Story: Winners and Losers Ch 11

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a short story called “Winners and Losers” about a losing football team having to give sexual rewards to the winning team. Even though the acts contained in the story are gay, and I am straight, it received lots of feedback and it has become one of my most popular stories so I must have done something right! I've followed it up with more chapters and I have around a dozen chapters planned if there is the demand. Let me know what you think!

Other Chapters: All Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11- 12

“What?” My trembling hand wiped my feverish brow.

“I think I’m bisexual,” I blurted out as she held me tightly. “I …”

“Love, tell me something I don’t know!”

“What! You knew?” My voice incredulous; hers flippant.

“I sort of knew all along.” Her fingers wrapped themselves around my hand and stroked it gently. “Been waiting for you to realise.”


“After that very first game when you had to go down on that guy, half of my Facebook wall was lit up by the wives and girlfriends of the players complaining that their partners were whinging and whining about it. You: you told me what happened but just looked forward to next Saturday. And every week, you’d want next Saturday to be around sooner and sooner. And that’s more than the football. Then Dmitri and you doing the 69: I’ve known you long enough to know that was fun for you too! You loved the games, the play, the exploring. Everything.”

“But …”

“And the photo shoot. And so much more. Don’t worry,” she simpered. “I think it’s really hot you’ve explored your sexuality.” Her eyes sparkled. “And I know the way you’ve been fucking me after you’ve been fucking them, you’re not going to run off with Dmitri. It’s cool.” I gulped. “I still love you Marc Lowton, and I still very much want to be Mrs Anna Lowton as soon as possible. And you getting ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million dicks cumming inside you isn’t going to change that one bit and …”

She never finished her sentence, I kissed her and pushed her against our wall, pawing at her clothes and ripping the flimsy knickers from her body. She panted as my fingers swept over her cunt and pressed against her clit. She groaned as I swirled her button as I kissed her, feeling her squirm underneath my touch until she whimpered. She was on edge. I pulled her onto the floor and entered her throbbing cunt, thrusting deep into her heaven and pounding her moist pussy until we both came, collapsing into each other’s arms with big smiles.

“Not bad for a homo!” She teased with a vicious grin. “Not bad at all!”

I gave Anna the appearance money I had earned at the International tournament towards our wedding; it was a sizeable chunk of our budget. Indeed, most of the moaning during training was that most of the players had had their money seized by their demanding partners. “I got fucked in the arse at the weekend, and what have I got to show for it? Fuck all. She didn’t get fucked in the arse, she was round her mothers having roast lamb while I was on my knees. And she wouldn’t open up her back door to me last night. Not fucking fair, I tell you!”

But for all our Captain’s rampant indignity, we had a game to prepare for, and the four games in two days had certainly shaken the festive lethargy from our muscles. The main news was that the league had decreed that they would be varying the tasks each week for a draw but that it would involve jeopardy for both sides and would be very “audience friendly.” I shuddered to think what that could be! The other news was that GaySportsTV had purchased the live television rights for the league and had allocated a handful of games for live coverage.

Alas our first league game after the Christmas break wasn’t one of them, when we welcomed Mansfield Park Rangers to our home ground. The team had finished directly above us in the league last year but were struggling this season and their only win had come against the pitiful Leyton Kennels, as their best players had deserted them when the new rules came into force. I remembered the team as being stuffed full of physically strong, and commanding players who tackled strongly and painfully. They may have been pretty poor at playing football, but they were very good at causing bruises and working hard.

When they disembarked from their minibus, none of the bulging muscles were left: they were thin, wiry and dainty. They didn’t look like footballers; they looked geeky and weak. If appearances are sometimes deceptive, then that wasn’t the case: we played them off the park. They were short on skill, strength, match practice and fitness. Dmitri had scored a hat-trick before half-time, and Lee completed his hat-trick in the second-half. Even I got a goal as I lashed home a loose ball in the area as Woodford Wanderers completed a sensational 14-0 victory.

Our opponents were stunned; we were pretty shocked ourselves. The match had been easy: the crowd roared with approval as the final whistle blew and we congratulated each other on a job well-done. The Manlube representative was especially delighted: Mansfield were sponsored by their big rival!

The slender men entered our changing rooms looking shaky; we had inflicted the worst defeat in their history with a powerful display of strength, guile and skill and I am not sure they quite knew what to expect from us; we had been uncompromising on the pitch.

