Hi. Just one warning: this story's pretty slow-paced. That's all.
Monday's squash try-outs are pretty promising. I'm having an in-form day, and the other players aren't the masters I was afraid they might be. I still get a good run around though, and win my first three games 15-12, 15-13, 15-10. I'm sweating buckets, and take off my shirt and shoes during the break. I have that adrenalin high and just want to keep running, even though I know my body needs a short rest.
"Hey, you're in my discrete maths class."
I look up, although I can't see for a moment as the sweat stings my eyes.
It's the wanker from the lab.
Nike shirt, Nike shorts, mega-expensive Head racquet, fucking sunglasses again.
I just grunt. I figure that doesn't count as talking. And I sweat so much it probably looks like I'm so close to collapse that speech is impossible.
There's a call.
"OK, matey, I'm on. I'll see you around, maybe have a game some time." Then he's off, onto the court.
Matey? He called me matey?
He's actually pretty good. And it's not just the expensive racquet. I'm more the rabbit technique, run all over and wait till my opponent collapses. His control is fine, sending the ball right down the wall or crosscourt when you're not expecting it, he never has to run too much, just a couple of steps and then back to the centre. I wonder if I could beat him.
Not that I'm going to find out.
The ref announces that it's game point; a female voice calls out "Come on Mikey," and he turns to face the watchers and smiles.
I don't find out how it ends -- although I suspect he probably won -- because I'm called again. I play two more games, dropping the first one 14-16 but winning my last game of the day 15-9.
Results will be posted on Wednesday. I slip out early, going home to have a shower.
I make myself spaghetti arrabbiata for dinner, because it's easy. I'm cutting up the bacon and onion, and opening the tin of tomatoes, listening to Hunters and Collectors while I'm doing it; and then I realise I'm gently grinding my hips against the kitchen bench. It's funny how your body does things without you realising it like that. I always feel pretty sexed up about an hour after playing sport; but I decide I won't jerk off, since I'm in the middle of cooking. So I stop grinding, keep cutting, and dinner's ready in 15 minutes. Then bed not long after, muscles aching pleasantly.
God, that's the first wet dream I've had in months. Can't remember what it was about, though I'm sure it was good.
Tuesday's a day of no classes, so I figure I'll try to get ahead on assignments. We already have one on finite state machines -- "Question 1: Given the following FSM, what would be the output for 0101? For 010101? What regular expression describes the output of any arbitrary input? Hence give a deterministic version of the FSM."
We've only just started doing them, so I have no idea how to do any of it. But the day's really nice, so I get my textbook and sit in the sun and read the next few chapters; and then I have a vague idea at least what the question's asking, even if no clue about how to solve it.
So I put my stuff in a library locker and go for a lunchtime run. Around the back of the campus, through the Ecology Park, along the main road for a bit, then head towards the national park ... there's a light breeze, the sounds of the cars are fading, the sun's flashing through the leaves of the trees ... and I think, Ah! That's what the regular expression is. Running's my second best way of working out problems, after showering.
I'm kind of nervous when I go to the gym on Wednesday. I know it's only a social comp, I know it doesn't matter what grade I play, but ...
But it's OK, because I'm in B grade. In fact, they say that if I'm interested I could play in A grade, if I wanted to work at it. Apparently my opponents were pretty good as far as this comp goes.
"Hey, are you sticking around for a while?" It's the coach/organiser for the comp. I should remember his name. Jim or something. Probably about 30.
"Yeah, I can. Someone want a game?"
"Actually, I was going to ref one, but I should go and pick up my kids. So I was hoping you could."
"Yeah, sure. Which court?"
"Six. You might get a game afterwards, there's a few from the comp hanging around."
I head up the stairs to the benches for watching the game, and sit down at court six. And it turns out to be "Mikey". This time there are no other watchers, just the two players and me. Jim (or whatever his name is) comes up the stairs after me and says, "This is" -- quick scan of his copy of the comp rankings -- "Gideon. He's going to score for you."
I raise my hand, hi.
"OK, I'm off." Jim -- might as well just call him that -- jogs off.
"OK then. Nil all." It doesn't count, I say to myself -- I'm not actually talking to him, it's just a general score announcement. I already realise it's dumb, but when you decide something, it has to stay decided, no matter how dumb it is, just keep plugging on with it. That's my philosophy anyway, and it's how I managed to get a scholarship when most of my school didn't go to university.
The first point's quick, Mikey serving -- I can't think of him as Mikey, so Mike -- with the ball just dropping straight into the back corner. The other guy didn't have a chance of returning it. "One nil."
