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Additional note: This is a dumb jock one-off with more suggestiveness than actual sex. It's more silly than graphic, so probably not very erotic, but hopefully it satisfies – and is a little unexpected.
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ACTING 101
"This is some messed up shit."
Talk about your goddamn understatements.
Our acting teacher, Mr. Miller, got sick of Basketball and me only doing scenes with the hot chicks in class. He said if we dug acting as much as we claimed, we had to do scenes with dudes, too, so he assigned us to work together for our midterm. It's a two-man scene about two brothers with a love/hate relationship. Basically when they aren't trying to kill each other they're cracking each other up, just like real brothers. We read it over a couple of times pretty quick and right away were convinced we were going to blow Miller away we'd be so good. It wasn't until we got together to rehearse it for the first time that we bothered to read a stage direction buried in the middle of the younger brother's first speech. It was just two words, but, man, what words: "fucking him." As in the younger brother fucking his older brother.
We were in the student lounge, swigging bottles of Coke, neither one of us knowing what the fuck to say. Basketball was the one who finally broke the silence. He had the bottle halfway to his mouth when he muttered, "You're not fucking me, that's for damn sure." Then he took a sip.
I told him not to worry, that I wasn't about to fuck him. I started to take a sip of my own Coke just then when suddenly the bottle in my hand looked exactly like an erect penis to me. Not just pointed at my mouth but actually resting on my bottom lip. Fuck, that wiped the grin off my face. I put the bottle down and wiped my hands on my shorts as if I was trying to wipe away the feeling of holding another dude's dick.
The blonde from my econ class I'd banged out in the parking lot passed along with the cute little Latina whose tits always seem to be calling out my name. Their shorts were shorter than their underwear. My kind of style. Basketball checked them out too, starting at their tops and dwelling on their bottoms and licking the rim of his Coke the whole time, real slow like. But at that moment the bottle looked exactly like a dick to me so I started laughing. He wanted to know what was so funny. When I told him, he looked like he was going to throw the bottle at me. Instead, he just called me an asswipe and took a swig. Damn, nobody sips from a bottle the way Basketball used to. He didn't just rest it on his lip and drink; he'd put the whole neck of the bottle in his mouth for a solid inch – and then suck it in further. He had a good two inches in his mouth when he noticed me staring at him slack-jawed. Then he spotted the bottle working its way down his throat – he was practically deep throating it. He must have thought it looked like a cock, too, because he spit that thing out so fast, the bottle slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor, covering him with the sticky soda. Talk about your funny shit.
So there we were. A couple of college freshmen who had the choice of fucking their GPA's, their scholarships and their whole college careers, or fucking each other.
Goddamn.
The only reason either one of us took the fucking acting class in the first place was for the easy solid B. That, and the pussy. And now this was the fucking class that was going to fuck us both over? I finally got the meaning of the word "ironic." My seventh grade English teacher would be proud of me.
I'm telling you, we didn't have any goddamn choice.
I told Basketball if he told anybody about this – ANYbody – I would personally bite his nuts off, chew them up and spit them right back in his face. "So you're already fantasizing about my nuts in your mouth?" he said. "Nice. I knew you were a fag."
I told him to dream on. I wanted to give my Coke a good shake and spray it all over him. I even got my thumb over the top and started the up and down motion, but then I noticed how much it felt like jacking off and realized how much the white spray coming out the top would look like me shooting a load all over Basketball, so I stopped.
Basketball said I was crazy if I thought he was going to tell anybody what we were about to do. He had his own reputation to uphold and burying his love piston up another guy's poop chute wasn't part of it. Can you believe that? The guy actually called his cock a love piston. Classy.
The first thing we had to decide was who was playing the younger brother and who was playing the older brother. Basically, which one of us was going to be fucking and which one of us was going to be the one getting fucked. A coin toss was out since neither one of us would accept tails – gee, I wonder why? – so we decided to fight for it. It made sense. Basketball fought on the court, I fought on the field and the characters we'd be playing in the scene fought each other their whole lives. Whoever won our fight would be the brother who did the fucking, and whoever lost – well, we tried not to think too much about that part of it.
I peeled off my shirt while Basketball dropped his shorts. When he switched to his shirt, I went for my shorts. Only, get this, when my shorts were right about to my knees, that asshole Basketball let go of his shirt and tackled me. He got me on my back and his hand between my legs and the next thing you knew, we were rehearsing the scene exactly as written in the stage direction: fucking each other.
