“Unacceptable, McFarland, unacceptable!” That was Coach Keeler, his sympathies were with the jocks, though he didn’t stoop to name-calling like they did. Probably because if he did, they’d fire him. “I can no longer tolerate this poor performance from you on the field, simply can not! You are failing physical education, McFarland, failing!”
Okay, so I came in last place. It was a race, for God’s sake, someone had to come in last! No reason for Coach to turn into such a hard-ass about it! I wasn’t much an athlete and I knew that, I just wanted to get through these final weeks of physical education and graduate. After that, hell, I’d be working on my degree and never need to work up a sweat like this again. Exercise never had made any sense to me, why are you doing all this, it’s not like you’re actually accomplishing anything!
So, not very contrite, I went up, panting and sweating and said to Coach, “Sorry, Coach. I guess I just don’t have what it takes.”
“Don’t have what it takes? Don’t have what it takes?” Coach acted offended at the very thought of it. “Everyone can and should pass the school’s minimum physical fitness requirements at the end of the year! Everyone can, and everyone will!”
“Looks like we finally found something that the nerdnick sucks at!” that was Jimmy Powers. He had done well at the phys ed classes all year, but then Jimmy had the kind of body that swelled muscles at the mere sight of physical activity. In addition to this class, which was a requirement for graduation, he was on the football and baseball teams. “Isn’t that right, loser?”
“Hey, so I can’t beat you in this one class.” I said back to the grinning physically-perfect specimen with the brain of a chipmunk. “I’m not going to be a college athlete next year anyhow!”
Jimmy grinned a little wider. “Hey, Coach. If Heath can’t pass the physical education test, doesn’t that mean he fails your class?”
Fail? “No way!” I blurted out. I’d been lousy at sports my whole life, the teachers had always shrugged and gave me an “A” anyhow! You got an “A” in P.E. just by showing up! Didn’t you?
“Yes way!” Jimmy grinned. “Looks like you’ll have to take summer school, or maybe come back next year and try again!”
“Coach, you can’t do that to me!” I said. “I’ve already been accepted to Stanford for the fall!”
Coach dropped his hard-ass act (it was an act, of course) and looked kind of sad. “McFarland, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher if I passed someone who couldn’t make it through the simple minimum physical education test.”
“But Coach!” I wailed.
“You have two more weeks before graduation.” Coach went on. “If you can pass that test even once before then, I’ll go ahead and give you your passing grade.”
“Oh, great!” I moaned. How do you arrange to be physically fit in only two weeks’ time?
I mumbled something about that, more in despair and anguish than any real protest, but Coach acted like I’d asked him a real question.
“You’re right, McFarland, you need help to pass the physical education test.”
Help? I looked up hopefully. “You, Coach?”
“Me? Oh, no, no way. I couldn’t spare the time you need to train you hard enough to pass the test.”
“But then who...?” was as far as I got before Coach supplied the answer.
“Powers! You are now McFarland’s personal trainer for the remainder of the school year.”
“Me?” Powers said. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Yeah, kidding!” I chipped in. If I was dismayed by this, Powers was in utter shock.
“No, I’m not.” Coach Keeler went on.
“But I’m supposed to pitch in this weekend’s game against Camerton.” Powers protested.
“We can do without you for a couple of games.” Coach Keeler said. “Until McFarland passes his test, you have one job, and that’s to train him, train, train train!”
“Oh, I’ll train him, all right.” Powers said, looking malevolently my way. And I moaned.
It was the first of many moans. Powers took Coach Keeler at his word. Whether it was a desire to make my life miserable (likely) or a desire to get my test out of the way in a hurry so he could get back to his own sports life (also likely), Powers would come by my house in the early morning, where my mother obligingly let him in. He would then torment me through a course of early-morning calisthenics, and then out for a morning jog before breakfast. I then got a protein drink which he furnished Mom and which she served me after my shower, and then it was off to class. My lunches were similarly interrupted and controlled, and then when we went to P.E., the final class of the day, my sustained torture began.
