The Pitcher

I relaxed my neck and let my head rest against his shoulder. He tickled my stomach and chest. I fell asleep. In my sleep, there was no public, no peer pressure, no closet, and no Kate. There was just Cal and me.

When I awoke, the room was as dark as it could be. I could hear Cal in the other room. He was on the telephone. I suspected he was talking to Kate. I stayed in the room. I didn't want to hear the "I love you, too" that rendered my heart. I put my headphones in and listened to one of the CDs Billy Jack's mother had given me after he died.

The light startled me from my thoughts. I pulled off my headphones.

"I knocked," Cal said. "You probably didn't hear me over the music."

"I didn't."

"I'm making dinner."

"Thank you. I'm famished."

"Me, too," he said, moving toward me.

"Is dinner going to burn?"

"No," he answered, pulling his undershirt over his head and pulling his gym shorts off.

"Then make love to me."

He did. I was on my back, he had my legs in the crooks of his arms, and he was sliding in and out of me. I stared into his eyes. He smiled at me and winked. When he was close, he said "hey." I had my eyes closed. I opened them, he said "I love you, Matthias," and he leaned down and kissed me as he came. When he was finished, he pulled out, moved his mouth to me, and brought me the rest of the way home.

"That was quite an appetizer," he said, once he had swallowed my cum.

"Yes, I hear it soon will be added to the menu at Plaza III."

"I'd order it."

"You don't have to. You can have it whenever you want. No charge."

*****

I made a life in Kansas City. In addition to making friends, I also started working at a Hospital on the Plaza. Cal had urged me not to work, as he made enough money for both of us, and my working would take away from our time together, which was already limited by his travel and by Kate.

But, I couldn't allow myself to be that dependent upon, and vulnerable to, him. He was enough for now, but I was not certain he was enough forever, especially if he insisted upon a shadowed life with me.

To date, he had. When it was only the two of us, I felt like I was on a flying carpet. The jangle of his keys in the door always made me stand up. The sight of him always made my eyes crinkle. His smile - especially when it was for nothing other than my presence - stripped me bare. The quiet times, especially when he sat at the end of the sofa as he read with my head in his lap as I read, contented me in way I had never been contented. When he'd keep his eyes on his book, but somehow sense I was looking at him and lean down and kiss my forehead, I'd melt a little. When we'd fill the bathtub with hot water and bubbles, open a bottle of preposterously expensive wine, slide Etta James into the CD player, and soak, my smooth back agains his hairy, muscled chest, I'd melt a lot. I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Those moments overwhelmed the disappointment that stung me when he said he was spending the night with Kate or the loneliness I felt while I waited in his bed for his return the morning after. Those moments overwhelmed the anxiety I felt about our future and what Kate meant, or could mean, to it.

I was stunned to learn he was spending Christmas and New Year's with Kate and her family on their Colorado ranch. He had tried to mollify me by explaining that, even if not, we'd have been apart in any event, as he would have been with his family and I with mine. "Not for three weeks," I answered.

He also tried to mollify me by explaining that Kate's family were traditionalists and would not allow him and Kate to share a room. "That's not the issue," I answered. "And, you'll figure out a way. You were in high school once."

"Alright, then just look at it as a dry run for Spring Training. I'm going to be gone for six weeks, and you won't be able to visit. It'd look weird. Plus, it's pretty intense. There's not much room for time away. It'll be a significant challenge."

"You're worth the wait" was all I could think to say.

The night before he left for Colorado, he introduced a new position. We were in his bed, and we were lying next to each other, but head to toe. My head was on his left thigh, and his head was on my right thigh. It was a sexual position, but it was not a sexual moment. It was too intimate to be sexual.

I wanted that moment to perpetuate. I wanted that moment to freeze. I had never been happier or more fulfilled. It was almost enough to make me forget that I'd soon be without Cal for three full weeks.

Lust replaced the intimacy. I started to work him with my mouth, and he answered by working me with his. In no time, we were hard and hungry.

I rolled him over and turned around. I grabbed lube from the nightstand and prepared us both. I slid down on him and just stayed there, clenching and unclenching, using my insides as much as I could. My hands were on his chest. My eyes were fixed on his.

I knew him and what he liked. I slid off of him and left the bed. "Don't move," I insisted.

