Soccer Gang Bang

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Soccer Gang Bang
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A football team of only black men is told by their coach that they need some fresh players with them, so he invites 2 young white girls for the team tryouts, the girls show up with soccer ou... Read all A football team of only black men is told by their coach that they need some fresh players with them, so he invites 2 young white girls for the team tryouts, the girls show up with soccer outfits confusing American football with real football. after a little bit of showing off th... Read all A football team of only black men is told by their coach that they need some fresh players with them, so he invites 2 young white girls for the team tryouts, the girls show up with soccer outfits confusing American football with real football. after a little bit of showing off their skills and what they know about football, both girls are taken one after one to be use... Read all
When the Gangbang scene of Nikki Hearts was shooting, Keira Croft was behind the camera helping by holding the wires and cables while being a Fluffer too, she was being penetrated by the men who were waiting there turns on Nikki to keep them hard and ready for the camera.
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This article is more than 17 years old
This article is more than 17 years old
When she was 18, Amanda Hughes started sleeping with famous footballers - lots of them. Here, she talks about three years of bad sex, low expectations - and a lucky escape
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When I read the tabloid stories about Wayne Rooney sleeping with prostitutes in Liverpool this summer, I was shocked. Not so much that he had cheated on his pretty young girlfriend, Coleen - after all, he is a famous footballer and a millionaire: what do you expect? What surprised me was that he hadn't just cheated on her with any one of the willing groupies he was likely to meet. And I should know: for three years I was one of them.
In 1997, when I was 18, I went on holiday with a big group of friends to Ayia Napa. I was dancing in a bar when I felt someone grinding along to the music behind me, slipping his hands around my waist. I turned around and there was a young, newly-signed England player standing behind me. (I'm a regular reader of the back pages, and knew all the details of his transfer fee.) I was young, and surprised and flattered that he had singled me out; all the boys in our group, and most of the girls, were incredibly impressed. He whispered "I'll see you later" into my ear and wandered off to the bar.
The next evening, in a different bar, he approached me again and told me that I was going back to his hotel with him. Had he been a complete stranger, or even a regular, non-famous guy, I would have told him to get lost. But because he was famous - and because I was aware that all my friends were impressed by him, too - I went back to his hotel, along with a girlfriend and one of his team-mates (another England player). We went to the hotel, had sex (all in the same room), and 10 minutes later headed back into town - where, presumably, they picked up another couple of girls.
I didn't really care: it had been fun, he was gorgeous, and maybe we'd all meet up again back in London. Well, maybe. He had taken my number, but I didn't really expect him to call. In the meantime, I wasn't exactly waiting: the next week, I went out with another Premiership (and England) star. Again, the thrill of him writing down my number in a crowded bar far exceeded the thrill of the five-minute drunken fumble back at his hotel.
When we got back to England, my dad told me that England Star Number One had called. I was surprised. (This was in the days before mobile phones: he had had to leave a message with my parents.) He drove over in his convertible one afternoon after training and we had sex upstairs in my bedroom. We went out a few times after that, mainly to bars where he and his friends would drink shots before driving us home like an idiot in a very fast car. I'd laugh at his jokes and insist on paying for everything just so he knew I wasn't interested in his money. (I was living at home, and my parents were both successful; we were comfortably off.) He and I were the same age but we had very little in common. Looking back, I can't remember one conversation we had, one interest we shared; mostly we watched a lot of MTV.
I was a student at the time, but in the three years of my degree course I never once went out with anyone from university. At 18, I thought these men were somehow better judges of character than my fellow students, and, ridiculously, the fact that they wanted to spend time with me mattered more.
England Star Number Two, the player I had met during my second week in Ayia Napa, also called. He asked me to meet him in a hotel the night before a game, which I did. He dropped his tracksuit trousers, and told me to "suck it", which I did. Again, it wasn't the most thrilling night of my life, but I liked the idea that I was having an affair with an England player; thousands of people were wearing shirts with his name on the back.
Around this time, one of my friends told me that she had been seeing England Player Number One, too. I felt pretty stupid, as I had introduced them as if they had never met - and then she told me they'd already slept together. I was annoyed for a few weeks, but came round after she invited me to a Premiership Christmas party with her. She, too, had got the bug.
Over the next few years, until I graduated from university, I slept with four current England players, 10 Premiership stars, and a couple of Real Madrid players my friend and I met on a pre-season tour. I was studying during the day, and spending Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights out at various clubs, mostly the Emporium in Soho (there would always be at least three players there on a Saturday night). We would also travel up to Manchester, Birmingham and Leeds, looking for men.
Sometimes things got nasty: there was one incident when a footballer started screaming at me because I wouldn't have sex with my girlfriend for him. He said he had wasted his money paying for a hotel room. My friend and I left in a hurry - although, depressingly, she did go and meet up with him the following weekend at his Knightsbridge flat.
But if I'm honest it wasn't the footballers' behaviour that upset me - it was the fact that I was complicit in it, that I said nothing to challenge them. I let the cycle continue. All of the recent scandals involving footballers - drug abuse, rape allegations, stories about "spit-roasting" - none of this is anything new. This was my own experience, too. Once you were in a player's hotel room he would encourage you to allow his mates to join in. I never understood why - the argument seemed to be that it was "only fair" that they have the same as he was having. I cringe to think of it.
That year my friend and I went on holiday together with some other girls, and we seemed to attract footballers like flies. I'm not sure why. We are both pretty, but certainly not model material. Perhaps that was half of it - we were girl-next-door types, unthreatening and not particularly interested in football (I pretended). It also seemed to help that I was middleclass: players assumed I was less likely to sell my story, to name names. Most nights involved riding on the backs of mopeds while drunk young England players with no helmets sped us back to their hotels.
On one occasion I drove from London to Manchester to meet a United player in a hotel car park. He handed me a wad of cash to go and book a room - which I did, and then waited there for him. We both knew that if I wasn't prepared to, there were hundreds of other girls out there who were. With the arrival of mobile phones and text messaging, you can imagine how bored young men whiled away the hours on the night before a game - and it wasn't by watching Jonathan Ross. The filthy messages we constantly received were years ahead of the "Becks Text" scandal.
As football got more moneyed, the players became more crude and demanding. The men we had first got to know as 18-year-olds were now some of the biggest stars in the game. There were more "kiss and tells" appearing in the tabloids, often involving players I knew. The stories, and the complaints, were all the same: "He used me! He ignored me the next time I saw him!"
It amazes me that managers don't do more to coach footballers in how to avoid negative publicity. They could start with the basics: show a girl some respect, be nice and don't ignore her the morning after. Sometimes players would talk about the girls who had sold their stories and say they had "no self-respect"; these were the same men who slept with a different girl every weekend, sometimes with a wife or girlfriend waiting for them at home.
I'd like to see clubs arrange workshops on Managing Your Libido, or Elementary Respect. They could invite a player who had ruined his own marriage, and they could hear from girls who had been "persuaded" to take part in group sex and amateur porn videos. They could be asked if they would mind if their sister or mother was treated this way. I admit it's a big ask: you'd have to be an incredibly level-headed youngster to stay grounded after signing a £40-million contract and finding yourself the object of national adoration.
After three years on the footballer scene I was starting to find it harder to deal with: the dirty looks from other girls; the knowing smirks from players; the looks I got from the doormen who had seen me leave a hundred times before with different men. Then there was the loneliness that came with spending so much time and energy on meaningless flings with men who gave me nothing more than the knowledge that I had beaten off the competition - for the time being.
After getting my degree, and after so many humiliating experiences, I decided I wanted nothing more to do with footballers. That was nearly five years ago, and I have been with my current boyfriend for nearly three years. (He doesn't even like football, and knows nothing of my groupie past.)
Now when I read the kiss-and-tell stories in tabloids, I'm grateful that I got out when I did - that I saw how empty it all was. And when I read reports of gang rape, I know it could easily have gone the same way for me - those occasions when a player's friends would suddenly "appear" in the bedroom doorway, and it would be assumed you didn't mind, that in fact you were so dirty you would love it if a stranger joined in.
Very occasionally, I feel sorry for the footballers, too. Most of the players I knew had more hangers-on than friends. They were so jaded by fame and money that you wondered how they ever managed to drum up any passion on the football pitch, let alone in life.