If I haven't made it clear to you yet, I wasn't on-board with the fucking part one little bit, but I was on-board with maintaining my scholarship and graduating college and keeping my chance for the NFL alive, so I focused on the acting. Our teacher, Mr. Miller, always talked about getting into character. Trying to imagine how the person you're pretending to be would think or feel in any given situation. So while Basketball was straining to push what felt like an actual basketball up my ass, I got through the pain by asking myself what my character would do in the same circumstances. How would I feel about my younger brother fucking me? In real life, the answer would be "definitely not thrilled." My little brother's face is beginning to resemble the greasy pepperoni pizzas he treats himself to four nights a week. At least Basketball had looks going for him. I stayed focused on that, imagining how I'd feel if I were a chick getting pounded by a guy who looks like Basketball.
When we finished, we were both breathing hard and sweating buckets – and not looking at each other. After a few minutes I heard Basketball say, "Goddamnit..." He was looking across the room. I followed his gaze and saw instantly what he was looking at: our copies of the script still on the desk. We forgot to do the lines. We were so worried about the fucking part of the rehearsal that we totally spaced the actual dialogue. We turned to each other, both knowing what that meant. We had to rehearse it again. Fuck.
The second rehearsal may have been equally awkward but at least it went a little smoother. I knew to push out by then as if I were taking a dump. And he knew to go a little slower and give it a little twist when he was about an inch and a half in. When he went past that point, my right leg shook just like it did the first time we did it. Just like my folks' Golden Retriever's leg shakes when you scratch him on his side belly. I started to laugh when I thought that. Basketball laughed too, which was odd since he didn't have a clue why I was laughing. Bottom line is we did rehearse the scene a second time – but again we forgot about the script. At least our copies were closer to us that time instead of across the room.
After a few more minutes, Basketball said maybe the problem was I was on my back and he was holding up my legs. Maybe if I was on my knees, doggy-style, I could have the text on the floor below me and he could have his copy on my back and we could just read it that way. So that's what we tried. Fail again. It wasn't that I forgot to read it, but the drool coming out of my mouth got the paper wet and then I unexpectedly shot cum myself, my load hitting me in the nostril and then dripping down on the page. Trying to clean up the mess on my face and wipe my eye clean, my hand became a sticky mess. Then I got off balance and had to catch myself, so my sticky mess of a hand landed on the page. My copy of the script was pretty much toast after that. Soggy toast.
Turns out Basketball didn't do any better. I thought he was reading from the script because all his "Oh man"s and "Fuck yeah"s sounded so perfect and unlike him, but it turns out he was just adlibbing. We figured by then we'd rehearsed enough. Besides, he had practice and I had a date.
The chick I was seeing, Martha, and I went out for Korean. I don't get the point of eating on dates when all you really want to do is fuck, but it makes girls happy, so I go. I'd do just about anything to get in a chick's tighty-whiteys. Even listen to their non-stop talking about clothes or hair or feelings or who knows what. I say "yeah" and "huh?" and "oh," but not much else. I mean, really, who can pay attention? Not that I have to do much else with women other than grunt a couple of times. The honeys practically drop their shorts for me. Man, do girls love them the athletes.
So anyway, it was after dinner and there I was, finally fucking Martha and I got to thinking about the scene me and Basketball had to do. I thought, wow, I really am a college man now. I'd heard about dudes who study so hard they wind up thinking about their homework while they fuck. Physics guys thinking about how to put cars on Mars. Engineering majors who want to build bridges from New York to London or Tokyo or wherever. Their minds just wander. And here I was, thinking about acting. While fucking Martha, I kept thinking about the scene with Basketball. Ways to make it better. How I could be more convincing. She was on her back looking right at me and I hoped that's what I looked like to Basketball, because if I did, it meant I looked convincing. I guess the idea of doing a good job acting got me kind of jazzed because my dick got harder. Even Martha noticed while I was pounding away. "Yeah, baby, go for the extra point..." I'd heard acting could help in other aspects of your life. Now I was finding out just how true it was. Just that one scene with Basketball and my work with the ladies was going through the roof.
Martha wanted me to spend the night, but I was too distracted by my homework. "Oo, brains too," she said, stepping back and looking at me in a whole new light. I would have stayed – honest – but I knew I wouldn't have been any good. I had a scene to figure out.
