A/N: FFN badly ruined the formatting of this story. If having some things look awkward will bother you, I suggest you read it at:

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CONTENT NOTE: A very short part of this chapter (one paragraph) was deleted to maintain an R rating. It is noted in brackets. If you would like to read the full chapter, you can find it at the above addess.

CHAPTER 7: 15 Yard Penalty

Dave stood under the pounding rush of water, head tipped back and mouth hanging open as he chugged as much of it as he could, his body demanding something to replace all the water weight he had sweated off this morning.

Damn, his back hurt like hell. He reached around with one big palm, rubbing at it idly. Carrying a grown man around on your back was *not* like wearing a belt full of carefully distributed weights or pads designed for getting hit at thirty miles per hour by six hundreds pounds of muscle without spending your golden years pulling a Christopher Reeve. Hell, he'd put enough pressure on it just crawling around for a few minutes with Hudson on his back, but he just hadn't been able to say no when his old teammate had flashed him that big, dumb, sweet grin of his. Really, the kid was just too nice. Except for that whole thing in 5th grade about getting pubes, but he was over that by now. At least *Dave* had never ejaculated in the middle of the locker room when someone mentioned that Santana's boobs looked bigger than usual that morning. And Dave *had* been the one to sing that song, so he supposed they were even.

Lip twitching in amusement at the memory, he began to sing under his breath: "I jizz right in my pants, every time you're next to me. And when we're holdin' hands, it's like having sex to me. You call me premature, I just call it ecstasy. I wear a rubber at all times, it's a necessity. Because I JIZZ in my pants!" [link to Finn's theme song]

Yeah, they were totally even.

But what the *hell* had he been *thinking,* asking Kurt Hummel if he wanted to ride around on his goddamn back? Of course, he hadn't expected the little princess to accept. And once he'd had him perched on his back, with those firm thighs wrapped around his waist and delicate arms circling his chest, of course he'd had to crawl as fast and as far as he could—on just his fingers and toes, no less, as he followed Coach's eternal wisdom of 'Boys on their knees get fucked—and no one's fucking with my team!"

The gods of testosterone had cheered.

He was totally losing his mind. Had he *really* been trying to *impress* Hummel? With *what*? That he could sweat like a horse and had an ass so fat you could ride it like a bull?

Not that he minded having Kurt on his back. Just the memory of that body, clinging to him, chest pressed hard to his spine, face brushing the back of his neck, was making certain areas harden in a way that had nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with the image of Kurt's pretty face that was dancing through his mind. Dave winced slightly and grabbed at himself, palming his dick roughly. This was so not the time for this. He hadn't jerked off in a goddamn locker room since junior high school when Azimio had shown him the fight scene between Ed Norton and Brad Pitt in 'Fight Club' on his phone, leaving him excited and embarrassed-but not embarrassed enough to keep him from sprinting to the locker room the moment the coast was clear and letting his hormones rule.

Dave had a pretty big dick for his big hand, which was lucky considering that it would probably get lost in his palm if he didn't. Though being pretty proportionate to the size of his big butt definitely made him glad to be a homo, 'cause the first time Katie had walked in on him naked she had choked on the health shake she was drinking, stared for about thirty seconds as he stood there, blushing, and then informed him very primly that she wouldn't let that thing near her with a ten foot pole. Especially since it looked like a ten foot pole.

Apparently women had this strange idea that talent in bed took priority over size. Luckily men didn't seem to share this same quirk, especially since Dave didn't know if he was exactly talented in bed. Capable of humping like a mad man, yes. Talented? What the hell was bed talent anyway? Could you, like, go on America's Got Talent and try to win the judges' approval by doing handstands while you sucked dick or something?

Women. Can't live with 'em, can't figure out how to use the timer on the microwave without them.

[EDITED FOR RATING]

Damn, damn, damn. Why the hell was he doing this to himself? He needed to let it the fuck go. Imagining Kurt in the shower with him was not going to get him anywhere. Well, not anywhere happy.

He worked the bar like he'd worked his damn dick, hard and fast, a big scowl on his face as he ran the suds over himself. He might be a big, smelly jock, but he could at least try and smell relatively human for this stupid reunion. Besides, he didn't doubt for a second that, if she didn't like the way he smelled, Coach Beiste be perfectly willing to shove some soap up there where the sun don't shine. Probably as willing as a three headed moose's baloney sandwich or something like that. And as masculine as she might be, she was not the sort that he wanted shoving *anything* up there. Hell, she'd tried to shove a cleat up his butt once in high school after he'd hid wheelchair boy's shoulder pads and filled his locker with maxi-pads instead.