I went to the kitchen and got the pumpkin pie we had made for our premature Christmas dinner together. I also got whipped cream.

I went to the closet and got a blindfold, handcuffs, and piece of rope.

"Don't speak," I insisted. He met my insistence with a broad smile and a wink.

I put the blindfold over his eyes.

I put the handcuffs around his wrists.

I tied the rope around his ankles, loose enough that I could spread his legs, but tight enough that he couldn't do much other than writhe.

I dragged my finger through he pie and slid it into his mouth. "Suck it off," I demanded.

I smeared pie on his face and neck and then added whipped cream.

I slid back down on him. He strained to get into me a deeply as he could.

I again used my insides to work his hard dick. While I did, I licked pie and whipped cream from his face and neck, using my tongue to feed some to him as we kissed.

I hissed "I need you to fuck me" in his ear. I hovered over him as he started thrusting in and out of me.

I returned to the pie, holding his face with my hands as a licked and kissed.

I hissed "Come on, give me all you've got" in his ear. I started to match his rhythm as he fucked me harder.

I stopped hissing and fed his ego. "Deeper! . . . . Faster! . . . . Harder! . . . ." I cried.

When I knew he was close, I slid all the way down and pinned his hips with my own. When he tried to thrust, I wouldn't let him. I used my insides to milk him until he cried out and filled me.

"Shhh . . . . I said 'Don't speak'."

When he was finished, I climbed off and flipped him over.

"Nod if your wrists are too tight," I said. He didn't nod, but instead shook.

I filled his crack with pie and whipped cream and then ate him out, deliberately and slowly, drawing every moan of pleasure I could.

"Calvin," I whispered in his ear as I slid my middle finger inside of him. "I'm going to make love to you, but . . . I'm going to fuck you first."

I covered his opening and my dick with whipped cream. I worked my way into him. I raised up on my arms and started into him, picking up speed until I was pounding him. When I got as close as I could without crossing the rubicon, I slowed down and laid flat on him. I moved my hands to his and covered his feet with mine. Every part of that could touch was touching.

I used my hips to make love to him. Even when my body insisted, I refused to speed up. When I finally came, I was almost in tears. When I removed the blindfold, it looked like Cal was, too.

"Holy Mother of God," he said. "What inspired that?"

"I don't know."

"It was intense."

"I know."

"I loved it."

"Me, too."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

We slept like babies, pie and whipped cream in our bed, on our faces, and in our hair.

* * * * *

I spent Christmas with my parents, Joanie, her husband, and their two daughters, Ava and Eve. Joanie had married later, and - at thirty-seven - was trying to navigate two toddlers still in diapers. Her husband, a successful entrepreneur who seemed able to turn anything that glittered into gold, was older still. To my parents' dismay, Joanie was his second wife. Joanie would not admit it, but we had concluded he had left his first wife - and their three teenaged sons - for Joanie. His first wife and their three sons had reached the same conclusion, and they totally shunned him for it.

I also took inventory of my life. I was a successful thirty-five year old man, but I felt like I was acting like a feckless twenty-five year old. I also feared I was once again headed down a path of self-destruction. Whether it was drugs or sex, I had long tended toward things that were short-term indulgent and long-term disastrous. I feared Cal was yet another chapter in that regrettable book.

Since I was to be alone on New Year's Eve, I volunteered to work. At the end of my shift, Dr. Cali Ling - who, for some reason we all called "ChaCha" - invited me out for a drink. Over drinks, she asked if she could sleep over.

"You know I'm gay, right?"

"Please. I've been fucking gay guys since I was in college. . . . Plus, you strike me as more of a 'don't' than a 'can't.'"

The look on my face must have invited explanation. "Some gay guys can't. They're incapable. Other gay guys can and have, they just don't."

"That's I."

"So, let's do it. No strings. Just a bottle of wine, a dick, a pussy, some condoms, and a lot of orgasms."

I was stunned, but I liked the way she thought.

ChaCha was bald and tight. It had been awhile since I had been with a woman, but the rules seemed to be the same.

ChaCha could spread her legs wider than any girl I'd ever been with. The first time I penetrated her, she was an inverted T, her legs perfectly perpendicular to her body.

She fingered herself while I fucked her. She had to told me she never relied on a man to determine whether she orgasmed.

