Men at Play

by R. W. Clinger

  Frankly, I want to turn to him and run a hand over one of his nipples and down to his navel. There’s a better time and place for such nonsense, though. Better to keep my hormones under wrap, hidden from him, and stay the gentleman I am.

  “Wish me luck at the bar. Hopefully, I can make you proud of me and fill your shoes.”

  “You’re going to be fine out there,” he tells me. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I half expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Maybe he should just spank me on the bottom with one of his wet hands and say something odd like, “Blow them away, guy. You’ve got a lot of possibilities.”

  Nothing of the sort happens, though.

  Instead, he asks, “What’s your name? Are you finally going to tell me?”

  “Not yet. But I will.” I shake my head, smile, exit the bathroom, and find myself behind the bar area among the celebratory guests, executing his job.

  * * * *

  A Depeche Mode cover band sets up in one of the corners, opposite the bar. The four guys are young and cute, but aren’t my type. I’ve found that rockers drink too much and use drugs on a daily basis. Of course, I’m being stereotypical regarding such artists, but after having an affair with a drummer, bass player, and a lead singer, rockers aren’t for me.

  Two Dixie chicks make their way up to the bar, breaking my concentration of the cover band. They smell like cosmos, giggle, and say in unison, “Aren’t you a handsome man?”

  “Thanks,” I reply, only for the tip they might provide me.

  One of them asks, “Aren’t you Tony’s lover?”

  I shake my head. “Tony’s straight. He’s not into dick. I’m his best friend, but we don’t rub cocks together. Never have. Never will.”

  The country girls continue to giggle and order a pair of cosmos. One winks at me while the other one blows me a kiss. In unison, they ask, “Do you want to be our cowboy tonight?”

  I prepare their cosmos, shake my head again. “No rodeos for me tonight, ladies. Although you two Dixies are adorable, I’m not interested. If anyone wants a cowboy of their own for the night, it’s me. So get in line, ladies.”

  “You’re funny,” one of them says.

  “He is funny,” the other one provides.

  I pass them their drinks.

  Neither leave me a tip when they exit our brief conversation to be manhandled by some jock the size of a skyscraper and about as smart as a Tyrannosaurus Rex who walks and looks like he’s totally shit-faced, having already consumed too many shots of Jack Daniel’s, even if the night is young.

  * * * *

  I’m greeted by a young man named Magnum Shott, one of Tony’s friends I’ve met before: tall at six-five, iron-muscular, brown hair, almost almond-colored eyes, thick neck, wide-ass shoulders, and truck-like chest. His beautiful grin can lead him to high-paying jobs in the model industry, but Mag has chosen football as a career, a defenseman for Pittsburgh Molten. He’s wealthy and drives a Bentley around Pittsburgh, likes to be showy, and flirts with anyone on two legs, men and women. He has the reputation of having a tree between his legs, much charm, and easy to talk to.

  Some sports magazines actually call him, “The smooth player, on and off the field.”

  I’ve never had my doubts about the comment each and every time I see the man again. I look up into Mag’s eyes, fall a touch.

  He leans over the bar ever so slightly and asks, “What do you recommend I have to drink?”

  I want to tell him a blowjob will suffice, but guys like Mag won’t find it funny. Instead, I tell him, “A lightning bolt.”

  He squints, purses his lips. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Grey Goose, a splash of Sprite, ice, and a slice of lemon or lime, your choice. Or you can have the Dixie chicks floating around here.”

  “It doesn’t sound so bad. I’ll trust you and have one.”

  “The Dixie chicks or the drink?” I play.

  “The drink.” He chortles. “But I’ll keep the country girls in mind.”

  “You won’t be disappointed by the drink, Mag.”

  Although he might when he finds out from his fellow athletes that the drink is bogus, a concoction inside the folds of my creative mind. The recipe will never—not in a million years—be discovered in any book since I make it up on the spot.

  He wants to know my name, so I tell him, “Brett Bett.”

  “Sounds like an actor’s name. You do any acting, Brett Bett?”

  I shake my head and his drink, then pour. “I’ve never acted in my life.”

  “You like to play football with men?” he asks, checking me out, maybe liking what he sees. Or he’s being super sexist, which isn’t my thing. Women can kick ass in football, too.

