by David Connor
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t just say it.”
“I’m not. I… I was basking in the attention I’ve craved all my life, and I forgot what was really important. You. Forgive me?” His face read sincerity, his eyes cast down and his top lip curled on one side.
“Now we’re talking.” I was right back at him, and he was at my underwear. “Don’t. I want to undress you first.”
Still, he tugged.
“I said stop.”
The defiant dick rolled a shoulder out of one side of his jacket.
“What part of the words I’m speaking don’t you fucking understand?”
“You want me undressed.”
“I said I want to undress you.” I yanked out the cord that ran the perimeter of his hood. The act knocked him off-balance. He fell into me, and when we kissed, I took his lower lip between my teeth. “Follow orders. Can you do that?”
“I get to talk?” He barely could, nor could I, so I released him from my toothy vise. “I can’t wait to fuck you,” he said.
With my hand on his throat, I asked, “Who says you’re fucking me?”
His tear-away track pants with the Velcro up both legs added a dramatic flair. Once I had him down to square-legged purple briefs on the bottom, I forced him back against the wall with a hard thud.
“Ow.” He protested, but with a smirk.
“Suck it up, buttercup.” I tied his hands behind his back with his hood string, then quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to get the jacket or shirt off that way. That was okay—for now—since the parts of him I wanted at most were below the waist. I took to my knees and teased him there, barely touching his hardening cock behind the fabric with my mouth. “You breaking rules to be here?”
“Aren’t you?” He twisted his hands. They weren’t tied very tight. He could have broken loose if he’d wanted to.
“That depends.”
“On what? I don’t want to get you in trouble. I’m sure you were told to keep your distance. Some people think gay is contagious.”
“I’m already a carrier,” I said from the floor as I untied Mathias’s shoes. “And my orders were somewhat contradictory.”
“What do you mean?”
“My media people told me to be ambiguous, or else out-and-out lie when it comes to my sexuality. But Coach Keller, at one time not so long ago, said it might do me good to fuck you and dump you right before the qualifier.”
“Shit.” Mathias slouched. “Is that the plan?”
I rose. “Maybe. And we’re right on schedule. I get you out of my system in plenty of time to compete, and you’re so devastated, you never hit your best speed again. I sort of forgot all about it, until just now.”
“But now that you remember, you’re not going to do that—right?”
I grabbed him and threw him hard to the bed. His bounce shook the shelf on one side. Some books fell off, and papers strewn about the bedclothes scattered—a lot of them—boring papers concerning money, which I’d only begun to go through.
“I don’t know.” I started to take his underwear off but stopped with them just past a plethora of dark blond hair. When I noticed what was on the floor with the books, I said, “No. I… I hope not.” Stretching out beside him, I loosened the knots at his wrists.
“I didn’t altogether hate that.” He smiled. “But we really should talk.”
“After.” I climbed atop him and went once again for the part of his underwear featuring an Italian designer’s signature. He stilled my hand, though.
“Before.” Mathias wriggled from under me and sat on one corner of the bed. He reached down for the Dollar Store picture frame and picked it up. “Is this…?”
“My leaf. Yup.”
“You still have it? After all these years?”
“Yes.” I assumed he’d gotten rid of his long ago. He said nothing to counter that thought. “Thanks for the balloons.” I nodded toward them as I scooched to sit on the opposite corner. I had to come up with words of my own, because once he’d said, “We should talk,” and then asked about the leaf, he didn’t say anything else. “I’m sorry again… that I was so stubborn. I was ready to call you in a day or two, but before I knew it, a lot more had passed.”
“They go by so fast.”
“And so slow—all at the same time.”
“The balloons were a bonehead move,” Mathias said. “Too public.”
I took his hand. “No. It was an amazing gesture. And you didn’t include a card. Coach knew.”
“Of course he did.”
“He wondered how you got them delivered in the middle of the night.”
Mathias shrugged. “Internet and tons of money.”
