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Tiger Club Prank
by Don bellew
The Tiger Club was the top of campus hierarchy and nerds were down in the nether regions, dregs of the college social order. Darren very carefully avoided looking at their faces, even when the two guys flanked him and began talking across his place at the library table. He just wanted to clear out as fast as dignity allowed.
"Who the fuck is this Lamont Devers anyway?" One asked the world at large. "Hell, I don't even know how to look him up!"
"Some ol' philosopher, probably ... try the card catalog ... I got stuck with Douglas Freestone, didn't he invent toe jam?"
With his books neatly stacked and just rising from the intervening chair, Darren could not manage to keep his fat mouth shut. Jocks were always such a bore, they didn't even resent their stupid image, and they embraced it. "Excuse me, but both men were Olympic medalists way back in the early days of the event. I think you'll find all you need for a report on them in the Illustrated Sports Almanac ... Uh..." Darren paused as he realized they were staring up at him as he stood behind his chair. "The second case from the left, about half way down ... Near the middle shelf?"
"No shit?" The blond jock on the right blinked at him, scratched his ear. "Olympic Medalists?"
"What events?" The darker guy squinted up his face, looked interested.
Darren breathed a little easier. He was still berating himself for trying to instruct these guys, but a surge of superiority rushed over him and swept away whatever better judgment he had basically ignored. "Decathlon, I think ... though Freestone was on several track teams ... He also did some diving ..." Darren looked from face to face. The jocks didn't seem to resent his encyclopedic memory. They were fascinated. Damn, they'd probably order him to write the fucking reports for them, now!
"Wow ... jocks, huh?" The blond guy had incredibly blue eyes. Darren wanted to ask him if he bleached his lashes ... like, sure! Get your ass kicked pronto, right?
"There's a reference book for all this stuff?" The dark guy looked Italian, a blue sheen covered the lower half of his face and his eyes were whiskey brown... tight little ears that hugged his head ... shoulders out to the extreme ... shit!
"Uh, yeah ... sure ... Look, I'll get the book for you ... be right back ..." Gave him a chance to get away from the dual impact of testosterone and little-boy-charm ... sweat was chilling his underarms.
Funny, he never talked to Tiger Club guys before. Always thought they were somehow alien and dangerous. These guys seemed just dull and beautiful. No, thar lies dragons! DO NOT think about the physical attributes, ignore the scent of male animal, pass over the Almanac and get safely away... that was the plan. Survival depended on it. These guys might come on gentle and friendly but they were Tigers, right? Playing with sharp fangs, razor claws, brute strength ... do I want to eat dirty jocks for supper? Hmmm?
The guys were waiting, watching him fetch the reference book with studied interest... languid but intent. Blond God leaned an arm across the table, head down almost on his shoulder ... Classic Apollo just rested chin on propped up massive fist. They seemed to murmur between themselves, else their lips moved to an internal chant.
Darren set the book between them and gathered up his stack of study material. "Good luck. I hope you find some useful information ..." But Fair Beauty wasn't letting him leave that quickly.
"Hey ... That was nice of you ... Look, sorry if we sort of took over your table... didn't mean to run you off ... " A large hand came up to pat at Darren's arm, then clamped around his wrist with iron insistence. "Sit back down, okay? There's room for all of us ... We're friendly, right Wop?"
"Yeah... real friendly, man!" Another hand came up to grab his shoulder, draw Darren back into his place between them. The Ethnic guy had a warm teasing glint in his eyes, a playful tilt to his very thick brows.
"Uh ... I gotta run, guys ... like, sorry, you know, but ... "In spite of his words and his personal resolve, Darren allowed himself to be parked back into the warm chair between the friendly jocks. His glasses fogged up. His belly muscles clenched, his whole body tried to shrink so he could avoid touching the hard and heated bodies that leaned in on him from both sides. Blond guy's arm curled around the back of his chair, knarly sinew pressed into his shoulders, the back of his neck. An Italian thigh slid close, pressed along the entire length of Darren's rubbery one. Blond leaned close, the scent of Obsession was intoxicating. Not the cologne, the scent was Darren's own name for raw musk and jock armpit.
"Show us how to look up stuff, okay?" Blue eyes peered closer, tried to pierce Darren's flimsy armor. It was right then, he realized, that close and open stare, which triggered his erection. "I'm a goner", was his interior mantra.
"Yeah ... help us out, all right? We don't know much about books and stuff ... We're the physical type, all we know is contact sports ... right, Chip?"
"Yeah!" Blond God grinned. "We're pretty good at full body contact ... " He drew the words out slow and sexy ... "Always envied you genius guys ... wished I had your brains ... You ever wished for a body like mine?"
"Uh ... well, uh ..." What the hell, Darren figured. He was totally out of control, anyway. "Yeah, sure. I've wished for a body like yours many times!"
"And what about me?" The Latin Stallion pressed his thigh, rubbed it for the spark effect. "You like my body, too?"
