by J. M. Lee
Cassius sauntered down the boardwalk, past the people who whispered and pointed as he walked by. He wore a light gray linen suit with a tight white collared shirt that painted his fit, muscular body beautifully. He would have to thank Dashawn properly for the referral, Gino from Naples was a godsend. He fingered around with his cufflinks as he turned the corner sharply and entered a bistro. From the outside, it looked a bit small towny with its solid black canopy with the Ten Thirty Eight spelled out. Truly, though, it was a high-end establishment. The only people who ate there were A-listers. If you had not been in the news in the past month, best you didn’t even try to make a reservation. He was there to meet a friend of his.
Cassius didn’t even have to talk before the hostess, Majeste, was leading him to a table.
“How are you, Mr. St. John?” she asked, long dark curls bouncing as she walked next to him.
“Fine,” he said curtly, not in the mood for small talk. He was feeling the slightest bit antsy today. Who knew why.
She gestured towards Cassius’s favorite and highly-coveted corner booth where a man in a suit duller than his already sat. “Your guest is already here, and I’ll have someone around to take your orders in a few minutes.”
“Great.” Cassius broke off from her path and weaved himself through the tables, sliding into the booth quickly when he arrived. “Hey, babe,” he said, smiling without flashing his teeth. The man stood briefly to greet him.
“Hey.” The man sitting next to Cassius, Roger Escobar, grinned back. Toasted almond skin, wide mouth and hooded eyes, Roger was handsome in the unconventional sort of way Cassius liked his men. He was also Cassius’s accountant. Not his main one anymore, but someone he found little projects for so that he could see him once in a while. “How are you?”
“I’m good.” He allowed his gaze to drift from Roger’s face, to his barrel chest, further down, retracing the path on the way back up. Leaning back into the booth, Cassius’ eyes met his in a heated gaze.
Roger turned red as the napkin on the table, shifting uncomfortably. “You know there are cameras in here, Cash. I thought you wanted to go over CPA stuff.”
Cassius pouted. “No, you didn’t. But that’s fine. We have time.”
“My lunch is an hour and a half.”
“Send Bernie an invoice for the OT,” Cassius said.
Roger nodded. “Tessa wants me home by 9. Her parents are coming over.”
“We’ll be done well before 9.”
“Good.”
Cassius took Roger’s hand under the guise of the table. His thumb caressed Roger’s wrist. “I’m not really hungry.”
“You need the protein, though, don’t you? We can’t have anything tearing before the game against the Packers this Sunday.”
“I’ll have Shere make me a shake later.”
Roger nodded as he took a sip of his drink. Vodka Redbull on the rocks always made those little bubbles that popped even when Cassius was kissing Roger. They had been seeing each other for a while, and it still felt like a fling every time they were together. Cassius always shrugged it off. Left him freer to be in a fling.
He didn’t know what, or who he was waiting to be free for.
They talked for a bit before leaving together and heading to Cassius’ hotel suite. Roger spoke against it, but Cassius loved to be tangled in the web of the rumor mill while he was still in town. Being talked about was the only thing he liked better than sex.
They were climbing the stairs trying to stifle their laughter and not fall down. Cassius walked before Roger, swinging his big, firm butt invitingly, making it impossible to resist. He scarcely even tried, to be fair. Roger’s hands were all over Cassius’s hips, cheeks and lower back. A hand slid between Cassius’s thighs, trailing over the fabric which framed his behind so nicely.
He had been hard for ten minutes straight by now - ever since he pretended to tie his shoelaces in front of Roger. After three Pineapple and Patróns, Roger could not care less that they were out on the street, where anyone could see. His hand had fallen on the small of Cassius’s back, his crotch brushed against Cassius’s behind.
It made Cassius laugh.
What more could he want? He got paid the GDP of a small country to play the sport he loved, they passed a billboard with his face on the way home, he only ate fried bologna sandwiches on his cheat days, his friends sent him memes people made of the outfits he wore at press conferences. His dad only had to worry about fishing trips and keeping an eye on Cassius’ football stats now, instead of working three jobs. And, when Cassius didn’t want to be bothered, he could send Roger back home to Tessa.
