Nineteenth Hole

This is a corollary to Nineteenth Hole, on Nifty in "Beginnings." First, I want to thank all who wrote to me about Nineteenth Hole. I really appreciate the feedback and the interest in Kyle and Michael.

This corollary is to address the overwhelming amount of concern readers shared about Michael, who got left out at the end of Nineteenth Hole. It incorporates some of Nineteenth Hole from Michael's perspective and then takes off after Michael leaves Kyle and his family at the ballpark.

This is completely a work of fiction. I wish it wasn't, but it is. For readers who are mad at me for being Kyle ("you should have tracked Michael down!") or concerned about me for being Michael ("you deserved better"), you needn't be. Kyle and Michael are fictional men. I am neither.

As always, please consider donating to Nifty so it can keep doing what it does. To do so, just bounce over to http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

And, feel free to let me know what you think about this corollary at 1967author@gmail.com.

Michael's 19th Hole (Part One)

As Kyle begged me to fuck him, I let my mind race and delude me into thinking that my dream was coming true. Aside from being straight, he was perfect for me. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, lean with big, thick lips and a broad, toothy smile. All the things that made me swoon.

I had wanted Kyle almost from the moment I met him. As we stood on the first tee, his confidence in his abilities both as a golfer and as a "guy" was palpable. I was the underdog, taking on the Club's "top dog" in the final round of our Club Championship. No one knew me. I was "the gay guy." Everyone knew Kyle. He had been a decorated amateur golfer who had nearly made it as a professional. He had been the star of the local college team.

I played the first two holes poorly, digging myself a deficit I could not overcome. I decided just to enjoy the day. As I did, I started to fall for Kyle. He was, first, incredibly good looking. He was ethnic in an eccentric way. He was, second, remarkably inquisitive. He asked tons of questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in each answer. I shared more with him in 18 holes than I had shared with anyone in ages, as I was generally very guarded with others. He was not what I expected, which was not much. I always thought "frat boy" when I saw him strutting around the Club with what I perceived was a "my shit doesn't stink" bravado. So, I expected a lot of "dudes," some pussy talk, and a lot of anti-gay bigotry. I got none of any.

I am not good at meeting new people. Growing up an only child in Missouri's boot heel is tough. Growing up a smart, gay, only child in Missouri's boot heel is impossible. I thought I was the only gay person in the world. I was more likely to be bitten by a snake at a church service (I am not kidding!) than meet another gay person.

In case you don't know, Missouri's boot heel sticks into Arkansas. The running joke is that, if Missouri would simply cede the boot heel to Arkansas, it would increase the IQs of both states. If that is true, Arkansas is remarkably ignorant, as the folks I grew up around were willfully ignorant; they viewed intelligence suspiciously, as if it might transform the bearer into a liberal hellbent on confiscating their guns or forcing them to recycle.

I was remarkably out of place in the boot heel. I was smart. I was also gay, which was definitely worse than smart. Gay was viewed as sinful and a guarantee of eternal damnation.

I also developed faster than everyone else. When we started showering in freshman year gym class, I had hair on my chest and stomach and crotch, and my "little boy dick" was already a "man dick." A big "man dick." Soft, it hung between my legs. Hard, it grew a little, but still hung between my legs.

My meat was, to my classmates, a waste. They knew I was gay before I did, and they mocked me both for being gay and for wasting "God's gift." They also mocked my dick, calling me "Meat." By the time I graduated, even the teachers called me Meat. I hated it.

I retreated from their censure and ridicule into books. I got the National Review's list of "Top 100 Books" and read them all.

I graduated first in my class. I skipped the walk and the ceremony. There was no point. I did not want to deliver a speech to neanderthal classmates who hissed "faggot" under their breath while I talked about a future that few of us had. I was off to Vanderbilt in the Fall, but most of my classmates were finishing their education and heading to dead end Southeast Missouri jobs or, in some cases, the United States military.

My parents were in no position to help me navigate the contours of my life. One, they were right of right, and, if they knew I was gay, they'd have certainly shipped me off to some right wing conversion camp. Two, they were so drunk most of the time, they had no idea where I was or what I was going through. If I was out of sight, I was out of mind, and I worked hard to stay out of sight.

