19th Hole

A gay story: 19th Hole The 19th Hole (Part One)

I am Kyle Dalton, golfer. When I was younger, I was one of the most decorated Amateur golfers in my state, having won its Amateur Championship and that of a neighboring state in the same summer. I followed that by anchoring my college golf team and then trying to make it as a professional. When I failed, I returned home.

I am now 30.

I am an amateur once again, earning my living as an investment advisor and playing golf on weekends with buddies at my Club. I also teach golf a little on the side.

I have wavy, dark hair. I pay little attention to it. It does whatever it wants, so my attention is both unnecessary and pointless.

I am part Cherokee. I have smooth, soft skin. My body is almost hairless, except for a nice, full bush above my dick.

I am lean. Not muscular. Sinewy.

My eyes are a bit narrow and too small. My nose is also small.

My smile is my best feature. I have full lips and large, naturally straight white teeth. I do not smile easily or often. When I do, I get my way.

If I had to give you a referent for me, I’d use Joseph Gordon-Levitt. In Don Jon, not 3rd Rock From The Sun. Only, he’s a little more debonaire than I am. I am a t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops guy. I don’t “dress.”

I am single and straight. I am restless, so I prefer one-night stands. I do not want a relationship. I certainly don’t want to get married. I just want to get and go. I like to sleep alone. So, I sex there, and then head back to my home.

I like to drink. I like light drugs, especially pot. I am not an addict, but I drink and smoke a lot. There’s almost nothing I won’t try once.

*****

For the final round of our Club Championship, I was paired with Michael Cavaner. A new member, he was a surprise member of the final pairing.

Michael joining our Club was a big deal. He was our first openly gay member. I knew a gay guy had joined the Club a few months before, but I had not met him before the first tee for the final round. I had heard he could play.

I could not lose to a gay guy. I just couldn’t.

I was not anti-gay. I hate the word homophobe, as I do not think anyone really has a phobia about gay people. They’re not spiders. People aren’t afraid of them. People are just assholes about them.

I was also not pro-gay. I was liberal and open-minded, but gay was nothing I ever cared about.

When I was in college, we had driven into the city on weekends and found ourselves late at a gay bar. For some reason, gay bars stayed open later than straight bars. So, they were the place to be after a certain hour.

I was perfectly comfortable in gay bars (I was perfectly comfortable most everywhere). I even got fired on. It was flattering, although it never interested me in the least.

I was also perfectly comfortable with gay guys. I had never had sex with a man, but I had come close. When I was a Senior in college, my best friend, Jordan, and I were sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, getting high and listening to this or that. Jordan was the funniest guy I had ever met, seeing the humor in the most absurd situations. He turned things on their ends, held them up to the light, and then turned them on their ends again. He saw what others either could not or did not see.

As we smoked, Jordan pressed his leg to mine. I did not move it away. A one-way game of chicken ensued. Jordan placed his hand on my knew. I did not cry fowl. Jordan moved his hand to my thigh. I did not cry fowl. Jordan moved his hand to my groin. I did not cry fowl. As Jordan worked my dick through my shorts, I did not cry fowl. When Jordan moved his hand inside my shorts, I did not cry fowl. It was only when Jordan released my dick and moved his mouth toward it that I cried fowl, grabbing him by the neck and stopping him just as he was about to blow me.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that,” I interrupted.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I am.”

I really wasn’t. I wanted to let him blow me. I wanted to know what a blow job from a guy was like. The head I had gotten from women had not lived up to my adolescent expectations. I hardly ever came from a blow job; it was just a brief prelude to fucking.

Jordan and I graduated five days later. We had kept in touch since college, but we never spoke of the night he almost sucked my dick. Jordan is married now, with two kids.

Anyway, my first encounter with Michael surprised me. He did not look gay. He looked like a golfer.

He was about my age, but looked a little older. Like he had been through more life than I had. He was about my height, and well-built. He had dark hair with a hint of grey popping through on the sides. If I had to pick a referent for him, it would be Matt Bomer, the admittedly beautiful gay guy from White Collar.

Michael’s grey/green eyes were lively. They made him look like a wolf. Or a vampire.

My two shot lead over him was too close for comfort. I did not want a stressful back nine. I was there to win the Club Championship, not to make a friend. I would do both.

It did not take long. I birdied one to take my lead to three, and Michael hit it out of bounds on 2. When he double bogeyed, my lead was five, and I was on cruise control.

If Michael was disappointed, he did not show it. He stayed upbeat and exuded grace throughout the round.

He also was the opposite of what I expected. He did not flit or flounce around the course. He stalked. He moved like Dustin Johnson, taking long, languid steps that hinted of swagger. They were “I have a big dick and I know it” steps (When I was a freshman in college, my roommate had a monster cock, and he moved with the same “big dick” confidence with which Michael moved; like moths to a light, women flocked to that confidence).

Michael also had the same sense of calm and cool that Dustin had. It was a casual diffidence that, I later learned, masked a raging competitive fire.

As the tournament became mine, we talked about things other than golf. Michael was into sports, hard. He knew everything about all of them. He was also into politics, but as a spectator, not an adherent. He was conversant in all things political, and his conversation betrayed no party bias.

All in all, he seemed like a great guy. Not a great gay guy. A great guy.

When we putted out on 18, he congratulated me on my victory, removing his visor, taking my hand in his, looking me straight in the eyes, and offering a sincere, “Congratulations. Well played.”

There was a small cocktail party in the Men’s Grill to celebrate my win. Michael was there, and he sent a Grey Goose on the rocks to me. When I held the drink up to him as a thank you, he smiled and nodded back. He left as soon as he finished his drink.

*****

I asked the Pro Shop for Michael’s contact information and texted him mid-week. “Great to meet you Sunday. We have a spot Saturday if you’d like to join us.”

Michael texted back on Friday. “Just rec’d this. Not much of a texter. I put my name in for 2morrow. Thx.”

My buddies were surprised when I told them I had invited Michael as our 5th.

“Isn’t that the gay dude?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not giving him strokes, if you know what I mean,” one joked.

“I bet he’ll want to give us strokes,” another joked back.

I assured them he was a great guy, but I feared I had made a mistake. My buddies weren’t anti-gay, but they also were not mature. I hoped they would not offend Michael, but I expected they would.

I’d find out soon enough. On the first tee, John introduced himself to “Mike.” Michael quickly corrected him, “Actually, it’s Michael.”

John gracelessly responded, “Of course it is.” John, I am sure, thought all gays insisted on their full Christian names. It was not Jeff, it was Jeffrey. It was not Jon, it was Jonathan. It was not Eddie, it was Edward.

Michael gracefully did not respond to John’s provocation.

On the third hole, Dave missed from about three feet and muttered “you stupid faggot” under his breath. Everyone but Dave immediately looked at Michael. It seemed like one of those moments. If Michael got offended, then he surely wouldn’t be back in our group.

He did not. Instead, he deadpanned, “I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

The group’s laughter cut the tension. The rest of the round went smoothly. If Michael was at all uncomfortable, his game did not show it. He made three birdies and three bogeys, shooting an even par 72 and netting a $105 profit on the swing with Sam against me, Dave, and John.

We learned a lot about Michael during the round, as he played carelessly and confidently. He had grown up in a small, southern Missouri town, far from either of Missouri’s cities. He had left to go to Vanderbilt for college. He had stayed in the south for law school, choosing Emory over more prestigious options. He was an Assistant United States Attorney, a prosecutor of sex crimes. He was an only child, estranged from his Evangelical parents (and everyone else in his hometown) over being gay. He loved the St. Louis Cardinals more than anyone or anything. He lived alone. He worked a lot.

We did not learn about his love life. While it seemed natural for him to ask us if we were married and had kids (all but me were married, but none of us had kids yet), none of us asked him if he was married or even if he had a boyfriend. I did not realize our omission until I was at home that afternoon. I wondered if Michael had noticed. Or, if he was just used to it. I suspected it was more the norm for him than it should have been.

After our round, Michael bought drinks for the group in the Men’s Card Room, including a Hendricks on the rocks for himself and another Grey Goose on the rocks for me. After quickly draining his drink, Michael thanked us for including him in the game and excused himself. It was a noticeably quick exit, and I wondered if we made him uncomfortable with our guyness.

As soon as he was gone, the group’s talk turned to how Michael did not seem gay at all, except for his insistence on being “Michael.” After a bit of banter back and forth, I interjected, “What’d you expect? That he’d stare at your crotches all day?”

“Not ours. But maybe yours.”

I should have expected that. My buddies called me “pretty boy” and referred to me as “gay good looking” (in our parlance, “gay good looking” was “so good looking you could be gay”).

“Nah. I don’t think he’s like that at all.”

The group agreed. The group also credited him for being cool about the slur on three, at the same time using Dave’s stupidity to force him to buy a round for the rest of us.

When I got back to my apartment, I texted Michael. “We have a spot next Sat. if you want to join.” It was about 48 hours before I received back “Sure. Thx.”

Michael became a regular in our Saturday morning group. After about the third or fourth Saturday he joined us, he thanked us for including him. As he did, he admitted “It’s been a little tough to get a regular game.”

Dave, seeming to love the taste of his own foot, immediately asked, “Because you’re gay?”

Michael rebuffed him. “No, because I’m new. And, meeting new people is tough for me. I’m an only child, we lived outside of town, and I’ve been a loner pretty much my whole life.”

Michael and I were the last two at the table. He was caught in a Juniper bush, and I was drinking my way through a sizable bottle of Grey Goose. We ended up having dinner together. Neither of us talked much as we ate. It was a casual comfort. As we sat there, I realized we were friends. I was pleased by the realization.

As we finished, Michael thanked me personally for including him in the group. “No worries,” I said, “you’re a cool dude.”

Michael did not say anything back. He just smiled. His whole face transformed when he smiled. His active eyebrows arched. His eyes danced. His cheeks dimpled.

When we stood to leave, we realized we were in no condition to drive. I suggested we walk to my apartment, which was only a few blocks from the Club. Michael quickly accepted.

We staggered more than we walked. When we got to my apartment, we (not so) smartly drank more and watched the the Royals together. Michael fell asleep/passed out sitting in my recliner, so I went to bed. When I awoke, Michael was gone. He had left a note on a kleenex. It said only “Thanks for caring for me.” Not, “Thanks for taking care of me,” but “Thanks for caring for me.” Michael was not one to choose words carelessly. I was struck by the intimacy of his note.

The 19th Hole (Part Two)

Michael and I were quickly thick as thieves, conspirators in a gay/straight bromance. At 30, it was not easy to make new friends. Being with Michael was like writing on a blank page. He did not demand, judge, or react. He took what he got. He did not expect or insist on more. He was an easy friend.