I wonder if I'll be tempted, if there's a debatable point, to lean towards giving it to the other guy. But even though Mike's a wanker, I really do admire his playing style, so they kind of cancel each other out. So, I conclude, I'm perfectly unbiased.
"Two nil." Slightly longer point that time.
Mikey's floppy blond hair does look pretty good. It kind of flops forward whenever he makes a decisive hit, sort of punctuating the point. I've always liked hair like that, and hated my own practically black curly hair, but now I just cut it short all over, so my hair and I have made our peace.
He's pretty fit under those name-brand clothes.
It's hot in here -- even though the courts are new the air-conditioning's not working -- so I hike my shorts up past mid-thigh and push my sleeves up to my shoulders.
"Three nil."
The next point is one of the best rallies I've seen for a while. Mike's mostly in control, but the other guy is getting it back and still placing it well, alternating front and back so that Mike does have to move. Overhand smash, recovery by the other guy, Mike's at the back and ready to whack it to the back of the court, probably deciding the point, but the other guy's in the ball's path.
Mike looks up in appeal, and I call a let.
The other guy ends up winning the point, and from then on it's a pretty close game, until he pulls in front. Mike's form seems to have gotten a bit ragged. He ends up losing 15-13.
As the game ends I realise there's another watcher.
"Jim said you might want a game." So I was right about the name. "I'm Kevin."
"Excellent." I lean over the court. "Good game fellas. I'm just off to play a game myself."
Mike looks a bit despondent after the loss, but calls out anyway. "Thanks."
"No wuckers."
It's the lab on Friday again, and I'm working away, and up from behind me comes Mike, startling me a bit.
"Just wanted to say thanks for reffing the game the other day. Steve and I are kind of long term rivals, so we wanted someone to keep score for us."
I think to myself, on the one hand there's sticking to a decision, on the other there's being outright rude. So I think I should actually say something to him; but that doesn't mean being friends or anything.
"Not a problem. I like watching a good game anyway."
Mike's actually pretty tall, especially when I'm sitting down. I didn't notice it at the courts. I stand up, but he's still tall.
"By the way, my name's Micah." Oh, it's Micah.
"I'm Gideon." We shake.
"Yeah, I heard Jim say that. A pair of pretty biblical names."
"Whenever I hear the word 'biblical' I always think of my mother saying 'And they knew each other in the biblical sense' because she didn't want to use the word 'sex'. She got religion for a bit." I have no idea why I said that. Idiot. He thinks it's funny though.
"OK, I'd better get back to it," I say, looking over at my terminal.
"So maybe we could play next Wednesday then, as a warm up before starting or something."
"Yeah sure." I hope that sounds noncommittal.
He smiles at me. It's a smile that could give a stone goosebumps. Wanker wanker wanker.
He leaves.
Saturday I just hang around at Jared's place. His parents have cable, so we can watch the European soccer leagues. It's not a major game on at the moment, so I'm doing the day's crossword at the same time. Got the habit from my mum; she writes them in her spare time for some of the sort of intellectual stimulation she doesn't get at work. This isn't one of hers, though. I'm currently stuck: "Eager to take action in French bed, returned soldier has obligations (9)".
"So I met these two girls last night." I put down my paper and look over at Jared, who's lying on the other sofa. "And they were both totally hot, and I didn't know which one to choose. So I had both. I've never had two in one night before."
Jared's only just realised he's attractive, after going all through high school without ever noticing all the girls who threw themselves at him. Back then it was always, "Do you think she likes me?" even when a girl had taken off her bra from under her shirt in front of him and used it to lasso him. Now he's making up for it with a vengeance.
"How did you manage that? At the same time?"
"Nah. I was walking back from the kitchen, getting ready to start my shift" -- Jared works as a waiter, planning to apply for acting school next year, or maybe just get discovered, he hopes -- "and one of them was going into the bathroom, and she just sort of dragged me in there. So I thought that she might be the one; but then the other one, when I was serving at her table, she stuck her hand between my legs, and slipped a card with her phone number on it down my pants. So I ended up at her place for the night."
How does he find these girls?
"I think you should set yourself a challenge. Say, the entire women's cricket team."
"You know what they say about the women's cricket team ..."
"That's why it'd be a challenge."
"How about you? Any conquests you've been hiding from me?"
"Nah, nothing really."
"I see guys and girls looking at you all the time. You could pick up really easily." So now he's Mr Observant after years of cluelessness. Besides, I have picked someone up. Once, anyway.
