He Got Next: A Game Night Hookup

Author Note: This is a Black, urban, queer story written in AAVE (African American Vernacular English). Language is authentic to the characters. Don't like it? Don't read it.

Game nights as an adult have become my favorite day of the week. Smoke cascaded through the living room, and "Timeless" by The Weeknd featuring Playboi Carti boomed through the surround sound.

My boys--Andre, Malik, Marlon, and Tyreek--played Uno like it was a contact sport, yelling, slamming cards, damn near ready to fight. My boy Khalil and I were just chillin', matching blunts on the couch and watching them act a fool.

We weren't your typical Black men in our 30s. Most of the guys we came up with are married with kids and too grown for the club--plus, it'll get us caught up.

Malik married his college sweetheart and couldn't wait to slow her down with kids, just so she wouldn't have time to worry about his moves. He was a rolling stone. Didn't seem to matter that his wife, Symone, came with the shit.

She kept a tracker on his car--he didn't know about it--so whenever he pulled up at the club, she wouldn't hesitate to blow the spot up.

Only thing is, she never interrupts the festivities... because she has her own.

Dancing on women was nothing for her. Symone's pansexual, and once upon a time, she was polyamorous. It's actually how they got together. Malik wasn't about that life, so he knew he had to lock her down quick.

Tyreek is happily married and has no eyes for other women... unless she talks to him first.

It's like a light goes off in his mind. Once she's locked in there, it's hard for him to stop.

Almost like an addiction.

His last fling ended with him having to get a restraining order. He made the girl feel like she was his whole world. But once it came out that he was married--and that Breille was very pregnant--she wasn't having that.

She showed up to his job pretending to be his wife just to get access to his office.

When Breille found out, he became what he promised he'd never be:

A begging man.

Years of therapy and raising their beautiful son, Easton, together really taught him something:

Courtesy killed the cat.

Now he treats women outside of his family like they're that pesky fly on the wall you just can't quite kill.

Marlon is, and always will be, a one-woman man.

He and Jessica met in high school. She clowned him because he was broke. At the time, it was because his Timbs were dusty.

But when she saw him lugging around his six younger siblings while trying to grocery shop for them, she melted.

Marlon had to grow up young--his mother was an addict and his father, a drunk.

Late nights of loud fights, hungry cries, and way too many eviction notices.

Marlon knew he had to step up.

Once he turned legal age, he got a job at the plant. Started putting money away. Created trust funds for his siblings so when they came of age, they could go off to college--or do whatever their hearts desired.

Now, at thirty and no longer the small factory worker, he's an operations manager. Thanks to his discipline (and his deep love for saving), he's managed to put away over 50K for each account.

He's already helped four of his siblings go to school. The rest, he either has legal guardianship over or is coaching them on how to make their own money until they age out.

Jessica has helped raise those kids like they were her own. So much so, she's starting to get baby fever now that the younger ones no longer need her.

I'm not sure if they've had that conversation yet, but the way Jessica looks at the babies during our cookouts?

It's telling.

Andre is the private one.

He doesn't talk much about his personal life--unless it's about a film he's making.

Cinematographer by day, gamer by night. He loves streaming cozy games like Chef RPG.

Don't let him get into a rant about his virtual restaurant or his Sims legacy either. Man will go on for hours.

We know he has two sisters, and his mother is very close to death. I made a mental note to catch up with him.

But he doesn't tolerate chaos--his job is already loud enough.

He likes the soft life.

And we don't complain.

He always has the best weed.

And then there's Khalid--the muscle daddy model.

He's not your average model. I hate to say he's husky, because there's no fat on his body. But he did grow up with, as he says, "thick bones."

The ladies love him.

They call him snuggleable--and with those puffy-ass cheeks, you'd think he was hiding marshmallows.

He swings both ways.

And that's why he's my favorite.

Back in high school, he got sick of being the fat friend. Sick of the teasing. So he became a gym rat.

By the time he was in college, he was still filling out--but the strength was already there.

There was this one time--he dropped the quarterback after the dude tried to come at him for talking to his girl.

The guy barely got a finger on Khalid's shoulder before his wrist was folded back, arm twisted, knee in his spine, Khalid leaning down and whispering in his ear:

"If I wanted your girl, I could take her."

And then?

He got her number.

Smashed that night.

He likes the rush of casual dating.

And honestly?

That's how I started to understand my own desire for men.

I was too new so I do what any stereotypical DL man does: cruise.

Hamilton Ville Park, named after a recent hate crime victim, was the meta.

Hamilton George Ville was 27, coming out to meet a friend--only to find out the man was a self-hating gay who despised Hamilton for being free. For being out and still loved by his family.

They fought like hell to get his killer thrown under the jail.

Fifteen to life.

Three months into the sentence, a hit was put on him.

In a way, justice was had.

Now, this park is a safe haven for families and queers alike. A place to embrace joy.

But at night?

Anything goes.

Men. Women. Trans. Cis.

A soft light drips over everything as bodies gather to embrace the sensual magic of the place.

It's tucked away from homes. Shadowed by forest.

Secrets unfold here.

Lovers meet.

Masks cover faces--but voices give it all away.

And when I heard that moan--followed by:

"Daddy..."

I knew exactly who it was.

Khalid.

On his knees, ass up, moaning while I slid inside him.

His voice snapped me out of the trance. And that's when I noticed--those hairy arms, both sleeves inked with anime themes.