It was about one o'clock in the morning when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Basketball wanting to know if I wanted to squeeze in some more rehearsal time before our morning class. I told him I was down. Since my roommate was spending the night somewhere else, Basketball came to my place and we rehearsed until morning. We couldn't find the script so we just winged it. We got so into the scene, neither one of us slept.
We rehearsed the next afternoon, too. From two o'clock to five o'clock. I just blew off my American Studies class. I mean, I could afford to miss it and had to secure my good grade for my acting class and that meant perfecting this scene by doing it again and again. See, I'm a perfectionist when it comes to things I dig. I will do the thing over and over and over until it is just right. That's how I felt about football. And I could tell I was digging acting just as much. Maybe even more.
That night out with Martha again, this time at the movies, I got a call from Basketball. "Hey, Football, I had an idea for how we could approach the scene. Want to work on it?" I said it was funny he called because I was thinking about calling him. I'd been thinking about the scene, too, and also had lots of ideas. I said maybe we could work on it later. "Oh, okay." He was silent for a few seconds, then said, "I was kind of hoping we could rehearse it right now." I told him I dug that idea but was on my date with Martha. He said that wasn't a problem. He'd meet me in the restroom. He was sure we could knock the scene out in less than five minutes. I said, "Cool."
Twenty minutes later he sent me a text he was in the bathroom. Believe it or not, Basketball was so committed to getting in another rehearsal, he actually bought a ticket for the movie just so he could get in the theater's bathroom and have five minutes with me to rehearse. And boy did we rehearse it. We rehearsed the hell out of that scene. Actually, we rehearsed for more than five minutes. Martha bitched at me for taking so long, but considering the improvements Basketball and I made on the scene, it was worth it. It might have been our best rehearsal yet.
The next night Basketball was on a date with the Latina from the student union and it was my turn to call him and suggest a rehearsal. We rehearsed in his car while she was in the restaurant eating dessert. Later, the two of them went to her girlfriend's apartment for a little house party. I followed and parked my car around the corner. Basketball made an excuse to go out to his car and went to mine instead where we got in some more rehearsal time. After he left, I put the key in the ignition and fired up the engine, ready to drive back to my dorm, but I couldn't help thinking we hadn't explored the full depths of the scene. So instead of leaving, I texted Basketball, asking if he was up for another rehearsal. He was, so I turned off the car and waited. I think we ended up rehearsing about five times that night. Once we rehearsed on the trunk of the car.
We were always rehearsing back then. Or texting each other with new ideas about the scene. Calling each other in the middle of each other's classes to describe in detail new approaches to it. We rehearsed in the locker room, in the acting class after everyone left, in the elevator of the parking structure. I'm telling you, Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe never rehearsed as much as we did.
In acting class one day, our teacher Mr. Wilson said sometimes it helped actors in plays to switch parts with each other to get a better handle on what the other characters feel and go through. Basketball and I glanced at each other across the room and both nodded at the same time.
So at our next rehearsal I was the younger brother and he was the older brother. He did the part on his back and on his knees and on his side. He really knew the role well by then. Shit, we both knew each other's role as well as our own – so well, we could have done them in our sleep. Not that we ever did sleep those first three weeks. We didn't have time. We were rehearsing and rehearsing.
But one night, we finally did fall asleep. We were at Basketball's place. We were in his bed, having crashed with his arm wrapped around me. I woke up in the middle of the night. I figured I might as well go home since we were obviously not rehearsing anymore and usually I don't sleep all that well if I'm not in my own bed, but I was simply too shot to move. Besides, Basketball's arm felt just like my pillow. Firm, round. And his leg was just like the cushion I put between my legs. When I thought about it, sleeping there wasn't going to be much different than if I went back to my place. So instead of leaving, I pulled the sheet and blanket over us. He'd turned over so now it was my arm wrapped around his chest the same way I used to hold my teddy bear when I was a kid. My head hit the pillow, my nose hit his hair and I was out like a light.
In the morning, we were both a little weirded out by the whole thing. I mean, sleeping over at a guy's place? In his bed? What the fuck, right? But my logic was that Basketball and I weren't just two guys any more, we were study buddies. My roommate's a biology major and he's always crashing in the library with his buds. So Basketball and me spending the night together after a long night of rehearsal wasn't any different, was it? He screwed up his face thinking about it and finally said, "I guess..."
That night we rehearsed into the early morning hours again, so again just fell asleep. That time I was the teddy bear being held.
