Back in the Game

by R. W. Clinger

  “How is Marcus?” I asked, referring to the last football player who happened to split our relationship apart.

  “Marcus Mulldone?” Aaron raised his eyebrows and lost the smile on his face for the very first time that morning. He never really liked when I brought up his boyfriends or sex buddies, old or new.

  “Yes. The one and only. You dumped me for him and moved into his apartment on Spanish Street in Naples eight months ago. Can you recall this, or is it a blur for you?” I sounded bitchy but really didn’t mean to. Frankly, I just wanted to hear what was going on in his life, details I had missed while at rehab.

  He shook his head, bowed it, and admitted, “Marcus left. Karma caught up with me. I should have known it would. You can’t hurt a guy and not expect it to leave you alone. Do you know what I mean?”

  I wanted to chuckle, but I didn’t. Good friends never rubbed salt into each other’s open wounds. Instead, I nodded and attempted to console him.

  “When did he leave you?”

  “A month after you left for Pittsburgh. He said we were going nowhere together and were becoming boring and old. He called our relationship dusty.”

  “That long ago?” I had seventeen other questions for him about his affair with Marcus, but wanted to keep it light. I cared for Aaron’s heart a little too much as a friend and as an ex-lover.

  He nodded, ate some of his pancakes, and washed the food down with a gulp of water. “He met Ricky Ragoon.”

  “The quarterback for Washington?”

  He nodded and looked a bit hurt. “They see each other whenever they can. It makes me sick if you want to know the truth. I really liked Marcus.”

  “I thought Ricky was straight.”

  “Not with Marcus.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Marcus Mulldone had a way with straight men. He could drink, laugh, and woo them, eventually ending up in bed. The guy had a silk tongue, much charm, and knew exactly what he was doing when playing in the field of men. He bedded quite a few male jocks, sportscasters, and models.

  Aaron decided to change the subject and asked, “Who are you seeing now? What stud has your heart and cock?”

  I shook my head. “No one.” It was the truth. The bad ankle had fucked up my dating life in Pittsburgh, although the fags in that region of the nation were quite cute, petite, and mostly bottoms, which I rather liked. “I couldn’t walk for almost eight months. How was I going to pick up a guy? Who wants to fuck around with an invalid?”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself. A lot of guys dig one-legged linebackers who eat cock.”

  I scowled at him. Sometimes Aaron wasn’t funny, even though he thought he was. “You’re the last dick I had, if you want me to tell you the truth.”

  He seemed surprised by my confession and almost blew chunks of pancake out of his nose. “You’re kidding?”

  “Not at all. Why would I kid about something like that?”

  “Does this mean you need some dick pretty badly?”

  “It means I’m looking. If it comes about, I’ll take it. If it doesn’t, I’ll continue to use my hands like I have been. Isn’t that why men have them?”

  He laughed.

  I laughed.

  Then I told him in a playful tone. “Fuck off, Felding. Get a life.”

  The tight end surprised me by replying with, “My life just came back to town after being away for eight months, which makes me a very happy and horny man.”

  * * * *

  My ankle needed a nap, and I decided to head home following breakfast with Aaron. He insisted on driving me, but I told him not to bother. “I have a car now and can drive. I might be a cripple, but I’m not crippled.”

  I borrowed the car from my cousin, Vinnie Polk. It was a forest green Mustang GT with white-washed tires, a stainless-steel exhaust, and rear gas shock absorbers. The thing was a muscle car all the way and could attract any gay man on the planet who was into fast things, even though that wasn’t who or what I wanted to attract. It was masculine, sporty, and just what I needed to repair from my rehabilitation; something materialistic that made me feel good about myself.

  Vinnie had dropped the vehicle off at my apartment that morning, saying, “Use this. You’ll need it. Think of it as an early Christmas present. You can’t be hobbling around the city and bumming rides, man.”

  So even though I had planned not to have a car to drive, the winds of life had changed and sent me one. Thanks to my cousin, of course.

  Aaron and I shook hands. He said, “Tomorrow night, I want to take you out to dinner.”

