To be upfront and honest, this wouldn’t be the first time I focused on getting to a guy for some nothing confrontation.
The first time?
Called himself Ralph. Pronounced Rayfe. Like the actor. Turned out he was really Ramon, from Rio. But that’s not so important.
What is? That he was damned good-looking. Taller than me. Broad shoulders. Body he worked at, nonstop. A face that reminded me of Springsteen at his loveliest with a damn near perfect ass. I don’t know what’s in the water down in Brazil, but they turn out some impossibly gorgeous men.
When he joined my gym, he’d been the kind of guy who came in, did his routine without much look-at-me bullshit, showered and left. Always in a pair of basketball shorts and simple t-shirt, old Nikes on his feet and black socks. No Lycra. No cut-out clothing. Just serious about his body.
I thought.
I didn’t know the telltale signs of a narcissist, back then. I was just twenty-one, living with a couple of roommates who didn’t care I was queer, sleeping on a roll-out futon in a one bedroom apartment off Hollywood, working at a bookstore on Sunset and trying to get someone-anyone to pay attention to my screenplays, of which I had four. None of them any good.
I was just getting to where some decent definition was showing in my body. Not sharp, like I am, now, but getting there. And I’ve always had good legs and a nice ass. No brag, just fact; I wanted the rest of my body to match them.
Ralph noticed me on the pull-down bars. I was wearing a pair of my old high school gym shorts, very ratty, over boxer briefs and a t-shirt that should have been made into a rag years ago as well as high-top Converse and black socks. The epitome of a Hollywood poseur.
He strolled over and said, “If you grip them a little wider, you do better.” In a truly elegant voice with a hint of Portuguese to it.
I smiled, nodded, and did so. And it felt right, so I said, “Thanks.”
“You got people to show you how to do this better?”
“Oh, a trainer? No, I can’t afford it.”
“Well, I can give you pointers,” he said, “if you like. Suggestions only.”
And while the words were innocuous, the look he was casting me told me exactly what he was interested in. So of course I said, “Sounds great.”
And he did give me some good advice on how to maximize my time at the gym. Spent an hour together and I had the best ever. Then when he asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat, I said, “Sure.” Even though all I had on me was twenty bucks, which was supposed to last three more days, till payday.
Fortunately, we went to a La Salsa that hadn’t closed yet. Had a nice chat about family – my three brothers still in school in Laguna Beach, parents working at John Wayne, my goals as a screenwriter; him being upper middle class Brazilian, not from a favella. He was very specific about that. He had one sister, was into finance, not the film biz, and loved surfing and building up. In fact, he’s the one who introduced me to Muscle Beach in Venice...where I was very outclassed but he wasn’t. He worked in an office by Playa Del Rey and had an apartment, close to there.
Which begged the question, “How’d you wind up at my gym, in Hollywood? That’s a trek, even in good traffic.”
“I know the owner. Help him to get his loan. I also give...what did he say? I am eye candy to bring in people.”
Oh, and was he ever eye candy. I was dizzy from the joy of knowing he’d chosen me to be friends with. I’d also noticed how the gym seemed busier than when I’d first joined, thanks to him. There was a wall of picture windows facing onto the street and he usually did his workout there.
We wound up back at his place...a nice comfortable apartment on a hill overlooking the wetlands...and when he invited me in it obvious to me he wanted more than just a kiss and some grab-ass. To be honest, I was ready for it. And, truth be told, after kissing and caressing and crushing crotch to crotch next to the plush couch for several minutes, I decided to take the initiative.
I shoved him back onto the couch. He fell in a pose that was too perfect – legs spread, half laying back, shirt a bit off-center to make his pecs seem even finer that I’d thought, and his jeans all but screaming UNDO ME!
Which I did, with lots of stroking on his amazing thighs. Up his sides. Over his pecs to flick at his nips, which were nice and perky. Then unbuttoned his shirt and kissed down his belly. I knew he shaved, but he was so pretty I didn’t care.
I spread his shirt open. Licked at each nip as I fondled his crotch, then undid his belt and the button to his jeans and slipped the zipper down to reveal a pair of brightly patterned bikini briefs. Which barely covered him, of course. I pulled at the elastic with my teeth, smelling him, sensing he was so nice and big. Not the biggest, ever, but in good proportion to the rest of him.
Being from Brazil, I knew he wouldn’t be cut, but I didn’t care, right then. I nuzzled the base of his shaft and kissed it and licked it and rubbed my nose over it...
And he grabbed my head with both hands, pulled me up into a kiss, and rolled me over onto the couch to lie on top of me. Then he tore my shirt open.
I managed to say, “Hey...” before he crushed his mouth against mine and yanked the shirt down my arms and twisted it into a sort of constraint then flipped me face down on the couch. He yanked my pants out of the way, tore my briefs off and, without a hint of lube or spit, rammed himself into me.
And boy did he fuck me...