We fucked a lot, but I don't recall how often. She overwhelmed my resistance and convinced me to eat her out. I overwhelmed her resistance and convinced her to eat my ass.

When I awoke on New Year's Day, she was gone. I found a note from her on the refrigerator.

"Thanks. Just what I needed. I tell all my friends you gays fuck better. You do it so often you get really good at it. HNY, ChaCha."

*****

I wondered if I should tell Cal about ChaCha. Part of me thought I should, as I thought we should be open with each other. That part of me was probably more driven by pride than principle; I wanted Cal to feel the sting I felt when he was with Kate. I also think that part of me was Machiavellian, hoping somehow the news might convince Cal he was unwilling to share me and so I shouldn't have to share him.

I didn't tell him. I didn't really have a chance.

When Cal returned from Colorado, things were off. He seemed happy to see me, but not like I expected, and certainly not as happy as I was to see him. His first night back, he pleaded fatigue, and we slept clothed for the first time since we had met. The second night, he held my wrist when I wrapped my hand around him. "Slow down, Matty Joe."

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"Something's wrong."

"It'll be fine."

"What is it?"

"Kate gave me an ultimatum. She wants to get engaged or to move on. She's quote not getting any younger."

I rolled toward him and propped my head on his shoulder. "Can't you use the ultimatum as your escape hatch?"

"Yes, if I want to."

"What do you mean, 'if you want to.' You can't marry her."

"She'd be a great wife. If I'm going to marry anyone, it should be her. She's beautiful, rich, and smart, and she thinks the world of me."

"She doesn't know you. And, I doubt she'd think the world of you if she did. . . . Cal, it's 2002. The world's changing. You deserve more than her. And she deserves more than you. What're you going to do, marry her until you retire and then divorce her and come out?"

Cal didn't respond. He just rolled his back toward me and wrapped his pillow around his head. I couldn't tell if he was angry with me, troubled, or both. I wanted to wrap myself around him, assure him it was all going to work out, and bury my face in the back of his neck. But, I couldn't. I wasn't sure how he'd react. And, I was not emotionally equipped to expose myself any more than I already had. I was already way too vulnerable.

*****

The next morning, Cal surprised me in the shower. I was thrilled to feel his strong hands hold my stomach and chest from behind and feel his lips on the back of my neck.

"I love you."

"I know. I love you, too."

We muddled toward Spring training, Kate's ultimatum hanging over us like a sword of Damocles. Even while in the throes of passion, I could feel it, separating us.

"I want you to know something," Cal told me, late one night as my head rested on his thigh and his head rested on mine. "I don't regret any of this. Not one bit. I'm really glad you moved to Kansas City."

"I'm glad, too," I answered. I had been, until that moment. As it was in that moment that I knew Cal was going to marry Kate.

He didn't tell me until the very end of Spring training. "Kate's pregnant," he announced, late at night after a particularly randy episode of phone sex.

"How?" I asked, stupidly.

"You know I hate condoms."

I did. Despite Billy Jack and pressing my luck in college, I had allowed Cal to talk me into barebacking. Once I did, I could never convince him to wear a condom again.

"What're you going to do?" I asked.

"We're getting married."

"I figured," I responded, defeated.

"It doesn't have to be the end of us."

"It does."

"Matty Joe, it doesn't. We can keep going like we've been going. I'll be on the road half the year. We can get together whenever you want."

"I feel bad enough about what we've been doing. I can't keep doing it once you're married and a father. I have to be a better person than that. I just have to be."

"I'm afraid I'm not."

"I hope you are."

I'm certain he was crying. "What if I'm not?"

"Then I'm glad I'm finding out now," I thought to myself and almost said aloud. Instead, I offered "Then try to be."

*****

It is far easier to claim strength than to demonstrate it. I was not strong. I didn't yet know it, but I was weak, especially where Cal was concerned.

I knew I deserved more than Cal was offering. I also knew I would yield if he continued to offer it.

When Cal was in Arizona, it was easy. There was nothing to tempt me. He was there, I was not, and there was no issue.

When Spring Training was over, Cal returned to Kansas City and to the floor below me. While the world celebrated the ballplayer and the heiress, Cal tried to convince me what was done was not done.

