The last thing I wanted to do was ruin our arrangement as roommates who slept in the same bed. I thought it harmful that he wanted to be intimate with me. It crossed a line between new friends (and roommates), adding pressure to our relationship when pressure really wasn’t needed. Tommy was a tease, I realized. Sexy. Alluring. Playful. And dangerous for all the right reasons.
Therefore, I kept my sexual distance from the man, unwilling to fall for his magnetism. I prevented him from touching, licking, or ogling my well-built body the way he wanted. Tommy Rawe was an angel, but anyone, including me, could have fallen under his testosterone-boosted hex, and a sense of severe and sexual damage could have occurred, unintentionally.
* * * *
Sometime during the middle of that week, with the Eagles’ first preliminary football game ending in a severe loss, with the apartment feeling uncomfortable and sticky due to the summer humidity, and with the sounds of the city’s busy night, I stayed awake, unable to fall asleep.
“Shane, I know you’re awake. I want to tell you something,” Tommy said beside me, drawing my attention away from the street sounds: two queers discussing a threesome in a stranger’s apartment.
Tommy lay on the center of the bed in a gray-blue-white light from a Sosa streetlight, illuminated like a god or angel. He was naked, sweaty, and an erection stood upright, ready for my use.
From his reclined position on the cotton sheet, he whispered, “Can you help me out with this thing? I really want to bust a load.” He shook his dick with his hand. “I’m dying to blow.”
I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t. That line was not to be crossed. Although I had a pounding urge to jack him off and spend some naked time with the hustler, I didn’t give in. Instead, I shivered next to him and observed his naked beauty and muscular silhouette.
In a rather melancholic tone, somewhat upset with myself, I replied, “I can’t fuck around with you, Tommy. I’m sorry.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Are you sick, Shane?”
How ironic his question was since he had probably screwed half the queer men in southern Florida, which included Naples, Fort Meyers, and the city of Miami.
“I’m not sick.”
“You don’t like me then?”
I sighed and closed my eyes. Pressure began to build in my temples and at my cock’s head. “I do like you, Tommy. You already know that.”
“Then climb on top of me and fuck around with me.”
I thought about his dangerous invitation for a few seconds, but I decided not to take him up on his sexual offer again. “I’m tired. I have to get to sleep.”
“If you change your mind, I’m right here. I’ll be ready for you.”
I didn’t respond to his comment and turned on my side, away from him. I blocked him out of my world yet another time, leaving my sexual desire for the man pent, and my appetite for him unbearable and limitless.
Chapter 18: Men in Motion
Aaron Felder:
What gay man didn’t look at porn on the Internet? Every queer did, I was pretty sure. Who didn’t like a fleshy scene of adult sexual content and some heavy duty raunchiness?
Inside my apartment, with the windows closed and the blinds pulled, I settled in front of my laptop while Tommy visited a bunch of his friends somewhere in the city. I clicked on a web site called The Puppy Room for Refined Gentlemen, which showcased amateur home videos of older men who seduced jocks in their late twenties. I scanned a few pages of the twenty-minutes-long XXX flicks. Settings included private bedrooms, backyard pools, rooftops, parking garages, retail stockrooms, a baseball field dugout, a teacher’s classroom, storage rooms, and various home offices. A string of twenty-something-year-old men fucked around with middle-aged men. Some of the daddies were much older and sported fatty stomachs, gray mustaches, and unstoppable libidos, but they were still handsome, horny as fuck, and ready for their trinkets.
Approximately twenty-five minutes into my personal cyber experience, I happened to see Aaron Felder’s familiar fern-green eyes. His chest had black hair, and thick scruff covered his chin and cheeks. At first, I didn’t believe the short pornographic film was of the tight end, but his triceps of steel and ten inches of hard cock confirmed it. If the guy wasn’t Aaron, then it surely had to be his identical twin, which I knew he didn’t have.
