Date: Thu, 16 Feb 2017 08:38:58 +0100 (CET)
From: z.blake@tutanota.com
Subject: Talking Trash About the Team

TALKING TRASH ABOUT THE TEAM
By Zachyboy
M/b(12), coach, player, oral, anal, first time, virgin

The following story is a work of fiction. It's also one of my most romantic
love stories nobody's ever wanted to read, lol.

I know, I know. It starts out with two grown men jacking off and being
crude together. But Jesus, give it a chance. I swear there's a pretty boy
in it, and I promise he's worth the wait.

In the meantime, enjoy the comedy opening of Bob and Freddy and donate to
the Nifty Archive Alliance. From serious and sexy to silly and back again,
Nifty makes our dreams come true.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

This revised version has been cleaned up a little from the original, to fix
a few glaring errors and to add a few more sweet moments between a loving
coach and his very first boy.

On with the show.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Big Bob Rumple and Fast Freddy Footman were doing what they always did best
at a hair past midnight on a Saturday evening; sitting on the couch at
Bob's place, pants and boxers on a pile on the floor, legs up on the
chipped oak coffee table, clinking the ice cubes in a couple of Malibu and
Cokes and stroking their cocks, looking at the middle school yearbook and
bragging about the boys they'd fucked.

They'd hauled out the old middle school yearbook like they always did on
their Saturday get-togethers...a well-worn softcover, a little crusty with
dried cum and lube, because it'd been thumbed-through (and dicked-through)
pretty extensively during their frequent get-togethers. Bob and Freddy were
a dorkified bromance that went back decades.

Bob and Freddy were the best of friends and good old fuck buddies, and as
usual on a weekend without any dates (man, woman or child, truth be told),
usually as a preamble to whomever wanted to fuck the other one first,
they'd spend their pre-game bragging about the boys they'd known. Or almost
known. Or nearly fucked. Or probably not fucked at all, as the case would
usually be.

They were big on fantasies, these two faithful nut-squirters, but usually
not big on authenticity. There was probably a whisper of truth or a lick of
legitimate nut sack flavor to some of the boys they bragged about fucking,
but they wouldn't pass a lie detector test, let me put it to you that way.

"Little Brandon," for instance, Bob said as he flipped to 7th Grade, page
24, and squeezed out another dollop of lube to lather his meat stick, "Now
there was a kid who put the "balls" in "baseballs."

"Oh fuck yeah," sighed Freddy, as he matched pace with the Bobber. "I
remember Brandon the year we played left field, right? Before you got us
kicked off the team for groping that handicapped kid."

"I was helping him out of his wheelchair and onto the bleachers," Bob
protested. "How was I supposed to know my thumb might accidentally slip up
his ass crack?"

Freddy wasn't buying it. "You stuck your whole hand down his pants,
Bob. You stuck the whole god damn thing down his pants."

"Momentarily lost my manners," Bob grunted. "Lack of good judgment, I
suppose. I was 12, Fred. Shit happens."

Bob paused in mid-stroke and took a sip of his rum and coke.

"He was a randy little rascal, that Brandon," he sighed. "And why wouldn't
he be? The coach had been fucking him since he was 9 years old by the time
you and I met him."

"Seriously?" asked Freddy, looking honestly flabbergasted.

"Oh, fuck yeah," said Bob, slowing his own pace down for fear he might
shoot too quickly. "Coach was nailing Brandon up the boycunt from age
9-on-up."

"Huh," Freddy pondered. "Woulda never guessed it. He wasn't overly
pretty. I mean, cute, yeah. But not like you and me were back then. How
come Coach never fucked US?"

"His loss," Bob shrugged, "the blind old bastard. But keep in mind,
Brandon's already 12 in the yearbook. By that time Coach was tossing him
out like yesterday's NYT with the crossword puzzle half done."

"Tragedy they all grow up so damn quick," Freddy muttered.

"But back in the 9, 10, 11-year-old days," Bob continued, "Brandon was
highly presentable, especially from the back view."

Freddy nodded.

"I'm a firm believer," Bob stated definitively, "that any 10 or 11-year-old
with his legs spread apart and your cock sinking into him is pretty as a
picture. Brandon may not have presented very well here at 12, but it's a
bad camera angle, and when Coach fucked his ass for the first time at nine,
I bet The Proceedings looked stunning. Hell, imagine those sweet little
whimpers Brandon must have made when Coach pumped him with a cum enema the
first dozen times. That'll make any boy look ten times prettier,
lickity-split."

