Mothman Quarterback Ghost In My Tight End: A Trans Buckaroo Tale - (Classic Tingler Revisted)

whats in a name? this is classic question asked of buckaroos and am important consideration for any writer because GUESS WHAT you gotta think of a lot of dang names if you are going to write as many tinglers as old chuck here.

as many have probably noticed the erotic layers of the tingleverse have a variety of different NAMING CONVENTIONS mixed in with more standard names from this timeline. sometimes it is like old chuck is just trying out of a hat an other times it has all the meaning in the world. for instant in CAMP DAMASCUS rose darling is named in a very important way that creates layers in the story allegory. same with saul and willow (just look up sauls trip to damascus in way of dusty old bible and you will see what i mean)

anyway got to thinking about my FAVORITE CHARACTER NAME in tingleverse history and lead pounder of MOTHMAN QUARTERBACK GHOST IN MY TIGHT END immediately comes to mind.

thats right im talkin about PETE MOBINO.

no hidden meaning here, chuck was just trying to think of name that matched a legendary football player and for some reason pete mobino is just perfect. 

alright buds please enjoy this classic trans buckaroo tingler

The Billings Buckaroos are in rough shape. After winning games all season, this notorious football team suffers a series of terrible injuries, and due to a technicality in the rulebook, they’re forced to use the stadium groundskeeper as a stand in. Coach Rick knows that without a new player, they’ll never make the playoffs, but they can only draw from people who already work or live at the stadium.

One night, however, Coach Rick has an encounter with phantom mothman quarterback, Pete Mobino, an encounter that will change his team, and his heart, forever. Pete Mobino is a legend and he just so happens to haunt the stadium that Rick can draw players from.

Now these two trans sports icons are doing everything they can to fight through the playoffs and make it to the Super Bowl, drawing on a hardcore superstition that always seems to win the game.

This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on phantom mothman quarterback action. It features two proud trans men who do not experience any dysphoria regarding their genitals.

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MOTHMAN QUATERBACK GHOST IN MY TIGHT END: A TRANS BUCKAROO TALE

By Chuck Tingle

Something’s wrong, and I know it, but right now I’m in no position to let the truth of the matter bubble up and break through. I need to remain calm, cool and collected, holding steady as a beacon of light for my players as they struggle to find their footing.

It’s hard to lose, but it’s even more difficult when you’ve grown so accustomed to winning. Typically, I like to use this pain and turn it around for a positive solution, finding fuel in my failures, but that only works if you’ve got the right tools in place.

Right now, we’re missing the most important tool of all.

“Coach Rick!” comes a familiar voice.

I’m marching down our stadium hallway toward the press room, a place that I’d rather not go but am obligated to attend, so this break is a welcome distraction.

A familiar figure steps out of the shadows, quarterback Brill Corns. Fuck.

Brill is a nice enough guy, but I use the term quarterback lightly in this particular situation. He’s trying his best out there and giving it his all, but when you’re playing in the elite levels of the USFL, that’s just not going to cut it.

“Sorry about the game,” he offers, genuinely apologetic.

In other cases I’d use this moment to offers some words of encouragement, to tell my player that they’re a star but they need to push a little harder to live up to their potential. This particular case, however, is slightly different.

In this case, our quarterback doesn’t actually need to push harder to attain their goals, nor is any amount of practice going to do them much good. This is because our quarterback isn’t actually a quarterback, he’s a groundskeeper.

“It’s okay,” I offer with deep sincerity, putting my hand on Brill’s shoulder. “I know you’re trying out there. That’s all we can ask.”

“I’m gonna keep practicing,” he assures me, and I nod in acceptance, forcing a smile.

“Sounds good,” I reply. “I’ll be out on the field after my press conference to check on your form.”

Brill leaves and I watch him go, genuinely touched by the man’s effort in the face of such insurmountable odds.

I stand here in the back hallway of our stadium for a little too long, meditating on the moment and trying to calm myself down after such an enormous blowout loss. I almost forget that I’ve got a press conference to get to, until suddenly one of the team assistants notices me and motions toward the nearby doors.

“Oh yeah,” I stammer.

I take a deep breath and then head toward my destiny, pushing out into the crowded, chaotic room full of cameras and microphones. Bulbs begin to flash as I make my way up to a table full of microphones. I sit down and stare out into the crowd, facing them head on.

“Alright, who’s first?” I ask confidently.

