Chapter 8 – Chapter 8

The 19th Hole

(Part Eight; From Michael's POV)

I had been with only one guy since Kyle. He, too, was straight. He gave me as much as he could, but it was not enough. He was married already, and I wanted to be his wife, which I would never be. I had made yet another bad choice.

I decided to drown my sorrows over Kyle and Turner and my lost life in booze. I went to my favorite local joint.

"Dude, you look like shit," said Hunter, my favorite bartender. Hunter was a 22 year old Wash U senior. He was my height, wore his wavy brown hair in a trendy man-bun, had the lightest green eyes I had ever seen, and was built like the varsity LAX player he was. He also had the deepest voice of any man I'd ever met. He was like George Ezra, only deeper. I loved listening to him speak. He almost certainly knew I was gay and adored him. I didn't know if he was gay or if he adored anything.

"I feel like shit," I said, gulping down my Hendricks on the rocks.

Hunter refilled my glass, smiled, and jabbed, "Then you look the way you feel."

He paused to gauge my reaction, then continued. "Care to honor my profession and share your sorrows with the stranger behind the bar?" he asked.

"This is not your profession, and you're not a stranger," I said, gulping down another Hendricks.

"I'll still listen," he offered. As he refilled my glass, he subtly suggested straight gin was meant to be sipped, not gulped.

"It's stupid," I said, downing half of my third Hendricks with him, but my fifth of the day. It was a big sip, but I counted it as a sip nonetheless.

"I'll still listen."

"I reunited with an old friend today. Back when, I wanted to be his lover. But, he was straight, so I gave up on him. I expected to meet his wife and kids today. Instead, I met his husband and kids. I'd have been okay meeting a wife, but I'm not okay meeting a husband. If he was open to having a husband, it should have been me." I started to cry again.

Hunter came around from behind the bar, walked over to me, and hoisted me into a full embrace. I put my head to his shoulder, and he said "Dude, I'm so sorry" as he stroked my hair. I sobbed into his shoulder. I was making a spectacle, and I hated making a spectacle. The last place I ever wanted to be was in the spotlight. I felt like every eye in the bar was on me.

"We need to get you out of here," he said. He left for a second and returned without his apron. I had finished my Hendricks while he was gone.

"I clocked out," he said. "I'm going to help you home."

I cried most of the six block walk to my condo. I was drunk, and I struggled with my keys. Hunter took over, opening my door and helping me in. I walked directly to my bedroom and flopped down on my bed, fully clothed. Hunter followed me, slid in behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and held me while I cried myself to sleep.

Hunter was gone when I woke up, but only from the bed. I could hear him in the kitchen. I removed my jeans and shirt and put on a pair of gym shorts and a tank top.

Hunter was wearing the same when I found him in the kitchen. He was making breakfast.

"Sorry, I took some liberties. I borrowed a pair of shorts and a tank. I raided your refrigerator for breakfast and to fill the cooler."

"Cooler?"

"Yeah. My buddies and I are going on a float today. You're coming along."

"That's the last thing I need."

"It's exactly what you need. Five hot guys in swimming trunks is way better than spending the day on a pity pot here alone."

"Hunter, this is all very sweet of you. But, I think I can take it from here."

"I know you think you can. You're a nice little island, aren't you? You know, you have never spoken to anyone in the bar, but me. Never. That's a bad way to be. And, I don't have my car with me, so you have to run me home. Since you'll be out, you may as well make a day of it."

I was not looking forward to this. Missouri float trips are hillbilly hootenannies. It's like Deliverance. The only thing more alarming than those you meet on the river are those you meet along it, the "river rats" who live on stilted houses in the flood plain that scream of deprivation and poverty.

But, I also was emotionally and physically spent. I did not have the energy to argue or resist.

The other four were already at Hunter's building when we got there. Hunter's building, by the way, was the nicest building in the trendy Central West End. Either bartending paid better than I thought, Hunter was hustling, or he came from a lot of money. I kinda hoped he was hustling.

Bennett, Eddie, Mark, and Travis were all varsity LAX players for Wash U. They were all in shape, good-looking, and had flow. But, Hunter was the best of the bunch. By far.

As we drove out of town in Hunter's Land Rover, I felt like a father taking his sons out for a day. Hunter must have sensed my unease.

"This is awesome," he said. "Bennett was a last minute add and was going to have to ride middle in someone else's canoe. Now, he can ride with Travis, and I'll ride with you. Evens are way better than odds for a float."

I learned a lot as we drove. They boys all came from old St. Louis money and had been friends since before any of them could remember. St. Louis is a city of private streets and private schools, and they came from the best of both. They starred at Country Day School in LAX and vowed to play together in college. Hunter had to go to Wash U because his family basically funded and ran the place. So, they all went to Wash U to stick together.