First it was sit-ups. Jimmy hanging onto my feet and yelling, “Come on, faster, do them faster, up, up, up!”
When I would collapse at that, he would bully me to my feet and we’d go to the bleachers and he’d run me up and down them. Jimmy didn’t just coach me from the bottom, he ran the thing with me, making the steps with long, easy lopes that I couldn’t have imitated if I’d wanted to.
When I couldn’t move anymore on that, he would let me rest a moment or two, then before I could really settle in and rest, he would get me up and it was run around the course, or tackle the tackling dummies (or whatever those pad-things on the rack are called, the ones the football players use to practice tackling), and I wasn’t just supposed to hit it, I was supposed to knock it backwards, with him riding on the gliders behind and weighing it down.
He kept this up until six o’clock, when I could finally limp home and have a supper I could barely stay awake long enough to eat. It was my only normal meal of the day, but I defy anyone to enjoy it at that point. I then staggered upstairs, took a quick shower to wash the sweat and grime of the day off of me, and then fell into bed, to sleep the sleep of the dead!
And at five a.m. the next day, it started all over again! I was exhausted all the time and it still made no sense to me. Why does a man who plans to work with his mind need to exercise, anyhow? There’s a reason for a man working with his body to need exercise, but not when you’re pushing a pencil or manning a computer console. Exercise just didn’t make any sense for me; I had no reason to want to exercise and I hated every second of it!
Coach Keeler turned out to be no help at all. My protests at Jimmy’s treatment of me was greeted with, “He’s using the old basic training regimen on you, is he? A damned fine way to tone up in a hurry.” So I gave up and endured. If I could just do half-way decent on the test, I figured, the Coach would pass me.
But the better I got at individual things, the harder Jimmy drove me. If I got to be able to run up and down the bleachers ten times in a minute, he made me do ten more and cursed me for not being able to do it in a minute the second time around. If I made it around the track in five minutes, he tried to get me to do it in four and a quarter (even though five minutes was all the test required).
I had four more days to go when I overhead Coach and Jimmy talking after one lunch/workout routine. And while I sucked at being a fine physical specimen, I made up for it in brains.
So when Jimmy came for me at P.E., I was ready for him.
You never saw a more lackluster performance in your life than the sight of me running, jumping, lifting, pull-upping, you name it.
Jimmy kept on using his routine of taunts and name-calling but after a time, he seemed to run out of steam and his voice took on an urgency that bordered on pleading. “Come on, come on, faster, move faster, come on, come on!” Like that.
I flopped onto the ground after I ran the course and Jimmy came over. “Seven minutes and ten seconds.” he proclaimed. “That’s sucking worse than you used to suck before we started training you! What has gotten into you, Turd-breath?”
“I can’t do it.” I gasped in feinted exhaustion. Actually, I was feeling pretty good. A bit sweaty, but I had been underperforming for a change, and managed to pretty much coast along. At that, I wasn’t so much under the scores I had racked up before this “iron man” training when I was really trying.
“You can’t do it?” Jimmy said. “But you were doing so good before!”
“Really?” I said. “I thought you said I sucked!”
“You do suck!” Jimmy said.
“That’s what I said.” I went on. “So I’m giving up.”
“You can’t give up.”
“Why can’t I give up?” I wanted to know. “I suck big time at this. So I’m not going to do it any more.”
“Oh, you’re going to do it.” Jimmy threatened.
I realized then that we were all alone out on the field. Not that surprising, I was Jimmy’s special project and both of us were excused from the regular routine. Probably the rest of the class had gone to play basketball indoors or watch a hygiene film or such.
Still, I was going to brazen this out. “I’m not going to do anything I suck at!” I defied my personal trainer/tormentor.
“Oh, you’ll get out there and you’ll suck!” Jimmy demanded.