I kept to myself. I did not have a single friend in school. We had moved to a trailer on a farm well out of town, and there was no one within earshot of us. Which was good. We barely got by, and our conditions were embarrassing. I turned the hayloft into a sanctuary where I could listen to music, read, and pretend I life was other than what it was.

I had not wanted to cross the line with Kyle. I had done it before, at Vanderbilt, and it had gone horribly wrong. David was my suite-mate when I was a freshman, and he was awesome. From a small Illinois town, he was a gifted tennis player, and he had the ass and legs to prove it.

David was my first and only real friend in college. I loved him. A lot.

After our freshman year, we moved in together. As sophomores, in the dorms. As juniors and seniors, off-campus in an apartment.

He had a girlfriend, Alyssa, throughout college. When she visited, they spent the visits fucking. When we were in the same room, I could not help but listen to him pounding her. When we were in separate rooms in an apartment, I worked hard to listen. David was thick (I meat gazed him in the shower), and Alyssa was loud.

I assumed David knew I was gay. I mean, I had never had a girlfriend or mentioned a girl.

But, we never talked about it. I did not want him to know what he did not want to know. And, we weren't friends like that. We were shallow water friends. We never went into the deep end.

As graduation approached, we decided we needed one last boy's night out. We went to our favorite local bar, drank as much PBR as we could, and played darts until they shut out the lights. As we walked back to our apartment, David wrapped his arm around my shoulders and leaned his head into me.

As we entered our apartment, David started shedding clothes. By the time he got to his bedroom, he was wearing only white briefs. He leaned against the door frame talking to me. He was obviously hard.

When I said good-night, David said he wanted to snuggle. This was not new. We snuggled every once in awhile, especially when really drunk.

I followed David into his room, stripped down to my boxers, and climbed into his bed. David slid in, snuggled up behind me, and wrapped his right arm around me. He maneuvered his hard dick against my ass and pressed into me.

"I'm really horny," he whispered. "I haven't seen Alyssa in a month, and I need to get laid. I have TSB."

"TSB?"

"Toxic semen backup."

I knew that wasn't true. David jacked off more than anyone I had ever met.

Still, I didn't know what to do. David's message seemed clear, but I was unable to act on clarity. I had no idea David could or would fuck a guy, but that seemed to be exactly what he wanted. I had never been fucked. My sexual experience was limited to trading blow jobs with strangers in a Nashville park.

I didn't have to say anything. David pressed his hard dick into my ass again and asked "Can I fuck you?"

I knew it was a bad idea. But, I also knew I was in no position to resist. I turned into him and said, "I've never done that."

He surprised me with, "I have. I'll go slow and easy."

He climbed out of bed, tugged his briefs off, and went to the bathroom. He returned with a condom and some lube.

I rolled onto my back. I slid my boxers off. David reached down, grabbed my dick, and announced "Jesus Christ, Michael, there will be no reciprocation with this thing."

David told me to turn over and then said he'd wear a condom if I wanted him to. I had no idea whether I wanted him to or not, so I said only, "you don't have to if you don't want to." He didn't.

I also refused to turn over. I wanted to watch him fuck me.

David took me slowly and easily, as he had promised he would. I was so overwhelmed by the idea of what was happening, I thought my head would explode. I'm sure it hurt, but I remember only delirium.

We were soaked with sweat when David came inside me. I was amazed at how awesome it felt to be filled by someone.

When he was finished, David pulled out and went to his bathroom to clean up. He told me to do the same, so I did. When I was finished and started back to his room, I noticed he had closed his door, sending a clear message.

David said nothing to me the next morning. We barely spoke until graduation. We have not spoken since.

David was on my mind when Kyle first stood before me nude, having stepped out of his jeans and basically demanding that I suck his dick. I did not want to lose Kyle.

Kyle took the decision from me. He pressed his dick to my lips, and I was too weak to resist. I blew him and had been blowing him since. I had also let him fuck me on my birthday.

