Men at Play

by R. W. Clinger

  “He’s one lucky sonofabitch with a dick that big,” Nevin points out the obvious. “I wonder how long it gets when it’s fully hard.”

  I tell him, “It’s illegal to find out, which we won’t be doing.”

  He smirks.

  I smirk.

  “He’s fucking handsome. Top-notch perfect, in my opinion. It’s unfortunate we can’t take advantage of him. I think the two of us could have quite the round of fun with him even when he’s like this.”

  Nevin’s right. Although I’ve never been into threesomes, I’d share one with the ginger and the athlete, creating a memory I wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Mag’s bare frame is beyond Herculean and above god-like. Every hypnotic, muscular curve that designs his body leaves my mouth agape. Mag is a visual drug for me, and possibly for my new sidekick, Nevin. Nothing about the unclothed stud on the bed is an eyesore.

  I quietly tell Nevin, “We should let him sleep his drunk off. There’s a blanket on the reading chair. Can you grab it? We’ll cover up his privates before we can’t help it and both decide to go to town.”

  He grabs the blanket and places it over Mag’s limp goods. In doing so, Nevin says, “It’s a pity we can’t play with him. I don’t think I’ve ever slept with a man like that. Not once.”

  “We can play with him, but only if you want to go to jail tomorrow when he turns us into the police for rape.”

  “I’ll pass,” he replies.

  “Likewise,” I say, and head to the dimmer switch on the wall by the door, turning down the lights. “Let’s leave him alone now.”

  “Fair enough.” Nevin winks at me in the semi-darkness and eventually follows me out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind us.

  * * * *

  To our amusement, we find the Dixie chicks manning the bar. Both blondes smell like weed, act giddy, and are all smiles. They have five martini glasses lined up on the bar, all of which are filled with blue liquid and decorated with slices of lemon.

  “Keeping yourselves busy, I see,” Nevin tells them, sidling up to the front of the bar with me at his side.

  “It’s called the Pittsburgh Dazzle.” One of the blondes adorably giggles, pushing a drink in Nevin’s direction. “Try it out for size, Mr. McBane.”

  The bartender takes a sip of the drink. “Not bad at all, ladies. You might have jobs in this field.” He passes the drink to me. “Give it a try, Brett. Let the ladies know how they’ve done.”

  The drink is strong: lots of vodka, splash of lemon, definitely vermouth, a pour of Marie Brizard’s Cuacao Blue. I take two sips, pleased with the concoction.

  “It goes down smooth. Nevin’s right, you’ll be fine bartenders in the future.”

  The blondes giggle in unison. One of them reaches forward, drags fingers over Nevin’s handsome lips, and tells him, “My cousin and I have this. We’ll watch the bar. You two go have fun together.”

  Nevin doesn’t want to shirk his duties, although he already has, somewhat. “Are you sure?”

  The Dixie chicks nod together, giggle, and smile like toy dolls. In unison, they say, “Of course, we got this.”

  * * * *

  Less than two minutes later, I’m tucked in Nevin’s arms, and our chests are pressed together. We sway to and fro somewhere in the middle of the room to a slow and romantic song by Sam Smith. Kisses dot my forehead, cheek, and my lips. The kiss on my lips is almost as strong as the Dixie chicks’ Pittsburgh Dazzle and practically knocks me off my feet. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last very long, ending far too soon.

  It’s the perfect time to get to know a little more about the sexy bartender, and I decide to play yet another game with him, Twenty Questions. My first question is simple.

  “Where do you live, Mr. McBane?”

  “Walking distance from here. Three blocks. I have a place on Shelton Avenue. A small apartment overlooking the Monongahela River.”

  I feel his junk against my junk. Both areas are starting to firm up, warming and excited.

  Continuing my game, I ask, “Do you have a roommate?”

  “Of course. His name is Milo. Sexy as shit. Bossy sometimes. He sleeps with me every night.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  He casually nods. “Absolutely. We’ve been lovers for three years now.”