…and it also wouldn't hurt to prove to Kurt that he could, at times, smell like something other than sweat, beer, and chili dogs.

Dave gritted his teeth and ran the bar soap through his short hair. No, no, *no.* He needed to stop thinking along those lines once and for all, dammit! If he'd ever had a glimmer of hope that he might have a chance at winning Fancy's dick, or heart, or whatever it was that you were supposed to win, well, that had been slapped down real fast when Pretty Boy Floyd had pulled his snazzy convertible into the parking lot, with three hundred dollar Oakley's on his head and a suave little outfit that was definitely not Made In China—unless it was some super expensive hand woven Chinese silk made from the poop of purple caterpillars or something like that.

Seriously, how could he have *ever* imagined that he might be in Hummel's league? Nothing had changed since that day in high school when Kurt had shoved him away, a look on his face that practically screamed 'I just vomited in my mouth.' Okay, yeah, Dave was in a whole new tax bracket now, considering that he made almost two million a year *before* endorsments and shit. But he still drove the ten year old pickup that his parents had bought him for his sixteenth birthday, got his boxers at WalMart, and mowed his own damn lawn. The honest truth? He was a commoner at heart, not like those little princesses. And even if he *did* start flying to New York to buy three thousand dollar loafers and eating foods he couldn't pronounce and driving a freaking Lamborghini, he *still* wouldn't stand a chance if that Blaine dude was the sort of guy Kurt went in for.

Dave had never tried to kid himself about his looks. He was a big boy. Not really fat, though he'd been kinda fat as a kid, before he'd started playing hockey and football. And he'd always had some chubby over his muscle, especially in the face, at least until he'd taken on a profession that required him to work out six hours a day. But he was still goddamn big, with a nine dollar hair cut and enough body hair that Katie constantly bemoaned the fact that he refused to rip it off his flesh at high speeds—not to mention that he would shave his balls the day little miss cheerleader let her armpit hair grow out and stopped plucking her eyebrows.

At least in high school he'd still been around the same height as the other dudes in school, even if he was so wide that they called him Big D and cried like wittle babies when he tackled 'em—really, those losers needed to learn to grin and snap that dislocated shoulder back into place. Now the only people that he *didn't* tower over were other lineman, and the one time that he'd needed a suit he'd had to go to Big & Tall—and they'd *still* had to tailor the shoulders to fit him.

He'd packed on the muscle in college, but he was far from pretty. More of the stout and square type. If Kurt was, like, a Porsche or a Ferrari or something, Dave was a Hummer or a Range Rover or maybe a diesel pickup. The lady fans in the stands liked him alright, but he had no misconceptions about where he stood compared to, say, Miles Austin. 'Marry Me Miles' was a running joke with the team because so many ladies wrote it on their tight little t-shirts at games, all loving that lean, mean wide receiving machine. Hell, Austin didn't win the text message vote for Favorite Cowboy every home game just out of luck—*or* because of what an exceptional player he was.

Dave… Dave was big and tough and strong and attractive in sort of a gladiator, gonna beat you with my big fists kind of way, he guessed. But he definitely wasn't pretty and he thought 'handsome' was cutting it a little close, personally. He could dress like that Blaine kid and act all cool and suave—oh, hell, he could *try* to act all cool and suave—but he would still be chubby and sweaty, and they'd still call him Goliath and Sasquatch and Tarzan and King Kong. And, of course, hamhock. A smile tugged at his lips. Oh, Kurt.

But those kind of names were just the curse of the football player, he guessed. Demolition Dave and Marion the Barbarian and Ed "Too Tall" Jones and Iron Head Hayward… of course, there had also been Joe "Broadway" Namath, but that was just the sort of nick name you got when you wore floor length fur coats on the sidelines.

Lost in his thoughts, Dave started slightly when he heard the shower turn on in the stall next to him. He glanced over then looked away quickly, blushing as he caught sight of Kurt's head.

Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.

"Girl's locker room is next door," he said in a low voice, unable to stop himself, and was rewarded with a derisive—and slightly amused?—snort from Kurt's general direction.

"Ha ha. Very funny, hamhock."

Yup. *There* it was.

