Rugby League

"Go on mate, I'm fucking desperate here!" I heard Smithy whine over the receiver. I was making 'wanker' gestures as he spoke and silently cursing.

"It wont take you long. I wouldn't ask, only there's no bugger else what can do it"

"For fuck's sake Smithy, tha knows I'm playing on Sunday afternoon. I don't need this before a game!"

"Go on mate. You'll be finished in plenty of time for it and the fucking grounds are only round the corner!"

"I did enough overtime this week Smithy! I'm not a mechanic every minute of the day tha knows!"

"Look mate, I'll make sure its worth yer while. You can do late shift Monday."

"Fuck off. That dunt make it 'worth me while' mate."

"You'll get treble time for it..."

That was the clincher really. I couldn't say no to that. My rent was overdue, my credit card statement was appalling, and my ageing and temperamental Golf GTi's incredible insurance premium was due. At least my trade saved me a bit as I did all my own servicing and got parts at trade prices through the workshop. There wasn't much I couldn't do myself and she only saw a garage for new tyres. That did have some compensations though, as I occasionally used to play about with one of the Kwik Fit lads, who didn't mind a bit of cock once in a while. He was a bit younger than me, around 20, but willing enough as long as he thought no one was going to find out about it. He loved getting down on his knees and sucking me off, and he'd let me fuck him up the arse once in a while. He had a great arse for fucking, milk bottle white, pert, smooth and tight as a Mallard duck.

Smithy was still bleating at me on the 'phone:

"Go on mate, please..."

"All right then I'll do it, if it'll get thee off me back."

I told him, with exaggerated reluctance.

"I'll see that the morrow, but I wont be late for the game. I'll be gone by 2:00 o' clock whatever happens."

I hung up, well pissed off. I really didn't want to do it, but I couldn't ignore the cold, hard, bailiff evading fact that I needed the brass, and few hours at treble time would be a big help. I could take my rugby kit with me and get round to the changing rooms in time, straight from the workshops. Unlike some employers, they weren't particularly accommodating around my rugby. That was probably because most of my workmates, Smithy included, were a sad bunch football fanatics, mainly Barnsley FC supporters and a more devout gathering of Tykes you could not imagine.

9:00 am on Sunday morning, I was parked up outside the workshop, thinking of the money, sulking, and headed in. I changed into my overalls, and with a sharp tug of the pull up loops, had my grease blackened rigger boots firmly on. I got stuck in up to the eyeballs with Smithy, sorting out the Merc. It had seen a hard life, getting used for bulk aggregate tipper runs, and some agency driver had evidently been a bit lax with his left boot and made a good job of finishing off the clutch. On some wagons you could inspect the clutch for friction material life, but there was no was you could check with those old Mercs. You didn't know it was fucked until it was fucked.

Keeping busy with my spanners that morning was in some ways a good thing as, brass aside, it occupied my mind before the game, rather then spending the morning brooding tensely and endlessly rolling rugby strategy around in my head. The job was as filthy and complicated as I expected it to be and my once navy blue overalls were even blacker with grease than they usually were, before I was half way through. As the morning progressed, even working wasn't taking my mind off the game, and I was constantly mentally psyching myself up for it, not paying attention to the job and trying to tighten up bolts the wrong way round and getting more aluminium slip on my hands than the threads. Smithy stopped for a quick smoke around 11:30, and I decided I needed a break as well, so I went off to the bog for a piss, having downed about 3 mugs of coffee already.

I've never known whether this is just me or not, but tension always makes me feel horny and I fancied having a bit of a wank to ease some of my pre match tension. I went into the bleak, cold outhouse that functioned as the workshop privy, and knowing I was alone, gave my itchy bollocks a good rub through the coarse material of my overalls, my hand leaving a greasy smear. I was only wearing my underpants and an old vest under my overalls, as the weather wasn't that cold. Still having a good feel around between my legs, I felt the familiar, automatic increase of blood flow into my cock and the stirring of arousal that soon started me off on a good start toward getting a proper fucking hard on.

