Geoff and Chet Ch. 19

Chapter 19 Meeting with Pete, Dinner with Geoff and Dessert

This chapter is from Chet's POV. Author's note: Remember, like the story, the cycling rules are figments of my imagination. Don't bother with search engines. It really is fiction. Copyright 2023, all rights reserved. All individuals portrayed in sexual acts are over 18. BD

I agreed to meet with Pete at the Coffee Bean on Springdale. I had his cold brewed mocha skinny (with an extra shot) waiting when he entered. I was trying the iced raspberry chai and had commandeered a booth near the back. It wasn't crowded or noisy—just a few students, probably trying to get a head start on some work using the free wi-fi—or more likely downloading porn for later—since the University blocked most of it from our wi-fi.

Pete fit the perfect image of a cyclist. He was tall, about the same as my 6'2", slim, with a crew cut and a square tanned face. He seemed to sport a perpetual smile and radiated friendship and cowboy wholesomeness. His logo tee (from last year's Houston Rodeo) showed off his wide chest and long muscled bis and tris, but hung loosely at his narrow waist. When he sat, he revealed creamy tanned skin, the bottom of cut abs, and sharp white tan lines where his jeans had dropped. He wore tight jeans, very low on his hips, suitably threadbare, probably from actual use, not some designer creation, showcasing his thick thigh muscles and his rounded ass. He wore the ubiquitous cheap flip flops. I knew that his family owned a ranch outside Fort Worth and that he worked there summers. Pete was medium everything: not rich nor poor, handsome, but not star quality, intelligent, but not brilliant, a good, loyal friend, but not a pied piper.

He was a very good cyclist, most likely due to natural physical ability and dedication to practice, but had no professional intentions or obvious egotism. He expected to return to the ranch with a degree in Agricultural Economics and Marketing in a few years. We had been friends for awhile. He was one of the guys who had teased me in the shower about my penis size and the size of my harem. I think there might have been some envy. But, he seemed to be straight arrow. I liked him a lot—the kind of reliable, easy guy that anyone would call friend.

We chatted about our summer experiences, but it was quickly obvious that he wasn't accustomed to "idle" casual conversation. He interrupted. "So, Chet, what's up? Why the mystery? And why the urgency?"

"Sorry to be dramatic. But, a few things have happened in the last couple of days and I wanted to make sure you were aware and can put them in perspective. You're now the youngest member of the cycling team, but one of the best already. I know the coaches are expecting great things—and they already see you in a leadership role next year. But, this is your first full year as a regular member—you'll be riding with us in all 10 of the conference races, I'm sure."

"I'd be blind and stupid if I didn't realize that I am being treated like some golden boy. I won't let it go to my head, I promise. You didn't need to warn me. You do know that unlike you, I don't have professional ambitions. Maybe they are wasting their time on me. But if it works out that way, I'll do my best to make the team proud of me."

"We don't think we are wasting time. I am in the same place as the coaches. But that is not the reason I asked to talk."

"We are going to be facing some challenges as a team this year-- more than the usual need to excel to become the champions of our conference. We've realy got a chance this year. We're all aware of the pre-season shake-up in the roster. And of course Nelson's resignation and law suit. We are under an affirmative action microscope. We'll be dealing with a woman on the team. And within a few weeks, we'll probably have a new head coach. That always results in changes and challenges."

"I think I know where this is going. Be careful, Chet."

"All of us are aware of the, shall I say, irregularities this morning during the Team B heat. I don't think there is any suspicion aimed at you—certainly not by me, but the tapes sure suggested that Reg fouled a teammate in order to overtake Jean Marc and post the best time for Team B. It may be that Jean Marc had an off day. You took advantage of the hole and situation created by Reg—there is nothing which prohibits aggressive opportunism."

"Am I under some kind of probation or observation?"

"No, not at all. But if it happens again and Reg seems to be involved in a foul, it will cause some real turmoil within the club. Coach Neal is going to warn him on Monday."

"I know you had lunch with Reg today."

"Nothing's secret. Yeah, we went to the jock cafeteria—and we actually sat at the team table, but no other team members joined us—probably because it's Saturday, and they had other plans."

"Well, you need to be careful about being seen as his buddy on the team. Try to make sure others are included."

