We were in Mitch’s gym, the one attached to his school, which wasn’t open today. He’d said it was a good session—only an hour for the same fee if we went to dinner and on the town with the guys and then a hotel room. But it would be rough, he said. And he was damn right about that.
I was high on a bar-lift machine, my legs spread and hanging over the handle bars and bound there. And my arms raised over my head, restrained at the top of column the weights were attached to. I had a ball gag in my mouth. The gym was closed, but Mitch didn’t want any screaming to be heard out in the street.
I did a little screaming into the ball gag. I couldn’t help myself on that.
Eddie Teng, the other table tennis guy I’d played against in the exhibition that afternoon, was across the gym floor, tied down on his belly on a bench press, his ankles restrained on one leg on either side of the bench at the bottom and his wrists to the bottoms of the legs at the top. His guy was mounted on top of him, clutching his shoulders, and rising and falling in the fuck.
Eddie was getting it a lot better than I was and his guy was a lot better looking, younger, and not as fat as mine. Mine was the one with the fancy fetishes—at least for now. Mine was a lot more interesting. I had to give him that.
And then there was Mitch. Mitch, our coach and pimp in the Los Angeles table tennis club, was there, too, over in the shadows, making sure this didn’t get too rough. He wanted Eddie and me—and the other guys on the team—in good enough condition to play. And he wanted us in good enough condition for him to be able to fuck too.
I did a little of that muffled screaming when, crouching over me and leering into my face, my guy—probably in his fifties, muscular but beer-belly fat, balding, and with an ugly mug—pushed the black, tear-shaped butt plug up my ass. We were both naked. What he was packing wasn’t anything to write home about and it wasn’t going to full erection very fast. This was probably why he had to work up to it as he was.
The way I was bound to the machine, my butt was just hanging there, spread because my legs were bent over the handlebars of the weight-lift machine. He could just crouch in front of me and shove the butt plug up into me. It was lubed but he didn’t take his time pushing it in, so it was painful and I let him know that as I could while chomping down hard on the rubber of the ball gag. Worse than that, it was just a simple butt plug. It was an inflatable vibrating one. Once he’d gotten it up into me, he turned the damn thing on and it was pulsating in my ass.
I couldn’t help myself. I went hard, rocked up and down on the handlebars, and moaned.
He liked that and started stroking my cock with one beefy hand and rhythmically squeezing on the ball that inflated the plug in my ass with the other. He was stretching my channel and causing the plug to pulsate inside me, as he crouched over me, looking close into my face, licking his lips, dipping down occasionally to kiss me here and there. His hand on my cock moved to lacing his fingers through the base of my balls and distending them. He squeezed and I screamed into the ball gag. He laughed and went back to stroking me with one hand and working the butt plug controls with the other. I couldn’t help it. I shot my load in short order. He laughed, released my dick, and moved his hand to his, doing what he could to work up an ejaculation.
He was at least sort of hard when he took the butt plug out, crowned himself with a condom, moved into position, and penetrated. I was hanging at a level that he didn’t need to crouch to belly up to me, But bellying up to me wasn’t easy, as he had a big belly and not the longest dick. He had to sort of push his hips under me and lean his torso back, thrusting up. That was fine with me, he couldn’t get his face in close to mine that way.
He managed, however, and once saddled, he grasped my hips between his hands, and fucked up inside me. He got harder as he thrusted, and once he set up a rhythm of the thrusts, he let his hands roam all over my body, going to my pecs and worrying my nipples. I got into the rhythm too. I could feel him inside me and I knew I was being fucked. I like to be fucked, or I wouldn’t agree to this no matter how much I did it to keep being able to play table tennis competitively with Mitch as my coach. This guy was nothing to write home about in terms of a fit body, but he had a cock and he was using it.
