Through it all, I of course never mentioned that I was gay. It was absolutely clear that the professional franchises were homophobic. Jokes, comments, hand signals all attested to this: cyclists were alpha heteros and being portrayed as larger than life. I met with several of the franchise managers and I think made a good impression. Then I met with some product promoters. I detected that at least some of them (male and female) were coming on to me—looking for something that I might have to give if I wanted endorsements. (Reg would have known how to handle that situation.) Some salary ranges were discussed, but obviously, details were franchise-specific and at least partially related to local cost of living conditions. I was given the standard contract to peruse—obviously not filled in–which gave the franchise owner the “unconditional” right to terminate any cyclist for cause if “the cyclist’s conduct or reputation reflected badly on the cyclist or the club.” We all knew what that meant. I executed some papers—mostly form authorizations for background checks and attestations that I had no reason to believe the official stats of my performance were materially incorrect. I assured them I wasn’t bankrupt, in serious debt for my education, married, that I had no dependents—at least that I knew of–etc etc. And suddenly, three days of partying were over. We limo-ed back to the airport and I was back in Houston Wednesday night, ready to go back into a rigid training routine for the big event closing the season in Miami.
During that final week of classes, all three coach candidates visited campus. They met with team members, athletic administration, various Rice coaches and generally became familiar with what Rice had to offer. All were interviewed by the selection committee. After those meetings, Coach Neal and I (and a third member of the selection committee, a major donor to the cycling club) were troubled.
The Nashville pro coach was not going to fit with the scholar-athlete image of Rice. He was a little crude, way too rigid and one-track minded. We wondered whether he could adapt to a club where members did not owe their existence to his approval and where academics were important, even more so than athletic performance.
The Austin coach seemed ideal, although some background that was developed by the head hunter firm suggested that he had some “ancient” history of racism and misogyny. During one interview he expressed “tremendous surprise” that one-third of the club was made up of African Americans, a Latino and a woman. My own view was that he had already testified himself out of a position. It went without saying that he was rigidly homophobic.
That left Joe of course. Everyone loved him, but he had no academic credentials (a bachelors from a bible college, obviously not in physical education), spoke grammatically questionable English, and there was always the issue of his relationship with Reg—particularly now with Reg’s potential to go pro. What would Joe do if Reg went pro and left Rice? By the end of the process, Neal told me he was going to recommend that we re-open the candidacy selection process. That at least took me off the hook—so I could head for the ranch with Geoff for Christmas unencumbered by those issues.
We left after Geoff’s last class on Friday and headed north, enjoying smaltzy Christmas music in the SUV and generally decompressing; we realized that we weren’t going to reach the ranch until late that night so there was no reason to push. Around 11, we pulled through the Rampant Stallions BV gates and made our way to the house. Val and Doc had spared no expense to create a holiday wonderland. The entire front porch was framed in lights and the drive to the door was lit with electric Southwestern faux-luminaria. Cherubs held the tops of the greenery surrounding the front door and candles lit every window. Geoff remarked that the cherubs could have been modeled from my baby pictures—and I pouted, “Their dicks are way too small to be me. I was born big.” Inside in the timbered great room was an enormous tree with mostly antique Italian ornaments, cantilevered over an ancient crèche. Brightly wrapped gifts were already piled high around the great room.
Val greeted us with hugs, drinks and snacks and graciously allowed us to retire without an inquisition. “We’ll talk schedule tomorrow—Chet do you want to do an early ride—if so, I’ll plan a hearty family breakfast around 10.”
“Sounds perfect. Happy early Christmas.”
Several members of Val’s family were already ensconced in the pool house, while Brett’s sister and family were arriving tomorrow, Christmas Eve, to occupy the two guest rooms in the north wing. It seems that both Irish and Italian traditions call for a big feast on Christmas Eve and an open house “grazing” atmosphere with tables laden with foods on Christmas Day itself.
Geoff and I retired to our room, showered and fell into an embrace in bed which turned into immediate slumber. I rose at dawn and left for my ride, leaving Geoff snoring. I’m going to let my tired med student sleep in. He’s always up by 6:30 and he had made the drive to Austin after a full day of classes.
I had a great ride, but a little short since, with the solstice, the sun did not rise until close to 7. It was cool but not cold. When I got back, brunch was underway—and Italian seemed to be the lingua franca as Brett had already left for the ER. My Italian is nil, but I smiled, used a lot of “grazie’s” and soon we were into a form of pigeon English with lots of hand/arm gestures which would occupy the next few days. Geoff was occupied most of the day greeting and catching up with relatives, introducing me often as his boyfriend. No one seemed the slightest disturbed. They were very touchy-feely and easily invaded personal space (both physical and emotional). What a terrific family!
Dinner was spectacular, supplemented by foods from Italy (and the fine Sicilian caterer in Austin). We had legendary wines, the “Seven Fishes”, Texas filets, sausages in pepper sauce, and so many pastas that I feared for my diet (the great Miami race was only four days away). Several of Val’s relatives insisted on finding a midnight Mass in Austin, but most of us enjoyed the feast and called it a night.
We went to our room and Geoff presented me with his first gift of the season, wet foreplay under the rain shower that demonstrated he had learned all my erogenous zones, followed by a massive Geoff-induced orgasm that challenged my knees. Fortunately when I came, he was still hard and still holding me tightly into his gut, or I would have collapsed from the pleasure and loss of so much testosterone. I literally hung on him—impaled on his enormous hard cock. Then it was my turn, in bed this time. I was still tense, so I forced him onto his back, spread his legs, lubed, and immediately plunged into him. I teased his prostate, edged him a couple of times as his tension rose, his color darkened and his muscles stretched. I reached down, kissed him just under the ear lobe and licked my way to his lips as he thrashed beneath me. When I dropped to his lips and pulled him toward me, he exploded tightening his sheath around me so as to bring on another climax. His legs came up and trapped me to him, holding me hard and moist inside. Even after four months of intense sex, we could still manage two per on most occasions. Then I let him spoon me with his massive softening cock resting in my crack. I pushed back in and invited his hand to cup my balls. Another gift, this time from me to him.