"Here's to Brandon!" Freddy toasted, a little bit drunk, but happy to raise
a salute.

"I fucked him, you know," Bob boasted, grabbing his cock and twirling it
back into hardness.

"Oh, bullshit Bob, you never did," Freddy rolled his eyes. Bob was always
one for the "fucked him too" routine.

"Oh, yes I did, oh ye of little faith," Bob assured him, leaning back,
closing his eyes, and yanking on his shiny knob. "First time Coach did him,
Brandon told his dad. Said Coach put his wiener up his butt and he didn't
care for it. Said he didn't like the way it fit. But fuck, that just made
his dad horny himself. He asked Brandon for all the filthy details, got
himself good and horned-up, pulled down his kid's pants, licked his ass a
time or two, and fucked the shit out of him on the spot. After that,
Brandon learned to keep his after school sodomy reports to himself."

"Don't blame him,' Freddy said. "His dad was a big fella."

"Sure as shit was," said Bob. "His dad rode him off to dreamland with the
ol' 7-inch Sedative almost every night after that. Poor kid, thinking he
was doing the right thing telling his dad. Whoof. Sometimes it's better
just to shut your mouth and hedge your bets."

"I hear you there, pal," Freddy said, sighing. Truer words had never been
spoken, since Freddy himself got a little too flirty with an uncle back in
his own childhood, and wound up riding the mancock hobby horse for three
Christmases in a row, until he shit the bed the last time and his uncle
figured it was too much trouble to fuck him, then clean it all up.

"Point is," said Bob. "After Coach and his dad got him warmed up, there was
no stopping Brandon that last year he lived here. I was 12 and he was 12,
and boys will be boys. He had me over for snacks and Monopoly after school
one day, and believe me, it wasn't too long before I had him bent over his
bunk bed and he was taking requests."

"You nailed him good, huh?" Freddy said, hardening. It may have been
fiction when Bob talked, but at least it was the kind of fiction that made
your dick hard.

"Oh yeah, Freddy. I gave him a couple of good ones, right up his Hershey
squirter. He cooed like a pigeon."

The two men stared at the picture in the yearbook. Smiling boy. Young and
12. They stroked in silent reverence, remembering his face in the middle
school hallways. Wondering what it might have been like back then to truly
be inside him. Freddy didn't have a clue and Bob was lying through his
motherfucking teeth.

With a quick gulp, Freddy tossed back the rest of his drink and got down to
business. He gave a nod toward Bob's hard cock.

"You need some help with that, Bobber old pal?"

"I thought you'd never ask, you lazy old fucker. Get down here and eat some
peeper."

Freddy dropped to his knees and was happy to oblige. He gobbled Bob's cock
with the skill of an old friend. Bob leaned back on the couch, locked his
hands behind his head and closed his eyes and let Freddy do his magic
tricks.

Three or four saliva-slick minutes later, Bob had Freddy bent over the arm
of the couch, sliding his cock up his buddy's old ass to the tight-hot
hilt, sawing in and out of him and grabbing up front for a courtesy
reach-around.

With the perfect timing of two old friends, Freddy grunted and shot his
jizz all over the couch cushions while Bob grunted on the back of his neck
and fired two hot spoonfuls of cum up his best friend's rear.

All because Brandon looked pretty in the yearbook.

# # # # # # # # # #

We pause, dear readers, for a reality check.

Brandon Trianno, sweet sexy middle-schooler at Steven Shelter Junior High
School did indeed have a brief but memorable fling with his baseball coach
circa 1988, but he was 12 when it happened, not 9 as Bob Rumple so
enthusiastically misremembered.

Brandon moved away shortly after it happened, so it was never the long,
drawn-out, ongoing thing Bob claimed it to be. It was hot, it was great,
but it was over before you knew it.

And he never, for the record, told his dad. And his dad never got hard and
licked his butt and fucked him on the spot. And he never let little Bob
fuck him. God, no. That dumb jizz head? Nah. It was only just the coach,
and it was only four times, and the rest was just Bob talking trash. Then
and now, Bob talked trash.

