Back in the Game

Chapter 2: Athletic c***s

Chapter 2: Athletic Cocks

I didn’t have Aaron Felder back, though, or so I believed. Our histories were sketchy as friends and lovers throughout the last ten years. Athletic men always seemed to get in our way and haphazardly ripped our intimate and looped worlds apart. I could count a dozen or more football players (fullbacks, kickers, quarterbacks, and receivers) who had stolen the tight end away from me, most of whom were straight and curious. Never did our affairs last more than three months because of Aaron’s unfaithfulness. The man enjoyed a variety of athletes, disparate to my kicking skills. If a jock happened to wag their naked and hard d**k at the tight end, Aaron was ready for a s*x-session—always.

“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 s*x 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 c**k?”

I shook my head. “No one.” It was the truth. The bad ankle had f****d 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 f**k 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 d**k 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 d**k 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. “f**k 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 f****d 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 s*x, and athletic c***s. 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.