I waited for the jolt of annoyance that normally came with a statement such as that. To my surprise, the only prickle I felt was in my thick, excited cock. “I still don’t get why you’re here.”
“To see you.”
“I don’t get how you’re here.”
“An airplane.”
“Goof.” I touched the beard again, and his lips. “What about training?”
He shrugged again. “They have water in New York. You spent your day in it.”
That caused me to bristle, like the money thing hadn’t. How could he be so cavalier about training so close to the last Olympic qualifying event?
“Two days,” he added. “Though now that I’ve seen you in your underwear again, I’m tempted to stay forever.”
“You’ve seen me in less.” I headed for the bathroom.
“I never found our swimwear the least bit sexy.” Mathias rose. “Those boxer briefs—yeah. Loose in places… tight in others. Mmm.” He followed me around, brushing against me and my proverbial drawers as I rummaged through the other kind in my itty-bitty john, gathering the shaving stuff, and then making my way back to the living room.
“More light and more room out here,” I said. I went to the kitchen and turned on the tap to let the water run hot—it always took a while—while searching the cupboard for a large bowl or pan to use like a basin.
“We’re really doing that?”
“Isn’t that what you came for?” I found a large stockpot my mom had sent home with me one time when I’d said I’d like to try to make soup. I never had. “And you wanted to talk. Two birds….”
“I guess.”
“So… I saw your cover.”
“Nice, huh?”
“You all into being famous?”
“Maybe.”
“You do realize how ironic that is, considering our first real interaction was you wetting your pants when you had to perform in front of the class.”
“T-r-u-t-h.”
“P-r-i-d-e.” When I turned from filling the pot, he was naked. As hot as his body was, all rippling, and shimmery when the light from the wall sconce played off the luminescent light-colored fur, seeing his clothes in a pile on my living room carpet—underwear on top—was perhaps the most arousing thing ever.
“Show up for closing ceremonies like that and I’ll believe you’re ready for your close-up.” I teased him, of course, because I knew he shined in the spotlight these days. “I hate the audience part of the sport. I’m not so good at it, and don’t think I ever will be.”
“You’ve changed, then. The way you stared down teachers and competitors back in the day….”
“It’s different. All I needed to know then was the answer to things—a definitive right one. This is me. I have to talk about me, but not the real me, often on the fly and… well… that was before I started comparing myself to others.” I took a breath. Just the thought of my face on a Jumbotron had me anxious. “So, I got creams and sugaring products, waxes and depilatories, per instruction. I’ve had them a couple years, actually, but the expiration dates haven’t passed. Some of this shit scares me a little. I pretty much stick to my razor, but as long as you’re here—and there’s still a couple weeks to heal—I’m maybe up for something new.”
“No maybe
from where I’m standing. You’re definitely up.”
I was.
“I wax,” he said.
“Then here you go.” I tossed Mathias the one I’d bought, along with the little electrical warming pot that came in a separate box. I stopped reading the instructions pamphlet on a different product long enough to watch as he bent with nothing on to reach an outlet.
“It feels pretty good,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t believe me?” He stood and turned with a smirk.
“I’m sorry some people were mean to you,” I said out of nowhere.
“Who was mean to me?” Was it possible he’d avoided all the online negativity? “No one that matters.”
“You okay?”
The back of his hand stroked my cheek as he walked by. “For tonight, while I’m here, yeah.”
“Good.” I offered a peck. “Doesn’t it hurt?” I could already smell the wax as it started to melt.
“The comments?”
“I meant the wax… but if you want to talk about the other stuff….”
“It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
I still didn’t know which he meant.
“The wax. But at the same time, I always get hard.”
He was already halfway there. “So you’re into that?”
“You’re the one who tied my hands.” He spoke from the bathroom, where he’d gone for the towels I’d forgotten. “If you’re going to put a leather mask on and want me in a dog collar, we might want to come up with a safeword before the actual sex commences. Or am I being presumptuous to think that’s where we’re headed?” He put his hands at my waist as he returned to my side. Picturing my old high school mascot, I wondered who was the shark and who was the prey.