The first time the Coach and Brandon did stuff together, Brandon had stayed
late after practice to work on his batting. Coach helped him, standing up
behind him, really close, arms around his shoulders, sharing the bat,
helping him swing. Coach liked how he smelled. Sweaty hot boy neck. Dust
and practice and salty perfection. There was heat to this boy, and Coach
felt it. Coach wanted it.

And Brandon could tell right away that the coach was hard as he pressed up
against him, spooning his cock into the arch of his curved, coltish back,
now all sweaty and tingling under his baseball jersey. And Brandon wanted
it too. He'd seen hard man cock before. Looked at pictures. Fingered his
butt. Tingled and pretended. He was that kind of boy. Coach was that kind
of man.

When Coach pressed his hard cock up against Brandon's back, helping him hit
balls out of the pitching machine, Brandon looked back over his shoulder
and smiled at him. Smiled and pressed back in desire. It was understood. It
was mutual.

Brandon had gone back into the locker room to shower and change – all
the other boys were long gone home - and when he came out, wet and toweled,
Coach was waiting for him at the locker bench, where without saying a word,
he dropped to his knees before the boy's dripping, pretty form, took his
soft cock in his mouth, made it hard in an instant, and after a loud
shaking climax of his own, jacking his load on the cement floor, Brandon
saw that and fired off too.

Coach sucked the three precious drops of honey-sweet boy nectar from
Brandon's 12-year-old nut sack which was already working overtime that
spring, and producing those beautiful, first clear boydrops about five
times a day.

Brandon loved to masturbate, and this new thing that Coach was showing him
with his mouth? Well, this was just icing on the cake as far as Brandon was
concerned.

The second time they did stuff together, they were in an empty school bus
at the athletic field. It was also after practice. It was also one of those
private, late-stay, "help me with my swing" sessions, although Brandon now
understood that would be their code for "let's mess around."

Coach saw Brandon's cock getting hard in his uniform pants, Brandon saw
Coach's cock getting REALLY hard in his shorts, and before he knew it,
Coach was leading him toward the team bus parked at the far end of the
field.

They climbed on board and Brandon was bare-ass naked before he knew it,
lying back on a seat, legs in the air, Coach hovering over him in the aisle
with his hard cock in his hand and worshipping parts of Brandon the boy had
never, ever considered worth reverence before.

Turns out Coach appreciated a boy's feet more than he'd anticipated
himself, and with Brandon's legs straight up and his asshole winking and
shining in living pink Technicolor, most guys would have dived right in for
the victory lap, but coach couldn't resist stopping on his way toward the
main enchilada by putting Brandon's right foot in his mouth, then the left
one, slathering his wet tongue over Brandon's little toes, and sucking the
salt from Brandon's sweet and sour piggies.

There was nothing rank about them at all. They were just flavorful, that's
all. They'd been in baseball cleats for the past two hours, sweating up
some light and luscious boy funk, getting hot and ready for Coach's
unexpected ministrations.

With his tongue painting whimpering brush strokes up the alluring curve of
Brandon's arches, his soft heels pressed to Coach's cheek, and each tiny
toe getting its own private blowjob from Coach's grateful mouth, Brandon
reached down and moaned and fingered his own ass, and the taste and smells
were just as fresh and hot as athletic boy feet.

Rich and warm like earth and cotton. Like the hot-inside of a very clean
boy shoe. Hot to the tongue and enough to make Coach's cock leak actual
syrup as he stood there, hunched over Brandon's hot, tiny frame, enjoying
them, respecting them, showing gratitude for them, with every taste and
touch in his soul.

And Brandon, who never thought a grown man licking his feet could be
anything less than weird, had a boyish change of heart in an instant. It's
one thing to think of it from a distance, removed. To consider it in theory
may seem even silly. But when you're lying on your back on a deserted
yellow school bus, and you're open and bare, and you're fingering your ass,
and the man doing it to you is sucking your feet, moaning with love and
affection and pleasure, you become a believer on the spot.

It becomes part of your repertoire and your wiring. When Coach did foot
sucks on Brandon, Brandon already knew he'd grow up to do that stuff to
other boys too.

And when Coach lifted his legs apart, pushed his slender probing finger
aside and started eating his butthole, oh God, oh Jesus, Brandon though he
would die from the pleasure.

He had never felt anything like that. Never in a million years. The fingers
he'd used as he stroked himself at bedtime, the hairbrush he tried with
hope and Vaseline, were nothing compared to Coach's soft tongue making a
seal on his anus and sucking and licking him into new waves of passion.