Dave chuckled, staring studiously at the tile floor as the water continued to pound his back. "I thought so. The height of my wit, really." Kurt laughed lightly and Dave smiled.

"I'd have used the girls' locker room if Sue hadn't changed the damn locks so that only Cheerios would have access," Kurt said after a moment. "Less chance of acquiring an STD from a towel."

Dave laughed. "Yeah, I bet the ladies' room smells better, too."

"Yes, that would be because they actually wash the sweat from their flesh immediately rather than allowing it to stagnate for at least eight hours and *then* trying to remove the petrified stench from their bodies."

Dave glanced over, eyebrow raised in amusement, then looked away quickly as he caught Kurt's gaze. "Did my rush of man-sweat actually manage to take down your rose-scented moisturizer?"

A sigh came from the other stall. "It was close, but alas, yes. Your man-stench prevailed, conquering my top of the line beauty products. I'm fairly certain the animal tests were done on cute, fluffy bunnies and not hogs, so they couldn't have realized what they'd be up against." He laughed again. "Hey, aren't we breaking the not-really-a-secret-but-I-still-don't-understand-it locker room Guy Code that Finn was always babbling about, you know, by talking in the shower?"

Dave grunted, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, we know you're just in here trying to get a look at my junk, so what does it matter anyway? It's only a matter of time before you molest me and try to convert me to the gay side of the Force."

Kurt laughed in response. "You know, you're actually kind of amusing when you're not being a piggish asswipe or aiming The Fury at me."

"The Fury?" Dave questioned, brow wrinkling slightly.

"Karofsky!" Kurt said in a slightly shocked tone. "Are you telling me that you would scold your girlfriend for forgetting the names of her breasts when you, yourself, have forgotten the name of your fist?"

Dave let out a short laugh. "Oh yeah, that's right. The Fist of Fury. I'd been watching *way* too many Bruce Lee flicks. But don't worry, I renamed it The Fuck in college."

A choking sound came from the other stall and Dave grinned. "The WHAT?"

"The Fuck. Like, this is my fist, The Fuck. And my fist will fuck you if you mess with me. Or just if you're kinky that way," he added as an afterthought, smirking.

Dave was rewarded with a burst of laughter and he couldn't help but sneak a glance over, his breath catching slightly as he watched the hot water running down those slim shoulders, steam rising off of soft looking pink skin, a delicate spine tracing down to his firm, round—okay line of thought, ending there. Checking out Kurt in the shower like some middle age freak in the bathroom of a low-class gay bar, totally not cool. Hudson would probably kill him. Or try, anyway. Dave was pretty sure he could just break the other man's arms, But that really wasn't fair, considering that, if his mind continued to create home movies of just what he would like to do to that little butt, then Kurt probably deserved some protecting.

"You got a tramp stamp?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a testament to the fact that he was thinking entirely with his cock at the moment, and he winced, face flushing red. Oh yeah, the guy code had just been broken. Stomped on, tackled, sacked, beaten into the ground, transported in an ambulance to the local hospital, hooked up to life support, and flat lined, in fact.

At least with all the blood flowing to his cheeks it would help limit the blood flow to his dick. His staying power had been transported back to teenage days, but it seemed that his ability to get it up again in less time than it takes to change your underpants had been revived as well. Of course, between his cheeks and his cock there might not be any blood left for his brain. Not that his brain seemed to function anytime one Kurt Hummel was around anyway.

Kurt glanced over pointedly, a hand on one cute little hip. "Uh, and you're looking, why, exactly?" He shot him a disapproving look and Dave ducked his head, embarrassed, then grabbed the soap and began to wash his hair again. For the third time. Not that he was extending his time in the shower or anything.

"I'm not looking," he muttered, eyes now locked on the floor. Where they would remain. Even if it killed him.

Kurt snorted delicately. "I am sorry, Karofsky, but you are such a huge freaking closet case that it's like I'm standing at the foot of Mount Pitiful."

"I'm not in the closet," he mumbled.

"Ha. Okay, you just look at other men in the showers to prove your masculinity. Sort of a 'pull it out and compare' thing, only with voyeuristic intentions. What does your little girlfriend think about these rendezvous, huh?" He chuckled. "Oh, wait, let me guess—she doesn't know! Lions and tiger and queers, oh my!" The sarcasm was practically dripping from the words and Dave blushed, glaring over, then forcing his eyes back down again.

"Of course she knows, Hummel," he snapped, a little annoyed. "And she's just my girl friend, not my girlfriend."