Now, he was begging me to fuck him, and I was preparing to do just that. As I entered him, I imagined the ice below us was shattering, that he was taking me as his lover, and that our full day together was a window into what our days would be from now on.

I collapsed onto him when I came. I finished him with my mouth. I was delirious with happiness as I kissed my way up his body, only to be battered back into reality when he turned away from my kiss. In that moment, the dream shattered, and I was painfully reminded of who and what we were.

I fled. I could not allow Kyle to see that I was broken, and I did not want to burden him with my brokenness.

When I finally heard from Kyle, it was a peevish text about maturity. I did not respond.

I had spent years erecting walls to protect myself from others. My therapist and I were working on tearing those walls down and on the poor choices I made on who I let in. But, we were not far in our work, and Kyle was certainly going to set me back. He was, undoubtedly, another bad choice.

I thought about where we were and where we were going. I realized I was addicted to things I could not have, falling over and over again for straight boys who could not be what I needed them to be, who need to be drugged or high to be with me.

I decided I needed to sever ties with Kyle. I would never move forward so long as I had a foot stuck in his sandbox.

Kyle did not fight me. He almost seemed relieved. When it was done, I knew I had done the right thing. It felt like a yolk had been lifted off my shoulders.

Kyle reached out to me a few times after I moved, but I decided not to respond. I thought a clean break was best for both of us.

Years passed, but Kyle never passed from my mind. I wondered what he was doing. I tried to find him on Facebook, but it was a fool's errand. Kyle was too cool ever to have a Facebook page.

As time passed, I thought about reaching out to him. But, it seemed weak to me, so I didn't.

I was very surprised when I heard from Kyle through LinkedIn. I was not surprised when he referred to his family. I had long suspected he had gotten married and had children.

The morning of our meeting, I was as nervous as a whore in church. I manscaped. I trimmed my nose hair and my ear hair and my beard. I paid way too much attention to my hair. I fretted about my clothes like I never had.

I was meeting them at a restaurant at 5. I was there at 4. I didn't want to be late. I was stupid early. I went for a walk to pass the time. I also drank two gins on the rocks.

Kyle took my breath away when I saw him. He looked better than ever, and there was a tranquility behind his eyes that I did not remember.

I was elated and then devastated to meet his family. As to the elation, Kyle named his son Michael, which I assumed was in my honor. As to the devastation, Kyle's wife was a beautiful black man named Turner. I felt like a cartoon; I could feel the blood run from me and across the floor.

Kyle and I wound up at the bar, "catching up." I barely heard a word he said. The blood was thundering in my ears. Somehow, some way, Turner was living my dream. I had no idea how or why.

I had written Kyle dozens of letters over the years. In them, I explained my departure, professed my love, and pleaded my case. I never sent any of them. They seemed too "8th grade girl." They were all in my closet in a shoe box. I wondered what would have happened if I had sent only one of them.

I walked Kyle and his family to the ballpark. I squatted to say good-bye to the twins. I held in my emotions as I said good-bye to Kyle and Turner.

I started to cry as I turned away. I felt like I was leaving my life behind me. I deserved Kyle and Maddie and Michael. I should have been Turner. I was devastated that I wasn't. I was more devastated that Kyle had decided he wanted to be with a man, but I wasn't the man.

Michael's 19th Hole (Part Two)

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. Yet another bad choice.

I decided to drown my sorrows over Kyle and Turner 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 did not 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. "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 my second Hendricks.

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

"It's stupid," I said, downing only half of my third Hendricks. 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 shoulda 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.

"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 struggled with my keys, and Hunter took over. He opened my door and helped me in. I walked directly to my room 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 wallowing around alone here."

"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 island, aren't you? You know, you have never spoken to anyone but me at the bar. Never. That's a bad way to be. And, I don't have a 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 the river, the "river rats" who live in the flood plain lean to's 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. Six is way better than five 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. 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 five hot 22 year old fit and shirtless guys frolic in the water, give each other shit, and show off for whomever was watching at that moment. I felt silly 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.

The Boys slept as I drove. My mind wandered to Kyle in the quiet of the car. As my 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 alone 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 guys talked about all day. Travis wondered if your whole body wasn't 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 cared little about his body. 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 move to the music.