I watched the increasing bulge under my overalls, and slowly began popping open the studs down the front, working slowly down to my groin. Overalls open, I reached in and cupped my balls, felling their weight and warmth in my skiddies, and the thick tube of my cock. I fished out my dick and had a quick piss, watching my erection grow as the urine flow ended. I had a glance over my shoulder and a quick listen to make sure I was still alone. Half hard already, I couldn't resist having a little rub. Slowly, gently, I let my fist form around my prick and started to stroke my shaft as my erection rapidly grew. I'm not a donkey by any means, but I'd found out from my experiences with other blokes that I was a bit above average in the cock department, a good 7 inches worth, pretty thick and ruler straight, with a nicely formed, bullet shaped head, just right for slipping into a willing bloke's holes.

I gently peeled my foreskin back, and looked down on the tip, smooth and shiny under the bare bulb light in the bog. I started probing the tip, my oily finger dipping into the slit at the end, and I found the slickness of my precum starting to ooze. I used my finger to draw a string of it from the end of my prick, like spun sugar, before smearing it around the glans, and rubbing it into the rim, gently circling my finger round the firm fleshy ridge. I was fully erect now, my cock twitching gently in my hand in pace with my heartbeat. I wanted to go for it, wank off and come, relieving my tension, but I knew I couldn't before a game, I had to keep up my testosterone level way up for my performance on the field that afternoon.

I reasoned there was no harm in enjoying myself a bit more though, and suddenly worried I might be discovered by Smithy, standing there with my cock sticking out of my greased up overalls with a full hard on, so I stepped into the single grim cubicle. The lock on the door was fucked, so I sat on the bog seat, lid down, and braced the door shut with my riggers. I could enjoy myself at my own pace now. I lifted up my arse and shuffled my underpants down around the tops of my thighs under my overalls and my left hand reached inside the opened stud front, and under my vest as I continued gently teasing my cock. I felt around, slowly stroking my body. All the work in the gym had done me good and I enjoyed the feeling of my firm torso and the hard muscle of my pectorals, and I gently ruffled through the light dusting of chestnut hair coating them. I continued, tweaking my nipples gently and stroking down over my flat stomach, tracing the furry trail that thickened out toward my cock hairs. Looking at my prick, I saw another bead of precum was forming like a dewdrop at the tip, which I smeared down the shaft, my left hand reaching further to cup my hairy balls. I delved a little further, my bicep straining to pull my arm deeper, until I could just reach the crack of my arse. I wanted to go deeper, and rub my arsehole, maybe push in a finger, even see if I get a couple up as I kept up the slow stoke of my aching shaft, but the position I was sat in with my legs bracing the door and the restriction of my overalls stopped me.

I concentrated on my cock instead, enjoying the comforting sexual pleasure I was bringing to myself with my right hand. My prick was rock hard and twitching, and I was thinking about the feeling of burying my length into some bloke's tight arse, or into his wet, sucking mouth. I circled my cock with thumb and forefinger, gently stroking up and down, trying to simulate the feeling of a bloke's lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me off, getting me well fucking horny and making me spunk in his gob, a thick wad of cock snot right into the greedy fucker's mouth.

'Whoa boy! Whoa! Stop'! I told myself. I knew if I went on any longer I'd get too far into it, so far that I'd have to come. 'Not before a game', I reminded myself, 'not before a game'.

With a touch of amusement, I recalled Dave's strict orders, the old tradition of no leg over before a match and his stern counsel:

'No fucking yer lass the night before the game lads, even if she looks like Sharon Stone and she's got a cunt wetter than an otters pocket.'

Dave had also made it clear that wanking off , for the single lads, wasn't advisable either. With the thought of the coach having come into my head, the reality of the difficult rugby game I would shortly be playing came back to the front of my mind, and with a firm resolve, I let go of my cock. The quick play about with myself had at least worked to ease my tension a little. I tucked my prick back into my overalls, still hard, and buttoned them up. I spent five minutes stamping around the cubicle, thinking about rugby, thinking about anything but sex, until my hard on had finally faded enough to risk going back into the workshop.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon went smoothly, and with plenty of reference to the workshop manuals, the Merc's stubborn clutch eventually got sorted out. Smithy and myself stood back, pleased with a job well done, and a customer who owed the firm a big favour. They'd get one hefty fucking invoice for Sunday working that was for sure, and I had the satisfaction of knowing I'd 5 hours treble time to come in my wages on the Friday. It was useful that we still got paid in cash then, a little envelope with your name on, a few coins, a wage slip and lots of notes for the rent, petrol and the pub.

