Van's first blog - my homoerotic fantasy if i were a boy
my friend and i are both rugby players, or maybe we do wrestling or boxing. some kind of sport where we have to touch each other intimately and violently. we’re both in good shape, nice muscles, slight abs, strong thighs and calves, but not overly so. when we’re training together (let’s say boxing), we motivate each other: “come on man, let’s go”, “give it to me!”, “yeah yeah you got it, yes dude”. these motivational phrases are said to each other while we’re sweating, droplets dripping down our necks, from our hairlines, the curve of our lower backs. when we wrestle my skin slides against his, his sweat seeping into my sleeveless shirt, my hair, my shorts. exchanging fluids, spit from when he punches me in the mouth, blood from the small cuts on his knuckles. we don’t wear gloves, we want to be as close as possible, and we want to take real punches. sometimes it gets too hot and we take off our shirts, not that they’re adding that much warmth with their thin and worn cotton, rips and tears in some spots, the stench of sweat unable to be completely washed out. we know each other’s smell, and when he’s holding me down, pinned to the mat, waiting for me to tap out, he’ll lean in close, “you sweat so much dude, smelly fucker” he laughs, but he’s not disgusted, he sounds almost reverent, breathless and inhaling deep and quick, not moving his face away from the hair peeking out from under my arm, and when i tap out, he takes a beat to get off me, and lets his fingers slip past my armpit, picking up some sweat on the tips of his fingers. i roll onto my back, watching him get up. i notice him adjusting the waist of his shorts, which got pulled down a bit when he was on top of me. he lets his sweat covered fingers meet the top of his happy trail and disappear into his shorts, where he scratches the hair there, letting my sweat mingle with his, and then pulls his waistband up. i’m tired from trying to wriggle out of his hold on me, and im breathing heavily, my grey muscle shirt sticking to my chest, the fabric soaked with sweat and three shades darker. i bring the bottom of the shirt up to my face to wipe the moisture off, and the air feels good on my stomach so i dont cover it back up. i know i’m hard but im too tired to even attempt to hide it, and i know he is too. it happens to both of us when we do this. he glances down at my hard-on, and then up to meet my eyes, “let’s hit the showers man, im fuckin hot”.
we walk to the changing room, him tearing off his shirt before we even pass the doorway. he haphazardly bundles it and wipes the sweat off himself, from his hair, to his face, to his chest, his abdomen, and then tosses the wet crumple of fabric over his shoulder, hitting me squarely in the face. he turns back quickly, just to give me a smug grin, his lips lifting slightly higher on his right side. “fuck off, dude” i grin back, but i keep his shirt within my grasp until we get to our lockers. we make quick work of getting undressed, eager to cool down in the shower. i wrap my towel around my hips loosely while he simply throws his own over his shoulder. “how modest of you”, i scoff. “nothing you haven’t seen before”. i roll my eyes at him, and we walk to the showers.