Team Player

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and
characters are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities
to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
Team Player
Copyright © 2010 Barry Lowe
ISBN: 978-1-60054-515-3
His and His Kisses
Cover art and design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by D. Thomas-Jerlo
All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the repro-
duction of this book in whole or part, electronically or
mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Published by
loveyoudivine, 2010
Find us on the World Wide Web at
www.loveyoudivine.com
TEAM PLAYER
BY
Barry lowe
s
TEAM PLAYER
"F
uck, it's hot!" Kevin said for the hundredth time
that day.
I agreed and was beginning to wonder why we'd chosen
to come to Mexico instead of jetting off to Bangkok with the
rest of the team as their prize for winning the Aussie Rules
Football Grand Final for three consecutive years.
They'd all be snoring through a beer haze or else chock-a-
block up the female dancers at Pattaya. We could have gone
with them, but no, Kevin had wanted to go to Mexico to
scramble up the pre-Hispanic pyramids at Chichen Itza and
Uxmal. Not even Acapulco or Puerto Vallarta where at least
there were women who panted over a bit of Aussie sausage.
Our team mates thought we were mad when we'd
announced that this year we were going to try something a little
Team player
different. They mocked us with their usual ribaldry about a
"poofter's honeymoon", but they were joking, of course. If you
were a poofter, you didn't play football, particularly Aussie Rules.
We just smiled and said we were going for the Hispanic
pussy. And we'd found precisely zilch of that. Not that I cared.
I had a crush on Kev and that's why I was there. Sure, the
pyramids were breathtaking and we’d startled a few tourists
by recklessly running up the Soothsayer's Pyramid and then
running down the equally steep other side.
But what I wanted to see most was Kev in another sort of
action.
No chance that was going to be with me; he was a real
ladies man. Everybody said so, particularly Kev himself. But
when I saw him on the field in his extra brief maroon shorts
and his team singlet, well, let's just say I had to be extra careful
the television cameras weren't trained in my direction and
could pick up my hard on.
So why was I here when there was not much chance to
hook him for myself? I suppose I thought close enough was
good enough, and I was trying to maneuver Kev into a three-
way. Him and me and a piece of pussy. That way I could
watch him in action and store up a lifetime of images to beat
off over later.
So far, we'd had no luck finding that elusive threesome.
The Mexican women looked down their noses at us uncouth
antipodeans. And the Indian women were too chaperoned.
Here we were in Merida on Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula,
at 11 o'clock at night, tramping down 60th Street toward our
hotel half an hour walk from the Zocalo. About 30 minutes too
far in this heat.
There was a disco nearby, but they wouldn't let us in
wearing our shorts. Not respectable enough. I suspect they
thought we were going to make trouble. We were much bigger
than their bouncer.
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