I look over at Jamal, proudly displaying three bronze medals. He’s giving me a confused look, as if I should be happy just making it to Rio. I’m not. It’s not in my DNA to settle.
“Two goals in the game. Five overall. I don’t know soccer, but that shit sounds good to me.”
Personal scoring never mattered much to me though. Personal records either. Well, a hat trick did, I suppose. There was something special in that. Elusive.
“You gotta nickname already, bro,” Jamal continues. “The DexMan. Kinda like the AxeMan if you think about it. Better than mine. Never thought I’d get a nickname just for liking jam so much. Shit.”
I rub my temples. Jamal was good people, but he was infatuated with his voice.
“Lay off.”
He stops. Shrugs.
Smiles.
Puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You know what you need to forget, little man? Pussy.”
I don’t think I hear him right. “What?”
“P-U-S-S-Y. You need to stop being a baby-back bitch and get your dick wet.”
“What?” I sputter, dumbfounded by the transition.
Jamal grins like mad, as if he’s discovered the greatest truth to man that’s ever been thought up.
“The Olympics? Temporary glory, I say, unless you’re Phelps. Ain’t none of us like that freak, man, unless you’re popping drugs like candy. Shit fades unless you’re setting records, racking up gold, and getting your face plastered on billboards selling Subway and Speedo. Us? Just memories stuffed in boxes. Usually forgotten.”
Pussy to philosophizing, just like that. I don’t think I’ll ever understand him.
When I don’t respond, he tries another tactic.
“I hear the entire team is gonna be there, man. Even her.”
He elbows me in the side.
“What?” My tongue ties into knots. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
He raises an eyebrow, calling me out on my bullshit. I’ve talked about her. A lot.
“Whatever you say, but between you and me, I prefer that goalie. She’s crazy. Mean too.” Jamal whistles. “I bet she fucks angry. Shit, I wonder if she’s ever had a real taste of special dark chocolate.” He chuckles at his joke.
I’ve tuned him out by now though, an image of her popping into my brain. I’d never admit it to anyone, but she’s fueled at least a dozen fantasies since I landed in Rio and a few dozen more in the last year alone. She’s had that effect on men and women since bursting onto the scene with the national team eight years ago.
“Suit yourself, Dexman”, Jamal says as he gets up from the bar. “As Lil Boosie would say, I’ma gonna beat some pussy up till they holla that’s enough. But just in case,” he slides two cards across the bar, “these will get you in.”
There’s a large maple leaf emblazoned in the center of the Olympic Rings on the front.
“Who knew right? Canadian sponsored. Fuck that’s funny.”
* * *
I look up, not knowing what the fuck I’m doing here. I have no idea what to expect. I didn’t even know a thing about women or sex. For years I’d had a one-track mind. Soccer. Nothing else mattered.
The bouncer, a balding Canadian rugby player, gives me a look as I walk up to the entrance of the penthouse. I flash the card as he sizes me up. I get the feeling he’s about to throw me out when he breaks into a shit-eating grin and lifts me up off the ground.
“Great game, DexMan! Extra time? Penalty kicks? Yellow cards? Red cards? Nasty injuries? Playing one down? Best match of the Olympics. Easily.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling the familiar tightness in my pit of my stomach.
“I remember my first Olympics,” he says wistfully as he puts me down. “Go have fun.”
* * *
Loud techno music pulses, the heavy bass shaking the walls. The hallway is pitch black, lit only by a series of dim black lamps hanging from the ceiling.
Another bouncer gestures me deeper into the house, down several flight of stairs and back out into the starry Rio night.
I’m hit with a powerful wave of heat and catchy Brazilian-style house music when my feet hit the sand of the penthouse’s private strip of beach.
My heart crashes hard against my ribs as I take the scene in.
Bodies wiggle, twist, and sway under the symphonic hypnotism of a DJ perched up high on a thrown-like stage. His shirtless form is painted a glowing electrical green, like the pathways of a circuit.
My mind doesn’t register everything right away, but my dick sure as hell does. I can feel an uncontrolled erection straining against my shorts as I try to process.
