Page 32 of Dickathlon

Gio smiled. “Yup. Feel free to drop to your knees and thank me,” he said, grabbing his crotch.

“What’d you say?”

“It was just a joke, bro. Didn’t mean nothing by it. Go ahead and find a room to drop your bag in. None of the guys are picky and each room has its own bathroom anyway.”

What a fucking pig.

I saw the huge pile of items on the kitchen island ready to be sorted and put away, but I wasn’t about to offer them help. Not now, anyway. Instead, I headed up the stairs to find my room for the week.

I wasn’t sure if Pierce told them I was bi. Maybe that was Gio’s way of making a joke?

But I assumed Pierce told them all about what had happened at the Winter Cup if they didn’t know already, though it was unclear how close Pierce was with each guy. In any case, I didn’t mind picking the best room, because I’m sure that’s what he would tell them to let me do. That’s what I told myself anyway.

I claimed one on the ocean side of the house. It had three huge windows and a small balcony.

If I was going to stay in a house with a bunch of possible frat pigs, I was going to enjoy it.

That first night, Gio found me and apologized. He had never spent much time around an “LGBT person” - his words - and he was trying to make a joke. I told him grabbing one’s dick was probably not the best first impression, but he was so embarrassed and said the word sorry like twenty times, I let him off the hook. He even offered me a hug, which I accepted if only to make him feel better. I could tell he was trying.

After a few days, I had developed a nice routine. I’d wake up early, go for a walk on the beach, come back to make some breakfast and catch the guys on their way out to surf. Once they left, I either read, watched TV, lounged in the jacuzzi, or relaxed around the house. If they skipped surfing, they usually went to the beach to scope out babes. They’d usually have lunch out, and sometimes I’d meet them or I’d eat at the house alone. Most afternoons, I headed to the beach and stayed until sunset. My skin had already soaked up enough sun to darken a few shades. In the evening, we’d either stay in and drink, or go out and drink.

And then there was nighttime.

I was glad to have brought my noise-canceling earbuds. Despite the size of the house, the lungs of most of the overnight female guests were large enough that I required the earbuds to sleep. I could also hear some of the guys’ grunts and moans, and I hoped to god they weren’t Pierce’s. That was pretty much the only reason I ignored my hard dick. It couldn’t help itself, surrounded by the cacophony of rutting nubile beach-gods. But I just couldn’t rub one out, thinking it might be Pierce’s fucking that was getting me all horned up.

So, I might’ve been semi-hard the next day, walking on the beach, and cursing myself for wanting some sun on my legs. The speedo I was wearing wasn’t concealing much as I continued thinking about the noises from the night before. I enjoyed both gender’s euphoric yells, but I definitely got harder hearing manly voices say things like, “suck my cock” and “that’s it, take the whole thing.”

I had heard that stuff in porn, but in real life…my balls were practically aching.

Maybe I can have Pierce tell me when he’s struck out?

Then I could enjoy myself, though I’d probably have to explain why.

I might’ve still been semi-hard when I bumped into someone - a shorter, paler someone - knocking him over.

“Shit, bro.” Instinctively, I grabbed for him, attempting to catch him before he hit the sand, then I remembered my shoulder and stopped. “I’m so sorry.”

“I got him.” I watched as a muscular shirtless jock-god bent over - fuck, that’s a nice ass - and picked him up. He turned to me and our eyes met. “Tyler?”

I stared, speechless.

His pecs, his abs, the tattoo disappearing into his tiny trunks, his legs. It was him. He was here.

“Tyler, as in the Tyler?” the pale-nerdy-twink said, brushing the sand off.

“Shut up, Freddie!”

This bitch better not be with my Declan.

“How have you-” My voice cracked. For fuck’s sake. I cleared my throat. “How’ve you been, Declan?”

“I’ve been good. I’d ask how you’ve been, but”—he gestured to my shoulder—“I was sorry to see that.”

“He was depressed for weeks about it.”

“Shut. Up. Freddie!”

I couldn’t help but smile, but I was confused. “Did you get a new phone number?”