Five-Year Reunion

It had been the same five years earlier, on graduation night, when Coach Hardy—my track and tennis coach, but also the wrestling and assistant football coach in this rural county high school—had taken my virginity. Making doubly sure I was of age—demanding to see my driver’s license and all—he’d gotten me drunk (or so he thought) then and bound me and fucked me in the bed of his pickup truck down by Bass Lake. But I wasn’t that drunk. I had anticipated, wanted, and prepared for what he did. All he would have had to do was ask me if I wanted him to fuck me—to initiate me in what a man, twice my age and with the body of a god, could do to a younger, naïve, but willing, young man.

But if he wanted it this way, incapacitating my body, covering me from above, and pistoning my ass with his thick cock, I’d let him have it. I wanted it this way from him. It wouldn’t happen again.

It was part of the reason I’d come to my Porterville High School five-year reunion. A more acknowledged reason was the publicity angle, pushed by my talent agent, Scott, who was sitting at a table in the school cafeteria while Coach Hardy fucked me in a tiled weight-lifting room dimly lit from parking lot lighting coming in through high clerestory windows and that smelled like old gym socks—with Scott fully knowing where I was and what I was doing.