We talked little as we ate. Every time I made eye contact with Hunter, he smiled back 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 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. When we got 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 teen 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 do without."

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 sent me over the edge, 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.

Michael's 19th Hole (Part Three)

When we were settled into bed to sleep, Hunter asked if he could tell me something without me getting mad. I said sure.

"The Boys bet me today that I couldn't take whatever it was that you were swinging."

"You talked to them about that?"

"Sure."

"So, they all know you're gay."

"Sure. We've been friends forever. They know everything about me."

"Are any of them gay?"

"Nah. We all did some gay shit when we were teens, but I'm the only one it stuck to."

"Does your family know?" I asked. Hunter's family was a prominent one in Republican state politics

"Of course," he said, matter of factly. Our 18 year age difference included a cultural revolution that made his reality so much different from mine.

We sat quietly for a bit, then I asked, "Did you have this whole thing planned?"

"Sure. I thought someone would break your heart, you'd come into my bar to try to stitch it back together with a bottle of gin, fall apart, and allow me to help you home where I could prey upon your weakness and convince you to fuck me. My crystal ball is that clear." He smiled as he said it.

"You should put it to better use." I smiled back.

"Seriously, I've been flirting with you for the two years you've been coming into my bar. At first, I didn't think you were gay. Then, I didn't think you were anything. You talked to no one but me, and you barely talked to me. I tried like hell to get you to take me home, and you seemed like you had no idea what I as up to. . . . Your density or obtuseness or whatever it is pissed me off. I talked about my frustration to The Boys, so they were surprised when you showed up with me today for the float. We were all surprised when you climbed out of the water in your board shorts. They hid nothing. The Boys told me there was no way I could take it, and I assured them I could. I'm not a whore or anything, but I know my capabilities."

"You did take it."

"Barely. You're going to ruin me for everyone else."

"I hope so," I said, carelessly. I was not usually careless.

"Me, too," he said, carefully.

Hunter slept soundly. I did not. I was in tumult. I had gone from despondence to elation in 24 hours. I was on a wild roller coaster, and my constitution was made for the merry-go-round. I needed to see my therapist. Fast.

I left before he woke up. It was characteristic of me. The morning after was always awkward, so I learned to avoid it.

I wrote on Hunter's bathroom mirror with a bar of soap: "Thank U. Great day. Better night. XOXO, Michael." It was an uncharacteristically informal and open message for me.

I was in my therapist's office for two hours over lunch on Monday. I explained to her all that had happened in the past 48 hours.

She was not helpful. As for Michael, she told me my plan to try to stay in touch with him was a foolish, self-destructive one. She assured me it would be hard on him and harder on me, the equivalent or ripping fresh stitches out each time I realized he was with Turner and not with me.

As for Hunter, she told me there was a reason the lines were longer for roller coasters than for merry-go-rounds; she pointed out how many times in our 10 years together I had chased what I could not have; and she assured me that the road I insisted on traveling -- refusing to give myself to anyone who might actually take me -- was a prescription for a lifetime of heartache and loneliness. It didn't have to be, but it was likely to be. Finally, she told me that I might consider thinking of reasons things might work with Hunter rather than listing all the reasons why I was sure they couldn't and wouldn't.

I left her office angry. I felt like she defaulted to the same advice each and every time we met, always urging me to focus on the positives rather than the negatives (I was sick to death of her "glass half full versus half empty" tripe). As I look back, I realize there was a reason for her constant advice; I needed it, but wouldn't take it. Despite all I had achieved, I remained the pensive boy in a rural Missouri trailer waiting for things to go wrong.

I couldn't go back to work. Instead, I drove to Forest Park and walked the trail around the perimeter, taking an honest inventory of where I was and what I wanted from life. I had always been looking toward the future, toward a time when drunken parents and a trailer were visible only in my rearview mirror, toward a time when I was making real money and not living the meager life of a student, toward a time when whomever I was with realized I was their destiny and not an interlude in their otherwise straight life. I had never lived for today, for the here and now, for the life that was right in front of me.

