Back in the Game

by R. W. Clinger

  Chapter 5: This Isn’t Going to Work

  He called me first thing the next morning, but I chose not to answer my cellphone. Instead, I showered, enjoyed what I called an “alone breakfast” that entailed two cups of coffee, two sausage links, two sunny-side-up eggs, and two slices of toast. Sometimes I enjoyed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, but not that morning. Once the “alone breakfast” was finished, I attended a meeting with Luther Coffler, my immediate supervisor regarding a side judge position for the Eagles.

  The meeting with Luther was at his vintage bungalow on the beach. The place was salmon-colored with too many windows, a wraparound deck, and an attractive view. The summer day was balmy with its low humidity, bright yellow-sunflower sun, and tender wind. Luther’s wife, Jazelle, a fifty-seven-year-old Congo queen with skin the color of burnt soil, served Madagascar coffee and cinnamon rolls on a bamboo table at the rear of the bungalow that overlooked the Gulf.

  Luther looked exhausted. His black exterior resembled something pale and almost gray. His eyes were deeply set, and he hadn’t shaved in what looked like two days. Rumor had it that he suffered from prostate cancer, declined any medical treatment in the modern day medical world, and was riding out his last days doing exactly what he wanted. My heart bled for the ex-Eagles player and his drama. He was dying right before everyone’s eyes, rotting away from the inside out, and there wasn’t a damn thing he wanted to do about it.

  I knew my future with the professional football team entailed filling his shoes as a side judge. He wasn’t going to live forever because of his disease. His cancer doctor had given him less than six months, if that. Honestly, his position as a side judge was going to be a tough role for me to fill since he was considered an athletic hero and a football guru. I was willing and courageous enough to take on his role, though. Never did I have it in mind to fail him, the Eagles, or myself.

  We worked diligently for two hours, and I left the man’s side boggled, flooded with information. Luther clarified the duties and responsibilities that I would take on for the next few weeks as his student: attend every practice, study his binder of side judge notes, absorb plays on the field, know every rule of the game, and don’t become overwhelmed.

  * * * *

  Although I attempted to decline Aaron’s proposal for lunch and what he referred to as an “afternoon quickie” following my lesson with Luther, I ended up at The Thunder Room with him and enjoyed a Caesar salad and pair of Long Island iced teas.

  He had no pride and flirted with me. He toyed whimsically with me over our alcoholic beverages and implored across our two-person table, “I’m going to fuck you so hard after we leave here.”

  “I have to tell you that you won’t be doing it.” What I didn’t tell him was that he had lost his pizazz in the bedroom and could no longer rock my world, whether we experienced an afternoon quickie together or a three-hour session. Aaron no longer possessed his sexual stamina, “triple-X thunder” as he so often referred to his libido, or properly provided my ass with pleasure.

  Frankly, I had lost interest in him, but that didn’t prevent me from leaving The Thunder Room at his side and returning to his condominium. Perhaps it was the strong Long Island that caused me to react the way I did. To this day, I’m not really sure. Semi-blitzed, I ended up under the tight end’s weight again, bent over his Belgium sofa, and bored.

  His cock lacked luster yet again. What happened to the man who had once banged me with stallion force and pounded my ass with euphoric lust? Where had the fun concerning his rough and pleasurable rides gone? No longer was the naked beefster satisfaction for my cock-needy bottom. Rather, he was quite motionless, inactive, and inadequate. Aaron had misplaced his homoerotic humping skills somehow and somewhere. The guy’s penis was no longer a turn-on, and I pretty much told him so, revolted by his sexual action.

  It was awkward to stop him during his attempted screw. Challenged by the moment, deficient of any pleasure whatsoever while he attempted to produce his indulgence, I simply huffed and shook my head.

  “Stop, Aaron. This isn’t going to work.”

  He seemed dumbfounded and motionless, with his cock planted in my ass. “What do you mean?” The man held my hips at the time, palms cupped against my muscular and bulbous shape.