He came without touching himself, shuddering and producing two drops of
honey as Coach's thick tongue prodded deep into his rectum. Fuck, that was
nice. Fuck that was good. He wanted to happy-scream. He wanted to shout
swearies.

And after Brandon ejaculated, if you could call it that, Coach stood over
his little boy lips, pointed his cock at him, and he jacked off and came
all over Brandon's face. ALL OVER Brandon's face. Came on his lips and came
on his mouth. And Brandon opened up and let the cum fill his taste buds. He
swallowed. Made a face. He swallowed again. Closed his eyes and let Coach
paint his lips with sticky hot semen. Listened to coach moan as Brandon
swallowed his offering.

"Eat it, little boy. You're so fucking hot!" Coach whispered, and it was
more like a growl. He scooped up a tiny bit of cum from Brandon's cheek and
slowly fingered it into Brandon's wet asshole.

Brandon moaned and shivered. He wanted Coach's cock in there.

"Next time," Coach promised. "I'll fuck you in here, Brandon."

He pushed his finger a little farther in.

"I fuck you right in this little hot hole."

And Brandon shivered and whimpered again.

"Fuck me," he whispered, feeling powerful saying the swear word. "Fuck my
hot asshole."

"Your pussy," Coach corrected. "Gonna fuck your hot pussy."

Brandon felt faint. Boys didn't have pussies. But he was willing to give
Coach ANYTHING.

That was their second time.

The third time, they didn't fuck as planned, because they were interrupted
by Coach's after-school work. They were in Coach's office in the boy's
locker room. The door was locked and Coach's window shades were drawn. It
was completely private. Nobody was down there.

They'd been so horny for each other in school that day. When Coach (who
taught Social Studies) looked up at Brandon, and Brandon (in the third row,
fourth desk) smiled back at him, Coach actually oozed a syrupy emission of
pre-cum into the front of his khakis. He actually felt it come out. And the
day dragged on like molasses until 3:10, when Brandon met coach in his
downstairs office, at the end of the locker room for "the stuff they do,"
as Brandon already thought of it in his mind. For "doing more stuff."

Coach had cleared his desk to be ready for the boy. He had Brandon's pants
halfway down and was sucking him like a madman. And Brandon was hungry. He
wanted Coach, too. He pushed Coach's head away, dropped to his knees, and
took Coach's six-and-a-half inch cock into his mouth like a boy possessed.

He hum-buzz-moaned over Coach's thick shaft as he made a seal and went to
work. Like a child with a mission. Like a kid with a cum-shooting candy
cane.

It only took about 30 seconds, Coach was that fucking horny, before Coach
was shaking and grunting and trembling and gasping and grabbing the back of
Brandon's head to push even deeper, and this time Brandon did NOT make a
face or wince at the taste.

This time Coach moaned loudly and shot a hot load of man-sticky semen deep
into Brandon's wet mouth. Brandon didn't even slow down. Didn't stop
pistoning his mouth around Coach's cock for a second.

The fiery determination and inexhaustability of youth. He just swallowed
and sucked, swallowed and sucked.

"Mmmmm" he moaned, and the buzz his "mmmm" created around Coach's
still-engulfed cockhead was electrifying. Coach's knees almost gave way. He
almost fell on the floor, so strong was his orgasm and his lust for the
little boy who was swallowing his gift.

And they would have done more. They certainly would have fucked when Coach
had recovered. But while they were kissing and talking, whispering and
loving, Coach's phone extension rang, and he had to pick it up. Had to go
upstairs and fill out some medical forms for a kid who got hurt in class
that day. Duty called. Principal Crater, that old fuck, ruined the rest of
the date with paperwork.

It was a satisfying blowjob, a great cum for both of them, but they still
hadn't fucked yet. They still had their eyes on the inevitable prize.

So. Here's how it happened.

The fourth time they met, they planned it to a tee. They BOTH needed to
fuck this time, and they were damn sure going to fix it so they could
finally do it.

Brandon was pretending he was staying overnight at his friend Bob's house
on Friday. Well, Bob wasn't a real friend, but he seemed horny all the
time, even tried to make some moves on Brandon himself, which Brandon found
hilarious because Brandon now liked MEN not boys.