Fast and hard, slamming his hips against my ass and biting at my shoulders...trapezius, actually...which I really wasn’t ready for and started to struggle.
But then a whole minute later, he shot his wad, inside of me. Slammed me three times as he grunted like a fucking pig, his breath short and sharp as if he’d done ten miles on the treadmill.
Then he collapsed atop me, still inside me, and muttered, “Shit, I really fuckin’ needed this.”
I was so shocked, I couldn’t think of what to say. Which was unusual, for me. But reality was, I’d just been raped. I didn’t call it that, at the time. Just way too fast for me to enjoy or even get a decent erection going. Which he did nothing about. Seriously, he did not touch my dick. It was still caught in my briefs. And I hurt.
Now I wasn’t a virgin, not a any measure. I mean, I’d been out since high school so no question I had experience. I’d been fucked by my school’s quarterback, whose dick was bigger, and done the casting couch thing, twice, to get my screenplays read. But those times had been by choice and each an actual pleasure.
This time? I just hurt. Not a lot, but noticeably different from before.
He licked my ear and nibbled at the nape of my neck, his breath still rough. He finally released my shirt to free my arms and wrapped himself around me in a surprisingly tender embrace. Then he finally rose, lifting me up with him. Kept himself inside me, somehow, and duck-walked me into the bedroom. Where he and I fell onto the bed. Then his dick let go of my ass.
I rolled away from him, angry.
“What the fuck was that?” I snapped.
“I do not like to be teased,” he smirked. “So I take matters in my own hands. Now I am ready for some real fun.”
“Fuck that,” I snapped. At which point I a line of cum trailing from within his foreskin. As if I needed proof he hadn’t used a rubber. “I’m out of here.”
He got up and grabbed at me. “Don’t be a cunt,” he snarled. “I give you what you want.”
I pulled my pants back up and tucked my shirt in so you couldn’t tell it had been ripped, snarling, “Bullshit. You gave me what you wanted. I could’ve made you really happy...”
He yanked me by the arm. “I want you to...”
“Tough shit, bitch. You killed it.”
"No, bitch, you kill it. You tease and blame me because I give you what you want."
He pushed me against the wall, crushing himself against me, snarling, "You still want this. Boys like you always want this."
And he shoved his, once again, very hard dick between my legs.
I twisted away and stormed out.
He howled after me, "You can not have it, again! Little bitch!"
I didn’t see him at the gym for the next two weeks, then he came in as I was in the middle of a workout. I ignored him, until I noticed him speaking with the gym’s owner. And they cast me irritated looks. Which I knew wasn’t from them wanting to share my ass; the owner was married with five kids and obviously very in love with his wife...not that that really means anything, these days.
So the owner came over and asked me, “Are you gay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”
Ralph strolled up, saying, “I told him how you like to scope other guys in the showers, me included.”
I actually growled. “It wasn’t in the gym that you—”
Bam, next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital ER. It seems Ralph had slapped me, I’d tripped over a dumbbell, fallen and hit my head on a weight. The owner freaked out, called EMS and I was carted away. Ralph was, apparently, nowhere to be seen and the story given was that I had fallen. By the time I woke, it was established as truth and all I wound up with was the world’s worst headache. For weeks, after, and Tramadol was barely helping.
Here’s where my inner monster too over. I didn’t file a police report. Once the headache had subsided to a manageable drone I tracked the motherfucker down. Wasn’t hard. He’d moved to another apartment but it was in the same area. So I stalked him.
Just for a couple weeks.
Get a feel for his routine. Which never changed. Work, gym, eat, home. Work, gym, eat, home.
Until one night I saw him pull into the parking area with a guy about my age and similar build. So it was time for kitty to play.
I calmly met them at the security entrance, saying, “Ralph, honey, is he for our three-way? He could be my brother...”
The guy’s eyes got big and he bolted while Ralph glared at me.
“What the fuck you up to?” hissed out of him, and his fists were bunching. But I knew he wouldn’t try anything with me. There was CCTV here, and he wouldn’t be able to brush off attacking me.
So I used my sweetest voice to say, “You were right, Ralph. I was a bitch, that night. You knocked some sense into me...and I now see what I was missing out on. I’d like to show you what real pleasure is.”
“What kind of bullshit you pull?”
I had my back over shoulder so opened it. “I’m wearing an old shirt, ratty jeans and briefs that beg to be torn. Boots and fat socks. And a change of clothes in my backpack. You want to play some fake rape, again? Let’s go. I actually got off on it. If you want, I’ll even fight back harder and cum in your face.”
That piqued his interest, but he was still wary. “You never call the cops on me...”
“Told you, that fall showed me what I’m missing.”
“It was weeks ago.”
“I had a headache. Needed to let it go...and now it’s gone.”
“Well...” he hemmed and hawed, and I have no idea what that phrase really means; my grandmother used it a lot for moments of hesitation. Then he ran his hand up my left side, in a gentle caress and added, “Don’t hurt to talk...”
And he let me in.
The fucking idiot.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