In our bromance, I learned Michael had grown up very poor, the only child of two alcoholic parents who refused to work. His father was Mike, and Michael thought so little of him that he insisted on his full Christian name, as he was the full man he thought his father was not.

Michael started life in a shitty neighborhood in a forgotten Missouri town. When he was 8, he moved to a farmhouse outside the forgotten town. He had to feel like he lived on the edge of the abyss.

Michael was pretty much on his own from the get go, no siblings and, in his formative years, no neighbors. He had learned to entertain himself and to be comfortable on his own. He had been bullied for being “different” and “smart” throughout, especially in High School. The “different” was almost certainly “gay.” The “smart” was almost certainly “smarter than everyone else.”

Michael was the smartest person I’d ever met. He could talk about anything. He seemed to have read everything. Maybe that’s what you do when you are alone all the time.

He was also the kindest person I’d ever met. The worst I ever heard him say about another human was “I’m not sure he’s a good person.” From Michael, that was a stinging indictment.

I quickly loved Michael. I did not tell him that. But, I did. He made me feel better about myself simply by being my friend. He was the best person I’d ever met. Nothing in his upbringing portended the man I knew.

And he loved me. I could see it in the way he looked at me. I could tell it in the way he treated me. I just could not figure out why. I was not near the person he was.

We spent a lot of time together. We were the yin to each other’s yang.

And, he left me alone. Mostly. I had caught him meat gazing me a little, but I did not mind. I had nice junk, and it was generally visible (the head of my dick was big and easily showed through my shorts and my jeans, especially since I rarely wore underwear).

But that was all I encountered. I have a healthy ego, and I expected Michael at some point to move on me. We were drunk and high and horny together a lot. But, he didn’t.

It was winter. The golf season was over. Michael and I had settled into a routine. On Tuesday nights, I went to his apartment, and we played Scrabble or cards. We drank a little, but not a lot, as we both had to work the next day.

On Friday nights, we met for drinks after work downtown with a group of my friends. We’d find someplace for dinner, either as a group or as a pair. We’d go out after dinner, almost always to straight bars. We’d finish the night by getting high back at my apartment. Michael often stayed over. He always slept on the sofa. He was always gone when I woke up.

Saturdays were for trying to get laid, so we went our separate ways. On Sunday, we met for brunch at 11 at the Club. Michael always asked about my Saturday. I never asked about his. I knew I should, but I just couldn’t.

One random November brunch, I decided to quit being a bitch and asked Michael if he was seeing anyone or getting laid. Michael was candid in his response.

“Nah. I’m not good at it. And, I’m too busy chasing rainbows.”

I wondered if I was the rainbow.

My birthday was Friday, December 17. When we got back to my house, Michael handed me a package. It was an autographed picture of Jack Nicklaus, my childhood hero, with his putter raised over his head on the 17th green at the 1986 Masters, which he had won in stunning fashion at the age of 46, in the twilight of his heroic career. Michael included a simple note, “Thank you for being my friend.”

I was touched. I hugged Michael and thanked him. It was the first time we had hugged. It lasted a little too long, as Michael pulled me close and held me tight.

When I pulled away, Michael’s eyes were wet. I asked why. Michael’s answer overwhelmed me.

“I’ve never had a best friend. I’ve wanted one my whole life.”

I hugged Michael again. He cried into my shoulder.

I had no idea what it was like to live life on the outside looking in. I had always been on the mountaintop. I was white, came from a good family, was attractive and athletic, and had always had a seat at the table. I remembered kids like Michael, the ones who seemed to disappear when the last bell rang. I always wondered where they went and what they did before the first bell rang. But, I never took a single step to find out.

I did not know what it meant to grow up Michael. I did not know the feeling of being bullied in school, as Michael had been. I did not know the feeling of being alone most of my life, as Michael had been. And, I did not know the feeling of being spurned by my parents, as Michael had been.

Michael stayed over again that night. Unlike prior nights, I told him to sleep with me. With the emotion of the evening, it seemed like the right thing. We both slept on top of the covers in our jeans and sweaters. As always, Michael was gone when I woke up. I had not felt him leave.

I had wondered if Michael would move on me in the night. I had not decided what I’d do if he did. I may have been a little disappointed he hadn’t.

The next Friday night was Christmas Eve. We went through our regular routine and wound up back at my apartment with drinks and a bong. I was spending the next day with my family. I was sad to learn Michael was spending it alone. I was more sad when he answered “I’m used to it” when I shared my disappointment. I knew I should invite him to my family’s, but I was 30, unmarried, and I didn’t want to try to explain to my extended family why I was bringing a hot gay guy home for Christmas. So, I looked out for myself, not Michael.

It was snowing. We could hear the snow through the windows, which is one of my favorite sounds. It’s like falling peace.

The lights were dim, we were high, and we were listening to one of my Cat Stevens albums (I had an awesome record collection, having inherited it from my dad when my parents downsized).

When “Peace Train” came on, I decided to broach the subject of Michael’s lack of interest in me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Why haven’t you ever made a move on me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“You really are, like, the vainest person ever,” he chided. Then, he broke into song, “You’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you, don’t you?” He had a beautiful singing voice.

“Isn’t it?” I jokede.

“It’s not. I bet you have never gavotted. I bet you don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

“To answer your question, we’re friends, you’re straight, and I wouldn’t want the fact that I’m not straight ruin the fact that we’re friends. Our friendship means too much to me. I’m not going to risk it. Like I told you, I’ve never had a best friend before.”

I soaked Michael’s answer in. It was not an “‘I don’t want to’ answer.” It was an “‘It’s not a good idea’ answer.”

We sat in silence, my question and Michael’s answer hanging between and over us. Michael broke the silence.

“Have you ever?”

“No. My best friend in college almost blew me once, but I stopped him.”

“How do you ‘almost’ blow someone?”

“It was weird. We were drunk and high and we kind of played a game of gay chicken. I let him go a long way. I crowd fowl only when he was about to put my dick in his mouth.”

“You shoulda let him blow you.”

“I’m not gay.”

“I know, but every straight guy should get head from a gay guy just once, so they know what a really good blow job feels like.”

“I don’t think Jordan was gay. I doubt it’ve been a ‘really good blow job.'”

The silence returned. I broke it this time.

“Do you really think gay guys give better head than girls?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“One, I’ve had both, and it’s not close. Two, you’re never good at something you don’t like. If a gay guy is sucking a dick, it’s because he wants to suck that dick. He longs to suck that dick. He is going to suck that dick as long and as hard as he can. He is going to savor that dick. If a girl is sucking a dick, it’s a means to an end. She doesn’t want that dick in her mouth. She just thinks she has to have that dick in her mouth. And she’s going to get that dick out of her mouth as soon as she can.”

“So, you lick sucking dick?”

“I fucking love it.”

“Really? What’s to love?”

“Power. Control. Bringing someone else pleasure. Showing off.”

“What are you showing off?”

“My base skills, man. I’m really good.”

“It seems like a weird thing to love.”

“It’s not.”

My mouth was dry. I was pensive and nervous. I was also hard from all the talk of head and sex. My dick was down my right leg and pressing against my jeans. It wanted out. I caught Michael looking at it.

He re-started the conversation.

“Have you ever had a really good blow job?”

“Aren’t blow jobs like pizza, even the bad ones are good?”

“I’m serious. Has any girl ever made love to your dick with her mouth, savoring every inch of it, edging you so you don’t come too fast, milking every last drop of cum out of you because she knows you want her to eat your cum, and then staying on your dick until you force her to stop, because she just fucking loves having that dick in her mouth?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a ‘no’.”

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s how I suck dick.”

We had never talked about sex before. I was drunk and high and I wanted to know what that kind of blow job felt like. I was on the edge of the cliff looking over. I jumped.

“Care to prove it?”

I saw Michael flinch. I stood up, unbuttoned my jeans, pulled them down, and stepped out of them. I pulled my shirt over my head, and stood naked in front of Michael, my best friend.

Michael stared at my dick. It is almost 7 inches long, thicker at the head than the base, with a slight upward curve.

I could tell he wanted it. But, he was still polite, asking “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I am.”

“If we cross this line, everything is going to change.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“It always does. I’ve done this before, and it always does.”

I moved forward, bringing my dick closer to his face. I should have, but, at that moment, in that moment, I didn’t care if it changed everything. I wanted Michael to suck my dick. I need Michael to suck my dick.

He said, “I don’t think this is a good idea. I don’t want to lose my best friend over a blow job.”

I responded, “You won’t.” I was not sure I was right. But, at that point, I was willing to say anything to get what I wanted. I moved forward again. My dick was now right in front of Michael’s mouth.

Michael was torn. It was clear he wanted my dick. It was also clear he was worried about what taking it would mean.

I resolved his conflict. I took his head in my hands and pressed my dick to his lips. He opened his lips and took me into his mouth. I watched him swallow all 7 inches, burying his face in my pubes. As he did, he milked my dick with his throat.

Michael grabbed my hips and started to work my dick in and out of his mouth. I had never been deep throated before, and the warm moisture from the head to the base of my dick was pushing me toward the edge. But, every time I got close, Michael backed off, licking my balls or kissing my stomach as my orgasm ebbed. I now knew what he meant by “power” and “control.” He was totally in charge.

I also knew what he meant by “loving” to give head. He clearly enjoyed what he was doing, and he was making it last as long as he could. He was savoring my dick. And, he was awesome at it.

I stood there watching him love on my dick, his thick lips sliding up and down the length of my shaft and his tongue applying pressure directly under the head.

The sight turned me on. I needed to come. I could feel my orgasm starting down in my feet.

I started to move in rhythm with him. He added his hand, gripping my dick as an extension of his mouth. I could not ward off the coming jolt.

I knew I should warn Michael, but I also wanted to come in his mouth. I wanted the full experience.

My affection for him overcame my base instincts. I gave him a heads up, so to speak.

“Oh, God, I’m gonna come . . . . I’m gonna come.”

My warning had the opposite effect to the one I feared, as Michael redoubled his efforts and took my dick as deep as he could. I went over the edge, erupting repeatedly directly in his throat. As I finished, Michael slowly worked his way to the head of my dick, milking every ounce of cum I had to give.

Michael swallowed and took my dick back to the base again, clenching and unclenching it with his throat. I couldn’t take any more. I had to force my dick out of his mouth. Just as he said I would.

I collapsed back onto the couch. I felt weird sitting there nude, but I was too spent to dress. And, my dick was too sensitive for jeans.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“What are you thinking?”

“That you were right.”