Martha texted wanting to know when we were going out again, but I just didn't have the time. I was rehearsing with Basketball every spare minute. She said I spent so much time acting, you'd think I was a faggot. Man, the prejudice some people have against actors. If you're a guy who acts, you have to be a fag. Right. Like Russell or Denzel are fags. Or Morgan or Liam or Brad. Or that Jack Nicholson guy or my dad's favorite, Humphrey Bogart. They just took their craft seriously and that's what Basketball and I were doing. If she didn't get it, then screw her.
By then, Basketball and I were rehearsing every night. Every morning and afternoon, too. Sometimes when we got together to rehearse we just ended up talking instead. He told me about his perfect Brady Bunch family and I told him about my life as an only kid. I found out how much he liked apple pie. I even surprised him with a slice a few times. Man, the way he smiled when I did. Other times we went to my favorite restaurant to talk about the scene but somehow we'd never get around to talking about the actual scene until we got back to his place. It was always music or TV. What the dude at the deli counter was wearing. Anything. Talking to each other came so natural to both us, we'd lose track of time. By the time we got around to rehearsing, we'd be zonked and fall asleep in his bed. Sometimes during the actual rehearsal. I mean, right in the middle of it, if you catch my meaning. One of us would wake up, realize we'd left the job undone and get right back to it, waking up the other in the process. I think I liked those rehearsals best. They really showed our mutual commitment to not just the scene, but to each other's success.
One Friday Basketball called me. "Hey, man, it's me. Sorry – I'm super bummed – but I gotta go home this weekend so I won't be able to rehearse or anything." I said it was cool, that I understood, but really I was pretty bummed myself. I mean, I didn't know about him but I needed the rehearsals. Big time. When I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep. It was the first time in maybe four weeks I'd crashed in my own place, I realized, but that shouldn't have been a problem. The pillow beneath my head felt like Basketball's arm. The other pillow I held against my chest had a nubby cover which reminded me of Basketball's chest, complete with pokey nipples and hair running to below his waist. But I couldn't sleep. I even tried burying my nose in my hairy arm to replicate the hair on the back of his neck, but no go. Why wasn't I sleeping? I never did figure it out, but it was a fucked up three nights, I'll tell you that much.
Monday night I slept much better. Basketball was back by then. We got in some rehearsal time, some ESPN time, some beer time. When we hit the sack, I slept like a babe. Not a chick babe. Little kid babe. I just kinda buried my nose in his Ivory-scented neck and was out. I still don't know why that was so much easier than at my place.
The following weekend, Basketball had to go home again. He was breaking the news to me on the phone when he suddenly interrupted himself and said, "Fuck that shit. You're coming with me. We need the rehearsal time, man." I didn't disagree.
His relatives were all cool. And totally complimentary. "Oo, a real football player. Wow, you're the size of a house." It was nothing I hadn't heard all my life, but they were all sweet as fuck about it. And really supportive of our need to study. Especially our need to rehearse. They even suggested we share Basketball's old room so we'd have privacy whenever we felt the need to rehearse. Which was a lot, I guarantee you. The only problem was there wasn't much space to tussle like we usually did. I mean, the room was only ten by twelve with his measly old full-sized mattress squeezed in between an old bureau and a desk. Between his 6', 180 and my 6'2", 230, I'm amazed the bed frame didn't break. Maybe it held together because we kept things kinda tight. Fighting with our fingers and toes instead of arms and legs. I think the limitations helped us explore different aspects of our characters and really understand why the two brothers were so close.
Finally, it was time to do our scene for the class. "Okay, Basketball, Football. Show me what you got." Wilson's the clown who gave us the nicknames. I think he did it because he doesn't like jocks and was trying to embarrass us or something, but B and I just laughed and used the names along with everyone else in the class. I think that pissed off Wilson; that he didn't get under our skin. Whatever.
So we started our scene and right away, Basketball's got my pants down and his fly unzipped. There's gasping from the audience. A couple of the chicks laughed, so I knew we had them in the palms of our hands. And then Wilson chimed in with a loud, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He was out of his seat and practically running into our play space. He pushed us apart. "What the hell are you two doing?"
Duh. The scene, we told him.
