Dirty Little Secret Ch. 04

"...and you know what?"

No, please! Whatever it is-please don't tell me!

"She's become a real animal in bed! Before, she could barely bring herself to touch my dick—now she can't wait to get it in her mouth...I'm getting a blow job every damn day! And you know what else?"

NO-NO-NO—DON'T SAY IT!! CHRIST ALMIGHTY, PLEASE DON'T SAY IT!!

"...she swallows!"

I switched from beer to wine. If they'd had any whiskey I would have guzzled that down, too.

When we were at the dinner table I couldn't bring myself to look at my mother.

Later, I lay in the darkness on my bed thanking God the walls of the bedroom were thick. I heard very faint, high-pitched screams from my parent's bedroom next to mine, but luckily, I couldn't make out any of her words.

I focused on Denny. I thought of his face; his hair; his masculine aroma; the lush softness of his lips when he kissed me. I vividly remembered every ridge and nuance of his hard cock as he plowed in-and-out me.

The urge to masturbate overwhelmed me. I stroked and kneaded my soft prick. I rubbed my balls then out of desperation applied a finger to my anus and gently stroked my perineum

Nothing worked. My prick was dead—it refused to rise to the occasion. My dad had killed my lust and desire. I fell asleep believing I'd never be able to have sex again.

After a big breakfast of sausage, eggs, biscuits and fruit, I retired to my room for more schoolwork before the game began. I relished having the luxury of time to study. My new life was rather hectic and busy, to say the least.

Mr. Hanson had blurted-out in front of my father the fact my life had changed. Yet my dad never asked about it. Maybe he'd missed it. I wondered if I should tell them. My mom thought I was still living on-campus and tutoring. I decided to wait until they asked.

I was deeply engrossed in a physics problem when my mother knocked on the bedroom door and said, "GAME STARTS IN TEN-MINUTES!"

"THANKS, MOM!" I yelled back at her.

I saw my mother had loaded the top of the big coffee table with snacks and hot plates. I sat on the sofa and watched as a television camera zoomed-in for a shot outside the stadium.

There must have been two-hundred people holding signs and shouting. When I saw a close-up of one of the signs my heart stopped; the blood raced thru my veins until I thought I'd have an aneurism.

On the signs was a photo of Denny with a big red 'X' over his beautiful face. Then you could hear them. Their faces were purple with anger as they shouted at the top of their lungs:

"FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT..."

I really thought my head was going to explode.

"You still see Johnson every night?" my dad casually asked me.

"Yeah," I lied. Mr. Hanson's words had indeed gone over my dad's head. "I had lunch with him the other day, too."

My parent's eyes narrowed and their stares bore a hole thru my skull.

Uh-oh, I thought. Wrong thing to say.

"I-I-ran into him in the cafeteria and we sat at the same table," I said trying for some damage control.

My dad was skeptical.

"He hasn't tried any funny business with you, has he? You know how they like to prey on the weak and innocent!" my dad spat it out in his accusatory tone of voice.

"Of course not!" I countered. "We're just friends."

My dad flipped-open a cooler next to his chair and said, "Take what you want."

There was beer, soda and water. I grabbed a bottled-water; my mouth was drier than the Mohave Desert.

I was relieved when the game finally kicked-off.

It was apparent from the start this wouldn't be an ordinary game. Nebraska's 'Big Red' came out hitting our guys with a ferocity I hadn't seen all year.

On the first play of the game all their linebackers blitzed Todd and he was crushed beneath a sea of red jerseys. The crowd went wild. The players jumped and hollered and waved their arms at the crowd.

We wisely ran the ball twice then punted. I thought it was good strategy to calm the crowd.

The 'Big Red' offense then drove methodically down the field. Luckily though, we held them on 3rd down and they settled for a field goal.

I was eating some of my mother's meatballs when I heard the crowd erupt. It was only a kick-off and I wondered what they were getting so excited about.

To my horror, I saw the coach was using Denny to return the kick. The camera panned the sideline and showed Eddy, the usual kick-returner, was on the bench surrounded by the trainers. He must have gotten hurt earlier.