He had built a good life for himself.
Cassius leaned against the door of the room when they finally reached the suite, alive and unscratched. He was sure hotel security got an eyeful of Roger’s hand massaging his crotch in the elevator. He let his head and torso rest on the heavy wooden door as he perched up his behind, letting out a giggle that worked so well with Roger.
Fingers were sliding all over Roger’s upper leg. Each time Cassius threatened to move a little higher up, while desperately looking for the keys with his free hand.
Roger let out a groan when Cassius made good on his threat, tickling Roger enough to make him wiggle his hips. Cassius produced the keycard from his pocket and inserted it into the lock , all the while pressing Cassius against the door and leaning to nuzzle his neck.
“Oh, my bad, are you ticklish?” Cassius teased.
Sensitive as ever, Roger chuckled at the sensation spreading up and down his neck. His teeth nipped trails along Roger’s skin. Roger’s fingers were busy with the buttons of Cassius’s shirt, opening them one by one from top to bottom until his muscled torso was all but bare.
Cassius pushed open the door and let them stumble inside. Along the hall, his clothes got spread on the floor. First, his jacket, then his shirt, his shoes followed.
Cassius stood for a moment, letting Roger take off his trousers. “A hand, please?” His voice was barely a rumble, compared to Roger’s soft thunder.
Roger’s hand trailed Cassius’s spine, fingers barely grazing his skin. His fingers trailed over Cassius’ abs until he reached the edge of Cassius’s denim trousers and traced them around the waist until his hand rested at the edge in front. He hooked his thumb inside the edge, while pulling Cassius closer with his other arm. Roger’s athletic torso grinding against Cassius’s broad back, Cassius rocked the palm of his right hand against Roger’s crotch.
Thick and bulging. His mouth watered.
Roger unzipped Cassius’s trousers and peeled them downward. Cassius stepped out of them and kicked them aside. Both of Roger’s arms were around Cassius’s torso, his hard manhood rubbing against Cassius’s cheeks, firmly packed in the tight black briefs. His thickness aching, his breaths short and shallow, his gut tingling. He let out a breath of air just under Cassius’s ear, then bit him so suddenly that Cassius gasped.
They moved down the hall not letting go of each other, their hands caressing one another, their bodies grinding. Blind with lust, Roger was pushed Cassius into the wall as they bounced back and forth all the way to the living room. Cassius caught sight of himself for a brief second and smirked.
They stumbled onto the backside of the sofa, centered in the room, Cassius letting out a little moan as his crotch pressed against it. He perched up his bottom and pushed it harder against Roger’s dick. His back shivered under Roger’s fingertips and in the next moment, Roger was ripping their underwear off and grinding his thick, long dick between the soft cushions of Cassius’s behind. Roger gave his ass a hard slap before moving away to roll on the condom and lube himself up.
Cassius could only do so much not to grind himself into the couch. His heart skipping beats, breaths so shallow they were almost nonexistent.
“Do it,” he whispered. He rested his upper chest against the back of the sofa and laid both hands on his butt. The touch felt nice, even when it was with his own hands. H
e spread the cheeks as far as he could, feeling the tightness of his skin start to tingle.
Roger swatted his hands away hard, hard and rubbed himself Cassius’ entrance, making him slick. The tip of his length pressed hard against Cassius and slowly, painfully, broke inside for only an inch.
Cassius fluttered on the back of the sofa, moaning and raising himself up to the tips of his toes, hands holding and massaging his behind. Pain spread through his body first. It made him so tense he could hardly endure it, but Roger pulled out a little, letting him relax for half a heartbeat before pushing in again. He rolled his hips in slow circles over and over until the gasps turned into moans.
When Cass started to push back on him, Roger abandoned all sense of mercy. He pulled almost all the way out, then pushed back into Cassius hard and fast. So fast, in fact, that they shoved the couch forward.
“Yeah,” Cassius whispered, as he came to his senses. “Just like that, fuck--”, he started to say, but the rest was cut off with a gasp.