  “Love the sport, but don’t play.” I slide his drink in front of him. “I do play with men, though.”

  He takes a sip, casually smiles. “Not bad.” Mag leans across the bar and places a hand on one of my pectorals, provides the firm mass with a squeeze. “Nice chest. You obviously work out and take care of yourself. Do you want to feel my chest?”

  It’s a different pick-up line, original, and acceptable. I can enjoy his naked company for an hour, maybe even longer, but I’m not in the mood. He’s an attractive man, but not as attractive as Nevin McBane.

  “Sorry, but I’m dating the ginger who runs this bar. He’s my man.”

  “Too bad for the both of us. Where’s he at if he’s not here?”

  “In the bathroom, cleaning up a wine spill.”

  “Fair enough.” He takes another sip of his cocktail. “You were right, I’m not disappointed with it. Nice to meet you, Brett Bett. I’ll be back for another drink soon. Gotta get some mingling done and show off my handsome face. Maybe I’ll find the Dixie chicks, as you call them. In the meantime, if ginger doesn’t want you, look me up. I’m sure we can rock each other’s worlds.”

  Not two minutes later, I see Andy Dinna, the famous paperback writer of a series called The Mackinac Island Mysteries. Andy’s done well for himself, a self-made millionaire at the age of thirty-six. Anyone present this evening who calls him a friend knows he has over seventeen million dollars in the bank from his shitty, old lady cozies. Money can’t buy manners, though, even backstabbing authors who fuck their editors. Andy’s a three-P professional: pretentious, pushy, and pulverizing. Everything about him screams bitchy, even in casual conversation.

  “We meet again, Mr. Brett Bett,” he says, smirking. “Three fingers of blue gin over rocks. No tonic. Please.”

  “The dreaded warlock returns to my life,” I respond, rolling my eyes.

  While preparing his drink, we lock eyes, unbreakable. I shouldn’t study him but do. He looks like a poodle: white, close-cropped curls, wide and bulging eyes, tall at six-one with thin legs and arms, drooping ears because of heavy white gauges in their lobes, and a long and pointing nose. He looks more like a cartoon character than a human. Such a shame.

  He waves a finger in my direction, scowls. “Hired help shouldn’t talk to guests like that, Mr. Bett.”

  “You’re not a guest. You’re Lucifer. Let me remind you that you thieved my boyfriend away from me. You’re a demon, a thief, and something from the depths of hell.”

  He laughs, tilting his head back. “What can I say, my love? My aura has magical powers regarding men who think they’re in happy relationships with video game designers. We both know your boyfriend is slutty when he gets drunk, and he loves to put his dick inside…” He leans over the bar just as Magnum Shott did and whispers, “Any bottom, including mine. Your ex will shoot his cum into anything.”

  I want to toss a drink in his face and call him the nastiest names, but keep calm. “Rumor has it that you drugged his drink, whisked him away, and fucked him, all in a matter of two hours.”

  He laughs. “It’s not a rumor, darling. Sometimes a man has to do what a man does to get what he wants.”

  “You’re the great whore that sitteth upon many waters,”
I whisper, quoting the book of Revelation from the King James Bible. I slide the drink across the bar, placing it in front of him.

  “And a damn good one. Someone you can’t compete with.” He lifts the drink and vanishes into the crowd.

  Thank God.

  What an asshole, for many reasons.

  * * * *

  I see him across the room, Corbin Trundle, the twenty-nine-year-old ex-boyfriend/boxer that was taken away from me. He looks good as a bottled-blond in a too-tight, unbuttoned, burgundy silk dress shirt. Lucky Brand jeans look glued to his muscular legs. And the black eye from his job puts him into the sexy and rough category of the many guests at the party. As always, Trundle keeps his hair buzzed, and he sports diamond studs in his earlobes that reflect in the room’s dim light. He talks to a younger man while they both drink beer from longneck bottles.

  It’s a sad sight, my once-lover belonging to someone else, particularly the paperback author. How quickly Andy Dinna whisked him away, right before my eyes, first seducing the stud during a Labor Day party in early September, and then keeping him as his own. A warlock at work. A shit. How terrible and demeaning for me. How shameful. I’m half embarrassed to stare at Trundle, missing him more than I should.

