“Chad Quick. The architect tycoon. Is that who you’re talking about?”
“That’s him. The one and only. He’s an arrogant fuck. Wealthy. A dick. He thinks he’s better and smarter than every queer in this city because he builds hotels. Plus, he thinks he can get away with abuse.”
“Pittsburgh’s Donald Trump.”
“Exactly. No one can trust him. Unfortunately, your ginger tried to love him for three years. But that’s over now. Nevin’s a great guy. I’m glad you’re with him now. He’s a better man than I’ll ever be.” He takes a deep breath, holds my hips with his palms, and looks me square in the eyes, about as serious as when the planet has the potential to stop on its axis and begins to implode. “I want to tell you a few things about us…and me.”
“We probably have three minutes in here, maybe less. Speak quickly.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Brett. Never. To be honest with you, I was falling out of love with you about three months before we ended things. Love felt as if it were present between us one day, then it just slipped away. I couldn’t help how I felt. I didn’t want to sting you, although I did and…”
“Andy stung me. He drugged and raped you. He got what he wanted on Labor Day.”
Trundle shakes his head. “It’s not true. That never happened. I was very much aware what was going on during the Labor Day picnic near Aster Point. I only had one drink, and it wasn’t tainted. Andy can be a handful and vicious, but he wasn’t that day. There were no drugs or rape.”
“That’s not what everyone at the picnic told me.”
He sighs and whispers, “You shouldn’t have listened to those people. Those people were wrong, whoever told you such things.”
“So you left me on your freewill and hooked up with Andy?”
He nods. “I’m not proud of the way I ditched you and ended our relationship. It wasn’t the right way to go about it, but I’m not going to stand here and deny what I did.” He drops his light grip from my hips. The back of one of his hands meets my chin, and he brushes his knuckles along its smooth skin. “I’m sorry, Brett. From the bottom of my heart, I’m truly sorry what I did to you and the way I did it. I should have been more of a man and faced the situation head-on. Instead, I ran off with another guy, stinging you, ending what we had.”
“It felt like a game you were playing with me,” I admit, almost crying.
“I didn’t intend for it to feel that way. Honestly, I didn’t. You’ve always known I never liked to play games with people.”
I nod. “This is true. But that’s what the sting felt like.”
“I’m sorry. If I could go back and change the way I ended things with you, I would. It’s impossible to go back in time and do that, though. Both you and I know that.”
“I forgive you,” I tell him. “You’re obviously not the monster I’ve thought you to be. It was brave of you to admit to me right now what you did.”
“Thank you.” He hugs me again.
Beverly Cline taps on the door and yells, “Time’s up, gentleman! I’m opening the door. Your seven minutes is over.”
I follow Trundle out of the closet. My stare connects with Nevin McBane’s: solid, unblinking, plentiful, comforting. He slowly lifts a hand and waves two fingers at me in a semi-salute and smiles. I do the same back to him. Before I know it, I’m sitting beside him, and he’s spinning the bottle with his left hand, continuing the game.
Around and around and around, the empty wine bottle spins. It passes the Dixie chicks and Beverly. It passes Trundle and Andy. It passes the Dixies again and…how awesome that it lands on me, since I want to spend seven minutes of heaven inside the closet with him. Just us. The ginger and me. Together. Hot damn.
* * * *
Nevin holds my hand as we enter the closet. At my side, he whispers, “Is it true that we’re seeing each other? Rumor has it at the party that we’re dating and could be lovers.”
I guffaw and ask, “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve heard from a number of guests that we’re a couple. We’re boyfriends tonight. Is this true? Is this how we’re bringing in the New Year?”
I want to say nothing in response to his concern, keeping my lips zipped. Rather, I grin and feel mischievous. It’s impossible to keep quiet about the topic, though. “You could have worse boyfriends.”
“Are you saying you’re a good catch?”
“Only the best, Nevin. Let me stick around and find out.”
“We’ll see about that.” He pulls me into the closet and closes the door behind us, welcoming me to a place that he calls heaven.