  My heart drops, and I want to pull away from him, realizing I’m wasting my time with the man. Nevin keeps me close, though, tight against him as we continue to sway left and right. With one free hand, he pulls out his cellphone, thumbs two buttons, and a salt-and-pepper-colored feline with green eyes appears on the screen.

  “This is Milo Brevard III. My soul mate.”

  I chuckle and playfully punch him in his shoulder. “You’re an ass. You had me convinced you weren’t single, cheating on your man. I didn’t think tonight was going to end well for me.”

  He raises an eyebrow as he tucks his phone away. “How do you want it to end, chap?”

  I share a boyish grin with him that most men have fallen for during my days of dating. “I was hoping breakfast…maybe even lunch.”

  “Wow, that’s a high expectation, but…possible.”

  I move our conversation forward. “Tell me more about yourself. Ramble for me.”

  He does, but not arrogantly. “I grew up in Erie by the lake. There’s a small town there called Templeton, like the rat from Charlotte’s Web. Have you ever been there?”

  I toy with him. “Where? Charlotte’s Web? It’s a book. I can’t go there.”

  “No. Templeton.” He chortles.

  I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Anyway, I grew up there with my only sibling, Deidra. She still lives there with her daughter, Lilly…”

  I cut him off with, “Your niece that you got the football signed for.”

  “That’s her.” He can’t help himself and kisses me again, pulls away, and continues. “My parents live about five hundred feet from Deidra and her blue-collar hubby, Stan. Stan’s a bricklayer. Tough work. All man stuff. He has a body like Mag and a heart of gold. He treats my sister and his daughter like princesses. I couldn’t ask for a better brother-in-law.”

  “How often do you visit them?”

  “Every other week.”

  “Did you spend the holidays with them?”

  “I did. It was lots of fun. Laughter from morning until night. My family is very laid back, and they all know how to have a good time. It’s never stuffy or uncomfortable when we’re all together.”

  I get this about Nevin, realizing his positive traits. “You sound like you have a good life.”

  We shift left to right, right to left, repeat. The Sam Smith song ends, and Ed Sheeran sings something about a photograph in a pocket. Nothing about the dancing and closeness to Nevin feels complex or challenging. Rather, our time together feels easy, harmless, and meaningful.

  He admits, whispering into my left ear, “The only thing I’m really missing in my life is the right man. Everything else about the ride seems to be going just fine. I’m a man with very few bumps to worry about.”

  “I can relate. Men either dump me, cheat on me, or have very bad habits and attitudes that always rip a relationship with me apart.”

  “Ditto,” he says. “On all mentioned counts. Boyfriend relationships with men are hard and unpredictable. You never know what horrible thing you’re going to wake up to and face. I’m getting too old to even think about it, though. Whatever happens, happens. I’ve put my dating career behind me. If Mr. Right is standing in front of me, wants to woo me, and treat me like a Prince Charming, I’m all for it. Otherwise, I’m not wasting my time with him.”

  “So you’re done with dating?”

  He nods. “Pretty much. It all depends on the guy, of course.”

  I’m honest with him again and say, “I don’t know why I like you, Mr. McBane, but I do. There’s something magnetic about you that I’m not shying away from. Maybe it’s all your charm.”

  “Good to know.
I rather like you also, Brett.” He pulls me close to him, drags his lips over mine, releases me, and rattles off, “I don’t want to be presumptuous to think you’d want to sleep with me, Brett Bett, but what do you say that we go back to my place and enjoy a drink with some quiet?”

  Straight forward with him, I ask another question. “Why don’t you think I’d want to sleep with you?”

  “Because you don’t seem to be that kind of guy. I mean…not that I would judge you if you were. You…you just seem to have manners and some type of nice etiquette about you. You’ll kiss on the first date, but that’s the extent of your forwardness, not that I mind, of course.”

  “Is this our first date?” I inquire, surprised by his rambling.