They appeared anxious and self-conscious, and a little scared. The wiry lad who I selected was the midfielder who I had bullied all game. He had marks all over his legs and a delicate frame that screamed vulnerability. He only eighteen with fashionably untidy blonde hair and a smooth wispy smattering of light fuzz over his cock.

“Sorry,” he squealed. “I’ve not done this before.” His body was trembling under my gaze as he clamped his clammy fingers together. “It’s my first time.” His eyes were torn to his team mate squealing beside me, groaning as his hole was stretched by the sizeable cock of our goalkeeper sliding past the young man’s anus. “I … I … I … saw it on television and …”

“Sure,” I soothed and took a deep breath. “Relax.” I ogled his naked body for a few moments; he ws sexy. Very sexy.

“The team asked for new players and it looked like fun but … I’m …”

“Relax,” I said a bit firmer; more of a command to the panicking man hyperventilating than a calming piece of advice. “Just, relax. Deep breaths. It’s fine. Where you are today, I was there last week and will be there again soon. And where I am, you will be soon.” He nodded as I spoke. “It’s part of the game. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to, but you have to leave the league. Is that what you want to do?”

He shook his head defiantly. I had given him a get-out and he didn’t want to take it.

I asked again but he was certain that he wanted to fulfil the forfeit, and knelt in front of me, eyeing my cock for a few moments. “They told me what to do,” he muttered as his virgin lips fell onto my manhood, drawing itself into an erection. His tongue drew tentatively over my glans, looking for approval with doe-eyed innocence. He got it, a warm, genuine smile as his mouth slid over my cock.

The tingling became intense; he sucked and cajoled pleasure from my dick, bobbing slightly as he took the first couple of inches in his mouth and rolled his tongue over my glans, tickling the frenulum. He swept delightfully over the opening and caught the roll of my foreskin.

The added knowledge that I was seizing his oral virginity was sizzling hot. I was pillaging his mouth for my pleasure and taking his innocence. I was the Viking, triumphant in battle and now taking my reward for my victorious toil.

His fingers danced lightly over my balls and pressed against my taint, drawing the briefest of mewls from my lips. It was intensely erotic and my orgasm welled up inside of me. I thrust my cock deeper into his mouth, bucking his lips as my climax swelled and my point reached.

I warned him, grunting that I was about to come, and he sucked powerfully on the tip of my prick as my loins pulsed and my cock squirted my cum into his mouth.

He coughed as I withdrew, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t so innocent now, cum leaking from his lips. I wasn’t going to steal his anal virginity either; I doubt he would have been comfortable giving it to me, and I certainly wouldn’t have been comfortable taking it. I enjoyed the jeopardy and the risk and I loved winning, but only when the loser was happy to consent to the plundering of their body for my satisfaction, for the right reasons. A false obligation was tenuous grounds.

“Have some fun with a dildo,” I suggested. “Next week you might lose and they might take your backside. Who do you play next week?”
“Leyton Kennels.”

“OK. The week after then,” I joked. “But ask your girlfriend to peg you to get used to it. It’s … nice. Prostate play is.” He muttered an appreciative response.

We spanked them thoroughly before they left; every member of their team received fourteen spanks from each and every one of us on their bare asses for their pitiful display from the captain’s “Paddle of justice” that left them squealing with pain and then writhing in agony.

They looked so damn hot; wiry, thin, feminine bodies that were mostly hairless and dainty. Sweaty, and clammy, and with reddened backsides that glowed under the strip lights. I felt my cock rising at the sight, although our fun was over as they left our changing room, down-trodden and defeated.

I had an interesting experience at work the following day; I got quizzed about sex! I had had the week off following our trip abroad as I needed to “use up” my holiday before the end of February or I would lose it. Emit congratulated me on the sizeable win against Mansfield when I returned to the office. “I checked up on the score,” he asked. “Did you get to fuck the losers.”

“Sssshh!” I whispered, glancing around the office to see who had heard his tactless candour. “Yes!”

“It’s OK,” he broadcast. “Hey guys! He’s back!”


“Dude,” my youngest colleague cried. “We saw you in Italy last weekend. On TV. Wow! Was it good?”

I glanced at Emit who just shrugged. “They found out. What do you want me to say?” I blushed at the attention, even more so when most of the office demanded to know exactly what went on. When I described the sex after the matches for what it was – mostly fun, a bit humiliating at times, and always exciting – the expected homophobia never materialised.

They weren’t bothered by it at all.

They didn’t care that one of their colleagues and friends spent the weekends engaging in rampant homosexual sex publicly and explicitly. They didn’t vilify or offer moral objections; they were interested in my experiences and about what Anna thought.

