly added. "If Garry doesn't want to go, I'd be delighted to take you."
"You have no wife?" Dexter asked. I felt uncomfortable, remembering the unwarranted publicity over the court case that may be in the papers in the near future and the unwanted intrusion into my privacy.
"Any woman would be proud to have you as a husband." Kate said. I felt she was being politely kind. Of course she would soon know I was homosexual, if she didn't already, I feared that once the trial commenced the whole world would know!
My embarrassment was broken by the cheering in the stands. Time for the second half.
The match was in the doldrums and Kate tried to explain the incomprehensible 'offside rule' to me! Then United attacked again. Garry passed to the captain Jones who slipped the ball through to the advancing Alan for him to calmly slot the ball into the net for the second goal.
More hysteria. More rushing around the pitch and hugging, more shirts swinging in the air amongst the crowd. More homoeroticism on the pitch.
Grantchester held on grimly for the rest of the half, surviving wave after wave of attacks from the opposition. More abuse from the sets of fans. It seemed that if you supported a different team, your parentage was severely in doubt as was your sexuality!
The teams trooped off exhausted, to load cheers from the home supporters. In the bar Bateman collared me.
"Come and meet the players." He ordered me. I hesitated and looked embarrassed towards Kate.
"Go on!" she signalled that she didn't mind being left alone. Boys were boys and were to be indulged.
"Bloody hurry up!" Bateman said, offended at my hesitation over his invitation into the inside track that all supporters would envy.
I followed him down a staircase. The smell of cigars and whiskey gradually changed to sweat and mud as we descended into the sanctum of the players changing rooms. The world of expensive luxury changed to one of games changing rooms, middle aged men rushing around in tracksuits, shouting voices and swearing and an overwhelming stale odour of men's perspiration. Although the facilities were expensive, my mind was thrown back to unpleasant changing rooms at boarding school, cruel games masters and even crueller boys. Unpleasant cross country runs on freezing cold mornings and embarrassment at having to undress in front of the other boys.
Up in the stands the world of football seemed sanitised and unreal. Down here the reality of sweat and bruises, hurt limbs and macho behaviour impinged upon me. But I wasn't prepared for what happened next.
Bateman bustled rudely past an older man in a track suit with a leathery face and opened the door marked "Home". I was greeted with a rush of steam and sweat. Naked young men were everywhere. This was like no quiet boarding school changing room I had ever known! My eyes were filled with boisterous, bronzed flesh and steam.
A few noticed our entrance and there were some high-spirited whoops at the sight of the Chairman. "Bloody marvellous, lads!" Bateman said. Cheers rang out as everyone turned to face us. Naked men were uninhibited, over displaying their glistening bodies!
They turned away from us to carry on showering and joshing together. They laughed and stroked lather over their bodies. Some pushed and shoved each other playfully. Hairy chests pushed past rounded buttocks to reach an unoccupied showerhead.