In this erotic en­counter, boy-about-town Jack Ladd de­scribes how hard he fell for a fan­tasy man from a fa­mous rugby club.


Jack Ladd’s lat­est raunchy read.

To some the mere men­tion ex­humes mem­o­ries of anx­i­ety­filled chang­ing rooms or sad af­ter­noons stand­ing on lonely side lines wait­ing to be picked – last. To oth­ers it’s a way of life: a multi-bil­lion-dol­lar in­dus­try metic­u­lously cre­ated to show off mankind’s phys­i­cal prow­ess, in­no­va­tion and skill.

For me, it’s some­where in the mid­dle.

In my teens, I ditched sports more times than I can re­mem­ber. I loved perv­ing on the coach with his shaved head, broad shoul­ders and thighs so thick I would have hap­pily suf­fo­cated be­tween them, but I was far more in­ter­ested in hang­ing with the rest of the bludgers than get­ting muddy in a field. Nowa­days I’ve changed my tune. A bit. Catch me on a sunny af­ter­noon and I’ll kick a foot­ball or swing a bat with mates and, while I be­lieve there are far more relaxing ways to keep fit, there are cer­tain things you don’t get to ap­pre­ci­ate in, say, an ocean swim or a yoga ses­sion.

The play­ers.

Foot­ball, wa­ter polo, ten­nis, AFL: the list goes on. Each need able bod­ies wrapped in mus­cle-hug­ging gear and a stam­ina that never fails to make my cock twitch and mind to run off in all kinds of sweaty di­rec­tions.

And while we all have dif­fer­ent tastes, for me, my num­ber one sports­man is the rugby player. And not just be­cause in his tiny shorts and tight top his mus­cled body seems sculpted out of the finest, fleshi­est mar­ble. It’s be­cause rugby is one of the most dan­ger­ous sports in the world.

To play it, not only are fit­ness and strength nec­es­sary, but the game re­quires a com­mit­ment to fully com­pre­hend­ing of­ten com­pli­cated rules. And com­mit­ment re­quires in­tel­li­gence. Some­thing I didn’t truly re­alise un­til I fell head over heels for a Syd­ney Con­vict, a player in Syd­ney’s semipro­fes­sional, in­clu­sive rugby team, who was as smart as he was gor­geous.

A few years ago, I joined The Con­victs open day in Cen­ten­nial Park. I’d watched them play a hand­ful of times and, even though I was ner­vous, I wanted to give it – for want of a bet­ter phrase – a try.

I wanted to push my­self out of my com­fort zone and The Con­victs had teams for begin­ners. The word on the street was that they train you hard but treat you good. And they did. Re­ally good.

For a few hours, they broke the new­bies into groups to give us a taste of ev­ery­thing. Pass­ing, tack­ling, scrums, kick­ing, team work: it was a fun day. A day of sport, fit­ness and friend­ship with the bonus of man candy in all flavours, fol­lowed by a sausage sizzle.

And that’s what made me come back for more train­ing. Yes, it was a pre­dom­i­nantly gay group and, yes, most of the play­ers were damn fine, but at the end of each ses­sion my face was red and my pulse was high be­cause of sport. Noth­ing else.

That was un­til a friend’s birth­day. Over in the cor­ner among the throng of men and women, out of his sports gear and hot to trot, was Joe.

I’d seen Joe be­fore, but not from the open day: Joe was one of the poster boys for The Con­victs.

Dark, built and hand­some, he was the per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of male beauty. When­ever a poster went up in a bar or a club about The Con­victs, there he was, smil­ing down with his mil­lion-dol­lar grill and blind­ingly blue eyes. When­ever a match was on, no mat­ter how good the game, he al­ways man­aged to com­mand at­ten­tion.

Now I fi­nally have an ex­cuse to talk to him.

Tak­ing a deep breath, I in­tro­duced my­self. Joked and

flirted but kept it short and sweet. It turned out we were head­ing to the same gay night over in The Cross, so I told him I’d see him there.