“So, it was a good one?”

“Dude, it was a great one. I’ve never been sucked like that. I’ve never come like that.”

“It’s the difference between getting to do it and having to do it.”

We sat there in silence until Michael grabbed the bong, took another big hit, and passed it to me. While I had the bong to my mouth, Michael told me I had a really nice dick. When I let the pot leave my lungs, I muttered, “Thank you.”

Michael stood to leave, which was odd. He almost always stayed over.

“I’m gonna head out.”

“No, you’re not. You’re staying here.” I wanted Michael to understand nothing had changed.

There was no more discussion over whether Michael would stay the night. There was also no discussion over where he’d sleep.

The 19th Hole

(Part Three)

Michael was asleep. I was not. My mind was too active over what had just happened and filled with questions about what would happen moving forward.

Now that we had crossed the line, would we stay on the “wrong” side?

If you have free blow jobs available, shouldn’t you take them?

If your best friend is willing to blow you, shouldn’t you let him?

I have bad eyesight, so I leaned over Michael to look at the clock. It was 12:17. So, it was Christmas morning. Michael opened his eyes and looked up at me.

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled back, pulling me into an embrace as he did. I had never hugged a man bare chest to bare chest before. Michael was firm and warm. The thick hair on his chest tickled mine.

Michael answered most of my questions when I broke the hug. He moved to his side and leaned on his arm. When I looked at him, he smiled and put his hand to my chest. He started to tickle my chest and my stomach. I got hard, and the mesh gym shorts I had put on to sleep did little to hide it.

Michael leaned toward me and whispered “take off your shorts” as he moved his mouth to my left nipple. I am weak, and I wanted another blow job.

“You take them off.”

Michael moved between my legs and pulled my shorts down and off. To my surprise, Michael brought my left foot to his face and licked from the arch up to my toes. He sucked my toes. My feet are ticklish. I cringed with pleasure.

Michael licked up my leg, especially my inner thigh. As he did, he spread my legs wide. Before I knew what was happening, Michael was licking my taint and then my asshole. I tried to stop him, but he pushed his face in farther when I did.

“Michael!”

He raised his head. “Shhh. . . . Relax. . . . It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t think I want you to do that.”

“Yes, you do. You’ll see.”

Michael returned to my ass. I was getting my first rim job. No one had ever played with my ass before, much less eaten it. I had never touched it sexually.

It felt good. But, it also felt weird. I felt was too exposed and vulnerable.

I was about to shut the whole thing down when Michael moved to my balls and then to my dick. Michael was again making love to my dick, speeding up and then slowing down, pulling off and then deep throating me. He was right. He had base skills.

I closed my eyes and just enjoyed the warmth of his mouth and the sound of his slurping. Instinctively, I again started to match his rhythm with my hips. When I did, he again added his hand to my dick and moved his mouth and hand in unison. Every time I got close, he’d slow down and back me off. He was torturing me. I was getting blown and blue balls at the same time.

Michael briefly pulled off my dick, I later learned to soak the middle finger of his right hand with saliva. I wanted his mouth back on my dick, so I raised up to meet him. As he took me back into his mouth, he again spread my legs wide. He took my dick to the base. As he did, I felt his finger at my asshole. I was too close and too turned on to protest.

As I fucked his face, Michael forced his finger inside me, stopping at the first knuckle. I used my hand to force him as far down on my dick as I could. He buried his finger in my ass. As he moved it in circles, I crashed over the edge, filling his mouth once again with my load. He drank it all and continued to work my ass. A hint of sweat broke out over my entire body.

Michael kept working my dick and my ass. I stayed hard. In short order, I was coming again. I had never had a repeat orgasm before. I didn’t even know it was a thing. It was not as strong as the first, but it again brought a hint of sweat to my entire body.

I finally couldn’t take anymore. “Dude, you’ve got to get off my dick.”

Michael did as instructed. My soft dick fell into place as Michael kissed my abdomen. I was ticklish and tingly. I was also a little worried about where he was headed.

He licked my sides.

He licked and sucked my nipples.

He raised my arms and licked my armpits.

He licked and kissed my neck.

When I thought he was going to try to kiss me, I turned my head. I felt shitty as I did. But, I was not up for that. It was just too much.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. That’s my fault. I took it too far.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

To show him it was fine, I pulled him into a full embrace. I could feel his hard dick against my leg. It felt big. Really, really big.

I kissed Michael’s forehead and held him.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was awesome.”

“Was that your first rim job?”

“Yep. First rim job. First finger fuck. First multiple orgasm.”

“I guess it’s been a day of firsts.”

“It’s tomorrow. It’s been two days of firsts.”

We fell asleep. Michael’s head was on my shoulder and his hand was on my chest. I was naked.

When I awoke, I had a raging hard on. Michael was gone, of course. I jacked off thinking of his mouth on my dick. When I came, I scooped one of the splatters off my chest and ate it. I loved the taste of my cum.

The 19th Hole

(Part Four)

In “Forever,” Judy Blume wrote “You can never go back to holding hands.”

Michael and I had never held hands. But, it was soon clear we could never go back to sexlessness.

Christmas Eve set the precedent for our friendship moving forward. We spent every Friday night together. We always wound up at my house and in my bed. I allowed Michael to do pretty much whatever he wanted to me, within our unspoken parameters (no kissing, no expecting me to touch him, no mutual nudity). I shaved my ass and balls for him (I was not going to clipper my bush; I liked my bush).

Michael was a maestro and pleasured me like no one else ever had. He ate my ass and fucked it with his tongue and his fingers. He sucked my toes and fingers. His tongue and fingers explored every nook and cranny below my collar bone. He devoured my body before making love to my dick. He always made me come, and I always finished deep in his throat.

Michael always stayed over. I almost always slept naked. Periodically, I could feel Michael’s hard on pressing against me, but he never tried to force it on me. He did not dry hump me, try to get me to touch his dick, or try to get the two of us naked together. After Christmas Eve, he did not even try to to kiss me.

Michael was always gone when I awoke. I finally asked him why.

“If I am still there when you wake up, it’s going to be awkward. Is there supposed to be more sex? Are we supposed to shower together? Are we supposed to make breakfast together? Are we supposed to figure out what we’re going to do with our Saturday’s together? We shouldn’t do any of those things. So, I leave. I go home. I jack off, and I try to figure out my weekend.”

“What do you think about when you jack off?” he asked.

“What do you think about when you jack off?” I responded.

“You. Your mouth on my dick. My dick in your throat.”

“Well, I think about the same thing.”

I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised. I assumed Michael had a greater fantasy than that.

When the golf season resumed, it was a given that Michael would be a regular in our group. One, he was a strong addition to the group; he could golf his ball, and he was a genuine, good guy. Two, my buddies by now understood that Michael and I were bros. They did not know the extent of our bromance (naturally), but they knew we were close. They regularly teased me about it, if Michael was not around.

“You know he stares at your ass.”

“You know he thinks about you when he jacks off.”

“You know he thinks about you when he fucks another guy’s ass.”

I knew they were right about 1 and 2. But, I also knew they were wrong about 3. Michael was not fucking any other guy’s ass.

We had talked about it. He hadn’t really tried to fuck anyone since Christmas, and neither had I. Neither of us thought our “monogamy” wise, but we were too inert to do anything about it. We often added Saturdays to our Fridays.

Michael’s birthday was April 19. I knew I could not match his birthday gift to me. It was the most thoughtful gift I had ever received. I was not a thoughtful human.

I had an idea for a birthday gift, but I was not sure I could pull it off. I thought about it for a long time. I decided to go for it. But, I had to be high to try.

I smoked pot all afternoon and took Ecstasy at about 5:30, as I was cooking Michael’s birthday meal (pork chops with apples, asparagus, and homemade macaroni and cheese). He showed up at 6. We ate at a makeshift table in my living room, drinking two bottles of red wine as we did.

About halfway through the meal, Michael asked me if I was high. I told him yes. I did not mention the X.

When we were finished with dinner, I told Michael I had dessert surprise. I am sure he thought it was a birthday cake. Instead, I stood up, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom. Once there, I let his hand go and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you your birthday present?”

“What is it?”

“Whatever you want. Tonight and tonight only. We do whatever you want.” (As I look back, I see the arrogance of assuming he would want me for his birthday).

“Kyle, I’m not sure about this. We have settled into something we can both live with. Changing lanes now could be dangerous.”

I quoted him back at him. “Shhh. . . . Relax. . . . It’s your birthday.”

I returned to unbuttoning his shirt. He lifted my face to his. He lowered his lips to mine and kissed me. It was all I could do not to pull away. But, I didn’t.

Michael’s lips were full and firm. To my surprise, I did not mind the kiss or the forcefulness of it. He slid his hand around the back of my neck and held my head still. He opened his mouth and forced his tongue into mine. I was all in, so I kissed him back. As we kissed, Michael finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it off. I did the same.

Michael moved his hands to my ass and pushed his junk into mine. His dick was hard and huge. Mine was neither.

My hands were still hanging at my sides, not doing anything. I felt like Lillith from Cheers. I grabbed Michael around the waist. We were still kissing. It was a deep, powerful kiss, and I realized I was enjoying it.

I moved my hands to his belt buckle and undid it. I unbuttoned his jeans, including the button fly.

I dropped to my knees to pull Michael’s jeans down.

“Kyle, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

When I had Michael’s jeans down, he stepped out of them. I was about to see his dick for the first time. I grabbed the elastic of his boxers and pulled them down. They got caught on his dick. The only way to get them down was to move his dick out of the way. I had never touched another guy’s dick before.

I pulled the boxers out, took Michael’s dick in my hand, and pulled the boxers over it. I was not sure what I expected, but his dick felt like, well, a dick. It was warm and soft to the touch. It was just skin, although it was pulsating.

It was right in front of my face. It dwarfed mine, both in length and thickness. I felt like a little boy next to it. I was not sure what to do. I thought I should put my mouth on it, but I also thought I should probably never put my mouth on a dick.

Michael’s hands were in my hair. Just as I was about to put my tongue on his dick, he rescued me by pulling me up. He kissed me again. It was one thing to have a guy’s tongue in my mouth. It was a whole other thing to have his dick in my mouth.

Michael broke the kiss and moved me toward the bed.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You said ‘whatever you want.’ That’s what I want.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said. I went to the bathroom and took one of the purple pills I kept on hand, just in case.

When I returned to the room, neither of us said anything. Michael worked me out of my jeans, and we were both naked together for the first time. Michael put his dick on top of mine and started working them with his hands. He kissed me again as he did.

I gave myself a private pep talk. “Ride the wave. You can do it. Ride the wave.”

