A gay adult story: Taking it to the Hole by afroerotik
On a scorching New York summer night where the temperature didn’t seem to drop below 80 degrees, Ernesto suggested an exciting idea to his friends. “Let’s head over to West 4th for a pickup game,” he proposed, eager to take advantage of the lively city atmosphere. His friends, however, were less enthused.
“Are you kidding me? It’s sweltering out here. Why would I want to go all the way to Manhattan at this time of night just to play basketball and sweat my balls off even more?” lamented Ernesto’s cousin Vinny, a self-proclaimed tough guy with a limited basketball skill set. The rest of the group, consisting of Tony A., Tony M., and Joey, were average players at best and knew they would likely be outmatched at West 4th Street. With complaints about the heat and distance, they dismissed the idea altogether.
But Ernesto couldn’t be deterred so easily. He knew that the courts at West 4th would be packed on a Saturday night and he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He couldn’t imagine spending the evening in his neighborhood, drinking cheap beer and bragging about girls, listening to Tupac, and whining about the struggles of being a white man in society. Unlike his friends, Ernesto had a more curious and worldly nature, having moved from Tuscany to Brooklyn as a child and even attending college out of state. This made him stand out in many ways among his friends, who had never ventured out of their hometowns or even stepped foot in the Bronx. He also had a unique appearance, with a naturally darker complexion, long jet black hair, piercing steel gray eyes, and a well-toned 6’2″ frame. Most of his friends were around 5’10” with short hair and were starting to develop beer bellies in their 30s.
Ernesto was an outsider. He was an enigma in a place where a mixed-race person was a point of intrigue and attraction. Ernesto felt comfortable in his skin, happy even, but he knew that the community he lived in sometimes frowned upon his mixed-race origins.
Far from home, Ernesto was an island without a shore when he first came to the neighbourhood of Carnasie. He had been searching for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and in a strange way, he had. For all of their differences, Ernesto was accepted and loved in the community like he was no different at all. It had been a difficult journey for him, but he had finally found a place that he could call home.
Ernesto’s family and friends were a tight-knit group of people who had taken care of him when he was at his lowest, most lonely point. They had embraced him as part of the family and had always been there for him. Despite the fact that he was raised in a predominantly white area, he had strong connections to his roots and his heritage. While most people anticipated he would have gotten an apartment in Manhattan, Ernesto stayed in the neighborhood to help take care of his aging grandmother who had come from Italy 10 years ago. His presence was a blessing to his aunt and uncle, who both worked overnight shifts and struggled to care for her in the evenings. His cousin Vinny and Theresa, on the other hand, only knew how to curse in Italian, making it difficult for them to communicate with their grandmother. Ernesto’s love for his family knew no bounds, and he would do anything for them, which is why leaving Brooklyn, leaving Carnasie, was out of the question.
As Ernesto announced his departure to play basketball in the city, no one was shocked, and they barely looked up from their activities. Grabbing his gym bag, he made his way to the subway, pulling out the book he’d been reading – a collection of works by James Baldwin. He was fascinated by the social commentary and the descriptions of racism that peppered the dialogue about being a Black gay man in America. As a gay man himself, a closeted one, he connected with the words, the struggle, and the rage that Baldwin so artfully portrayed. Ernesto’s friends, even though he had fooled around with most of them when they were younger, including his cousin, were deeply homophobic, as is the norm in their community. They had to maintain the tough-guy image they had cultivated over the years, which meant any form of homosexuality was out of the question. They had no inkling that their friend, who they saw as masculine and athletic, could be gay, which made Ernesto’s secret all the more secure.
Emerging from the depths of the subway into the humid night air of Greenwich Village, Ernesto was immediately captivated by the bustling streets teeming with people. There was an energy in the air that reminded him of the early afternoons back home, except for the fact that it was 11:00 at night. Making his way to the courts, he took a seat and watched the first two games. Ernesto had always been drawn to Black men, even from a young age. After his first sexual encounter with a Black man, he had no desire to be with another white man again. For the better part of seven years, he had exclusively dated Black men, and as he sat there watching the toned and muscled bodies of the players on the court, his admiration for the Black male form grew even more. It wasn’t a lustful appreciation, at least not in the overtly sexual sense. It was a deep and profound respect for not just their physical bodies, but for the struggles they endured that he had read about in the pages of his book.
There’s an unspoken code that says that white boys who hang out on basketball courts are looking to get served so people were always looking to school them and make sure they play. Three on three, half court, to 21, shirt vs. skins. Ernesto was shirts and he was playing the team who had just won the last game. Skins got the ball first and scored three points right off the bat. He was guarding a guy who had dominated the previous game and he knew he had to be tired so he was body-checking and going toe to toe under the rim. They were the same height, even the same body type, but his opponent was the color of caramel with a shiny bald head. It was a queer guy’s heaven, being able to publicly run his hands over that smooth flesh, the rippling muscles, sweaty, hard thighs pressed against his own. It was all about the game for Ernesto and he played hard, making sure everyone knew he was there to ball. The guy Ernesto was guarding gave him an elbow and sent him to the ground. There ain’t no fouls in street ball so he was right back up and in the game; he didn’t miss a beat. He got the ball and showed he had some skills. The other part of the unspoken code is, that when a white boy has skills on the court, he becomes the unofficial court favorite, getting his own cheering squad on the sidelines n’ everything.
The score was 19 to 20 with the skins leading and the shirts had the ball. Dude was blocking him, checking him hard, when Ernesto got the ball in the paint. He pivoted and — whoosh, nothing but net. In the split second right before the shot, he thought . . . maybe he was mistaken, but he could have sworn he felt ole boy grabbing for his cock. Not just body contact that happens during the course of a game, but actually palming his crotch, almost caressing it. It happened so quickly and the score was tied so he couldn’t dwell on it. The two adversaries stood toe to toe, making intense eye contact. The court lights made every drop of sweat glisten on his opponent’s shirtless body. One of the other skins sank the final shot ending the game. The entire court erupted in cheers and back-slapping and kudos about the great game.