Bi to Who You Think You Are

Nisan 27, 2024 Yazar admin 0


The wedding invitation was both unexpected and welcomed. As I turned it over in my hand, my cock immediately stirred at the memories just the name ‘Samara’ conjured up. I owed that woman a lot. She was the one who broke me down, and raised me back up. She was the one who reassured me that my fears were unfounded and my lust was justified.

‘What is it?’ my partner, Brent, inquired.

I held up the card. ‘Samara and Kyle are getting married. We’re invited.’

‘Huh,’ he remarked, sounding pleased. ‘We’ll have to make sure we attend.’


I was born and christened Leeam James Walker some thirty-something years ago, the first child of three of two teenage parents in a poor suburb of Logan. My father was, and still is, working in a factory and my mother is a teacher aide.

My childhood was happy, unencumbered by family breakdowns, legal problems, drug issues or anything of the like. My parents, despite their young age, were responsible people. They loved their children and raised us as best they could. There was always food on our table, a roof over our heads, and we went to school in the full uniform and with all the stationery and books we required.

My extracurricular activity was rugby league, which was a favourite for the area. For as long as I can remember I’ve been running, tackling, passing and kicking. I’m six foot and have a solid build and broad shoulders, so I’m physically suited to the game and my hand-eye coordination is excellent.

I was earmarked as ’emerging talent’ quite early on, and my parents did more than their share by driving me to matches, buying me everything I could possibly have needed, and encouraging me to eat, breathe and sleep the game. When you’re a poor family from a low socio economic area, the possibility of becoming a rugby star means a hell of a lot. It offers seemingly endless possibilities.

At fourteen I caught an injury that saw me off the field for six months. I took up swimming during that time as a means of keeping myself fit, and ended up making the state championships in butterfly and freestyle. As with many sportspeople, switching from one game to another was relatively easy. It’s not at all uncommon, and it’s the reason why AFL stars can switch to rugby, and rugby players will try to make it in the NFL.

My coaches encouraged me to keep swimming, but rugby was where my heart was. I missed the camaraderie. I missed the physical and mental side of the game. Moreover, given the choice between becoming a swimming star or a football star I, like most men, preferred the latter.

At fifteen I returned to rugby fresher than ever. A private school noted my talent and offered me a sporting scholarship which I eagerly accepted. I finished high school with unexpectedly good marks. I could have, and probably should have, gone straight to university, because although I was still a great rugby player I wasn’t ever going to be a major star. Nonetheless, I bypassed university and started playing professionally. By twenty I had a contract for a reasonably well known team where I played unremarkable rugby, never scorned, but never really praised. I was a relatively unnoticeable player.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I was never discussed in-depth on the footy show, but the prospective WAGS sure knew who I was. When you’re on the cusp of making it, you get a lot of training on how to deal with female attention. You’re told what to expect, and how to react. All the same, I didn’t anticipate the level of dedication some women had to securing a player as a lover. Those women were fucking predatory.

Did I sleep with them? Sure. I slept with lots. They were offering and I was young, fit and horny. My two years at my high end private school had smoothed off the roughest of edges, and I’m not an ugly man. Not good-looking, but not ugly, although being ugly isn’t an impediment to finding a woman when you’re a professional sportsman.

None of it was satisfying. You can fuck all the shaved pussy, big-titted beauties you want, but if it’s not what you want, it’s not going to fill the void. And the older I got, the more I realised that somewhere along the way, my sexuality seemed to have taken a divergent path to most.

I had to force myself not to stare at my teammates in the change room. I’d have fantasies of sucking their cocks, of being forced onto my knees in the showers and taking their manhood into my mouth, and working them until they exploded. I developed a crush on one, although I didn’t dare label it as such during the time. I just told myself I ‘admired’ him.

It wasn’t only men who I was interested in. It was women, and not the sort of women who chased footballers. In fact, the women I wanted were the sort who normally give us a wide berth. The way some people talk, you’d believe that every female is just gagging to date a sports star, but that’s entirely untrue. There are those who have genuinely no interest in being a WAG.

Heather was one of those women. I saw her only briefly, when we were both mardin escort checking out of the same hotel in Melbourne. She was standing in the lift on her own, and had just pressed the ‘ground floor’ button when she saw myself and one of my team mates heading towards the elevator. She immediately pressed the ‘open door’ button so we wouldn’t need to wait.

