Major League Shutout

Chapter 1-2

O.B. walked into the dimly-lit bar. The Out and Proud was his favorite gay hangout. He thought it ironic that the name of the place he enjoyed the most was in such juxtaposition to his situation: He was anything but out. But it was the classiest gay bar in the city. The others were sleazy and seedy. He felt much more comfortable here, even though the name belied his own status.

Rock music was playing as he made his way through the Saturday-night crowds to the bar. He checked himself out in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor. He decided he looked pretty good, his tight-fitting black tank top showing off his buff frame with his deep, muscular chest and thick biceps. He ordered a beer, turned, and leaned against the bar.

Let’s see what’s on the menu tonight, he thought, sipping his drink and surveying the crowd. O.B.’s s****l preferences weren’t set in stone. He knew lots of guys liked one particular type over others, but for him it depended on his mood. He could get it on with hairy, chubby older guys as well as smooth, slender twinks. Some days, although rarely, he had an appetite for muscled, body-builder types like himself. Other times he preferred average Joes who just needed to be f****d. He appraised the crowd on the dance floor, trying to make up his mind about what would satisfy his needs this night.

He caught sight of a young man looking his way. The guy had an inviting smile and a handsome face.

Mmm, nice, O.B. thought, looking the kid over. He knew the establishment carded the customers, but this guy didn’t look like he could possibly be of age—eighteen maybe. That wouldn’t be legal in here with alcohol being served. So he must be at least twenty-one, O.B. thought again as he watched the guy dance. The kid continued to look in O.B.’s direction and it became clear he was flirting. The dancer smiled, winked, turned his back, and wriggled a very nice, full ass in O.B.’s direction. O.B. decided the twink was worth encouraging, so he smiled back, nodded, and lifted his glass in salute.

The boy seemed to take a deep breath through puckered lips, then raised his hands over his head as he undulated in a slow circle to the beat of the music, running his lips up and down his own bicep.

Hmm, looks like he works out. O.B. felt his attraction to the young guy grow. But how the hell old is he, anyway?

The song ended and O.B. watched as the kid made his way off the dance floor and approached. As the guy got closer, O.B. became aware of how short he was. Can’t be more than five-seven or -eight. Bet he doesn’t weigh more than a hundred-thirty drippin wet. O.B. mentally compared that with his six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-fifty pound frame and found that, for tonight at least, the size differential was a big turn-on.

“Hi, I’m Chuck,” the guy said, sliding in between O.B. and the man standing next to him. There wasn’t much space, so Chuck wound up being pressed against O.B. The boy’s head came up to just below O.B.’s chin, his chest tucked under the bigger man’s own, with O.B.’s hardening c**k squeezed against his stomach.

The man standing next to them looked over his shoulder, shrugged, and moved away from the pair to give them more room, but Chuck didn’t move at first. He just stood and looked up into O.B.’s face with a big smile on his full, pouty lips.

O.B. returned the smile and said, “Hi yourself, I’m Sam.”

“Hi, Sam. Nice to meet you,” Chuck said, finally moving back slightly.

“How old are you anyway?” O.B. asked over the loud music.

“Wanna see my driver’s license?” Chuck retorted, faking a pout. Then he called to the bartender over O.B.’s shoulder. “Hey, Tim! Tell this big, handsome hunk I’m not jailbait.”

The good-looking bartender in a wife-beater smiled, gave a thumbs up and yelled, “He’s legal.”

“There, ya see—I just look young for my age,” Chuck said, giggling and running his hand up O.B.’s arm, rubbing his biceps. “Now tell me your real name,” he added. “You’re just too, too hunky butch to be a Sam. You gotta be a Troy or a Trent or—maybe—an Arnold. Yeah, an Arnold,” he said, squeezing the muscle again.

O.B. smiled. “Sam’s my real name.”

“Oh sure,” Chuck countered with a flirtatious smile. “I bet your last name is Smith or Jones. Right?”

“Take your pick,” O.B. replied, swallowing a mouthful of his beer.

“Married?”

“Hell no,” O.B. said.

“Well, you’re hiding something behind that name—Sam.” Chuck smiled again and asked, “Are you gonna buy me a drink?”

O.B. nodded. “Sure,” he said and signaled for the bartender.

Tim came over and Chuck said, “The usual.”

While they waited for Chuck’s drink, the young man said, “So, Mr.-Sam-Smith-not-married-Jones, tell me about yourself.”

“Nothin’ to tell,” O.B. said, drinking more of his beer.

“Ah, the strong silent type.”

Chuck’s drink arrived. He took a sip and tapped a finger to his chin. He said, “Now I’m really curious. What would be so secret that you couldn’t give little ol’ me a little ol’ hint?”

O.B. had no intention of giving Chuck any information. All he wanted from the evening was a good f**k. And the little man’s ass was tantalizing enough for the baseball player to ignore the insipid tease talk.

“Why don’t you tell me all about you?” O.B. countered.

“Oh, it’s a one-way street is it?” Chuck laughed, ran his hand up O.B.’s chest and massaged a n****e through the taut fabric. “Let’s just leave both our lives a mystery.”

“Fine with me,” O.B. said.

They finished their drinks, making small talk as best they could above the pounding music. Since O.B. had a game the next day, he wanted to get to the main event of the evening. He checked his watch. “How about we go somewhere private?”