  “Us. This. I’m not feeling it. And you can’t tell me you’re feeling it.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked a second time, lost and confused, already growing soft inside the latex. “I’m having a good time.”

  “That makes one of us,” I replied, unfortunately sharing my honest emotions with him. “I should go home.”

  My visit ended shortly after those two disagreeable acts: his motionless ride with my rear and my refusal to commence his tawdry ass-work. I quickly dressed. with lube still smeared against my ass-crack. Then I kissed him goodbye on his cheek, attempted a false smile, and made a wobbling exit.

  Over my shoulder, I said, “See you around. We’re still friends. We’ll always be friends, even if the sex isn’t working.”

  * * * *

  Turtle Bay Reef

  The Seaside Reef Bar & Grille

  July 20, 20—

  12:17 P.M.

  Some summertime had slipped by since my sexual encounter with Aaron occurred. We hadn’t spoken or chatted following our brief affair. Truth told, he fell back into his life, and I hobbled back into mine. Good things end. Survival happens. Life does go on.

  I had decided at The Seaside Reef Bar & Grille that my once-lover was going to survive my sexual rejection. To my surprise, Aaron was being cuddled by the most adorable set of brown-haired twins during the restaurant’s busy lunch hour. The establishment was wall-to-wall queers, which drew me in to relax and enjoy fresh crab cakes and a chosen beverage. The place was what I perceived as quietly homosexual with a seashell motif and Adele songs. It offered a beautiful blue view of the Gulf.

  As for the twins on either side of Aaron, they were just as scrummy as the crab cakes. The identical pair had cinnamon-colored eyes, rounded chins, and beefy bodies. The brothers and Aaron talked and laughed as if they were dear friends, but I knew better. Twinkles in the twins’ eyes were visible, clarifying their hunger for the tight end, and vice versa.

  Perhaps I was unseen at my corner table. I don’t know to this day, and it doesn’t really matter. I minded my own business, enjoyed my meal, the black-and-white pages of the daily Turtle Bay Reef Caller, and went on my merry old way. To loathe Aaron seemed ridiculous. The man represented exactly what I wanted: love with another man, or men in his case. Instead, I rather enjoyed the view of him, his twins. Aaron seemed happy with the brothers, infatuated with their playful smiles and sexual hungers. Good for him.

  Chapter 6: Things Will Get Better

  Downtown Turtle Bay Reef

  Shell Street

  Turtle Bay Reef Apartments

  Apartment 3-B

  July 20, 20—

  6:02 P.M.

  My yes and no undertakings that evening:

  Yes, I kept a tidy apartment. Everything had its own place. I wasn’t untidy or unorganized.

  No, my life wasn’t really in a state of disarray. I wouldn’t live that way. Never.

  Yes, I had a slight obsessive compulsive disorder thing going on inside my head, but only according to my close friends. It wasn’t anything to see a shrink about.

  No, I wasn’t crazy. At least most of my friends believed I wasn’t crazy. But what did they know?

  No, I didn’t like it when things were out of place, sort of how I didn’t like it when people had their lives out of whack. Honestly, my world flourished as well-organized but not flawless. Like others around me, I suffered, and greatly. My ankle hurt, I didn’t have a boyfriend, and I drank too much.

  No, I wasn’t an addict. Not with sex, drugs, alcohol, or even sports.

  Yes, I watched a lot of baseball, golf, and other sports. It didn’t mean I had an addiction.

  No, I would never play professional fo
otball again. The nuts and bolts that comprised my ankle had caused that.

  Yes, I believed my ankle was going to hurt for the rest of my life, but I would eventually gain the strength to get used to it.

  No, I wasn’t suicidal. God loved me a little too much to lead me down that dark and narrow road.

  Yes, I was single, alone, and without the company of a man. I was still in the game, however, and quite ready to find an athletic muscle head, doable mechanic, or blue collar hottie to have in my life, to keep at my side as a boyfriend and lover, long-term.

  Amen to all of that.