Speaking of twins, Aaron was accompanied by two brown-haired men in the video. Those cutie brothers with their matching faces and David-like sculpted bodies were with the professional football player on a king-sized bed. Aaron and his sweet-on-the-eyes twins blew each other in what looked to be a rented hotel room. As the bed squeaked under their combined weight, swollen cocks were sucked and tight assholes were pulled open with intrusive fingertips. Still in disbelief that I had accidentally sought out the trio on the Internet, determining that Aaron was the leader of their three-pack, I enlarged the video on the laptop, created a full-screen picture of the threesome, and enjoyed their nakedness with utter pleasure.
I knew it was next to impossible to unearth Aaron and his twins on the Internet, but I somehow managed such a feat. In disbelief of my find, I acknowledged, yet again, that the threesome was exactly who I thought they were—Aaron Felding and his friendly brown-haired twins. I recognized the daddy’s voice in the video as he instructed one of the twins to fuck his throat, and for the other twin to eat out his puckered and pink asshole. The instructor’s voice unfailingly belonged to Aaron. Without any doubt whatsoever I had come across his public adult play, I decided to settle back on my living room sofa and take full advantage of the tight end’s naked work with his twins, traveling uncharted and sexual adventures with him.
* * * *
James Coffler:
Of course, I paid Coffler a visit at his condominium, which still had the same walnut-colored floors, Swedish furniture, and Blake Nielson oils on the walls. I hobbled to his front door, knocked three times, and waited patiently for the man to respond.
When Coffler opened the door, I gasped, which was unintentional. His face was a puffy and bruised mess, and somewhere in that blue-purple fold were his eyes and nose. The man’s right arm was in a cast, broken in two places according to a recent article of his condition in the local rag.
I knew Tommy had done him in, blowing his face to smithereens with fists, a wrench, and superhuman kicks. Tommy wasn’t a boxer, but he could act like one. He followed through with his plan to get a little bit of untasteful revenge on Coffler and somewhat dismantled the wide receiver with top-notch skill. Bottom line: Tommy’s retaliation had clearly panned out, and Coffler was suffering dearly because of my apartment guest’s rage.
Although Coffler’s condition was physically not up to his athletic par and potential, his vision—what little he could muster through his pulpy and swollen eyes, I assumed—was accurate. He recognized me, but didn’t smile.
“Shane,” exited his damaged lips in a hollow whisper.
Normally he would have scanned my jockish body from head to toe, but maybe he was in far too much pain to do so. The football player stood motionless at his door and wheezed as if he were suffering from asthma, emphysema, or broken ribs, in a considerable amount of hurt.
He invited me into his condominium, but I politely refused. My job was to be a key witness to what Tommy Rawe had done to the football player, which meant that I wasn’t sticking around for a visit.
Noting Coffler’s beaten state, my sole objective accomplished in visiting him, I said, “You’re alive. Just checking on you.”
Of course, that was an odd comment, but not a big deal. Without another word said to the bruised man, I hobbled away, leaving him to his personal damage.
Bad things happen to bad people sometimes. Coffler wasn’t above that realization.
* * * *
Tommy Rawe:
No longer was the man a part of my world as of August 23. I was asleep on the sofa, nestled in its warm cushions, perhaps dreaming of a gang
bang among six football players in Atlanta, when he shifted me awake by my shoulder, gently clamping one of his paws over bone and muscle.
He whispered my name three times, waited for me to groggily wake up, and said in a hushed tone, “I have to go.”
I saw a blurred vision of him at my side, somewhat of a waving shadow. Half asleep, I murmured, “Why are you leaving? Where are you going?”
He rubbed the top of my head with his right hand, leaned over me, and kissed my forehead. “You’ll see me soon. Don’t worry about me. Close your eyes and get some more sleep. I really didn’t mean to wake you, but I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Stay,” exited my mouth, which sort of sounded like shay.
“It’s time to go. We both knew this would happen someday. That time is now.”
