“Full Count, Bases Loaded”

The steel door hummed back center, sealing out the afternoon sun. The fluorescent lights overhead re-flooded the locker room with the whiteness of an F-class sun. These lights were complimented by soap-white walls and by whitish-cream floor tiles. In a slice of a minute, the warmth and wild smells of the external world receded to the coolness of the air conditioner and to the odor of sweat, cushions, uniforms, and neoprene.

Wesley and Kyle were sitting on the bench. Colt and Felipe stood at each end—chess horses guarding the checker pieces of the middle.

Across from the foursome, Phil and Jason crossed their arms like sentries at a canvassed coliseum.

Phil’s gray irises of jello reflected the coiled, white lights above everyone. In Phil’s hooded eyes was a glint of coldness. Those eyes turned toward Jason’s and said, 2 vs. 4.

How could we find ourselves in opposition to Colt and Felipe, fellow straight athletes? Jason answered, his eyes angled left. Jason shifted his oval eyes back forward. “You four don’t realize what you’ve done.”

“I’m a young man with a throbbing dick,” Colt said, pressing his thumb and forefinger together for emphasis. “If college regulations prevent me from bringing my girlfriend to games away from home, I will not hesitate to unload my balls with my teammates. Now, other than you two featherbrains, I don’t think that any of us has a problem with that.”

“Three athletes walked out because they have a problem with that,” Jason said.

“We didn’t,” Colt rumbled. “Wesley and Kyle caused us to lose the game, and Felipe and I are gonna make them pay for it.”

“Then, you’re gonna pay for disrupting team discipline,” Jason said.

Colt stepped bullishly toward Jason. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Jason echoed louder than an oboe. “But first, get your turkey face away from me.”

Colt widened his peach-hued cheeks in front of Jason’s tawny face. “Make me.” Colt’s whisper caressed Jason’s lips.

Jason hoicked down Colt’s loosened black belt and unzipped white pants. “Get him!”

Phil shoved Colt to the floor, clawed Colt’s short hair spikes of dishwater blond, and pulled them as if scooping up spaghetti with a fork.

A kneeling Colt unhooked Phil’s black belt and jerked down Phil’s streaked pants, white briefs, and cup strap. Then, Colt tore into Phil’s banana.

“Fuckin’ horndog!” Phil bawled.

With the cup that Jason was wearing, his boner started to bend painfully. “Hurry up with Phil, asshole!”

Colt sucked Phil’s cannon good and hard.

Abruptly, the others began to unbutton and to unzip. The room quickly buzzed with whoos, ahs, and uhs. Black cleats and white socks flew right and left, sprinkling the shale mega-tiles with pinches of sand grains. Belts, pants, shirts, cups, and briefs followed suit. These items whizzed by in front of the sperm-like scratches on the metal of the green locker doors.