I finishing cranking the cab of the Merc back down and found a piece of rag to start getting the muck out of my hands, thinking about the rugby ball they would soon be holding. I'd look a right fucking prat if I dropped it on the field because my hands were still black with grease. Work done and taking it easy, Smithy was busy flicking through a grubby copy of 'Razzle' from the pile in the corner of the workshop. I'd had a flick through myself once or twice to see how the other half lives, and I suppose, to keep up appearances. Straight porn never did a thing for me though, all smooth skin, enormous tits and little pink cunts.

I'd fucked a few lasses when I was younger, the first one when I was about 17 in the Co-op car park round about 1:00 am on the passenger seat of my first car, which was a prison cell grey Vauxhall Nova. The car was a dog and so was the lass, but it wasn't the Nova's dipstick that got oily that night. It was alright I suppose, I got myself off up her, but it was all a bit dull, fumbling in the dark, and a quick feel of her tits before struggling to get a condom rolled down the length of my cock, and get it up her cunt for a dozen shoves and a grunt. The rubber I was wearing had blunted the sensation, but I was glad my spunk was going to end up in a Durex Featherlite's rubber teat, rather than materialising into one of the pregnancies I'd seen lumbering some of my mates. I was definitely too young for shotgun weddings or C.S.A. attachments to my wages. I came pretty quickly and all said and done, it wasn't any better than a good wank and at it made me feel dishonest. I'd always had an interest in men's bodies that never really occurred to me with females. First time I got frisky with a bloke was a totally different matter than with a bird. It just had the electricity that I didn't get with a lass, and playing with a man's hard cock and hairy bollocks was far more appealing than a fanny. Running my hand up the insides of a bloke's hairy thighs gave me a electric tingle no woman could ever deliver. Fucking a bloke was infinitely better; hotter and tighter, just raw sex and good fun. Fucking men just seemed to be what came to me naturally, and the first time I got fucked myself, after I'd learned to take it without out it hurting like, well, like buggery, I found a whole new area of pleasure to enjoy and never looked back since.

Except once I suppose. There was one time on a rugby tour after we'd been played a friendly away game in Lancashire and we'd stopped overnight at a Travel Lodge and went out on the piss in Warrington. I got fairly drunk as usual, and somehow me, Stuart the winger and Pete the fullback had ended talking to this flirty, fairly pretty, blonde lass. Stuart and Pete were both practically drooling over her like a couple of bulls in heat, and she was certainly returning their attentions. Somehow, accepting what was either a booze fuelled dare or invitation, the three of ended up in round the back of the club with the accommodating blond, and we'd all taken it turns to screw her up against the wall, behind a stack of empty bottle crates. She made it pretty clear she fancied the look of us and was prepared to take us all on. Somehow, I had to go along with the flow, not really wanting to advertise the fact I preferred blokes.

Pete went first, and the horniest thing about it had been watching Pete perform, with his jeans round his ankles and his arse bobbing between her legs. I got the odd glimpse of his cock, and though he was about average in the erection department, he could fuck for Yorkshire. The blonde certainly seemed to enjoy herself. At least watching a man in action, fucking away, had given me a hard on. The best thing about my own turn was the thought that I was sliding into her fanny on Pete's spunk. I had a huge pair of breasts in my face and couldn't do much but drop my pants, lift up her legs, slip in my prick and hump away, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible and ignore all the shrill tittering and horrible perfume she was wearing.

Even though we were fucking her bareback, with me hopefully assuming she was on the pill, I couldn't feel that much, not even Pete's spunk on my dick, either because or cunt was slack, or because of the alcohol, or probably both. Somehow I managed to shoot my bolt within a couple of minutes, but only because I'd made myself think about fucking the big bruiser of a bouncer I'd been surreptitiously eyeing up earlier. Stuart was up her straight after me, and we drunkenly cheered him on for half a minute before he came. The blonde was a classy lass though. When we were done, zipping up our jeans, she calmly put her knickers back on, carefully smoothed down her mini skirt, put her tits away, gave each of us a dainty kiss and sassed her way back into the club to catch up her with her mates, with a 'see you boys!' look over her artificially tanned shoulder. I had to admire her for knowing what she wanted and being prepared and bold enough to get it.

