19th Hole

I also did not have the heart to tell him sex had zero to do with my "switch." After he left and I had finished whoring around, I had gone to therapy about the hole he left in my life. Forced by my bitch therapist to be brutally honest with myself, I realized my penchant for one night stands with women was because I had no connection to them emotionally, that all of my emotional bonds in life had been forged with men, and that I was either going to spend my life having straight sex with strangers I cared little for or gay sex with someone with whom I shared a bond.

As I was thinking all those thoughts, Michael asked me why I had not tracked him down when I finally figured my shit out.

I told him it didn't really happen like that. I had met Turner at work. He had grown up east of Troost, and he moved back to Kansas City after his wife left him. We worked and worked out together. We became friends. I drunkenly told him about Michael one night. He responded by telling me he had had a boyfriend at Howard, but he (and the African-American community) could not handle being gay, so he moved to where no one knew him and started over straight. He met a girl, got married, was a bad husband, and visited the down low. His wife gave up on their marriage when she found out what he had been up to.

After that, we let our guards down with each other. We both knew something about the other that we didn't want anyone else to know. We spent more and more time together. We decided it was stupid for both of us to pay to live, so he moved into the second bedroom of the house I had bought. One night, he fell asleep on my bed while we were talking and watching a football game. He stayed the night. The next night, he stayed again, without either of us talking about it. That was that. After a few nights, we started holding each other as we slept. Hand jobs, then blow jobs, then everything else. After a week or so, we started talking about sex and then acting on the talk. It was a slow dance, but - in retrospect - we had both known where it was headed once we shared our secrets with each other.

Turner reminded me of Michael. He was true. He was comfortable. He was utterly without guile. He had been dealt a bad hand - born into poverty and a lifetime of prejudice, both against and from his own community - and he had played himself into a wonderful man.

Michael smiled at me. His beard hid his dimples. But, not his lively eyes.

I told him he should shave. His beard hid too much of his beauty.

Michael walked to the ballpark with us. During the walk, he told me both his parents had died, that he had been in a relationship for awhile with a "straight" man that ended badly, and that he was now happily alone. I knew better.

When we got to the ballpark, Michael hugged me good-bye, told Turner good-bye, and then lowered himself to tell the twins good-bye. Typical Michael. Always observing the small things.

I watched him walk away. I was nostalgic as he did. I was happy in my life, but I wondered about what might have been.

When Michael was out of sight, Turner took my hand in one of his, and Maggie's hand in the other. I grabbed my son's hand, and we headed as a family through Ballpark Village. As we walked, Turner squeezed my hand, and I squeezed his back.

The 19th Hole

(Part Seven: From Michael's POV)

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 my 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 all of their time fucking. They were like dogs. 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 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. Always at his invitation, we snuggled pretty every once in awhile, especially when we were 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. He was very open about it, often announcing "I'm going to go rub one out."

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 do 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 wanted to know what it felt like. I turned into him and said, "I've never done that."

He surprised me. "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, and David got between my legs. He reached down, grabbed my dick, and announced "Jesus Christ, Michael, I knew your dick was big, but . . . There will be no reciprocation with this thing."

"Have you been fucked before?"

"Sure. Not often, but if I guy lets you fuck him, it's only polite to return the favor."

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 raised my legs and 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 finally 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 worked as hard I could not to hurt him. I delivered myself to him slowly. I collapsed onto him when I came and then 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, yet 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 men 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 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 hated appearing weak.

I was very surprised when, after then years, 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 Hendricks 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 had named his son Michael, which I assumed was in my honor. As to the devastation, the wife I expected to meet was actually a tall, 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, and I paid not attention to Kyle's explanation.

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. As Kyle talked and the reality of Turner sank in, I wondered what would have happened if I had sent even one of them.

I could not reclaim myself. In a fog, 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 soon I turned away. I felt like I was turning away from the life that should have been mine. 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 realized he wanted to be with a man, but I wasn't the man.

The 19th Hole

(Part Eight; From Michael's POV)

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. I had made yet another bad choice.

I decided to drown my sorrows over Kyle and Turner and my lost life 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 didn't 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, then continued. "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 another Hendricks.

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

"It's stupid," I said, downing half of my third Hendricks with him, but my fifth of the day. 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 should have 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. I felt like every eye in the bar was on me.

"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 was drunk, and I struggled with my keys. Hunter took over, opening my door and helping me in. I walked directly to my bedroom 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."