  We used to be happy together; or so I thought during our twelve months together as lovers. The boxer and the video game producer. So happy. In love. A single unit. I never saw any signs that he was unhappy. No foreign cologne smells on his collars from other men. No strange and unfamiliar phone numbers discovered in his jeans or chinos. No mysterious and discreet conversations behind my back. Nothing of the sort.

  In swooped Mr. Andrew Benjamin Dinna, acting like one of the mysterious characters in his slice-and-dice books. Andy’s undertaking: to destroy me to the best of his ability. The man’s secret mission: to steal the boxer from me. His long-term goal: to keep Trundle for himself and nonchalantly brag about him. His finale: to maybe toss the boxer away when he is done, possibly moving on to his next man of prey. My nemesis, the antagonist in the folds of my life. Andy Dinna is simply evil.

  I miss Trundle. I will always miss Trundle. He had been my first love, the man who had helped annihilate my heart. Although he has every opportunity to break Andy Dinna’s hex, he doesn’t. A pity. My loss. I guess heartbreak proves irreversible in most cases. Doesn’t it? I think so.

  * * * *

  Ten of the guests, including Trundle, Andy, and me, form a circle in the living room. We decide to play an adult version of Seven Minutes in Heaven with an empty wine bottle. A drunk Tony insists that Nevin plays, claiming he can run the bar for the time being, although I doubt his motor skills will assist. Other semi-blitzed guests who decide to play the game are Magnum Shott, the two Dixie chicks, a photographer named Norman Lentle, and the model Beverly Cline, on break from continuous months at work in Italy.

  All players have drinks in their hands, minus Nevin.

  Andy turns the music down and takes lead; no surprise. He stands with his gin (no tonic) over ice, and announces to the group, “The rules are pretty much the same as those we played in high school and college. Since we’re adults, you can choose to pass on your time in Tony’s closet.”

  He points to an open, narrow walk-in closet with a blue-and-silver bicycle hanging on one wall, ski equipment shoved into one of its corners, tennis rackets, ice skates, a basketball, various helmets, and other athletic whatnots that obviously keep Tony fit throughout the changing seasons.

  Andy ends with, “I assume you won’t be reluctant about going into the closet since you’ve chosen to play the game. I’ll spin first.”

  The empty 2015 merlot spins counter-clockwise on the coffee table. Eyes concentrate on the bottle as it begins to slow, passing the Dixie women, Nevin, Mag, the photographer, me, and Beverly. Eventually, it stops on Trundle.

  Andy giggles. “Just what I wanted. Follow me, sweetheart, so I can have a dick-kick with you.”

  Both Andy and Trundle escape to the closet, hiding for seven minutes.

  Outside, we hear laughter, grunts, groans, murmurs, and heavy breathing.

  “Ouch!” Trundle says.

  Andy loudly shares, “Get in there, T. Get in there deep and hard. Fuck me and fuck me fast. Shoot in me if you want, I don’t give a fuck.”

  We hear more things from Andy that we shouldn’t: “Faster…spank me…Jesus, that’s the spot…harder…fuck me, T. Fuck me hard…”

  Chatter, laughter, and surprised looks take over the room, particularly the players of the game. Mouths hang open. Eyebrows are raised. It’s a quick seven minutes of pornographic sounds in a contrived heaven, graphic noises from a queer XXX movie that maybe none of us ever want to watch.

  It’s the fastest seven minutes ever.

  “Their time is up.” Beverly Cline rises and walks to the closet door. She taps and calls out, “It’s over. You’re done. Get out of there.”

  Andy says, “Pull it out of me. Now! Our minutes are up. We’ll finish with your dick later.”

  Beverly Cline scowls, backing away from the closet and joining the remaining five players in our circle.

  Rustling is heard from inside the closet: an elbow cracking against the door, grunts, and huffing. Technically, the couple is in the closet for eight minutes, breaking the rules of the game. No one cares, though.

  Andy and Trundle tumble out of the closet, grinning. Both are sweaty, heaving for breath. They chuckle, experiencing a mad-capped adventure like teenagers.

  Andy’s brow is covered in sweat as he fastens the leather belt around his waist. His cheeks are a fiery red, and his eyes are wide, having just been semi-taken advantage of in the closet by his hot boyfriend.