Okay, okay ... Darren was thinking ... this is where I wake up with a gallon of saliva on my pillow and the sheet clenched between my legs, right? He reached up to brush the newly formed line of perspiration from his upper lip. His eyes checked the brown ones for sincerity, found puppy dog pleading ... "Uh, sure, man ... you got a great build! You know that, right?" Darren tried to grin, it turned sappy.
"Hey, thanks. You're not so bad, yourself. You must jog or play tennis ...? Something? You don't look like a couch potato ...?" The brown eyes showed interest, too much admiration. Darren knew that anything too good to be true was usually fake but what the hell ... when you enjoy the lies, why doubt, right?
"I, uh, I play a little touch football on the weekends, Sunday afternoon, you know?" He had the decent honesty to blush. His body was about as filled out as your average broom handle.
"Yeah, I knew it!" Chip took over. "Smart and athletic, too ... double threat, Wop. This guy is something, huh?" His blue eyes made the dumb words palatable. With eyes like that, don't much matter what's coming out the mouth. It all sounds terrific.
Darren got quickly confused and diverted. Being surrounded by muscle and masculine beauty was not a state he was familiar with. The guys decided, somewhere along the line, their reports could wait ... pizza and beer sounded wonderful. He was swept along ... flotsam on the crest of a tidal wave ... no decision necessary, shit, nor at all useful.
He never realized just how intimate a pizza booth could be. The back of the room was dimly lit and then Chip blew out the candle on their table. They had Darren squeezed, emphasis on the squeezed, between them. Pitchers of draft came and were quaffed. Darren's glass seemed to be prone to quick evaporation. Pizza was shoved aside, liquid provided a more pleasing nourishment and kept a hand free for the playful games that developed under the table. Chip and Wop took turns drawing his hand to their laps, talking earnestly all the while about the benefit of brains over brawn. Chip leaned close, breathed on his cheek ... words so slurred into his ear that the sounds didn't matter, the warm touch said much more. Wop's zipper slid open like an automatic, pneumatic door ... Chip's belt dissolved; his entire fly lay open ... neither guy was encumbered by underwear. During a couple of riotous laughing bouts, somebody's hand fumbled in Darren's lap ... managing a firm fondle of his wet tool. Darren grinned drunkenly, grasped whatever joy awoke to his palm, breathed deeply of the sexy scent of danger and floated on delusions of being admired, attractive, interesting, desirable ... somebody squeezed his dick, again. He thought one more time would do it. He was gonna blow it right in his pants, right there in the pizza parlor. Why not?
"The motel room?"... Darren asked, confused.
"Yeah, man ... We gotta go ... stay here much longer and none of us can drive!" Wop was trying to zip up, Darren wanted one last handful ... Chip was tugging him out of the booth.
"The motel, come on ... you're staying with us ... take you back to the dorm, tomorrow ..."
"But, why a motel?" It didn't make sense, not with so many free rooms on campus ... but nothing tonight made sense ... jocks that seduced him, Darren Hocklesby? Hell, life didn't make sense. Why ask why?
He was shoved into the back seat and somebody climbed in beside him. Too dark to know which, didn't matter ... somebody drove ... who was sober enough to drive, didn't matter ... his back seat companion had a big, hard cock ... that mattered. A large hand worked inside his waistband, found his dick, stroked it ... that mattered a lot!
A motel parking lot, dim wattage, neon buzzed, a door, two guys supporting him by his arms ... a bed in the dark ... his clothes more or less ripped from his body ... the sudden comfort of a bed and a naked body to curl up with ... didn't matter who ... a soft cock ... well, he could fix that! Giggles in the dark, doors opening and closing ... bottles clinking together ... flashes of blinding light, angry and surprised grunts, shouts ... more light, eyes that couldn't seem to focus ... a room full of guys, a camera ... laughter ... Darren decided to pass out. Best decision he'd had all night. He did it. No sweat. Woke up next morning on the porch of his dorm. He was wearing somebody's sweat pants. His clothes were stuffed into a gym bag. Made a pillow for his aching head.
It took several days to collect all the pieces, fit the pieces together. An unpopular coach lost his job. An off campus, student run newspaper got shut down. Every bulletin board on campus sported a black and white photo of the fired coach in bed with his male lover. A student, the caption claimed. The focus was grainy; the student's face was averted, obviously busy at the coach's crotch. Darren easily recognized his own back, however. The motel room was not familiar; he'd never seen it with the lights on. All groups of students seemed to be buzzing with speculation over WHO the student lover might be. Nobody seemed to know for sure.
All members of the Tiger Club ducked aside at sight of Darren. All but Chip. Chip followed him, tried to talk to him. Darren ran. Chip called. Darren hung up.
The note came in the mail. It was typed on campus stationary. Darren thought it was official business, opened it. Short note; an invitation to a party in his honor at the pizza parlor. Chip and Wop. "PLEASE" was added in all caps and underlined. "Allow us to repay the debt we owe". Darren was tempted but NOT. He changed schools next quarter, avoided all jocks, for life.
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