I gave in. Over and over again. Each time, I told him it was the last time. Like the child whose mother said "I'm not going to ask you again" over and over, he knew I was lying. It's difficult to quit great sex. It's even more difficult when you are deeply, madly, and truly in love with the person with whom you have great sex.

"Don't marry her," I pleaded. "Have a kid with her if you must, but don't marry her."

"I don't want to," he said. "But, I feel like I have to throw the pitch that's been called. If I don't, and the hitter jacks the pitch I want to throw, I'll never hear the end of it."

"It's your life, Cal. You only get one, Shirley McLain be damned. You can't live it in box."

"I feel like I have to."

"You love me, not her."

"I know."

"You want me, not her."

"I know."

"You belong with me, not her."

"I know."

"Then act on what you know."

"I can't," he answered, resignedly and through tears. "I'm not strong enough."

We had the same conversation five ways to Sunday. It always ended the same, with me bound and each of us spent, him filling me and me swallowing him, each of us lachrymose.

Maybe he felt guilty, as he started offering his ass to me more and more frequently. I didn't mind. I didn't think there was an appreciable difference for him when he fucked me versus when he fucked her. I knew she couldn't fuck him. And, I was fucking him good. I learned where his prostate was, and I'd work it with my dick as he writhed under me, his lanky and muscled frame reduced to a series of spasms and twitches.

*****

I had to let Tom in. I couldn't hold it all in. I had to dump it on someone.

"You dirty rat bastard motherfucker," he said. "You've been with Cal Lowden all this time and haven't said a word. The world is going to fucking hate you."

"The world can't know."

"No . . . No . . . No. You can't make me keep this in the vault. You can't . . . can't . . . . can't.'

"You have to. It's a Mathias/Thomas thing. No one else can know."

"Fine. But . . . Fuck you, motherfucker. It's so unfair that you give me the key to the kingdom and then forbid me from using it!"

We spent hours talking through the whole situation. Tom was frivolous in his life, but not in our friendship. He was calm, collected, and cool.

He hit it all spot on. "I get both perspectives," he said. "You two belong together. Duh. But, he can't be with you. Also duh. You can't accept that he can't. Duh times three."

"'Duh' is not an answer."

"Bullshit. It is. The conclusion: It's untenable. You both know what should happen. One of you can't own that and never will. So, it's untenable."

"You're wrong."

"I'm not. The fact you disagree does not make me wrong. I'm right. Like 100% right. He's never going to be who you need him to be. So, your options are either to be you or to be who he's willing to let you be. It's a no brainer. You have to be you."

I knew he was right. But, I hated in the marrow of my bones that he was. I fought against his rightness for days and weeks. My fight led me to Cal's bed and him to mine.

There was no way we were ever going to quit each other so long as I lived thirteen steps from him. If we were going to quit, I needed to be farther away.

By the 4th of July, I had moved to a coach house behind one of the mansions in Hyde Park. It was totally redone, and I loved every bit of it.

After I moved away, I gave Cal the Heisman whenever he suggested we get together. When he sent me a plane ticket, I didn't use it.

My resolve was not strong. By Labor Day, I weakened and allowed him to "see my new place and talk."

He was broodingly handsome. His hair was shorter, but still wild. His face was covered with a thin layer of hear. He looked like Rob Stark would, only with better clothing.

I welcomed him in with a kiss on the cheek. He responded with a kiss on my lips that lasted a little too long and left me wanting when it was over.

There was little talk and lots of action. The moment he put his lips to mine, I was lost. We christened my coach house. He tied my hands to the rails of my headboard. More loosely, he tied my ankles to the same rails. I was exposed and without recourse.

We made love perfectly. He never went too fast or too slow, he never went too hard or too soft. By the time he was ready to finish, my body was aglow and atingle. I felt like I was turning inside out.

We restarted. Cal's wife was pregnant and getting more and more pregnant. While she was, I was flying hither and yon, meeting Cal in Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, and Minneapolis. When the Royals were at home, I was a pit stop between the K and his home or between his home and whatever errand he pretended he needed to run. I got used to being "on call."

Their first child arrived, a boy named Matthew. I was both troubled and thrilled by the name.

The season ended. Cal was an adoring and adulterous husband and father.

We kept going. The days became months, and the months became years. I spent an inordinate amount of time on Southwest flights, overnighting here and there while Kate nursed Matthew and then Margaret and then Malachai.