Roger slammed back in like he fucking had something to prove. Tugging furiously on his own dick, Cass fluttered around Roger’s hard, swollen length. He enjoyed the sensation of being deliciously full.
Cassius bit his bottom lip hard as Roger rocked himself in deeper, deeper, harder. He could feel the burn of his throat with every sound that escaped, louder each time Roger pushed his cock forward.
When Roger grabbed hold of his throat from behind, he keened low in his throat. He sucked a deep breath of air which Roger kicked up the next moment. Hyperventilating, Cassius kept his mouth wide open and bounced on the balls of his feet. He could only muster yes a few times before his cock started jerking up and down, untouched and harder than he could ever remember it.
If he wanted to hold it off, he failed. By the time Cassius realized he was about to come, it was too late. Roger was hitting a spot deep inside of him that just drove him hungry to orgasm. Come burst out of the swollen tip of his cock and sprayed the back of the sofa, while Roger picked up the pace and held Cassius’s neck tightly in his grip.
“Fuck,” Roger mouthed, and in one sudden move, he pulled himself out. Cassius gasped, still feeling the after-effects of his orgasm. He waited for his breathing to return to normal, burying his head into the couch. The air conditioning cooled his overheated skin.
Cassius sighed happily. He was unable to move. All his muscles ached and tensed and relaxed when Roger released him with one last, playful slap.
Bernie would, no doubt, give him shit about not getting back the incidentals on the room. Bernie would live.
Waited So Long
Time never felt fast for Cassius. Not usually, anyway. Sure, he was well beyond high school and college, but he was not middle aged quite yet and still planned to maximize the years he had until people started asking him why he had not settled down. This was part of why seeing Joaquin Gaston after what seemed like decades felt odd. The sight of an old friend he had grown a bit distant from since the college days made his lips curl into a smile and his stomach twist into a ball. We’re only as young as the minute. He got out of his car and tossed the keys at the valet as he headed inside the restaurant they had agreed to meet at for lunch.
Cassius found his seat and waited for Joaquin. It wasn’t like him to be the second one there. Life pulled them in different directions; it wasn’t like they really knew each other anymore either. He had gone on to a successful and currently thriving career in the NFL. People talked about him constantly, in the same breath as greats like Emmitt Smith and Tony Dorsett in sports bars, the privacy of their own homes, at the water cooler. It was quite literally Joaquin’s job to know his stats and like the back of his own hand. Joaquin gave people their talking points to recite like rote. It was Cassius’ job to break records, raise the bar higher than it had ever been for running backs.
Joaquin, on the other hand, was picked late in the draft and had a few lackluster seasons before quitting to be a sportswriter. He was a great sportswriter, one of the best to come on the scene thanks to his English degree, but sports writers weren’t the envy of the sports world, adored by children and grown men alike.
His trainer, Raheem, would kill him for eating the bread set out before him. He settled for tearing a piece off the corner and dragging it through the spiced olive oil. Rosemary, thyme, oregano, sage? He inhaled deeply, but ultimately put it down on the saucer. Probably wasn’t vegan, either. He rolled his eyes. Immediately, a nervous-looking waiter came over to investigate.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Saint John?” Cassius winced at the mispronunciation of his name, but waived him off without a word.
Cassius wondered if Wah was happy at least. He knew that was all he wanted. He couldn’t tell if he was happy at the moment, and while he tried to figure it out, Wah came striding through the door with that same collected grin he had since they were freshmen in college. He used think about that smile. He had forgotten how it brightened up his whole face. Wah’s eyes crinkled up when he saw him, and Cassius swallowed hard.
“Cash!” he said.
Cassius stood to give Joaquin a hug. Their bodies meshed, it seemed. The hug was a few seconds too long, but he still felt a loss when Joaquin pulled back and took a seat. A chill slivered. He shivered to shake it off.
