THE PLAYER

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 jackladd.org 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.