Michael sat down on the bed and took my dick in his mouth. I was tingly from his handiwork, and his mouth around my dick made me tingle even more.

Michael pulled me down on top of him, then maneuvered me around so we were in a 69 position. He took my back in his mouth. My dick now curved directly down his throat. I was quickly fucking his face, my dick deep in his throat.

Michael’s dick was right in my face. I again felt like I should put my mouth on it, but I was not sure I could.

Just as I was about to try, Michael pulled my dick out of his mouth and adjusted us so he was directly under me.

“Do you have any lube?”

“I don’t.”

“Baby oil?”

“I think so.” I headed to the bathroom, found what I was looking for, and headed back. Michael had turned around yet again, and his head was now on “his” pillow.

“I don’t have a condom,” I said. I hated condoms. I hadn’t worn one in years.

“You don’t need one,” he said.

He held his hand out, and I handed him the baby oil. He filled his hands with it. He coated my dick with it and then poured more over his balls and ass.

I was still standing beside the bed. Michael reached over, grabbed my dick, and pulled me onto the bed by it.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I warned.

“Of course you can. Close your eyes. Imagine it’s a pussy. Only tighter.”

I climbed onto the bed and hovered over Michael. I looked down at him. His grey/green eyes were on fire. His cheeks were flushed. His body was taught. His dick stuck up over his navel.

I was looking Michael over when he took my dick in his hand and guided it to the target. Moments earlier, I hadn’t been sure I could fuck a guy. Now, I was sure I had to fuck a guy. I pressed the head of my dick at his ring. I met resistance.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

I pressed harder and felt the resistance give. I slid into Michael. An amateur, I did not do so as slowly as I should have. I treated him like a woman, and I went in as far as I could was too fast. We both gasped as I did.

We stared at each other. Michael smiled at me. As I started to fuck him, I closed my eyes and tried to make that smile disappear from my mind. I couldn’t.

I’m not sure what I expected, but Michael’s ass was smooth and tight and warm. I hadn’t fucked anyone in a long time, and I was not going to last long.

Michael raised his legs, which provided a much better angle. I could now easily base out in his ass. As I did, Michael grabbed my ass and tried to drive me in deeper than I could go. I started to sweat.

We were soon moving in rhythm. I felt my orgasm build in my balls. I wanted to slow down and savor it, but I couldn’t. I had gone too far, and there was no turning back.

I fucked Michael’s ass as fast and as hard as I could. Michael jerked his dick in rhythm with my thrusts. We came at the same time, me filling Michael’s ass and Michael hitting my headboard with the first shot, his face with the second, and his abdomen and chest with the third, fourth, fifth, and . . . .

I collapsed onto him. I was covered in sweat. And, now, Michael’s cum.

Michael ran his hands through my hair. I would have raised up to look at him, but I did not have the strength.

I heard him mumble, “Happy birthday to me.” I smiled as he did.

The 19th Hole

(Part Five)

Neither of us dressed before we fell asleep. When I woke up at 2:30, I needed water. Badly. I got up, walked to the kitchen, and got a glass for me and another for Michael. When I returned to the bedroom, Michael was awake.

Michael sat up in bed and drank his water. I stood by the bed and drank mine. As I look back, I am not sure if I was consciously flaunting my dick by standing there, but I could feel Michael’s eyes on it.

When I climbed in to bed, Michael said “I want to blow you” and moved between my legs. His tongue moved from my navel to his dick, and he took it half hard into his mouth. I was trying not to think of where it had been earlier, especially now that Michael was working it with his mouth.

As I felt my orgasm grip my balls, Michael pulled his mouth off of me and started to kiss and lick his way up my torso. He had a feathery touch, and my ticklish body tingled as he worked his way up.

Just as I was afraid he was going to try to kiss me with my dick and his ass on his tongue, he stopped and said “take your dick in your right hand and hold it up.”

I did as I was told. To my surprise, Michael pressed down on me. Once he was all the way down, he used his ass muscles to massage my dick. The sensation was overwhelming. It took all my concentration not to come.

Michael started slowly to ride my dick. Luckily, I was tired. If not, I’d have come almost immediately.

As Michael sped up, his dick started to slap my abdomen. I took Michael’s dick in my right hand as he rode me. I could not help but look at it. It had to be 9 inches long and thick as bottle of beer. It couldn’t have fit anywhere.

He came almost as soon as I touched him. The first volley hit me in the cheek. The second hit me in the neck. The third hit my chest.

I could feel Michael’s orgasm in my dick. While I was annoyed at being sprayed with jizz, I was thrilled by the clenching of Michael’s ass. When his third shot hit my chest, I filled him with my own load.

I was covered in cum and not sure what to do. Michael solved the problem. With me still inside him, he lowered himself and licked his cum off my cheek and off my neck. Then, he wiped the cum off my abdomen and chest. He held his hand out to me.

“Does it taste bad?”

“Have you never tasted your own cum?”

“No,” I lied.

“Do you want to try it?”

“Do you mind if I don’t?”

“Not at all.”

Michael moved his hand to his mouth. I grabbed his wrist.

“I’ll try it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

I moved Michael’s hand to my mouth and took his forefinger in my mouth. I tasted his cum. It was bitter from the asparagus, but not much different than mine.

When we were finished, we decided we should clean up. Michael suggested we shower together. That seemed too gay to me. “You go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“Isn’t it still my birthday?”

I gave in. We shared shower. Michael lovingly washed me head to toe with his bare hands. As he did, I realized I was going to have to wash him back.

I had never touched a man’s body other than my own. Michael’s was firm and muscular. There was very little body fat. While his chest and stomach were hairy, his crotch and balls were not. They were slick and smooth. I cleaned every inch of him. I suspect it was a pretty clinical effort.

When we finished, we dried ourselves and dressed before climbing back into bed. I curled up on my left side, my back to Michael. Michael moved in behind me, wrapped his right arm around my chest, and pulled me back flush against him. I did not know what to think, but I knew I was too tired to figure it out.

In the middle of the night, Michael held my hand in his and squeezed it. I squeezed back.

When I awoke the next morning, Michael was, of course, gone.

The 19th Hole

(Part Six)

I had a bad morning. I was dazed and confused. I was not gay, but I was doing a lot of gay shit. I was worried I could not go through with my plan, and then I’d had no problem doing so.

I was not attracted to men. I had never looked at a man and thought “I’d fuck him.” Adam Scott, who was definitely a “gay good looking” golfer, did nothing for me. I did not watch him launch a 3 wood and think, “I’d suck his dick.”

I was attracted to women. I wanted to fuck Natalie Gulbis, not Adam Scott. Or Paulina Gretzky, not Dustin Johnson.

But, I also loved Michael. A lot. Hell, I felt like I was in love with him. I missed him when he was not around. I looked forward to being with him a way that I never had with anyone else. I was at a fork in the road, and I had no idea what path I could/should take.

I searched through the internet, trying to find some insight into whether you could be straight and still engage in gay sex, whether you could be straight and still love a man. I found little to help me. The answers were all over the place, and they all seemed to originate in an agenda. Some sites said yes to both. Some sites said no to both. And, of course, some sites condemned me to hell for even asking the questions.

I was going to have to figure it all out myself. Without a guide or a map.

The following Friday, I cancelled on Michael. I was not sure what he’d expect, and I was not sure what I could give. I was too roiled up inside.

I stayed home by myself. By 9 o’clock, I was both horny and lonely. I wanted to text Michael to come over, but I thought better of it. Instead, I smoked a joint (I had awesome new weed), showered, and headed out to one of my favorite pick up joints. I hadn’t fucked a chick in months.

I made quick work of the night, finding myself an hour later in a beautiful brunette’s bed. I was on my back, and she was trying to blow me. But, she did not know what she was doing, and I quickly lost patience with the accidental teething and the minimal throating. I flipped her off me, licked her clit until she came, fucked her, dressed, and left. I was home before midnight, feeling shitty.

I texted Michael as I settled into bed. “Sorry about 2nite. My bad. Wish u were here.”

My doorbell rang about 30 minutes later. I suspected who it was, so I got up, slipped on a pair of gym shorts, and answered the door to Michael, in the pajama bottoms he wore when he slept at home and with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. I opened the door, grabbed him, and held him for as long as I could.

We went directly to bed. I laid on my right side, and Michael spooned in behind me. We were both asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

When I woke up, it was light and, for the first time, Michael was not gone. He was still behind me, his right arm holding me tight, and his morning wood poking at me from behind. I pushed back into him, and he tightened his grip on me. We fell back asleep.

It was almost noon when we woke for the day. We had slept through our tee time.

I slipped out from under Michael’s arm and went to the bathroom to piss and shower. I often pissed in the shower, but not this morning. It seemed rude if Michael was going to shower, too, as I hoped he would.

When I was finished, I found Michael in the kitchen, cooking. I took over, so he could shower. While he was in the bathroom, I put out a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt for him. When he was dressed, he came into the kitchen, and it was clear the board shorts left little to the imagination.

“You got any bigger shorts?”

“Not to wear to the pool.”

“We’re going to the pool?”

“Yeah, it’s scorching hot. So, I thought we’d hang here today, take a cooler to the pool, chill out and get day drunk.”

“I can’t wear these shorts out in public.”

“Sure you can. It’ll be awesome. The pool’s all adults. I can’t wait to see how they react to you and your little brother.”

Disappointingly, the pool was almost abandoned. Apparently, it was too hot for most even to lay out.

Michael and I spent the day drinking summer beers (we mixed lemon vodka into our beers) and sitting in the baby pool. By 3, we were, in fact, day drunk.

I told him I needed a nap and headed to my apartment. He stayed behind to swim laps.

I changed back into gym shorts and passed out on the coach. The sun and the beer had zapped me. When I woke up, Michael was holding my feet in his lap, and he was asleep sitting up. I laid my head back on the armrest, watched him sleep, and tried to think. But, my head was foggy, and there was no chance at clarity.

It seemed natural that we would make dinner together, and we did. After, we sat on my balcony, drinking vodka (me) and gin (him), and smoking a lot of pot (both). We said little. I could talk to Michael for hours and never run out of things to say. I could also sit with him in silence and never feel the need to say anything.

While we sat there, I surreptitiously popped an X in my mouth and swallowed it. I loved how high X made me fly, and I need to fly as high as I could.

As we relaxed, I put my feet in Michael’s lap, and he immediately started massaging them. His hands were strong and firm.