What happens when you bring together a horde of athletes at peak fitness, bodies humming with competitive energy, desperate to release the pent up stress of competing on the biggest intentional sporting stage in the world?
Even at eighteen I knew the answer.
The sand in front of me is filled with nubile athletes wearing skimpy bikinis, their skin flushed and shiny with sweat. I recognize many, but a majority are strangers, reveling in the crackling energy.
I feel absurdly out of place.
My eyes swing right and I swear I recognize the small, compact form of the women’s gymnastics captain dancing inside a gazebo. She’s sucking on the finger of someone obscured by shadows, her drum tight ass pressed against his groin as they sway erratically to the beat. A large hand slides down her toned belly, fingers teasing the top of her red bikini bottoms. She catches my eyes and smirks, grabbing the shadow’s hand and pushing it under the thin material. Her body shudders and convulses, hips pulling forward. My dick stiffens even more and I turn away, embarrassed.
My eyes swing back to the DJ. A square platform sparks to life, alternating between a glowing cobalt blue and rich amber. On it, a lithe figure in the skimpiest swimwear I’ve ever seen puts on a show that catches the attention of everyone present.
Her body flows from one erotic movement to the next more gracefully than the gentle ocean tide beyond the DJ. It’s bewitching.
She pauses with arms raised high, fingers twined in the bunched mass of her sleek blonde curls. Then she smiles, a wide grin that makes my heartbeat skip. A streak of white arcs into the night and cheers go up, followed by more streaks of varying colors.
I swallow thickly.
“Quite the trend setter, isn’t she,” a smoky voice purrs in my ear as I look up at the statuesque woman who’s pale naked breasts burn their place into my memories.
I nod stiffly, looking around. Once her top came off, everyone else’s did as well in a sort of weird, mutual graduation into a higher level of burning eroticism.
“It’s your first time at one of these, isn’t it,” the voice continues, soft breasts pressing against my back, slim arms circling my waist.
My body stiffens in shock.
“Shh. I don’t bite. Much.” Her breath smells of cherry Kool-Aid and vodka.
I swallow again, unsure of what to do, my brain freezing up like a virus-ridden computer.
Something warm and wet teases my neck, sending sparks of electricity to my extremities. Teeth sink softly into my shoulder as a cool hand slides up my chest.
“Who,” I whisper, trying to find my voice through the haze.
Her mouth moves up, traces my ear, tongue worming inside.
“Let’s not ruin a good thing with names,” the mystery woman says, turning me around before pushing me gently into the sand. She falls with me, straddles my waist.
Her hand grasps my suddenly naked erection. “All that matters is this,” the shadow says. “And this.” She squats down, hips surging slowly forward. My eyes bug out. Virgin or not, I didn’t need to be an expert to figure out the source of the wet volcanic heat now sliding across my shuddering cock.
My balls compress as my first real taste of pussy slides back across my shaft. The sensation that follows is sudden and powerful, like a canon blast.
The woman releases a squeal of surprise that gives way to giggles as I shoot off. Her cool hand curls back around me, pointing my cock straight up as the heavy spurts continue.
I look up drunkenly as the blasts of hot semen give way to weak, bubbling pulses of heat. She’s covered with a shiny layer of spunk, from flat belly to perky breasts.
“Fucking hell, Tiger,” she laughs. “Impressive!”
I flush and look around nervously, but no one’s paying any attention. The party has devolved into varying levels of uninhibited debauchery. The woman from the platform has her arms and legs coiled like a scorpion around the lean muscular frame of a familiar swimmer as he machine fucks her into the sand.
My distractingly familiar mystery woman pulls me to my feet. Tells me to follow her back into the penthouse. I do, mind on autopilot, my dick swinging back and forth, still twitching from her steamy pussy.
She tells me to wait a second. Needs to find a few condoms. Makes a joke about the heat I’m packing between my legs. Tells me that my “little swimmers” might not care about her being on the pill, that she isn’t quite ready for baby making.
A sound draws my attention to a cracked door while I wait dumbfounded. I walk towards it like a zombie. I push it open.