"Oh, okay," Kurt said sarcastically. "She's your girlfriend, not your girlfriend. Well, that clears *that* right up."

Dave scowled. "Hey, I'm not in the damn closet, man, okay? Just because I don't wear rainbow scarves and lipgloss doesn't mean I don't like dudes. It just means I'm not a flamer like you, alright? Not everyone likes to spend their days dancing in clouds of cotton candy with the word 'HOMO' written in sparkly letters on their goddamn dick!" The moment the words were out, he winced. Once again, open mouth, insert foot.

Kurt looked over sharply and Dave glanced away again. Right. Eyes on the floor.

"Oh, are we admitting what we *are* now—to the 'flamer' nonetheless?" He turned to face Dave, reaching over the stall separator and snapping fingers in his face. "Heads up, homo."

Dave glanced up, eyes widening as the smaller man smirked then looked down, grabbing his cock and tugging at it, pretending to inspect it with a studious look on his face. Dave flushed deeply and jerked his gaze away. Just keep blushing. Blushing was good. Blood in the face and not in the dick. Oh, screw it. The blood was already in his damn dick.

It was times like these that Dave really wished one could have selective erectile dysfunction.

"Oh look!" Kurt cried out in a shocked voice. "There is absolutely nothing written on my penis! Can you believe it? Imagine that!"

Dave glanced up, wincing at the annoyed look on Kurt's face. Really, why couldn't he keep his big, goddamn mouth shut? If Hudson needed to wear a rubber at all times, Dave needed to wear a goddamn gag. Or just carry a bag of donuts wherever he went and shove three in his mouth every time he got an urge to speak around Kurt Hummel.

"Aw, Karofsky, I'm sooo happy for you, all out and proud! Oh wait, not proud, just kind of out. Except that he doesn't tell anybody and shows up at his high school reunion with a hot babe who actually manages to have breasts larger than his own man-boobs and lots of big, manly stories with which to regale all his, ah, how do you say it? His 'boys'? And *then* he's checking out the screaming queen in the shower—"

"Fuck you," Dave snapped. "I wasn't checking you out, okay? I was just… just… just fuck you!" He winced. Wow, *that* was smooth. Good job, Dave.

Kurt laughed harshly then turned around—thank God—to adjust the shower head. "Really," he said coldly, "what *happened* to karma? How did an ignorant troglodyte like you end up rich and famous, with everything you ever wanted at your bullying little fingertips?"

Dave glared at the other man, who was now pouring some kind of pink, soapy crap down his back. His very attractive back. "Oh, I think fate punched me in the face pretty good," he replied. "Hell, I think Lady Karma took *me* to the fucking cleaners!" His voice came out a little louder than he meant it to and he clenched his fists, taking a deep breath.

"Oh yeah," Kurt said sarcastically. "Because the whole lifestyle of the rich and the famous sports star is just so *terrible.*"

Dave gave a short laugh as he reached out and turned off the shower head, grabbing a towel and running it roughly through his hair. "You don't get it! You didn't get it then and you don't get it now?" He shook his head, jaw tight. "How *could* you get it? You had is so freaking easy, Hummel."

Kurt turned to face him again, his eyes flashing as he crossed his arms over his chest, apparently totally unconcerned that he was butt naked.

Dave's face grew hotter and he turned away, quickly grabbing another towel to wrap around his waist. It didn't hide much, considering how big his ass—and other, perkier parts—were, but it was better than nothing.

"Easy? I had it so *easy*? You tormented me, Karofsky! You made my life *miserable*! I went through every day terrified that you were going to snap! You *drove* me from my school, my friends, my family! And when I came back, you just tormented me some more!" He brandished his little pink soap bottle like it was a sword. "I'm sorry that you couldn't accept what you were, Karofsky, I really am. But you had no right to take it out on me! And to think that you have the nerve to say I had it *easy*?" He looked down at the bottle in his hand and Dave's eyes widened at the evil sort of look that crossed over his face. "Had it so EASY, huh?" Without warning he raised the bottle and squeezed it hard, sending an arc of soap in Dave's direction.

The bigger man cursed as it hit him right in the face. "Dammit, Hummel! You threw SOAP in my eyes!"

Kurt flung the bottle down into the floor with a bang, looking rather satisfied. "Teach you to look at other boys in the shower, huh, Karofsky?" He sneered. "I was the only openly gay kid in out entire school! You think that coming out was *fun* for me, big boy?"