“But you don’t have to go.”
His footsteps crossed the living room floor. I listened to the two Yale locks on the apartment door click open, and then a long pause. Was he standing at the door, looking at me, taking a last view of my semi-asleep body? Had the hustler absorbed my presence, longing for something more from me than mere friendship? I didn’t know and never really would. And maybe he didn’t know, either. Not that it mattered, though. Tommy Rawe was gone, escaping the apartment and my life, in the middle of the night again, taking his last view of me with him.
How upsetting it felt to fall in love with someone, but they weren’t there to be loved back. How undermining of one’s heart, of course. Cruel.
* * * *
Frankie Woodrow:
“I think I’ve fallen in love with a hustler,” I told Frankie, curled up on my sofa with the air conditioner running. The apartment felt like a freezer, but I refused to the turn the A/C off. Instead, I sat under a blanket with my cellphone snug against my ear, chatting with my best friend.
Frankie was somewhere in Cuba, near Havana. He didn’t have to be back on his cruise ship until the following morning. “You’re doing what? Did I hear you right?”
“A hustler. Love. You heard me right.”
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He demanded that I tell him everything I could about Tommy Rawe: the way I had rescued him from Coffler’s bad deed in the Briefs Bar, the way I treated Tommy like a puppy or pet, bringing him home, feeding and watering the kid.
Eventually, Frankie said, “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“I’m out of my heart.”
And then I told him that Frankie had left in the middle of the night, breaking me a little.
“We both know you can’t help who you fall for. Hustler or not, the guy has your heart, and now you’re miserable. What are you going to do?”
“Suffocate myself in work.”
“How practical and helpful. I suppose you’re thinking about suicide, aren’t you?”
I laughed.
He laughed.
We spent the next hour discussing Tommy and my affections for the kid, and how he was toxic for me and my life, wholly. Damn.
Part 4: Lex
Chapter 19: A Private Tryst
Downtown
Gulf Way Square
The Reef Aquarian
August 24, 20—
1:27 P.M.
Lexington Mitchell Hayworthe’s discreet e-mail of instructions raced at my temples again and again. His words were troubling and rather baffling: Meet me at The Reef Aquarium at 1:30 P.M. in front of the tiger shark tank. Be alone.
Never had he requested my attention like that. Our relationship was strictly on the football field, viscous enemies since we were from opposing teams. I had dreamed of Lex a number of times in the last year. His physical handsomeness consisted of a six-four frame, two hundred pounds of lean muscle, a pretty boy face with tranquil blue eyes, a thick head of blond curls, nicely groomed goatee, and a small nose. Never had I acted on my secret attraction for the man. The quarterback for the Tallahassee Thors was something sweet to look at, and to study, a delicious piece of man-ass that could wet a queer man’s personal needs for all the right reasons. To be frank, the man was Herculean from top to bottom and spectacular to cruise with my eyes.
Being coworkers in the same league had prevented a romantic relationship from forming between us. Never did we mingle with kissing, heavy petting, or sex. My crush on the man was simply that: unthinkable behavior that wasn’t acted upon and only scripted by the trying folds of my cluttered mind. Lex was my wet dream on a horny night and someone I had wanted for my selfish needs.
Who in their sane mind wouldn’t have bedded the beautiful man if the opportunity just happened to arise? Not that desire was what Lex had in mind by contacting me. Perhaps the man wanted advice from me about plays on the field, league issues, insurance problems, or he simply wanted to exchange gossip about other players, which occurred often in our league. No matter what his communication entailed, I was willing to agree to his conditions, but wanted to know why.
Since I was curious what he wanted with me, I had hit him back with my own email: Why?
The model-handsome football player didn’t respond, not that I expected him to.
Men were like that sometimes: teasing, distant, unsure of their own actions, and vanished when you needed them most, particularly to discuss whatever was on their minds.
