Chemistry Pt. 02

I force myself to look at the woman. She is on her knees in front of the guy, cupping his balls and pursing her exaggerated, silicone-inflated lips in front of his long, thick cock. I click through the photos. The guy's face cycles through a series of cartoonish expressions as she blows him. But his body, though... each pose seems to reveal another angle, another attitude, another set of muscles flexing under his lightly furry skin.

In my mind, I imagine that I can feel the contours of his body changing, as though I am touching each different posture of his body with my hands. I can almost feel, again, the flexing of Jamie's muscles as we roll on the mattress together. The last few images show the guy blowing a huge load onto the blonde's tits and face. I feel my butt and thigh muscles contract as I orgasm, too, sending cum rocketing out of my cock. It shoots up onto my T-shirt and some even hits me in the face, streaking my lips and cheek. At least one spurt flies over my shoulder and lands behind me. My stomach seizes with the last few pulses of my orgasm and my cock expels the last oozing drips of cum. Damn. That was a lot.

I strip off my shirt, careful not to smear more cum onto myself, and wipe the sticky fluid off of my hands and face. I find a glob of cum on the floor behind my chair and wipe that up with a dry corner of my shirt, then throw the whole gummy mess into my empty laundry basket.

I bend over my desk and look at the last image, the one that had sent me over the edge. The guy, holding his cock, is smiling down at the woman, who is covered in cum. His expression is somewhere between a smirk and a grin. In comparison to his previous, caricatured expressions, this face looks... what does it look like? I cock my head and look more closely. Wow, he really does look like Jamie. My heart starts up again, and my cock begins to swell. I glance at the clock. Fuck. Soccer starts in ten minutes. I close the porn window and pull on another shirt, grab my soccer bag, and hurry out the door.

At the last minute, I remember Jamie's clean shirt. I run back for it.

~

I am late for soccer. I change as fast as I can and run out to the fields. The instructor rolls her eyes when she sees me. "I hope this isn't going to be a habit," she says. She nods across the field where the rest of the class is part-way through their warm-up run.

I run out after them. I scan the distant figures for Jamie. I don't see him. At some point the class passes me, en masse, running back from their circuit of the far softball fields. Jamie isn't among them. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach. Is he skipping class? Did he drop the class?

So what if he did? I think, defiantly. Wouldn't that be a good thing? It would mean I don't have to deal with... whatever is happening. These thoughts run through my head as I lope around the softball fields and make my way back to the group.

We are done with our drills and we have just started scrimmaging when Jamie shows up. From across the field, I watch him jog up to the instructor. He gesticulates as he talks, and then I see him nodding as she speaks. The instructor calls for a sub and sends Jamie in to play a forward position on the team opposing me. I am playing midfield and I'm super winded from running up and down the field, but at the sight of him, the object of my anxiety these past few days, my body ascends into a higher tier of alertness. Even when I'm not looking at him, he burns in my mind's awareness as I track his body across the field.

We scrimmage for about five or ten minutes before Jamie and I come into proximity. A pass puts him with the ball in my zone. I confront him and he tries to dribble past me but I easily read the way he's bearing his weight, and step in to intercept the ball. Caught off-guard, he collides with me, his side against my chest. His feet twist beneath him and he falls, grunting as he hits the ground. I pass the ball up the field and then reach down help him up.

"Ha, well there's no getting around you," he says, once he's up. He whacks my belly. "Ya big lug."

His smile hits me with the force of a blow to the sternum. My breath catches. I laugh, awkwardly. "Are you OK?" I ask.

"Yeah, man."

He dusts himself off. He is wearing the blue shorts again, and today just a plain white T-shirt that is a little snug on him. Lighter streaks in his hair glint in the sunlight as he wipes grass from his legs. His chest and shoulders have a subtle broadness that I hadn't noticed before.

He's beautiful.

The thought comes into my mind as though outlined in gleaming light. I feet the impulse to say something, anything, to break the tension I feel welling up.

"You've been working out," I say, and I am immediately mortified. Fuck,This is what I come up with? I feel a wave of nausea. Amir, what the fuck?

He turns to look at me for a long moment. The sun is behind me and he raises his hand to shield his eyes. "You noticed?" he says. "I mean, I went to the gym, like, twice this week."

I don't know how to respond. I've put my foot in my mouth -- I mean, who says something like that? -- and now I am fucked. In a panic, I just kind of shrug and return my attention to the game. I know my ears must be bright red.

But Jamie just laughs. "I suppose you're the expert," he says, reaching out and squeezing my arm. "Hey, maybe you could show me the ropes sometime."

The touch of his hand on my arm takes me back to the memory of him -- the dream memory -- in the red light of the hallway. Something about the pressure of his hand on my arm, the proximity of his body, his smell, the shape of his eyes. I can taste the cigarette and the fruity liquor on his mouth. Desire surges through me. And then, reflexively, denial and anger. I flinch, shrugging his hand off of my arm. He pulls his hand back.

"Hey, sorry man," he says. "I didn't mean..."

"Forget it," I say, and run off.

I avoid him for the rest of our game, and also during the cool-down run. I am hoping to avoid him in the locker room by rushing in there, grabbing my stuff and going, without changing. I pause, though, when I see his shirt sitting on top of my bag in the locker. I pick it up, take a deep breath, and wait.

He hesitates for a moment when he sees me waiting by his locker. I am not sure if he is put off by what had happened earlier, but there is a doubtful look in his eyes as he comes up to me.

"Hey, you left your shirt on Tuesday," I say, and hand it to him. He takes it from me and runs his hand across the gray and white stripes.

"You washed it?" he asks. He looks at me and smiles. "And folded it?"

My ears burn but I smile too. "Yeah," I say. "I mean, I was doing laundry anyway, so... I just threw it in."

"Can I give you my shorts to wash for next time? They're pretty dirty," he says. He cocks his eyebrow at me.

Adrenaline hits me again. I look at his scruffy chin, the line of his neck as it disappears into his shirt. I see that his nipples are hard under the fabric of his shirt.

"Um..."

"Amir, I'm kidding," he says. He turns to unlock his locker. His shaggy hair falls in front of his face. "Thanks for washing my shirt. That's... totally unexpected... and really nice of you."

"Sure," I say. I start to walk away. I am at the end of the row of lockers when I hear him call after me.

"Hey, man, what's your AIM?" he says.

I stop and turn around. His shirt is off. "My AIM?" I say, not quite registering what he said. I am dumbstruck by the sight of his body. How perfectly the light brown hair on his chest and belly matches my dream-memory of him. My hands tingle with the sensation of running them over his neck and chest. All I want to do is press myself against him, devour his beautiful lips, and feel his tongue on mine.

"You know, to chat?" he says. He makes a typing motion in the air. "Maybe I'll hit you up this weekend."

"Oh, right," I say. I give him my AIM handle and he tells me his, spelling it out to make sure I get the pun.

"Get it?"

"Ha, yeah. Clever," I say. We say goodbye again and then I leave, the image of his body burning in my retinas.