I was shocked; I expected fear and loathing not blind acceptance, and although I didn’t divulge my new sexuality to them, I don’t think I really had to. I think they just guessed.

We were busy that week, and I had plenty of work to catch up on, so I was somewhat grateful for the sanctuary of training and the excitement of a forthcoming match. We loved playing Sutton Working Mens Club: their lust for the game, good humour and impious irreverence made them fantastic opponents.

We always went the extra mile when hosting Sutton; adjacent to our ground was the village pub, and our coach coaxed the club into paying for the function room and catering from the Manlube sponsorship for a post-game reception.

Our visitors arrived late, they always did, and took an incredibly long time changing. This was normal; they worked to their own schedule and the game kicked off ten minutes late.

It was a fiercely competitive match. My midfield opponent from our game earlier in the year was quick and nimble, I was strong and fierce. When I could get near him, I won our duel but that wasn’t too often!

His turn of pace opened the scoring. One of my midfield partners, Kevin, gave the ball away to him and the quick opponent surged past my outstretched leg to lash the ball home from forty yards, with the help of the crossbar.

In the second half, we equalised through a goalmouth scramble. I wasn’t completely sure if I got the last touch on the goal-line, but I claimed the goal and nobody disagreed as I wheeled away from the box, arm aloft in celebration.

The final whistle ended a desperate ten minutes as both teams surged forwards to find a winner, taking risks as both crossbars were rattled. The frantic match was succeeded by a harassed representative of the league taking to the field with a PA system to announce the “draw game.”

The two sets of players waited anxiously. It was our first draw since the start of the year. It felt a little bit like “It’s a knockout,” listening to some rules for a wacky game read out to an appreciative crowd.

“Pay the penalty,” he announced. “Each player will be paired with one player from the opposing team. They will take it in turns to take penalties against their opponent’s goalkeeper. For each goal they score, the player must remove an item of clothing. The first player to miss a spot kick, when their opponent scores, loses.”

We looked at Hugh, our goalkeeper. He wasn’t the most agile of players but his record at saving penalties was incredibly good. Despite being the wrong side of thirty, his reactions were quick. I was the first person selected, and was paired with their Irish striker: a cheeky young man who confidently dispatched his first spot kick.

I focused on the goalkeeper, as my shot was hit hard and low to his left, burying the ball in the bottom corner as my shirt was dropped onto the floor. We both scored our second and third strikes too, stripping naked and keeping our socks and boots on, before my opponent got arrogant and tried to chip our goalkeeper from the penalty spot and cleared the crossbar to whoops of delight from the crowd.

The nearly naked man, fell onto his knees, swearing loudly and beating the ground. “Stay down there,” I joked, shivering in the cold swirling wind as the ball was placed next to my opponent. Their goalkeeper tried to distract me, monkeying around on the goal-line. My opponent taunted me as my eyes narrowed on the goalmouth. The crowd were tense, I was anxious, taking deep breaths as I sized my options.

Instead of placing it, I powered the ball into the roof of the net, giving the goalkeeper no chance of saving it.

“Hey, nice one,” my opponent muttered as I held my hand out to him to pull him from the mud. “Well taken.”

It was, and I pushed the lightweight Irish striker to his knees the moment we entered our changing room. His mouth opened the moment I sat on the bench; he knew the rules, and he was fine that he lost. My arousal was tickled as his lips plunged onto my cock, staring at his closed eyes.

His lips massaged my cockhead and shaft, taking my full length into his throat without a moment’s hesitation. His warm mouth made delightful noises on my cock, slurping, sliding and mewing. “Play with yourself,” I suggested, although it came out as an order.

His fingers wrapped around his thick cock, pumping himself to the same rhythm that his mouth was bobbing on my dick. Smoothly sliding his mouth over my shaft as his other hand gripped the base of my cock and his mouth swept gloriously over the impaling member.

It was good; he was good. He was a cocksucker of amazing talent, rolling his tongue under my cock as his mouth sucked the pleasure into my manhood. He grunted as I approached the inevitable; the fiery peak of my lust approaching.

I could not resist his manly skills; groaning with desire and anticipation as my orgasm approached. He was about to get a mouthful of cum and the little slut knew it. My balls tightened, my muscles quivered, spasming with passionate arousal as my body shuddered. A wave of lustful relief swept over me, followed by another and another. I felt incredible, breathlessly groaning as I desperately held onto my orgasm before the intensity in my loins was too great and I released a dozen streams of cum into the losing striker.

