Two

TWO

FELTON "COCK SUCKER" BADCOCK

I've kept my body pretty generic as far as markings go. There's a single star on my hip bone that I got when I was eighteen that very few people ever see. Unless my pants are hanging low, it's almost always covered in public. I'd done that on purpose as a kind of rite of passage when I officially, legally, became an adult.

While I don't try to put a lot of thought into it, I kind of think it was a bit of rebellion against my father too. Maybe a ‘fuck you' that I've never been brave enough to voice.

However, the little star is only visible when I'm in my underwear, a Speedo, or very low-rise pants. I like it that way. It's a private symbol that only people who are close to me ever get to see.

Or when I'm faceless.

My moaning fills the screen and I stare as Daddy Del rails me with his thick dick over a bench. It appears like we're in a park, but we're on a mutual friend's property. Another creator who owns this big ranch and basically has different aesthetics set up all over it for this kind of thing. He rents it out to other creators, hence why we're using it.

You can't really get fucked in a public park without being arrested unless you're absolutely silent. I am not silent. It's impossible to be when getting fucked with a dick like Daddy Del's.

"Good," Del says. I glance at the tablet where our video call is streaming. "This shoot's yours, right?" he asks.

We filmed three different shoots that day—one for each of our accounts and then a third that we'll both post. The rest of the day, we took teaser shots.

"Yep. This one is my favorite."

"Because your orgasm was like a fountain," he says, chuckling.

I grin. Daddy Del is in his forties. I think he's even pushing fifty. You wouldn't know it because he's hot as fuck, fit, has a smattering of tattoos, and fucks like a porn star. Because he is a porn star.

The guy is hot. When I reached out for a collab, he turned out to be really cool too.

He's only the third collab I've done because I have to be cautious in choosing my partners. They actually see my face in person while the screen sees me completely masked. I spend a lot of time vetting them for drama and scandal, watching their work, and basically becoming an online stalker before I even reach out.

Rarely do I even acknowledge those who reach out to me.

It's a lot of stress, but the release I get from filming and posting is really the only time I feel in control of anything in my life. I feel good—about myself, my performance, my body—just, everything . There's no stress. No pressure. This is for fun and it's the only time when I get to have that fun.

Daddy Del and I spend the next hour going through the little snippets we made, divvying them up and coordinating a schedule. It's probably more than a lot of creators do, but I find that when the parameters and expectations are laid out before they go live it's a lot more liberating for me than posting them on the fly.

It's something I learned from my first collab session. The scenes themselves were amazing, and the footage was sooo good. But everything after that became stressful as we passed videos back and forth, cross posted accidentally; one video went live before it was supposed to… on and on and on.

I nearly quit after that. It was far too fucking much and not what I started doing this for.

To be clear, I don't collab often. I've had this account for over a year and the vast majority of my videos are solo. Part of it is the lengthy time I take to vet someone, but another part is that it's rather dangerous. That's discounting diseases and shit. It's dangerous to let people know who's behind the mask.

Despite the risks I'm taking, I love my hockey career. I can't lose it. But the amount of stress that I carry because of it needed an outlet. Orgasming is that outlet. Orgasming with someone else is best, but again, I'm not willing to lose my career. Hence the mask.

"All right, Benny. I think we're good."

My name online is Benny Bop. It's a play on Betty Boop. You know—big tits that are exorbitantly disproportionate to her waist and tiny ass feet? While I don't have big tits, I do have impressively large balls and I'm a forever teenager, so I thought the pun was funny. I still think it's funny and laugh about it all the time.

"Yep. Thanks. It was fun."

"It was. Let me know if you're interested again."

We sign off and I debate whether I am or not. Del was fun but in hindsight, he's a little too daddy for me. Honestly, I thought I'd like it more than I did, but… I don't know. There's just something about him that wasn't quite the chemistry I thought it'd be. I ended up trying to tune him out most of the time because it was off-putting.

I get hard easily. Always. Like, I think my dick would love to stay hard most days. Which is rather unfortunate because it's uncomfortable to have a hard dick squished under giant pads or stuffing it in a cup that definitely doesn't fit.

I'm a grower more than a shower, which is comical when people realize it. They're some of my most popular videos on Click Drip that convert to clicks to my ReachMe account. The comments on them rival those of the comments of me performing with someone else and people commenting on how I must be a giant, since I dwarf most people.

I spend a while losing myself in mindlessly scheduling posts to ShareIt according to the timeframe Del and I decided upon. Then I switch to Click Drip and schedule the dirtier ones that show dick action. I'm really happy there's a platform that isn't run by a bunch of prudes and knows how to force confirm age restrictions.

The fact there are sites that do this completely contradicts every other site that claims they can't police that. It shows the idiots who run them for what they are—conservatives trying to control the kind of information we put into the world based on what they find is acceptable for their stupid community standards.

Yet, ShareIt is my preferred social media app, despite the community standards shit. It's better than Spectrum as far as that's concerned, which is surprising since they're owned and operated by the same company, and I find my reach and interactions are much better on ShareIt too. Scrolling on ShareIt is also my preferred brand of losing myself in online mediocre entertainment since it's all visually orientated.

I also have a Viraly account but it's so heavily toxic over there and they keep changing the algorithm to suck further with each update. Somehow, I constantly end up on the weird, holier than thou side of Viraly and surrounded by ‘God is disappointed in you' comments. Which I snort over, then add them to the blocked list of those disappointed in my decisions.

