Back in the Game

by R. W. Clinger

  In truth, it wasn’t a bad web site, and I added it to my favorites on the laptop. Members could pay $7.99 a month for live streaming of Aaron’s actors showering, shaving, jacking off, or having sex with their buddies. The tight end had a nice side paycheck outside of his football games, not that he needed the money since the league paid him well. Aaron enjoyed the odd filming, which I posed no judgment about, and looked as if he were having fun with his web site, his amateur actors, and sexual doings.

  Good for him.

  * * * *

  James Coffler:

  I expected to hear from Coffler, but didn’t. Truth shared, following his brutal beating by Tommy Rawe, or one of Tommy’s violent cohorts, he never got in touch with me. The black man kept to himself and minded his own business, which meant that he and I no longer had a joining of any sorts: not through his grandfather; not because we sometimes frequented the same gay bars; not because we had careers in football; certainly not because he wanted someone like me to fuck around with. Bottom line: Coffler was out of my life, which was the best case scenario for the both of us, honestly.

  Because of Coffler’s injuries, he was out of the game for at least half the season. Thanks to his own actions outside of playing football, Coach Revin wasn’t about to let the man injure himself anymore. Besides, Coffler had a broken arm. What the fuck could he do with that on the field as a wide receiver? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even Coffler knew that. Frankly, he deserved exactly what he got in the end. Maybe he learned a lesson about drugging men and fucking around with them. Then again, maybe not. I wasn’t sure.

  In retrospect, I thought about paying the wide receiver a visit, but never got around to it. I always said I would do things but didn’t carry them out. People who hung with me knew that about my nature. Procrastination was not beneath me. Therefore, I never showed up at Coffler’s condo for a strong drink and conversation. Nor did I contact him by phone. And I never brought our two worlds together that fall. Perhaps someday I would see him again, but I wasn’t really counting on it or looking forward to the occasion, honestly.

  * * * *

  Tommy Rawe:

  I believe it was the third week of that September when I saw Tommy on Mesa Street in downtown Turtle Bay Reef. A heavy downpour soaked the cement from a mild hurricane. Tommy stoood against a terracotta-colored wall near The Eight Ball Pool Hall. The man was dressed in a pair of shorts, sandals, and no shirt, obviously working the street for cash. Rain dripped down and over his body, which made him look sexy in the storm. I think he was high, but I wasn’t sure. Anyone who lived on the streets knew where to get drugs (by sleeping with men) and how to use them.

  I picked up a few groceries and headed back to my apartment. The taxi passed the pool hall and Tommy. I told its driver to stop, reverse it to where Tommy stood against the wall, and then I unwound my window. At first, he didn’t recognize me, but eventually did. A semi-smile surfaced on his pretty face, and he waved at me.

  I called from the taxi’s window, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Working as usual.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  He shrugged.

  “You need a place to stay tonight?”

  Again, he shrugged.

  “You remember where I live?”

  He nodded.

  “You stop by, and I’ll share some amenities with you. Food. A hot shower. A bed. Just show up.”

  “Thanks,” he finally replied to me. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  I waved at him, thought him unsafe on the street, and also thought I liked him a little too much. I missed him.

  He waved back.

  I told the taxi driver, “I’m done here.”

  The Mexican murmured something in Spanish I couldn’t understand, and then pulled away from Tommy and headed through the hurricane’s rain.

  As for Tommy, he never showed that night. Not that I really expected him to since he liked his streets, his drugs, and the different men he could fuck around with. I wasn’t judging him, of course. I never did and never would. I always had a place in my heart for the man.

  * * * *

  Lex Hayworthe:

  Rumors spread around the league that Lex had officially broken up with Virginia, that they were getting a mutual divorce without any problems, and that he was moving into his baseball pitcher’s one-bedroom apartment. I communicated with Lex by texting him on a regular because I cared about him and the difficult situation he was going through.

  Lex was going to be fine in life. He had a solid head on his shoulders, a good heart, and he made reasonable decisions concerning his safety in the world, with or without the people that he had cared for at his side. He still loved Virginia and his two girls, whom he would always respect and visit. There was very little about the man that reflected negativity. He became concerned about those around him, including me.