He swallowed it; licking his lips as he got every last drop of my semen into his throat, gulping loudly and obscenely.

He’d come too: I hadn’t noticed and I told him to lick his fingers clean. He smiled as he did, his tongue sliding over his cum-covered hand before leaving me in our changing room, completely sated and satisfied.

Because only Lee, Dmitri and our captain, Ralph, joined me in our changing room, it revealed that the team were not very good at taking penalties: we won just four of the fifteen duels!

The food and drink at the pub was a raucous affair; we joked with them, got completely pissed, stripped naked and then thirty drunk men streaked through the village. We even got our picture taken with a bride and bridesmaids about to enter the church for a wedding, posing with them as a reluctant photographer snapped the indecent pictures.

As I said, we always had fun when Sutton came to play.

At work, Emit and I had barely crossed paths for a couple of months, but the following week, we were both asked to visit a client’s site; they had problems and had not received the sort of assistance they or our company expected. As a goodwill gesture, myself and Emit were asked to travel to their headquarters in London for a couple of days.

They were a little frosty at first, but when they realised that neither Emit nor I had caused or were responsible for the issues they had and were simply present to assist and help, the barriers dropped. They dropped a little further when I was recognised as “that football guy from the telly.” Yes, the manager watched GaySportsTV, and therefore nearly outed himself in front of the entire office by his candour; he chatted to me in the canteen over hushed whispers about how “hot” it was and how much he wanted to play in a similar league.

In the evening though, Emit and I were bored. Our employer had booked a twin room for us, and after an unhealthy meal, he was in the mood to relax. I knew what he wanted and so a few minutes after he had finished his final pint, we had the Manlube freebie open, and I was lubricating my arsehole for penetration

He had complained that his partner refused him anal sex and after a careless comment about my own experience of being rodgered regularly by Anna’s strap-on or a victorious footballer, I knew what the next words would be.

Of course, I consented. It had been a couple of weeks since my sphincter had been plundered by a rutting man and I missed the sensation of being full. I wanted to be taken by a grunting, sweating, desperate bloke. I wanted to feel submissive for a moment, to feel on the receiving end of a thrusting member, filling my need and pumping desperately into my hole.

I needed to submit and provide satisfaction and pleasure. I needed to be a mere orifice for someone to own and rampantly abuse. I needed gay sex.

My own need was clear, as was Emit’s. He needed a hole, nothing more nothing less. His slippery sheathed cock poked tentatively at my hole. I told him to be firmer and push harder. I told him to fuck me. I told him to be a man, and he giggled like an immature schoolkid.

It might have spoilt the moment if he hadn’t taken the hint and plunged his cock deep into me. I groaned as he did; the shock was delightful, the feeling was intense. He impaled me, sliding against my prostate, thrusting deeply into my arse and pulling at my hips.

My submission soared; the finger tips digging into my flesh as he plundered my sanctuary for his pleasure. Pre-cum dribbled onto my duvet, streaming from my cock as every nerve in my rectum sizzled with delightful intensity.

I needed more. I needed a cock to fill my grunting mouth as my colleague drove himself to orgasm. I needed to have my desperate cries silenced by a rampaging manhood as I was reduced and debased. I needed a team to service, eleven desperate men lining up with hard dicks and aroused minds, ready to use my body for their pleasure and then discard me. I needed to be a ragdoll or a gangbang slut.

But I couldn’t have it; my mind spun with ludicrous lustful fantasies as Emit pounded my backside, his cock slipping to an orgasm with a few snorting grunts and loud, satisfied shrieks. I felt his cock pulse as he filled the condom; my own arousal shaking and quivering with unspent desire.

His cock looked so sexy, shrinking in the latex sheath saturated with cum and hanging limply from his dick. I watched as he said nothing, avoided looking at me as he slipped into the bathroom to “clean up.”

It was a task I would have happily done for him, but he became embarrassed by his sexuality. I felt a little rejected but understood why he was like that. Ultimately however, he had just had gay anal sex with a bisexual man; I was happy with that reality, he was clearly less so.

His actions didn’t harm our relationship; I sucked him off to orgasm in the morning and we worked well during the day before returning home. He had the most wonderful of cocks and I spent the journey fantasising about it.

One of the matches I missed at the start of the season was against Burnden Town; the team lost 1-0 as they went five matches without a victory and the return match at their ground was a chance for the entire team to make amends on the narrow defeat.

