Just a Few Seconds

"That's odd," Ted, an assistant athletic director for the Tulane University sports program, said.

"How so?"

"I always assumed Shields was a friend of yours. He went to Tulane around the same time as you did. He's a major donor here. In fact, he underwrites a football scholarship here in your name. So, I always thought—"

"I knew of the scholarship, and I guess I'd heard the name at some time, but this is the first time I've had the name connected with a face. I guess if he's dropped a lot of money here in my name, I should have paid better attention."

Ted was touching Trevor on the hip with the fingers of a hand, keeping what he was doing out of anyone else's line of sight, between Trevor's body and the buffet table. Trevor knew what the man was suggesting, but he didn't bite. The two had been here before; this approach wasn't coming out of the blue.

"I suppose I thought you'd know each other, as much as he talks of you and funds a scholarship in your name. He did say you'd gone to school together briefly. And, well, you know . . ."

"Are you saying that he's gay? That there was something between us at Tulane? It's news to me that we were here at the same time."

"Well, yes he is gay. And you are. I just assumed . . . sorry." Trevor's orientation was no secret with Ted. Ted was a submissive bottom and when he'd first come to Tulane's sports program, Trevor and he had gone a couple of rounds. It was evident that Ted wouldn't mind going a couple of more rounds now.

"I don't know him," Trevor reiterated, "but this is intriguing. Perhaps you could introduce us." There had been that spark in just the few seconds of their eyes meeting across the party room. So, Trevor couldn't say he wasn't interested.

"Certainly, I would be happy to," Ted answered, not enthusiastically, as this interest in Shields he'd generated himself had short circuited his own interest in getting Jackson's attention. He was about to lead Trevor over there when one of his staff members came for him with an issue that needed attention. "Excuse me, Trevor, this won't take long to attend to. I'll be right back."

"No problem," Trevor answered. "I see someone over there I do know from the past."

"Oh, who? Oh, Justin Wingfield, the vice president of the Alumni Association. Yes, of course. I'll be right back." Ted had said Wingfield's name with a bit of tension in it. Trevor wasn't surprised. He'd kept in touch with Justin—or rather, Justin had kept in touch with him, as someone like Justin would when his classmate was a professional football player—and Justin had remained as brash and demanding as he'd been at the university. But Justin did have money and connections and Justin did get things done. He'd raised a lot of money that got this facility built in 2014, for instance.

Justin was glad to see Trevor—very vocally glad, greeting him in a booming voice that reminded everyone within a mile that the two of them had gone to school together and had been in the same fraternity. Connections were important, but they meant nothing if everyone didn't know they existed.

"I'd heard you were being honored at this ceremony, Trevor," Justin said after they'd shared their initial greetings. Justin acting like everything was just fine between them, and Trevor was happy to pretend it was so as not to get into old grievances. It was possible, Justin being as self-absorbed as he was, that he didn't remember that he had stolen Trevor's boyfriend, Cameron Dixon, away from him their senior year at Tulane—and, worse, had gloated about it for months. Trevor still felt the sting, not used to being the one who was cheated on and abandoned, even though all of his friends at the time said that Cameron was as faithful as a bunny rabbit and that Trevor had been well shed of him.

"I have no idea why you are retiring after only eight years with the Saints, though," Justin continued. "You must be raking in the money."

Trevor strongly suspected that Justin knew exactly how much he had been raking in on his football contract. "Eight years is an eternity in professional football, Justin," he said. "It's an even more brutal sport than anyone not playing it can imagine. After the knee replacement last summer, I knew I was done. I shouldn't have tried playing another season on it."

"I do see the limp," Justin said. His tone was borderline happy that his knees were in better shape than Trevor's were. He hadn't missed the slight jab about not actually playing a sport anymore. His sports, though, were making money and stealing other men's toys. They had both been gay tops going back to their college days—and Justin had competed with Trevor then although Trevor hadn't bothered to play that game. "At least I heard you landed on your feet—that you have another good contract. With the Falcons, is it?"

"Yes, I'll be an assistant coach with them. I've already packed out. Excuse me, please. Ted is signaling to me. I'll talk with you later. It was good to see you here."