"It sounds like he's already been convicted. Is that fair? He's really a very talented rider—and he's committed to being a champ. I'll support him until he demonstrates that he doesn't deserve my support."

"But he hasn't demonstrated team spirit or sportsmanship."

"Maybe that's because he's only been with us a few days—and he had to break in to our little closed club through a University-imposed procedure. Maybe he feels excluded. I know he seems to be a bit more aggressive than we typically see here at Rice. But that doesn't make him evil—or a spoiler—or guilty of foul. Maybe we should examine our own motives. Chet, I thought you were on the side of full and fair opportunity for everyone. I've tried not to link your Georgia background with Jim Crowe attitudes. Don't make me regret that."

Pete was getting angry. That was the last thing I wanted to happen.

"He told me that he wants to be on the team within a month and will prove his worth before then. He also told me he expects to be captain next year." "If he's the best, he deserves to be."

"I agree. But my definition of 'best' includes what is best for the team. Just be careful, ok?"

"Chet, we all know your ambition to go pro. Everyone on the team is pulling for you—and prepared to support you with everything we've got. Please don't make us regret our confidence in you."

"I hope this conversation hasn't hurt our friendship. I didn't intend that at all. That was not my objective—but I seemed to have royally screwed this up. Sorry. But be careful, ok?"

"Thanks for the warning, I think. By the way, just so you don't think I'm not telling you everything. Reg has asked me to be his workout partner and spotter. He's joined the new Gold's near campus and his membership permits him to have a buddy. It's larger than the club house, has better equipment, and really luxurious showers and saunas. And he's invited me to go clubbing with him tonight—maybe our last big chance before the semester and season are upon us. With his looks and self-confidence, I couldn't ask for a better wingman. I bet we both score tonight—big time."

"Thanks for the coffee. I've gotta go. See you next week at the club house."

That certainly didn't go as I expected. But I really couldn't go into any more about Reg's threats to me—in fact they might seem invented and petty at this point. Reg is already weaving his web. Gold's is positioning itself as a bastion for the gay community around Rice—I've heard that at other locations it's the favored pick-up spot for those who are out and known within the university community. Reg will be a magnet. I'm pretty sure Pete is straight. I know he's been through some of the inner circle of groupies—but most of that is pretty vanilla sex. I just hope he isn't the naïve cowboy he projects, or he could get badly hurt. But, there's not much more I can do. I tried. And he's a big boy.

Time to go home to get ready for my date with Geoff. That was probably a complete waste of time.

Geoff and I changed in separate rooms—since my dressier clothes were now in "my" closet. We emerged in nearly identical uniforms: chinos, light blue oxford shirts, navy blazers, and moccasins--the original preppy look which had never been successfully co-opted by Lauren.

"I'm going to get us a glass of wine before we go. The reservation is for 7:30." So, I went to the sofa.

"How did the meeting with Pete go?"

"I don't think it could have been worse. He's already hooked up with Reg and is suspicious of my motives. Do you think I'm bigoted?"

"Frankly I haven't seen you interact with many people, but it doesn't seem so to me—and I'm sort of sensitive to those issues given the family I come from."

"Well, I definitely think Reg is for some reason out to get me. Maybe just to embarrass me. Perhaps it has to do with his ambitions—which are huge. But, the feelings may go much deeper. I'm pretty sure he has already labeled me as a Georgia bigot. And I have this gut feeling that he's going to try to use Pete to achieve his objectives."

"If he feels that way, there is not much you can do about it. Just be careful that you treat him the same as everyone on the team."

"Can we forget about this for tonight? I want this to be a real celebration. I have great memories of this restaurant. Mom and Dad used to take us there for birthdays when we visited Houston—and Matt and I really began to appreciate the atmosphere and the exotic foods on the menu—often trying to out-gross each other out with our exotic choices. But the food is really great and the place is terrific—you'll see. Let's go."

A half hour later we arrived by uber and walked into the most unusual place I've ever seen, let alone eaten in. It gave the impression that a giant had balanced large cubes with alternating walls of glass and raw timbers in the tall trees of eastern Memorial Park. You crossed a ravine on a narrow walking bridge to enter. Once inside, the ambiance was that we were treetop in the woods.