  * * * *

  Frankie Woodrow, one of my dearest friends, called from his Legend cruise. He had worked for Legend Cruise Line for the last six years. The brunette with blazing green eyes sang and danced in the evenings for the company, floated from one island to the next in the Caribbean, and claimed that he had the best job in the world. He and I had been friends since our childhoods. The queer lived three blocks away from me when he wasn’t afloat in the Atlantic and Gulf. He and I accomplished all the sins that two of us could easily process together, and we were inseparable as besties tended to be.

  Frankie was always to the point, unable to beat around the bush. “I slept with Mr. Right last night.”

  “How many Mr. Rights does that make it this week?”

  He liked his men a little too much. If he remotely believed a guy seemed attractive, he made it a goal to sleep with the guy. Rarely, if ever, did he have long-term relationships with anyone. He claimed them to be useless in his life and not of his character.

  “Don’t judge, Shane. Shame on you. You know I like my dick. I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t. One-night stands are my thing. That doesn’t give you the right to judge, though.”

  Of course, it didn’t. He was right. Shame on me. Clearing the air, I apologized to him for being catty.

  “I went out with Aaron again, and the sex was a nightmare.”

  “Even with hearty inches?”

  “Yes, even with that.”

  “Oh, my. You poor thing. Such a pity. I knew you should have kept him at a distance. It’s all right, though. We sometimes irrationally let our guards down.”

  “It was a pity. Everything about it and him.”

  I told him all of the details I could, and he seemed to enjoy my gossip. He sucked it all in, craved my attention and stories of life.

  Following my spiel, I added, “I hope things will get better for me.”

  “They will, angel. Hang in there. Just don’t be depressed and sound desperate. The right guy is out there for you. You just haven’t leashed him yet.”

  “What ocean are you floating on?”

  “I’m near Cuba. Havana is calling. The island is loaded with beautiful men, which you know is one of my weaknesses.”

  “When will you be back in Turtle Bay Reef?”

  “I’m not sure. Renaldo, my Mr. Right from last night, said he wanted to take me to his casa grande at Isla la Moreles in Mexico.”

  “Never heard of the place.”

  “I Googled it. It’s just a small island off Cancun. It’s beautiful and an American vacation spot. I think I’m going to accept his invitation.”

  “I envy you, Frankie. I want a man to invite me to a Mexican island and his casa grande.”

  He laughed, queenish, light-hearted, and rather annoying.

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “Send me a Cuban to fall in love with. I’m ready.”

  He was just about to tell me something else, but mmy cellphone turned off by itself. Fucking electronics. Neither of us decided to reconnect for the time being. Instead, Frankie went back to his singing and an intimate stranger named Renaldo. I retrieved an unopened bottle of vodka from atop the refrigerator, some cranberry juice, a lime, and helped myself to a few needed cocktails.

  Part 2: Coffler

  Chapter 7: Dark-Skinned God

  Turtle Bay Beach

  Men’s Changing Room

  July 21, 20—

  10:32 A.M.

  Perhaps it was a coincidence that I bumped into Luther’s grandson, James Coffler, inside the men’s changing room on Turtle Bay Reef Beach. A man had to sometimes take a piss when he decided to spend the sunny morning at the beach. Isn’t that what the changing room was for?

  I pissed in a stainless-steel urinal, shook drops of excess urine off the tip of my cock, spun around to the single sink, soap dispenser, and a hand dryer. Once at the sink, I began to wash my hands. The sound of running water echoed inside the brick and windowless structure. The sound resembled the hollow noise that you could hear inside a cathedral or atrium, a light echoing of misshapen and unrecognizable echoes. One fluorescent bulb hung overhead and semi-illuminated the changing room’s interior. Four metal slats above the sink area, flush to the ceiling, comprised the vent. To my right were two undivided showers for sunbathers and swimmers. A graffiti-covered door read, Josh Bish Eats Cocks and Cum! Call 555-8988 for a Blowjob!

  Behind me, a familiar voice said, “Mr. Polk, what a pleasant surprise to see you here.”