"Perhaps we can go for a drink afterward," Justin said. "I haven't been back to New Orleans in a couple of years. You stayed on here, so you must know of the best places to meet sweet young men."

"I don't do much of that in New Orleans anymore. It's not great for publicity."

"Ah, yes, you must be recognized by everyone in this town. You don't mean to say you've stopped letting yourself be caught by young men, I hope."

"No, I'm not saying that, Justin. I just don't cruise in public in New Orleans much anymore. I take my business somewhere other than where I play ball."

"Well, I do come back to New Orleans once in a while. Maybe I know of a good place or two for us to go after you pick up your award here."

"Yes, maybe," Trevor said as he pulled away and went over to Ted. He was reluctant to go cruising with Justin after the ceremony and not either because he couldn't take Justin—he'd become immune to his old fraternity brother—or because he wasn't interested in going cruising. Truth be told, since he'd seen the Shields guy across the room and Ted said he was gay, Trevor's mind was spinning possibilities. If it was possible he might be leaving the ceremony with Shields, he couldn't promise to leave with Justin. He had no interest in sharing Shields with Justin. As he remembered, Justin was a sharer—he had tried to tempt Trevor into double penetrations when they were at Tulane together, but Trevor had never played that game with him.

Ted was putting on a sad face as Trevor approached him. "I couldn't see Shields anywhere when I finished with the caterers. I'm told he left already. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow at the banquet at the Alder Hotel." Trevor wasn't sure that Ted was as sorry about that as he was saying he was.

"Yes, maybe," Trevor said, disappointed but not wanting to show it. It had made him horny, though.

"If you're not doing anything after this, though—"

"Oh, sorry, I do. Justin Wingfield's invited me to go somewhere with him."

Ted turned so that Trevor couldn't see the disappointment in his face, as Trevor went looking for Justin to say he'd go cruising with him if the offer was still open. He watched Ted walk away, considering whether he would do—but that had been too long ago and Ted hadn't kept his body up. That ship had sailed.

* * * *

After cruising a few gay bars where Justin didn't want to stay long, quite obviously because Trevor was getting more attention that he was, they ended up on Elysian Fields Aveue in the Marigny District near the French Quarter and, in a dark corner of the room, watched a drag queen show at the Diva Royal. Justin had mentioned wanting to go there several times during the evening.

"Isn't that? . . . that looks like . . ." Trevor said, in surprise, pointing to the stage.

"Yes. That's Cameron. Cameron Dixon."

"Aren't you two—?"

"Not anymore," Justin answered, with a snort. "Not for a hell of a long time. He's doing a guest billing here. He's usually either in New York or Las Vegas. I see him in New York. He's in high demand. I can't afford his fuck fees, though."

"I find that hard to believe," Trevor said. "Did you know he'd be here in New Orleans—and here tonight?"

"Yes, of course. I had planned ending the evening here. And, yes, he asked about you and being in New Orleans. He gave me two tickets for tonight and said to bring you if I could. And here we are, and there he is, coming off the stage and coming toward us. Isn't he still luscious? He's still got it."

Cameron did, in fact, still have it. And he still knew how to get what he wanted. Trevor had arrived half looped and fully horny and was no match for Cameron's wiles. He rarely had been able to resist Cameron, even though he had no illusions about the young man's constancy.

At least Cameron did mention charging a fee.

They fucked on a studio couch in a dressing room Cameron had been assigned to all to himself, considering his reputation in the business and management expecting him to entertain men there—and to give them half of his fee.

Cameron had always known all of the sexiest positions. They initially fucked in a lotus position, Trevor sitting on the bed, reclining back, supporting his torso with his fists pressed into the surface of the couch and his legs spread and bent, feet flat on the couch. Cameron sat in his lap in the same position, facing him, skewered and rising and falling on the cock.

"Do you still have the monster . . .? . . . oh, fuck, you still do, don't you, sweetie? Put that monster shaft inside me, you big black bull," Cameron had declared.

"Mind the bum knee," Trevor begged.