“I think we’re on the same page.”
“Cool.” Mathias looked down into my underpants, where my boner had made a large V at the waistband,
“Let me try on yours,” I requested.
“My undies? That’s hot.” He grabbed them from the floor and handed them over. “Give me yours.”
I obliged, then put his on. “How come you don’t think I’m ugly?” I pushed at the back of my tooth with my tongue.
“Because you’re beautiful.” He traced me from my nose to the top of his expensive undershorts.
“My agent wants me in high fashion, because it’s unexpected, considering how I look.”
“Those kind of people say that kind of shit. You’re an exquisite man… inside and out. You do look good in those… for sure.” His hands went down inside them and he pressed his weight against my chest, moving me across the room toward the bedroom.
“After we’ve completed the task.” I put both of mine on his gut and anchored myself, holding steady as he still tried to bulldoze me across the room. “After.” I grunted. I was stronger, of body if not will. “I’ve never seen you so hairy.”
“I’ve never been so hairy. It grows back thicker every time. You, you’ll be a mastodon eventually.”
“Is it too much?”
He shook his head, more disbelief, it seemed to me, than a negative response. “How can you not know how fucking perfect you are?” Somehow we’d switched positions from when we’d started—and possibly personalities from when we’d first met. I was now insecure, as Mathias had me backed against the kitchen counter. Maybe he was stronger. “Let me do you first.” He took down my underwear and then his own—his on me, mine on him—and pressed our naked bodies together as the smell of the warming wax permeated the entire apartment. “Banana?” he asked.
I cringed, either because of my choice in scents or the thought of my short hairs being torn out by it.
“My favorite phallic fruit.” When he grasped my hard-on, I moaned. “It’s no worse than shaving,” he said, stroking me and reading my mind. “And we are heading for Brazil eventually, so it seems appropriate.”
“So, I’m thinking. I do that a lot. And even though I really didn’t expect you, now that you’re here… if we do this… and then tomorrow I swim poorly, we’ll have to not do it again before Rio. Hopefully there’ll be time to undo whatever having sex might—”
He silenced me with a kiss. We did it like we used to, back when kissing was all we could do. “Okay. I’m good with that. I would never do anything to screw up your swimming—or to make you too sore a couple weeks before you have to.”
“I know.”
“Do you? We’re competitors.”
“I love you.”
Mathias turned away. His reaction was exactly opposite of what I’d expected, and I was shocked by what he said next. “I thought it would be different somehow, after all this time, but you know what? It’s not going to work.” He picked up the leaf from the bed and held it to his heart. “I just can’t believe that, I guess. I can’t.”
I wondered what the hell had happened.
17
MATHIAS SLUMPED against the refrigerator. Only three beige speckled tiles separated us, but the distance felt a lot greater.
“You don’t believe I love you?”
“It’s funny. Everyone who’s supposed to be guiding me has something different to say. It’s appropriate they’re referred to as handlers, because ever since I came out, I feel like an animal in some kind of dog and pony show. Some of my coaches think I should exploit the gay announcement for all it’s worth. Attend rallies and events, act like it’s Pride week fifty-two weeks a year, and never show up in public without a man on my arm. Others say play single, so fans think they have a chance at getting with me.” He’d put both “fans” and “getting with me” in air quotes. “Still others suggest I ‘tone it down’ altogether, because my fame will be fleeting without endorsement deals, and those are ‘severely limited’ for gay celebrities. I mentioned Ellen pushing CoverGirl, and they told me it was different for men and challenged me to think of one gay man as ‘popular’ and ‘accepted’ among ‘regular’ people as she is.” Mathias’s fingers were getting a workout with all the air quotes. “I’ve got whiplash from trying to listen to all of them.”
“All of them? How many coaches do you have?”
