Chapter 4 – Chapter 4

I grabbed the headboard and slid myself into his mouth. I rode his face. I was so turned on by what I'd done to him, it took little time for me to convulse and fill his mouth.

I collapsed next to him. He slipped his left hand into my right.

"That was intense," he offered, huskily.

"It was," I eked out.

"I liked it."

"I did, too."

I snuggled into his chest, his right forefinger slowly running up and down my side. Despite myself, I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was almost noon.

"Did you sleep?" I asked.

"No. I was thining."

"About what?"

"I want this to keep going. I don't know how to make that happen, but I want it to."

"Have you ever dated a guy before?"

"I had a boyfriend in single A," he reminded me. "He was on my team. We figured out a way to be road roomies."

"What happened?"

"It was awesome until people got suspicious. Or at least seemed to. I don't know. Maybe they were just being funny. But, they started referring to us as each other's girlfriends. You know, like 'Hey, Cal, your girlfriend's here.' I freaked out. I asked for another road roomie. He was crushed. He flamed out of baseball not long after. He may have flamed out anyway. He may not have. I'm worried I caused him to flame out."

"Have you heard from him?"

"No. I have no idea where he is. I wish I knew."

"Have you tried to find him?"

"No. I should. But, I haven't. I don't know what I'd say. I think I'd be too ashamed to talk to him."

"It can be cathartic to ask for forgiveness."

"What about you? Have you ever had a boyfriend?"

"Yeah. A couple. I've kind of lived my life backward. I told you about Billy Jack. I didn't think we were boyfriends then, but it sure looks like we were in hindsight. And then, before my Senior year of high school, I fell in love with my cousin, John Mark. He's not really my cousin. We're not bloodies. But we were raised cousins. Anywho, I fell head over heels for him. He's five years older. I thought it would be forever. It wasn't. I was naive to think it would be."

"A cousin whose not a cousin?"

"It's an adoption thing. Like I said, we're not related by blood, just on paper."

"You haven't had a boyfriend since?"

"No. Like I told you the other night, I had a rough time in college. I got addicted to sex. And then to cocaine. Once I got clean, I got addicted to my studies and then to my work. I kind of have a one track mind. Anyway, I tried a girlfriend when I moved to Chicago. Maggie. She lived down the hall from me. We met the day I moved in. She was awesome. We laughed all time time, even while we were fucking."

"What happened?"

"We dated for about a year. She told me I was her one. She wanted to be my one. I could never say she was. She got tired of waiting and broke up with me. We had always been great in bed, so we booty called/drunk dialed each other for about a year after. She met someone else. She was his one. They got married and moved to Evanston. We talk every once in awhile. They are living the American deuce dream: two children, two cats, two dogs, two cars."

"Why wasn't she one of your ones?"

"I think my one is a boy. I never felt for her what I felt for John Mark. It was not even close."

"You know that's a fiction, right?"

"What is?"

"That there's only one one. There isn't. There's a collection of them."

I hoped so. In the sixty hours I had known Cal, I had started thinking of him as a possibility. It wasn't the sex. It was the in between. There was a comfort and ease, like we had known each other for far longer than we'd known each other.

I almost told him that, but I decided it was too soon. I could not expose myself like that. I also did not want to arm him with that power.

"I hope you're right."

"I am."

"How can you be so sure? Have you met one of yours?"

His answer thrilled me. "I don't know," he said, smiling broadly at me. "Maybe. . . . But, think about it. If there is only one one, then there's gobs of serendipity involved in ever meeting that one and, if you don't do it right, you miss out. So what? You settle for something less? I don't believe that. I don't believe that if I make a mistake or tragedy strikes one of the loves of my life that I'm left to a life of cold pizza."

We had talked the early afternoon away. The yellow of the clock radio warned me that our time together was almost over. I wanted my memory of him to be the sweetest kiss I could give. I cupped his left cheek in my hand, pressed my lips to his, and kissed him the way I imagined they kissed in the movies.

"I need to get in the shower."

"I know."

"I'd ask you to join me, but I don't have time."

"I understand."

"I'll only be a minute," he said, sliding out of bed and hustling to the bathroom.

I dressed quickly. Since Billy Jack, I had hated good-byes. I scribbled him a note. "Thank you for a great weekend. It reminded me." I placed the note on his pillow and slipped out as I heard the shower stop.

*****

About mid-day through the day on Monday, I received a voicemail from Cal. "Matthias, it's Calvin. I, too, had a great weekend. Call me. I'd like to know of what it reminded you. 816-419-1717."

I called immediately. "Hello?"

"Hi."

"Hi. I was worried you wouldn't call."

"No reason to worry. I called as soon as I got the message. Hey, what's with all the seventeens?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your room was 1717. Your telephone number is 1717."

"Seventeen is my lucky number. I got drafted 17th in the 17th round. I've kept it since. If they have it, I always request room 17 or 117 or 217. The Drake is huge, so I got 1717. I requested the telephone number too."