* * * *
The tiger shark tank was forty feet long and fourteen feet high. The water was a striking blue with red coral, green algae plants, and codium. The viewing area in front of the tank was sublevel with pot lights, which offered dull illumination. Its floor was cement, and two wooden benches hung against one of the walls, opposite the tank, where middle-aged and old spectators could sit and relax while watching the underwater world.
I studied six tiger sharks in motion: propelling from side to side by the use of their long tails. Could I swim in the tank with the beasts? How much more dangerous could they really be compared to dating professional football players? I felt pretty sure the species was quite protective of its watery space, but so was a linebacker on a field during an intense championship and his boyfriend off the field. If I could handle an opposing team and their muscled fury, I could surely handle a few little tiger sharks.
“You came, Shane.” Lex acted discreet about moving up to my side, almost touching one of my shoulders with his own..
He startled me. “I did come.” I turned to him, took one of his football-throwing paws in my own, and shook it.
“How’s the ankle?” He looked at my injury, but saw nothing out of the ordinary because all the damage was hidden by a sock and shoe.
“Hurts like a motherfucker if you want to know the truth. It will never heal right. The doctors in Pittsburgh say that I will most likely hobble for the rest of my life.” I took in his chosen attire for our unobtrusive rendezvous: black hoodie, jeans, leather sandals, and sunglasses, which he kindly removed. Following my observation, I said, “You’re incognito.”
“Discreet is best to discuss my topic of interest with you, friend.”
Curiousity started to kill me about his short visit with me in the aquarium. Was the man planning to ask me where and from whom he could obtain drugs? Did he need advice of some sort pertaining to football? Was he thinking about leaving the Thors and being a free agent, picked to play for another team? What did he want with me? Was he being followed by someone violent and needed as much protection he could obtain?
As the old cliché passed on to one generation to the next, I said, “Curiosity killed the cat, Lex. What is this about?”
As if he were a sniper, he stepped closer to me, practically brushed the tip of his nose to my nose, and looked to his left, right, and then back to his left. He took a deep breath, which seemed quite soulful.
“What I tell you here can never be repeated. You have to promise me this.”
“Why do you want to tell me your secrets? There are hundreds of athletes you could spill your secrets to. Why did you choose me?”
“Because you’re honest, trustworthy, have salvaged yo
ur integrity throughout the years in the league, and I respect you.”
I shook my head. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Of course.”
“Because there is always more, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” Again, he looked from his left, right, and back to his left to see if we were alone, which we were. Eventually his gaze returned to mine. “When did you know you were gay, Shane?”
I gulped saliva down the back of my dry throat, disbelieving what he had just asked me. Baffled, I answered him honestly. “I was eleven.”
“How did you know?”
I shrugged and felt like the tiger sharks were eavesdropping on our private conversation. “I liked to look at cock at that age, mostly in gym class.”
“Did you have a girlfriend?”
“Never. I’ve always been queer. I rather enjoy guys, both then and now.”
What I didn’t tell him was that I enjoyed him, every hulking and athletic muscle on his Herculean body. Had I exposed that personal and detailed information of my longing for him, he probably would have pounded my face in, but by the preface of his conversation, I doubted that was going to happen.
To deter his struggle, I asked, “What’s bothering you, Lex? Stop beating around the bush.”
He was silent, obviously uncomfortable because of meeting at the aquarium, and he coughed into his fist. He confessed, “I want to try things with you, Shane.”
“Things?” I asked, intrigued with his comment, but not fully grasping what he was getting at.
“Sexual things,” he whispered, half embarrassed by admitting his struggle. He blinked a number of times, lowered his head in what I translated as embarrassment, and rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. “This isn’t easy for me. I don’t know who I am. I really don’t know what’s going on in my life at the moment.”
He sounded depleted and well-worn. The poor bastard acted as if he didn’t know up from down. Obviously, he was being emotionally eaten from the inside out, and he turned to me for help.
Back in the Game Page 8