“I don’t know. Half a dozen… eight. One for publicity, one for nutrition, one for exercise, one for mental preparedness…. Plus a manager, an agent, and three swim coaches.”
“Three? It takes that many when you’re rich?”
He sort of smiled. “I guess. Screw ’em. I’ve waited so long.”
“I don’t want to be your revenge game.”
“You’re not.” He reached out almost all the way to me with the hand not holding the leaf. “I promise.”
“Is that why you came out publicly, to be disobedient to the ones saying not to?”
“What if I told you I did it to rescue you? You were having a hard time that day, remember?”
“Is that true?”
Mathias shrugged. “Maybe. All I know is it wasn’t deliberate. It was definitely a spontaneous moment. It’s kind of cool, though, that I did it there—in Russia—where gay people don’t get to live free, like we do, where we supposedly do. You know they killed the gay guy on Days of Our Lives?”
“I know.”
“That’s all kinds of wrong, man.”
“For real.”
“I keep waiting for an uprising.” We were still apart, talking to each other across the room. I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t know if he wanted me to. “I got some really sad messages from over there—from Russia. A few people called me a hero. There was a message from a teenager who just wanted to love a classmate and one from an older man who’s loved his partner for decades but can’t tell anyone. I got messages from over here too, stories pretty similar, and some support. As you know, I got some that weren’t so nice too. Maybe I’ll get something going again over there.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not a noble man, though. I never thought of any of that before I said what I said. So, I guess we’ll go with the bratty, spiteful thing. You
know who does this for me?” He nodded toward the melting wax. “I have a guy.”
“So, you not only have a guy to landscape the yard, you also have one to manscape your crotch? Wow. I’ll never understand your lifestyle.” I was hoping to make him smile again. “I had Cal do it a couple times… and my roommate here at Cloverton… just, you know, with clippers.”
“Yeah. Paying someone is easier for me.” He hugged the picture frame. “I’m not so good with intimacy. I’m not good with friends. I don’t have any friends.”
“That’s not true.”
“No. It is.” He hopped up on my counter to sit, all naked and stunning. I focused on his face, to keep my mind off his body and keep it on his words, which seemed so important to him. “And it’s not having a buddy run his finger up and down my cock as he pulls out my taint hair that would be an issue. It’s the conversation and… whatever. See. I can’t even come up with the words with you. For all my sexual experience, I have never felt connected during or after. I don’t know if I can.”
He hopped down, suddenly restless, and walked to the living room, where he carefully set the framed leaf down on the coffee table, deliberately centering it, making sure the little cardboard easel thing held, before he let go. “It’s been a while.” He didn’t sit, and his back was to the counter between us where I stood. “We’re almost starting over. Every time… it’s like that with us. Maybe we do love each other.” He said it so matter-of-fact. “Would I know? Maybe my mother loves me. Did you see her at Worlds?”
I joined him in the other room, which really wasn’t all that separate, just metaphorically, when he’d needed to put a little space between us. “I didn’t see her this time, but I did on TV, when you went without me.”
“Went without you? I didn’t mean to go without you.” He smiled, the tortured kind that was work.
“I know. And I didn’t mean it that way.” Truthfully, I sort of had.
“I’m sorry I went without you.” He brushed my hand and walked by again, back toward the kitchen.
“No, that was silly.”
“It’s that lonely thing for me. Still. I had her there. I had her attention—finally—and yet it wasn’t enough. I can play to the press, because I’m good at pretending. I go into character and recite this dialogue I come up with in my head with no problem as ‘public Mathias Webber, swimmer and future gay icon.’” He showed another half smile. “It’s all an act I’ve perfected, and it helps me make acquaintances, hook up, and join clubs, but eventually I run out of script, and then it falls apart.” He looked right at me for what he said next. “Part of me thinks love is an act too—a big show—like a ton of Christmas gifts, clothes, a car, a bouquet of balloons, or, like, paying a huge amount of money for a last-minute flight to Spain, or Russia, or upstate New York from Arizona.”