The gathering begins to call out their questions, shouting over one another in a great cacophony of sound. I can’t understand a word they’re saying so I randomly point at one of the reporters, making my selection by random chance.

The rest of the press corps quiets down, allowing my selection to speak.

“Coach Rick, you’ve had a lot of big losses recently, but tonight’s was the worst of the season. If you lose the next game then the Billings Buckaroos will be eliminated from the playoffs. How are you going to keep that from happening?”

I consider her words for a moment, struggling to navigate this uncomfortable moment. I need to stay strong for my team, but I also have a big problem with lying. Typically, there’s a way for me to thread the needle between these two things, to answer in such a way that paints a picture of objective reality, but is still features it in the best light possible.

Right now, however, I just can’t make it work. I don’t know how to connect these vastly different threads of perspective, and at this point I feel too beaten down to care.

“Coach Rick?” the reporter continues.

I realize now I’ve been silent for far too long. It’s getting awkward.

Finally, I decide to lay it all out there. Honesty is usually the best policy, and right now I see no reason not to speak my mind.

“Listen, we’ve been sidelined by injury in a pretty catastrophic way this season,” I start. “The Billings Buckaroos are one of the best teams this league has ever seen, and yes, at the beginning of year we were undefeated. That wasn’t just because of our quarterback, that was because the whole team was functioning as a unit. The thing is, when one cog in the machine goes down, especially one that’s central to your operation, the whole thing falls apart. Right now, we’re just trying to pick up the pieces.”

“You’re referring, of course, to the fact that your quarterback, the backup quarterback, the backup backup quarterback, and the backup backup backup quarterback, have all had season ending injuries in quick succession,” the reporter continues. “Some have said the team is cursed. They’ve been saying that for decades, actually. Do you believe this is true?”

My mind flashes back to that night in my bedroom three months ago, the phone call I’d received that woke me from my slumber and changed my life forever. “Fifteen, Sixty-one, nine, forty-four,” is all they said before hanging up. At the time I’d dismissed it as a prank call, but when every player with those particular numbers found themselves injured for the season, I started to think it was something more.

Despite my pledge of honesty, that particular detail might be a bridge too far.

“No,” I state flatly. “I don’t believe the team is cursed.”

The crowd of reporters erupts in a fit of questions once again, each member of the microphone wielding mob clamoring to hoist their voice over the rest.

I point to someone on the other side of the room.

“Coach Rick, are you upset by the USFL rules regarding replacement players?” this new reporter asks.

“You mean the fact that all players must either be registered workers at this stadium or reside within the walls of the building?” I question. “Yeah, I’d say that isn’t exactly something I’m happy about. I think Brill Corns is doing the best job he can as a groundskeeper-turned-quarterback, but I’d like it if we could find ourselves another football playerwithout the requirement that they already work or live here.”

The crowd erupts again as I make another selection.

This new reporter stands up to ask her question.

“You went from straight wins to straight losses since the roster change, as the USFL’s first trans coach–” he begins.

“Openly trans,” I interrupt.

A strange expression crosses the reporter’s face. “What?”

“How do you know I’m the first trans coach?” I ask. “I’m the first openly trans coach.”

“Oh, okay, yeah,” the reporter continues, struggling to correct himself. “Sorry about that. As the USFL’s first openly trans coach, how much does it mean to you to break your losing streak and make it into the playoffs?”

I get this question a lot. On one hand, it would be nice to be recognized as a person first, not necessarily a trans person, but I also understand being visible and proud of my accomplishments could mean a lot to other trans people who are out there rooting for me.

“I want us to win because I’m a coach who wants my team to succeed,” I finally offer. “Right now that’s what I’m focused on. However, there’s a lot of trans people out there who don’t get to participate in sports for reasons that are, frankly, bullshit. So yeah… I’m gonna do this for them, too.”

As I say this I feel a surge of emotion overwhelm me, a certain might and power that lurks deep in the pit of my stomach. It’s that thing I draw from when the score is close and I need every last bit of focus and passion I can get.

The crowd begins to chatter again, but there’s no time for anymore questions. I’ve got work to do. “We’ll see you in the playoffs,” I offer, then stand up. I turn and head back out the door as flashbulb eruptions begin again.

Returning to the dark stadium hallway, the immediate spatial change hits my senses immediately. It’s quiet out here, and my footsteps make a loud, strange echo down the concrete corridor.

Everyone else has gone home, it seems. Except for Brill.