She was wearing a black skirt suit and carrying a briefcase, and her hair was neatly styled. A professional, obviously in town for a meeting. Somewhere around thirty, and attractively made up.

My team mate sauntered in with the ‘I’m so special even this businesswoman is gagging for me’ smirk. I followed after him and said the ‘thank-you’ to Heather that he hadn’t bothered with.

When the lift hit the ground floor, my team mate stepped out first even though in my mind, politeness and good manners would have dictated that we step aside to let Heather out before us.

‘Sorry,’ I apologised to her, holding the door open so it wouldn’t shut. ‘After you.’

Her green eyes were filled with curiosity. I realised my team mate was terribly in the wrong. This woman hadn’t been trying to curry his favour, she’d just been being polite. She didn’t even know who we were.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stepping out.

We both made our way to the reception desk, where my team mate was already checking us out. The concierge serving him asked us about last night’s game, and Heather’s gaze darted in our direction. You could see the disdain on her face as she realised we were professional footballers. Our occupations gave us all of the information she needed.

When you’re a professional sportsman, you get accustomed to getting first class service. Heather, a mere plebeian, got no such luxuries. She had to clear her throat to get the second concierge’s attention so she could check out, because the woman, like her colleague, had been staring at us and trying to engage in conversation.

‘I’d like to check out,’ Heather told the woman. ‘My name is Heather. Room 303.’

‘Oh sure,’ the female concierge replied, realising she had a job to do and that now was not the time to become star struck. ‘How was everything?’

I found myself staring at Heather’s legs as she leant over the counter, and growing weak kneed as she made a small joke with the concierge to show she had no hard feelings about being ignored. I wanted to find some way to flirt with her, and maybe find out where she lived and if she was single.

But Heather didn’t bother giving either myself or my colleague a second glance. She didn’t care for ego, and she didn’t care who we were. She was the sort of person who’d judge a man on his behaviour and manner, and I knew in her eyes, my colleague’s behaviour had made us both look shabby.

I found it somewhat ironic that I could have every type of woman on offer, except for the type I actually wanted.


Rugby lasted until I was twenty-seven. That was when I’d failed to show enough potential to be kept on, and I could no longer compete with the younger men who were entering the game.

I pottered around for a year before enrolling in university. I spend the next three years doing swimming coaching and studying Business, before completing my degree and searching for a graduate position.

I was now thirty-one years old, and about ten years behind my fellow graduates. I had far less money than I should have had, given what I’d earned playing rugby, and working for a graduate salary wasn’t going to be an easy prospect. When a mining company offered me a job in Toowoomba I investigated the cost of living out there, realised rent was a damn sight cheaper than it was in Brisbane, and quickly accepted.

And that, I should tell you, is where this story really begins. I’ve told you my background only so you understand why it was that at thirty-one I was working in a graduate role, and to help explain why I was so sexually repressed, because ‘repressed’ is truly the right word for it. I still hadn’t acted on my desires for men, I hadn’t found a woman I liked, and as much as I regret to admit it, I was beginning to become extremely resentful of happy couples. I had lost my place in the world, and didn’t know how to act or behave.

I was assigned to work with Brent Alwood, a senior executive some seven years my senior. I was thoroughly in awe of him, because he was so utterly confident and charming that it would have been impossible not to be. He’s an inch taller than me, trim, fit, and has a fiercely intelligent face. He’s wildly funny, dedicated, and he has that unusual talent of understanding workplace politics without ever seeming to be involved in the various intrigues and spats that take place.

The first thing he did was take me out for a coffee.

‘You were a footballer, weren’t you?’ he asked.

I nodded, and gave him an outline of my past. He knew it already, of course, but he obviously wanted to hear it in my own words.

‘Why mining?’ van escort he asked.

‘The money,’ I replied honestly.

He opened a pack of sugar and tipped it into his coffee. ‘You come from a poor background.’

The comment was delivered as a statement, not a question.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘I didn’t need to look at your resume or see how your Christian name was spelt to pick that,’ he continued.

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked defensively.