He said that wasn't the scene he assigned us. It was no good arguing with the asshole, so I dug the script out of my backpack and showed it to him. I pointed out the stage direction in the first speech. The one that read "fucking him." I knew it so well that I didn't even have to look at it. I just pointed to it, knowing exactly where it was on the page. Wilson read it then looked at me, his mouth hanging open. He didn't say anything. Then he looked at Basketball. Finally, glancing back and forth between me and B, he said, "fucking WITH him. WITH. As in, giving him a hard TIME. Not a hard DICK."
Basketball and I looked at each other, then read the stage direction for ourselves. There it was. In black and white. "Fucking with him." Basketball's rod wasn't pointing up any more, just hanging out of his pants. My own pants and shorts were still half-way down my thighs.
Wilson said, "I've heard of dumb jocks before, but Jesus Christ..."
Okay, so Basketball and I aren't details guys. Reading was never our thing and I guess it showed that day. I tried to salvage something from the disaster by saying we ought to get credit for commitment and taking direction if nothing else. Wilson gave us a break. He said we could redo the scene the next class. I think he called us morons or fuckwads under his breath, but I didn't have the balls to ask him to repeat it. First time a twerp of 5'6" made me feel humiliated.
A week later, after we did the scene Wilson's way – the way the playwright wrote it – he said we did a good job. Not just better than he expected, but actually good. "Who knows, you guys might have futures as actors after all."
And that was that. No more rehearsals.
Basketball and I went back to our lives and started making up all the work we'd been letting slide in our other classes. Practices, gym sessions. Everything was keeping us too busy to get together for drinks or anything. But I was having a hard time sleeping. For some reason, I'd keep waking up sniffing my pillow.
Finally, late one night I sent him a text. "Got any Ivory?" He wrote back right away that he did. He responded so quickly, you'd think he'd been waiting for me to text. I texted back that I needed some and since his place was closer than the 7/Eleven, maybe I could drop by his place to pick up a bar of his. He was cool with that.
I ran over there barefoot in just a t and my gym shorts. Turns out they weren't even gym shorts. I pulled them on so fast, I didn't realize I ran out of the dorm wearing only my boxers. When I got to Basketball's place, we kinda talked for a bit. Not about anything special. Just the Knicks. What Denzel was going to be in next. Ryan Gosling. Mark Wahlberg. You know, the usual. Then B said, "Oh yeah, the soap." He went into the bathroom and was back in a second with a used bar. "Here you go." I said thanks, turning the dry bar around and around in my hand as I took in the room, remembering all our different rehearsals. There wasn't any reason for me to stay but for some reason I wasn't going. I kept twirling the soap in my hand. When I did look down at the bright white bar, something dark caught my eye. I stopped fidgeting with it. There was one of his short and curlies embedded into the top.
We both stood there in his dark room with just the lava lamp for light. The hum of his aquarium filter for sound. Finally, B looked at me, the white of his eyes as bright as the soap in all that darkness, and said, "Wanna rehearse?"
Boy did I. But he knew that. I was wearing boxers. There was nothing to keep my fly closed. So B knew damn well I wanted to rehearse.
The next morning, my nose buried in his neck and my voice groggy with sleep, I said, "Hey, Basketball. You know, I don't even know your name." He rolled over. He put his knee between my legs and one hand behind my neck and grinned. "I'm Gerry," he said. "What's yours, Football?"
I smiled back. "I'm A.J. Nice to meet you." And then we kissed. About an hour later, he pulled his mouth just far enough away to ask, "You want to rehearse again?"
I said, "Screw acting. Let's fuck."
We both laughed like hell. We kissed again. We teased, we licked. We got talking about school and our careers. We shared our plans for the future and our worries if things didn't work out. We talked about breakfast and lunch and getting a dog. We joked about moving in together for about an hour until we were both sure the other one wasn't just joking around. Then we kissed some more. We never did get around to the fucking part. Or the rehearsing part. Instead, for the first time – but definitely not the last – we made love.
END
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I love to hear your reaction, good or bad, so please share. It means a lot to me. I answer all questions.
Below are a few of my other stories, all of which are listed under my name, Abba Dabba, in the Prolific Authors section. If you enjoyed the less graphic nature of this story, you might check out "Whisper" or "Singlets." If you want graphic, read "Eighteen" or "Little Dude" or "The Hand." I have others as well.
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/encounters/whisper
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/singlets
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/eighteen
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/the-hand/the-hand-1
Also, visit me on tumblr where I have images which convey the tone I try to capture in my stories.
http://dabbaabba.tumblr.com/