Page 14 of No More Jocks

“You like messing with me, don’t you, Caleb Edmonds?” He lifted my chin and kissed me. “I can’t wait till Saturday.”

“Me either.” His alarm on his phone went off, and that’s how we knew that our thirty minutes were over. We had to grab something to eat and head to our next class. It felt like him giving me head was his way of paying me back for my sprained ankle.

I looked forward to our freaky lunch dates and didn’t complain about a future pro football player performing fellatio on me. It made our senior year memorable. I longed for the day I could taste his dick in my mouth because I wanted to explore every part of his exquisite physique.

I perused through my closet, looking for the right outfit for our first public outing. When I couldn’t find anything to my liking, I fell back on my bed, stared at the ceiling with my hands behind my head, and imagined him lifting my shirt and sucking on my sensitive nipples. I still can’t get over how good his mouth felt as he sucked my dick. I was getting head almost every other day, and he wasn’t asking me to reciprocate. I knew I would eventually have to, so I practiced with a dildo daily. If Marcus sucked dick this good, I wondered how proficient he was at other things. I slid my hand down my pants but quickly removed it when I heard someone clear their throat. When I looked up, my nosy big sister stood in the doorway.

“So, what’s his name, and do I know him?”

“You should knock before you barge into someone’s room.”

“I didn’t barge in; the door was open.” She was right. My dumb ass was so spellbound I didn’t even close the door before I reached down my pants. Thank God I wasn’t in full masturbation mode, or we could never look at each other the same.

“You still should have knocked.”

“I’ll remember that next time. Now tell me, who’s the boy that has you so hot and bothered you forgot to close the freaking door before putting your nasty hand down your nasty pants?”

“I’m not telling you anything because you have a big mouth, and he’s not out.” Marissa stared into my mirror, pouted her big red lips, and styled her hair like she was ready to go out.

“Brother, you’re such a hypocrite. After your breakup with Bradley, you said you would not be dating any more jocks or closet cases.”

I rolled my eyes, then walked over to the closet and grabbed a fresh shirt. The last thing I needed was her reminding me of the promise I made to myself.

I knew I was breaking my vow and didn’t need her rubbing my faults in my face. My sister eyed my crutches in the corner, and ever since she saw them a few weeks ago, she has asked me why I had them. I patiently waited for her question so I could provide her the same robotic and rehearsed line.

“When are you going to tell me what the freak happened to your foot?”

“I told you.”

“And that story was a lie. Mom and Dad may have bought that crap, but I know better. I’m the Queen of fabricated tales.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied.

“Was this boy involved?”

“Not telling,” I said.

“So, a boy was involved. I don’t think you should date boys who cause you to have broken ankles. That’s my two cents because you know things didn’t go well with you and Bradley.”

“My ankle wasn’t broken. It was a mild sprain, and this guy is different, Marissa. If you’re going to judge me based on the men I date, you can leave my room.”

“Look, no need to get snappy with me. I’m just trying to do what you asked me to do, remind you not to date these jocks, straight guys, or closet cases.”

“My apologies. I’m just in a weird space. I like this guy and think he likes me. There’s only one problem: he’s bisexual.”

“Brother, leave the bisexual men alone. They’re indecisive. One day they want pussy; the next day, they want dick. They’re sexually schizophrenic.”

“That statement was insensitive to the LGBTQ+ and the mentally disabled community, Marissa. You can’t stereotype all bisexual men. You sound like an ignorant cis-gendered heterosexual female.”

“Let me rephrase then. Every man that I have dated that was bisexual couldn’t be faithful. They always wanted to do freaky stuff, like put dildos in their ass.”

“Sis, you just pick bad men. It has nothing to do with them being bisexual.”

“Well, we both get it from mom,” she replied. We both burst into laughter.

“You’d think she’d tire of walking down the aisle,” I said.

“This is husband number three now,” she replied.

---