Their trust funds meant they didn't have to, but they were all excelling in their own right. Hunter was majoring in biology and planned to stay at Wash U for medical school. The rest would finally scatter for graduate school, ending the "one for all, all for one" cohesive run of what their family and friends simply referred to as "The Boys."

There was a chasm between being a 22 year old college senior and a 40 year old lawyer. The Boys drank Busch and smoked pot all day. And, I mean, all day. It was a slow float.

I had to work the next day. I drank little, and I didn't smoke at all. Mostly, I just watched The Boys guys frolic in the water, give each other shit, and show off for whomever was watching at that moment. I felt silly (and old) being there, but it was good to be out and not thinking (much) about Kyle.

I drove home. I don't know who'd have driven if I hadn't been there, as none of them were in shape to.

The Boys slept as I drove. My mind wandered to Kyle in the quiet of the car. As the sadness showed in my eyes, Hunter woke up, looked at me, and said, "Now, we'll have none of that" in a coy voice that made me smile.

Once we had unloaded the car, The Boys all headed their separate ways. Hunter invited me in for a college dinner ("you know, a frozen pizza or a burger or something"). I tried to decline, claiming I needed to get home.

"Going back to your empty home is the last thing you need," Hunter said as he led me by the arm toward his door. Inside, Hunter opened a bottle of 1986 Krug Cabernet (didn't all college seniors have an expansive wine collection?) and proceeded to his rooftop hot tub to "wash the river off us."

The wine made me sleepy, and I yawned. Hunter suggested I nap while he pulled dinner together. I offered that I should just get going, and Hunter insisted I wasn't going anywhere. We changed into dry shorts. I had no underwear to hold me in place, and I was immediately self-conscious.

Hunter was getting pretty good at reading my face. "Don't worry about that," he said.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

"Jesus, Michael, it's all The Boys talked about all day. Travis wondered if your whole body is a life support system for your dick. Bennett bet you pass out when you get hard, from lack of blood to your brain."

I dozed off on his sofa. I woke to a well-made table, another bottle of Krug, and Hozier's "Take Me To Church."

Hunter was in the kitchen, still wearing only yellow board shorts. He was obviously not a weightlifter. His tone and definition were from LAX only. Still, he was stunning, and my dick stirred as I watched him dance and sing along to the music.

We talked little as we ate. Every time I made eye contact with Hunter, he smiled at me.

As we cleared the plates, he announced, "You know you're spending the night, right?"

I furrowed my brow as he continued, "We've had two bottles of wine, I'm about to open another, and not being alone is good for you right now. Plus, last night was the best night of sleep I've had in a long time. I sleep way better when I sleep with someone."

I knew pretending to resist was pointless. One, I had done everything Hunter wanted me to do all day. Two, no self-respecting single 40 year old gay man turns down spending the night with a hot college LAX player.

We finished the third bottle of wine on Hunter's living room floor. After clearing the glasses, Hunter immediately made it clear our long day was not nearly over. He returned to the living room without his board shorts.

"I think it's time we fool around," he said.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He stood with his 6 inch dick in my face. All the hair on him, except that on his head, was neatly trimmed.

If I was going to do this, I was going to do it properly. So, I stood up, put my arms around him, and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. We made out hungrily, like teenagers. He untied my shorts, and I stepped out of them without breaking the kiss. Our bodies touched from mouth to groin.

When the kiss broke, he insisted I take him to bed. Upstairs, he laid flat on his back, and I straddled him and kissed him some more. I had forgotten how much fun it was to kiss.

I hadn't had sex in over a year, and I felt like a teenaged boy going for his first roll in the hay. I devoured Hunter's body, kissing and licking every inch that I could reach.

When I couldn't wait any longer, I took his dick into my mouth and swallowed it. I should have savored it and edged him, but I was too needy. He came fast and hard, and I drank all of him.

I apologized when I pulled off his dick. "Nothing to apologize for. That was awesome. I like hungry sex. Speaking of which, I want you to fuck me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I don't have a condom."

"I do," he said as he opened his bed stand drawer. It was packed with an array condoms and lube and other toys. He tossed me a magnum. "If that doesn't fit, we'll have to use a grocery bag," he said, laughing.

It fit. I straddled Hunter and slowly slid into him. He purred as I did.

"Let me know if I hurt you," I said.

"You won't."

I wanted to fuck him slowly, but he wouldn't let me. No matter how fast and hard I went, he demanded I go faster and harder. I was on the edge of losing control when he came again, splattering cum all over his stomach and chest. The sight of his orgasm brought mine, and I filled the condom with my own load. I pulled out, lowered my face to his torso, and licked all of the cum I could off of him.

I collapsed to the side of him. "That was fantastic," he said, as he gently rolled the condom off me, and insisted we clean up.

Hunter fucked me in the shower. There was no way I could come again, but there was no stopping him. He was like a rabbit. I wanted to be 22 again.