A big, wild anthology of 36 gay erotica stories, about athletes and fans and coaches being bad, very bad, and extremely good at doing it.
The sporting life means something slightly different to the men who love men than it means to the usual sportsman. To many, the goal of a sport is to play the game and to win by achieving the best score. In this collection of three dozen stories, many of which have never been published before, habu explores, sometimes with intensity and sometime tongue in cheek, sport as merely the framework in which to achieve an entirely different goal and to score in a much different meaning of the term. Step into the sporting life of habu’s world.
Will Hocking woke to the sound of a man and woman loading their car outside the motel room door and the woman not being too quiet about what needed to be packed where. As soon as Will opened his eyes, though, he shut them again. A beam of early-morning light was coming through the part in the drapes that didn’t completely close and that was being ruffled by the air from the air-conditioning unit under it. When he opened his eyes again, he could see movement through the slit in the drapes. The car that was being loaded was just on the other side of the window.
He turned his head toward the clock on the nightstand. “Christ almighty,” he muttered. It was only 6:00 AM. He’d had less than three hours of sleep. And now he wasn’t sure when or if he’d get back to sleep—which was funny because he always felt drowsy. At least until recently.
His muttered phrase had caused a shifting and low moan in the bed beside him, and Will turned, almost in surprise, to find a naked *oung man, laying on his belly, stretched out above the covers in the bed beside him. It took Will a few moments to collect his thoughts on where he was and who this was. He’d played in both games of the double-header on the road against the Bowie, Maryland, Bay Sox the previous day, and he obviously had partied pretty hard that night, and later this morning he had to be down at Wilmington, Delaware’s, Frawley Field to scout out catchers in the Blue Rocks High-A league organization.
There was rumor of a hot shot catcher coming up the roster fast there, and Will’s team, the Richmond Flying Squirrels, was shallow at that position. The Richmond team was Double A, so someone wanting to move up to the majors from the High-A league should see the Flying Squirrels as a favorable move.
He gave a good look at the young man he’d picked up the previous night. A fine looking *oung Puerto Rican. Very fine, Will could remember from last night. At least twice fine. Will reached over and ran a hand down the line of the young man’s back to one of his well-rounded butt cheeks. Such a nice coffee-and-cream skin tone, he thought. Unblemished and firm. No fat on this *ent *oy. His hand went between the mounds, and he was rewarded with a moan and the spreading of thighs. His fingers pushed inside the rim of the guy’s channel and he heard another moan. He couldn’t remember whether they’d talked price, but Will thought it would be worth every penny he’d have to pay. Couldn’t be a whole lot. It wasn’t the snazziest of clubs he’d picked the guy up in.
The young man was stirring and the couple out on the other side of the window were taking their sweet time in packing their car. “Christ,” Will repeated in frustration.
The *ent *oy turned on his side to face Will and smiled with sleepy eyes and reached over and cupped Will’s balls and then moved his hand to Will’s ****.
With a grunt, Will sat up in the bed, his back against the headboard and folded his legs, yoga style. He reached over onto the top of the nightstand for a pack of cigarettes, coaxed one out of the pack, lit it with a lighter that also had been on the nightstand. He took a couple of puffs and then he kept the cigarette in his mouth as he reached over and lifted the smaller Puerto Rican’s torso with hands under his armpits and pulled the *oung man’s head over to where his face was in Will’s lap.