Bartending the Football Team

I’d worked at the club for three uneventful years, before I encountered the best week of sex I’d ever dreamed of. With my mad early twenties behind me, I was now working hard to catch up the impact the ‘party-hard’ period of my life had wrought.

I enjoyed being a bar tender and the expansive sporting resort was a great place to earn a pay-check. The job was critical to fund my way through a mature age bachelor’s degree. At twenty-eight, I was the oldest student in my cohort, a fact my classmates continued to point out.

* * *

As a tourist destination, the wider township, and more specifically the club, had typical peak and low season visitor flows. The shift which initiated my ‘golden week’, fell in the depth of low season. The afternoon in question hadn’t been anything special as far as crowds went, but as usual we did have a few larger groups staying. The ‘low rate’ periods saw influxes of sporting teams landing, enjoying their end of season trips. Averaging four to five days at a time, the typical all male groups of twenty or so were often noisy drunks, but were generally well behaved.

After years of confusion and tumultuous internal conflict, I had finally acknowledged I was gay. Quitting as a corporate banker and returning to full-time university, had allowed me to breathe, and take stock of myself. With clarity, I’d been able to find what I truly wanted from my new found perspective. Coming from a conservative farming background, I had taken what at the time were daunting steps to let family and those closest to me know, where my desires lay. It seemed an eon ago, but it was actually just over two years past.

To the wider world I was straight, but I didn’t go out of my way to represent myself one way or another. I was naturally masculine and the vast majority of people I encountered, just assumed I was hetero.

This backstory is relevant, only to add context to a seed event which took place as I cleared empty glasses and wiped down the wood grained lamina in the club’s back lounge. Being picked as gay wasn’t a totally unique experience for me, but the rare recognitions nearly always took me by surprise. The relatively quiet ‘19th hole’ lounge was occupied by a group of fifteen to twenty footballers, who were on their first half dozen beers. They’d been on site for a day or two and were getting over a big drinking effort, from the night before. They were taking their time, relaxing and generally chatting and laughing as a well bonded, all male early to mid-twenties tribe.

As I moved between the tables, one of the louder guys picked I was gay and laughed to his teammates about ‘staying seated around me’. He wasn’t aggressive, but his overtly hetero tone was pitched to let the team, and me know he’d spotted a ‘homosexual’. As I’ve said, being picked was a rare event, and for a moment I didn’t register the context of his barb. Usually, I ignore customer conversations, they’re typically boring as bat shit.  The fact that the group went quiet, accelerated my realisation of what had been said, and then, what I could say in reply.

In a remarkably clear moment, I turned to directly face him and whilst continuing to wipe, complemented him on his power of observation.

With the group tuning in, he replied he could ‘spot homos any day’.

“How do the gays on your team feel about you shooting your mouth off like that?”

“What are you saying?”

“The gays on your team, how do they feel when you talk like that?”

“You’re full of shit!” he shot back, “I’d know if we had any fairies”

“So, not out then,” I replied evenly, “maybe they’d feel safer, if you didn’t slag them.” I offered, “I thought you were all team?” he paused for a long moment, I’d scored a hit.

“You talk crap,” he said, dismissively. “Point them out.”

“Make them a target? Just because you don’t have any idea!”

The whole group was now fully engaged and listening intently to our very direct exchange.

“Maybe they need someone who’ll listen,” I continued, “someone who won’t hang shit on them,” I added.

“You going to rescue them?” he asked, intrigued now.

“Nah, they have to do that themselves. That doesn’t mean I don’t know who they are.”

“So, you just leave them high and dry?” he retorted, smiling, “aren’t they ‘your’ team?”

The sly fuck had a point! My turn to draw breath.

“If they want to talk badly enough,” I countered, “my cell number is at the front desk under ‘James’. It’s normally for Bar feedback,” I paused, “but you’re annoyinghly right, we should stick together.”

With the arrival of a painless truce, I left with an arm full of glasses and returned to the bar. Inside I was quietly happy I’d held my own, in light of the group’s size and masculinity. For me, the most hilarious part was, I hadn’t noticed any gays in the team, I hadn’t looked! I just resented being pushed around.

The afternoon dragged on, as the Club’s tennis members filled the bar with their post-match reviews, and trophy presentations. Flat out busy, I didn’t return to the lounge for the rest of my shift.

* * *

I clocked off around eight, bid bye to the crew and made for the car-park. As I fumbled for my keys, my cell chimed a text message.

Don’t know what gave me away, but I know you were talking about me. 

What the fuck was this I thought, as a second string came through.

At the end of the car park, been watching for you. Can we talk? 

I responded ‘yes. I will drive down’. I had no idea who it was, or how long they had been waiting.

As I arrived at the sparsely filled end of the park, I pulled to a stop, within seconds a guy stepped from between cars and climbed in my passenger side. He was fucken gorgeous; how did I miss him today? I put out my hand, James. Troy, he replied with a firm grip.

After an initial bout of awkwardness, Troy downloaded. Thinking I’d picked him as gay, he poured out his story of confusion, of lusting after men, of shame and finally, relief. He’d found someone he could talk to; his liberation was like a dam breaking. When he reached a point of little left to say, he seemed exhausted. I stayed quiet, wanting him to have his time. He suddenly asked if he could kiss me.

“Sure,” I said, pleasantly surprised, “but nothing else”.

His awkwardness instantly returned as he lent across and tried his best to kiss. I had to take control; he was a mess. I pushed his seat back a little, took each side of his face and told him to relax. I planted a seriously sensual, part tongue pash on him. It blew his mind. I caught site of his ballooning shorts and stirred myself. I paused, drew breath and kissed again with a bit more tongue. He was a great kisser, when he didn’t try. I told him so.

I pushed his seat back further, and kissed him again, he reached out and timidly touched my package through my work slacks. He discovered I was more than firm; it was obvious he was as hard as a rock! I took his hand and placed it at his side as he made a disgruntled sound. I took hold of his shaft through his wildly ballooned shorts and stroked him, he moaned through the lip embrace I held him in. I doubled down. Our mouths linked; I could tell he was ‘first-time’ close. I worked his length top to bottom with a firm and increasing intensity, I felt his back straighten. As I tightened my grip, he exploded, filled his jock and drifted to a post blow bliss. Wetness stained the front of his running shorts; he’d unloaded a bucket!

I broke the kiss and let him regain his composure, it took him a while. When he sat up, he apologised for cumming, but quickly added it was the most amazing blow he’d ever had. I was secretly chuffed with myself. He asked me if I was going to cum. I replied ‘not tonight, adding the day had been big enough’. He grew quiet, not really knowing what to do next. I chatted a little, suggesting he had something new to think about, and not to do anything rash.

He had my number if he wanted to talk again. I explained I knew what it was like, and understood that he may want his space, to process. He nodded, said thanks, pecked me on the cheek, and made his way out the passenger side.

Wow, what a day!