"It's not your knee I'm interested in, baby. Oh, fuck, baby. Yes! FUCKME! Do me! Just like that. YES!"

Cameron had always been very vocal. He knew the guys liked that.

They changed to what Cameron called the mastery position, with Trevor sitting on the side of the couch, feet on the floor, and Cameron in his lap, facing him, hands clutching Trevor's shoulders, and legs bent, feet beside Trevor's hips, using the leverage of the feet to rise and fall on Trevor's cock, while the black stud palmed and squeezed the drag queen's buttocks.

After they'd both shot their loads, they remained in the position, kissing and cooling down.

"That was good, baby. I've missed that. We're good together," Cameron murmured. "Remember us together, baby?"

"Yes, I remember," Trevor answered. And he did remember. He remembered more of their volatile earlier relationship and Cameron's many betrayals than the younger man let himself remember. And Trevor wasn't the one to be led around by the nose like he had been as a college senior. Tonight . . . this . . . was good for partying and cruising, but not for relationships. He'd once wanted a relationship with Cameron. He wasn't burdened with that need anymore.

"I hear you're moving to Atlanta. Going to work for the Falcons, I hear."

"Yes, yes, I am," Trevor answered.

"There are a couple of good drag queen show clubs in Atlanta."

"Are there?" Trevor answered in a noncommittal voice. He wasn't going to get that involved with Cameron again. He knew what Cameron was trying to get him to suggest, and he wasn't going there. "No more talk now. I want to fuck you again."

And then he did. No exotic positions. He pulled Cameron up on the bed; put him on his back; slapped his legs apart, bent, feet flat on the bed; ran an arm under the willowy blond's waist, elevating Cameron's pelvis to a good penetration angle; thrust inside him; held the young man's head to the couch with a beefy hand clutching his throat. And then he fucked the hell out of him.

Cameron squealed like a pig, but he loved every thrust of it. Cameron loved big black bulls, and Trevor was a god among bulls.

When Trevor left the dressing room, leaving Cameron stretched out on the couch, whimpering and moaning, Justin was in the hallway, sitting on a straight chair.

"You aren't waiting for me—to drive me back to the hotel now—are you?" Trevor asked, and then when Justin didn't answer right away, Trevor said, "No, I didn't think so. Some things never change, do they?"

"I thought maybe we could . . . together. You know I always wanted that with you and Cameron. I brought you back to him."

"I don't think so, Justin. Not in this lifetime."

As he walked down the hall, somewhat gingerly because the fuck session hadn't been kind on his knee replacement, Justin was entering Cameron's dressing room.

* * * *

"It's the penthouse apartment, with a terrace off the bedroom and a great view of the lake."

"That sounds great, Ted."

"Maybe you'd like to come over afterward and see the view . . . from the bedroom."

The two were talking in the gathering space outside the ballroom at the Alder Hotel Uptown New near the Tulane campus before the doors opened to the annual Tulane athletic department annual awards banquet, an event wrapping up the weekend's series of athletic achievement celebrations. Once again Trevor's Tulane and Saints careers were being marked and he had been invited to sit at the head table.

"I'll take your word for it, Ted. I have a lot of last-minute stuff I have to do before I take off for Atlanta." It had taken just a second when he'd first seen Ted the previous day after the three years they hadn't seen each other to know that it would be a "never again" with him. Ted was letting himself go to pot. And, more important, Trevor had come here today with the hope of hooking up with that Shields guy he'd connected with in just a shared eye glance the day before at Yulman Stadium. He hadn't seen him here yet. Ted had said that Shields would be here at this banquet. Trevor was leaving his options open for that. It had just been a few seconds of locking eyes, but that had been enough.

Trevor didn't see him before the doors opened and they all streamed into the ballroom, with round tables of eight on the floor and a long, straight table across the dais above. Trevor was seated near the wing off from the right of the speaker's position, the athletic director and head football coach sitting between him and the guest speaker. As the meal was being served, Trevor scrutinized the round tables below. Still no sighting of the Shields guy. He didn't know he'd be this disappointed at not seeing the guy, but he was.