"So, you're superstitious?"

"Incredibly. Not in a crippling way. But close. I always sit in the same place in the bullpen. I always receive the ball from the shortstop to start an inning. If someone else tosses it to me, I let it fly right by. I don't take it until it comes from the shortstop."

"I wasn't sure I'd hear from you. You know, what with your 'I never do this' and all."

"I was surprised you left while I was in the shower, without saying good-bye."

"I try to avoid good-byes."

"I told you I didn't want it to be good-bye."

I smiled widely to myself, rocking back in my chair and putting my feet up on my desk. I let his words soak in before I answered "I didn't want it to be a good-bye, either."

"Well, then it's settled. It won't be. Do you have a cell phone?"

"I'm getting one this week. We're switching to them from pagers."

"Okay. Feel free to call me whenever. If you don't get me, feel free to leave a message. It's private. No one can get into it but me."

"Cool."

"Hey, your note said 'it reminded me.' Reminded you of what?"

"Of what it's like to be thrilled again."

"Well, I'm glad I thrilled you."

"Me, too."

"You thrilled me, too."

"Well, I'm glad about that."

When I had my cell phone, I gave him the digits. We talked most nights when the games were over. Immaturely, we often played "you hang up first."

The distance forced us to learn about each. We couldn't build around sex only.

I learned Kate wanted to marry him, and he was putting her off. I learned Kate wanted to move in with him, and he was putting her off on that, too. I learned his best friend on the Royals was Carlos Beltran, a good-looking Puerto Rican kid who had been the 1999 rookie of the year. Cal and Carlos had been in the minor leagues together, and Carlos and his wife had become a big part of Cal's life. Cal referred to Carlos as his "Puerto Rican brother from another mother." Carlos referred to Cal as "Blanco" or "mi Blanco."

I learned Cal's Catholicism was hereditary, but not meaningful. He went to church on Christmas and Easter and for weddings and funerals. Otherwise, he was a bit of an agnostic.

I learned Cal was paranoid about MLB drug tests and maniacal about what he put in his body. He scrutinized every label.

I learned Cal was a voracious reader. He devoured every genre, but especially liked historical fiction like "The March," "Pillars of the Earth," and "The Name of the Rose."

I told Cal all there was to know about me. I laid myself bare to him as we talked into the night, and he kept coming back for more.

The first time we had phone sex, he told me about a time a guy blew him while he was having phone sex with his girlfriend. It was hotter to hear about it than it had been to do it.

I met him in New York for a series with the Yankees. I went to all three games. I saw him pitch for the first time. He was not a fireballer, but he had a sweeping curve that killed lefties and righties alike.

I was thrilled watching him. As I did, I couldn't help but think "he's mine."

I was more thrilled knowing what would occur when we met up in his hotel room. He tied me up each night. He toyed with me after he did. The toying stopped only when I begged him to fuck me and let me come.

He introduced a little roughness, which I didn't mind at all. We pulled hair. We bit. Every once and again, we spanked.

We started talking every day. Some days, we talked multiple times, if only to say "hello."

About a month after the New York trip, we were planning another visit when Cal shocked me and announced we needed to "break up." It came from out of the blue, and it knocked the wind out of me.

"Why?" I asked.

"The more I talk to you, the less I want to talk to Kate," he said.

"But she's just a disguise."

"Right, but she's an important disguise. She's essential to my future."

I blanched. He may not have said it, but I heard that I was not.

I didn't try to talk him out of it. I didn't figure there was any use, and I hated the idea of demonstrating that much vulnerability.

"Suit yourself," I said, hanging up. I didn't answer when the phone immediately rang.

I retreated to life without Cal. The actuality of it depressed me. I had grown accustomed to his voice and the amount of time I listened to it. I had also finally allowed some of my walls to come down, and it had resulted in the pain that I had tried to avoid by putting them up in the first place.

My nurse noticed immediately. She asked why I had gone from joyful to joyless. I couldn't tell her.

My heart bounced every time my cell phone rang. I was disappointed each time. It was never Cal.

A month into the breakup, I had given up. I was back to working and reading. I was not hopeless, but I was not hopeful either.

The ringing of my telephone woke me in the middle of the night. It was Cal. I hesitated and then answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Matty Joe," he slurred. "It's Calvin. You first knew me as Jake." It was clear he was drunk.

I quickly wondered how I should play it. I just as quickly decided to play it straight.

"Hey, Cal. I liked you as Jake. I liked you better as Cal."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"Can we stop missing each other? I hate the breakup."

"Me, too."

"I'm drunk."

"I know."

"This isn't because I'm drunk."

"Okay."

"Can I call you tomorrow?"

"You can call me whenever you want."

It took him too long. When he finally called around three, I was certain he wouldn't. But for the evidence on my phone, I may have convinced myself the drunken call had been a dream.