We got appallingly drunk that night, and ended up drinking until about 4 am in another dubious club. I think it was called 'The Fish Tank' or something similar. We were in there until 4:00 am, drinking ourselves daft on Carlsberg, slapping each other on the back, with Pete and Stuart gleefully recounting the experience with exaggerated finesse as to their performances. It took two days to recover from my hang over. Pete and Stuart never stopped boasting about the incident to anyone who cared to listen for weeks afterward. I felt uncomfortable about it, and something about that lass's attitude and endearing, if brazen, honesty made me reflect on myself. She made me realise that you may as well be honest about what you want, and that if you don't ask you don't get. You may as well take your chances and grasp the moment instead of building up a long list of the ones that got away. I was honest to myself thereafter, and stuck happily to cocks and arseholes and made a private oath to tell the truth if I was ever asked about my inclinations.

Unlike myself, there were no doubts which way Smithy was inclined from the lecherous leer he was evidencing, as he held Razzle out vertically in front of him at arms length in his oily grip to gawp at the centrefold.

"Cor! Would you look at that! Look at the fuckin' tits on her! I'd give her one all right!"

"Well I'll leave you to then mate!" I told him.

I couldn't really have a go at him for it, after having just had a quick tug myself that morning. Smithy finally put miss August 1989 back away in the corner and started tidying up the workshop.

"Thanks mate, I really needed your help today" Smithy told me, with genuine sincerity.

"No worries brother." I replied.

"Aye, and yer done on time for the rugby. You must be bloody mad you lot. Can't say I fancy spending my Sundays braying lumps out of each other on that muddy field with you all you head cases. Any road, good luck mate, I hope you win."

Smithy had suddenly reminded me. I'd completely forgotten the time. I had a quick look at my watch. 14:04. Shite! I was supposed to be at the ground already. Dave usually insisted we got there at least an hour before kick off and I knew he'd give me absolute hell if I was late, especially for today's game.

I ran around like a headless chicken, all clumsy boots and panic, tripping over my own bollocks to get scrubbed up at the sinks, getting as much black grease off my hands and out from under my fingernails as I could, with several hearty dollops of industrial cleanser. I didn't have time to change out of my work clothes, so decide to grab my kit out of my Golf, and leg it out and round the corner to the grounds as I was. Rummaging in the boot, I hauled out my hefty sports holdall, crammed with my clean rugby gear and a change for the pub afterwards.

With my kit bag straining over my shoulder, I jogged round the corner and through the sports ground gate, still in Arco's finest. With the name of my employer's garage plastered all over the back of my overalls I always felt like a walking free advert if I had to wear them outside the workshop. It took less then ten minutes to arrive on the crumbling square of tarmac that passed for a car park behind the club house, Mercedes Benz commercial vehicle's clutches were nearly forgotten and my mind was clearly focussed back on the rugby and the work that me and the team had to do that afternoon. I was still tense, despite my quick wank, but that wasn't a bad thing: I knew it would keep me sharp and hungry for winning. I was looking forward to playing this game, knowing it would be a hard fought match and a good test of my own progress and our team's skills, aware we were going to have to work for very hard for every point and maintain a defence stronger than a Scania chassis.

I was inevitably a bit late, my watch showing 14:36 with kick off set for 3:00 pm. Dave's insistence on everyone present and correct an hour before kick off, and the lack of players hanging around the car park told me most of our team and our opponents had already arrived, and were busy preparing for the oncoming battle in the changing rooms. There were a few cars in our small car park, most of which would belonged to our opponents. Nearly everyone on the team was local, and to save drink driving troubles after getting to the pub after the game, most of the men got to the ground on foot or bus. A bus trip with a heavy kit bag was a definitely a fair price to pay to be able to completely fucking rat arsed after the rugby.

Dave was standing in the car park, undoubtedly waiting me for me, puffing away on an Embassy number one, leaning against the wall in his old grey sweatpants, rugby club sweater and a tatty fleece. I knew he would have been watching the opposing squad as they arrived, undoubtedly looking for any players with signs of a limp to reveal an injury he could advise us to exploit. He saw me, made a mock frown at the fact I was still in my grimy overalls and clapped a meaty hand down on my shoulder.