  I laughed over my shoulder at him while hobbling away. “You’re just trying to get in my jockstrap.”

  “Seriously, Shane. I want to take you someplace nice.”

  I stopped hobbling, slowly turned around, and felt an arc of pain in my left ankle. “When are you picking me up at my place?”

  “Seven.”

  “Make it eight.”

  “Eight it is.”

  “And where are you taking me?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know I hate surprises.”

  “Whatever.”

  We parted then. I wobbled to my vehicle approximately a block away, and he returned to Palm Field for a sweaty workout.

  Half of me didn’t believe he would show for a date. Another handicapped linebacker with a fucked up ankle would come along and snatch him up and keep him for a month or two. A more rational part of my thinking believed that Aaron was interested in partaking in something special with me. Maybe he was no longer into easy jocks, nights of random sex, and athletic cocks. Maybe the tight end had finally grown up and wanted to get serious with me. Being dumped by Marcus Mulldone could do that, right?

  Then again, maybe Aaron hadn’t grown up. Maybe he was still a boy, an immature boy. Who knew? All I really understood and absorbed was the pain in my ankle, a light stinging with the occasional jolt of heat. Plus, I needed a nap. Vinnie’s Mustang, my apartment on Shell Street, and a morning rest for my ankle called for me. Soon enough, I would be relaxed again, just as I had for the last eight months in Pittsburgh, without Aaron Felding and his questionable liking for me.

  Chapter 3: Destination, Briefs Bar

  I had told myself that I wasn’t in love with the tight end, but I really was, even if he had shattered my heart into a million little shards with Marcus Mulldone’s naked help. Granted, our intimate time as lovers had been very short, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t fallen head over heels for Aaron Felder. In truth, I thought the football player my soul mate, a certain someone I could see myself spending the rest of my life with as his faithful companion. Perhaps I couldn’t hide my emotions from the man (or from myself, for that matter) and was destined to be candidly and emotionally stung by him on a regular basis.

  Had he kept his big cock inside his Eagle uniform, unwilling to flaunt it from one masculine ass to the next, I was quite sure he could fill the Prince Charming role in my world. But Aaron liked to play the field with a number of “easy” men, and I was left single, without his physical being or soul sealed to me. Bottom line: we were not meant to be together and lived separately, challenged, once again, by our harmful attraction for each other.

  He picked me up on time at my apartment, which was expected. Aaron may have been a cheat with his cock, but he was never late for anything. We rode to Manta Bay, chattering once again:

  He said I had over-dressed.

  I told him to fuck off.

  He said he missed fucking me.

  I told him that my ass wasn’t putting out.

  He laughed.

  I laughed.

  And before we both knew it, we were on Sponge Dock Way. He parked in front of a queer place called the Briefs Bar, one of my favorite dude bars.

  * * * *

  Partially naked men danced around us inside the queer bar. Pointed nipples brushed against my arms. A denim-covered cock poked my ass.

  One guy even kissed the
length of my neck and whispered, “If the dude you’re with happens to dump you, I’ll take you home with me.”

  When had I visited the Briefs Bar last? Honestly, I couldn’t remember. It was some time ago, more than eight months, and long before Aaron and I had a month-long sexual fling together. I think a guy from Stockton County, Oklahoma, picked me up, took me back to his hotel room, and had his cowboy way with me. Who didn’t like to be man-handled by a real cowboy, right? But that’s another story, and I’d rather not stray from the topic of spending an evening with the tight end at my side.

  No matter how long ago I had visited the Briefs Bar, I enjoyed the place. The Fun hits were festive, the semi-naked dancing was steamy hot, and the shirtless bartenders were appealing. Even the smell of marijuana pleasured my senses, as well as the hustlers against the wall looking for tricks to blow in the back alley.

  Of course, my dancing with Aaron was limited due to my rebuilt ankle. All three doctors who reconstructed that part of my body would have surely agreed the activity was strictly off-limits. The professionals’ scripted advice didn’t deter me from allowing the tight end’s arms to wrap around my body and hold me against his hulking chest, though.