I also had never tried to give myself to someone who could have me. I am sure it was some fucked up avoidance or defense mechanism; open yourself only to one who was not open to you.

By the end of my walk, I was desperate to see Hunter. I'd like to claim I had an epiphany during my walk, but that would be trite and untrue. I was just lonely.

I'd have texted him, but I realized I had no contact information for him. I decided to drive to his condo. If he wasn't home, I'd wait for him.

I stopped and bought flowers on the way. I had never given anyone flowers before.

Hunter was, in fact, not home when I got to his door. I turned on music, leaned back on his steps, and turned my face to the sun. I loved the feeling of sun soaking into my skin.

I was in another world when Hunter opened the door behind me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"It's the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Nope. I should be right here." I handed Hunter the flowers. The sun and the wait had not been good for them. He looked at them quizzically.

"They'd have been a more romantic gesture about an hour ago," I offered, semi-apologetically.

"I've never received flowers before."

"I've never given flowers before."

"You look hot."

"Thank you."

Hunter laughed to himself. "Well, that too. But, I meant, hot as in temperature. You're soaked with sweat."

He was right. I'd gotten so lost in my thoughts, I hadn't realized I had sweated through my shirt and part of my grey poplin suit.

I followed Hunter into his condo. He dropped the flowers on the table, latched the door behind me, and pinned me to the door with a deep, open mouthed kiss. I held his face while his hands worked my tie, my belt, my shirt, and my zipper.

Hunter broke the kiss so he could rip his shirt over his head, tug his jeans off, and step out of his boxer briefs. While he did, I slipped my shoes off, stepped out of my slacks, and pulled off my jacket and shirt.

Hunter lowered himself and took me in his mouth. He knew what he was doing, working me in and out and around while he played with my balls and rubbed my stomach. I was so turned on by him, I could easily come. I told him so.

"You keep that up, and I'm gonna come."

He pulled off my dick long enough to say, "I want you to come." I did almost as soon as he went back to work, filling his mouth and his throat. When I was finished, Hunter kissed his way up my body and then shared my cum with me, the first "snowball" I had ever received.

As we kissed, I took him in my hand and started jerking him. He came quickly all over my stomach and crotch. I wiped some up with my hand, and held it out to him.

"Turnabout is fair play," I said. He licked some his cum from my fingers. I licked off what he missed.

We went to his bedroom. We spent the rest of that Monday kissing and sucking and fucking and sleeping and waking up and kissing and sucking and fucking all over again. We left the bed only to get wine and cheese and rinse the cum and sweat off our bodies.

Six hours into our marathon, I was sitting against Hunter's headboard, his head on my shoulder and his hand wandering through my chest, stomach, and pubic hair. I was spent. He was re-tooling.

I looked down at him, and he turned his face toward mine.

"You came along at just the right time," I said.

"What do you mean? I've been right in front of you for two years."

"I was blind."

"Nope. You just weren't ready."

"You're right. I am now, though."

"I'm glad."

I wasn't sure I was ready. But, I was going to try to be.

Paper is the traditional gift for a one year anniversary. I gave Hunter a vintage edition of Grey's Anatomy. He gave me a ticket for a weekend in San Francisco. It was his favorite city, and I had never been.

A lot had happened in the year. When things got tough, I tried to pull back. Hunter wouldn't let me. He was patient and kind. I tried to convince myself I deserved him. But, I continued to doubt that I did.

When I tried to erect obstacles, Hunter knocked them down. I met Hunter's family, and Hunter's obvious happiness helped them overcome their resistance to our age difference.

I moved to Hunter's condo. I had spent most of my time there since what we now called "Marathon Monday." After about six months, Hunter convinced me to sell my condo, make a balloon payment on my outstanding debts, and make formal what was informal.

I did not become one of The Boys, but they put up with my intrusion into their circle more than I expected. I made the mistake of telling them one too many stories about life in the boot heel, and they now called me Meat. I didn't mind. It was obviously a term of affection, not derision.

I was anxious about how little I brought to the table. I had no family and almost no friends. Still a government employee, I had little money.