  His visits to my apartment were short but potent. We talked about his baseball player, Chet, and how they were falling in love, although he didn’t want to settle down in a long-term relationship yet. He mentioned his girls and soon to be ex-wife, telling me that he had loved all three of them and never meant them any harm, and he always would help them when he needed to, even when they didn’t ask. Lex was going to be comfortable in life from that point on since he had revealed himself. His sexuality was a burden to him, prior to our involvement. He had grown as a man, and I was proud of him. I called him a friend and had his back when he needed help or guidance.

  Sometimes we can only be friends, even when we want to be more. Crimes of the heart were like that, I assumed. Damn.

  * * * *

  Frankie Woodrow:

  I couldn’t remember when I had seen my best friend last, but we communicated regularly by phone calls, e-mail, Snapchat, Skype, messaging, Facebook, texting, and any other method of keeping in touch. Frankie was somewhere near Cancun when I reached out to him last. We shared a brief, cell phone conversation, during which I did all the talking.

  Aaron, James, Tommy, and Lex were all discussed. Then he mentioned Luther Coffler, which was a downer topic.

  I told him, “Luther is not doing well. You can see cancer in his face. He’s pale and looks weak. I’m not giving him more than a year to live.”

  “It’s sad to hear that,” Frankie said. “He’s a good role model in your life.”

  “I agree with that, but role models aren’t always immortal.”

  “No, they are not.”

  We discussed Renaldo, Frankie’s lover. For the next twenty minutes, Frankie told me all about the man.

  “He’s half Cuban and half Argentinian. He speaks four languages and comes from loads of money. I’m not sure if the money is dirty or not, but maybe I don’t need to know.”

  “Does he care about you?”

  “I’m his prince, he says.”

  “And you’re safe with him?” I asked, worried about Frankie and the strange men he had affairs with, some of which were long-term, and others that weren’t.

  “As safe as I’ll ever be.”

  We talked more about Renaldo, Frankie’s travels around the Caribbean, and when he would be home.

  “Soon,” he replied. “I’m not really sure when that is, but it will be soon.”

  Truth be told, I didn’t believe him. Soon could have been a week away, a year, or God only knew how long. Soon was like telling me, Whenever I get there, I’ll be there. It was something I had to respect and live with, I guessed; the little price I had to pay to be Frankie’s bestie.

  Our goodbyes were short and brisk, without tears. Before I realized it, Frankie was gone, ending our chat and check-in with each other.

  People can vanish so quickly from our lives, and we don’t even realize it sometimes. I guessed that’s why life was considered so short and unpredictable.

  Part 5: Matthew

  Chapter 25: Following Him

  I settled for second best. I knew that and didn’t really have a problem with the concept foll
owing my brief arrangement with Lex. I wasn’t in love with Lex, though. Instead, I was in love with Tommy Rawe. My heart couldn’t have Tommy. I genuinely wanted him in my life because I longed to take care of him and call him my own. He was the perfect man for me, and I had seen him as my husband. But I could never have him. So I decided to find someone just like him; a replica of sorts; a twin who wasn’t his twin, but could have passed as one vis-à-vis to the masses.

  The replica’s name was Matthew Brigg. He looked exactly like Tommy, just as I had wanted him to look: blond hair, dirty-blue eyes, broad shoulders, a boxer’s build, and one hundred and eighty pounds. Matthew was twenty-eight years old, like Tommy. The only difference between the two men entailed their careers. As Tommy worked the streets as a hustler, Matthew didn’t work. Instead, the replica attended Calmar College as a graduate student of economics. He lived off his mommy’s money, a historical romance author named JoAnna Belle Martino-Brigg.

  Matthew melted me, beyond any description, and I wanted him. No, I needed the student, claiming I was in love with him. I spent half my time following the man around Turtle Bay Reef: to the Artista Theatre Complex, to his best bud’s apartment on Mermosa Street, and to Turtle Books for vintage horror paperbacks by Shirley Jackson and Jack Finney. I observed him at Rosemary’s Bay, his aunt’s restaurant, to eat, and on Marlin Way where he often enjoyed a cup of coffee (heavy on the caramel and homemade cream). He sometimes read a chapter or two on his Kindle and conversed with other visiting patrons. I followed him to The Cat Fancy and Doggie Delight Shelter on Sand Dune Lane where he sometimes volunteered by playing with the adoptable cats or by walking the dogs. And I also followed him to The Crutcher/Alfo Gallery on Sea Salt Street in the heart of Turtle Bay Reef where he admired an artist’s glass work, hand blown orbs of various colors, sizes, and wavy shapes.

