A Coward for French Candies

We were playing the usual drills at the clay, nay, shell court that afternoon.

I was unmindful of background noises, distractions and the likes of not so pretty ball boys because three weeks of slacking off court meant losing stamina and control. Three weeks!

My returns were flying all over, especially from my backhand, which just slept through the rallies. Oi, hello there Mr. Backhand Left, I thought I'd play single-handed today. Remember, Mr. Forehand Right?

I was also losing steam during the cross court returns and I couldn't return low angled balls. By the close of the first hour, I was puffing sweat through all the possible exit points in my body. Oops, that didn't sound quite right.

But distractions from the loins could not be ignored.

From my right periphery, I saw two gorgeous, twenty-something preppy apparitions waiting for Court 1 to open up. Lucky me, it so happened that Court 1 was beside our Court 2.

I heard their quiet, nasal twang. French. OMD. O Mon Dieu!

Since I was beat up anyway. I decided to check out the young, fresh male merchandise (mec).

Mmmmhmmmm. Young candies. Almost unblemished.

"5 minutes! I'll just take a leak." I hollered as I headed so innocently to the WC where one fit and slim mec just entered. I think he was gonna change shirts. Booyah.

Candy from Kickette

And true to my fertile imaginings, I saw a lean flesh lightly darkened with fur.

He was facing me so I was temporarily blinded by his two shy, pink headlights.

I nodded, of course, in acknowledgement.

Nodding is the language of diplomacy that belies all sorts of undiplomatic, impure thoughts.

He didn't blush. He smiled slightly and nodded with those boyish dimples and lashes. Jesus, he's no twink. He's a self-assured young man with well defined pecs, abs and biceps. Boeuf.

Oh, were I a handsome frog with sticky retractable tongue.

I would have tasted those pink candied pools of glands. They were just begging for it. Besides, they were a little stained with sweat. Haha. I would also have known the guilt of denuding his young, sweet forest of fur--- green oaths be damned.

He smiled again as I tried to gingerly pass by him, claws curled and sheathed. Not yet pussy cat. Not yet.

And before I could get to to sink and leave the magnificent sight to memory, I saw him drop his jeans.

OMG.

He was wearing nothing but white jockstraps on his white delicate skin. Ok, in how many ways can one contemplate epiphany in all its glory.

I won't be able to pee. I had to pretend, but I couldn't.

After I was "done", he still was fidgeting with his straps.

*Hey cutie, want any help with that?* Snap!

He seemed to relish strutting his almost nakedness.

Gaddam it. And gaddam my five minutes. Time flies....

I nodded again.

He tilted his head, with a wicked gleam of malice.

Gaddam.

I fled.

I'm diabetic.

Goddam!