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Pits
Oops.
This coach is pissed. He's made his point but he keeps talking and talking and talking and (yawn) talking and (yawn) talking and (yawn yawn yawn) – is he still talking? I get it, I biffed it, but this guy is not going to shut up. He has got to learn how to chill. That vein on his forehead is going to pop. If he's not willing to consider his own health, I wish he'd consider my tank top. It cost me fifty bucks and I'd never be able to get out the blood.
"Exactly what the hell am I supposed to do with this?" He keeps fast-forwarding through the video I shot for him, jumping from one fuck up of mine (his words) to another. Number 15 shooting a free throw. Number 26 shooting a three pointer. 19 and 31 getting into it with the other team's number 5, all three of them reaching up for the ball. The play's in slow motion with a digital zoom. "All you've given me are fucking armpits."
Like I said, oops.
He adds the color commentary to what we're watching. "Armpit. Armpit. Armpit. Armpit. Up some player's pant leg. Armpit. Sweat dripping down my center's neck and staining his shirt. Armpit. Armpit. Armpit..." You get the idea. I sure do. Finally he pauses it and gets in that crouching pose coaches use to intimidate people. Feet spread apart, knees bent a little, hands on hips, body leaning forward, head jutting out, chin jutting out even further, eyebrows scrunched together. Oo, I'm scared, right? Only this isn't an act. This guy is supremely furious. "I hired you to get shots of the ball. The plays you watched us practice." He swings his arm toward the computer monitor to make a point but miscalculates the distance and slams his knuckles into the screen. The way his lips clamp together, I can tell it hurts, but he's too manly-manly to admit it. Pointing at the paused image on-screen – a close-up of a man's glistening armpit – he says to me, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this shit?"
"I... I..." Even I can see I fucked up. My legs are twitching. Any second I'm going to start running in place. Not a good sign. I'm nervous as shit jello. What can I say, that I sent the wrong cut of the video? There is no other cut. No other footage. This is it. But all I can manage to get out is, "I... I..." and run in place like fuck I don't know what.
"What are you, some kind of faggot?"
Finally. A question I can answer directly. I stop my nervous running and with a big smile I say, "Yeah, I'm a faggot."
This coach is of that generation which seems to think those words are some kind of headline, so he's caught off-guard by my candor. It takes him a minute of sputtering before he recovers his anger, but he finds it just fine. "Well... that doesn't matter!" At full volume he informs me there've been some fine basketball players who were faggots. And he supposes there have been some kick-ass camera operators who like a good man sausage now and then, too. But even great faggot cameramen hired to film basketball games would know enough to point the camera at what was going on on the floor and not at what was going on under the player's arms. For the first time in my life, I am looked at with genuine revulsion. "And why the fuck would you even want footage of armpits anyway?"
Another easy question. I tell him I like pits. The way his face changes – is he getting images of his kitten in a microwave, or are his eyes still focused on me? His tone matches his expression. "What is there to like?"
Heh heh heh. Shrugging to myself, I think, "He asked..."
I answer that when my nose is in another man's armpit, my dick gets hard and I turn into a more aggressive top. I kiss more and bite more. I lick and sniff and shove around guys bigger than me who could easily kick my ass. My nose in their pits, I don't care how much bigger or stronger or dangerous a guy is. When my nose is in their pits, I'm the big man. I like the way I get guys to swoon. The involuntary noises they make drive me even crazier and keep me going.
Out loud, Coach says he doesn't want to hear any of this but I say he shouldn't ask questions he isn't prepared to have answered. Maybe I get nervous a lot but get me on a subject I know and I become a pitbull that won't let go.
I tell him I also like the smell of locker rooms. Coach says I'm nuts.
Me: "As if you don't like that smell, too."
Him: "Fuck you. Get out of here."
He turns off his computer. I don't move. So he hates the stinky smell of sweat. I say that must be why he wears the same shirt for days on end. Why one week he wore the same shirt every day, not even bothering to change to run laps with his players. He opens the door and stands aside for me to leave. All he says is, "Out."
I act all innocent boy on him. "Gosh, Coach, that must be why you keep the lost and found clothes in your office. Because you hate the smell of man sweat so much."
Every day he collects the shirts and socks and shorts and jocks and towels cluttering the locker room after the guys go home and keeps the discards in an open laundry basket in his office. I cross to the mound, lift a stinky sock to my nose and inhale deeply. If he doesn't get off on smelly clothes like this, why does he keep all of this stuff in here? No one ever claims it. And he never washes it either. Or gives it away. So his office reeks of young men's crotches and unwashed athletic supporters and aging high tops and fifty kinds of body odor. If that was my office and I couldn't stand it, I'd at least open the window. In a flat voice, Coach says the window is broken. I jump onto his desk from a standing still position – yeah, I'm that good – reach up, release the latch and push open the window. "Look at that," I say. "I fixed it. And I'm not even all that strong. It smells better in here already."
Coach glances at the laundry basket, then looks away. Caught?
Down from the desk, I brush my hand across my camera sitting there and approach him. I tell him I can smell him from here. He has to notice his own pungency. Coach's hand drops from the doorknob. He doesn't move. Right in front of him, I lift my arm and sniff my own armpit. The scent sends me. My eyes close. My head wobbles. My tongue strains to lick me.