We got into the groove, and he went back to holding my hips, squeezing my butt cheeks apart and moving me back and forth on the thrusting cock with nothing getting in the way of me not fully enjoying taking the cock bound as I was except for the pressing of his belly into mine and the sensation that I could take him deeper if it weren’t for that mound of flesh—and he would have aroused me more if he were, younger, fitter, and better looking, like the guy who was pounding Eddie’s ass over on the bench press. That guy has a monster of cock. That guy could fill a hole to maximum stretch. That guy could make you cry. That guy was making Eddie cry.
I came again up my guy’s belly, and then he came too, I suppose. There was nothing special marking his release. I had the impression that he couldn’t get much of one off anymore and that was why he liked this bondage and vibrating butt plug stuff.
Afterward, he stood back from me, moving his left hand under my balls and penetrating and working my ass channel with his fingers. He alternated stroking me off with his right hand with stroking his own cock. He couldn’t make himself come, but, as I writhed within his control and bit into the rubber ball of the ball gag, he brought me hard again, knelt and took my cock in his throat, and I had a third ejaculation.
I’d moan and groan about it, but I kind of liked the bondage and vibrating butt plug stuff myself. I would have liked it a lot if I had a younger hunk doing it to me, one who could compete with the inflated butt plug in stretch when he was inside me.
But I wouldn’t let Mitch know this wasn’t so bad. If he thought he was pushing the limit to put me in a position like this, maybe my cut of take would be bigger.
He was cooing to me and telling me how good I’d been when the johns were gone and he was releasing me from the weight machine. “There, Sean, that wasn’t too bad was it? And it was over in the hour. You don’t have to take it all night,” Mitch said.
“He was a pig,” I said, doing a sullen routine to make him think it was awful. I was somewhat surprised that I hadn’t found it awful. And maybe a little scared about that too. “I can’t wait to get the smell of him off me,” I added.
“He made you come, though, didn’t he?” he asked.
“It was a chore,” I answered. I wasn’t about to let Mitch know that the toad had made me come three times. That was a surprise too. That certainly was something to think about—that bondage sex like that could make me come three times, not that I wasn’t young and fit enough to come repeatedly. What if he had been a young stud? Could I have fired off all night long trussed up and treated like that? It certainly was something to think about.
“Well, you can get a shower here in the gym, but you’re not finished yet.”
“Not finished? I have to take another john this evening?” I asked.
“Yes, an important one. But I can tell you he’s no pig—although I’ve heard he can be rough.”
Well, shit, I thought. I didn’t know what I thought about that now, not after how this fat dude did me on the weightlifter. I never would have known how arousing that would be—how many times it could make me come.
* * * *
I hadn’t been the best scholar in the high school I attended in the Glendora section of Los Angeles, up against the mountains below the Morris Reservoir. And I’d been too small for the football or basketball teams. But I was flexible and fast and thus excelled at gymnastics and what was called ping-pong at that level. There was no formal sports program for this, but we played in clubs intramurally and with neighboring schools. One of those was in the next town over, toward the ocean, Rosemead, where there was an adult table tennis association. Mitch Wilson, one of the coaches at the California Table Tennis Club—the CTTC—there, saw me play, decided I could play at that level, and started to court me.
He courted me for more than playing table tennis, and thus I went straight into his care from high school, bypassing college. Since leaving high school I was taking some Internet courses toward a degree at Phoenix University, but that was mostly to be able to tell my relatives that I was in college. After seeing me play against the Rosemead High School ping-pong club late in my senior year when I was undecided on what to do after high school and really loving only ping-pong, Wilson invited me to try out for the CTTC program and to get coaching at his Rosemead gym. I was prone to liking men anyway, but he was smooth enough to have me on my belly over the arm of the couch in his office and his dick inside me before I realized what was happening. He popped my male cherry and had me crossed over that line without any meaningful resistance from me. But he was cajoling me all the time about offering me a new life developing as a table tennis star.