I’m long gone by the time my mystery woman, wearing a pack of condoms like a sash, returns with a frustrated frown.
* * *
The one place I could always retreat when I needed it wasn’t a place or even a state of mind really. It wasn’t soccer either, as strange as that seems. No. It was lock picking. There’d always been something therapeutic about it. Calming. It’d been that way since I picked my step-mom’s jewelry box as a kid. My father would always say it was just my way of acting out; that I was pissed off at the world for stealing ma. Maybe. Whatever helped him ignore the truth, I guess. And the truth was, I hated the gold-digging bitch and it felt good to send her into anxiety attacks each time her favorite pearls disappeared.
A sharp click pierces the silence and I finally feel a grin work it’s way out. Five minutes. I was getting rusty. But then, my particular hobby wasn’t exactly one you had time to practice when you were fighting like hell just to qualify for the Olympics for the first time since Beijing.
A sourness forms in my stomach at the thought and at what had happened… no, ended here just a few hours ago. I stow my tools and palm the neon green ball I’ve had almost as long as I’ve been alive.
I go to push the gate open and pause.
Consider.
I turn around and look back. The lights of Athlete’s Village flicker. And a bit beyond that, the penthouse, crackling with sexual energy.
‘You need to get your dick wet,’ Jamal had said. ‘The whole team will be there. Even her.’
I flash back to the beach and the woman who’d had me spurting like a canon shot all over her. I flash back to the dark belly of the penthouse, the glow-in-the-dark necklaces and the flicking black lamps. To the deep grunts and wet slaps echoing behind a cracked door.
To the glimpse of a sleek feminine form wedged between two muscular bodies, one of them Jamal, surrounded by a semi-circle of paired couples rutting furiously to the spinning beat of the DJ.
To a bright pink hair band, a feral smile, and predatory eyes.
A twisted image of her crouched between Jamal’s legs forms in my mind. He mouths ‘your loss, man,’ as she slurps his erection into her mouth. It makes me nauseous, doubling down on the queasy sourness in my stomach.
Fuck it.
Fuck Jamal. Fuck his settle for anything but a win mentality. Always content with second and third best. And fuck his sole desire in being here to drown in as much pussy as humanly possible.
Fuck her. It was a mistake going there, one part of me thinks, even with what did happen.
I’d say Jamal was winning that time though, another part chuckles. His got his dick buried up your ladylove’s ass. Fuck not staying and taking part in that shit.
I banish both voices and push the gate to Maracana Stadium open and enter the one nightmare I think I can conquer tonight.
* * *
CLANG!
Reset.
Five steps back.
Stutter step.
Stride forward.
Foot. Ball.
CLANG!
The next shot sails over the post and I have to go hunting in the stands to recover it.
After thirty minutes I’m winded, tired, and pissed off. But at least the events from the penthouse are wiped clean.
The pile of missed shots took care of that. However, those misses were nothing compared to the still echoing miss from the day’s bronze medal match against Germany. They were nothing compared to fucking up the one opportunity to deliver something the U.S. Men’s Team had never delivered in its history… a medal of any color.
It was…
A voice rings out.
I scramble around, ready to make a run for it.
And trip over my feet.
Ass to grass.
Eyes to stars.
What was the penalty for breaking and entering in Brazil? I didn’t know and I didn’t really want to find out. I close my eyes and wait.
An amused, melodious laugh fills the night instead of flashlights and accusatory Portuguese.
“You’re thinking way too much, Salazar. And it’s fucking your head up.”
Eyes pop open.
And there she is.
Sasha Blake. Star striker. And star of the dirtiest fantasies an eighteen-year-old can formulate.
Squatting over me with a megawatt smile.
“Fuck me,” I stutter out.
“The forward type, aren’t you, ‘DexMan’? I think I need to at least see you net a PK first, rather than sail it ten rows up. No telling where your dick might wind up.”
She winks, her grin growing wider as she lowers a hand.
I just stare. Stupidly.
“Come on, Salazar, you should be beyond shyness by now, right?”
My thoughts are muddled enough I don’t fully process the meaning behind that statement.