The pot and the X and his touch got me horny. I knew Michael was horned up, too, as I could feel his dick hardening under my feet. I wondered all day how the night would end, and I decided to take the mystery out of it.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Michael didn’t say anything. He removed my feet from his lap, stood up, and pulled me up by my hand. Once I was up, he didn’t let go. He led me to the bedroom by the hand. I pulled off my shirt, stepped out of my shorts, and laid back on the bed.

Michael pounced on my dick (per our unspoken understanding, he was still clothed, and there was no kissing). He shamed the brunette from the night before, smoothly and toothlessly swallowing me whole. When I felt his hand move from my balls toward my ass, I spread my legs to provide easy access. Michael worked his finger inside of me and went straight for my prostate, finding it easily. I felt a need overwhelm me, and I gave into it.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Michael froze. My dick buried in his throat and his finger buried in my ass, he looked up at me with nothing but a question on his face.

“You heard me right. I want you to fuck me.”

Michael sprang out of bed, pulled his shorts off, and dug around in his overnight bag. He returned to the bed with a small bottle, a condom, and a small packet. He rolled the condom onto his dick and emptied the packet onto the condom and onto my ass. Then, he handed me the bottle, told me to snort the contents into each of my nostrils, and to roll over. I did.

Michael told me to take deep breaths as he worked one and then two fingers in and out of my ass. I was loosening up and getting hornier and hornier at the pot and the X and the poppers collided in my head. I felt him move over me, his dick sliding along the crack of my ass. He spread my legs with his knees, placed the head of his dick at my opening, and hovered over me.

“This is going to hurt.”

“I know.”

“Just keep breathing. And keep snorting.”

“I will,” I said as I took another deep hit from the bottle.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, goddammit. Now, go!”

Michael pressed into me. I was sure I was going to tear. And shit. I did neither.

It took time and work, but Michael got pretty far in before I told him I could not take any more. He slid in and out of me. Each time he slid in, I felt like I was getting a little more of him. It never felt great, but it stopped hurting.

I knew Michael hadn’t fucked anyone for awhile, but I was surprised by how quickly I heard “oh, fuck, I’m going to cum” from behind me. I was more surprised when he drove his dick in as deeply as he could as he filled the magnum with his cum. I gasped and then couldn’t breathe. Michael collapsed on top of me, his sweaty chest covering my back and his monster dick buried deep inside me. I have never felt so vulnerable or open to someone else.

As he went soft, Michael slipped out of me. When he caught his breath, he rolled off of me, rolled me over, and took my still hard dick back down his throat. I grabbed his head and worked my dick in and out of his mouth. I should have been gentle, but I wasn’t. I was needy and rough. Michael sucked and sucked and sucked until I filled his throat with my cum, arching my back and moaning loudly as I did. It was the hardest I had ever come. Every pore of my body tingled with pleasure.

I fell back to the bed. Michael rested his head on my thigh. We fell asleep.

I awoke on Sunday morning long before Michael, whose head was on my shoulder and whose hand was on my stomach. In the calm and peace and sobriety of the morning, I tried once again to sort out what was going on. I started to confront a few truths. One, whether I was willing to admit it or not, Michael and I were lovers. We had to be. There was no other explanation for what was going on.

Two, there was at least a little gay in me. I could rationalize and say, “oh, it’s just Michael.” But, “just Michael” was enough. If you are fucking and getting fucked by another guy, you’re a little gay.

When Michael woke up, I was trending toward the truth, but I had not fully embraced it. Michael looked up at me, said good morning, and tried to kiss me. Instinctively, I turned my head to the side. Immediately, I knew I had fucked up. Michael flinched, rolled away from me, and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. As I said “come back here,” he stood and walked out of the bedroom. I got up, slipped on a pair of shorts, and headed to the living room. I got there in time to see Michael pull the door shut behind him, wearing only his pajama bottoms.

I opened the door to call to him, but he was bounding down the stairs. I then made a series of unsalvageable errors. I should have followed him down the stairs, but I didn’t. I should have driven to his apartment, but I didn’t. I should have called him on the phone, but I didn’t. I should have texted him an apology, but I didn’t. Instead, I texted, “Running away is not mature.” I should not have hit send, but I did.

Michael did not respond to my text.

As I watched Sunday night baseball wondering what to do, my doorbell rang. Before I opened the door, I knew it was Michael. Deep inside me somewhere, I also knew what was coming.

Michael was wrought. He looked sad and tired. And, he surprised me with his directness.

“We need to break up. I can’t be friends with you anymore. I am in love with you, and I know you are never going to love me the way I love you. We are never going to move past each other. We are going to stay in this lane, and neither of us is going to be true to ourselves. You can only give so much, and I deserve more than that.”

Michael stood to leave. I tried to stop him, but he was resolute. As I had earlier in the day, I failed to say a lot that I should have. I should have pleaded for patience and time. I should have shared with him that I was trending toward the truth. But, I didn’t, as, subconsciously, I saw the easy way out.

Michael did not answer his phone when I called or return my texts. He quit the Club. He moved from Kansas City to St. Louis to care for his infirm parents, despite their rejection of him. He was Michael.

I missed Michael terribly. You never have friends like you had when you were six. Unless you meet Michael when you are thirty, and he lets you in to his guarded world. I missed the sex, of course. But, I missed Tuesdays way more than I missed Fridays. I missed when it was just us, talking endless about nothing or saying nothing about everything.

I tracked Michael through golf. He got really good, and the MGA profiled him in the Missouri Amateur and other tournaments. He won the Missouri Mid-Am. He made the semi-finals of the Missouri Am. He and his partner won the Missouri Fourball together.

Eventually, I stopped tracking him. It was not healthy. I thought it would be better for me if I fell totally, completely out of touch. When I thought of him, I tried to convince myself it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. But, I was not so sure. He had left a huge hole in my life.

*****

For my 40th birthday, my family and I went to St. Louis for a Cardinals/Royals series. It had been ten years since I had seen Michael. I found him on LinkedIn and suggested we get together while I was in town. It took a long time, but he finally accepted, suggesting we meet at a restaurant downtown before the Saturday night game.

We were seated by the time Michael showed up. I was facing the door, so I could see him walk in. Except for a stylish beard and a little more grey at the temples, Michael looked exactly the same. I stood and met him halfway to our table.

Michael pulled me into a full, warm embrace. When we broke, I introduced him to my expectant family.

“Michael, this is my daughter, Maggie. And, this is my son, Michael. They’re both 5. And, this is my husband, Turner.”

Michael’s eyes went wide. I had named a son after him. I had married a man, wishing it were him.

Turner knew all about Michael. He suggested the two of us have a drink at the bar so we could “catch up.” He stayed with the kids.

When we sat down, Michael drove directly to the point. “So, you’re gay now?” he asked.

I did not know how to respond. So, I said only, “I’m married to Turner.”

“I wish I had known.”

“You quit on me.”

“I know. But, I wouldn’t have if I thought the road was not a dead end.”

“You could have stayed to find out where the road led. Things got intense, and you took off. I didn’t know how far I could go, but I was trending toward you.”

“I didn’t think you were a possibility. I thought we were always going to be in that little box. And, that little box was not big enough for me.”

I did not have the heart to tell Michael that I was relieved when he left, that I had returned to women, that I had fucked a lot of them, but that I always wound up at home alone, feeling empty.

I also did not have the heart to tell him sex had zero to do with my “switch.” After he left and I had finished whoring around, I had gone to therapy about the hole he left in my life. Forced by my bitch therapist to be brutally honest with myself, I realized my penchant for one night stands with women was because I had no connection to them emotionally, that all of my emotional bonds in life had been forged with men, and that I was either going to spend my life having straight sex with strangers I cared little for or gay sex with someone with whom I shared a bond.

As I was thinking all those thoughts, Michael asked me why I had not tracked him down when I finally figured my shit out.

I told him it didn’t really happen like that. I had met Turner at work. He had grown up east of Troost, and he moved back to Kansas City after his wife left him. We worked and worked out together. We became friends. I drunkenly told him about Michael one night. He responded by telling me he had had a boyfriend at Howard, but he (and the African-American community) could not handle being gay, so he moved to where no one knew him and started over straight. He met a girl, got married, was a bad husband, and visited the down low. His wife gave up on their marriage when she found out what he had been up to.

After that, we let our guards down with each other. We both knew something about the other that we didn’t want anyone else to know. We spent more and more time together. We decided it was stupid for both of us to pay to live, so he moved into the second bedroom of the house I had bought. One night, he fell asleep on my bed while we were talking and watching a football game. He stayed the night. The next night, he stayed again, without either of us talking about it. That was that. After a few nights, we started holding each other as we slept. Hand jobs, then blow jobs, then everything else. After a week or so, we started talking about sex and then acting on the talk. It was a slow dance, but – in retrospect – we had both known where it was headed once we shared our secrets with each other.

Turner reminded me of Michael. He was true. He was comfortable. He was utterly without guile. He had been dealt a bad hand – born into poverty and a lifetime of prejudice, both against and from his own community – and he had played himself into a wonderful man.

Michael smiled at me. His beard hid his dimples. But, not his lively eyes.

I told him he should shave. His beard hid too much of his beauty.

Michael walked to the ballpark with us. During the walk, he told me both his parents had died, that he had been in a relationship for awhile with a “straight” man that ended badly, and that he was now happily alone. I knew better.

When we got to the ballpark, Michael hugged me good-bye, told Turner good-bye, and then lowered himself to tell the twins good-bye. Typical Michael. Always observing the small things.

I watched him walk away. I was nostalgic as he did. I was happy in my life, but I wondered about what might have been.

When Michael was out of sight, Turner took my hand in one of his, and Maggie’s hand in the other. I grabbed my son’s hand, and we headed as a family through Ballpark Village. As we walked, Turner squeezed my hand, and I squeezed his back.

The 19th Hole

(Part Seven: From Michael’s POV)

As Kyle begged me to fuck him, I let my mind race and delude me into thinking that my dream was coming true. Aside from being straight, he was perfect for me. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, lean with big, thick lips and a broad, toothy smile. All the things that made me swoon.

I had wanted Kyle almost from the moment I met him. As we stood on the first tee, his confidence in his abilities both as a golfer and as a “guy” was palpable. I was the underdog, taking on the Club’s “top dog” in the final round of our Club Championship. No one knew me. I was “the gay guy.” Everyone knew Kyle. He had been a decorated amateur golfer who had nearly made it as a professional. He had been the star of the local college team.

I played the first two holes poorly, digging myself a deficit I could not overcome. I decided just to enjoy the day. As I did, I started to fall for Kyle. He was, first, incredibly good looking. He was ethnic in an eccentric way. He was, second, remarkably inquisitive. He asked tons of questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in each answer. I shared more with him in 18 holes than I had shared with anyone in ages, as I was generally very guarded with others. He was not what I expected, which was not much. I always thought “frat boy” when I saw him strutting around the Club with what I perceived was a “my shit doesn’t stink” bravado. So, I expected a lot of “dudes,” some pussy talk, and a lot of anti-gay bigotry. I got none of any.