We moved to the bar, which was a "trout stream"—with fish and aquatic plants suspended in acrylic beneath the long shiny top. We were carded and ordered Jack and cokes. Soon our table was ready. A waiter, with a leather apron over black jeans and a white shirt with a black bow tie, insisted on carrying our drinks to the table. The restaurant was on multiple levels, with a few tables on each level, seeming to be suspended within the cube and connected by open metal staircases. It created a cozy space—of platform tree houses. The chandeliers were of animal horns. The light was dim. Game heads were hung on various walls. We were seated at a dark fabric covered corner table with glass on two sides. The chairs were large and comfortable—designed to encourage a long, luxurious dinner. Clearly Geoff had taken care of the details.

"Boy you sure know how to treat a guy."

"Nothing but the best for my lover."

"With what this is costing, I'm definitely going to have to put out big time later."

"That's the whole idea, babe. Isn't that what dinner dates are for?"

The meal was multi-course, slow and sumptuous. I had coarsely chopped venison pate with a honey-raspberry coulis, fresh trout amandine, and lingonberries in Sabayon sauce for dessert. Geoff chose a chopped salad, filet, and a molten chocolate dessert. He ordered both red and white, with more authority than I could have mustered. We had a French Puligny-Montrachet and a Barolo from Italy. The waiters were impressed, and of course so was I.

"Now you understand why we used uber. I definitely wanted to enjoy all of this. Besides my pickup would have been an anomaly at this place."

We talked about our pasts. Geoff described his teen years. By then, the family was at the ranch near Austin. His Dad was working crazy hours building the ER practice. He had gone to Regent—the prep school Matt was attending now. His mother, although wealthy and engaged with the Foundation, was home most of the time. She was definitely a hands-on Mom with two trophy boys to raise. Summers were spent on the Italian Riviera in a little seaside town near Portofino where her family had a villa. There were lots of relatives, including dozens of cousins. They all learned a polyglot version of Italian-American English, listened to American music, and enjoyed the Italian seaside life with swimming, sailing, snorkeling and sunning. By high school, he had decided swimming would be his major sport, although he continued to play basketball for the small prep school team. Therefore, he trained daily in the Med. His Dad visited for two long weekends and two weeks each summer. He definitely was a golden boy (although dark and mysterious as it turned out!).

I talked with much less enthusiasm about my time in Georgia's Low Country. My dad, being a mechanic worked long hours, but was home most nights and weekends. He was a tough disciplinarian, but was often asleep before the TV right after dinner. I was an extra-ordinary student, but one-on-one friendships were actively discouraged at Baptist so I was pretty lonely most of the time. Mom ran the household—as much as she could, given the circumstances. The old family plantation had been divided several times. We had what had been a foreman's house on about 100 acres. It had been remodeled, enlarged a little, and was nice with air conditioning and porches surrounding three sides—all raised about three feet above the rich soil. Three of her sisters lived in similar houses, placed around the edge of the farm. The plantation itself was now a large family vegetable and fruit tree farm, run by her oldest brother who lived with his family in the ancient plantation house—which required annual repairs at enormous cost. So the extended family was together all the time—and her older brother and his wife set the pattern, the rules, and the pace. We really were no better than tenant farmers with little cash—poor white trash, but with property.

Our lives revolved around the local Baptist Church with mandatory attendance on Sunday mornings and evenings and Wednesday evenings. Of course, there were other weekly semi-mandatory events. We never had much money, but we ate well if simply, had clean clothes, and really didn't notice our poverty.

And I was suffocating. I tried to get them to let me attend prep school in Savannah, but Mom insisted the Baptist Academy had been fine for her family for generations and was good enough for me. My cycling was my only outlet and my only rebellion. The Rice scholarship turned out to be my redemption—and they almost didn't let me attend.

"But I'm not out for sympathy. I like where I am. I love Rice, Houston, and cycling. And I really can't believe my luck in meeting you Geoff."

Almost two hours after our arrival, it was time to go. We had planned to go clubbing on Richmond, but the weather had turned really foul and a tropical depression was already deluging Houston, hours earlier than expected—so we headed home, again in an uber-- arriving drenched and shivering. Once inside the condo, we stripped. Geoff was happy nude, as usual, but I started shivering so we both went for sweats—at least to warm up.