"Mmm."
"They're not going to be like Dean. I mean, this way you don't have to worry about messing up a friendship." Dean and I had been pretty good friends, became more, then I got the must-have-been-drunk (for two entire months, obviously) routine, with the not-really-into-guys corollary. We sort of tried to stay friends, but we're not really now. Just what happens to every gay guy once, I reckon. But I hardly ever think about it now. Really. That was when my pick-up happened too, just after that, in a bit of ego repair. It was nice -- he was pretty hot -- but it was all kind of tied up with Dean.
"OK. So how about we go out next week, and see if there's anyone you want to shag senseless then?"
"Okey-doke." Maybe it'd be fun. Although I don't think I'll be into the two-in-one-night thing like Jared.
Real Madrid score, and we both flick back to the screen.
I end up getting there early on Wednesday. I finished up in the lab sooner than I'd planned, and thought I could either just hang around reading, or go to the squash courts early. If Micah's there, I figure it's just polite to give him a game, since he's suggested it twice; but if he's forgotten, which I expect, it's no big deal, I can just spend longer warming up.
On the wall next to the courts there's a list of all the players, with contact details. There are forty all together, different grades; a couple of them look from their email like they're probably in my classes. I take a copy for myself.
I'm in the middle of stretching hamstrings when Micah arrives.
"Hey, you're here," he says.
"Yep."
He comes and sits next to me on the floor, and changes into his squash shoes. He also takes off his sunglasses -- ! -- and ferrets around in his bag. "Forgot my goggles. You'll just have to be kind to me during the game and not hit too hard."
Hey, he's got different coloured eyes. One brown, one hazel. Bizarre. I didn't notice it before. The rest of him is so perfectly symmetric that it's really surprising. I think it looks good. Kind of like the single imperfection makes everything else work even better.
Then we step onto the court, and after warming up the ball there's no being kind to anyone. I'm really pushing myself, the adrenalin's running early, and I'm hitting some pretty good shots, but he's always there, and when we're not even he's a point ahead. It's 10-11 and I think, I can't let him win, and I serve the ball harder, and it gets to 14-all, and he chooses the long game, to two points. And wins. Fucker.
"Good game," he says. I guess it was. "Want to swap racquets for the next one?" He holds his out.
"OK." I give it a few practice hits, balance it in my hand. It's pretty light, but still adds a lot of force, and the ball goes to the back easily. Nice racquet.
So we start again. Usually there's a bit more chat during the game, but this one's mostly silent, except for the occasional score query. This time the shots come easily. I adapt to the racquet in a couple of points, but I think Micah's having a bit more trouble getting used to mine. Unless he's just patronising me. But I've got my momentum up now, rabbiting away to take three points in a row. And this game ends 15-13, to me.
He's sitting on a bench, head hanging, and I'm pacing as I always do when I finish. "Thanks a lot," he says. "Now I'm totally stuffed for the actual games." Then he laughs. I'm feeling good, so I laugh too.
"Here, help me up." He grabs my forearm -- not really a grab, it's actually pretty gentle -- and hauls himself up. First contact. And even through the exhaustion it's like a spark. Maybe it's that sweat's a good conductor of electricity. Maybe I should just stop this train of thought.
I move on to my first game.
I'm at the lecture early the next day, sitting near the back of the theatre, doodling on my pad, and Micah comes in and sits next to me with a thump. This is getting to be a habit; I realise that I've actually spent more time with him than with anyone else at this university. So much for plans.
"So how about those finite state machines, huh." I look at him -- that was such a dumb thing to say -- and he's looking goofy. I can't help laughing.
"Yeah, they always give me a hardon." Halfway through the word I realise I don't want to say it, but it's too late.
"Me too. That's one hot diagram up on the overhead." The first one's just gone up, and we both start copying it down.
I glance at Micah. He's wearing a T-shirt and cargo pants from Gap. Not that I'd know except that the logo is pretty prominent. I don't think he's wearing any cologne though, because I don't recognise the way he smells. It's just really nice, just his own smell, I guess. And the longer I'm sitting there, the more I notice it. I remember reading about how smell's the most primal sense, how it affects you deeper than the others, and right at the moment I believe it completely, because I want to reach over and touch him more than anything. It's really strong, but I keep my hand under control. I think my writing's gone a bit spastic with the strain, though.
There'll be 7 or so parts, I guess. Hope you liked it so far. Remember you were warned it was slow, though. Email to mark_410@hotmail.com is welcomed with open arms and slow-typing fingers.