“Or what?” I wanted to know. Calling his bluff.
“Or you can stay here and suck!”
“Fine!” I said. “I’ll stay right here.”
“Fine.” Jimmy growled at me. “Then suck!” And he grabbed me by my hair and he thrust my face against his groin. I felt the meat of his cock (not hard, just present) hit my cheek through the cloth of his shorts, and he rubbed it against me, the cock rolling on my jaw, and then he let go.
“Make a choice, loser!” he demanded. “Either get up and get to sucking on the track field or stay down and get to sucking on this!”
I looked up at him, wide-eyed, not really moving (could he be serious?) and he said, “I mean it! Nuh!” That last was a snarl of frustration and he grabbed the waistband of his shorts, pulled it away from himself, fished inside with the other, and brought out the salmon-colored pud, flopping it in my face like any fish.
“There it is, Dick-brain!” Jimmy commanded me. “Either get up and start running around the track, or open your mouth and get to working on it. Either way, I’m giving you a work-out today!”
Why does God or whoever/whatever it was that created us arrange things this way? The guys with the cutest bodies and the fattest cocks are always these tiny-brained, dim-witted scaremongers. You never get a cultured demeanor and intelligent conversation from a cute guy, it’s always sports and food and fast cars and how to score some beer, all delivered with one-syllable words worthy of a rudimentary caveman! If a kind, decent human being had been offering me a cock like that, attached to a body like that, I’d be diving on him so fast that...
I looked up into Jimmy’s sneering face (he had me beat, he figured, by pulling his dick out on me) and then I looked down and I just dove onto him, just as if he had been my dream man!
“Uh-bwuh!” Jimmy grunted when I scarfed down his prick, he hadn’t expected me to do that! I was supposed to fear his cock, be terrified of it, ready to do anything to avoid having it even touch me. And here I was with it all the way inside my mouth.
His shock lasted about two seconds, then the sensations of my warm wet tongue and moist interior soaked into his skin and he kind of moaned. “Mmmmuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh!”
And now I had a hard cock in my mouth. My sole experience before this had been some careful practice with a cucumber (you want to be able to handle things your first time when it comes along, after all, and the cucumber was about the size of a man’s cock, I got pretty good at it over the course of the next few days, when it got too overripe and mushy to work on any longer. So I had felt more than competent for my chance whenever it should happen along.
Well, let me tell you...the reality of Jimmy’s cock was as different from that cucumber as...well...to quote Mark Twain, the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug!
Warm, that’s what it was, warm and soft and smooth and silky luscious in a way no cuke could ever be! Instead of being a large, immovable lump in my throat, it bent and curved and compressed itself to my will. It was also more sticky, in that it excreted a hot, salty fluid onto my tongue as I moved it back and forth. I had the feeling of a truly living thing within my mouth that I hadn’t with the cucumber, something breathing and alive and...attached to a hunk of a man, however distorted and cruel he was in personality, the body itself was so, so fucking beautiful, and I had its cock in my mouth!
“Nnnuhhh, uh, guh, nnuh!” Jimmy moaned. “Awww, man, yeah, suck it for me, suck it, yeah! Nnnnnuuhhh, uuuuuhhh, gggghhhh, uuhhhhh!”
All the things I had practiced on the cucumber, I gave to Jimmy at that first time, and he loved all of it. I had tried to move my mouth around on the cucumber when sucking up and down, so that one side preceded the other one time, then trailed the next, alternately clutching tightly for a few strokes and then letting the next few be looser and taunting in nature, and Jimmy was groaning and loving every bit of it.
“Ooohhh, ahhhh, uhhhh, shit, uhhhh!” Jimmy was grunting. His breath was panting like he never panted when exercising, his voice, not so low in ordinary talk, had dropped an octave with the moans, he was gasping huskily at me, and it was the voice of a true man, not the barely-18 years old of myself and Jimmy, but men in full bloom of their maturity and strength. And then his voice rose again as he grew more urgent. “Oh, ah, uh, yeah, uh, suck it, man, suck it, you sucking loser, loser, God, yeah, loser!”