He gave me what I wanted and I gave him what he wanted. And what Mitch Wilson wanted was to finance his work with table tennis by sexually dominating his players and pimping them to paying men. He made more money as a pimp than as a coach. I can’t say that I didn’t smoothly work into that system.
When I was brought into the California Table Tennis Club I found a whole new world of semiprofessional sport that extended across the United States and beyond, with the most serious competition being in Asia. I was partnered with the Chinese-American guy, Eddie Teng, and, together, we were becoming almost unbeatable. Eddie was one of Mitch’s boys in his pimping sideline. It wasn’t long before I realized that he was good, but that he wasn’t great. I wanted to be good enough to play in Asia. Money was being pumped into the U.S. programs that filtered down to living wages for the players—barely living wages. There was bigger money for players in the East, especially Texas, and even more in Asia, where the sport was really taken seriously.
To move forward, I needed to move up in programs and get a better partner to double with than Eddie. To break loose of Mitch Wilson, who had taught me about as much as I could learn from him, I had to boost my income. Most of what I made now was from being pimped by Wilson. As I saw it, I had two choices in going from here, if I was going to go from here. I could either move up to a club with better benefits to the players or I could find a sugar daddy to support me who was willing to promote a career for me in table tennis.
Each time Mitch matched me with a man, most of whom came from those who were following table tennis, I assessed him as a possible sugar daddy.
One of these days, I reasoned, I would find what I needed.
* * * *
Mitch drove me toward downtown L.A. from his gym in Rosemead, taking me to the three-star-and-working-its-way-down eight-story Embassy Suites by Hilton in Downey, on Firestone Boulevard, with me waiting in the Brickstones Bar until he had checked me in. He took me up to an eighth-floor room, with a balcony and tired-looking furniture, looking out north toward the downtown L.A. area.
“Wait for him here, Sean,” Mitch said when we got into the room. It was dimly lit, drawing one’s eyes out to and beyond the balcony to the lights of the city beyond. “He’ll come in about an hour. Remember that he’s important. You need to impress him.”
“Who is he? Why do I need to impress him?” I asked, but Mitch was already gone, leaving me alone in the room. I stripped down and took a shower, and when I came out of that and dried off, I pulled my bikini briefs back on and padded out to the balcony to take in the sights of the city in the early evening when traffic was still bustling. Off to my left I could see the ocean shore and, beyond that, only dark-blue ocean dotted with white yachts. From here the world looked quite prosperous. I wanted to be part of that richer world.
But I wanted to continue experiencing the exhilaration and vigor of pounding the ball across a table tennis surface. And I wanted to compete at an ever-higher level.
It was while I was standing at the balcony railing taking in the lights of the deepening evening and the breeze from off the ocean, that strong, muscular arms encircling me from behind, and lips from a man’s face nestled into the hollow of my throat. It was dark and he was behind me, so I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his naked body. He was hard-bodied and muscular, taller than I was, not young, but powerfully built. I could tell that he was bald—and Asian, from the tone of his skin and what little I could make out of his facial features when I was able to see them in my peripheral vision.
I gripped the railing and held steady in place while, still nuzzling his face into the hollow of my throat, his hands slowly moved down my body, one hand palming my belly to hold me in place while the other pushed the hem of my bikini briefs down until they slid down my legs and I stepped out of them. His hand moved his erection to where the underside of it was rubbing across my hole. Then the hand snaked around, gathered and weighed my balls, and then grasped my cock and stroked me off.
He held me, sighing and moaning, in place while he jacked me off, not relenting until, writhing and moving rhythmically against him, the underside of his cock stroking up and down over my blossoming hole, giving a little cry and collapsing within his control, I released my seed through the open railing of the balcony and down onto whatever lay below me in the darkness.
Then and only then did he fuck me, right there on the balcony, still not revealing more of himself to me except for his powerful body from behind, his kissing and sucking lips, and his thick shaft.