Left arm: Goku's evolution--from kid to Rose.

Right: Demon Slayer art. The kind that makes Khalid look like the main character.

I didn't need to see his face.

I knew it was him.

I lost myself.

I fucked him with everything I had--fear crawling up my spine.

If this wasn't unforgettable, if it didn't mean something...

I'd lose my best friend.

He might tell the boys.

The panic surged. But his ass?

So fucking tight. Sliding in and out like a dream.

I couldn't stop.

"Shit... tighter than pussy."

I gripped his hips, slamming deeper.

Khalid chuckled.

"First time, daddy?"

There was a challenge in his voice--like he thought I'd bust too quick.

Shit, I might.

I didn't expect anal to be better than a pocket pussy.

Still--my pride wouldn't let this bottom taunt me like I wasn't built for it.

It turned into a tug-of-war for dominance.

And Khalid?

He was enjoying himself too damn much.

The way his hips rolled--gyrating, matching my rhythm--I could tell...

This wasn't his first ride.

I let him take all of me.

All ten inches, like a breeze.

He was in his zone--moaning, tweaking, really setting me off. I gripped his waist again, angled my tip at his hole, and when I slid back in, my eyes rolled straight to the back of my skull.

I was so close.

"Don't. Fucking. Stop."

Khalid moaned loud.

"Didn't plan on it," I growled, digging my nails into his skin.

Well--more like nubs. I'm always biting my nails.

I needed this.

Months of being pent up--all of it released.

Inside my best friend.

Stuck on that thought, I came.

Hard.

My legs shook.

"Fuck, bruh..." I gasped, breath gone, body weightless.

I've never felt so close to an out-of-body experience.

I was that backed up.

When I slid out, the sight alone had me dizzy--

my cum oozing from Khalid's ass.

He pushed the rest out and moaned again.

Overwhelmed, I had to pull away.

If I stayed, and saw that look in his eyes--that lust--

I'd chase it again.

And again.

And again.

When Khalid looked over his shoulder, the shock on his face was real.

It took thirty minutes for it to wear off, but we agreed on one thing:

The boys must not know about this.

Not a peep.

We got dressed, went back to my car, lit a blunt.

Just sat in it.

Trying to process what the fuck just happened.

Khalid calls himself pansexual--but he ain't ready to tell the boys.

"It's hard," he said, exhaling. "Being super masculine, then admitting you like gettin' fucked like all the women I've fucked..."

He bit his lip, lost in thought.

"And some guys too.."

That line alone had me hard again.

This time, no fear.

Just lust.

Twenty minutes later, my dick was gliding down his throat--and coming right back out.

That boy had the throat of Pinky.

"Shit, when you learn this?" I moaned, guiding his head down my pole.

"College."

After that, it became our routine.

Just us.

At my place or his.

Two blunts.

Ten condoms.

A night of me breaking his back and scratching my itch.

Weird thing is--

it's actually made our relationship stronger.

"And Uno out, nigga! I'm tired of your cheating ass!"

Andre slammed the red 7 down on top of the draw four wild card.

Malik wasn't having that.

The way he stared--bottom lip tucked under his teeth--let me know he was heated.

"Nah bruah, you cheated!" Malik barked.

I sighed, leaning back.

Here we go again...

"Nah, you just mad God got me."

Andre smirked, dragging that fat wad of ones across the table.

Their argument blurred into background noise.

My focus?

Khalid.

He was dressed simple--black tank, fitted sweats, chain.

But something felt... different.

I was trying to gather my thoughts, figure out what had shifted,

when a reflection hit me, blinding me temporarily.

It was coming from the stud in his nose.

Had he always had a nose ring, or was I too busy tonguing him down?

"Nice nose ring," I said, eyes still on the table while Andre and Malik went back and forth.

"Thanks," he replied, trying not to smile--afraid it'd tip the boys off.

But they were too far gone to notice anything.

Honestly, that's half the reason I bet with them.

It's like watching two big-ass kids who never learned sportsmanship.

You'd think they weren't both on the football team for most of their academic life.

Marlon was too busy being a lover boy to pay attention,

and Tyreek?

He was instigating like always.

I knew this was going nowhere productive.

So I grabbed my stuff and glanced at Khalid--his eyes were glued to every move I made.

Waiting. Like a lost puppy.

I almost walked out without saying anything.

But I knew Khalid needed an excuse.

Just like I did.

"Alright fools, I gotta be up early."

I walked over, dapping everyone up.

Then I looked at Khalid, trying to keep it cool.

"Yo, Lid--need a ride?"

He perked up immediately.

Man of few words, just nodded and followed me out.

Once outside, he became himself.

His real self.

His walk?

Still had that masculine, don't fuck with me energy--

But now I noticed the switch in his hips when he wanted me to look.

The way he'd stop himself from biting his lip when checking out a dude--

or when he caught a peek of my print.

All the so-called bathroom breaks at the gym when we'd go workout?

They hit different now.

I'll admit--I was ignorant to the lifestyle.

Still don't know all the terms, probably won't be at no Pride parade.

But what I do know?

I enjoy what we have.

Behind closed doors, he was mine.

Mine to ruin.

Mine to revive.

Mine to explore.

Every. Single. Inch.

Once inside my tinted car, I pulled him into a kiss--aggressively.

His gasp sounded like relief.

When our tongues met, my dick woke up from its slumber.

I needed to get him back to my place.

And fast.