Dave finished wiping the soap from his face, blinking rapidly he tried to glare at Kurt through the stinging. And the thick flower smell. "I think that you were always out, Hummel," he said coldly. He gave a bitter laugh. "When you 'came out of the closet'? Dude, it was a joke! We all *knew* you were a fag! It would have been the shock of the millenium if you had been *straight*! The people you hung out with? They already *knew* what you were. They could have told *you*! Because you fit the mold so damn perfectly it makes my head hurt!" He thew up his hands. "Hell, I bet your dad even knew what you were. I mean, come *on*, man—you held tea parties in the lunchroom! You wore corsets to class! You crossed your legs like a sissy little bitch and flapped your wrists around when you talked and said 'ohmygodohmygodohmygod' like it was one damn word." He flung out an arm, letting his hand hang limply from it, causing Kurt to scowl. "No one was going to reject you, because anybody who had a problem with faggots avoided you from the start. There was no danger." He shook his head, lip curling in disgust. "Me? No one looked at me and thought 'homo.' Big Dave, tough it out, son. Be a man. Knock 'em down. Take 'em out. All of my friends? They talked about being queer like it was herpes or something." He gave a choked laugh. "Hell, sometimes I thought that I *had* caught it from you somehow!"

Kurt reached out, turning off his own shower, and grabbed a towel. "Oh, poor baby! It wasn't that easy for me, Karofsky! Maybe you looked at me and knew, maybe all my friends did too—but I didn't know that! I didn't understand what I was feeling any more than you did! At least people considered you normal, instead of one of the 'freak hive'!"

Dave smacked a hand down on the wall, frustrated. "I thought that they would *hate* me, Kurt. *All* of them! From the things they said and the way they acted around you? I honestly believed with all my goddamn heart that the guys I cared about the most would shove me in a trunk, drive me out to a field somewhere, and tie my fat ass to a fence like an oversized version of Matthew Shepherd!"

Kurt sucked in a sharp breath. There was a long moment of silence as he studied Dave, then he spoke, voice soft but steady. "If you really believed they would do that, then they weren't really your friends."

Dave laughed harshly. "You don't get it. They WERE my friends, Hummel! Since we could first crawl around on the floor pretending to be X-Men or whatever. But if you had asked any one of them if they thought, for an instant, that I was a homo? They'd have laughed out loud and warned you that my fist was probably going to make sweet love to your face for saying that." He sighed, suddenly feeling deflated. This was pointless. It really was like talking Martian to a tourist from Venus. Screw it. "You're right. I'm a big fucking asshole. Always have been, always will be. But you know what, Hummel?" he said flatly. "You can quit whining about karma. You can be happy, 'cause karma is a *bitch.*" He raised his eyes to meet the other man's, a tired look on his face. "Yeah, I play pro ball. And that was totally what I dreamed of as a kid. I can't imagine anything I'd want to do more, despite all the broken bones and bloody noses. I've been on ESPN, in Sports Illustrated—hell, I was nominated for a fucking Heisman in college, and that's pretty good for someone who's not a quarterback. I've been in Nike ads and had my face stuck on sports drinks. I'm 'Demolition Dave' and I pound 'em to pieces. Big and bad and dumb as hell, a modern day gladiator, yeah? So I should be thrilled, right?"

"I don't see why not," Kurt said shortly. "You just said you were living your dream."

Dave smiled sadly again, knowing that it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, only in my dream I'd marry a girl like Katie and have cute babies and borrow Azimio's 'I'm a Daddy!' t-shirts. My parents would be Mamaw and Papaw and I'd be happy and loved and never alone. But I can't *have* that. Because I'm gay. And boy did I try to change that. Tried so damn hard. You don't even want to *know* how far I had to go before I admitted to myself what I was. And truthfully? I know you think he's just an asshat—hell, most of the time, he is—but Az was the only thing that kept me sane. Because he was my best bud in the world, since we were little kids learning to shoot hoops together. But if you had asked me in high school the person I thought would be leading the *pack* to tie me to that fence? I would have said Azimio. But I just proved what a dumbass I was, because he turned out to be the best friend you could imagine. He was exactly what I needed—someone to take it in a stride, shrug it off, and not let it change what we had a bit. I didn't want to talk about it or join pride parades or go to a support group. I just wanted to watch Sunday night football and put the geeky kids in Dumpsters and knock down guys on the field so hard that they pissed their pants the next time they saw me. And, yeah, I had a crush on Vince Young when Az was into Paris Hilton. But other than that, life was the same. But I had to change my dream. I couldn't avoid *that.* Because I still wanted to play ball, but I also wanted to find somebody to love, y'know?" He chuckled. "Someone with a lot less upstairs and a lot more downstairs that Katie-pie. So, no, I didn't end up living the dream I really wanted. You can be happy about that." He looked away and Kurt sighed.