  The silk flaps on Trundle’s shirt are open, and his chest is exposed. It’s a beautiful chest, always. No wonder Andy decided to take him away from me.

  One of the Dixie chicks laughs and points to Trundle. She crudely says, “Hey, Trundle, your big dick is out, pointing north.”

  All eyes focus on my ex-boyfriend’s cock. And all mouths open in surprise, even my own. Trundle’s upright dick is seven inches hard, perfect steel, erect, cut, veined, and pulsing. Its tip is decorated with a pearl-colored bubble of pre-ejaculation.

  Beverly Cline yells, “Jesus Christ, Trundle, put that weapon away! This isn’t that type of party! What the fuck is your problem?”

  Trundle spins around for a few seconds, hiding himself from the guests. He tucks his junk away and spins back around. There’s a bulge beneath his khakis, proving he’s still hard. He blushes, something he rarely does.

  The guy’s dick is ignored, and the game proceeds. Trundle and Andy return to the circle and sit. Trundle downs the last of his beer, perhaps numbing his cock away. Andy crunches on an ice cube; his drink is empty.

  Beverly Cline suggests, “Brett, you spin the bottle next.”

  Nevin’s beautiful eyes open with surprise, and his head turns in my direction. He exclaims, “Your name’s Brett!”

  I nod and grin. “Brett Bett.”

  “For Christ’s sake, you two, get to know each other later,” Beverly Cline says. “Spin the fucking bottle already, Brett.”

  What the hell? I do.

  I reach forward, grip the bottle’s center as if it’s a massively inflated dick, and twist my wrist to the right.

  The bottle spins, pointing at Trundle, Andy, me, Nevin, Mag, the two Dixie chicks, Norman Lentle, and Beverly Cline. Around and around, it goes until it slows down.

  Trundle, Andy, me, Nevin, Mag…one Dixie chick….the second Dixie chick…Norman Lentle…Beverly Cline…and it stops on Corbin Trundle.

  I can’t do it. I won’t. “I pass,” I tell the group, feeling my heart drop. I refuse to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with my ex-boyfriend. No way. Fuck no.

  But Trundle smiles and stands. No longer does he sport a hard shaft inside his khakis. He points at me and directly says, “Come on, Brett. We need to talk. Just you and me. The closet’s a good place to get it done.”

 
I persistently shake my head. “I can’t do it. I won’t.”

  Trundle circles the group and stands behind me. He rubs my shoulders with his strong hands, massaging them the same way he used to when he attempted to seduce me. He leans over and whispers into my right ear, “You can do it, man. No funny stuff. I just want to talk to you for seven minutes. You and me.”

  I lean my head back and touch its crown to his once-hard dick. “I trust you. Seven minutes. No monkey business, though.”

  “None.” He leans over and dots a kiss to my forehead, stating we are not enemies and that whatever has happened between us is forgotten, bygones. “Get up, and let’s do it.”

  * * * *

  The closet is dimly lit by a forty-five-watt LED bulb. Sports equipment is stored all around us, smelling like perspiration.

  Face to face, only inches apart, Trundle asks, “Can I hug you? Not in a sexual kind of way. Just a friendly hug because we haven’t seen each other since September.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  The hug melts my epidermis ever so slightly. I somewhat lose my balance, feel intoxicated by his gentle touch, and semi-believe that we should still be together. My legs wobble, and my heart pitter-patters. I recall walking in the rain with him, reading mysteries with him on the sofa in my apartment on Chelsea Street, and cooking dinner. We spent a lot of intimate time talking, making love, and doing what boyfriends and lovers do. Honestly, it feels as if a door has opened into a twosome world again, rekindling the time we have lost apart, rebuilding our relationship again, right where we have left off.

  When he pulls out of the hug, he says, “It’s nice to be close together again, don’t you think?”

  “I’m with the ginger who runs the bar,” I lie yet again, starting to believe myself.

  “Nevin McBane?”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “Impressive. The man’s a sweetheart. He knows how to treat a guy. His last boyfriend treated him shit. Called him all of kinds of derogatory names. Slapped him around a few times. Chad humiliated him whenever he could. It’s was quite abusive. It took Nevin a year or two to get up the courage to leave the asshole.”