My next statement is as classist as it sounds, and I make no apologies for it, but here it is; I know there is a certain ‘look’ to lower class people. The way they dress, the way they style their hair, the cars they drive, every facet of their life is a hint to who they are and where they come from. Ever since I’d stepped foot in my private high school, I’d tried to hide who I was. I’d thought I’d done a pretty good job of it, too, until Brent saw right through my little charade.

‘Haircut, tatts, belt doesn’t match your shoes.’ He stirred the sugar in. ‘Can’t do much about the ink or the spelling of ‘Liam’, but we can fix the rest. At least you graduated from a reasonable high school.’ His brown iris fixed on mine. ‘Stop thinking about what’s fair and just and right. Don’t get outraged at what I’m saying. Even white men need to play the white man’s game.’

I was lost for words.

Brent wasn’t. ‘I hand-picked you out of the pool of new hires. You’ll go far, if you’re willing to listen,’ he said.

‘I’ve never claimed to know it all,’ I replied, sensing that there was no malice in his words. ‘I’m happy to take on board anything you say.’

Brent stared at me appraisingly. He was weighing me up, judging me, seeing if I was the man he’d guessed me to be during the interview stage.

‘We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so I’ll cut the bullshit,’ he told me. ‘I want honest answers. Are you seeing anyone?’


‘Any children?’


‘Are you straight?’

The question made me panic, but I replied ‘yes’ in the most nonchalant tone I could muster.

Brent paused, taking in my reaction. He didn’t believe me, but he wasn’t sure what to make of my lie.

‘I’m not,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m telling you that so you don’t get surprised at anything you see or hear, and as we’ll be travelling together, you’ll no doubt see or hear a lot. I like men, I like women. Oftentimes I like one of each at the same time.’

‘Okay.’ I wasn’t sure how to react. ‘That’s fine by me.’

He laughed quietly at my reaction. ‘You a drinker? Or do you prefer another kind of high? I saw there were no incidences in your career of drug use. Did you not get caught? Or aren’t you interested?’

‘My career came first,’ I replied honestly.

‘Good man. Keep it that way. HR weren’t joking when they said they randomly do drug tests. If you want to use something, stick to goods that clear your system quickly, and give the mary jane a wide berth.’

I already knew that from my time playing league. Drugs are a huge part of the culture, more so than the public would think.

‘Any other advice?’ I asked.

‘Tons. But let’s just work on getting you dressing appropriately, and understanding what your role is before I overwhelm you. Do you have any money set aside?’

‘A little.’

‘Good. I’ll take you shopping on Saturday.’

True to his word, he took me into Brisbane on Saturday. He seemed to know his way around the high end stores in my home town better than I did, and he wasted no time searching for suits and shirts that met his approval.

While we were in David Jones, he found a shirt he wanted to try on and we took our selections to the fitting room. It was a busy day and there was only one change room available.

‘We can share,’ Brent told the salesman, leading me to the cubicle. ‘We’re all men.’

And none of us were straight, not Brent, not me, not the sales clerk. The clerk winked at Brent, but Brent merely laughed and made some comment about me ‘not being the type’.

The cubicle was spacious enough for our bodies not to touch, but it was impossible not to look at him as he slipped off his polo shirt. His torso was tanned and muscular, and there was dark hair on his chest and stomach. My gaze dropped lower, and I saw a thick snail trail leading down into his blue jeans.

The scent of his cologne filled my nostrils, and I could feel the heat emanating from his body. I tried not think about how it would feel to run my hands through the wiry black hair on his chest, or press my lips against his.

My gormless staring didn’t go unnoticed.

‘How’s the shirt?’ he asked, bemused.

The shirt he’d instructed me to wear was hanging limply from my hand. I’d been so busy admiring him I’d entirely forgotten about it.

‘I’ll try it on,’ I muttered.

He laughed softly and nodded in the direction of my crotch. ‘Do you always find trying on clothes this exciting?’

‘No, ankara escort not normally,’ I replied. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How many times had I gotten changed in locker rooms with other men? More than I could count. So why now, why at thirty-one, did my cock suddenly seem to not know when to behave? ‘It’s got a mind of it’s own at times.’