When I returned to the living room, Geoff had put soft, romantic music on the stereo speakers. He took me into his arms and we more or less swayed together on the marble floor. His huge hands of course moved immediately inside the band of my sweats and held my ass, pulling me firmly into his growing erection. So I followed. I reached behind him and my hands crawled inside his sweats, my fingers slipped into his crevice and I pulled him toward me. We kissed and pressed our chests and dicks together as we rocked to the music and our dicks dueled through the light sweat suit knit. We were slowly moving into our own world of pleasure. Suddenly there was a sharp illumination of the room with lightning, followed by loud thunder. We broke apart, and holding hands moved to the south- facing windows.

There wasn't much to see. Visibility was obscured by the heavy rain that was pounding on the glass windows creating a natural drumbeat that seemed to set a tribal tempo. "You promised to show me your moves on the dance floor. This isn't Club Eight or HiLite, but I think we can find some appropriate music."

"Do you have any African drum recordings? This rain is reminding me of something I experienced a few years ago." Geoff connected his i-phone and selected an Afro-Carib dance mix. Soon we had a heavy beat with lighter steel drum overtones and repeated mesmerizing unintelligible syllables. The pounding rain provided the deep base notes. The beat was hot and passionate designed to boil your blood and make you forget your inhibitions.

I moved to the open marble floor and started swaying with arms stretched above my head. Facing Geoff, I began a series of complex foot and leg moves. Then I added the hip and the torso gyrations. Finally, my arms went out and my hands beckoned in toward me, pointing to my lap. Geoff joined me, but was definitely too self-conscious to follow the intricate patterns that I had picked up in a few stolen nights in the Gullah country on an island near Savannah. The patterns were repeated, involving beckoning arms and hands, hip sways, almost like a hula, punctuated with ass and hip thrusts: overtly sexual, and hot.

"You sure don't move like a Baptist white boy. I'm not sure you move like any boy."

"It's time to ditch the sweats. I'm warm enough. In fact I'm hot. This is a dance I saw being done by dozens by a bonfire on the beach. The music came from steel drums, animal skin drums, and flutes. Big bare-chested black men were dressed in short sari-like skirts that wrapped around their waists, just barely overlapping over their bulging dicks. Women had colorful print bandanas which barely covered their enormous breasts and had similar saris around their large bottoms. All had been partying for some time; they were glistening with sweat; and they almost seemed to be in a sensual religious trance. The men pounded their feet, beckoning with open hands and jumping in a move like a half-cartwheel—inviting the women to breed by flashing their enormous erect penises, while the women danced in a wide circle around them measuring their virility and joking about their attributes. The music got wilder, then quieter, and pairs began to move into the dunes around the beach. It was the sexiest display I had ever seen. When I saw this at first, I was really scandalized—but hypnotized all the same. It became my jack off material for months."

I removed my sweats, tied a wide scarf around my waist—using one of the narrow silver, silk drapes that had already been removed by the designer and piled on the floor, ready for discard, and continued the gyrations, but now my rigidly erect dick added a cobra-like attraction. Geoff's eyes were glued; he almost appeared to be in a trance. He approached, dropped to his knees and took me quickly into his mouth—deep throating me for the first time. Then he sucked, swirled and stroked as I swayed above him, face-fucking his lips. Suddenly lightning flashed and the room went dark. Music and thunder was replaced with groans of pleasure.

Geoff pulled off, stood and moved behind me and began to grind his fully-erect cock into my backside as he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into him. His motions began to mimic my own. His support enabled me to jerk my muscles into a music-induced frenzy. He pushed his muscled chest into my back and began to tease my ear lobe with his tongue, forcing me into a standing little spoon. He could easily have finished the fuck right there. A combination of the drink and the hypnotic gyrations of the Gullah dance were moving me to an orgiastic high.

Geoff moved his hands to my rock hard penis and began to stroke. I fell back into him and his enormous dick penetrated. I was about to protest that I was the fucker in this dance routine when he stabbed my prostate so hard that I squirted precum into his waiting palm. Using my ass muscles, I danced around his dick, massaging its length. We weren't going to need the bedroom. He was fucking me in my hot delirium right there in the living room. "Wait just a minute, babe. I'm doing the fucking tonight." I tried to pull away. But, he held tight. He was in another world. And I was impaled on his enormous spear.