The white and black striped team played their matches on a poorly-maintained pitch with just portacabins for changing areas that were surprisingly warm given the wintery February weather outside. The several heaters helped with that regard.

Burnden Town were a good team, just a point behind us in the league, and were itching to complete their first home and away win double over us in several seasons. The match was keenly-contested and spicy, and Lee struck a thunderbolt of a volley just before half-time to give us the lead. They got a deserved equaliser when our captain slipped to let in their pacy striker and they nearly scored a winner when our midfielder, Kevin, tripped their winger in the box. Fortunately, Hugh saved the resulting penalty, tipping the ball onto the post.

The 1-1 draw was a fair result, although their players grumbled at the scoreline and at their penalty-taker. The league representative came onto the cold pitch, taking the microphone for the PA system to announce the “after-match game” to the hundreds of spectators: the matches had certainly attracted a greater audience since the new rules became public.

“For the draws in League Week 18, we will randomly pair opposing players for cock size comparisons. The captains of each team will work as fluffers as both men are compared in size, in front of everyone as we measure each pair one-by-one. In each contest, the loser must satisfy the winner.”

The vocal cheers were deafening; the crowd jeered and laughed as the players looked on horrified. It was the ultimate humiliation: I could be satisfying my opponent after the size of my cock, the measure of my masculinity, had been denigrated. I would be taken because my manhood was deemed inferior, and I knew the public measuring would be just as humiliating. We would be belittled. Smartphones would record the event, they would uploaded onto the Internet before the loser had finished sucking the winner. My colleagues would see and laugh, taunt and tease.

Only I wasn’t that small. But nor was I that big. I wasn’t sure where I would be in order, but I didn’t know, and the uncertainty was unnerving. Even if I had a monster member, there would be people who had freakishly large cocks; it was a clever challenge from the league.

Our ten minutes to cool down was ended with a vicious rap of knuckles on the door; we joked with and teased our opponents as we ran down the steps to the impatient crowd, eager to see some male cock and taunt the opposition. Burnden were as nervous as we were.

They assembled both teams near the centre circle, called out players two-by-two to the touchline. The captains were given one minute to bring their team-mates to their full length before an independent adjudicator would measure the cocks in length and girth to determine a cylindrical value. It all seemed very complicated, but our left winger, goalkeeper, centre back and substitute striker all won their contests with ease, before Dmitri was called.

My friend was not massively endowed, but he had a sizeable cock that looked bigger than it was due to his shaved pubis. He was certainly bigger than me, and of many of the team, but he lost. And not just lost, but was well beaten: their centre-back was hung like an elephant and Dmitri stared wide-eyed at the massive member swinging between the legs of the footballer.

And then it was my turn: both of us had to strip bottomless, holding our shorts and underwear as our crotches were eagerly photographed by the appreciative crowd. I faced my midfield opponent with a steely grin. My captain, already on his knees, gently pumped my erect cock, stroking it gently to coax it into it’s full length. I didn’t look at him, I focused my eyes on the grunting opponent in front of me, glancing at his dick. “I’m going to have you sucking mine!” I yelled across at him. “Look at the size of that.”

He sneered; it was for show: a show of confidence, but his cock looked no smaller or bigger than mine. The measuring tape wrapped coolly around my shaft and measured the length as I stared at him, arms crossed triumphantly. “Marc from Woodford Wanderers loses,” the guy called out. “By 0.02 cubic inches!”

The victorious opponent sneered. “Shit!”

It was the narrowest of victories but the measurements were clear: I had a smaller cock. The walk of shame was far worse. The crowd taunted and sneered at me; I was “tiny cock” or worse; he was the champion. The partisan audience made gestures as I traipsed from the pitch, entering their dressing room on the right instead of our dressing room on the left.

“I thought you were going to win that,” he confessed as he threw his dirty football kit onto a bag and reached for the small bowl of delights. Dmitri was already being pounded by the giant cock, groaning as the monstrous appendage stretched his hole. I knew my fate. “Suck it first,” he demanded. He watched me as I sat on the bench, pulling his thighs towards me and felt the warm, moist tip of his cock bob against my lips.

I smelt his masculinity: a cool odour of sweat and mud. I sensed his power, his dominance and his arousal. I felt my own cock rise at the thought and eagerly allowed his purple glans to slide over my lips and delight my tongue with his manful taste.

My hands held his thighs as my tongue swept over his head, flicking his cock to delightful groans. He was panting already: my mouth sucking on his cock as I bobbed along his shaft. I relaxed the back of my throat to push the man further into me, pulling deeply on his muscles to impale him as deep as I could take him.