  In truth, he did all the dancing. I turned to mush in his arms, wooed by his good manners. I enjoyed his musky aroma, captured like a damsel in distress by his uber-sweet spell. I didn’t push him away when he kissed me in a sultry and mind-numbing way. We stayed there, among the frisky bar men and their flaming cocktails and bitchy bantering.

  My mind floated a bit to a time and place when we had been lovers for approximately thirty days. I had felt the same way then as now: glowing, charmed, and mesmerized. Willingly, I had opened my heart to the man back then. I sort of carried out the same achievement while we danced in the present. Huddled against him, I listened to his heartbeat because my left cheek and ear were positioned on his solid chest. Breaking down my emotional wall from his hurt seemed much easier than I anticipated. No longer was I thinking of the heartbreak he had caused me because of his sexual affair with Marcus Mulldone. Instead, I felt a smidgen in love again with the football player. I claimed him mine and imagined our hearts woven together as one.

  We had a slew of drinks, a few dances, and some heavy petting on the dance floor and bar area. He eventually leaned into me and pressed his soft lips against the roundness of my earlobe.

  “We should go back to my place?” he whispered.

  “What exactly do you intend to do with me there?”

  “Make you be the bottom you were always so good at.”

  “What if I told you I was no longer a bottom?”

  He laughed, playing along with my joke. “That day will never come.”

  “Something tells me you want to come tonight.”

  He laughed again and dragged me out of the bar with every intention of taking advantage of me all through the night.

  * * * *

  Frankly, I was not the type of man to fuck just anyone. I had morals and a high standard concerning the cocks I sucked and rode. My intimate activities with men—those few sleepovers that occurred in my twenties—were not simply based on feeling horny. I had to get to know the guy first. Then I could allow him in my mouth or bottom. Never was I keen on one-night stands. That is why I decided to let the tight end take me back to his condo where he could use me the way he intended.

  The two of us had a history together, and one I had enjoyed. To sleep with Aaron seemed like the right thing to do. To spend the entire night with the man was another story. In due time, I would know if I wanted to have breakfast in the morning with him or not. Time was of the essence, of course, like all healthy relationships.

  Chapter 4: The Sex Factor

  “Take your clothes off so I can fuck you, Shane.”

  “You make it sound so promising.”

  “Less talk, more stripping.”

  He helped me remove my tight shirt and khakis, which he formed a pile with on the floor at his feet. The tight end fingered one of my nipples, caused it to grow hard, and then he massaged the other one. He rolled fingertips over my abs and studied my torso like a scientist.

  “If you were laid-up in a hospital bed, how did you stay in shape?”

  “Sit-ups, chin-ups, and rowing.”

  “No push-ups?”

  “I couldn’t do that. In fact, I still don’t think I can.”

  His condominium hadn’t changed since I had last visited. Same walnut-colored floor. Same Swedish furniture. Same Blake Nielson, a local queer artist who worked in thick oils, canvases decorated the walls. Same everything. The only thing that had changed in my world was me and my artificial ankle.

  Dim candlelight illuminated the bedroom. Flickering, jewel-like flames on three candles wavered to and fro. The open bedroom window welcomed a warm, comforting wind inside.

  He stripped out of his clothes, adding them to the pile on the floor. He did a little dance for me, shook his tight ass, and blew me a kiss like a Hollywood star. “My body has missed your body.”

  He probably told that shit to all the dudes he bedded. Whatever. I became more interested in his body than his verbal game. The tight end was rather nice to look at, with his chiseled and hairy chest. I liked that he was tall and comprised of toned muscle. His chest was freshly groomed, and his hair was short and delicious-looking. Aaron’s nipples were a suntanned pink, erect, and ready to be kissed. When he slipped out of his white boxer briefs, which showed off his midsection like a runway model, I ogled his drooping cock and balls, which were hairless, generously sized, and quite ready.

