Summary
I made my move when he stopped by in the players’ lounge to commiserate with me on my third round match loss. Ironically, he had lost too. But there was no time for regrets on having thrown my match unnecessarily. I quickly suggested that we play a match of our own on his hotel court the next day—the day he turned eighteen—and he accepted. I was worried enough that he would lose his virginity before I could get to him that I asked whether he wanted to go out that evening, but he flashed me a look of regret, tinged with a sultry come-hither look, pointed to the middle-aged child protection official plastered to his side, and said that, regrettably, he was still under wraps until the morning.
“We will just have to wait for tomorrow,” he said. And he left me wondering whether that thought excited him half as much as it did me.
I met him in the lobby of the hotel, both of us dressed for tennis, bright and early the next morning. He turned toward the corridor out to the courts, but I touched him at the waist to get his attention, and said I had a better idea. That I had a limo waiting out front and thought we could go for a ride to some courts up the Hudson River near Hyde Park.
“You want me to take a ride with you?” he asked, a little confused.
I increased the pressure of my hand at his waist.