  “In a weird way, I think it is. Guy meets ginger bartender at a bar. Some flirting happens between the two men. Somehow, someway, the bartender ends up in a closet with the handsome video game designer, and they kiss, among other things. They have a mega amount of conversation in just a few hours, too many drinks together, and…”

  I interject with, “The video game designer goes home with the bartender and maybe sleeps with the hot ginger. A love story in the making.”

  Nevin raises his eyebrows and nods. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’m glad you thought of it.”

  A hearty laugh takes over me. “Let’s find our coats and get out of here. I think I want to show you a good time.”

  * * * *

  Nevin has a one-on-one with Tony in the corner before we leave the party. The two men stand next to the Christmas tree. Tony’s high on something. His eyes are far too wide, and his left hand keeps shaking. Although he’s not a drug addict, he does like to have fun, particularly when he’s the host of any party. Good for him. Why throw a festive holiday celebration if he can’t enjoy everything that’s going on around him?

  From a distance, I watch Tony nod like a bobblehead and his lips move. I imagine he says to Nevin, “Sure, go home. The country girls can manage the bar. No problem. Have a great night.”

  And Nevin mouths, “Thank you.”

  They shake hands, share a brief hug. No kisses between the two men occur since Tony likes women.

  Nevin makes his way up to me and says, “That’s covered. I told Tony I didn’t want pay for tonight since I’ve done a lousy job. He said not to worry about, he’d still cut me a check. And he’s okay that the Dixie cousins are running the bar for the rest of the night, adding that maybe he’ll sleep with one, or both, by the end of the evening.”

  Typical Tony, I think.

  * * * *

  We leave the apartment building at approximately seven minutes after eleven. Cumbersome snowflakes fall down from the heavens, weaving to and fro around us like a quilt. The temperature is a solid seven degrees, bitter. Nevin locks me against his bulky frame as we walk to his place.

  “Let me keep you warm.”

  I can’t remember the last guy who wanted to keep me warm from the cold outside. Not Trundle or my two boyfriends before him, Tanner and Dane. Not Michael Frayden, an English professor. Not Jesse Kemp, a mechanic. No one. It’s nice to hear Nevin say what he does, keeping me close to him.

  Walking. More walking. The city opens around us: snow-covered skyscrapers, icy sidewalks, Uber cars carrying drunken passengers to midnight parties, no moon, snowflakes reflecting in white-gold streetlamps. It’s the most enchanting evening of them all, I decide. Disney-like. Stunning. Beautiful. Everything I can’t imagine it being on any other night out of the year.

  Possibly freezing to death, just as I am, Nevin asks, “What’s your favorite thing about winter, Brett?”

  “Tonight. Meeting you. Getting to know you. Having a few drinks. And now this walk in the bitter cold to your apartment. I don’t think it can get any better.”

  “So if tonight didn’t happen, if we didn’t meet, you’d hate winter?”

  I laugh. “Probably. Although the snow is nice to watch in the streetlamps.”

  “The snow is nice,” he shares. “Winter’s my favorite season. I like the cold and all the clothes you have to wear. And secretly, just between you and me, I like the winter games you can play outside. Hockey. Sledding. Football in the snow.” He pauses, turns his head in my direction, and gives me a mischievous grin. “Inside games, under the sheets, are fun, too.”

  “Are you telling me you’re a giant child?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You decide.”

  “Well, if you are, at least you aren’t boring.”

  “Nope. I’m never boring.”

  We both laugh while making a right on Stebbins Avenue. From Stebbins, we make a left on Rudman Way, and become lost, deep in the heart of the city where small businesses (coffee shops, a bookstore, a stationary store, an independently-owned pharmacy, a bakery, and a card shop) are slumped together. There’s an alley called Shelton Avenue to our right, which we take, hand in hand. Red brick walls surround us with iron fire escapes. I see two Dumpsters semi-covered in snow. The alley is eerily dark, looks dangerous.

  “It’s like a scene in one of the Cutter games I’ve helped make.”

  “You’re right. I swear I’ve seen it in Braham’s Zombie Castle. Aqua-colored aliens pop out of the Dumpsters, and Cutter blows them away with his High-Mag-Two Laser pistol.”

