I'm sure you'll agree with every single one of us in the Crew - even our token str8 boy Eli.
Our high school football team is just full of the hottest, hunkiest boys you've come across - or wish you'd cum across! - for quite a while.
The sort of boys, in fact, that most young queens would hand over their entire collection of Destiny's Child CDs for just a single date with.
But unless you share the jocks' second most obvious characteristic - IQs that individually struggle to avoid a negative rating and collectively barely reach double figures - you'll also have taken on board that, talented though they may be at sports, in all other respects they're an incredibly dumb bunch of kids.
How else can you explain Sol Greenberg letting me set him up as the team homo for a media exposé - and then go on to give him his first taste of boy/boy sex?
(Except that, now I come to think about it, it was actually Sol who gave me the taste - of his creamy boyjism!)
And if you think that was pretty stupid, then what about the four hunks - Billy Hopkins, Troy LePhlegm, Gary Elliott and Kenny Taylor - that Spike persuaded to put on their own version of The Full Monty without, you'll remember, warning them of the sort of place they'd be performing in or exactly who was going to be in the audience?
Whenever any of those guys sees a picture of a tiger now - or, even worse, hears Village People belting out YMCA - you can see them go red in the face and weak at the knees.
A 10-watt light bulb's brighter than that particular quartet, for sure…
To be fair, one or two of the boys have shown the odd bit of intellectual ability, I guess.
Troy LePhlegm, for instance, demonstrated a particular interest in human biology lessons - until his habit of jerking off at the back of the class during their spicier moments eventually forced Mrs. Milron to throw him out.
And let's not forget to mention Stu Pargeter. He was Mr. Ferguson's star history student until, in a moment of utter confusion, he jumped an entire century of US history to suggest that the Civil War general "Stonewall" Jackson had been one of the leaders of a gay rights riot in New York City in 1969.
There may, then, have been just the odd glimmer of brain activity here and there. But, of all the subjects on the school timetable, there was one in particular that had all the jocks completely baffled.
Math.
Now that fact, of course, posed a particular difficulty to Stevieboy - who'd offered himself to the team as their new statistician.
But it also gave him a big advantage.
The difficulty was exactly how he'd be able to use statistics - a concept of which a retarded amoeba probably had more awareness than this particular bunch of kids - to get his hands into the team's pants.
But Stevieboy reckoned his big advantage was that, once he'd gained the boys' trust and confidence, he'd be able to spin them whatever tall stories he could think of to win the Inter-Crew Cock Contest without any one of them smelling a rat in the process.
Unlike Spike who'd targeted no less than four players - or me who'd tried for two before settling just for Sol Greenberg - Stevieboy had a clear target in sight from the first day of his campaign.
And a very tough one it was too.
Shane Bruckner.
The team stud.
A boy
renowned throughout the school not just for his much-more-than-generous
proportions in the dick department but also for the way he'd successfully
recruited the team's cheerleaders as virtually his own personal (and, it has to
be said, more than willing) harem.
Shane Bruckner was sure going to be one tough nut for Stevieboy to crack, I reckoned. But it soon became clear that - in complete contrast to Spike and me who'd deliberately put our own plans into action as quickly as possible so as to allow the boys minimal time to think what they were actually being asked to do - Stevieboy was playing a long game.
At first he just became Shane's friend.
That was easy.
To Shane, friends were something of a novelty.
After all, the girls just wanted to be able to boast to their friends that they'd managed to get their lips around his fabled schlong. And the boys, on the other hand, were by and large so eaten up with jealousy of his sexual successes that they avoided going out with him entirely.
So finding a friend who seemed to be interested in him above the waistline cheered Shane up no end.
Soon Stevieboy was taking Shane for rides in his unmistakable and much admired bright fire red 1968 California Special Mustang.
He invited Shane home for a few beers (and even managed to keep his hands off him - for the time being at least!)
And they went to the movies together.
Stevieboy even lent some of his brother Andy's str8 porno videos to Shane though, as he told me later, in reality he was just glad to get them out of the house.
"You know, Jordan…", he said.
"It's such a relief not to wake up every morning to find Andy jerking off in front of a TV screen - especially when it shows a fat woman with her legs spread wide open and, right there between them, something that looks like a particularly bloody road kill."
Of course, all this was part of Stevieboy's ongoing campaign to win the Crew's contest so he made sure that every so often he talked to Shane about the team's statistics…
How many games there'd been in the past five years, ten years or fifteen years…
The average team scores over the past five years, ten years or fifteen years…
The average scores against the team over the past five years, ten years or fifteen years…
The aggregate mileage clocked up by the team in travelling to matches over the past five years, ten years or fifteen years…
…zzz…
…ZZZ…
…ZZZ…
Stevieboy, it goes without saying, knew nothing about statistics either - but the fact that Shane, on the other hand, actually knew less than nothing meant that he could get away with all the crap.
In fact after a while he even managed to persuade Shane that maybe the jock himself had some sort of knack with stats and could help him out.
That was how Shane became Stevieboy's willing assistant, pleased at last to have found someone prepared to entrust him with a task involving more than just poking his dick into a willing receptacle (much, of course, as he enjoyed that too).
And that was when Stevieboy really moved his plan into top gear.
The very next day he went along to the school library - though, of course, he needed directions on how to find it - and, in a particularly obscure and dusty corner, found the statistical studies section.
That very night he appeared at Shane's house with some of the choicest titles for his new protegé to study.
Intermediate Statistics, vol. 2…
Numbers - a joy for life…
Random probability: a statistical analysis…
Modern number theory…
Trends in statistical research…
…and several years worth of bound copies of Numbers and Numeracy Monthly.
There were at least half a dozen others, all very much in the same vein.
But also, hidden away right at the very bottom of the pile, was one last magazine.
From its title you'd have guessed that it was no different from the others.
But it had pictures.
Lots of them.
And certainly not the ones that you'd be expecting to see.
And that left Stevieboy deep in thought that evening as he walked home from Shane's house after delivering the material.
What, he wondered, would his new friend make of the copy of Red Hot XXX Numbers that he'd left behind with all the rest?
© Rob Maynard / HMBoys.com 2006