fucking tragedy.”
“The tragedy is that you’re both keeping track of my sex life and writing for that women’s magazine. Yet here you are, two articles in and the world still hasn’t stopped spinning.” Last year Hammer got it into his head that he should be an advice columnist, offering his shady advice about males to women. He submitted a couple of articles and they were published online. Now he thinks he’s Emily fucking Post or some similar shit.
“I was doing research for my next article. It’s on Tantric sex. You heard of that?” He also has the attention span of a gnat.
“No. Regular sex is good for me.”
Hammer continues as if I haven’t said a word. “According to these Tantric sex gurus, you can make a girl come just by breathing on her.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Breathing? I don’t think any woman is having an orgasm even if I gusted tornado winds into her pussy.”
“Not with that attitude you won’t.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Ever since he’s started writing for Monologue , he’s reached new levels of strangeness. I blame it on the so-called research he’s doing for these articles.
“Look, Tantric sex is all about being in tune with your partner. First you clear away all the distractions. Turn off your phones, computers, televisions. Then you sit her on your lap, legs around your waist.” Hammer demonstrates the leg position in the mirror. I huff through two more lifts as he continues. “You stare at each other and every time she breathes, she’s supposed to rock against you. Pretty soon, you’re matching your breathing to hers.” My mind begins to match Hammer’s words with images of Lucy and me in my bedroom. Her long, sexy legs draped on either side of my hips, rocking her wet pussy against—
I drop the barbell with a clatter. “Will you shut up? I can’t lift 500 pounds with a hard-on.”
Hammer smirks. “Can’t have an orgasm by just breathing, huh?” I give him a one-fingered salute. “See, this is proof you need to have sex. That’s why you’re in college, dude. That’s why we play football. For the Grade-A pussy.”
I sigh. “Can we get back to the chick in Ace’s locker? Do you know her?”
Hammer is relieved to get away from the terror of dating and immediately answers. “She’s blond and hot. Do I need to know anything more about her?”’
“That’s all you got?”
“Her name is Lucy.”
I spin toward him, my mouth falling open. “What?”
It can’t be. I toss my towel into the bin and sprint out of the weight room. There’s a small group in the locker room but not enough to deter me. I arrow my way to Ace’s locker and shove his jersey aside. Sure enough, taped onto the back of his locker is a picture of Lucy, her arm thrown around Ace’s waist, looking into the camera and smiling as if she’s just had a good laugh. And Ace is gazing down at her like she just told him he’s going to play in the NFL.
Oh, this is so fucked up on so many levels I can’t even begin to count them.
9
Matty
W ord of Ace’s situation spreads throughout the team like a nasty virus. Ace didn’t keep his voice down when he confronted Coach Lowe, and by noon, everyone knew the general gist of the problem because locker room gossip moves fast. The assistant coaches were dispatched to make sure each player understood that if one word leaked from this locker room about the quarterback situation, that player’s scholarship would be immediately pulled—no football, no college education, just a boot in the ass kicking you as far away from the Warriors as possible.
No assistant came to me. No, I received a special ass kicking from Coach Lowe for not handling my part of the deal with any kind of finesse.
“This is a surgical procedure, not a goddamned hatchet job,” he bellowed as he stood over me. Coach Lowe made sure that I was sitting so when his saliva-covered words rained out of his mouth, my head was in a good position to
“The tragedy is that you’re both keeping track of my sex life and writing for that women’s magazine. Yet here you are, two articles in and the world still hasn’t stopped spinning.” Last year Hammer got it into his head that he should be an advice columnist, offering his shady advice about males to women. He submitted a couple of articles and they were published online. Now he thinks he’s Emily fucking Post or some similar shit.
“I was doing research for my next article. It’s on Tantric sex. You heard of that?” He also has the attention span of a gnat.
“No. Regular sex is good for me.”
Hammer continues as if I haven’t said a word. “According to these Tantric sex gurus, you can make a girl come just by breathing on her.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Breathing? I don’t think any woman is having an orgasm even if I gusted tornado winds into her pussy.”
“Not with that attitude you won’t.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Ever since he’s started writing for Monologue , he’s reached new levels of strangeness. I blame it on the so-called research he’s doing for these articles.
“Look, Tantric sex is all about being in tune with your partner. First you clear away all the distractions. Turn off your phones, computers, televisions. Then you sit her on your lap, legs around your waist.” Hammer demonstrates the leg position in the mirror. I huff through two more lifts as he continues. “You stare at each other and every time she breathes, she’s supposed to rock against you. Pretty soon, you’re matching your breathing to hers.” My mind begins to match Hammer’s words with images of Lucy and me in my bedroom. Her long, sexy legs draped on either side of my hips, rocking her wet pussy against—
I drop the barbell with a clatter. “Will you shut up? I can’t lift 500 pounds with a hard-on.”
Hammer smirks. “Can’t have an orgasm by just breathing, huh?” I give him a one-fingered salute. “See, this is proof you need to have sex. That’s why you’re in college, dude. That’s why we play football. For the Grade-A pussy.”
I sigh. “Can we get back to the chick in Ace’s locker? Do you know her?”
Hammer is relieved to get away from the terror of dating and immediately answers. “She’s blond and hot. Do I need to know anything more about her?”’
“That’s all you got?”
“Her name is Lucy.”
I spin toward him, my mouth falling open. “What?”
It can’t be. I toss my towel into the bin and sprint out of the weight room. There’s a small group in the locker room but not enough to deter me. I arrow my way to Ace’s locker and shove his jersey aside. Sure enough, taped onto the back of his locker is a picture of Lucy, her arm thrown around Ace’s waist, looking into the camera and smiling as if she’s just had a good laugh. And Ace is gazing down at her like she just told him he’s going to play in the NFL.
Oh, this is so fucked up on so many levels I can’t even begin to count them.
9
Matty
W ord of Ace’s situation spreads throughout the team like a nasty virus. Ace didn’t keep his voice down when he confronted Coach Lowe, and by noon, everyone knew the general gist of the problem because locker room gossip moves fast. The assistant coaches were dispatched to make sure each player understood that if one word leaked from this locker room about the quarterback situation, that player’s scholarship would be immediately pulled—no football, no college education, just a boot in the ass kicking you as far away from the Warriors as possible.
No assistant came to me. No, I received a special ass kicking from Coach Lowe for not handling my part of the deal with any kind of finesse.
“This is a surgical procedure, not a goddamned hatchet job,” he bellowed as he stood over me. Coach Lowe made sure that I was sitting so when his saliva-covered words rained out of his mouth, my head was in a good position to
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