Logging into my ReachMe account, I spend a few minutes just looking at the stats and smiling. The interactions and comments have been really high this week. I've been teasing that a collab is coming and watching my followers guess who with the hints I've given has been fun. About half of them have been correct in guessing Daddy Del, though I don't confirm it.

Using their comments, I also have a list of those creators I think they're interested in based on how often they're guessed or suggested. Some are a flat out no, like the young gay couple who have recently been bringing a girl in out of the blue. It's the same girl, which I suppose might mean something, but, like, I feel it's a confusing clickbait scheme that is in bad taste. Why are you trying to get into the straight side of porn and shit when it's like, really… I don't know, I can't put it into words why it just rubs me the wrong way. I mean, it's cool if they're actually bi, but they've marketed their accounts for years as gay. It truly does feel like clickbait and leaves me feeling icky.

But it's not even just bringing in the girl. It's the lack of chemistry between the guys, which I think should be there since they've been together in real life for ages. I mean, not that long since they're both pretty young. Plus they always look at the camera! They're very obviously putting on a show and it's not good.

So yeah, inside thoughts, but they're a hard pass for me. I'm still surprised at the amount of people suggesting them though. I followed them for a while but even before they started posting with the girl, I was starting to feel icky about them. So I've since stopped following them.

With my laptop and phone, I sprawl out on the lounge chair on my balcony and answer some comments. A breeze brushes my skin and the light clinking of my wind chime has me closing my eyes. My entire balcony is lined in wind chimes, some heavier than others, so it takes more wind to convince them to sing, but there's nothing more relaxing than their music.

The one that's tinkling now is made of old keys. Between its position and that it doesn't take much of a breeze to move, it's almost always the first to go off.

There aren't many times that I feel relaxed like this. When the stress that I carry is momentarily set aside for a while. I lay in the cool Canadian October air and take a breath as a stronger wind moves by, making the wind chimes' voices fill the air.

It's peaceful. Maybe not to my neighbors, but they're not super close. And if we're scheduled to get heavy winds or storms, I take them down. Not because their tempo is a little wild and out of control then, but because I don't want them to break. Heavy metal wind chimes via storms is an experience that everyone should have at least once.

My phone rings, and immediately, the pressure of life topples back onto me. I feel it like Marion just sat on my chest, fully geared up. Fuck.

Closing my laptop, I sit up and reach for my phone. Sure enough, Dad's ringtone doesn't lie, and a bitter taste fills my mouth as I answer.

"Hello, Dad," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. Timidity is offensive. Being quiet is offensive. Excitement is definitely offensive.

"Son," he says, and I wince. "Disappointing game the other night."

I frown. "We won last night. And I didn't play the game prior."

"You let in a goal last night and should have played the game before."

I roll my eyes. "That's not my choice to make."

"If you played better, your coach would keep you in more often."

We've had this conversation. I actually agree with Coach Shively's reasons for swapping me and Marion so that we're both playing regularly. I've voiced as much to my father. No matter how many times I explain the reason we see similar ice time, in his eyes, I still suck. Otherwise, I'd always be in the net.

I don't bother answering with more than a blasé "okay" this time. There's no point.

"You need to win a Stanley Cup before you retire. You're getting old and slow. Your retirement's coming."

I'm not getting slow. I'm one of the top goalies in the NHL. Even Toby Eads says so in his hockey feed that we hockey players may or may not low-key use as a better reference than the so-called experts. He says I'm in the top five in the league.

While I believe him far more than my father's opinion—who didn't know a damn thing about hockey until I wanted to play when I was five—his lack of confidence in me stings. Always. I feel it as if it's another pound of weight that drops onto my shoulders.

"Did you talk to Pucket?" he asks.

I sigh, closing my eyes. "No."

"You need to stop squandering your money, son, and put some away for the future. You're not going to be playing for much longer and you need to have a financial plan in place. Call Pucket. Tonight."

I give him another noncommittal sound.

"You know what? I'll have him call you."

I'm not answering, I say mentally. I already have an accountant and a financial advisor. There's no way in hell I'm talking to Dad's.

"Have you thought about what you'll do when you retire?" he asks.

Our conversations are the same every time we talk. Which is far more regular than I'd like most days. Bottom line, everything I do is wrong. Even if I talked to his Pucket guy, I'm sure something would pass between them, and I'd be a lame son. If I had a plan for after hockey, it would be the wrong one.

"No," I say and tune him out as he berates me for being irresponsible. Wasting my career—that he still isn't sure how I managed to pull off a place in the NHL, but it's Winnipeg, so he supposes it's not that surprising. Which is ridiculous since this isn't even the team who picked me up initially. No matter which team I'm on, it's always, ‘well, it's only blank ' so clearly they'd take a lame goalie like me.

He's a fair-weather fan at best. His favorite team is whichever one is winning. If they start out winning and then lose, he hated them to begin with. Unless my team is winning, in which case we could always do better. I could have a perfect game, a fucking shut out, and he still thinks I could do better. You almost let that puck in, son.

But I didn't, Dad!

By the time he's off the phone, I feel like I can't catch a breath. I don't know what to do with myself as I curl into the side of the lounge and close my eyes. My chest is tight. My head hurts. My eyes sting. My stomach churns. My muscles are tense. I'm shaking.

I hate this feeling, but I don't know how to make it go away.

This is one of those times I wish someone was here to take the burden from me and hold me. Or pin me down and fuck me as I fight them. Yes, that's what I need. I want to be pinned down by someone stronger than me and have them force all these shitty feelings away.

As it turns out, guys get concerned when you tell them that's what you want them to do to you. Usually, that's the end of seeing them. More often than not, I get ghosted after that conversation.