Volkov Auto
The thing about hitting rock bottom is that it’s surprisingly loud. My personal rock bottom, for the record, was a year ago when the sound of my own Achilles tendon snapping during a non-contact drill—a sound like a gunshot in a library, followed by the deafening silence of a career flatlining. A close second was the sound of a married high school football coach, Mr. Davis to me in high school, eventually Bill when he started fucking my teenage arse right through to my professional career, finally zipping up his khakis and saying, “You understand this can’t happen again,” with the solemnity of a man reading a prisoner their last rites.
That second one was six months ago now, but sadly I still missed the feel of his fat cock exploding inside my tight ass and the sound of his grunts in my ear. Did I miss him? Maybe. Did I miss the feeling of a man’s dick buried inside me? Definitely. And did I miss football? You bet your sweet ass I do. But when you’re an injured former professional athlete there are some things you just don’t think about. Even when you want to.
Closeted gay athlete or not.
I can still remember Bill’s face when I asked him if he ever thought about leaving his wife and running away with me. I read it wrong. I thought he was thinking about it, especially when he rented that hotel room six months ago and fucked me senseless, the way a former football player like him would. He had stayed with me after the injury, carefully fucking me in secret even then, ensuring my leg was good. Six months later, we were back at it more regularly. I had told him my NFL career was done, and wondered what I should do next. When I mentioned my love for cars, he didn’t flinch, but booked us a hotel room the following weekend. I was in heaven, fully recovered, and ready for him. Right there when the door closed first, I turned around and showed him my still sculpted ass and he shoved that hard fat cock right up my former quarterback ass so fast he came in a roar of professed love. I was so turned on I let him push me onto the bed for a deep man to man pounding, face to face, watching him breed me and telling me he loved me. We cuddled, his body still muscular and beefy for a man of 45, but he avoided my romantic questions about our future. He then slammed me in the shower with the sounds of water splashing everywhere and those dirty grunts in my ear mixed with the feeling of his hot breath and tongue swooning me further. I had fallen asleep next to that big married brute, the only man that had been nailing me for the past 12 years of my 29 years on this planet. Was I in love? You bet your ass. I really thought he was too after saying it so much during the throes of his orgasms. When he woke me up in that seedy room by sliding back into my sore ass to give me round four and the most slow romantic fucking of my life up to that point with him, I was ready to marry the man as soon as he divorced his bitch of a wife.
It was right after he came in my ass for that fourth time, watching in awe as he covered up his magnificent body in his khakis, telling me he had to go and couldn’t spend the night, that he delivered the final blow: “You understand this can’t happen again, right?”
So, yeah. I’d had my fill of dramatic exits.
Which is why the simple, greasy quiet of an auto shop felt like a sanctuary. After my leg healed, I buried myself into my second love: cars. I started tinkering, then toying, then becoming downright obsessed with it. Anything to bury the shame at my failed professional football career and the hopes I had for a married man to leave his wife for me. But I guess Coach Bill Davis didn’t know what to do with a mechanic. He knew football. He knew plays. He lived and breathed football. Hell, he even FUCKED football, as much as he could, as if the sheer sight of me in uniform was the catalyst for getting his dick up. Maybe it was?
I was done hiding. I needed a true sanctuary, a place to hone my craft and love of vehicles. So, when Volkov Auto put an ad out, I knew the place and thought this was the sanctuary I needed. I was going to dive into my love of cars, and be who I was regardless of the comments. No more married men. I was a 6’2” 220 pound former athlete. I could take anyone on who called me a fag to my face.
The problem with a sanctuary, I was learning though, is that they sometimes come with their own brand of temptation and homophobia.
Volkov Auto was exactly what the name promised: a no-nonsense, cinder-block temple to internal combustion. It smelled of gasoline, honest sweat, and decades of spilled motor oil. It was the antithesis of a football field, and my married lover, and I loved it.
The first person I saw, a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man with a shiny gold wedding band and the look of someone I would normally spread my legs for, made the words come out like I was some nervous wreck. "Hey, I'm looking for Ivan Volkov? I have an interview."