But Bob was willing-enough to cover for Brandon should his mother check in,
which of course, she didn't. When your kid gives you a Friday night off by
staying at a friend's house, you don't question a windfall. You don't look
a gift horse in the mouth. You stay nice and quiet and you don't scare the
fawn out of the forest. His mom took a hot bubble bath, drank a whole
bottle of Chardonnay and enjoyed the night off. And Bob covered for
Brandon, so Brandon could get fucked by Coach.

Brandon stayed the whole night at Coach's house. Slept overnight, in his
bed and everything. Coach held him in his arms all night long. Spooned
him. Cuddled him. Loved him like a man.

And this time, they did fuck. And God, it was wonderful.

Coach did all the right things he'd done to Brandon before.

He lifted his legs. He slathered his feet with love and attention. He could
cum just looking at those heels and arches and ankles. God, he could cum
just from that. But there was so much more to do. To see. To taste. To
feast on.

Coach scrunched Brandon's knees up to his chest and ate his sweet asshole
like chocolates and caviar, and then after he'd fingered him gently to open
him up, first with one finger, then two, he pressed the slippery-slick tip
of his mushroom-headed mancock to the tiny dot-entrance of Brandon's
twitching little starfish and pushed forward gently, Brandon hissing out
winces, but eager and determined, until the length of Coach's manshaft was
buried fully in Brandon's throbbing rectum.

This was incredible, Brandon thought, as a thousand new fireflies started
dancing in front of his tightly-closed eyes.

And in and out Coach sawed his cock gently. In and out and in and out, as
Brandon arched his head back and grabbed the bed sheets. A drop of sweat
dripped from Brandon's sideburns and rolled into the corner of his mouth,
salty like tears. It felt so good to let the coach control him this way. To
fill him this way. To fuck him like this. To fill him with man-need.

Coach fucked Brandon and moaned like gratitude
personified. Indebtedness. Benediction.

Brandon moaned too. He was 12 years old that spring, and he never knew
fucking could feel this good. He never knew having something this big and
this hard and this strong up his ass would change him this
way. Rebirth. Re-invention.

You think you know who you are when you're 12. You think you know
everything. But when you get fucked for the first time, you find out you
were wrong. You find out you're something new. And something more
powerful. And something more beautiful.

This is what Brandon had needed when he experimented with his fingers.

This is what Brandon had needed when he played with the hairbrush.

This is what getting fucked felt like. And Brandon would spend the rest of
his life wanting to feel it again. Just like this. Just like now.

Coached leaned forward and whispered in his ear:

"Do you want my cum inside you, Brandon?"

"Oh, yes," Brandon whispered. "Yes please, cum in me."

"Where should I put it?" Coaced teased him.

"In my asshole, Coach," Brandon whispered desperately. "Put it in my
asshole."

"Louder," Coach told him.

"My asshole," Brandon repeated, as Coach picked up the pace.

"Louder!" he said again.

"My asshole!" Brandon shouted. "Cum your fat hot cock up my asshole!!"

And Coach lunged forward with deep, solid cock-thrust and grunted an
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, my God, my fuck..." as he grabbed Brandon's ass cheeks
and sprayed his hot insides with the jets of his jizz.

"Nnnnghhh," Brandon grunted at the force of the eruption.

He gasped and he winced and he loved every minute of it. He loved the look
on Coach's face. The way Coach's eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open
as he seeded Brandon's asshole.

Brandon felt like crying for joy.

"My pussy," he whispered, and he pulled Coach into him deeper. "You just
fucked my pussy."

Coach was right. Sometimes boys have pussies too. And sometimes they need
them filled by a hard, grunting mancock. There's a big difference between
boycock and mancock. And Brandon didn't want boys anymore. Brandon wanted
men.

Brandon cried, it felt so good.

"Baby," Coach said as he bent down and licked Brandon's lips. He was
shaking. Scared. Hoping he didn't hurt him.

"Fuck me again," Brandon cried needfully. He clutched Coach's shoulders and
he begged him for a second one. He bit Coach's earlobe. He licked the side
of Coach's face little a little hungry vampire. "Don't even take it out of
me. Just fuck me again. Pleeeeease, fuck me again."

And Coach, who hadn't pulled his cock out yet, re-hardened with those sexy,
sobbing words, and gave the boy his bedtime wish. He fucked him full of
promise and semen. Fucked him three more times that night. Fucked him with
his legs up high. Fucked him like a doggie. Fucked him until his dick was
limp and there was no more inside his balls.