  I spun around and took in a massive dark-skinned God in bright yellow running trunks and matching Nikes. He was cocoa brown and edible. James Coffler, Luther’s grandson, eyed me from ankles to head, studied my bare chest, my Adidas swimsuit, and my left ankle, which showcased zigzagging scar tissue from my previous operations.

  The guy beamed a hearty smile from ear to ear. Pink lips separated, and white teeth gleamed. “You’re back from Pittsburgh.”

  “I am. Humans can only stay in one place until they get bored.”

  “Are you coming to practice this evening? Rumor has it that you’re going to take over my grandfather’s position as a side judge.”

  I nodded and said, “I’ll be there. And, yes, Luther is teaching me everything I need to fill his shoes. He’s a good man. I rather like him and have the utmost respect for him.”

  Frankly, I couldn’t keep my intrusive stare from locking on the man. He looked half Cuban and half African, sexy as hell. The twenty-nine-year-old wide receiver had a six-four frame, weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, and was bald with a gleaming head. His cauliflower-shaped ears were adorable, and his hairless and plated chest looked like creamy semi-sweet chocolate. I thought his amber-colored eyes might have been contacts. His navel was a small indentation among his rippled abs, which were completely hairless. And both of his arms were covered in dark blue tattoos: crosses, a Bible, Jesus, the books of the Bible, two angels, and a rosary. Of course, the man was cocoa perfection, and something I had wanted to taste for the longest time, although I was never given the opportunity. What queer didn’t want to take a lick of that muscle-pumped chocolate, right?

  “You swimming today?” he asked while sliding past me, positioning himself at the same urinal I had just whizzed in.

  “I was. What are you doing here?”

  “Running. I do ten miles along the beach.”

  “Wished I could join you, but my ankle would never hold up.”

  “That’s too bad, Shane. I’m surprised you’re even walking, if you want to know the truth.”

  “I wasn’t for quite some time. The doctors in Pittsburgh knew what they were doing.”

  “Apparently. The place has a reputation for outstanding doctors and their knowledge of medicine.”

  I stared at the man’s massive back as he took his piss: muscled, tapered at his bulky waist, and covered in a large crucifix tattoo. Without even realizing it, I licked my lips. I thought of carrying out the nastiest actions with his built body and releasing a pent load all over his shoulders and the back of his neck.

  “Shane?”

  “Yeah?” I replied, snapping out of the fantasy.

  “Come over here for a second.”

  “What for?”

  “Just come here. I’m not going to bite you.”

  Too bad for me because that’s exactly what I wanted him to do to me. I moved up to him as he instructed and checked out th
e soft and uncut inches of dick that could have dropped me to my knees and forced me to feel (and become) easy. The thing had to be almost two inches wide, humungous and alluring for my horny needs. The ninth or tenth wonder of the world, I surmised, chuckling inside.

  “Get behind me,” he instructed. “Don’t be shy. Just do it.”

  I listened. What for? I really didn’t know, but I did. My chest locked against his crucifix tattoo, I pressed my swimsuit-covered dick against his tight ass. I breathed on his neck and inhaled his sweaty scent.

  “Now what?”

  “Give me your hand, man.”

  “Why?” My voice wavered. Unsure what exactly was happening in the changing room, I lost clarity as the seconds ticked by in his company. What was he up to? What was going on? And why was I enjoying myself?

  “Stop asking so many questions. Give me your hand and trust me.”

  His size, color, and aggressive nature scared me a bit. None of those details seemed to matter at that moment, though. Instead, I listened to his instruction and moved my hand around his hip.

  Coffler wrapped my hand around his cock and said, “Give it a squeeze and a jack. What do you say?”

  I gave the joint a squeeze and a single jack, just as he had said. Veins and warm flesh aligned with my palm and fingers. Then urine was sprayed out of his limp dick in a long arc, which splashed in the urinal’s concave structure.

  “You like black cock?” he asked.

  “Actually, I do.”

  “You nervous?”

  “How can you tell?”