* * * *
Minute one. We are far too old for this game. Old and mature. On the doorsteps of our middle lives. Some call us sexually weathered because we are almost forty. Others simply define the two of us as male whores, seeking out public quickies without paying any prices. No matter what we are labeled, it doesn’t stop us from having an unspoken attraction to each other.
Minute two. Our mouths connect as well as our chests. I can feel his hard nipples beneath his shirt and his breath against my face. The kiss becomes maddening, soaked in lust, and numbs me from brain to feet. I’m catapulted to a different world with aliens that look half human and half fish, but they’re not called mermaids. There are seven suns and seven planets, all of which are different hues. Some of these spheres are bright, and others aren’t. I spin in Nevin’s arms, lost by his touch, expelled from any realization that we are acting like high school boys, under some consequential spell between adult men, bedazzled by the moment in the closet with him, our centers touching.
Minute three. His right hand moves along my left hip and falls between us. He reaches for the mass between my legs, hidden in its chino-castle. There’s a gentle squeeze, and a soft grunt escapes my mouth. He compresses the mass again, harder this time, turning me on as I pant against his lips, exhausted by our hungry nature. A jolt shuttles through my core, upwards and into my throat. It feels as if I am on fire, electrified. Another grunt follows another squeeze. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll have a sticky accident in my linen slacks, coating the cotton boxer-briefs that protect my private world from his. If I don’t back away from him, meeting my back with the bicycle’s upside-down handlebar, I’ll have to leave the party early in embarrassment.
Minute four. He stops, but only briefly. Thank God. We pant together, eyes locked on each other.
“Best kiss ever,” he mumbles, fingering my dress shirt with skilled labor, unbuttoning the fabric with superhuman speed, exposing my cut abdominals, pectorals, and tight navel. He pinches a nipple, grins, and says, “Nice chest. Let me eat it up.”
Minute five. I don’t stop his tongue-circling on my pert nipples. Nor do I push his face away as his mouth falls between my abs, rolling its tongue’s tip over man-scaped hair and dots of light perspiration. The smooth and silky and wet extension finds exactly what it wants: my navel. Perhaps drug-high and hard, he gently dips the tip of his tongue inside the divot, pulls away, and proceeds to share a second dip, fulfilling his hunger.
Minute six. On his knees, his mouth finds the inflated tube between my legs, meeting his teeth and lips to the linen fabric. A groan lifts from him as he mouths the mound, which is followed by a second and third groan. Forcefully, he buries his face against my crouch. In doing so, one of his palms (I think it is his right) fingers and drags up and along my ripped core, discovering, which inevitably sends shivers up and down my spine.
Minute seven. He doesn’t blow me in the closet, although maybe I want him to. Honestly, I won’t stop him if he unzips the fabric, excavating my dick like the hottest archeologist on the planet and taste-testing his find. As God is my witness, I will not prevent the length of my shaft from driving down into the lengthy depths of his narrow throat, pushing what I have inside him, and becoming enlightened by his silken mouth, so very much educated concerning the events of two men playing a simple game called Seven Minutes in Heaven.
Rather, he continu
es to mouth the fabric at my center, pinches a nipple, both nipples, and shares a string of grunts with me, distinctive and masculine sounds that cause my beef to pulse and throb, needing more attention.
He groans.
I groan.
He grunts.
I grunt.
The small room circles around the both of us. Around. Around. Around…
Some buttmunch opens the closet’s door, and we fall out, next to the circle of players. Shock at best. An invasion of our privacy.
My back and shoulders hit the Oriental rug, stinging. The cotton flaps of my dress shirt fly open, and my chest is exposed, nipples hard with bubbles of saliva from Nevin’s labor. At the same time, Nevin falls to his left and does a face-plant to my crouch. Although it should be quite painful for me, it’s enjoyable. The act is a crowd-pleaser for sure, entertainment for those around, what will someday be told as the queer antics between Brett Bett and the ginger bartender at that fun New Year’s Eve party at Tony DeAngelo’s flat. Do you remember? How can anyone forget? Such an exciting night.
Time’s up. Our seven minutes in heaven is over.
Maybe we are boyfriends. Maybe not. Honestly, it feels as if we are.