  I also followed Matthew to Calmer College, which was inland, approximately three miles east of the city. The campus sprawled over a dozen or more acres, with flat-topped buildings no higher than four floors. The college had been established in 1912 by Esparanza Calmer, a wealthy sugar queen of her day. It had the reputation of, and specialized in, business education, perhaps the reason why Matthew attended. Calmer’s students paid nearly ninety-thousand dollars a semester. Approximately three thousand students attended the facility, all of which were hand-picked by the establishment’s prized committee of deans. Famous graduates of the college included: Pedro Marco, the federal chairman for Peru; Chester Yardland, a prize-winning financial advisor for the Mercer Investments Group in New York City; and Cleo Mandezza, a managing director of the IMF (International Monetary Fund) that was based out of Boston.

  Matthew attended classes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from eight in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon. Following his classes he drove his 2010 Lexus GX 460 into the city, parked it, and walked the block to Ab’s Gym on Local Street where he worked out for approximately ninety minutes by lifting weights, running, rowing, and using an elliptical machine. At the gym, he sometimes carried out lengthy conversations with female and male jocks who cared more for their chiseled bodies than the world-crushing events and problems in the Middle East. Matthew’s discussions entailed the use of steroids, which he was against, upper body strength, diet, and exercise programs. He also ate at the gym, enjoying bountiful salads, protein drinks, fruit-based beverages, and high fiber candy bars.

  Late in the evenings, near eight- or nine-o’clock, he walked into The Turtle Bay Reef Latter-day Saints Church of Jesus Christ. Inside the sky-reaching edifice, with its stained-glass windows and stucco columns, he practiced his religion: that Jesus was separate from the Father (Elohim); the Holy Spirit was the light of God; the return of Jesus Christ would someday occur on Earth; that the salvation of the soul through faithfulness was believed; and the death of Jesus Christ on the cross did not grant full atonement. No more than fifty minutes per visit ensued. And once he was cleansed by his religion, he made his way home.

  * * * *

  Downtown Turtle Bay Reef

  Mirar Street

  Coconut Grove Apartments

  Apartment 1-C

  September 30, 20—

  9:14 P.M.

  Matthew’s apartment looked moderately small, with white walls, very little furniture, and empty of roommates. Although the man was quite wealthy because of his mother’s paperback-writing fortune, his abode clearly stated he was humble. The floors were white tile, and the rooms (upon my previous intrusive and illegal inspections while he attended his classes) were tidy. The four-room apartment (living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom) smelled of oranges, which seemed to be the man’s favorite fruit.

  That evening, I stood among the massive palm trunks and stared inside Matthew’s first-floor apartment. Following Tommy Rawe’s departure from my life, I often stood outside one of the apartment’s main windows and toyed with my dick, sliding a hand inside my Rawlings shorts, seeking out the swollen dick between my perspiration-covered legs. Sometimes I came inside the shorts, jacking a load into my tight palm and cozy fingers, shooting ejaculate against the Rawlings’ material. On that particular evening, horny and needing a man’s attention, I was on my best behavior. I decided to tease myself and simply studied the Tommy Rawe-look-alike as he showered, read from his Mormon Bible while eating a plump orange, and eventually went to bed.

  I, too, relaxed in my bed that night, unfortunately without the adult student at my naked side. Alone, I spread my legs, applied latex to my dick, and jacked off in hyper motion. My breathing intensified, and sweat layered my cut torso. Part of me believed my fists were Matthew’s taut ass. But a more rational side of my thinking understood that the combination of my tight fingers and warm palms on my latex-covered shaft weren’t the Mormon’s pumpable rear. No matter what, I came inside the prophylactic in just a few minutes. I decided to shower and processed a string of dreams throughout the night, all of which Matthew Brigg appeared in, seducing me.