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Clemson football players show how ‘gay’ straight-male athletes really can be





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‘None of those players care’ if you’re grabbing their genitals.
If you buy something from an SB Nation link, Vox Media may earn a commission. See our ethics statement .
When a video close-up of Clemson defensive lineman Christian Wilkins grabbing the ass and genitals of an opposing Ohio State player surfaced last weekend, it got a panoply of reaction. Some people chuckled at the grabby player “getting caught;” Others were horrified and sounded the “sexual assault” alarm.
For me it was just straight athletes going gay. Again.
Yes, I’m using a bit of shorthand here. Of course being gay is a lot more than grabbing another guy’s nether regions. I’ve been out for 20-plus years and with my husband for exactly 62.963% of that time. Of course it’s more than that.
But what gets so often lost is that the opposite is also true: Grabbing another guy’s nether regions is about a lot more than being “gay” (so please, forgive the shorthand).
What might be deemed “gay” in West Hollywood or the Castro is just your average afternoon post-practice ritual for so many straight guys completely comfortable with their own bodies and the bodies of their teammates and opponents.
What was once gay is straight again.
Men of all sexual orientations look at each other’s penises in the shower. They size each other up. They measure themselves against other men. They touch each others’ genitals. They roughhouse naked in the locker room. They talk explicitly about what they do sexually, what they like. They paint graphic pictures for their teammates of them having sex (with a woman, of course; always with a woman).
Don’t believe me? Just ask Anthony Davis .
None of this makes any of the participants “gay.” Truly.
Long before there ever was “gay,” this is what men did. In ancient Greece and Rome, homosexual conduct was just your run-of-the-mill Tuesday visit to the bath house or trist with acquaintances.
Today, men in particular are forced to “choose” between being gay and being straight (despite what I personally believe to be the preponderance of bisexuality among humans ).
Sports are the ultimate test case for all of that. With mostly fit, athletic bodies, male athletes come together naked in the locker room, at the very least taking careful notice of the naked bodies next to them. This doesn’t make the athletes “gay” per se, it means they are human. It makes them sighted and tactile.
In Wilkins’ case, that spilled out onto the field in front of a national television audience, a moment of blunt honesty.
Wilkins’ teammate, Ben Boulware, made my point before I did .
“I know there's going to be that one person: 'Well, I played football and I never did that,’” Boulware said after Wilkins’ intimate incident. “You either sucked at football, you had no friends in the locker room, or you were the person that went in the bathroom stall to go change because you were scared to shower with the team. ... The people who are freaking out about that have never played the game, or were just losers who didn't have any friends when they played the game.”
That’s a Clemson football player saying if you don’t check out your teammates and grab dicks in the locker room, you’re not really a part of the team.
All of this ultimately creates a tough dynamic for athletes who are actually gay.
For years, part of the assumption with all of this grabby-grabby horseplay has been that all the dudes in the locker room are straight. If they’re all straight, then it’s just “boys being boys,” horsing around. Like bros do.
Add an openly gay guy into the mix and sud
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