* * * *
Nevin wipes his lips with a fist. I’m still hard from his incomplete suck job. All the players of the game have their eyes on us. We become Hollywood stars for the evening, temporarily. And yes, their mouths hang wide open, surprised. No one says anything. No one blinks. It’s the most uncomfortable I’ve felt all evening, unnecessary but real.
I lean over his left shoulder and mumble, “I need a drink. Let’s get to the bar as fast as we can. What do you say?”
He agrees, head down, perhaps ashamed of his slurping, sucking, and groaning that transpired inside the closet.
We escape to the area where he probably feels most comfortable. Here, both of us behind the bar, after waiting on a few party guests, he teaches me how to make two Long Island iced teas, and we enjoy them. We stand face to face, somewhat blitzed.
He asks, “So the guy you went into the closet with first is your ex-boyfriend, right?”
Shit. I really don’t want to talk about Corbin Trundle, but feel that I have to. I have this theory about meeting likable men and wanting to get to know them and spend time with them: never construct lies, always tell the historical tales of one’s life with honesty; save the disheartening lies for the haters in the world, the idiot bullies who find me attractive and want to get to my dick and bottom without wanting to get to know the real me.
I decide to tell Nevin the truth. “He was my boyfriend. It’s over now. It’s been over for months. He’s sleeping with Andy Dinna, the paperback shithead.”
He’s taken aback by my information, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Did Corbin dump you?”
“Yes. It was ugly. Do we really have to talk about this?”
He gives me a ginger, puppy dog stare which melts me.
I add, “Trundle left me on Labor Day. That’s when our relationship ended. We were at a barbecue together in Mellborne Park, near Aster Point. Most of the city was there. He simply vanished with Andy Dinna, and they’ve been together ever since.”
“Jesus. That’s horrible.”
“It was horrible. I ended up getting drunk and walking home. It was the worst party I’ve attended.”
“I wouldn’t have dumped you. You seem like a super nice guy. Smart. Good to look at. Funny at times. Spirited. Why did he leave you?”
“He told me tonight that he fell out of love with me. It makes sense, I guess. You can’t help how you feel sometimes. He became bored with me and decided to leave. I get it. Love has its flaws. We all know that. Some of us become victims of those flaws. That was me.”
We down our drinks, content with each other, comfortable. Our conversation ends when the Dogmas twins, David and Daniel, land at the bar. They’re both high on lines of coke or something wicked: eyes wide and red, shaky hands, buzzing.
Daniel leans over the bar and asks me, “Are you and the ginger-stud from Drinkworld going to fuck me and my brother?”
Nevin chuckles.
I roll my eyes at Daniel’s over-the-top inquiry.
Nevin and I make eye contact with each other, which screams: no way!
The ginger surprises me and says to Daniel and his twin, “I’m flattered you two guys want to get busy with us, but I’d rather have the game master here to myself.”
“Damn,” David whispers, obviously disappointed. “We were going to bring the New Year in with your dicks in our asses. A big celebration. One that we all can remember for years to come.”
They are vulgar comments, but funny. I imagine the queer twins going from one set of guys to the next, circulating the party and setting up sexual arrangements, getting their kicks. How surprising their game is, selfish, and somewhat fun.
Truth is, I’m pleased that Nevin wants me for himself, unwilling to share me with someone else, particularly with the Dogmas. I decide to lean into him and kiss the man, proving my connection to him valid, perhaps only his for the rest of the evening, or longer, if he will have me.
“Fuckers,” Daniel whispers, being catty. He escorts his brother away from the bar, into the crowd, continuing their game. So long. Good riddance.
Nevin decides to make us fresh drinks.
I don’t object. What a nice guy to get a good buzz on with. Hooray for me.
* * * *
We are visited by the beautiful football player at the bar, Magnum Shott. He’s blitzed, having consumed too many strong drinks. He slurs his words as he requests, “Gay gauze state.”
Nevin looks puzzled. “Gay gauze state?”
I translate, “Grey Goose straight.”
Before Nevin makes the drink, he reaches under the bar, pulls out a leather football, and places it on the bar. He finds a black Sharpie marker and asks Mag, “Can you sign this football for my niece. She’s thirteen this week and plans on being the first female quarterback in the NFL. Her name is Lilly.”
