The coach makes his moves pressing close against his pupil, holds him in a way a man in authority shouldn’t hold his underling with his long thick erection jabbing right their at his inner thigh.‘I’m not gay,’ his naïve player says or tries telling himself.The coach says something to the effect like ‘nobody has to know’ or ‘I’m not either’ or ‘if you’re secure with your manhood you can’t be gay.’He reaches out and touches the nervous scared eighteen-year-old dick before him, trapped in its prison of polypropylene doubleknit.The coach goes for broke. He is good, but not great. Gay sex Sweat pours from him, plowing hard and more deliberate, letting his once innocent player know that he belongs to him, body and soul and butthole. Their breaths and screams are manic. “Leadership you’ve taught me in this program, coach. It’s a decision I standby.” I said, remembering his infinite speeches that if anybody went off script it better be a good winnable move.I knew though, no matter what I said to him, what I did, his way or my way, he was going to find fault with it.Like the saying goes, we were at the end of our road.I bet our story plays out on college campuses everywhere, every year:Small town boy