“Jutt your tail back. Give me your hole,” he growled, in accented English, and I complied, pushing my butt back and lifting it. As I did that, the bulb of his cock moved into position. I writhed, breathed heavily, and gave little yipping sounds as he penetrated. He was huge, and though I had slackened as he was rubbing his cock on the hole and jacking me off, he was still almost impossible to take.
But take him, I did, slowly, at full, insisting stretch. He embraced me close at the balcony railing, relentlessly pushing up inside me, letting me struggle, but not letting me moved out of his control.
“Shit, fuck,” I cried out. “You’re so big. You’re too big.”
“Take it. Take it,” he growled.
And I took it—to the hilt. He began to slowly pump me, reaching down and raising my feet off the floor of the balcony, hooking my knees on his hips—and thrusting, thrusting. I crossed my ankles above the top of his plump buttocks, fully under his control, hanging onto the railing with my hands, with his hands cupping my pecs and pulling me back from the railing, as his pumping increased in intensity, speed, and depth.
With a tensing, a jerk, and a little cry of release, he came—once, twice, a third time. I came again with him.
Withdrawing from me, he picked me up, slung me over his shoulder, carried me back into room, and lowered me onto my back on the bed.
I saw his full, magnificently cut, body from the front now in the atmospheric lighting of the room. I gasped, realizing that it was Gon Wu, a major table tennis champion in the States, who had been a leading player in China and, in his late forties, had immigrated to California and formed the AMDT Ping Pong Club in San Franciso, a rival organization to the one in L.A. and one who usually bested the Rosemead team in regional competitions.
He was tall and well-muscled. His body, including his head, was smooth skinned. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was hard-bodied, powerful, and one of the best table tennis players who had played in the States. The men he coached went far.
He also was massively endowed, both long and thick. His balls were the size of lemons and hung low. He had just fucked me from behind. I had been royally fucked.
It wasn’t over.
He hovered over me for a few minutes after laying me on the bed, presumably to be sure I’d stay in place and wouldn’t bolt. I wouldn’t bolt. He’d conquered me. I’d surrendered. His huge cock owned me. I saw with a bit of relief, though, that he’d worn a condom. He rolled the spent one off, tossed it in a wastebasket and, while he was turned to do that, took a length of black plastic material out of a briefcase open on a chair next to the bed. It was some sort of stretching restraint, with two loops at each end.
I lay there, eyes wide open and watching him work as he looped the stretchy band behind my neck and methodically trussed me up, my left ankle and wrist being bound together in the loops at one end of the band and my right ankle and wrist to the loops on the other end. It was a good thing was as limber as I was, a trait that helped me in moving rapidly to the bouncing ball on one end of a ping-pong table.
I was bound, on my back, completely defenseless, open and vulnerable. Gon Wu, stood between my raised and spread legs, my buttocks on the edge of the mattress, completely accessible to him. He went down on his knees, moving his hands up my torso, caressing me and working my nubs as his face went to my balls, cock, and hole. He ate me out and sucked me off, as I gently rocked against him as best I could, moaned and groaned at the attention he was giving me, and arched my back and cried out in ecstasy as I came for him in his throat.
By then he was in erection again. He stood, hovering over me, feasting on my vulnerable body with his eyes, and rolled on another condom and lubed himself up.
Leaning over me, he clutched my throat with one hand while he put himself in position with the other one. He mounted, penetrated deep and swift, and fucked the hell out of me.
Afterward, as I lay on my back on the bed, freed finally, and mentally checking over my body for damage—which, whatever I found, didn’t match the glorious fucking I’d just received, he stood at the door to the balcony, looking out over the city, and sipping on a beer from the hotel room refrigerator.
“You take cock as well as you play table tennis,” he said at last.
“Thank you—I think,” I replied.
“I’ve been watching you. I think you only get better and better on the table. I’d like you to come to San Franciso and play on my team.”
“And that’s a reason for this—for what we did here?”