I am not good at meeting new people. Growing up an only child in Missouri’s boot heel is tough. Growing up a smart, gay, only child in Missouri’s boot heel is impossible. I thought I was the only gay person in the world. I was more likely to be bitten by a snake at a church service (I am not kidding!) than meet another gay person.

In case you don’t know, Missouri’s boot heel sticks into Arkansas. The running joke is that, if Missouri would simply cede the boot heel to Arkansas, it would increase the IQs of both states. If that is true, Arkansas is remarkably ignorant, as the folks I grew up around were willfully ignorant; they viewed intelligence suspiciously, as if it might transform the bearer into a liberal hellbent on confiscating their guns or forcing them to recycle.

I was remarkably out of place in the boot heel. I was smart. I was also gay, which was definitely worse than smart. Gay was viewed as sinful and a guarantee of eternal damnation.

I also developed faster than everyone else. When we started showering in freshman year gym class, I had hair on my chest and stomach and crotch, and my “little boy dick” was already a “man dick.” A big “man dick.” Soft, it hung between my legs. Hard, it grew a little, but still hung between my legs.

My meat was, to my classmates, a waste. They knew I was gay before I did, and they mocked me both for being gay and for wasting “God’s gift.” They also mocked my dick, calling me “Meat.” By the time I graduated, even the teachers called me Meat. I hated it.

I retreated from their censure and ridicule into books. I got the National Review’s list of “Top 100 Books” and read them all.

I graduated first in my class. I skipped the walk and the ceremony. There was no point. I did not want to deliver a speech to neanderthal classmates who hissed “faggot” under their breath while I talked about a future that few of us had. I was off to Vanderbilt in the Fall, but most of my classmates were finishing their education and heading to dead end Southeast Missouri jobs or, in some cases, the United States military.

My parents were in no position to help me navigate the contours of my life. One, they were right of right, and, if they knew I was gay, they’d have certainly shipped me off to some right wing conversion camp. Two, they were so drunk most of the time, they had no idea where I was or what I was going through. If I was out of sight, I was out of mind, and I worked hard to stay out of sight.

I kept to myself. I did not have a single friend in school. We had moved to a trailer on a farm well out of town, and there was no one within earshot of us. Which was good. We barely got by, and our conditions were embarrassing. I turned the hayloft into a sanctuary where I could listen to music, read, and pretend my life was other than what it was.

I had not wanted to cross the line with Kyle. I had done it before, at Vanderbilt, and it had gone horribly wrong. David was my suite-mate when I was a freshman, and he was awesome. From a small Illinois town, he was a gifted tennis player, and he had the ass and legs to prove it.

David was my first and only real friend in college. I loved him. A lot.

After our freshman year, we moved in together. As sophomores, in the dorms. As juniors and seniors, off-campus in an apartment.

He had a girlfriend, Alyssa, throughout college. When she visited, they spent all of their time fucking. They were like dogs. When we were in the same room, I could not help but listen to him pounding her. When we were in separate rooms in an apartment, I worked hard to listen. David was thick (I meat gazed him in the shower), and Alyssa was loud.

I assumed David knew I was gay. I mean, I had never had a girlfriend or mentioned a girl.

But, we never talked about it. I did not want him to know what he did not want to know. And, we weren’t friends like that. We were shallow water friends. We never went into the deep end.

As graduation approached, we decided we needed one last boy’s night out. We went to our favorite local bar, drank as much PBR as we could, and played darts until they shut out the lights. As we walked back to our apartment, David wrapped his arm around my shoulders and leaned into me.

As we entered our apartment, David started shedding clothes. By the time he got to his bedroom, he was wearing only white briefs. He leaned against the door frame talking to me. He was obviously hard.

When I said good-night, David said he wanted to snuggle. This was not new. Always at his invitation, we snuggled pretty every once in awhile, especially when we were drunk.

I followed David into his room, stripped down to my boxers, and climbed into his bed. David slid in, snuggled up behind me, and wrapped his right arm around me. He maneuvered his hard dick against my ass and pressed into me.

“I’m really horny,” he whispered. “I haven’t seen Alyssa in a month, and I need to get laid. I have TSB.”

“TSB?”

“Toxic semen backup.”

I knew that wasn’t true. David jacked off more than anyone I had ever met. He was very open about it, often announcing “I’m going to go rub one out.”

Still, I didn’t know what to do. David’s message seemed clear, but I was unable to act on clarity. I had no idea David could or would fuck a guy, but that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. I had never been fucked. My sexual experience was limited to trading blow jobs with strangers in a Nashville park.

I didn’t have to do anything. David pressed his hard dick into my ass again and asked “Can I fuck you?”

I knew it was a bad idea. But, I also knew I was in no position to resist. I wanted to know what it felt like. I turned into him and said, “I’ve never done that.”

He surprised me. “I have. I’ll go slow and easy.”

He climbed out of bed, tugged his briefs off, and went to the bathroom. He returned with a condom and some lube.

I rolled onto my back. I slid my boxers off, and David got between my legs. He reached down, grabbed my dick, and announced “Jesus Christ, Michael, I knew your dick was big, but . . . There will be no reciprocation with this thing.”

“Have you been fucked before?”

“Sure. Not often, but if I guy lets you fuck him, it’s only polite to return the favor.”

David told me to turn over and then said he’d wear a condom if I wanted him to. I had no idea whether I wanted him to or not, so I said only, “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He didn’t.

I also refused to turn over. I wanted to watch him fuck me.

David raised my legs and took me slowly and easily, as he had promised he would. I was so overwhelmed by the idea of what was happening, I thought my head would explode. I’m sure it hurt, but I remember only delirium.

We were soaked with sweat when David finally came inside me. I was amazed at how awesome it felt to be filled by someone.

When he was finished, David pulled out and went to his bathroom to clean up. He told me to do the same, so I did. When I was finished and started back to his room, I noticed he had closed his door, sending a clear message.

David said nothing to me the next morning. We barely spoke until graduation. We have not spoken since.

David was on my mind when Kyle first stood before me nude, having stepped out of his jeans and basically demanding that I suck his dick. I did not want to lose Kyle.

Kyle took the decision from me. He pressed his dick to my lips, and I was too weak to resist. I blew him and had been blowing him since. I had also let him fuck me on my birthday.

Now, he was begging me to fuck him, and I was preparing to do just that. As I entered him, I imagined the ice below us was shattering, that he was taking me as his lover, and that our full day together was a window into what our days would be from now on.

I worked as hard I could not to hurt him. I delivered myself to him slowly. I collapsed onto him when I came and then finished him with my mouth. I was delirious with happiness as I kissed my way up his body, only to be battered back into reality when he turned away from my kiss. In that moment, the dream shattered, and I was painfully reminded of who and what we were.

I fled. I could not allow Kyle to see that I was broken, and I did not want to burden him with my brokenness.

When I finally heard from Kyle, it was a peevish text about maturity. I did not respond.

I had spent years erecting walls to protect myself from others. My therapist and I were working on tearing those walls down and on the poor choices I made on who I let in. But, we were not far in our work, and Kyle was certainly going to set me back. He was, undoubtedly, yet another bad choice.

I thought about where we were and where we were going. I realized I was addicted to things I could not have, falling over and over again for men who could not be what I needed them to be, who need to be drugged or high to be with me.

I decided I needed to sever ties with Kyle. I would never move forward so long as I had a foot stuck in his sandbox.

Kyle did not fight me. He almost seemed relieved. When it was done, I knew I had done the right thing. It felt like a yolk had been lifted off my shoulders.

Kyle reached out to me a few times after I moved, but I decided not to respond. I thought a clean break was best for both of us.

Years passed, but Kyle never passed from my mind. I wondered what he was doing. I tried to find him on Facebook, but it was a fool’s errand. Kyle was too cool to have a Facebook page.

As time passed, I thought about reaching out to him. But, it seemed weak to me, so I didn’t. I hated appearing weak.

I was very surprised when, after then years, I heard from Kyle through LinkedIn. I was not surprised when he referred to his family. I had long suspected he had gotten married and had children.

The morning of our meeting, I was as nervous as a whore in church. I manscaped. I trimmed my nose hair and my ear hair and my beard. I paid way too much attention to my hair. I fretted about my clothes like I never had.

I was meeting them at a restaurant at 5. I was there at 4. I didn’t want to be late. I was stupid early. I went for a walk to pass the time. I also drank two Hendricks on the rocks.

Kyle took my breath away when I saw him. He looked better than ever, and there was a tranquility behind his eyes that I did not remember.

I was elated and then devastated to meet his family. As to the elation, Kyle had named his son Michael, which I assumed was in my honor. As to the devastation, the wife I expected to meet was actually a tall, beautiful black man named Turner. I felt like a cartoon; I could feel the blood run from me and across the floor.

Kyle and I wound up at the bar, “catching up.” I barely heard a word he said. The blood was thundering in my ears. Somehow, some way, Turner was living my dream. I had no idea how or why, and I paid not attention to Kyle’s explanation.

I had written Kyle dozens of letters over the years. In them, I explained my departure, professed my love, and pleaded my case. I never sent any of them. They seemed too “8th grade girl.” They were all in my closet in a shoe box. As Kyle talked and the reality of Turner sank in, I wondered what would have happened if I had sent even one of them.

I could not reclaim myself. In a fog, I walked Kyle and his family to the ballpark. I squatted to say good-bye to the twins. I held in my emotions as I said good-bye to Kyle and Turner.

I started to cry as soon I turned away. I felt like I was turning away from the life that should have been mine. I deserved Kyle and Maddie and Michael. I should have been Turner. I was devastated that I wasn’t. I was more devastated that Kyle had realized he wanted to be with a man, but I wasn’t the man.

The 19th Hole

(Part Eight; From Michael’s POV)

I had been with only one guy since Kyle. He, too, was straight. He gave me as much as he could, but it was not enough. He was married already, and I wanted to be his wife, which I would never be. I had made yet another bad choice.

I decided to drown my sorrows over Kyle and Turner and my lost life in booze. I went to my favorite local joint.

“Dude, you look like shit,” said Hunter, my favorite bartender. Hunter was a 22 year old Wash U senior. He was my height, wore his wavy brown hair in a trendy man-bun, had the lightest green eyes I had ever seen, and was built like the varsity LAX player he was. He also had the deepest voice of any man I’d ever met. He was like George Ezra, only deeper. I loved listening to him speak. He almost certainly knew I was gay and adored him. I didn’t know if he was gay or if he adored anything.

“I feel like shit,” I said, gulping down my Hendricks on the rocks.

Hunter refilled my glass, smiled, and jabbed, “Then you look the way you feel.”

He paused to gauge my reaction, then continued. “Care to honor my profession and share your sorrows with the stranger behind the bar?” he asked.

“This is not your profession, and you’re not a stranger,” I said, gulping down another Hendricks.

“I’ll still listen,” he offered. As he refilled my glass, he subtly suggested straight gin was meant to be sipped, not gulped.

“It’s stupid,” I said, downing half of my third Hendricks with him, but my fifth of the day. It was a big sip, but I counted it as a sip nonetheless.

“I’ll still listen.”

“I reunited with an old friend today. Back when, I wanted to be his lover. But, he was straight, so I gave up on him. I expected to meet his wife and kids today. Instead, I met his husband and kids. I’d have been okay meeting a wife, but I’m not okay meeting a husband. If he was open to having a husband, it should have been me.” I started to cry again.

Hunter came around from behind the bar, walked over to me, and hoisted me into a full embrace. I put my head to his shoulder, and he said “Dude, I’m so sorry” as he stroked my hair. I sobbed into his shoulder. I was making a spectacle, and I hated making a spectacle. The last place I ever wanted to be was in the spotlight. I felt like every eye in the bar was on me.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said. He left for a second and returned without his apron. I had finished my Hendricks while he was gone.

“I clocked out,” he said. “I’m going to help you home.”

I cried most of the six block walk to my condo. I was drunk, and I struggled with my keys. Hunter took over, opening my door and helping me in. I walked directly to my bedroom and flopped down on my bed, fully clothed. Hunter followed me, slid in behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and held me while I cried myself to sleep.

Hunter was gone when I woke up, but only from the bed. I could hear him in the kitchen. I removed my jeans and shirt and put on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top.

Hunter was wearing the same when I found him in the kitchen. He was making breakfast.

“Sorry, I took some liberties. I borrowed a pair of shorts and a tank. I raided your refrigerator for breakfast and to fill the cooler.”

“Cooler?”

“Yeah. My buddies and I are going on a float today. You’re coming along.”

“That’s the last thing I need.”

“It’s exactly what you need. Five hot guys in swimming trunks is way better than spending the day on a pity pot here alone.”

“Hunter, this is all very sweet of you. But, I think I can take it from here.”

“I know you think you can. You’re a nice little island, aren’t you? You know, you have never spoken to anyone in the bar, but me. Never. That’s a bad way to be. And, I don’t have my car with me, so you have to run me home. Since you’ll be out, you may as well make a day of it.”

I was not looking forward to this. Missouri float trips are hillbilly hootenannies. It’s like Deliverance. The only thing more alarming than those you meet on the river are those you meet along it, the “river rats” who live on stilted houses in the flood plain that scream of deprivation and poverty.

But, I also was emotionally and physically spent. I did not have the energy to argue or resist.

The other four were already at Hunter’s building when we got there. Hunter’s building, by the way, was the nicest building in the trendy Central West End. Either bartending paid better than I thought, Hunter was hustling, or he came from a lot of money. I kinda hoped he was hustling.

Bennett, Eddie, Mark, and Travis were all varsity LAX players for Wash U. They were all in shape, good-looking, and had flow. But, Hunter was the best of the bunch. By far.

As we drove out of town in Hunter’s Land Rover, I felt like a father taking his sons out for a day. Hunter must have sensed my unease.

“This is awesome,” he said. “Bennett was a last minute add and was going to have to ride middle in someone else’s canoe. Now, he can ride with Travis, and I’ll ride with you. Evens are way better than odds for a float.”

I learned a lot as we drove. They boys all came from old St. Louis money and had been friends since before any of them could remember. St. Louis is a city of private streets and private schools, and they came from the best of both. They starred at Country Day School in LAX and vowed to play together in college. Hunter had to go to Wash U because his family basically funded and ran the place. So, they all went to Wash U to stick together.

Their trust funds meant they didn’t have to, but they were all excelling in their own right. Hunter was majoring in biology and planned to stay at Wash U for medical school. The rest would finally scatter for graduate school, ending the “one for all, all for one” cohesive run of what their family and friends simply referred to as “The Boys.”

There was a chasm between being a 22 year old college senior and a 40 year old lawyer. The Boys drank Busch and smoked pot all day. And, I mean, all day. It was a slow float.

I had to work the next day. I drank little, and I didn’t smoke at all. Mostly, I just watched The Boys guys frolic in the water, give each other shit, and show off for whomever was watching at that moment. I felt silly (and old) being there, but it was good to be out and not thinking (much) about Kyle.

I drove home. I don’t know who’d have driven if I hadn’t been there, as none of them were in shape to.

The Boys slept as I drove. My mind wandered to Kyle in the quiet of the car. As the sadness showed in my eyes, Hunter woke up, looked at me, and said, “Now, we’ll have none of that” in a coy voice that made me smile.

Once we had unloaded the car, The Boys all headed their separate ways. Hunter invited me in for a college dinner (“you know, a frozen pizza or a burger or something”). I tried to decline, claiming I needed to get home.

“Going back to your empty home is the last thing you need,” Hunter said as he led me by the arm toward his door. Inside, Hunter opened a bottle of 1986 Krug Cabernet (didn’t all college seniors have an expansive wine collection?) and proceeded to his rooftop hot tub to “wash the river off us.”

The wine made me sleepy, and I yawned. Hunter suggested I nap while he pulled dinner together. I offered that I should just get going, and Hunter insisted I wasn’t going anywhere. We changed into dry shorts. I had no underwear to hold me in place, and I was immediately self-conscious.

Hunter was getting pretty good at reading my face. “Don’t worry about that,” he said.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked.

“Jesus, Michael, it’s all The Boys talked about all day. Travis wondered if your whole body is a life support system for your dick. Bennett bet you pass out when you get hard, from lack of blood to your brain.”

I dozed off on his sofa. I woke to a well-made table, another bottle of Krug, and Hozier’s “Take Me To Church.”

Hunter was in the kitchen, still wearing only yellow board shorts. He was obviously not a weightlifter. His tone and definition were from LAX only. Still, he was stunning, and my dick stirred as I watched him dance and sing along to the music.

We talked little as we ate. Every time I made eye contact with Hunter, he smiled at me.

As we cleared the plates, he announced, “You know you’re spending the night, right?”

I furrowed my brow as he continued, “We’ve had two bottles of wine, I’m about to open another, and not being alone is good for you right now. Plus, last night was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a long time. I sleep way better when I sleep with someone.”

I knew pretending to resist was pointless. One, I had done everything Hunter wanted me to do all day. Two, no self-respecting single 40 year old gay man turns down spending the night with a hot college LAX player.

We finished the third bottle of wine on Hunter’s living room floor. After clearing the glasses, Hunter immediately made it clear our long day was not nearly over. He returned to the living room without his board shorts.

“I think it’s time we fool around,” he said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He stood with his 6 inch dick in my face. All the hair on him, except that on his head, was neatly trimmed.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly. So, I stood up, put my arms around him, and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. We made out hungrily, like teenagers. He untied my shorts, and I stepped out of them without breaking the kiss. Our bodies touched from mouth to groin.

When the kiss broke, he insisted I take him to bed. Upstairs, he laid flat on his back, and I straddled him and kissed him some more. I had forgotten how much fun it was to kiss.

I hadn’t had sex in over a year, and I felt like a teenaged boy going for his first roll in the hay. I devoured Hunter’s body, kissing and licking every inch that I could reach.

When I couldn’t wait any longer, I took his dick into my mouth and swallowed it. I should have savored it and edged him, but I was too needy. He came fast and hard, and I drank all of him.

I apologized when I pulled off his dick. “Nothing to apologize for. That was awesome. I like hungry sex. Speaking of which, I want you to fuck me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have a condom.”

“I do,” he said as he opened his bed stand drawer. It was packed with an array condoms and lube and other toys. He tossed me a magnum. “If that doesn’t fit, we’ll have to use a grocery bag,” he said, laughing.

It fit. I straddled Hunter and slowly slid into him. He purred as I did.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” I said.

“You won’t.”

I wanted to fuck him slowly, but he wouldn’t let me. No matter how fast and hard I went, he demanded I go faster and harder. I was on the edge of losing control when he came again, splattering cum all over his stomach and chest. The sight of his orgasm brought mine, and I filled the condom with my own load. I pulled out, lowered my face to his torso, and licked all of the cum I could off of him.

I collapsed to the side of him. “That was fantastic,” he said, as he gently rolled the condom off me, and insisted we clean up.

Hunter fucked me in the shower. There was no way I could come again, but there was no stopping him. He was like a rabbit. I wanted to be 22 again.

The 19th Hole

(Part Nine; From Michael’s POV)

When we were settled into bed to sleep, Hunter asked if he could tell me something without me getting mad. I said sure.

“The Boys bet me today that I couldn’t take whatever it was that you were swinging.”

“You talked to them about that?”

“Sure.”

“So, they all know you’re gay.”

“Sure. We’ve been friends forever. They know everything about me.”

“Are any of them gay?”

“Nah. We all did some gay shit when we were teens, but I’m the only one it stuck to.”

“Does your family know?” I asked. Hunter’s family was a prominent one in Republican politics, both in Missouri and nationally.

“Of course,” he said, matter of factly. The 18 years between my birth and his included a cultural revolution that made his reality so much different from mine.

We sat quietly for a bit, then I asked, “Did you have this whole thing planned?”

“Yeah. Sure. I thought someone would break your heart, you’d come into my bar to try to stitch it back together with a bottle of gin, fall apart in a room of strangers, and then allow me to help you home where I could prey upon your weakness and convince you to fuck me. My crystal ball is that fucking clear.” He smiled as he said it.

“You should put it to better use.” I smiled back.

“Seriously, I’ve been flirting with you for the two years you’ve been coming into my bar. At first, I didn’t think you were gay. Then, I didn’t think you were anything. You talked to no one but me, and you barely talked to me. I tried like hell to get you to take me home, but you seemed like you had no idea what I as up to. . . . Your density or obtuseness or whatever it was pissed me off. I talked about my frustration to The Boys, so they were surprised when you showed up with me today for the float. We were all surprised when you climbed out of the water in your board shorts. They hid nothing. The Boys told me there was no way I could take it, and I assured them I could. I’m not a whore or anything, but I know my capabilities.”

“You did take it.”

“Barely. You’re going to ruin me for everyone else.”

“I hope so,” I said, carelessly. I was not usually careless.

“Me, too,” he said, carefully and smiling.

Hunter slept soundly. I did not. I was in tumult. I had gone from despondence to elation in 24 hours. I was on a wild roller coaster, and my constitution was made for the merry-go-round. I needed to see my therapist. Fast.

I left before he woke up. It was characteristic of me. The morning after is always awkward, so I try like hell to avoid it.

I wrote on Hunter’s bathroom mirror with a bar of soap: “Thank U. Great day. Better night. XOXO, Michael.” It was an uncharacteristically informal and open message for me.

*****

I was in my therapist’s office for two hours over lunch on Monday. I explained to her all that had happened in the past two days.

She was not helpful. As for Michael, she told me my plan to try to stay in touch with him was a foolish, self-destructive one. She assured me it would be hard on him and harder on me, the equivalent or ripping fresh stitches out each time I realized he was with Turner and not with me.

As for Hunter, she told me there was a reason the lines were longer for roller coasters than for merry-go-rounds; she pointed out how many times in our 5 years together I had talked about what I could not have; and she assured me the road I insisted on traveling – refusing to give myself to anyone who might actually take me – was a prescription for a lifetime of heartache and loneliness. It didn’t have to be, but it likely was. Finally, she told me that I might consider thinking of reasons things might work with Hunter rather than listing all the reasons why I was sure they couldn’t and wouldn’t.

I left her office angry. I felt like she defaulted to the same pat advice each and every time we met, always urging me to focus on the positives rather than the negatives (I was sick to death of her “glass half full versus half empty” tripe). As I look back, I realize there was a reason for her constant advice; I needed it, but wouldn’t heed it. Despite all I had achieved, I remained the pensive boy in a rural Missouri trailer waiting for things to go wrong, because they always did.

I couldn’t go back to work. Instead, I drove to Forest Park and walked the trail around the perimeter, taking an honest inventory of where I was and what I wanted from life. I had always been looking toward the future, toward a time when drunken parents and a trailer were visible only in my rearview mirror, toward a time when I was making real money and not living the meager life of a student, toward a time when whomever I was with realized I was their destiny and not an interlude in their otherwise straight life. I had never lived for today, for the here and now, for the life that was right in front of me.

I also had never tried to give myself to someone who could have me. I am sure it was some fucked up avoidance or defense mechanism; open yourself only to one who was not open to you.

By the end of my walk, I was desperate to see Hunter. I’d like to claim I had an epiphany during my walk, but that would be trite and untrue. I was just lonely.

I’d have texted him, but I realized I had no contact information for him. I decided to drive to his condo. If he wasn’t home, I’d wait for him.

I stopped and bought flowers on the way. I had never given anyone flowers before.

Hunter was, in fact, not home when I got to his door. I turned on music, leaned back on his steps, and turned my face to the sun. I loved the feeling of sun soaking into my skin.

I was in another world when Hunter opened the door behind me.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Nope. I should be right here.” I handed Hunter the flowers. The sun and the wait had not been good for them; they were a little wilted. He looked at them quizzically.

“They’d have been a more romantic gesture about an hour ago,” I offered, semi-apologetically.

“I’ve never received flowers before.”

“I’ve never given flowers before.”

“You look hot.”

“Thank you.”

Hunter laughed to himself. “Well, that too. But, I meant, hot as in temperature. You’re soaked with sweat.”

He was right. I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t realized I had sweated through my shirt and part of my grey poplin suit.

I followed Hunter into his condo. He dropped the flowers on the table, latched the door behind me, and pinned me to the door with a deep, open mouthed kiss. I held his face while his hands worked my tie, my belt, my shirt, and my zipper.

Hunter broke the kiss so he could rip his shirt over his head, tug his jeans off, and step out of his boxer briefs. While he did, I slipped my shoes off, stepped out of my slacks, and pulled off my jacket and shirt.

Hunter lowered himself and took me in his mouth. He knew what he was doing, working me in and out and around while he played with my balls and rubbed my stomach. I was so turned on by him, I could easily come. I told him so.

“You keep that up, and I’m gonna come.”

He pulled off my dick long enough to say, “I want you to come.” I did almost as soon as he went back to work, filling his mouth and his throat. When I was finished, Hunter kissed his way up my body and then shared my cum with me, the first “snowball” I had ever received.

As we kissed, I took him in my hand and started jerking him. He came quickly all over my stomach and crotch. I wiped some up with my hand, and held it out to him.

“Turnabout is fair play,” I said. He licked some of his cum from my fingers. I finished off what he missed.

We went to his bedroom. We spent the rest of that Monday kissing and sucking and fucking and sleeping and waking up and kissing and sucking and fucking all over again. We left the bed only to get wine and cheese and rinse the cum and sweat off our bodies.

Six hours into our marathon, I was sitting against Hunter’s headboard, his head on my shoulder and his hand wandering through my chest, stomach, and pubic hair. I was spent. He was re-tooling.

I looked down at him, and he turned his face toward mine.

“You came along at just the right time,” I said.

“What do you mean? I’ve been right in front of you for two years.”

“I was blind.”

“Nope. You just weren’t ready.”

“You’re right. I am now, though.”

“I’m glad.”

I wasn’t sure I was, in fact, ready. But, I was going to try to be.

****

Paper is the traditional gift for a one year anniversary, so I gave Hunter a vintage edition of Grey’s Anatomy. He gave me a ticket for a weekend in San Francisco. It was his favorite city, and I had never been.

A lot had happened in the year. When things got tough, I tried to pull back. Hunter wouldn’t let me. He was patient and kind. I tried to convince myself I deserved him. But, I continued to doubt that I did.

When I tried to erect obstacles, Hunter knocked them down. I met Hunter’s family, and Hunter’s obvious happiness helped them overcome their resistance to our age difference. They didn’t care at all that Hunter was gay.

I moved to Hunter’s condo. I had spent most of my time there since what we now called “Marathon Monday.” After about six months, Hunter convinced me to sell my condo, make a balloon payment on my outstanding student loans, and make formal what was informal.

I did not become one of The Boys, but they put up with my intrusion into their circle more than I expected. I made the mistake of telling them one too many stories about life in the boot heel, and they now called me Meat. I didn’t mind. It was obviously a term of affection, not derision.

I was anxious about how little I brought to the table. I had no family and almost no friends. Still a government employee, I had little money.

Hunter didn’t mind. He said he had enough family and money for the both of us, and that we’d make friends together.

I was also anxious about our age difference. But, Hunter definitely made me younger than I was. With him, I slowly freed myself from whatever it was that made me old when I was young. With him, I was getting younger as I got older.

I had a long way to go emotionally. But, for the first time since I started seeing her, my therapist seemed optimistic. And, finally, so did I.

As Hunter and I walked the Wharf holding hands, I had no idea how long the ride would last. But, I was glad to be on it. And, for the first time since I could remember, I was not worried there was no more track over the next rise.

Epilogue

Happily settled with Hunter, I decided to reach out to Kyle and apologize for how poorly I had handled meeting Turner. I had been surprised, and I had not handled the surprise well.

I tracked Kyle down and wrote him a brief note:

Kyle,

I must apologize for the way I reacted last Summer when you and your family visited. I was surprised you were married to a man, and I did not react well to the surprise.

I am happy that you have found your way and someone to accompany you on it. As I reflect, that I am not that person is almost certainly on me. I could and should have reached out to you after I left. I chose not to do that, and choices have consequences. In this instance, it cost me at least a friend, if not more.

It was, after all the time that has passed, great seeing you and meeting your children (especially my namesake). If you are ever back this way, I’d love to see you. In the meantime, endless happiness to you and yours.

Yours,

Michael

I was surprised to receive a reply within a few weeks. It read only: “Thank you for the note. Turner’s gone, but the kids are still here. Would love to see you soon. Would love to talk to you sooner.” He included his mobile number.

“Turner’s gone” rattled around in my head. I wanted to call Kyle, but I knew I shouldn’t. Still . . . .

I went to Hunter with my problem. To my surprise, he urged me to call Kyle. I was a hotbed of insecurity. Hunter was a Brinks truck.

It was a fun call. Kyle told me Turner had left him for someone else, but they had run their course, and it was time for one of them to leave.

He told me how they had gotten the kids, and how Turner had left them without looking back. Now, Kyle was a single father of two and again trying to find his way.

I told him about Hunter. “He’s how old and plays what?” he asked.

“23 and lacrosse.”

“23 and lacrosse?”

“Yeah, isn’t it awesome?”

“I guess so. It seems like a lot of work. I’m raising two kids. I don’t want to date one.”

I ignored the verbal slap and decided to parry back. “You would if you saw him.”

“I’m googling him right now. . . . Holy shit, Michael, he’s hot. He’s also a scion. You know that right?”

“I do.”

“You’re a far cry from the boot heel now.”

“I know.”

As the call ended, we made plans to meet in Columbia for dinner the following Friday. Kyle told me to bring Hunter along.

Hunter refused to go. “You two need to meet alone,” he said. “You have unfinished business. You don’t need me there.”

“I want you there.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“That’s nice of you to say. But, you don’t.”

He was right. Even as Hunter helped me tear down the barriers I had erected over the years, there was one he could not touch, and that was the hope of Kyle. It was always lurking, as I wondered what might have been and what might yet be.

I was anxious and nervous as I left for Columbia. Hunter walked me to the car, kissed me good-bye, and whispered “come back to me” in my ear. As always, he could read my thoughts.

I sped to Columbia, excited to see Kyle. He was seated when I arrived. He stood, and we exchanged a brief but warm embrace. To my surprise, I felt nothing but the warmth of an old friend. Despite the lingering hope of what might yet be, I had moved on.

We sat and talked before ordering. As we did, I barely heard a word he said. I was thinking of Hunter and his “come back to me.” I decided to do it. I apologized to Kyle and told him why I needed to leave. He responded that he was happy for me. I kissed his forehead and headed back to St. Louis and the man and the life I had finally given myself to and loved.

When I arrived home two hours earlier than Hunter expected me, our bedroom door was closed. I was suspicious, so I opened it slowly, only to find Hunter in bed, curled up in a ball. He was asleep. I climbed in behind him.

“What time is it?” he asked as he awoke.

“9:15,” I answered.

“Did Kyle no show?”

“No, he was there.”

“What happened? You’re back too early.”

“I was sitting across from him, thinking only of you, and I wanted to come back to you. So, I did, and here I am.”

Hunter rolled into me. For the first time, I told him I loved him. Then, I kissed him as hard I could. I felt more barriers eroding as I did.