Chapter 6 – Chapter 6

The 19th Hole

(Part Six)

I had a bad morning. I was dazed and confused. I was not gay, but I was doing a lot of gay shit. I was worried I could not go through with my plan, and then I'd had no problem doing so.

I was not attracted to men. I had never looked at a man and thought "I'd fuck him." Adam Scott, who was definitely a "gay good looking" golfer, did nothing for me. I did not watch him launch a 3 wood and think, "I'd suck his dick."

I was attracted to women. I wanted to fuck Natalie Gulbis, not Adam Scott. Or Paulina Gretzky, not Dustin Johnson.

But, I also loved Michael. A lot. Hell, I felt like I was in love with him. I missed him when he was not around. I looked forward to being with him a way that I never had with anyone else. I was at a fork in the road, and I had no idea what path I could/should take.

I searched through the internet, trying to find some insight into whether you could be straight and still engage in gay sex, whether you could be straight and still love a man. I found little to help me. The answers were all over the place, and they all seemed to originate in an agenda. Some sites said yes to both. Some sites said no to both. And, of course, some sites condemned me to hell for even asking the questions.

I was going to have to figure it all out myself. Without a guide or a map.

The following Friday, I cancelled on Michael. I was not sure what he'd expect, and I was not sure what I could give. I was too roiled up inside.

I stayed home by myself. By 9 o'clock, I was both horny and lonely. I wanted to text Michael to come over, but I thought better of it. Instead, I smoked a joint (I had awesome new weed), showered, and headed out to one of my favorite pick up joints. I hadn't fucked a chick in months.

I made quick work of the night, finding myself an hour later in a beautiful brunette's bed. I was on my back, and she was trying to blow me. But, she did not know what she was doing, and I quickly lost patience with the accidental teething and the minimal throating. I flipped her off me, licked her clit until she came, fucked her, dressed, and left. I was home before midnight, feeling shitty.

I texted Michael as I settled into bed. "Sorry about 2nite. My bad. Wish u were here."

My doorbell rang about 30 minutes later. I suspected who it was, so I got up, slipped on a pair of gym shorts, and answered the door to Michael, in the pajama bottoms he wore when he slept at home and with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. I opened the door, grabbed him, and held him for as long as I could.

We went directly to bed. I laid on my right side, and Michael spooned in behind me. We were both asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

When I woke up, it was light and, for the first time, Michael was not gone. He was still behind me, his right arm holding me tight, and his morning wood poking at me from behind. I pushed back into him, and he tightened his grip on me. We fell back asleep.

It was almost noon when we woke for the day. We had slept through our tee time.

I slipped out from under Michael's arm and went to the bathroom to piss and shower. I often pissed in the shower, but not this morning. It seemed rude if Michael was going to shower, too, as I hoped he would.

When I was finished, I found Michael in the kitchen, cooking. I took over, so he could shower. While he was in the bathroom, I put out a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt for him. When he was dressed, he came into the kitchen, and it was clear the board shorts left little to the imagination.

"You got any bigger shorts?"

"Not to wear to the pool."

"We're going to the pool?"

"Yeah, it's scorching hot. So, I thought we'd hang here today, take a cooler to the pool, chill out and get day drunk."

"I can't wear these shorts out in public."

"Sure you can. It'll be awesome. The pool's all adults. I can't wait to see how they react to you and your little brother."

Disappointingly, the pool was almost abandoned. Apparently, it was too hot for most even to lay out.

Michael and I spent the day drinking summer beers (we mixed lemon vodka into our beers) and sitting in the baby pool. By 3, we were, in fact, day drunk.

I told him I needed a nap and headed to my apartment. He stayed behind to swim laps.

I changed back into gym shorts and passed out on the coach. The sun and the beer had zapped me. When I woke up, Michael was holding my feet in his lap, and he was asleep sitting up. I laid my head back on the armrest, watched him sleep, and tried to think. But, my head was foggy, and there was no chance at clarity.

It seemed natural that we would make dinner together, and we did. After, we sat on my balcony, drinking vodka (me) and gin (him), and smoking a lot of pot (both). We said little. I could talk to Michael for hours and never run out of things to say. I could also sit with him in silence and never feel the need to say anything.

While we sat there, I surreptitiously popped an X in my mouth and swallowed it. I loved how high X made me fly, and I need to fly as high as I could.

As we relaxed, I put my feet in Michael's lap, and he immediately started massaging them. His hands were strong and firm.

The pot and the X and his touch got me horny. I knew Michael was horned up, too, as I could feel his dick hardening under my feet. I wondered all day how the night would end, and I decided to take the mystery out of it.

"Let's go to bed."

Michael didn't say anything. He removed my feet from his lap, stood up, and pulled me up by my hand. Once I was up, he didn't let go. He led me to the bedroom by the hand. I pulled off my shirt, stepped out of my shorts, and laid back on the bed.