“I’m on as much a budget as Wilson is here in L.A. If you come to San Franciso, you’ll have to turn tricks for both of us like you do here. I needed to know how well you do at that.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I’m inviting you to come to San Francisco and work with me. There’s a tournament coming up in the Philippines. I want to enter you in that.”
Mitch Wilson hadn’t said he’d do that for me. “I’m under contract here. I’d have to pay $10,000 to get out of it.”
“I’d pay that. I’m going for a shower now. Think about it.”
When he came out of the bathroom and was dressing, he said, “Well?”
“I have to think some more about it,” I answered.
“Don’t take too long. My card is there on the nightstand. I need to know within ten days, or I’ll have to work with someone else for the Manila meet.”
And then he was gone, and I was left with an option I hadn’t had before coming up to this hotel room, a glow from having been well fucked—better than Mitch Wilson did me—and the need to make a decision. I hated having to make a choice.
* * * *
“You’re Sean Hampton, aren’t you? I liked how you played. I’ve kept track of your rise in the competitions.”
I turned to see who had come up to me as we were breaking up the competition the next day with the team from AMDT Ping-Pong in San Francisco. We hadn’t won all the games, but I’d won all the ones I played. The voice was a booming bass. The man was tall, big boned, ruggedly handsome, and something not much over fifty. I’d known he was a Texan even if I hadn’t recognized him from table-tennis-world news coverage of the Texas table-tennis world. He was wearing faded jeans, a cowboy shirt, cowboy boots, and a Stetson, and he was wearing them well. I, of course, knew who he was. He was Dave Compton. He owned a company making table-tennis gear: paddles, balls, the tables themselves, and even the special traction shoes we wore. He also was the major sponsor for the San Antonio Alamos Table Tennis Club, more awash in sponsorship cash than any other club in the States. I knew his reputation. He had sugar daddy written all over him—and I don’t mean for young ladies.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Compton. It’s a surprise to see you here.”
“You know who I am,” he said. He clearly was impressed by that.
“Of course. I think it’s more surprising that you know who I am,” I answered. “It’s a long way from Texas.”
“I’m scouting talent,” he answered. “In that vein, I wonder if you are available for dinner and a little chat this evening. Maybe something very private.”
“Very private?” I asked.
“Yes, I know what players like you do out here in the California clubs to make ends meet.”
Ah. He was propositioning me. “I see. You really have to talk to my coach, Mitch Wilson, about that.” I looked him over. I wouldn’t mind being ridden by him. He was quite a hunk for his age. I’d heard he was a big-cocked man too. And he must be filthy rich. I had been looking for the option of a sugar daddy. He said he was on a recruiting trip.
“I’d rather deal with you directly, if you don’t mind. Mitch Wilson need not be riding along with us.”
Riding along with Dave Compton meant in style. A shiny black Cadillac Escalade with smoked windows and a driver were waiting from us outside the table tennis venue in Rosemead. We drove to the Newport Beach Marriott Bayview, which was not far in terms of distance but that took long enough in L.A. traffic for me to feel the sexual heat off the man as I sat beside him in the backseat of the Escalade and was amused at how hard it seemed for him to keep his hands off me. As it was he got as far as gripping my thigh above my knee. I tantalized him by responding to that maneuver by spreading my thighs. I could feel as well as hear his intake of breath, but he didn’t venture to move closer to the goods. I would have let him if he want to.
It wasn’t lost to me that we went to a hotel for this dinner at which he wanted to talk to me away from Mitch Wilson’s attention.
We ate Saturday dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, the Vista.Kitchen.Bar, during which Compton pitched me to move to San Antonio and play for the Alamo Club team.
“I have a contract here with Mitch. It would take $10,000 to get me out of that.”
“If we decided to make a formal offer, we’d—I’d—pay that, and I’d pay you a thousand a month on top of that. Plus you would be living with me and that would cover your room and board.”
“Live with you? I make most of my money here on the side.”
“Yes, I know. But if you came to San Antonio and I was pleased with you, you wouldn’t have to do that anymore.”