I continue onward, eventually finding the tunnel to the field and strolling down it. When I step out onto the grass I expect to see Brill practicing his throws like he said he would, but instead I’m greeted by a completely vacant stadium.

A letter is taped onto the goalpost. I walk over and stanch it down, opening the page up and reading aloud.

“Coach Rick, got tired and decided to call it a night.” I recite, shaking my head in disappointment. “P. S. I don’t think I want to play in the game this Sunday. Too much pressure. You understand. Good luck, though.”

I let out a long sigh.

Suddenly, a football flies through the goalpost above me. It’s going so fast that it makes a loud whistling sound as it passes and causes me to jump.

“Oh fuck!” I cry.

“Sorry about that!” comes a voice at the other end of the field. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”

I gaze across the football field into the dim light of the evening. As far as I can tell, nobody’s there, just a completely empty plane with the red glow of some grass maintenance machinery in back.

“Where’d you throw that from?” I yell, my voice echoing through the empty stadium.

“Over here!” they call in return.

I furrow my brow in confusion. “Uh… over where?”

I begin to walk out into the middle of the field, struggling to understand where this voice is coming from.

“By the other goal post,” they offer.

I can’t help but scoff. The idea of someone throwing a football that far, with that speed and at that height, is utterly ridiculous. Someone is obviously messing with me.

“Okay, okay, what is this?” I question, reaching the middle on the field and then continuing onward. “Some kind of prank? I’d usually be in the mood but after tonight’s game I’m really not feeling it.”

As I approach the other goal post I stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. There, just past the goal line, stands a handsome mothman.

I hadn’t seen him before this moment for two reasons. One, he’s so far back, and two, I’d mistaken his glowing red eyes for the lights of our maintenance equipment.

Of course, I’ve met plenty of mothmen. In fact, mothpeople make up a huge portion of the Billings Buckaroo fanbase. The thing that separates this one from the rest is that he’s semi-transparent.

He’s a ghost.

“Oh my god,” I blurt. “You’re… you’re…”

“Dead,” he replies. “Yeah. Been doing the ghost thing for about thirty-five years now.”

I notice now this mothman is clad in a classic Billings Buckaroo uniform, not the new modern design. It’s got the retro logo and everything, but the gear is in pristine condition.

The mothman cocks his arm back and makes another throw, launching a football out of his hand like it’s some kind of military grade weaponry. His projectile soars across the field in a nearly straight line, slamming into the wall on the other side of the stadium with a loud thump. I haven’t seen anything like it in years.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Pete Mobino?” I question.

The mothman smirks. “Yeah, I’ve heard that my whole life.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying, but when I do my expression changes from curiosity to utter amazement. Pete Mobino is one of the most legendary athletes that has ever graced the fields of the United States Football League, a man who led the Billings Buckaroo to five superbowls in a row.

That is, of course, before his tragic accident. One night, while the Billings Buckaroos were playing, lightening shot down into Buckaroo Field and struck this handsome mothman directly on the top of his head. There was a loud crack and a brilliant flash, and the next thing anyone knew, Pete Mobino was dead.

That’s where the rumors of a cursed stadium started.

I remember watching it happon on live TV, remember the way my mouth hung open in absolute shock. I was a huge Mobino fan, and was even sporting his jersey on that fateful night.

Funny enough, my obsession with Pete had a little something to do with one of my questions from the press corps just minutes earlier. As I said, I want my accomplishments to be about me as a personfirst, and a trans person second, but I also feel the need to balance this with the fact that there are other trans folks watching who might be inspired by my journey.

Pete Mobino was exactly that, the first openly trans quarterback in the USFL. He inspired me, and now here I am.

“I’m a huge fan,” I finally gush.

“I’m a huge fan of yours,” he retorts. “You’re the best coach this team has ever seen, and I’ve been around for a while.”

“Thank you,” I reply, blown away by his kindness.

There had always been rumors that this stadium was haunted, that the ghost of Pete Mobino was watching down on the team from high above, but I never really gave these theories any weight. Now, I’m forced to readjust my perspective.

“I just wish you would’ve listened to me when I gave you those uniform numbers,” the phantom quarterback continues.
 “Wait… what?” I stammer.

“I called you in the middle of the night to warn you about the upcoming injuries,” Pete explains. “It’s a mothman thing.”

“I didn’t realize,” I offer. “I’m so sorry.”