Introductions were being made and those being introduced, all sitting at the head table, were asked to stand. And then there he was. Sanford Shields, identified as a major benefactor of the Yulman Stadium construction fund and the Trevor Jackson football athletic scholarship, who had been sitting on the left wing of the head table, was asked to stand while Trevor was still standing. The two looked at each other across those sitting at the center of the table, and Shields nodded his head toward the doors at the other end of the ballroom out into the foyer. Trevor nodded back.

The lunch was being served, with the keynote speech scheduled to follow. First Shields and then Trevor mumbled something about the men's room and headed down opposite sides of the ballroom floor for the exit doors. Both were careful not to look at each other as they moved. They met up in a hallway off the foyer, where the restrooms were located.

"Ted told me you wanted to meet me," Shields said. "I'm Sanford Shields. Sorry I wasn't there yesterday when you wanted to meet me. And today—I was late. I'd hoped we would be able to meet before the banquet started."

"I feel I should know you. I'm sorry that we haven't met before—that I didn't pay enough attention to who was sponsoring the scholarship here in my name. I should have met you before now. I feel I know you from somewhere."

"You do, but you don't really remember?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't. The name Sanford doesn't ring a bell with me."

"Maybe because that wasn't the name I was using when we were at Tulane—and in the Alpha Tau fraternity together—just that one year, though. It was your senior year and my freshman year. I was going by Kirk, my middle name, then."

"Kirk? Kirk Shields? The houseboy in the basement? You were enrolled at Tulane then? You weren't just the guy who made our beds?"

"I like to think I did more for you than make your bed, Trevor." Kirk's hand was in his pocket, fingering the small plastic bag containing the gold beads that had fallen from Trevor's dreadlocks "that day." Yes, Kirk had done more for Trevor that day than make his bed—and Kirk, for one, had never forgotten it. He'd always kept these beads with him so he wouldn't forget.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. We did it. And it was probably the best fuck of my life."

"For me too," Shields said somewhat wistfully.

"But then you were gone."

"Yes. My mother died and I had to go back to Atlanta to run the business. I guess I ran it well enough, because it's an extensive cleaning and maid service across Georgia now. I came back after a year to finish at Tulane—in business—but you were gone then—to the Saints. And I've been following you ever since. I've been to most of your games over the past eight years."

"And founded the scholarship in my name," Trevor said.

"Yes. I guess you could say I've been holding the torch for you."

"And I hadn't noticed."

"No, I guess not."

"I'm noticing now. You say you live in Atlanta? I'm moving to Atlanta."

"Yes, I know—to be an assistant offensive coach for the Falcons. I sort of knew that was happening."

"You sort of helped that happen?" Trevor asked.

"I guess you could say that. Have you bought a place in Atlanta yet?"

"No, I thought I'd rent for a year and take my time looking for my own place."

"You wouldn't have to rent . . . unless you wanted to, of course." He reached out with a hand, tentatively, and smiled when Trevor reached out and took it in his hand. A big, beefy jet-black hand covering a smaller, chocolate-brown one. It brought back memories—arousing memories—for both of them. "I have a guest house out by my pool. Full facilities."

"There's that possibility," Trevor said. He drew closer to Kirk and palmed the smaller guy's buttocks with his free hand, Kirk didn't pull away. "Am I crowding you?" he asked.

"You were aggressive and dominating," Kirk answered. "And so, so big."

"I still am. All of that," Trevor said.

"No, you aren't crowding me. You're arousing me—just like you did the day back in the basement of the fraternity house. Arousing me like I'd never been aroused before. So, no, you aren't crowding me."

"Where are you staying here in New Orleans?"

"I'm staying right here in the Alder," Kirk answered, his voice nearly breathless. He'd reached out with his free hand and was tracing the line of Trevor's cock through the material of his basket. The cock was hard. "I have a room upstairs. You want to see it?"

"Yes, I want to see it—unless you want me to fuck you right here in the hallway," Trevor answered, his voice now nearly as breathless as Kirk's was. "I want to see you—naked. It looks like you've kept yourself in shape for me."

"I've tried," Kirk said. "I did whatever I could for you to want me again."

"You did good then. It took me just a couple of seconds to see that."