FSE

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I'm no jock--let's put that out there right now. About the only sports I play are catch-the-bus, little brother-hunting... and the occasional bout of cowboy-riding. Very occasional, I'm afraid. My point is that I'm no good at sports. Life is about more than how many times you can successfully move a ball in a desired direction.

I do love watching sports, though. I love seeing hockey players rough each other up against the Plexiglas. I love seeing two men after a vigorous game of tennis, exhausted from effort and dripping with sweat as they stumble away. I love the nut-hugging fabric those beefcakes wear in football, and I love watching them doggy pile into a squirming mass of limbs and ball-lust. And I'm a very spirited cheerleader. More than once I've yelled at those bouncing prima donnas to put their hearts into it or hand over their pom-poms.

My favorite game, however, is water polo. Now, I realize most of us didn't grow up with silver spoons in our mouths and golden dildos in our asses. I doubt people living on welfare play Ivy League sports to pass the time. So let me sum up for you what's so great about this game: Fourteen buff guys wearing nothing but protective caps and skintight swim briefs jostling around in the water for an hour or so. And yes, they are all buff. Players are not allowed to touch the bottom of the pool during the entire game, except for goalies. That means constantly treading to stay afloat while trying to hit a ball while trying not to get cock-blocked by the opposing team. Oftentimes you have to jump to get the ball, relying on nothing but the strength of your legs to launch halfway out like a great white after a seal. Fouls are frequent, and it's often because one guy grabbed another by the briefs. Those taut, soaked, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination briefs.

And it would be no exaggeration to say my thrilling affair with water polo is made all the better by one player: Alistair Wellesby. That man can have me anytime, anyway, anywhere. With a name like that, you know he's a British import; his accent is so sexy James Bond studies him for seduction tips. He's six feet and four inches of pure otter muscle, with honey brown eyes and a sandy blonde coat that darkens as it heads for his extremities. He flicks his firm, thick tail playfully between periods, splashing his teammates and making jokes, or swims in loops to pass the time like simultaneously staying afloat and playing a match is the easiest thing ever. I've seen beavers and platypuses come out of there looking exhausted, but Alistair is all smiles, all the time. Oh, and when he smiles... it's like unwrapping the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa present you've always wanted. When he finally gets out of the pool, time slows down, his fur is slicked flat against his frame, and you can clearly see the contours of his musculature. Everybody knows him, everybody loves him, and everyone wishes they looked even half that good in a Speedo. And I'm sure I'm not the only one who goes to bed masturbating to fantasies of him. Hell, you're probably at half-mast right now, and you've never even seen the guy. Don't be ashamed. Maybe I'll invite you to a game, and we can beat off together afterward.

I'll never forget the first time he spoke to me.

It was Saturday, July 12th, 3:57 PM (or thereabouts), partly cloudy skies, with a 30% chance of rain. Alistair's team, the Barracudas, had just lost by one point to the Silverfish, despite Alistair's scoring two goals. He had a look of rare disappointment, and his post-game chatter wasn't so lively. I stuck around until after the obligatory handshakes with our rivals and most everyone else had filed out of the building. I had yelled out several times during the game, worked myself into a frenzy, and was trying to get in a better mood by enjoying the view. Alistair stood there drip-drying as he spoke to a couple teammates, occasionally grabbing his tail with both legs and applying pressure as he pulled it though his palms, squeezing out excess water. As he spoke, a couple of them looked at me and chuckled about something. That was never good--every now and then a jock would give me shit about my fandom. A couple of times it was more serious than just calling me faggot. I grimaced and stood up anxiously, not wanting to be the butt of more jokes. Oh, Alistair... I can't believe you're making fun of me, too. My heart sank.

As I made for the exit, I looked up and noticed Alistair walking specifically towards me. Shit. Oh shit. I was excited and nervous and scared and confused and oh my god Alistair fucking Wellesby is going to talk to me. I stopped in my tracks and resolved that if the object of my desire is going to bully me, he's going to have to do it with my head held high. Being queer and a power bottom doesn't make you a pussy. Do you know how much willpower it takes to be able to open yourself up for a man (or two) and not cry out like a little bitch­? Not just endure it, but genuinely enjoy it? Trust me; I've got willpower like nobody's business.

"Eh, guy!" Alistair strode confidently toward me. His bulge swayed and his muscles flexed as he walked, the gymnasium light bouncing off his wet coat and accentuating all his best features.

"Uh_..._ yes?" I was so nervous I was literally shaking in my boots. Well, sneakers, but you get the idea.

He walked up and extended his paw. "Ello. The name's Alistair."

Heat was radiating from my crotch. My cock felt like it was burning a hole into my underpants. Goddamn sexy ass motherfucker... and I was going to get to touch him. I lifted my own paw--and saw that it was vibrating like my favorite toy at home, the one with six speed settings. Embarrassed, I withdrew my hand and gave him a sheepish "Hey".

"Not much for handshakes? Well, that's all right. So... you're quite the fan. You're here for every game, and even sit in on practices now and then."

"Hehehehehe, yeah... am I that obvious?" Such an awkwardly long laugh. His friends were still watching us from across the pool, still talking and looking at me.

"You do tend to stick out, the way you stand up and shout every few seconds."

"... Sorry about that." I could feel the pre-cum beginning to ooze from my tip.

"Don't be. What I'm trying to figure out is who you are. You're not on any team I know of, none of my 'mates claim you as a relation or a friend, and I don't ever see you sitting with anyone. Now why is that?" He flashed a curious grin at me, and I thought I was going to melt. Like literally, into a puddle right there on the floor. And then they could squeegee me into the pool, and Alistair could swim in me every day. Oh God, let me be a puddle....