“If you were pleased with me. I have to say that I’m considering an offer by the San Francisco club. They say they’ll send me to the competitions in Manila. Mitch hasn’t committed to that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be considering moving at all.”
“We’d send you to the Philippines for competitions there—and then on to Hong Kong, if you wished. No problem there.”
I knew the Texas club had the money to do that—money that no other club in the States had—money that Dave Compton provided. He had a hand gripping my thigh just above the knee again. As I’d done in the backseat of the Escalade, I parted my legs. This time his hand moved to the inside of my thigh and up.
“You voiced an offer but you said it was conditional,” I said.
“Yes. It’s conditioned on you pleasing me. I have a room at this hotel.” He pulled out his wallet and lay eight crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Two more afterward, if I really enjoy it,” he said.
He did have a room in the hotel, on the sixth-floor, one with a balcony with a view in the distance of the ocean straight out and of downtown L.A. off to the right. Sort of like the one Gon Wu had taken me to in Downey, but a lot plusher. This was a lot nicer room. Compton was making it obvious that he had the money.
He was a lot different from Gon Wu in how he fucked me too. He took it slow, fully prepared me, gave me attention after I’d given him some, and then we did some erotic work on a chair, after which he laid me out on the bed, entered me slowly, and fucked me fully. And then he fucked me again—and yet again. He paid me, but he got his money’s worth.
Inside the door to the room, he embraced and kissed me. While we were doing the lip work and some feeling each other up, he started undressing me, and I got his shirt off as well. He was hard-bodied, tanned, and in really good shape for his age. He had a tattoo of spread-eagle wings that covered and brought out the definition of his pecs real well.
I lowered my head to his chest and gave his nubs attention with my lips and teeth and his gasps and groans let me know he liked that. He pushed me away from him, and said, “Strip down for me and let me see you.” He stripped as I was doing so, making a game of taking off the same item of clothing as I was doing. When we were both naked, he backed up and sat in a slipper chair by the door to the balcony. He sprawled out and took his shaft in his hand. He was half hard when he sat but he quickly went full hard. He wasn’t as huge as advertised, but I would feel him. I would suffer.
“Nice,” he said when I was stripped. “Turn and bend over for me. Show me your hole.”
I did so.
“Spread your cheeks with your hands, please.”
I did so.
“Very nice,” he repeated. “Finger yourself, please. Put it in. Open it up.”
I was breathing heavily as I did so. Slow and easy. I could hear that he was working himself up, but he was getting me hot too.
“Rise and turn for me. Take it in your hand and jack yourself off. Crouch a bit.”
I did so, and he watched me, slouched on the chair, masturbating himself and watching me do it too. After a few minutes of this, I said, in a breathy voice, “Uh, I think we need to move on if you don’t want me to—”
“I want you to complete it. I want you taken care of the first time before I screw you.”
“The first time?” I asked, shuddering. I was already shimmering, getting close.
“Four times, I think. Let’s my usual limit. You’re a handsome young man. I think you’ll be good for four.” I shuddered again.
“Do it. Come for me.” When I’d done so, he said, “Come to me. Kneel to me. Take care of me.”
He didn’t come as I knelt between his thighs and sucked his cock. When he said, “Now, I think,” he handed me a condom packet and a tube of lube and I prepared us both. Then he lifted me up, settled me on his cock as I sat in his lap, facing him, my legs bent and my feet flat on the chair seat at either side of his thighs to give me leverage, and, with him holding my waist between his hands, I rose and fell on his hard shaft, fucking myself. I clutched his right shoulder with my left hand and jacked myself off again with my right.
After several minutes, he turned me, face down, between his thighs, my ankles hooked on his shoulders, and my fists clutching at the carpet in front of us. Grasping my waist, he slowly—and then faster and faster—pulled me off and on his cock until it was his turn to shoot off.