"Look," Kurt said, sounding a little frustrated, "that's really sad and all, Karofsky. But to be honest, we all go through that. Nobody just embraces it instantly—not even a diva like me. It's not bad karma that you don't like girls, okay? It's just something you have to be strong enough to embrace. It's a struggle, but you can overcome it. I did."

Dave palmed his face, letting out a bitter laugh. "No, see Kurt, you *still* don't get it. My dream *changed* when I realized what I was. And *that* was when karma slapped me in the face. Not because I was gay, but because my dream? It was really two dreams, man. Two incompatible dreams. Like oil and water. You can have one or the other, but you can't have both at the same time." He snorted. "You think I can just go out and find a man? Please," he scoffed, "my sponsors would have a *fit.* And you want to know something *really* ironic? I said I wanted to marry a chick like Katie? Well, I *did* marry a chick like Katie. Actually, I just flat out married Katie!" He let out a harsh laugh. "She's not my girlfriend, she's my damn wife. And you know *why*?" He smiled bitterly. "Because the goddamn corporate sponsors at Nike called me into their office like a kid at the principal's and told me that they didn't like these rumors dancing around that I was a faggot, and that if I appreciated their endorsements then I needed to do something about it."

Kurt's eyes widened, his face taking on an offended look. "They actually *said* that?"

Dave waved a hand in the air. "Oh, it was much more politically correct. Had the Attorney of Law stamp of approval. Hell, it was so damn fancied up that my lawyer had to explain to me what they were saying. Basically, rumors were flying and they didn't like it. I mean, my team knows I'm queer, and probably half of the damn NFL, but there's never been any official statement or confirmation. Just rumors." He shook his head. "But then there were rumors that Troy Aikman was a fag just because he didn't date much, and now he's married happily ever after. Rumors are fine as long as they can be talked around—at least until you retire. Fags have played ball before, but there's never been an openly gay player in the NFL. They all stayed deep in the closet until after retirement. So what did Nike want me to do?" He scratched at the back of his head. "It almost makes me want to laugh… just… the *nerve* of it, ya know? They wanted me to get *married.* Like it was just, y'know, part of the job. 'Okay, kiddo. Gotta play ball and get hitched." He snorted. "Pretty ballsy of them, huh?"

Kurt shook his head in disbelief. "They really told you to get *married*?"

Dave shrugged. "Without directly saying anything out of line—at least in a legal sense—of course. I guess their reasoning was, well, if the rumors get thick, we can just wave this certificate in the air and say, 'Oh, look, he can't be queer! He's married!'" He made a rude noise. "So what do I do? Do I say 'Fuck you, you small minded assholes, who the fuck do you think you are? My life is not for you to dictate, you assipes, so take your damn Swoosh and fuck yourself up the butt with it?'" He laughed tiredly. "Nah, that's what someone brave, like you, would do. But I'm sitting there with Jerry Jones staring me down like, 'you better not fuck this up, son.' So my coward ass just smiled and nodded and, the next thing I know, my best bud from college and I are standing at an altar in Vegas and suddenly I'm married to a busty, blonde cheerleader. Just like a jock should be." He let out a loud laugh, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. "And so I go to bed alone every fucking night because I got my dream to be a pro ball player. And football players don't suck cock."

Kurt shook his head, looking a little shocked. "Dear God… I just don't see why being gay is such a problem. I mean, there is tons of homophobia in the world, but it really is getting better. People are becoming more open minded every day."

Dave smiled tiredly and pushed past Kurt, heading over to where he'd dumped his duffle bag, shuffling through it for some relatively clean clothes. "Don't you see yet, man? They're more open minded about pretty dudes like you. 'Cause when you get down to it, you're pretty much the essence of what everybody thinks gays are. You're all girly, and that's what people expect gays to be. Princesses and divas. Like Ru Paul or Elton John or some shit. Hell, Az has known about me since senior year and is as cool about it as any red blooded, American male could ever be. But it still doesn't always *compute.*" He turned his back on Kurt as he dropped his towel, yanking on a pair of Dallas Stars boxers with hockey sticks crossing over the crotch. "There are always just some things that will come down to him wincing and going 'whoa, man I didn't wanna know that.'"

