The second game of the campaign was another away match: our opponents took the name of and played in the grounds of a pub called The Cock Inn, which given the activities of the previous few matches could have been seen as a bit of an omen.
It was the first week of September and my defensive centre-back pointed to me in training, that as we lost our last four matches of the previous campaign, plus the Summer break and the match this year, it had been almost six months since our team had last tasted victory.
My girlfriend had teased me relentlessly since our defeat to Sunnyside Cross FC, as I had spent half-an-hour, along with most of my team-mates having the erect cocks of the victorious team in places where no straight man would voluntarily choose to have them. She found it funny, but also a lot arousing; we had had sex every night for a whole week as she liked the idea of me having a "bisexual side." In truth, I was curious and didn't find the sexual acts unpleasant experiences, but my pride was damaged: as sportsmen we wanted to win on the sports field.
Our opponents had finished only a couple of places above us in the league last year and we had high hopes of registering our first win of the campaign against them. They too had taken a battering in their first match, and the opening exchanges were dominated by a lack of confidence on each side. The scarlet-shirted opponents took the lead shortly before half-time and they doubled it as their muscular brute of a centre-forward towered above our defence to head home. We knocked in a couple of goals to level the match, but a final minute rasping drive after I failed to cut out a pass in midfield gave them victory and precious three points.
It also meant that for the third match in succession, my team-mates and I would be providing relief to the victors. There was mutterings of discontent in the changing room; player turned against player as tempers flared. I was not the only one at fault for conceding a goal, and we needed the coach to step in as our centre back squared up to our goalkeeper.
I was almost glad to get into our opponents' changing room. The temporary hut was small and rotten; a musty smell permeated everywhere and the sweaty odour of exercised athletes filled my nostrils. They jeered us as we entered; muscular men watching as our fragile confidence withered under their vocal humiliation.
I glanced around me, the benches surrounded us: several men were already naked, wanting to show off their cocks to the men who would be buggered by their impressive specimens. "Come on ladies," their captain shouted. "Might as well played the girls team, be more of a challenge."
"Fuck off," a voice cried and the origin of the outburst was seized from the line as we were jostled in the centre of the tiled room.
Jostled and manhandled, squeezed and pulled, crying out as the wanton winners descended upon the huddle. It was a free-for-all. They all wanted someone to fuck, someone to subjugate themselves to the sexual pleasure of the testosterone filled beasts. Hands grabbed me, my football kit was pulled and my body fondled for their pleasure. I was in the mass of a melee: an uncontrolled orgy as horny men desperately reached for someone to fuck.