  “Did you miss these, Shane?” He stood approximately two feet away from me and reached for his dick and balls with his hand. He lifted the cock, dropped his balls, and added, “These are yours for the taking, but only if you want them.”

  I wanted the man, unable to tell him otherwise. Nervousness came over me, and I couldn’t speak. It felt as if my throat had completely tightened up and prohibited words from spilling out.

  Aaron had the situation under control, just as he had when we were together, prior to Marcus Mulldune ruining us. Never did I have to worry about who was in control in the bedroom since he had taken on the position as if he were a duck to water. Truth told, the look he gave me—concentrating eyes and a dazzling smile—clearly told me that he was ready to fuck me. He had power over me, but he wasn’t about to hurt me.

  “Come closer,” he challenged.

  “What if I come on you if I do?”

  He chuckled, just as I suspected he would. “Maybe I want you to come all over me.”

  “Suit yourself.” I moved up to him and realized I wasn’t about to leave his condo for the next few hours, or even maybe until dawn.

  * * * *

  How did foreplay not happen? When had I ever decided to fuck a man and not give him some tongue-kisses, active groping, a blowjob, or other sexual delights that determined the first stages of sex between two men? Nothing of the sort occurred with the tight end, though.

  Instead, I fell on his bed on all fours, spread my legs apart, and declared over my shoulder, “Fuck me like you’ve missed me, pal.”

  Aaron listened to me like the sexy and hulking football player that he was. He moved up to my spread legs, leaned over me, and rubbed his hard cock against my tight ass.

  Careful about my sexual antics, not that there were many of those, of course, I said, “You have to use latex. I don’t know who you’ve been with.”

  “Fuck the latex.”

  “You’re not putting your dick in my ass without some plastic on.”

  He gave in, retrieved latex from a dresser, and unrolled it down his slab of dick. “You happy now?”

  “Only if you fuck me hard. Then I might just be happy.”

  “No worries.” He pushed his cock inside me and attempted to rock my queer world as if we were lovers again.

  * * * *

  When did Aaron Felding lose his magic? Had I known the sex with him was going to turn ou
t uneventful and dull, I wouldn’t have let the football player take me back to his place after our fun time at the Briefs Bar. Frankly, I would have hobbled my way home, watched some porn, and jacked off in private, sharing a better time with myself. Who wouldn’t have in my position, since the fuck session with the dude lacked humping? It felt lousy and hurried.

  I did shoot my load on his bed’s sheets, though. And he fired his creamy and thick semen inside the latex that separated us. Good for him…I guessed.

  Spent, he said, “I’m skipping a shower, guy. I want to smell you on me.”

  “You can do whatever the fuck you want, Aaron. It’s your condo, your stinking dick, and your rules.”

  I sounded a bit rough, but I was looking forward to his massive dick inside my system for more than ten minutes. I wanted the slab of dick to hurt me for a good forty minutes, pounding the oblivion out of me. I wanted to feel as if a telephone pole were being shoved up my ass, and the world was spinning off its axis. None of those happened, though. Nothing fiery and unstoppable occurred. Such a pity.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked, watching me dress.

  “I can’t stay.”

  “You don’t want to stay, do you?”

  I didn’t answer him. Why start with the drama shit? Bad sex with a dude never ended an evening well, did it? Instead of being rude and explaining that his ass-ride was one of the worst I had ever experienced, I said, “Call me. Maybe we can hook up again soon.”

  “Maybe,” he said, but I think he knew we wouldn’t. Not anytime soon. Not in a year. Never. How unfortunate and maddening it must have been for him to shake reality’s hand.

  I left his condo, hailed a cab home, took a shower, and went to bed. Snuggled in my sheets, I dreamed of our month-long affair and how good the sex had been back then: indulgent, relentless, and lust-driven. Again and again, he banged me in my dreams with his massive cock, satisfying me, pleasuring me without any conditions whatsoever, unlike our date that evening. A divergence had happened. Neither of us expected our date to close the way it had, but it did. We both had to move on, forward and full steam ahead. We would, without many, if any, complaints from either party.