Sadly, that’s all I re­mem­ber. It hap­pened to be my birth­day the next day, so by mid­night my friends had ex­tremely plas­tered. For­tu­nately, the next day I re­mem­bered say­ing hi, so af­ter some Face­book stalk­ing, I sent a friend re­quest.

Two days of flirt­ing later, I got his num­ber and, af­ter work, I by­passed the awk­ward tex­ting and called him; a move that worked in my favour. By the end of our brief but chilled con­ver­sa­tion we’d or­gan­ised a lunch date in the city the next day. Lunch went well. Re­ally well.

We were both in suits and ties, hav­ing come from the of­fice and, in the fresh, al­beit un­der­ground light of day, he looked more hand­some. His blue eyes were bluer and his smile was warmer, es­pe­cially fill­ing me in on my be­hav­iour from my pre-birth­day night: the shame erased by al­co­hol.

Namely how we’d crossed paths around two in the morn­ing. Ap­par­ently, I’d told him it was my birth­day but, be­fore he could re­ply, I’d put my hands on his chest, curled his thick, black chest hair be­tween my fin­gers and, with­out a sin­gle word, I’d mo­tor­boated him.

“You went to town. Then you pushed me away and I didn’t see you again.”

“Fuck… I am so, so sorry,” I said, mor­ti­fied. “Don’t be,” he said, rais­ing his glass with a wink. “It was… re­fresh­ing.”

An hour up, he walked me back to my of­fice and kissed me on the cheek. A cou­ple of weeks and plenty of back and forth later, we had lunch again. This time fol­lowed by an in­vi­ta­tion.

“How about din­ner Thurs­day night? My house­mate’s out.”

“I’d love that,” he said, play­fully nudg­ing me with his shoul­der; my legs go­ing weak at his strength.

The fol­low­ing two days trun­dled by slowly and stress­fully as I fig­ured out what to make for din­ner so we could eat well but still roll around my bed­room. Af­ter weeks with only a cou­ple pecks on the cheek, as much as I tried to ig­nore them, my balls were turn­ing a deeper shade of blue by the day.

The evening ar­rived and he turned up on time, look­ing flaw­less. Mid­night denim jeans, leather san­dals and a cream, long-sleeved V-neck that fit­ted his broad, toned and tanned torso like a dream; his dark chest hair pok­ing out. In his hand was a bot­tle of wine and on his face a smile.

A kind, wide, hand­some smile, bet­ter than any of the posters.

We ate out­side in my gar­den and talked about fam­ily. He told me about his and I told him about mine; the air warm but bliss­fully punc­tu­ated by a re­fresh­ing breeze. He asked me why I’d moved to Syd­ney and what I wanted to do with my life: real con­ver­sa­tion wrapped in play­ful ban­ter be­fore I gen­tly coxed the con­ver­sa­tion his way. I lis­tened with open ears and an open mind as he told me about his home and job and how, one day, he wanted to leave the city.

“The guys here can be so… fake.”

“They can be just as fake in Lon­don,” I said. “You aren’t.”

“Nei­ther are you.”

Half an hour later we were kiss­ing on my sofa. Him on his back and me in his pow­er­ful arms. All six feet of me feel­ing small against his body. Small and safe.

We went up­stairs. I led the way: his hand in mine. Then his hands were all over me. Pulling up my T-shirt as I aban­doned my­self to his touch. My eyes rolling and my head lulling as his thick lips kissed and nib­bled at my neck. My fan­tasy a re­al­ity.

More than re­al­ity. A fu­ture?

The bed was soft against my naked back. Softer due to the wine and the sight in front of me slowly un­dress­ing. A man straight from my wettest of wet dreams, il­lu­mi­nated in the gold of sun­set stream­ing through my bed­room win­dow.

Every mus­cle and line de­fined. Every mound of hairy flesh so close I could smell him with each breath. His cock hard and thick un­der his briefs. Mine the same as he bent over and peeled down my shorts, fling­ing them across the room.

My heart pound­ing. Nerves. Ex­cite­ment. Blood rush­ing north and south and ev­ery­where.