Although Mag is inebriated, he leans over the bar, almost touches his nose to the pigskin, opens the Sharpie, and scrawls something.
Surprisingly, I can read what the athlete writes. More surprising, all of his words are spelled correctly.
To Lilly. Happy Birthday! The NFL needs a young woman like you! Magnum Shott. #45.
Mag passes the ball and Sharpie back to Nevin. “I tink wom ruler the worlds. Look ut that fucking Trunk is doin. Onion ivy thin.”
“What was that, buddy?” Nevin asks Mag, looking at me.
I translate the professional defenseman’s words. “He said, I think women should rule the world. Look at what fucking Trump is doing. Ruining everything.”
Mag slumps over the bar, closes his eyes.
Nevin admits. “I can’t serve him anything more. He’s too drunk.”
I suggest, “Let’s put him in one of Tony’s rooms for the night. He can sleep his drunk off. What do you say?”
“Do you think we can put a Pittsburgh Molten football player to bed? He’s huge. And he probably almost weighs three hundred pounds. We’ll need superhuman strength.”
“Listen, Superginger. You’ve got this. You’re a big guy. I’m semi-big. We can do this.”
He chuckles. “Did you just call me Superginger?”
I nod, proud of my name. “Take it. You got the muscles, good looks, and smile for the position. You just need a cape.”
“I’ll take it. Just tell me what my superpower is?”
“Making drinks, of course. Everyone in Gotham knows that.”
He laughs.
I laugh.
Together, we manhandle the football player off the bar, prepared to put him to bed for the night.
* * * *
It’s not an easy task to carry Magnum Shott from the bar area, down a narrow hallway, and into one of Tony’s spare rooms. We’re on either side of the football player and practically drag him by his shoulders and arms. He feels like a g
iant bag filled with mud, heavier than fuck. It looks like a scene out of horror movie. Mag’s head hangs low, his entire body is slumped and gel-like, and his feet drag over the floor, spread this way and that way. I admit, Nevin’s stronger than me and doesn’t seem to have as much problem.
“Work with us, buddy,” Nevin coaches.
Mag mumbles something neither of us can understand. It sounds like a jumble of vowels, pre-kindergarten verbiage.
Once inside the illuminated room, I tell Nevin, “Let’s put him on the bed and take his shoes off.”
“Good idea.”
I don’t know how we manage to get the defenseman on the queen-size, but we do. Mag rolls out of our grips, falls to the mattress, and bounces up and down, which somewhat wakes him from his state of blurriness.
From the bed, his head partially on the feather pillow, he looks up at us through squinting eyes and asks, “Where I?”
Nevin leans over him and says, “You’re safe. Go to sleep. No need to worry.”
“In bed?” Mag groggily asks.
I slide his expensive leather loafers off and drop them to the floor. “You are in bed. Rest up now.”
“No clothes,” Mag says, using perfect English, closing his eyes.
Before Nevin and I realize it, Mag somehow, someway, still in his drunken state, removes his shirt, pulling it off his torso. He drops the piece of cotton attire to the bedroom floor, next to Nevin’s feet. He doesn’t stop undressing and goes for his belt, slacks, and…
Nevin says, “He’s pushing his underwear down to his ankles.”
I admit to myself, under my breath, that it’s an attractive show. Maybe something I would consider paying for it. Pure filth and erotic niceness.
Mag mumbles, “No close.”
“He said no clothes again,” I translate the football player’s two words to Nevin.
I stand by the bed and stare down at the motionless and naked defenseman. Magnum Shott’s body is perfect for the cover of any men’s fitness or beefcake magazine. His shoulders are broad and muscular, and his chest is thickly plated, proving he works out at least six times a week. Strands of dark hair cover his pecs, and pink nipples pop through. A line of spiraling hair travels down the center of his pumped chest, through the valley of his abs, and falls into his shallow navel. I count his eight-pack of abs, and my gaze falls southward bound to the area between his legs: freshly maintained triangle of short and dark pubic triangle, seven-inch limp and cut cock, droopy ball sack with excess skin. Stunning. Beautiful. Worthy for porn.
Men at Play Page 3