The mothman shrugs

“Hey, now that I know you’re a real ghost, I’ve gotta ask… are you really blessing the team with good luck?” I question. “Whenever we make a crazy long field goal or have a record-breaking comeback, everyone always says it’s the ghost of Pete. Of course, whenever we lose they say it’s the cursed stadium. I don’t know what to believe.”

The mothman laughs. “I’ve got some football superstitions of my own, but I can tell you there’s nothing magic about those amazing plays of yours. That’s just good coaching.”

I’m flattered. “Damn.”

Pete fires off another football, this pigskin rocketing across the stadium with startling accuracy.

“You’ve still got a hell of an arm,” I observe.

The mothman nods. “If I’m gonna be stuck inside the world’s greatest stadium for my time in the afterlife, I might as well keep my training up.”

Suddenly, I’m hit by a moment of visceral inspiration. “Wait, you live here?”

Pete Mobino nods. “I mean… kind of. I drift between timelines a bit, but I’d say this is my home. I’m still registered. This place is in my blood.”

My eyes go wide. “Pete. Would you be interested in filling in as our quarterback during these playoff games?”

The mothman laughs, assuming I’m joking at first, then suddenly stops in his tracks. “Could I do really that?”

“Absolutely,” I reply.

Pete fires off another football. “Then hell yeah.”

I’m so overwhelmed with excitement that I can’t help myself. I rush over to the mothman ghost and give him a powerful hug, wrapping him in my arms and holding him tight. He embraces me in return and the two of us bask in the moment for a while.

It’s not long before an unexpected feeling begins to creep its way through my body, however: the feeling of arousal. Sure, Pete is handsome, but seeing him up close like this only amplifies my fascination with his gorgeous mothman body.

When we release, I notice that the quarterback also has a strange look in his eyes, a hint of mutual attraction that cannot be denied.

“You said you were superstitious about some things,” I question. “I think I remember hearing about that.”

“Oh yeah?” Pete asks. “What did you hear?”

“I remember you saying that before you entered the playoffs you needed a night of really good sex. If that happened, you’d always win the Super Bowl.”

The mothman laughs. “Yeah, that’s true.”

I push a little closer to the handsome ghost, confidently whispering into his ear. “I think I can help.”

“Yes, coach,” Pete sighs in return.

Suddenly, the two of us are kissing right there on the edge of the field, our hands exploring one another’s bodies. I give into the moment completely, working my way across Pete Mobino’s chest and then down onto his rock-hard abs. Lower and lower I drift until I reach his waistline, then hesitate.

“I’m not dysphoric about my body,” I stop to inform him. “You can call it my pussy. I’m proud to be a man with a pussy.”

Pete smiles. “Me too. Rub my pussy all you want.”

“With pleasure,” I coo, finally reaching down below the mothman’s waistband and slipping my finger between his legs.

I immediately get to work rubbing Pete with my digits, slowly tracing a finger along his clit as his body rocks back against me. The two of us move together in unison, falling into a nice groove as our breathing grows heavy under the soft stadium lights.

The longer we continue like this, the faster I move. The mothman ghost quarterback is pushing against me hard now, his moans growing louder as he loses himself in the moment.

The next thing I know I’m pushing him back, the two of us stumbling over the grass until we find ourselves pressed up against the padded goal post nearby. I drop to my knees before Pete Mobino, gazing up at him hungrily as I pull off his pants and underwear and toss them to the side.

Without a word I dive in, lapping away that his waiting pussy with wild enthusiasm.

“Oh fuck,” the mothman ghost groans, “that feels so fucking good!”

I drag my tongue across him in a series of enthusiastic laps, then eventually get to work focusing on his clit in a series of small, quick moments. This immediately seems to hit the stop, and it’s not long before Pete’s enthusiastic commentary has transformed into a wordless whimper. The quarterback reaches down and places his hands on the back of my head, holding me in place while I continue to work him.

It’s not long before I can sense Pete’s body trembling and quaking above, his form consumed by the escalating sensations within. I can sense his stomach clenching and releasing in a spastic rhythm, the spaces between growing shorter and shorter by the second.

“Oh my fucking god!” the spectral mothman suddenly cries out, throwing his head back. “I’m gonna fucking cum.”

I don’t let up for a second, carrying him all the way through this powerful orgasm from start to finish. By the time it’s over, I’m surprised Pete hasn’t melted to the ground, completely overwhelmed by the experience. Instead, the quarterback as somehow focused his erotic energy and used it as fuel. He’s got a fire in his eyes that I’ve seen before, the same fire that was there before his famous QB sneak to lock the western conference in ’87, or when he made his Super Bowl winning hail Mary pass against the Rexford Reverse Twins in ’92.