Then his weight. All of him push­ing me into the mat­tress. Every fi­bre of my be­ing sur­ren­der­ing as I yielded. His fin­gers around my wrists, hold­ing my arms above my head. His hun­gry mouth savour­ing every ca­ress.

Guid­ing my arms around his neck he told me to hold tight. Then lift­ing me up like I was made of pa­per, he spun us around, so he was ly­ing on the bed and I was on top again. Sit­ting up straight, I felt his cock push be­tween my arse cheeks; two thin lay­ers of cot­ton sep­a­rat­ing flesh.

Shuf­fling up un­til I was sit­ting on his huge chest, I pulled down my waist­band. Watched my cock spring free and land against his front­cover-wor­thy face. Shud­dered with ec­stasy as his full lips wrapped around me and his huge hand took my shaft and went to work.

Min­utes passed in ut­ter bliss be­fore temp­ta­tion fu­elled by weeks of an­tic­i­pa­tion got the bet­ter of me. Reach­ing to my bed­side table I took out a con­dom and lube and, kiss­ing him deep to taste my­self on his tongue, I reached down and peeled the rub­ber over him. Then pumping a mound of glis­ten­ing gel into my other hand, our lips still locked, I lath­ered him from base to tip.

Then I rode. Took his chest hair be­tween my fin­gers, looked down at the beast of a man un­der me and bounced and grinded, my thighs slap­ping against his as he drove him­self up and I pushed me down. His hands around my waist or hun­grily pinch­ing at my pecs; mine ex­plor­ing every inch of his body I could reach.

Then, he blew me away.

His breath deeper and his moans louder, he grabbed me by the waist and turned us both un­til I was on my back and he was on top. Then, pulling out, he peeled off the con­dom, shuf­fled up the bed un­til his glo­ri­ous thighs blocked my view, took him­self in his hand and jerked un­til his load shot over my face, into my mouth and, hot and de­li­cious, across my tongue.

I savoured every mouth­ful. Every taste bud buzzing as I watched his su­perb body shud­der and shake mere inches from my eyes; my own hand pumping un­til my balls emp­tied over my stom­ach and chest.

My mind think­ing of all the fun we were go­ing to have. Of the fu­ture we were go­ing to make to­gether.

Fif­teen min­utes later he left me with a kiss good­night, but the next day there was no good morn­ing text. By the af­ter­noon I’d mes­saged but hadn’t heard back. It wasn’t un­til two days later that I got a call.

“I can’t see you tonight. Some­thing’s come up.” Then, af­ter a week of silence, I met a friend for a drink. A friend in the same po­si­tion as me: up­set be­cause he’d been see­ing a guy who he’d thought was spe­cial, un­til they’d fucked.

A guy more hand­some than any he’d met be­fore. A rugby player. Called Joe.

I was gut­ted. Joe had never wanted any­thing more than a lay, and I never went back to rugby prac­tice. For too long I let the pain of dis­ap­point­ment linger in my chest, cloud­ing my judge­ment and poi­son­ing my trust. Un­til one day I re­alised how stupid I was be­ing.

Joe had been a fan­tasy come true. But, in re­al­ity, he was just a good-look­ing bloke who hap­pened to play a sport that drove me wild. A nor­mal bloke with his own life and own prob­lems who was far from per­fect.

And that was the les­son. No mat­ter how much I may have wanted it, I would never have been able to force perfection. Even when I saw it walk­ing and smil­ing and hold­ing my legs apart, it was an il­lu­sion. It doesn’t ex­ist.

Once I ac­cepted that, ev­ery­thing was clear again. And now, if a match hap­pens to be on the TV, I smile. Smile for the pain and the strength and, of course, the play­ers.

MORE: Jack Ladd is the au­thor of the semi­au­to­bi­o­graph­i­cal erotic nov­els Oscar and Oscar Down Un­der. Go to jack­ or search for Jack Ladd on Face­book.

A man straight from my wettest of wet dreams, il­lu­mi­nated in the gold of sun­set stream­ing through my bed­room win­dow.

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