My interview was with the owner, Ivan Volkov. I’d done my homework. Former KHL enforcer, who became a top brute for the NHL, at least for one penalty inducing season. Like me, he too suffered some injury, or injuries, and that was it. Took over his dad’s shop. The online photo from the garage was grainy, but it suggested a man built primarily to withstand collisions. I did a wider search, seeing some older photos from his hockey days, very few without a helmet.
The photos did not do him justice as the masculine married mechanic I had blurted out to pointed a thick finger sideways.
Ivan Volkov was standing with his back to me, bent over the engine bay of a classic Chevy pickup before he heard me and turned, and my first, purely intellectual thought was: Oh. So that’s what a mountain looks like in coveralls.
He was… a lot of man. I consider myself a tall guy at 6’2”. But this guy, this giant had to be at least 6'5", with shoulders that seemed genetically engineered to block doorways. The grey coveralls were stretched taut across a back that belonged on a Viking funerary ship. Thick, dark hair, a little messy. As he straightened up and turned, I got the full picture. A face that had clearly lost an argument with a hockey puck or three, and hands that looked like they could strangle a bear and then gently reassemble its watch.
My brain, which has a terrible habit of narrating my life like a bad rom-com, immediately supplied: Well, hello, new core memory. My ass twitched involuntarily.
“Troy Jenkins?”
His voice was a low rumble, the auditory equivalent of idle diesel. It did things to me. Unprofessional, knee-weakening things that went beyond just my ass twitching.
“That’s me,” I said, hoping my smile looked more like ‘capable mechanic’ and less like ‘kid in a candy store’ drooling over the selection. “You must be Ivan.”
He gave a single, slow nod. His eyes, a cool, assessing grey, scanned me. I was used to this. The former-athlete-to-former-athlete appraisal. He was taking in my height, my build, the way I carried myself. I wondered if he saw the scared kid embarrassed by my own blown-out career in my stance. At 29 years old, I suddenly felt like I was 10 standing under this behemoth’s gaze.
“Saw your resume. Quarterback.” He said it like a fact, not a question.
“Used to be,” I shrugged. “Now I’m better with a timing light than a touchdown pass.”
A grunt. It was neither approval nor dismissal. It was a sound that demanded more.
So I gave him more. I talked about engines, about the logical beauty of a well-tuned carburetor, about the satisfaction of fixing what was broken. I was selling myself, but it was the truth. After the chaos of my personal life, the clear cause-and-effect of a mechanical problem was a blessing.
He listened, his arms crossed over his chest, making the material of his coveralls strain in a way that should be illegal. I found myself distracted by the corded muscle of his forearm, the sheer, solid thereness of him, and the way his chest seemed to bubble out like his two firm pecs were just waiting to explode out of those overalls. I needed dick, and soon, if I was going to survive working here and NOT picture myself getting railed by my boss as I stuck my head under a hood.
Get a grip, Jenkins. He’s your potential boss. A man who probably bench-presses transmissions for fun. He is not checking you out. He is checking your potential for torque.
He finally uncrossed his arms and picked up a torque wrench, handing it to me handle-first. A test.
“Setting for spark plugs on a small block Chevy like this?” he asked, nodding toward the truck.
It was a gimme. A layup. “Twenty-two foot-pounds,” I said without missing a beat, taking the wrench. Our fingers didn’t brush. He was too careful for that. But the air between us felt charged, like the moment before a summer storm.
He held my gaze for a beat too long, and something flickered in those grey eyes. Not interest, not the kind I was hopelessly fantasizing about anyway. It was something else. A recognition, maybe. The look of one shipwrecked man seeing another on a distant shore.
Then it was gone, replaced by pure professional appraisal.
“Can you start Monday?” he rumbled.
A genuine smile broke across my face. “Absolutely.”
He gave another one of those world-altering nods and turned back to the Chevy’s engine, dismissing me. The interview was over.
I walked out of Volkov Auto into the sunlight, the scent of gasoline clinging to my clothes. I had a job. I was doing what I loved. And I was in deep, deep trouble. Because the one thing that could possibly screw this up was the one thing I wanted most: to see what it felt like to have that big, beautiful mountain of a man finally look at me, and really see me.
Right. No way that was happening. Maybe I did need to get my dick sucked just so I could release some tension and focus on my job on Monday.
To be continued..
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