"What do you mean, it doesn't compute?" Kurt questioned, sounding confused. "You're gay. Is it *really* that complicated of a concept." Dave smiled at the disbelief in Kurt's voice as he yanked on a pair of jeans. Fancy had no idea how damn complicated it could be.

"Do you like to suck dick?" he asked as he turned around, laughing at the way Kurt's eyes widened. He held up his hands, smirking. "No, it's cool, you don't gotta answer that. But I do. I like to suck dick. Like to take it up the ass, too. Bottom, top, whatever, I'm cool. I just say that bottoming is more pleasure for less work." He smiled in amusement at the look on Kurt's face. "Too much information? Yeah, my boy Az thinks so too. I mean, we can *joke* about it and shit. But if it comes down to me actually enjoying getting fucked up the butt? Not cool.

"Now, he's got no problemo with the idea of me nailing some pretty young thing or getting my dick sucked at a gay club by some dude who wears Lip Smackers. But if I say that I'd really like to suck some cock? *Way* not cool. 'Cause I'm a big badass. I'm a *man* and *men* don't suck dick. Pretty fags, yeah, okay. They're kinda like chicks, y'know? But an NFL lineman does not take it up the ass. No valid reason. It's just not what they *do*. It's not *manly.*" He shrugged. "Hell, I totally get it. It's ingrained. I was, like, two years old the first time my dad told me to stop crying just because my knee was bleeding all over the place and 'take it like a man.' Maybe your dad was… cooler about stuff like that. But most of us were raised to be 'men,' and men don't cry or care or do anything that someone might think is weak or girly. In fact, we should be as aggressive as hell 'cause that's what it means to be a man. So the idea of me, big boy, badass jock doing something like sucking cock? It don't compute. 'Suck my cock' is what you tell other dudes when they're messing with you. It's an insult, a way of saying what a sissy you are." He shrugged. "And I understand. So I just don't talk about it with my boys. It's like there's Dave and then there's Homo Dave, because my friends will never get that I'm both. Because you can't be a badass and a cock sucker. They're two different molds."

"Maybe you need to think about getting some friends who, you know, understand better. Hang out with gay guys?" Kurt suggested, actually looking kind of troubled.

Dave snorted. "Yeah, and then it's Dave and Dude Dave. Just another kind of two faced existence. I used to wish desperately that I wasn't a homo. But I feel so damn alone these days that sometimes, honest to God, I wish that when I walk in my house I'll see, like, a painting of a bunch of roses or some shit, not a deer head hangin' on my wall. Or that when I open my closet there'll be racks of cool looking clothes that I'll be able to put together in a snazzy way like you, instead of six pairs of jeans, some t-shirts that came in an eight-pack, and a bunch of sports jerseys. Or that when I flip on the TV, I'll wanna skip right on by ESPN and flick on over to the Home and Garden channel or whatever the fuck gay guys are supposed to watch. I mean, if I can't be the real man that they want me to be, can't I at least be a queen or some shit? Fit in with the stereotype? Wanna wax off my chest hair and worry about what I smell like? Maybe march in some pride parades? But no. Purple ain't my color, and I still go to Supercuts, and nothing makes me happier than winning a game of pool. And I know damn well how other guys look at me when I go to clubs. I know damn well what they see. What *you* see. I'm big and clumsy and dumb. I look like I just rolled outta bed and smell like I haven't showered in a week."

He pulled on a blue polo shirt, tugging it down with a sigh. "Nobody wants to be with the lumbering giant whose idea of a good time is drinking cheap beer, eating junk food, and talking about which Decepticon in Transformers is his favorite. Not when you got guys that dress like they just stepped out of a fashion show. So you know what, Fancy? Don't feel so damn bitter. If you wanted karma to kick Dave Karofsky in the balls… well, you can be happy, Hummel. *You* can be happy, because *I'm* not. He grabbed his duffle bag and tossed it over one tense shoulder, heading for the door, head down as he refused to meet Kurt's eyes. "I'll see you in the choir room, man."

"Dave… Dave, wait!" Kurt called, but he was already out the door and heading down the hall. And if a single tear trickled down his cheek, well, he wiped it off pretty damn fast.

Because real men don't cry.