Michael pounced on my dick (per our unspoken understanding, he was still clothed, and there was no kissing). He shamed the brunette from the night before, smoothly and toothlessly swallowing me whole. When I felt his hand move from my balls toward my ass, I spread my legs to provide easy access. Michael worked his finger inside of me and went straight for my prostate, finding it easily. I felt a need overwhelm me, and I gave into it.

"I want you to fuck me."

Michael froze. My dick buried in his throat and his finger buried in my ass, he looked up at me with nothing but a question on his face.

"You heard me right. I want you to fuck me."

Michael sprang out of bed, pulled his shorts off, and dug around in his overnight bag. He returned to the bed with a small bottle, a condom, and a small packet. He rolled the condom onto his dick and emptied the packet onto the condom and onto my ass. Then, he handed me the bottle, told me to snort the contents into each of my nostrils, and to roll over. I did.

Michael told me to take deep breaths as he worked one and then two fingers in and out of my ass. I was loosening up and getting hornier and hornier at the pot and the X and the poppers collided in my head. I felt him move over me, his dick sliding along the crack of my ass. He spread my legs with his knees, placed the head of his dick at my opening, and hovered over me.

"This is going to hurt."

"I know."

"Just keep breathing. And keep snorting."

"I will," I said as I took another deep hit from the bottle.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, goddammit. Now, go!"

Michael pressed into me. I was sure I was going to tear. And shit. I did neither.

It took time and work, but Michael got pretty far in before I told him I could not take any more. He slid in and out of me. Each time he slid in, I felt like I was getting a little more of him. It never felt great, but it stopped hurting.

I knew Michael hadn't fucked anyone for awhile, but I was surprised by how quickly I heard "oh, fuck, I'm going to cum" from behind me. I was more surprised when he drove his dick in as deeply as he could as he filled the magnum with his cum. I gasped and then couldn't breathe. Michael collapsed on top of me, his sweaty chest covering my back and his monster dick buried deep inside me. I have never felt so vulnerable or open to someone else.

As he went soft, Michael slipped out of me. When he caught his breath, he rolled off of me, rolled me over, and took my still hard dick back down his throat. I grabbed his head and worked my dick in and out of his mouth. I should have been gentle, but I wasn't. I was needy and rough. Michael sucked and sucked and sucked until I filled his throat with my cum, arching my back and moaning loudly as I did. It was the hardest I had ever come. Every pore of my body tingled with pleasure.

I fell back to the bed. Michael rested his head on my thigh. We fell asleep.

I awoke on Sunday morning long before Michael, whose head was on my shoulder and whose hand was on my stomach. In the calm and peace and sobriety of the morning, I tried once again to sort out what was going on. I started to confront a few truths. One, whether I was willing to admit it or not, Michael and I were lovers. We had to be. There was no other explanation for what was going on.

Two, there was at least a little gay in me. I could rationalize and say, "oh, it's just Michael." But, "just Michael" was enough. If you are fucking and getting fucked by another guy, you're a little gay.

When Michael woke up, I was trending toward the truth, but I had not fully embraced it. Michael looked up at me, said good morning, and tried to kiss me. Instinctively, I turned my head to the side. Immediately, I knew I had fucked up. Michael flinched, rolled away from me, and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. As I said "come back here," he stood and walked out of the bedroom. I got up, slipped on a pair of shorts, and headed to the living room. I got there in time to see Michael pull the door shut behind him, wearing only his pajama bottoms.

I opened the door to call to him, but he was bounding down the stairs. I then made a series of unsalvageable errors. I should have followed him down the stairs, but I didn't. I should have driven to his apartment, but I didn't. I should have called him on the phone, but I didn't. I should have texted him an apology, but I didn't. Instead, I texted, "Running away is not mature." I should not have hit send, but I did.

Michael did not respond to my text.

As I watched Sunday night baseball wondering what to do, my doorbell rang. Before I opened the door, I knew it was Michael. Deep inside me somewhere, I also knew what was coming.

Michael was wrought. He looked sad and tired. And, he surprised me with his directness.

"We need to break up. I can't be friends with you anymore. I am in love with you, and I know you are never going to love me the way I love you. We are never going to move past each other. We are going to stay in this lane, and neither of us is going to be true to ourselves. You can only give so much, and I deserve more than that."

Michael stood to leave. I tried to stop him, but he was resolute. As I had earlier in the day, I failed to say a lot that I should have. I should have pleaded for patience and time. I should have shared with him that I was trending toward the truth. But, I didn't, as, subconsciously, I saw the easy way out.

Michael did not answer his phone when I called or return my texts. He quit the Club. He moved from Kansas City to St. Louis to care for his infirm parents, despite their rejection of him. He was Michael.