The student section in the end zone became one booming voice; audible to everyone watching and listening to the game.

"FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT..."

My mouth dropped open and my eyes were big as saucers.

This is bad, I said to myself. This is very, very bad.

Denny almost broke the return. A player dived and caught Denny's leg and tripped him up.

I became aware I was sweating profusely and feeling nervous and scared. Football was supposed to be fun and entertaining, but the atmosphere surrounding this game was toxic. You could sense something bad was going to happen but you couldn't look away.

Todd threw to Denny four times on the drive and each time Denny was involved in a play the crowd shouted:

"FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT..."

On 3rd-and-goal from the Nebraska nine-yard line, Todd lobbed his patented 'jump-ball' pass to Denny. My brilliant and beautiful boyfriend out-leapt two defenders and came down with it in the end zone. TOUCHDOWN!

Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, a third red jersey appeared in the picture and hit Denny while the play was well-over. The referees never threw a flag. Our coach and players were jumping up-and-down screaming at the officials, but they did nothing about it.

The crowd stood and booed as one. Incredible! I thought. They were booing Denny and not the obvious cheap, late hit by their own player.

The chorus of boos suddenly changed into their ugly chant:

"FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT..."

"This is just plain wrong..." my dad muttered.

The game fell into a defensive battle. Our guys began hitting their guys with equal viciousness. The referees called penalties on us, but very few on them.

Late in the second quarter, Todd was able to engineer a sustained drive with a mixture of runs and short passes. We were down to their thirty-yard line when Denny ran an out pattern, caught the ball and stepped out-of-bounds. A Big Red body never stopped and slammed into Denny after the play was whistled dead.

I watched in horror as Denny lay on the ground a few seconds too long. When he got to his feet I'd never felt such relief in my entire life.

The late hit had been so blatant the referees were forced to call a penalty on the hit.

The crowd erupted in boos. Their chanting grew louder-and-louder:

"FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT-FAYY-GUT..."

We were down to their fifteen with twelve-seconds to go in the half. I recognized the next play by the way our receiver's lined-up. Denny was on the far left and he would run towards the middle of the field.

He'd told me this play always caught the other team by surprise. They never expected us to run a play in the middle with so little time left.

I watched the play unfold. Todd dropped back, Denny sprinted diagonally to the middle of the field, uh-oh, a linebacker forced Todd to throw the ball early. The ball sailed high over Denny's head.

It's alright, I told myself, still plenty of time for another play.

Then it happened: as Denny landed on his feet after his jump at the too-high pass, a red jersey flew at Denny's knees and hit him full-force with his helmet and shoulder pads.

As Denny was collapsing to the ground, another red body launched himself at Denny's upper-body. I swear to this day everyone watching the game could hear the crushing of helmets and bodies from the unbelievably brutal late hit.

I held my breath. Denny wasn't moving.

"OH MY GOD-LOOK AT HIS LEG!!" my dad said.

I couldn't believe what I saw: his leg was twisted beneath the wreckage of his lifeless body—it was obviously broken, and worse, Denny wasn't moving—he was unconscious and helpless on the ground.

I couldn't help myself—my natural reaction overwhelmed me-I stood and screamed at the television:

"YOU GODDAMN SONS-OF-BITCHES-YOU BASTARDS-YOU KILLED HIM-YOU KILLED DENNY—OH GOD DENNY—GET UP—GET UP-I LOVE YOU DENNY—I LOVE YOU!!"

Tears flowed freely down my face. I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my shirt. I didn't want to believe what I was seeing—I couldn't grasp the cruelty of the crowd as they chanted:

"DING-DONG THE FAGGOTS GONE-DING-DONG THE FAGGOTS GONE..."

It hit me like a ton of bricks where I was and who I was with. I stopped sobbing and used my sleeve to wipe the tears from my cheeks. I was petrified to look at either of my parents. I glanced at them sideways out of the corners of my eyes.

I will never-ever forget the grief-stricken horror in their bulging eyes. Their ashen faces contorted in pain and anguish; their mouths wide-open, too incredulous to utter the slightest sound.

I stood naked and exposed before them-my dirty little secret was no more.