"Ello...? Are you okay?"

"Oh. Yeah! Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just a big fan, that's all. I'm Lex."

"All right, then... Lex, is it? Interesting name."

He complimented me. Alistair Wellesby complimented me. My inner thigh was sticky, and my hole puckered instinctively. I couldn't help but sigh.

"I'm glad you think so. My parents are... they're interesting people."

"So you're really that much of a fan, Lex? Between you and me, the Barracudas won't be going to the Olympics anytime soon." He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. At this point I had a river of pre descending my legs. It had tributaries, and skin cells were setting up friendly coastal villages.

"No, I know... but I don't mean it like that! I mean, you guys are pretty good! You all try really hard!" Now it almost sounded like I pitied them. Boy, am I smooth. "But you're all good athletes, a hell of a lot better than I could ever hope to be. And anyway... you're amazing." My face flushed bright red­­--did I just say that out loud? I could only hope that my fur hid my rosy embarrassment, and the pool chlorine in Alistair's nose was preventing him from detecting the cascade of hormones I was releasing.

I don't think he was prepared to deal with this. Whatever he was planning when he walked over here, I was turning it into a sloppy mess. "... Amazing, you say? Well, thanks for saying so. I do try."

"Hey, it's true." Alistair, I thought, stop this. Either slug me and salt the wound with insults... or take me out of this gym and fuck my brains out. Fuck me until your every last muscle is spent. You won't even need lube. I'm making plenty of my own down here.

Alistair shifted on his feet, and his tail flicked languidly behind him. He looked back at his friends, who were still talking. One of them waved and called Alistair's name effeminately, while the other snickered.

"So, Lex...." Here we go.

"Yes, Alistair?"

"My friends over there tell me you're such a huge fan because you like watching boys in skimpy clothes." He smiled again. He was frank, but there was not a trace of insult in his voice.

"Oh...." I buckled down and made sure to keep my head raised and look him in the eye. "Yes, I'm gay, Alistair. An attractive man in skimpy clothes always brightens my day. I hope that's not a problem."

Our eyes were locked for a few moments. I was gazing into a dream... I couldn't sustain it and looked away. My gaze fell right on his crotch. At least I can get one good look in before he does whatever's going to do. The briefs held his sack in a solid embrace, and his sheath was outlined beautifully.

He cleared his throat and swept his paw over his torso, fanning away my lurid observations. "Eyes up, Lex: I'm more than a chap in swim pants."

I was absolutely humiliated. Why were they doing this? What was so fun about teasing the pathetic gay kid? And why couldn't I bring myself to just walk away?

Having said nothing, Alistair got tired of waiting for a response. "Look, I don't care if you're queer. I really don't. And I don't care if you want to cheer for us at every game. You can even show up to watch practice once in a while--if you become friends with someone on the team, special or otherwise. But the others," he said as he motioned back toward his teammates, "Well, you see, they tease you because you make them uncomfortable."

It didn't register right away, but anger rose in my voice when it did.

"Uncomfortable? I make them uncomfortable?! They harass me, tease me, insult me any chance they get! Where do they get off, sending you over here and--"

Alistair put his paw up to stop me. "Okay, first of all, they didn't send me over. I asked who you were, and I chose to talk to you. Secondly, think about how you make all these straight boys feel. They're here to play a game and have fun, but every time they look over, there you are, making a scene, ogling them, molesting them with your eyes. They're the working girls, and you're the lecherous construction worker."

I'd never thought of it that way.

"Wow. I don't mean to be like that. Should I... should I just stop coming?" I couldn't hide the shame and sadness in my voice.

"You don't need to do that. Some of the guys would be happy if you did, but that's not necessary. Just treat us like people, not objects."

The anger returned. "Hey! I'm not that bad! You can't tell me those breeders treat women any better! They're just tits and fuck-holes to most of them!"

"Lex?"

I loved hearing him say my name. "Yes?"

"Take it down a notch."

"... Sorry."

Alistair sighed. "I'm not saying you're entirely in the wrong here, either. I've already talked to the guys about being nicer to you. After all, you're the Barracudas' biggest fan. What really needs to happen for everyone to be okay here is for them to be less judgmental pricks, and you to become more than just the creepy queer. No offense."

"And how do you plan on making that happen?"

"I'm going to invite you on our next team outing."

I blinked. I dropped my jaw. I almost fainted. "You're fucking with me," I stammered.

"No, I am not. I am inviting you to spend some time with us when we're all equally clothed. You can find out what we're really like, and vice versa. Things go well, and you might make a few friends. If not, then I'll try to make sure no one hurts you, but you may be asked to stay away from the gym for a while. Deal?"

I was a clusterfuck of emotion, and my body wanted to explode and liquefy and jump for joy all at once. I stuck out my paw. "Deal."

We shook hands; I lingered a bit with my hold. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. "By the way, what breed are you? I'm afraid I don't know my dogs as well as I should."

"That's okay. I'm an Ibizan. We're kinda rare." I look a bit like a greyhound and a Dalmatian mated, with white fur and beige splotches, for those not familiar.

"Then I won't feel bad. I don't know when the next team hangout will be, but I'll let you know. I'm sure you'll be here," he added with a mischievous grin... and began to walk away.

"Or!" I yelled after him, although he'd only made it a few feet. All my nervousness had been replaced by bravado. "Or you could call me!"

Alistair laughed light-heartedly. "Come to a few more games, talk to me a few more times, and maybe you'll get my number."