  Chapter 26: History of the Mormon

  My mental notes of Matthew Brigg (history of the Mormon) included:

  His mother: JoAnna Belle Martino-Brigg. She was fifty-nine years old, part Puerto Rican, and fell in love with an Irishman, Tristan Brigg, when she was nineteen years old. JoAnna adored her son and requested a visit from Matthew every few days. Upon those visits, he was given a chunky check for his living expenses. Sometimes, the checks were in the five digits. The two shared lunch or dinner together, a strong drink, and sometimes they watched a movie, dramas based on the novels she had written. Never did the mother and son disrespect each other. And never did they argue, being similar, of a certain liking for each other, and close, like a mother and son were to be, of course.

  * * * *

  His girlfriends: women in their early twenties who were simply friends. Samantha. Belle. Georgina. Henley. Tanya, who used to be Trevor, a beautiful transgender woman with amazing eyes. Those ladies worked and formed an entourage, of sorts, and explored Turtle Bay Reef together: eating healthy foods at local diners; shopping in coconut-smelling plazas; sharing an afternoon at The Land Breeze Spa, enjoying facials, massages, and manicures. I couldn’t really decipher if Matthew chose one of his friends over the others. Who was his BFF? Which girl outranked the others? Did Matthew have a favorite or not? I couldn’t clarify one relationship from the other. He seemed to treat his cluster of young females equally. What strange swans. All of them. Matthew included.

  * * * *

  His boyfriends: men in their early twenties who were simply friends. Kevin. Dixon. Keith. Byron. Colton. Blake. Evan. They were well-built men he worked out with: pumping weights, jogging, cycling, swimming, boxing, rowing, and other sweat-inducing activities that the physically fit and narcissistic needed to achieve. And sometimes his gang of testosterone-boosted athletes attended rock concerts together in Miami, snorkeled in the Gulf, went rock-climbing, and embarked on all-day boating trips. I knew Matthew took three-day-long weekends with the frisky men (events
that had sometimes included his string of girlfriends) and traveled to Jacksonville, Orlando, or Tampa Bay, where they partied.

  * * * *

  The parties he attended were not as posh as I believed they should have been, considering the man came from mounds of wealth. Frankly, if JoAnna Belle Martino-Brigg learned of her son’s doings, she would not have been too pleased and may have cut his funds. Matthew enjoyed the company of drug-using partygoers, none of which he titled as his personal friends, lovers, or sex buddies. The socializers that he had chosen to hang with were into orgies, homemade drugs, alcohol, and all-night raves. Even though the Mormon wasn’t addicted to those types of activities as his comrades were, he sometimes indulged in drugs and alcohol with them. He enjoyed their partying practices and fun-filled activities, and he played a dangerous game of life.

  * * * *

  His Lexus became a prize in his life. It took me a few weeks to determine that the wealthy Mormon had two identical cars. I learned that detail by following him to Masterson’s Garage on Palm Harbor Way. Matthew dropped off his midnight-black Lexus to be serviced. I later learned through my prying that the car needed new tires. A taxi then drove him back to Coconut Grove Apartments. Perhaps two hours later, I witnessed him driving to Ab’s Gym in a second Lexus, which was an exact replica of the one he had left at the garage. Of course, I wasn’t surprised by the luxury. Mr. Matthew Philip Brigg had a bank account that exceeded three million dollars, thanks to his mother’s generosity and love. Hell, he probably owned three more Lexus cars that I didn’t even know about. Maybe even four.

  * * * *

  His sisters were estranged, I figured. There were three in all. Each was older, of course, and lived afar. Lucille resided in New York City, was twenty-nine, and married to a construction worker. Ester was thirty, single, and enjoyed being an oil painter in San Francisco. Mary lived in Seattle and was a thirty-four-year-old widow with three sons: Marcus, Lloyd, and Kyle. Matthew rarely spoke to his siblings. Never did they visit Florida. And never did he make his way to visit his sisters, even though he had the money to travel cross-country. Honestly, there was very little communication, if at all, among the siblings. Matthew was close to his mother but not his three sisters. It sort of baffled me and left me wanting to question him about his relationships and learn him even more.