And I wanted to take him further and further; I felt the cool aura of submission wash over me as his cock filled my mouth and he quivered. His hips bucked slightly as I took the length of him into me, squawking rudely at me.

But I loved it. I should have felt degraded and I did. I was worthless and disgusting. Losing a cock size contest in front of hundreds of people and then sucking off the victorious cock. It was a debasement that had me feeling dirty and filthy. My cock tensed as my humiliation was furthered.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he demanded.

Music to my ears. I wanted nothing more than to boost the desperate feelings of submission and eagerly presented my rear for his pleasure, coating my anus with lube. He chortled as he unfurled a condom along his shaft. “You’re keen!” He joked.

But I was.

Keen for him to fill me and pleasure himself. Keen for him to use me and discard me. Keen for everything he wanted to do to me. His opened my resistance with ease, poking my lubricated whorl and easing it open with a gentle push.

My cock, pressed against the bench, flickered. I closed my eyes and imagined a battery of men and women watching and laughing. Teasing me. Tormenting me. Forcing me to orally satisfy their cunts and cocks as I was rodgered from behind. His cock stretched my hole as his rhythm paced, quickly filling my orifice and pressing against my prostate.

The pressure was intense; my pleasure floating. I was so close to an orgasm, so close to feeling satisfied and sated. Those imaginary cocks buffeted my face as I focused on the feelings on the real cock poking my hole. I wanted another one. I wanted another ten to satisfy; I needed to feel debased and revolting. I wanted to be a slut.

But I was a slut.

A complete and utter slut.

I was a disgusting piece of shit bouncing energetically as his arse was plowed as a punishment. A punishment, no less, and I was savouring every thrust of his manhood into me. My testicles were dancing, my cock was alive: tingling with orgasmic pleasure as he grunted and pressed his dick deep into me with a squeal, filling his condom with his cum as I squirted onto the bench, panting and exhausted.

“Wow!” It was all he could say when he saw. “Wow!”

I said nothing as I left his changing room: naked and yet still so very horny.

Although, there was no need for me to say so, I decided to come out to my team mates the following training session. I had finally come to terms with my sexuality and admitted it to my fiancée; I owed my team-mates the same respect.

It didn’t change anything: all of them had had bisexual or gay experiences, and been filmed doing so. The difference was, was that I was comfortable to seek out repeat encounters away from the football pitch. It was part of me, and I hoped they would understand.

I waited until the end of the next training session, when the coach had finished talking to us. My heart was pounding and my chest clammy as I asked for everyone’s attention before they reached the showers, and explained what I had told my wife-to-be. I assured everyone that I wanted to win as much, if not more, than them, but I couldn’t deny that some of my bisexual adventures were fun, and that I had needs and itches that required scratching.

And that I would leave the team if they didn’t want to play with a bisexual man with no hard feelings.

“You’re bisexual?” Dmitri asked with a wry grin. “Well that makes two of us.” He patted me on the shoulder as he spoke. “You don’t think Sam has to try very hard for me to be ‘forced’ into bisexuality, do you?”

I nervously chortled.

“Actually Dmitri, that makes three of us,” Lee spluttered and gripped the edge of the bench. “I … well … sometimes … I’ve been … out places.” I smiled at him, stammering his words out as he shrugged. “It’s hard to admit in a straight world, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I understood completely.

“Well, I guess I’m bi too,” Connor, our Irish divorcee admitted. “I had some fun with a Police officer last week at a spa.”

“Awesome,” our captain cried, and looked at us. “We’ve got poofs in defence, midfield and attack!” He joked. “I don’t think any one on the team cares what you lot do,” our Captain decried. “Do we lads?”

There were mumblings of support and acknowledgement, shaking of heads and warm smiles.

“But we better have showers before the water gets cold. Go give ’em some eye candy, lads!”

I waited for the room to empty and looked across at the centre-back. “Thanks,” I muttered.

“No problem.” He held his hand out to pull me from the bench. “You OK?”

“Nervous,” I admitted as I took a deep breath. “Well fuckin’ terrified.”

He gave a shrug. “To be honest, I think we all knew. After that race to suck off people at Manlube, it was pretty clear you were doing it for fun.”

“Really? I wasn’t bisexual then.”

“You probably were,” he airily disagreed. “You just hadn’t realised.”

Why, as everyone keeps telling me that they already knew, didn’t they bloody say something to me?!

Continued on Chapter 12

Featured image from here and used under as CC-license. 

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