Chapter 22: In Trouble

There was no way Sunday could have topped Saturday, from annoyance and defeat came a beautiful experience. We were called into the training and met the ManLube representative who wanted to do some features on us for their website.

The Cup Final was a “fucking big deal” and ManLube wanted to make sure their sponsorship of one of the finalists got attention. We were the big underdogs but I think they actually wanted that.

“The bottom is the focus of the camera,” Dmitri mused as I voiced my thoughts. “It’s all about the cock sliding into the bottom. It’s all about their expression and their arse being pounded. It’s about them submitting. Who cares who that cock belongs to? People want to see penetration.”

The reason for the ManLube guys coming into Woodford was they had selected a number of men to be profiled; they wanted all the key players to feature on their website prominently and talk in flattering terms about the range of lubricants which brought untold pleasures to their sex life.

Dmitri and I would be one of the profiled pairs. We were “the midfield axis,” and the two of us posed naked in just our socks with our arms folded next to the goal as a professional photographer eagerly took pictures of us against the twilight backdrop.

We had numerous onlookers snapping long-range pictures of the two of us, calling out our names as we posed for the professional photographer.

It lacked the raw power of my first photoshoot with a ManLube employee. That occasion I was knelt in the mud and savoured the long, thick cock of Paul – the male adonis – spearing my buttcheeks and filling my arse with his dominant prick. My first and only bareback anal experience. The cool rain, the splashing mud, the nasty submission and first footsteps towards my bisexual sexuality was a lifetime away. I didn’t know who I was back then.

It seemed so innocent all those months ago. Everything was new and exciting. Now, it was just sexual and satisfying. I’d lost the novelty value of sucking cocks or being penetrated. Anna suggested I was bored, but that was only part of the story.

Standing naked in front of the goal with Dmitri at my side as I glared down the lens with a ferocious stare was mechanical. It was going through the motions, and it wasn’t boredom but a lack of an adventure. I’d done everything almost; my curiosity was sated.

Giving head, check. Received head, check. Being buggered, check. Fucking a guy, check. Being live on television, check, check and check. Being gunged, check. Being humiliated, check. And so on.

I needed a new adventure. I needed a new challenge and a new world.

I reasoned if I was tiring of it, then other people would be too. The league would need to find a new way to attract attention; they would need to try something new to keep the gaze of the media on them. They needed to reinvent themselves.

The league would end up following the trajectory of a fading pop star, dramatically trying to relaunch themselves, before they gave up and accepted their fate on Celebrity Love Island or Christmas Pantomime in obscure West Country theatres.

I didn’t want that. I knew I loved the team, and I loved playing football, but I knew I was at a cross-roads. If I continued to play for Woodford Wanderers then this Cup Final would be the very pinnacle of my “fame.” The league may have signed a television deal for the following season, but they would need new blood and new stars to keep interest and I would no longer be as crucial.

I had found myself the most celebrated and famous footballer in my league. This was an accident and a freak of circumstance. One that fate would right as a new breed of fitter, better, sexier and younger footballers joined our teams and the attentions of thousands of horny men and women turned to admire the brutish strength and talent of better sportsmen.

Perhaps I would too.

But, as much as I knew I wasn’t even the best footballer in the league, in my team or even in my team’s midfield, I was the luckiest and I was growing to like my status. I enjoyed the banter with Betty and the trip to Estonia. I liked the attention. I liked entertaining.

And I felt like a bad entertainer when I was tiring of the games. I needed to feel energised and excited again. I needed a challenge.

ManLube’s demands stopped training completely on Sunday; we got nothing productive completed as photographs upon video vox-pops were recorded.

Monday though, was a disaster. I was in trouble at work. No sooner had I arrived at my spartan office and shook my wet coat free of rain drops, was I called into the boss’s office.

His eyes were sparkling with anger; the rotund sixty-two year old growled with annoyance as I entered his spacious office on the third floor. I’d only ever spoken to him once in five years.

“Marc Lawyer-ton.”

I wasn’t sure if his mispronunciation of my name was deliberate to unsettle or if he genuinely couldn’t read the words at the top of my personnel file on his desk.