The Game: First Down by Nora Nix Page B

died
when I was young.”
    Vince felt his stomach drop to the floor and
he winced, spilling his beer all over himself. He launched himself
up off the couch, setting his foaming beer down on the coffee table
and pulling at his shirt, inspecting the damage. It was soaked.
    “Goddammit!” He sighed, looking at Paul
again. “I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t know about your ma.” He peeled
his shirt off of his thick frame, the spilled beer making his
muscles glisten in his apartment’s dim light. He caught Paul
staring and said: “I’m gonna go change.”
    “Hey, ‘s your house,” Paul said dismissively.
“Do what ya want. And don’t worry about Momma. I never got t’know
her. No harm, no foul, right?”
    Vince looked at his beer-stained shirt, then
back to the game. Well, it wasn’t like Paul hadn’t seen him without
a shirt before. And besides, it was just the two of them – who was
he trying to look respectable for?
    Heaving another sigh, Vince flopped back down
on the couch and returned to nursing his beer, changing the subject
as deftly as he knew how.
    “I can’t wait for the cheerleaders to come
on. Never had me a girl who could move like that – how about
you?”
    Paul blushed. It made him look more like he
was sixteen rather than twenty-eight. “Nah. Me either.”
    “Aw, c’mon,” Vince prodded, trying to get
something – anything – out of the kid. “Those farm girls look like
they know a thing or two about how t’get a man. Had some guy
workin’ with me a couple’a years ago, told me about this girl he
knew, daddy used t’run an orchard. Said her pussy tasted like apple
cider. You know any girls like that?”
    “Nah,” Paul repeated, looking down at his
beer. “There was only one girl I knew whose family had an orchard.
If her pussy tasted like apple cider, it would’a had t’have been
made with crab apples.”
    Vince laughed, nearly spewing beer from his
nostrils. “Christ!” he roared. “That bad, huh?”
    “Oh yeah,” Paul chuckled. He ran one of his
rough, calloused hands through his dirty blonde hair. “That girl
was closer t’sow than she was t’human, I’d say. Any man tryin’
t’stick his dick in her was gonna hafta roll her up in flour and
look for the wet spot.”
    “You have any hot girls in Alabama?”
Vince asked, cringing as his team fumbled. Paul smirked – his team
was winning.
    “Couple, I guess. Weren’t nothin’ worth
writin’ home about.”
    “Well,” Vince said, “let’s see how ya like
some’a these northern cheerleaders in a few minutes, huh?”
    “Sure,” he said, but as Vince leaned back, he
noticed that Paul had looked a lot more interested in his shirtless
body than he did at the prospect of the cheerleaders taking the
field.

As the halftime show began, Vince found
himself in a rather serious dilemma, the severity of which was
growing by the second. Those cheerleaders, as predicted, were hot , and Vince’s prick was swelling none-too-discreetly as
he watched them.
    Drinking beer always did this to him, he
reflected, shifting to ease the tension forming between his
hardening dick and the unforgiving fabric of his jeans. He could
keep a hard-on practically forever when he was drunk, much longer
than he could sober. That was why his ex-girlfriend had liked to
keep a six-pack in the house at all times – she knew it was in her
best interest. He couldn’t deny that it had been in his best
interest, too.
    But this was bad timing. Alone with Paul in
his living room, Vince wondered what he must be thinking. His size
wasn’t exactly subtle – even at half mast, his bulging cock was
clearly outlined through his pants. Worse than that, his nipples
were prickling to match the stiffness between his legs, and folding
his arms to hide them meant leaving his crotch wide open for Paul
to see. Would he say something? Would he think it was because of
him?
    Vince made a face. C’mon , he thought. It’s not like the kid’s never had a hard-on of his