Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

On the night of the finals in diving, I was there. I wasn't watching; I was competing in the finals. This was a minor miracle, I thought, and I only wished that Chris Fair could see that I was here—that I was here, the last American still in the competition. At the top of the platform on my first dive of the evening, I looked down at Coach Wood, standing just below me. I gave him the finger. It was while I was brushing my hand off on the hip of my Speedo and he probably didn't see it as giving him the finger—I certainly hoped no one else in the venue saw it. But I knew I'd done it. And he knew that I'd broken with him. I didn't need him anymore, and now I was the only one he had in the competition. I'd given him the finger for real the previous evening when the finalists were announced, and I'd refused to sleep in his bed that night. Fuck him now. Even if I came in tenth, it was better than anyone else on the U.S. team. And it was indisputably clear that I had earned this berth on the team—over Chris.

I'd slept with Pedro, celebrating with him his bronze star on the rings. I should have just slept and saved my energy for today, but I couldn't deny him his celebration. He fucked me in one of his favorite soaring eagle positions. I thought of that as I walked out to the edge of the platform. My first dive would start that way—pushing my chest forward, stiff-arming my arms straight back, taking flight off the platform. This was my worst dive. Not so today. I got very good marks. I was still in the hunt.

Others had come to watch. The Iranian wrestlers, Shahrokh and Kuonarie, were there in the eastern stands, cheering for me, laughing with each other. Shahrokh had a gold medal around his neck; Kuonarie a silver. Good for them. They had worked me over well. I'd thoroughly enjoyed them, and they were fully synchronized. They were right to want to share their men. If I wasn't leaving Rio tomorrow . . .

Pedro had come, his bronze medal around his neck. He was sitting in the western stands. He could have left the day before yesterday, but he'd stayed. He'd stayed to give me support. We already were talking about what sort of apartment in Denver would suit us both. He'd get a raise from the sporting goods firm for his bronze. It would be great if I could match that. But I was lucky to have made it thus far—not to have shot it all down with a bad soaring eagle dive.

Diego had come too. The massage sessions with him had been glorious fucks. I still had a good supply of Olympic-rings condoms. I could hand them out as party favors when I got home. We had exchanged addresses. I was content with moving in with Pedro, but we had an understanding. If Diego ever visited the States as he said he wanted to, I'd be getting one of those massages of his—and he could have whatever he wanted from me.

The second dive, the back one-and-a-half somersault tuck, had been the best dive I'd ever done in my life and it was scored accordingly. Miraculously, I was at the top of the leader board now, and just one more dive to go.

I looked up at the top of the stands, at the entrance on the north side, directly in front of me, when I'd climbed to the platform for my last dive. I was doing a handstand falling into a forward somersault pike. It was my best dive, my most impressive one visually. It was a dangerous dive; you had to push out far enough not to hit your head on the board in doing the forward somersault. It required total concentration and steady control. It was my last dive. It was all or nothing now, my last chance at gold.

When I looked at the top of the north stands I saw him, though. Ari Askami—looking massive and dumpy. Impressive, though, as he had his four gold medals from earlier Olympics around his neck. I was disconcerted. He'd come to watch me dive. But he'd worn his medals. He was making a statement. I wanted a medal. He had four and they all were gold. He was saying he owned me. He had had me. He had possessed me fully, fucked me totally, only letting me go when he was done with me.

He had sent a message via Diego that he wanted me again, but I hadn't responded.

I tried to tear my eyes away from him as I walked to the end of the platform, but he controlled me. He was smirking and I was trembling. Would I even be able to get up into a handstand without collapsing.

Later, standing on the second rung of the award blocks, I didn't care that they were playing the French national anthem, not the one for the United States. When the silver medal was placed around my neck, I kissed it and lifted it up for everyone to see. I hadn't come here for gold; I'd come here to be an Olympian—and, yes, because I'd heard the Olympics was a veritable fuck palace. I'd certainly verified that. My last dive had been near perfect. I had no regrets. I'd done is as well as I ever had. The French guy had just been a little better. Good for him.

The awards finished, I felt keyed up, randy. I wanted to celebrate in a big way. people were leaving, but not everyone was moving. Coach Wood was standing by the pool, all puffed up. If he'd had cigars, I think he'd have been handing them out. He was looking directly at me. I knew exactly what he wanted—that he wanted to celebrate my silver too. He wanted to have his chance to tell me that he had made me.

Pedro was patiently standing in the west stands, smiling and looking at me proudly. He'd say nothing about his bronze medal against my silver. He'd just be happy for me.

In the east stands, Diego stood near the top. He'd told me he'd be happy to give me a massage after the diving competitions win or lose. I knew that he would massage all of the tension away from me and give me a divine celebratory fuck. Several rows below him, the Iranian wrestlers were pushing each other around and giving wolf whistles. They also were pointing down at me and applauding. They were celebrating with me already. They'd give me a good time, I knew, if I walked over to them.

And then I did start walking. I walked around the pool, barefoot and in a Speedo topped by an Athletic T-shirt, and up the aisle of the west stands, toward where Pedro Gonzalez was standing. As I walked, people parted for me, giving me a straight, unimpeded path. They smiled at me and whispered their congratulations. I was a minor god, if only for the moment. I took Pedro's hand when I reached him, both of us wanting me to lean in for a kiss, but there still being too many people milling around the venue, more than a few watching me, because I had a silver medal around my neck.

"Hi," I said.

"You did it."

"Yes, we did," I answered, gesturing to the bronze medal around his neck.

"Let's go back to the room and—"

"Tonight. Tonight we'll celebrate royally, Pedro," I said. "But for now, there's something I have to do—something I badly need."

He looked into my eyes and understood. We'd talked about it. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. This is the Olympics. I came here for an Olympian experience. It will be all right, I'm sure."

"Then do it."

I turned, descended the aisle to the pool, and then walked around to the north stands and up. Ari Askami was standing, one hand fondling his four gold medals, and the other one cupping his package. His eyes were boring into me, commanding me to come to him. When I reached him, he took my elbow in a vice grip.

"You will come with me to my room and you will take it all," he growled.

"Yes, I want it all," I said, lowering my eyes in willing, trembling in anticipation, submission.