He took me to the bed, laid me out on my back, pushed two pillows under the small of my back to raise my pelvis in service to him. He ran his hands over my body, murmuring how young and smooth and desirable I was. I surrendered totally to him, opening to him, going completely yielding, vulnerable, moaning, and sighing, as, hovering over me, he made love to me with his hands and tongue—to every curve and crevice of me.
He had me murmuring, “Do it, Daddy. Do me again. Screw me.”
He merely answered, “Yes, again,” and fucked me. He ran his hands up my inner thighs, coaxing my legs open. I spread and raised them, putting my ankles on his shoulders again. I arched and gasped when he slid inside me, but I had been fully prepared and I took him thick and deep, blossoming open to the shaft. He started pumping me immediately, as I grasped his biceps with my hands, flexing my fingers to the rhythm of his fuck.
I moved a hand to my cock and joined in the rhythm. I came for him. He turned me over, running an arm under my belly, raising me on all fours. He mounted me from behind and above, possessed me, and fucked me again. Later, after we’d rested, stretched out against each other, he pulled me over on top of him, I straddled his hips, descended on his renewed erection, and slowly rode him to yet another release.
I can’t say how many times he had come as well, but he’d pulled four out of me just as he had promised, and there were four used condoms on the floor by the bed when he was done and went off to the shower. I’d had no idea when he’d managed to crown himself, and I hadn’t given any thought to him needing to do so, but he had been considerate.
And he’d been masterful.
He drove me back to Rosemead in the black Escalade with the driver at the wheel. Unlike the trip to the hotel, his hands and lips were all over me for the return trip. And the trip took four times long than the ride there from Rosemead, because he had the driver tool around while Compton laid me one more time, putting me on my back along the seat, lying between my thighs, and readjusting our clothing only enough to expose his erection and gain access to my ass channel.
I went with him, groaning deep, moaning my surrender, moving my hips to his thrusts, begging him to be good to me.
He was very, very good to me, assuring me when we had reached my apartment that I had fulfilled all of his requirements and to let him know how soon I could move to Texas.
I left him with, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Don’t take too long,” he said. “The Manila competition is five weeks away.”
* * * *
In my final move, I feinted left, but dove right, only to look to my left to see the ball zing off the table to my left at an impossible angle. And, with that, the sports segment of my trip to the Philippine Table Tennis Federation exhibition was over. I wasn’t Asian, so I was just part of the exhibition matches the Philippine federation was holding at the Mall of Asia Arena in Manila during the TTFA—the Table Tennis Federation of Asia—annual regional championships. No competition points were at stake for me.
But I wouldn’t have won any competition points anyway. I lost my only match. It wasn’t even close. My opponent was Korean. She’d played in the TTFA competition and lost in the first round, but she beat the pants off me in this exhibition game.
I didn’t mind. I was in heaven even to have been allowed to come to Manila for this. Knowing how much more I would have to be able to do to compete in Asia, let alone in China at the epitome of the sport, only wetted my determination and my competitive spirit. I would be that good. I was determined to be that good.
That determination was what had swung me in the decision on my future that I had made months earlier.
My coach came to me as I stood at the end of the table, rerunning the exhilaration of the match in my mind—not caring that the Korean woman had been so much better than I was. I was good enough to have been accepted here. I didn’t disgrace myself. I would get better and better. My coach understood that. He didn’t console me. He gave me some pointers on what I could pick up from this experience in getting better. He, like me, was focused on getting better.
Luckily, he was focused on getting off too and getting the most out of another man’s body.
“But enough for now,” my coach, Gon Wu, who had once been competitive in the Asian system said. “The hotel car for the Nobu Hotel is outside. Watching you play has gotten my juices going. We go back to our room in the hotel now.”
His grip on my arm was strong—to the point of being painful. When he had just coached me in a session or watched me play like he did here and now, he usually was horny—and then was very cruel in sex.
I could hardly wait for us to get to the hotel.