Page 4 of Tough Guy
Instead he was alone in his apartment, offering encouraging words to his barely interested dick.
Why couldn’t he do this? He was horny as fuck, that was for sure. He hadn’t been with anyone for months. He hadn’t come for over two weeks. The situation was getting desperate.
“Just one little orgasm, buddy. How ’bout it?”
It felt nice, stroking himself like this. It certainly didn’t feelbad. He could keep this up for a long time and just enjoy the ripples of pleasure that never fully crested—and he often did just that, stroking himself for an hour or more without getting off. It was frustrating, though, and this time he was determined to come.
“Oh shit,” the video guy gasped. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come I’m gonna come...”
And then he did. The asshole.
“You know what?” Ryan snapped at his dick. “I’m calling the shots today. I’m going to put on another video, and we’re both gonna watch it and I’m gonna start from scratch. I’ll go slow, but we are fucking coming tonight.”
It’s not like coming was impossible, but he needed to be relaxed. He couldn’t be distracted at all, but he also couldn’t be overly focused. The circumstances needed to be exactly right—everything lined up like the perfect shot at an open net. If he could find that sweet spot, he could achieve orgasm. But it was a tall fucking order.
It was time to bring out the big guns. He went to his favorites folder and brought up a video of a porn star that he particularly liked named Kamil Kock. He was small and slim and a bit femme, with an elaborate peacock feather design tattooed down the left side of his torso. He had gorgeous dark eyes and light brown skin. Ryan had a lot of his videos saved.
“Look,” he said to his dick, “it’s Kamil. We love Kamil.”
His dick gave a halfhearted twitch. It was something.
Ryan spent the next twenty-seven minutes watching Kamil Kock pleasure his lean, elegant body while Ryan punished his own. Kamil had a musical lilt to his voice, and his long, slender fingers were covered in elaborate rings. He was beautiful in a way that Ryan never could be.
Ryan had a type, no question. He liked men who...blurred the line, a little. He found androgyny very sexy, and it wasn’t just the physical beauty of a dazzling, decorated man that attracted him; he was in awe of theirconfidence. Of their bravery to openly be themselves anddareanyone to say anything about it. It turned Ryan on like nothing else.
He had been quietly out for years, which meant he didn’t actively hide his sexuality, but he didn’t talk about it either. Chatting online and hooking up in various cities had been Ryan’s go-to method of getting laid for most of his hockey career. His teammates didn’t ask him many questions about who he was hooking up with because they likely didn’t care. Playing for a different team every season had made it difficult for Ryan to form any close bonds with his teammates anyway.
And that’s how Ryan had flown under the radar as a sexually active gay NHL player for nearly a decade. And now, in this new era where Scott Hunter was kissing his boyfriend on live television after winning the Stanley Cup, it didn’t seem as necessary to hide. Hunter had been brave enough to come out first, and now being a queer NHL player was barely interesting. One of Vancouver’s goaltenders married his longtime boyfriend over the summer—a rugged older man who built cabins for a living. And a Swedish guy who played for Los Angeles had started posting photos on Instagram of him and his boyfriend, who was a model. Or an Instagram model. Or something. He was a ripped hot guy anyway.
One thing Ryan had noticed about the boyfriends of NHL players: they were all verymasculine. Scott Hunter’s boyfriend was cute, but he wasn’t what Ryan would call a twink. And twink wasn’t even an accurate description for what Ryan was into.
So maybe it was suddenly acceptable for an NHL player to have a boyfriend, but Ryan suspected that hockey players were expected to have a certaintypeof boyfriend. And while Ryan mostly didn’t care what other people thought—he didn’t evenhavean Instagram account—he really didn’t want to have to explain his choices.
His other problem was that he was fuckingshyaround beautiful men. He couldn’t imagine they would want to look at him, let alone touch him, so he rarely pulled the kind of men he actually wanted. He settled for men who he felt were more in his league.
There had been one guy in New Jersey—a stunning young man named Anthony—who had been surprisingly hot for Ryan. He’d seemed to love Ryan’s size, and his strength, so they were a good match for a little while. But he’d wanted Ryan to hurt him during sex. Not actually injure him, but he’d wanted pain, and Ryan couldn’t give it to him. Ryan spent too much of his life causing physical pain to others, and the thought of bringing that into the bedroom made him sick.
So that had been it for Ryan and Anthony.
He hoped Anthony had found what he needed with someone else. Someone who didn’t have Ryan’s mountain of baggage.
Ryan realized that he had zoned out, and was just blankly staring at the screen where Kamil was teasing his asshole with a vibrator. Ryan’s hand was loosely holding his softening dick, unmoving.
Damn it. He’d gotten distracted. It was over.
He released his dick and it slumped, exhausted, against his thigh.
He closed the video and slammed his laptop shut.Stupid fucking meds. Stupid fucking anxiety. Stupid fucking porn stars and their perfect functional dicks.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. What a fucking catch he was. He’d taken down his Grindr profile a few months ago, and now wondered if he should reactivate it. Maybe provide an updated description:Looking for a disappointing time with a shaggy oaf who probably won’t come even if you blow him for an hour?
Fuck it. Ryan needed to go to sleep.
“We’re trying this again tomorrow night,” he warned his dick. “You, me, and Kamil. We’re gonna do this thing.”
His dick seemed to actually retreatfartherinto his foreskin.
“I should chop you off, all the good you do me,” Ryan grumbled.