Chuck pouted again. “I was hopin’ you’d ask me to dance first. You’re not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of man, are you, Sam?”

O.B. rolled his eyes.

“What?” Chuck said, seemingly feigning hurt.

“I don’t dance,” O.B. lied, wanting to get on with his plan for the evening. He’d wasted enough time with the twink that to start all over could mean going home with nothing but his clenched left fist and lotion to satisfy him. He knew that wouldn’t be gratifying.

“Not at all?” Chuck persisted in the same petulant tone.

O.B. shook his head. “Yeah, I dance, but not this fast gyratin’ shit.”

“Well, we’ll just wait for a slow number. Then will you dance with me?”

O.B. sighed, “Yeah, I’ll dance with ya. But it better be quick.”

“What’s your rush, big guy?” Chuck asked, leaning against O.B. “I’m worth waiting for.”

O.B. had to agree. The kid had a killer body and for some reason their size differential was really getting to him.

O.B. ordered them another round of drinks as they waited for some music that didn’t require hyper-gyrations on the dance floor.

Finally something that could pass for a slow song started. Chuck grabbed O.B.’s hand and dragged him to the floor. O.B. checked his watch. He knew no one would enforce the players’ curfew here at home. Still, he had a game the next day and, after just playing a doubleheader, he needed to get proper rest. He would just have to make this a quick whirl around the floor and get on with the main business of the evening.

As the music played, Chuck nestled himself against O.B., reaching up and wrapping his arms around the big man’s neck, snuggling his head into the catcher’s deep, muscular chest. O.B., in turn, put his arms around the smaller man, stretching down to rub Chuck’s firm ass, lightly caressing the man’s hair with his lips, thinking of what would be happening in just a short while. O.B. was getting hard quickly as his c**k pressed into Chuck’s midsection.

Chuck looked up into O.B.’s face and smiled. Then without warning he jumped up and wrapped his legs around O.B.’s waist, laying his head on his partner’s shoulder. O.B. cupped the man’s ass as Chuck clenched his glutes and rubbed his erection against O.B.’s stomach.

“I want you,” Chuck said in a soft, seductive voice as the pair stood and swayed to the music.

“Not as much as I want you,” O.B. returned. “Let’s get outta here.”

O.B. carried his would-be f**k off the dance floor and set him down. He went to the bar, paid their tab and, with an arm around Chuck’s shoulder, headed for the door. As they walked out, O.B. caught a glimpse of someone standing at the far end of the bar. His heart skipped a beat. For a moment he thought he recognized the man but didn’t know from where. When he looked back again the man was gone.

“How’d ya get here?” O.B. asked once they were out in the parking lot.

“Cab,” Chuck replied.

Good, O.B. thought. Don’t have to deal with that “I’ll follow you home” s**t.

“Come on,” O.B. said as he led Chuck to his Alfa Romeo.

“Ooh, Daddy! Nice wheels,” the little man said.

O.B. brushed off the comment, hoping it wouldn’t lead to questions about the source of his being able to afford such a car. “Yeah, well—get in. Where do you live?”

“Oh, we can’t go to my house,” Chuck said, reaching across the console to give the inside of O.B.’s leg a squeeze. “I live with my folks. Can’t we go to your place?”

Shit, O.B. thought. He lived in an upscale condo with security cameras all over the f*****g place. He’d be seen and recorded bringing a guy home with him.

“f**k, no,” he spat, letting his frustration show.

“You sure you’re not married? Usually it’s married guys that can’t take a date ho—.”

“I told you I’m not married!” O.B. said, feeling irritated at his s****l needs being thwarted because he had to stay buried in the closet.

“Okay, okay,” Chuck said, withdrawing his hand from O.B.’s thigh.

O.B., sensing the evening might be going south, put his arm around Chuck’s shoulders.

“Look, it’s complicated. I really want to be with you, but I gotta be careful. We’ll go to a motel, all right?”

Chuck seemed to hesitate. “Sure, that’s okay,” he finally said, searching O.B.’s face as if looking for some clue as to why the man couldn’t be more up-front with him.

O.B. had gone the motel route before, although he preferred going to someone’s pad. He felt his anonymity was better protected at a private residence. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed across town. He’d go to a Red Roof. They were clean and no one would know him there.

When they got to the motel, he parked away from the office. He couldn’t check in himself. They’d ask for ID. He pulled out his wallet and took out a couple of bills and held them out to Chuck.

“You must have some kind of secret,” the kid said, taking the money and getting out of the car.

O.B. waited as Chuck went into register for a room. Damn, he thought, being gay and in pro sports is the pits. All this fuckin’ sneakin’ around and worryin’ about bein’ caught. f**k! O.B. was glad he wasn’t into relationships. What could a pro athlete do then? In a relationship you couldn’t just stay in bed and f**k. If you had a partner you’d have to divulge more about yourself. You’d have to trust your lover not to talk. But the guy would have friends. He would expect to be able to tell them about you, especially if you were a sports celebrity. And he would want to go out to dinner and stuff. There would be more chance of discovery. No, this one-night, no-strings -attached stuff was the better choice.

He caught sight of Chuck heading back to the car. He let his struggles with the complexities of being a gay sports star recede and turned his mind to the more immediate issue of regenerating the horny mood that had prevailed at the club. God, this kid is one sexy dude, O.B. thought as he began to massage his package.

“Room 237,” Chuck said, pointing to the far building.