It all started with the illustrated article from a nature magazine on primate intercourse that I received at home in a manila envelope in the mail—no return address. There wasn't any explanation for why I received it either. An article, with photos of monkeys, baboons, and gorillas doing it. It showed that they did it pretty much like we did it, so we haven't evolved all that much. The larger the apes the more into it they seemed to be, though, and the more control they established over their partner. I held the article for a couple of days, thinking I'd get some sort of explanation for it or I'd find it had been misdelivered, but there was no follow up, so I just tossed it.
That was a Monday. Thursday was my evening at the gym near the Charlotte Motor Speedway, where I spent a good deal of my time. That was my home base. I traveled a circuit from Atlanta in the south to Dover, Delaware, in the north, but I trained in Charlotte and had my house here. I owned a log cabin near enough to Lake Norman southeast of town for me to get to the speedboat I had moored there in under a half hour but not close enough to the water that I'd have to have a million-dollar house. I was a modified stockcar race driver. I was built for it—small, lithe body. That was the easy part. I had to remain flexible too to fit in the cars and to be able to enter and exit them quickly. That's where the gym came in. I was continuing working out to remain slim and limber.
Jason Hall was slim and limber too. He was a college kid on a sports scholarship to the University of North Carolina in Charlotte and had qualified for the U.S. Olympic fencing team. Fencing was his ticket to a college education, so, like I did, he spent a lot of time at The Stable, a serious men's gym not far from the speedway and owned by a sponsor of the Charlotte Colts semipro football team. Most of the guys on the football team worked out here too, as the team sponsor gave them free access to the gym. Thus guys like me—and Jason—had the added benefit of being around a lot of randy beef cake while we fought to keep our bodies flexible for our jobs. I liked the landscape of that, and I was pretty sure that Jason Hall liked the landscape of that too.
That's why I was not in the best frame of mind on Thursday when I thought I was seeing Vince Turner, a running back for the Colts who I lusted after, putting the moves on Jason while he was spotting the college kid. Jason certainly thought that's what was happening and wasn't doing anything to fend him off.
I'd been cultivating Vince myself for several weeks, trying to let him know I was available. He was a hunk and a half—a blond Nordic type with strong legs, a great body, a Samson mane of curly hair, and a fine smile. He was a star on the team, rumored to be heading for the Miami Dolphins next year, and, to put it bluntly, I wanted to be laid by him before he left. It'd seen him in the showers and he had everything I wanted to have and hadn't gotten since the pit stop boss I'd been laying under had split and gone to work at the Richmond track. And here he was sniffing around Jason while spotting him on the bench press.
But first impressions were sometimes misleading. He looked over to me and smiled and called out something. I didn't hear what he said, so he repeated, louder, "Get a load of Enzo over there, Matt."
I looked across the gym floor to see that the Colts defensive tackle, Enzo Fava, was entertaining some of the guys by doing his ape routine. He was Italian, olive skinned, but one of the hairiest men I'd ever seen. He also was massive, solidly built, bowlegged, and his muscular arms seemed long for his torso. When he hunched over and hopped around on his feet, as he was doing just now, he was downright apian. He was making monkey noises to go with the act. My mind immediately went to the article on the apes breeding that had mysteriously appeared in my mailbox two days earlier.
Vince kept the image in my mind at that point because he suddenly was beside me, an arm going around my shoulders, and was commenting between laughs, "How'd you like to be fucked by something like that?"
I turned my face to him, appreciating that he had come over to me and left Jason, and aroused to hear him talking about sex when I'd had many a pleasant moment thinking of having sex with Vince. He'd even hinted at that before, telling me now and again that he'd like to take me home, without getting explicit about what we'd do there. But the look he'd give me when he said it gave me ideas of what he was suggesting and sent shivers up my spine.
He was giving me that look now.
"What you say to knocking off early this evening and coming over to my place for a beer?" he said.
I looked him straight back in the eyes and said, "Yeah, I'd like that."
"You sure?" he asked, his hand going to one of my butt cheeks.
"Yeah, I'm quite sure," I answered.
* * * *
I'd never done it this way before and it was sending me over the moon. Vince was standing, crouched, in the center of his bedroom, taking both his weight and mine on his strong thigh and calve muscles as he held me, fists gripping my wrists, my torso cantilevered out from his pelvis, my legs streaming back over his hips, my ankles crossed, and the palms of my hands gripping the back of a straight chair. He was inside me, thick and long, and making short thrusts, rubbing his shaft against my channel walls, punishing my prostate. Mouth slack in a grimace of pain-pleasure, completely overwhelmed with the demanding position and the novelty of it, I panted and groaned. He was grunting happily, complimenting me on my flexibility, on the perfect proportions and size of my body that fit his indulgence in unique, demanding fuck positions.
He tensed, stopped the thrusts momentarily, panting heavily. I heard a muttered, "Here it comes." Another couple of jabs up inside me, and he released his cum with a snort and a long sigh. I was gently lowered to the floor and lay there, turning onto a side and watching, as he went over to his bureau, patted a cigarette out of a pack, lit up, took a drag, and then looked down at me.
"Your workouts have done you well. You've got great flexibility. A good lay. Charlie was right."
Charlie, the pit boss who had wandered off to Richmond after revving me up and letting me loose. In some ways Charlotte was a small town. Everyone must know everyone else's business, especially in a small, tight community of sportsmen fucking sportsmen. When a guy good at subbing came along, did all of the power tops in town just pass him around, I wondered. Vince didn't now make me stop wondering that.
"You do it with a lot of the guys at the gym yet?" he asked. "Do they know what a good lay you are? The guys on the football team who are into guys have talked about wanting to get into you, but I haven't heard any of them crowing about having scored yet."