I fall back and frantically begin to strip out of my clothes, tearing them away from my body and tossing them to the side. I lean back into the grass of the field while the mothman climbs down into position on top of me, kissing my lips and then gradually making his way down across my form.

Pete Mobino moves playfully across my cheeks and down my neck, tickling my shoulder blades with his lips before continuing onto my muscular chest. Once arriving at my stomach, he reaches down and grabs my legs, spreading me open.

The next thing I know, the handsome mothman ghost quarterback is getting to work on my pussy, licking me with exactly the same enthusiasm that I’d given him.

“Oh fuck, just like that, oh fuck, just like that,” I stammer, the words spilling out of my mouth in a frantic mantra. They grow louder and louder as they escape my lips, filling the empty stadium with my cries until I’m screaming out at the top of my lungs. “Oh fuck, just like that! Oh fuck, just like that!”

I’m getting close, but before things go any farther, Pete climbs back up to my face and whispers something delicately into my ear. “I’ve got a strap on if you want me to use it,” he informs me.

My eyes go wide. “Yes please!”
 The spectral being sits up for a moment. Somehow, he uses his undead powers to manifest an enormous strap-on rod out of thin air, the shaft sporting the famous Billings Buckaroo color scheme.

He swiftly puts the harness on and positions his dildo, and the next thing I know Pete Mobino is sliding back into me.

While the technique is now clearly different, the rhythm remains the same. My mothman lover immediately picks up right where he left off, pulsing against me and hitting me in just the right way deep within. We continue to kiss, our bodies pressed together as he pushes me closer and closer to my inevitable orgasm.

“I’m so fucking close,” I groan, writhing in the grass. “I’m so fucking close.”

Our speed elevates until Pete Mobino is slamming into me with everything he’s got, his strap-on driving deep into my pussy while his body rubs against my clit in just the right way. I can feel the tension within me building and building, elevated to a point where my body can no longer contain it. I feel as though my entire form could tear apart at any minute, erupting in an explosion of sensation, but when the orgasm finally hits I’m flooded with nothing but peace and warmth.

I throw my head back and let out an unbridled scream, completely lost in the moment as the mothman carries me through this potent experience from start to finish, our bodies pressed tight and our energy tangled in a web of erotic wonder.

When I finally finish I collapse back against the ground, utterly exhausted. Pete Mobino cuddles up next to me, pulling me close.

“We’re gonna win this thing,” he states confidently.

Pete was right about our next game, and the game after that.

Now, the Billings Buckaroos have found themselves at the Super Bowl, facing down our long time rivals, the Camas Cobblers.

It’s been a hell of a game. The Cobblers have sat just a few points ahead the entire time, and the second we catch up they seem to pull away once more with a long-distance field goal or miraculous long shot touchdown.

I can tell that my team is getting tired, the weight of a long and hard-fought season finally coming back to haunt us. Fortunately, there’s something else that haunts this field tonight in the form of Pete Mobino, the quarterback mothman ghost.

As a coach I’ve managed to rally my team around Pete, bringing him into the fold and teaching him the plays in record time. Pete has even helped us with a few old school formations of his own, and this has been a great tactic to throw off our opponents defense when we need it the most.

Now, we’re down by five with just a few second left in the fourth quarter. A field goal isn’t going to cut it, and at this point we’ve only got one shot left. We’re huddled up together, the guys staring back at me as I explain the plan, and in this moment I opt for one of Pete’s classic plays.

A lot is riding on this, but there’s no doubt in my mind the mothman ghost can pull it off. Everything Pete has promised so far as come to fruition, and I have nothing but trust for my phantom lover.

We break from the huddle and the team runs back into their positions on the field. The crowd is roaring at a deafening volume, but I’m not at all distracted from my duties as coach. I’m laser focused.

The ball is snapped. Pete Mobino steps back a bit, pretending to search for receivers then handing it off to a running back. The running back weaves to the left, but a few seconds later the other team realizes there was no hand off at all.

These few seconds are all Pete needs to sneak across the goal line and into my heart forever. Touchdown.

As the crowd erupts in a glorious cheer, I gaze out into the stadium, wondering who might be inspired by the big win tonight.

“You’ve got this,” I say to no one in particular. “You’re got this.”