And Brandon loved it. He begged for more of it, all night long. This
moment. This forever.

This fine, fleeting magic.

# # # # # # # # # #

"So, how come Coach dropped him like a hot potato?" Fast Freddy Footman
asked, sitting on the toilet and farting a wad of Bob's cum into the bowl.

"Eh, the kid was too old to start with," Bob shouted down the hall, mixing
up a fresh round of Malibu & Cokes and debating which porn DVD he'd put in
next to try to coax one more midnight fuck out of Freddy. "Coach liked the
little ones. You know. 7, 8, way less than 12." (Which was total bullshit
of course).

"Too bad," Freddy sighed, wiping the semen off his hole and looking at the
soggy tissue with genuine respect before he threw it in the bowl. Say what
you want about Big Bob Rumple, but the guy could cum buckets.

"Just another typical tragedy in the annals and anals of boylove," Bob
shrugged casually as Freddy came out and he handed him a drink. "They grow
up far too quickly, don't they, Fred?"

"They sure do," Freddy sighed. "They sure as shit do, Bob."

And of course, you know and I know that Brandon had simply moved
away. Coach and Brandon wrote and made phone calls, but it wasn't the same.

Brandon's family moved three states away, and they knew it was coming, and
Coach and Brandon tried for one more meetup, one more sleepover, but in the
rush of the move, it just wasn't meant to be.

What they had was special and good, but it was only for a moment. And Coach
loved that kid like a hot little memory. He kept it to himself and he
treasured it firmly, like the rarest of gems, and he kept it in a secret
place in his heart where it remains to this day. A magical snapshot, locked
in love and lust and trembling time.

Coach never had another boy before or after Brandon. Never even wanted
one. Brandon was his first love and his last.

But you couldn't tell that to Big Bob Rumple.

"Oh, yeah," he bragged. "After Coach fucked Brandon, I fucked him that same
night (also a lie), and then he moved to Seattle (that part was true), and
we never saw him again."

"What about Coach?" Freddy asked.

"Oh, he must have fucked half the team after that." Bob said casually (also
a lie), slurping at his drink and popping a new DVD in the
player. "Remember Jakey?"

"Little Jakey with the pretend tattoos?" Freddy gulped. He hadn't thought
about Jake for years.

"Yep," said Bob. "That's the one. The whole team fucked Jakey. Swear to
God, we all nailed that little motherfucker."

(And that part, dear readers, was surprisingly true).

"Oh well," Bob said. "Let's start a new movie. I want to see if I can get
you horned-up for one more couch fuck before I drag you off to my bedroom.

"I don't know," Freddy shrugged. "That last one stung a little. Whenever
you talk about the baseball team, you start fucking like a madman."

"I'll go easy on the next one," Bob lied. And the two old friends grinned
at each other, knowing how totally full of shit Bob could actually be.

"Look up little Jakey in the yearbook, buddy," Bob nodded toward the
book. "Let's take a minute and remember what his little pussy looked and
felt like."

And Freddy obliged. There he was, 7th Grade, page 25, right after Brandon's
page.

"Whoof," said Freddy, as he came into view. Smiling little boy with a
little fake tattoo on his neck. Wore it right there in the school yearbook
picture, crazy fuckin' kid. A little skull and crossbones. Pirate tattoo,
the goofy little horn-dog.

"Him and those gumball machine tattoos, man. He sure found some fun places
to stick those on us guys, didn't he, Fred?"

Freddy laughed and agreed. He'd gotten the Jakey tattoo treatment a time or
two himself and lived to tell the tale. And Holy Fuck, dear reader, there's
fine tail we need to tell you about someday, that hot little Jakey.

The two men sighed and pulled down their underwear again, reached for the
lube and fired up their cocks.

Nothing but friendship and loving on a Saturday night, watching some porn,
tossing back drinks, and doing all the secret things that two old friends
will do when they're kicking it back old-school, yearbooks and laughter and
danger on hand, getting hard and nostalgic, talking trash about the team.

I mean really. Why wouldn't they?

What are friends for?

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Author's Note:

Those loveable lechers Bob and Freddy also appear in:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/screwed-glued-and-tattooed
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kelly-in-the-kayak

Don't ever let them see your 7th grade yearbook picture.

I have a feeling you'd probably be next.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #