“This guy seems genuinely evil.”
“I’m not sure. He’s obviously ambitious and has been involved in a world which operates under different rules. He may be genuinely convinced that I am gay—and that I’m into him. After all, he hasn’t had any trouble in the past seducing men or women. I don’t think anyone says no to Reg. His ego is really outsized, fed by fans and agents. I am not at all sure I could sustain a charge of attempted rape. And even if I did bring a charge, it would certainly come out that I am gay—and that I’ve had partners, and that I have been closeted–to my advantage. Many still think that being in the closet is a living lie which taints everything else you say. Even if I won the rape charge, the disclosures would finish me as a potential professional cyclist. I don’t think I can publicly accuse Reg without destroying myself.”
“For an allegedly homophobic sport, it does seem that a lot of its participants are gay. So both Pete and Reg want a shot at your cute ass. Why doesn’t that surprise me? It’s seems even more than swimming. I’m not going to answer or try to solve this now. Just come here and rest in my arms. You can drink your way to Margarita heaven if you want. You’re not driving. And I promise not to take advantage of you—or at least not any more than normal. I’m going to make you feel good, real good. We’ll talk about this later. First, however, I want to reassure you that none of this changes my feelings for you—or my opinion of who you are.”
“Is it going to be ok if I touch you?”
“Yes, okay. I’m not really traumatized by the scene, but I am really concerned about where all this leaves me in terms of future options.”
“I think I know you well enough that you are not just concerned about ‘future options.’ You are concerned about your feelings—your guilt–about them and what that means for us. Let me just say for the record, that my being so into you doesn’t mean that my eyes don’t stray to that occasional fuckable ass that passes by. We are young gay guys, afterall.”
I leaned into Geoff as he slowly began his “light” explorations of my erogenous zones. He nibbled my ear lobes and licked under them along my neck sending chills through me. Then his hands reached up under my tee and started massaging my pecs, edging my nibs into mini-erection. Slowly his hands moved down as he traced the ridges in my abs following the V until his fingers invaded below the waistline. Then his whole hand was under my balls, rolling them in his fingers. Everything was deliberately gentle and caressing. But it had the appropriate impact on me. My anxiety dropped—in no small part because of the Margaritas. But, my hard cock began to tent the shorts, already leaving a spot of precum on the fabric. He sure knows how to distract a guy.
“Raise your hips.” And as I did so, he slipped off the shorts, only momentarily constrained by the erection. He pulled the quilt over us. Reaching back under, he wrapped me in his muscular arms and rested his large hands on my dick, holding me gently and stroking slowly. I sunk lower into him relishing the intense contact. I could feel his love. I closed my eyes and focused on the incredible sensations his talented fingers were producing. He had me in a hypnotic trance of pleasure until I “woke” just a few minutes later refreshed and really hungry for a little Mexican and a big Irish-Italian.
“Let’s eat—and then I want you for dessert.”
“By the way, it occurred to me while you were dreaming. Our condo gym has closed circuit monitoring. I suspect that the UNC locker room also had video surveillance, probably on a short loop—perhaps as short as 24 hours. You need to call Coach Neal and ask him to call UNC. They need to preserve that tape and not video over it. He should ask them not to view it; just save it—perhaps he could tell them a little white lie, that strategy was discussed and he would like to preserve the tape, but not disclose it to competition. Meanwhile, I’ll find out our condo video policy.”
“Forget about the condo. Wednesdays before 10 are male clothing optional days and the cameras are turned off. We were alone. I already checked. That’s why I wrote the memo.”
“But what about the UNC tape suggestion?”
“That might seem a little strange. What do I tell Neal? It is a men’s locker room with obvious nudity. They probably have a confidentiality policy in place so that the tapes are quickly destroyed unless an incident is reported. They could suspect his motives.”
“Maybe you need to tell him a little more about Reg.”
“Let me think about it over dinner.” I started to slip my shorts back on.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Yeah, I think I do. I don’t think I could call Neal in my present state of undress.”
“Is that another rule of the cycling code—no coach conversations while hanging loose?”
By the end of dinner, I had decided that my future was at stake and that I had nothing to lose by calling Coach. I had decided Reg was not bluffing. So I did. I gave him a much abbreviated account of the encounter with Reg. “I do not intend to go public or press any charges. But, I need to preserve the evidence and my options.” He told me that he had accidentally overheard two other team mates talk about unwelcome approaches from Reg. He promised to do what he could, but UNC security might be unwilling to share a locker room tape with a coach they didn’t even know. He suggested that he had a good friend at Rice security—and they could explain to their counterparts that they were investigating some potential criminal allegations—without providing any detail. A transfer from security to security might be easier. However, there is always the risk that they will keep a copy or view the tape before they release it—or that a copy might be made anywhere along the way. Did I really want that? I told him I didn’t have much choice at this point. I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of, but obviously if the mere threat of a formal complaint didn’t stop Reg, I could not follow through without destroying my future.
I was upset and tense again so Geoff put on his psych persona again. “You must remember. You didn’t provoke this. You didn’t ask for it. Every rapist tries to convince his victim that the victim is somehow at fault, that he invited the attack. This helps to self-justify his illegal actions. Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean that you are fair game for anal rapists. There was never an indication that you were inviting the attack, that you were enjoying it, or that you were reciprocating in any way. I realize that your future plans may be jeopardized if all of this becomes public. But you are not responsible for the homophobia of the sport or its promoters. You need to keep telling yourself that. You did nothing wrong. You’re a victim, but I know how strong you are. You are a survivor.”
Deep down, I wasn’t sure that I was totally convinced of what Geoff what was saying. Was I a victim?
“What can I do to help you right now?”
So we decided to catch a Netflix version of Zorro before heading off to bed. We had always laughed during and loved after watching that movie. Geoff refreshed the Margaritas and we settled in to watch Geoff’s twin cavort across the screen on horseback dueling with various desperados and corrupt royals—and in bed with various grateful senoritas including the sultry Zeta-Jones. It was great therapy. We laughed, caressed, and relaxed. But, he kept teasing my dick into semi-erection, even bending over occasionally to take me inside his hot, moist mouth. As the closing credits began, Geoff looked over at me and drawled in a pseudo-Hispanic accent, “My sabre is itchy for use. It’s bursting out of my scabbard. It hasn’t been wet for days. I’ve haven’t pierced any banditos for a long time. Vaya con migo, mi amorita.”