Joaquin didn’t look nearly as haunted. He calmly sat and began leafing through the menu, muttering about what he had for lunch yesterday and the day before that, then about how he forgot to eat lunch the day before those two and regretted it at two in the afternoon when his stomach started growling during the meeting with the staff he supervised, then he gave a quick thirty second rundown of some encounter with an assistant coach he liked and was possibly almost nearly dating but not really. Cassius’ ears perked up in recognition of the guy. He had been with them two seasons ago. He liked to give Cassius shit about wearing crop tops during practice. Cassius liked winking at him to see the guy blush and stammer.
Cassius should call him up to play catch up.
Seeing Cassius’ faraway expression, Joaquin apologized for talking so much, then he looked up, smiled. “And what about you?” He somehow made the flash of pearly whites humble.
“You don’t watch your own station?”
Joaquin rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Not really.” Cassius wasn’t in the mood to talk about himself, nothing truly personal anyway. Joaquin looked so good. So, so good. He wanted to be that good. He gave a smirk. “Shall we order?”
Say My Name
Mornings were hard. Light was not yet pouring into the currently dark bedroom. Cassius breathed a sigh as heavy as his sleep-deprived limbs. He lay in bed stiff and sore. His body felt horrible after every practice no matter how much ice he used and how hot of a shower he took after. It was the aftermath of the adrenaline and glory. He thought one day he might get used to it. He was still waiting for that moment.
Eventually, Cassius found his bed rest pillow and his tablet in the pitch black and sat up pull up his favorite gossip talk show. Easy enough, there was one with his name right in the title. Click bait, no doubt. He liked it better than the Sports Station highlights because they were trashy and rumor-filled, not about fumbles and successes but affairs and baby mamas. He also made the occasional but tasteful appearance. Today was no different.
The woman in the video had poured her curvy form into a tight-fitting black dress that showed off all her cosmetically-enhanced glory. She was on some reality show his mama liked to chatter to him about, but he couldn’t remember her name. Her makeup, as Shere would say, was beat to the gawds. She read horribly from her teleprompter. Cassius didn’t care, though. He just liked to hear his name:
“The night before last, Cassius St. John of the Saratoga Scorpions was seen walking out of Club 180 with James Clyde, assistant coach of the Bears! Sources say the two men appeared to look cozy in the booth before making a hasty retreat,” She gaudily wiggled her eyebrows and chuckled to herself.
“Cash St.
John said he DGAF about nothing y’all talking about,” her co-anchor, Miss Jill said, laughing. Tossing his trademark pink feather boa, he gave the camera a knowing look, eyebrows arched high. Years ago, Miss Jill got a hold of Cassius’ number and sent him a picture that showed he was all male underneath the false lashes and the painted lips.
Cassius smiled. Miss Jill was not his favorite presenter. At least he said his name right, though. Most people pronounced it “Saint John” rather than “Sin-Jin.” It was about time he got some recognition in the proper way.
His phone buzzed from the bedside table, a constant stream of notifications popped up. Cassius caught it before it fell to the hardwood floor. A name he wasn’t used to seeing was the sender. Joaquin Gaston. He began to scroll through the messages:
Wtf
Like wtf dude
Really
Thought you were better than that.
Not cool
It had been stupid. It had been stupid and selfish and stupid. Cassius wasn’t even sure why he had done that. The guy wasn’t good enough in bed nor did he have enough personality to have been worth something in his life that felt real, the one thing that— Cassius couldn’t even finish his own thoughts. He began to detach himself.
He read the words ‘immature prick’ before clicking his phone off. He tried to not feel a little bad over the fact that he unashamedly slept with someone Joaquin had expressed interest in not a week before. He told himself that he couldn’t feel bad. He was an NFL player. He got what he wanted. He deserved what he got. If Joaquin wanted the guy, he should’ve been faster.
He lay back down on the bed and covered his face with the blanket. Soon, he’d make himself start to believe that.
Synesthesia
Today felt off, like the world was tilted a few degrees off and keeled over in front of the sun. Today felt off in a way that made Cassius anxious. His fingers twitched without warning, and his heart beat too fast. Throughout the day, he kept trying to ignore it. Game day was no time to be off, after all. He would take deep breaths between plays, take a sip of water whenever it was available, stomp, shake his legs, do anything to keep himself present in the moment.