Loser, me, a loser. Yeah, I guess the words of jocks can sink into your psyche in some weird, perverted way. Maybe we need those words of scorn from them to be who and what we are. If brainy nerds were accepted by everyone at face value, would we really spend so much time studying and learning and exploring those things in life we can control, or would we relax and languish in the human drama about us the way the jocks do, who don’t have the scorn to pepper their world with places and things and people to avoid.
I may be a loser, I may be all the things Jimmy was calling me, but I had what I wanted! I had this hard jock’s prick in my mouth and it was getting hotter by the moment. I wasn’t all that sure what it meant, but I was hanging on and working it harder and harder now, because Jimmy’s words had dopplered off into unintelligible, nearly inaudible grunts, he was approaching climax if I understood how it sounded from someone other than myself, and I was going to milk this stud absolutely dry, because I wasn’t going to be getting it again! Whatever came to pass, Jimmy and I were going our separate ways, he could only make me miserable four more days no matter what, and then he and I would be apart and stay apart. I didn’t have anything to lose by gulping down his hot, horny, teenaged load of jizz, and I had everything to gain, a load of hot stud-come, my first taste of spunk fresh off the dick, not scooped up in my post-orgasmic lassitude from my stomach to lick from my fingers, but the real, full-bodied article!
“Uh-huh, uh-guh, uh-kuh-huh-guh-kuh-guh-GNN-HNNNGGGHHHNNNN!” Jimmy erupted into my mouth with all the force of a volcano. Hot steaming lava of come flowed into my mouth and carved a passage the same as lava down my gullet, the stream baked itself onto my esophagus, slimy, silken, slightly sweet and slightly sour all at once, and there was more of it than I had thought there could be. Jimmy probably had the jock’s idea of not whacking yourself before a game, and he had a game this weekend (his conversation with the Coach I had overheard had contained that nugget as well), so he had been holding back and now he was unloading his days and nights of frustrated erections into my mouth and down my throat, seething and churning and all of it accompanied by Jimmy’s frantic sounds of exploding lust above, like the thunder of a volcano as it geysers red-white hot stone into the sky like so many fireworks.
So I got all of Jimmy’s load down me and when he subsided like the volcano after it erupts, with the same sort of after-shocks and much bellowing and belching of smoke, he pulled away and flipped his dong back into his shorts and I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and he panted, looking at me and me looking at him, both of us like we’d never seen each other before.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.” He finally got out.
I felt unaccountably cocksure and flippant. “You said for me to choose, and so I chose.”
“Yeah.” Jimmy admitted. “Hell. That was really something.”
“Yeah.” I agreed. “So now what?”
“Now?” Jimmy sort of shook himself. “Now you get up off your ass and start running that track like I told you to.” The old Jimmy was back...sort of.
Or maybe it was me who was different. “And what are you going to do if I don’t?”
Jimmy started off hesitantly, then seemed to latch onto his plan halfway through his sentence, for he finished in triumph. “If you don’t run that track, and if you don’t break your former record of four minutes and fifty-one seconds, I’m going to drop by your house tonight and stay all night long and force you to suck me off over and over again instead of sleeping, that’s what I’ll do! You lousy cocksucking loser!”
“Is that so?” I considered it. “Hmm, wrong threat.”
“Wrong? What do you mean, wrong? I’ll do it.”
“The way you say it, if I do better on the track this time, you aren’t coming by. So let’s say, then, if I can break my record on the track field, you’ll come by and I get you in my bed all night.”
Jimmy looked at me, and then he laughed. “All right, then. You break your record of 4:51 and you can find out what it’s like to try and sleep with my dick in your mouth all night.”
And I ran that track in four minutes and thirty-three seconds. After all, all I’d ever really needed was a good reason to exercise!