  I correct him with, “It was a new model pistol he was using, the High-Mag-Seven. Wendy of Geneva gave it to him after they slept together.”

  He laughs, nodding. “You’re right…right. I think he liked the pistol more than Wendy.”

  “Well, of course. Cutter doesn’t like to stay with the same woman for very long.”

  Walking. More walking. We become concealed by the alley.

  “How about you, Brett? Do you like to stay with the same man for a long time?”

  I don’t hesitate. “If he’s the right man. I won’t be abused by some asshole.”

  “I don’t blame you. There’s no room for abuse in the world.”

  We come to the center of the alley and the side entrance to his apartment building. The door is bright yellow, chipped paint. Two brick steps welcome him home. He releases me and jingles keys in the right pocket of his winter coat. He pulls the keys out and finds the proper one to open the door.

  “Follow me, guy,” he says over his right shoulder, opening the door, offering me a further glimpse inside his world.

  * * * *

  Once inside Nevin’s apartment complex, three more steps lead to a small room walled with mail boxes. Flyers and footprints litter the tile floor. A ruby red rug with rubber backing lies askew in front of the boxes. On the opposite side of the room are two doors. One says stairwell, and the other one is steel, an elevator welcoming us to any of the fourteen floors available within the building.

  We take the elevator to the seventh floor. A teal hallway opens with aqua-colored, ceramic tile. Each apartment door is a brushed silver. Not bad to look at. A nice and clean place to live up here.

  Like a faithful puppy dog, I follow him down the hallway, and he stops at apartment 7G. He fiddles with his keys, opens the apartment’s door, steps inside, and flicks on the light.

  The studio apartment looks comfortable, with masculine browns, warm whites, and hints of light blue. All the furniture appears expensive, as do the essential appliances. He has the newest gaming system and leather seats for comfort while playing. To the far right is a copper-colored door, what I assume is the bathroom. The living room sofa, something from Sweden or Denmark, I imagine, opens and creates a bed. To the far left is the kitchen and bar area.

  We lose our coats and winter shoes, become easy with each other. Why not? Isn’t this the reason why I’ve followed him back to his apartment? He offers me two fingers of whiskey over ice in a faux crystal glass, which I accept. We toast to the approaching New Year and good luck for the both of us and our families. Standing inside his kitchen, face to face, we kiss once, twice, three times, begin to warm up from the stinging cold outside He slowly pulls away from me. Honestly, I
think I’ve done something wrong, causing him to be uninterested in me.

  On the contrary, though, he says, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you all evening.”

  I feel the whiskey hit me, as well as the other drinks I’ve absorbed throughout the evening. I lean into the bar with my right hip, happy, civilized, and enjoying my time with him, whether it’s a date or not. “Ask away. I’m listening.”

  “Tell me you’re making a new Cutter video game?” He lights up with excitement. His cheeks fill with red life, and his eyes sparkle, interested. A smile sketches itself across his face, perhaps overzealous to discuss Cutter and my video game-making skills.

  “It’s in the works,” I say, honest with him. “Cutter’s Revenge will be released in the fall of 2018. He visits Braham’s Zombie Castle again, discovering new underground rooms and an entrance to a plane of extraordinary events. Trust me, you’ll love it. It’s very surreal and out of this world.”

  “Awesome,” he whispers.

  “Maybe you can stop by the shop, and I’ll show our team’s designs. You know where Lancelot Games is downtown?”

  “Maybe eight or nine blocks from here. I’d love to see what you do.”

  I carry my drink to the gaming system on the other side of the room. Two chairs, a small table, and an assortment of zombie and war games in plastic containers decorate the area.

  “What do you say we hit Braham’s Castle, bringing in the New Year?”

  He shakes his head, leaves his drink behind, and walks up to me. His eyes shine a mysterious green, obviously hungry for me. He slips his hands to my waist, leans the tip of his nose against the tip of my nose. “I think I have a better game we can play, Brett Bett. What do you say?”