An unrecognizable voice says, "It's bizarre." I force open my eyes just enough to see it was Coach who said those words and he hasn't moved, his eyes focused on where my tongue meets my pit hair.
"It's easier on someone else," I tell him, lowering my arm and lifting his. He doesn't resist. I position my nose against the wet jersey material under his bicep. A noise slips out of his mouth. I push my nose against him and exhale. He makes another noise, this time a little louder. I take a mouthful of jersey and flesh and close my teeth around it and squeeze gently but with steadily increasing pressure. Coach inhales. I pull his sleeve back so now it's my nose, my lips, my teeth, my tongue against his skin and his hair. Nothing between his smell and me.
I plant my tongue against his bare flesh and bite. He flinches and my cock swells. I grab his crotch. His dick's just as hard as mine is. I switch hands, so now the arm I am using to hold up his arm is right in front of him. My armpit is inches from his nose and mouth. I lick his pit again, starting at the bottom this time. I can feel myself turning into Marcus. I see Coach's nostrils flare. I can hear him inhale. Licking his pit, I suddenly feel a tingle on my own skin. It's Coach's tongue. Now it's my turn to moan. I'm holding up Coach's arm, but that same arm of his is now holding up mine, too. We are both supporting each other, sniffing and licking and unable to get enough of each other's odor.
He pushes my arm back, but not as roughly as I push his. Put a pit in front of me and I'm like Little Dude: a strong-ass mofo. Coach grunts. I pull him toward me and with my foot, close the door behind him. The blinds are shut so no one can see in from the locker area. The door's unlocked, but I'm not letting go of him for anything. If someone walks in, that's Coach's problem, not mine.
The cheek he shaves probably twice a day rubs against mine which I shave maybe twice a week. He hasn't washed his hair in forty-eight hours, so there's no trace of shampoo or conditioner. Just him and that special scalp smell that brings to mind baseball helmets and do-rags and sweatbands. And for just a second – less, really – I wish I was a cannibal and men were a pudding I could skinny dip in while eating.
My nose is drawn to his pit again and I inhale. The smell is jet fuel to my libido. I grab his sweaty hair and pull back. He's never been kissed by a man – he has no idea what the hell is going on or how to handle this. I bite him on the neck and this man who'd beat the shit out of me if my elbow bumped into him at a soccer match squeals, no doubt just like the bitches he tells himself he enjoys fucking.
Who's intimidating who now, you sexy, motherfucking, testosterone-enriched asshole?
He nibbles my armpit. Finally. With my other hand, I push his head more into my armpit while I simultaneously push my pit harder against his mouth.
Don't make me say it. Do not make me waste time forming words when my mouth would rather be licking and biting and swallowing. Get with the program. Figure it out. Stop thinking and just do. Master fucking body language and give me what I want without me having to say out loud what I fucking wa–
YESSSSS!!! Finally he takes a mouthful of the tender flesh under my arm, scrambling to get as much of it between his teeth as humanly possible, and bites, all the while swirling it with his saliva-covered tongue and blowing with the same mouth. YEEESSSS!!! YYYYEEESSSS!!! YYYEESSSSSS!!! Whatever he does with the nose – inhaling, exhaling, rubbing, smearing – it's a bonus. It's all so new to him but he approaches it like a mature man who isn't shy about going for it once he finally decides/realizes what the fuck it is he really fucking wants and what he fucking wants is under my arm and feels like me and tastes like me and, jesus christ, smells like nothing else on this planet. It's 100 degrees in August and humidity is 85 percent and he's a thirsty young boy and my sweaty armpit is the popsicle that never gets smaller. He has no shame about the juices dripping down his chin. Or about the growls coming out of his own mouth.
I return the favor. Only harder. And louder. Again. And again.
I've got his cock out of his pants and all I'm doing is squeezing his balls and pulling on his pubes while biting his armpit with absolutely positively zero as in none as in zilch mercy. I am an animal.
And he is a cum machine. Neither one of us touching his cock, he sprays himself – the closest thing to a real shower he's had in three days. My fifty dollar tank? Spotless. Yeah, I don't understand how either. Just a lucky guy, I guess.
Coach is wiped out. His red shirt needs a wash. The stack of papers on the wrestling coach's desk are sticky wet. He doesn't much look me in the eye. He futzes with the computer and says something about reviewing the video again; maybe there's some value there. I offer to shoot another game for him. His nod seems to say "Okay" and "Just leave" at the same time. Fine by me. I got what I wanted. I pick up my camera and go.
Before leaving the locker room, I take a detour to the drinking fountain, then exit, passing the coaches' office. Glancing in, I see Coach standing on his desk. His arm is raised. On his armpit is a large, bright pink spot. It will be dark red by tomorrow. He pushes the window shut and closes the latch. I exit, on the hunt for someone to fuck.
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Please check out my other stories found in the Prolific Authors section. Some are here:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/college/little-dude-series/
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/the-hand
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/the-convertible
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/jockstrap
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/encounters/whisper
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/eighteen