I missed Michael terribly. You never have friends like you had when you were six. Unless you meet Michael when you are thirty, and he lets you in to his guarded world. I missed the sex, of course. But, I missed Tuesdays way more than I missed Fridays. I missed when it was just us, talking endless about nothing or saying nothing about everything.

I tracked Michael through golf. He got really good, and the MGA profiled him in the Missouri Amateur and other tournaments. He won the Missouri Mid-Am. He made the semi-finals of the Missouri Am. He and his partner won the Missouri Fourball together.

Eventually, I stopped tracking him. It was not healthy. I thought it would be better for me if I fell totally, completely out of touch. When I thought of him, I tried to convince myself it was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. But, I was not so sure. He had left a huge hole in my life.

*****

For my 40th birthday, my family and I went to St. Louis for a Cardinals/Royals series. It had been ten years since I had seen Michael. I found him on LinkedIn and suggested we get together while I was in town. It took a long time, but he finally accepted, suggesting we meet at a restaurant downtown before the Saturday night game.

We were seated by the time Michael showed up. I was facing the door, so I could see him walk in. Except for a stylish beard and a little more grey at the temples, Michael looked exactly the same. I stood and met him halfway to our table.

Michael pulled me into a full, warm embrace. When we broke, I introduced him to my expectant family.

"Michael, this is my daughter, Maggie. And, this is my son, Michael. They're both 5. And, this is my husband, Turner."

Michael's eyes went wide. I had named a son after him. I had married a man, wishing it were him.

Turner knew all about Michael. He suggested the two of us have a drink at the bar so we could "catch up." He stayed with the kids.

When we sat down, Michael drove directly to the point. "So, you're gay now?" he asked.

I did not know how to respond. So, I said only, "I'm married to Turner."

"I wish I had known."

"You quit on me."

"I know. But, I wouldn't have if I thought the road was not a dead end."

"You could have stayed to find out where the road led. Things got intense, and you took off. I didn't know how far I could go, but I was trending toward you."

"I didn't think you were a possibility. I thought we were always going to be in that little box. And, that little box was not big enough for me."

I did not have the heart to tell Michael that I was relieved when he left, that I had returned to women, that I had fucked a lot of them, but that I always wound up at home alone, feeling empty.

I also did not have the heart to tell him sex had zero to do with my "switch." After he left and I had finished whoring around, I had gone to therapy about the hole he left in my life. Forced by my bitch therapist to be brutally honest with myself, I realized my penchant for one night stands with women was because I had no connection to them emotionally, that all of my emotional bonds in life had been forged with men, and that I was either going to spend my life having straight sex with strangers I cared little for or gay sex with someone with whom I shared a bond.

As I was thinking all those thoughts, Michael asked me why I had not tracked him down when I finally figured my shit out.

I told him it didn't really happen like that. I had met Turner at work. He had grown up east of Troost, and he moved back to Kansas City after his wife left him. We worked and worked out together. We became friends. I drunkenly told him about Michael one night. He responded by telling me he had had a boyfriend at Howard, but he (and the African-American community) could not handle being gay, so he moved to where no one knew him and started over straight. He met a girl, got married, was a bad husband, and visited the down low. His wife gave up on their marriage when she found out what he had been up to.

After that, we let our guards down with each other. We both knew something about the other that we didn't want anyone else to know. We spent more and more time together. We decided it was stupid for both of us to pay to live, so he moved into the second bedroom of the house I had bought. One night, he fell asleep on my bed while we were talking and watching a football game. He stayed the night. The next night, he stayed again, without either of us talking about it. That was that. After a few nights, we started holding each other as we slept. Hand jobs, then blow jobs, then everything else. After a week or so, we started talking about sex and then acting on the talk. It was a slow dance, but – in retrospect – we had both known where it was headed once we shared our secrets with each other.

Turner reminded me of Michael. He was true. He was comfortable. He was utterly without guile. He had been dealt a bad hand – born into poverty and a lifetime of prejudice, both against and from his own community – and he had played himself into a wonderful man.

Michael smiled at me. His beard hid his dimples. But, not his lively eyes.

I told him he should shave. His beard hid too much of his beauty.

Michael walked to the ballpark with us. During the walk, he told me both his parents had died, that he had been in a relationship for awhile with a "straight" man that ended badly, and that he was now happily alone. I knew better.

When we got to the ballpark, Michael hugged me good-bye, told Turner good-bye, and then lowered himself to tell the twins good-bye. Typical Michael. Always observing the small things.

I watched him walk away. I was nostalgic as he did. I was happy in my life, but I wondered about what might have been.

When Michael was out of sight, Turner took my hand in one of his, and Maggie's hand in the other. I grabbed my son's hand, and we headed as a family through Ballpark Village. As we walked, Turner squeezed my hand, and I squeezed his back.