Hunter didn't mind. He said he had enough family for the both of us, that we'd make friends together, and he had enough money for both of us (and then some).

I was also anxious about our age difference. But, Hunter definitely made me younger. With him, I slowly freed myself from whatever it was that made old when I was young. With him, I was getting younger as I got older.

I had a long way to go emotionally. But, for the first time since I started seeing her, my therapist seemed optimistic. And, finally, so did I.

As Hunter and I walked the Wharf holding hands, I had no idea how long the ride would last. But, I was glad to be on it. And, for the first time since I could remember, I was not worried there was no more track over the next rise.

Epilogue

Happily settled with Hunter, I decided to reach out to Kyle and apologize for how poorly I had handled meeting Turner. I had been surprised, and I not handled the surprise well.

I tracked Kyle down and wrote him a brief note:

Kyle,

I must apologize for the way I reacted last Summer when you and your family visited. I was surprised you were married to a man, and I did not react well to the surprise.

I am happy that you have found your way and someone to accompany you on it. As I reflect, that I am not that person is almost certainly on me. I could and should have reached out to you after I left. I chose not to do that, and choices have consequences. In this instance, it cost me at least a friend, if not more.

It was, after all the time that has passed, great seeing you and meeting your children (especially my namesake). If you are ever back this way, I'd love to see you. In the meantime, endless happiness to you and yours.

Yours,

Michael

I was surprised to receive a reply within a few weeks. It read only: "Thank you for the note. Turner's gone, but the kids are still here. Would love to see you soon. Would love to talk to you sooner." He included his mobile number.

"Turner's gone" rattled around in my head. I wanted to call Kyle, but I knew I shouldn't. Still . . . .

I went to Hunter with my problem. To my surprise, he urged me to call Kyle. I was a hotbed of insecurity. Hunter was a Brinks truck.

It was a fun call. Kyle told me Turner had left him for someone else, but that it was time for one or the other of them to leave. They had run their course.

He told me how they had gotten the kids, and how Turner had left them without looking back. Now, he was a single father of two and again trying to find his way.

I told him about Hunter. "He's how old and plays what?" he asked.

"23 and lacrosse."

"23 and lacrosse?"

"Yeah, isn't it awesome?"

"I guess so. It seems like a lot of work. I'm raising two kids. I don't want to date one."

I ignored the verbal slap and decided to parry back. "You would if you saw him."

"I'm googling him right now. . . . Holy shit, Michael, he's hot. He's also a scion. You know that right?"

"I do."

As the call ended, we made plans to meet in Columbia for dinner the following Friday. Kyle told me to bring Hunter along.

Hunter refused to go. "You two need to meet alone," he said. "You have unfinished business. You don't need me there."

"I want you there."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"That's nice of you to say. But, you don't."

He was right. Even as Hunter helped me tear down the barriers I had erected over the years, there was one he could not touch, and that was the hope of Kyle. It was always lurking, as I wondered what might have been.

I was anxious and nervous as I left for Columbia. Hunter kissed me good-bye and whispered "Come back to me." He could always read me.

I sped to Columbia, excited to see Kyle. He was seated when I arrived. He stood, and we exchanged a brief but warm embrace. To my surprise, I felt nothing but the warmth of an old friend. Despite the linger hope, I had moved on.

We sat and talked before ordering. As we did, I barely heard a word he said. I was thinking of Hunter and his "come back to me." I decided to do it. I apologized to Kyle I told him why. He responded that he was happy for me. I kissed his forehead and headed back to St. Louis and the man and the life I had finally given myself to and loved.

I was surprised by what I found when I arrived home two hours earlier than Hunter expected me. Our bedroom door was closed. I opened it slowly to find Hunter in bed, curled up in a ball. He was asleep. I climbed in behind him.

"What time is it?" he asked as he awoke.

"9:15," I answered.

"You left at 4:30. Did Kyle no show?"

"No, he was there."

"What happened?"

"I sat across from him, thought of you, and wanted to come back to you. So, here I am."

Hunter rolled into me. I told him I loved him and kissed him as hard I could. I felt more barriers eroding as I did.