Chapter 20 #2
Two things became immediately, undeniably clear.
The first was that I had no idea what I was doing. The mechanics on display were foreign territory—a whole atlas of physical possibilities I’d never mapped and never even known existed. Some of it I could intuit from basic geometry. Some of it defied geometry or gravity or physics.
And some of it made me tilt my head sideways like a confused dog trying to understand a magic trick.
The second thing that became clear—the thing that hit me like a three-hundred-pound defenseman at full speed, the thing that no amount of clinical, analytical, “studying game tape” self-deception could explain away—was that I was aroused.
Not mildly.
Not theoretically.
But viscerally, throbbingly, achingly, with big, bulging veins.
It was the kind of arousal that made my skin feel too tight and my breath come too fast and my entire body hum with a frequency I’d never experienced while looking at anything or anyone in my entire life.
And I was looking at men.
Naked men.
Doing naked men things.
So much for clinical detachment.
So much for preparation as a superpower.
I stared at the screen, heart pounding, cock throbbing, and thought:
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Like, literally, fuck.
Well, that settles that, then.
Without thinking, I hit play on one of the videos (yes, Google had graced me with moving pictures).
One very muscled man was kissing another equally muscled man while his hands rubbed his chest and .
. . oh . . . shit . . . his finger went inside the other man’s butt.
The buttee (yeah, I made that up because, fuck, my research hadn’t given me a word) squirmed and moaned and pressed his ass down on the offending digit.
From the look of the pair, both of them were loving every minute—and inch—of this.
My cock pulsed.
Fucking rebellious traitor.
I clicked play on another video.
Another pair kissed the . . . oh, damn .
. . flipped over and . . . seriously? One guy dropped to his knees and began sucking on the other guy’s cock like an eight-year-old who’d bought a popsicle from a roving ice cream truck.
The other guy’s fingers dove in the sucker’s hair and began tugging, then pushing, then shoving.
The next thing I knew, the sucker was gagging while the suckee fought to keep the sucker’s lips fixed around his dick.
The clip ended.
Google clips were too fucking short.
When had I started sweating?
One link about two-thirds of the way down the search results was for .
I clicked on the link and was rewarded with a porn site filled with full-length feature films (fine, they’re probably called something the Academy wouldn’t accept, but that’s what I knew at the time).
I couldn’t access said films without a membership.
Damn it.
My wallet was on the coffee table, only a few feet away.
The membership cost $159 for a year of unlimited viewing. I thought that was a decent price for a proper education, so AmEx paved the way . . . to Porn U, my higher education institution of choice.
And damn, there were categories.
For everything.
And other things.
Things I, to this day, still do not understand.
I stuck with the main ones and clicked the first video, a title with “jocks” in it that seemed appropriate for an NHL player seeking the wisdom of the ancients.
The story started simple enough. Two guys drove in an old pickup truck down a dusty road.
I wondered if I needed to go get a snack.
Would this be a good one? One worth rewatching? Maybe with Jacks?
They didn’t stay in the truck long.
Before I realized what was happening, they were out of the truck with one guy leaned against it and the other doing that popsicle thing, only this professional seemed to be Hoovering the shit out of the other guy’s cock.
They moved from that to . . . oh . . . he licked the other guy’s butthole.
Then he licked it more.
And spread his cheeks apart and shoved his whole face in between them.
The guy on the truck grunted.
The ass eater moaned.
Then the ass eater pulled out his cock and started stroking himself.
I couldn’t take it anymore. My own dick was leaking in my boxers. I yanked them off and tossed them aside, gripping my shaft for dear life.
When the ass man had eaten his fill, he kicked off his pants and . . . oh, shit . . . spit on his dick and . . . and wow . . . stuck it up the other guy’s ass.
My heart was pounding. Like rapid-fire, machine-gun rattling.
And I was stroking myself.
When had that started?
The fucking went from zero to sixty in two point three seconds, with both guys moaning and groaning so loud I worried my neighbors might hear through the walls.
But I couldn’t stop.
I was so fucking turned on that I couldn’t look away.
I wanted to see those men fucking. Hell, I wanted to touch them, to feel them, to kiss them, to .
. . damn . . . I wanted to be fucked while the other guy sucked my cock.
I wanted to feel their bodies pressed against mine, the sweat of their heat slathering me, while they kissed my skin and stretched me wide. I wanted—
Holy shit.
I wanted all that?
Cum shot so hard it hit my chin. Stream after stream flew out.
And the guys on screen had just started.
I wanted to watch, to see how things ended, to see what ways the one guy might pleasure the other, but my cum-drained body withered faster than my mind, and my OCD wouldn’t let me sit there covered in sticky man-goo.
With my still-clean hand, I closed my laptop and crab-walked into the bathroom to clean myself up.
Research.
That’s all this had been.
Research.