I hurriedly pulled my shirt on and buttoned it up. Brent critically inspected it, adjusting the collar slightly, before nodding his approval. Both of us were ignoring my erection, which was still pushing against my jeans.

‘I like it,’ he said.

We got dressed back into our regular clothes. I could hear the sales clerk asking the other men if they needed other sizes or colours, but he was giving Brent and I a wide berth. He no doubt assumed we were up to some sort of sexual shenanigans and was giving us all the space we needed.

Before we left the change room, Brent glanced at my crotch.

‘You want me to give you a few minutes alone to get rid of that?’ he asked.

I shook my head. I had no tissues, and absolutely no desire to have a wank in David Jones while he stood outside, chatting to the sales assistant.

Brent leant in close to me. ‘All it would take is a few short words, and that sales clerk would be in here on his knees, ready to suck you dry. He recognised you. Obviously a footy fan.’

I blanched in horror, though more at the idea of a tabloid getting wind of an ex-rugby star engaging in homosexual sex than the idea of receiving oral sex from a man.

‘I’m straight,’ I argued.

Brent laughed, amused for the millionth time at my attitude. ‘Whatever you say, mate,’ he teased, opening the change room door. ‘Whatever you say.’

That night I jerked off several times to the mental image of a gay orgy in the David Jones salesrooms. What if I’d propositioned Brent? Or the clerk? What if all three of us…?

On Monday I arrived at work intensely ashamed of both the David Jones incident and my resultant masturbation. I felt foolish and stupid. Homosexuality wasn’t something for men like me. It was for ‘others’; men who lisped and pranced and were confident around other men. I was… I didn’t know what I was. But I did know that the women I liked had never been attracted to me, and I knew that being exposed as a homosexual would result in my family being humiliated, because a bisexual ex-league player is pretty tasty gossip.

Brent didn’t miss the change in my attitude and he gave me space. He was noticeably cooler and less friendly, although later that week, when we were heading back from a meeting, he apologised if he’d made me feel uncomfortable on Saturday.

‘I wasn’t offended,’ I assured him.

‘That’s good.’

He was driving. I no longer had a car worth showing off, but he certainly did. He was a man who had a lot of money.

‘Are you from Brisbane?’ I asked him, changing the subject.

‘No, St George. My family are cattle farmers.’

‘Do they know you’re bisexual?’

‘Sure do.’

‘How did they react?’

Brent snorted. ‘My father’s a die hard homophobe.’

I stared out the window. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I visit them a few times a year. It’s fine so long as I don’t bring a male partner with me. I did that twice. I should’ve learned the first time. It doesn’t matter who he is, he’ll never be good enough.’

‘Have they liked your girlfriends?’

He smiled faintly. ‘Yes, but girlfriends have been few and far between. I can’t do monogamy to save my life. Not many women will suffer through that.’

‘You should have played football. You’d be surprised at how much infidelity WAGs are willing to overlook.’

That made him laugh. ‘You get a lot of pussy playing league?’

‘More than you can imagine.’

‘Anything serious?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Not really. Still waiting for the elusive ‘one’ to come along.’

‘Mate, men everywhere are crying with jealousy and you’re talking about it as if it was nothing.’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘I had women who were interested solely in attaching themselves to my name for their own benefit. There were normal women, of course, but they’re normally pushed out of the way by the aggressive women. Let’s just say, for example, that I saw a nice girl working at a stadium and I tried to talk to her after the game. I’d be immediately by cornered by a wannabe-WAG who would give the girl I’m flirting with a dirty look. The nice girl would skulk away, and I’d be left with nothing. Well, nothing except the prospect of a root with a dirty girl who’s willing to do whatever it takes.’

‘Obviously you didn’t mind it too much if you were willing to fuck the wannabe.’

‘I was insecure.’

‘And that’s changed?’ he asked curiously.

‘Probably not,’ I admitted. ‘There’s also that side of me that would question whether the nice girl actually liked me, or if she was using the wannabe’s appearance to get away.’

‘Did you ever have men chase you?’


‘Interesting,’ he remarked, flicking on the indicator. ‘I thought there might be some prospective husbands of sportsman lurking around.’

‘They probably wouldn’t dare. The consequences could be dire.’

‘But surely there are gay men in league?’ he challenged.

I shook my head. ‘I doubt it.’

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