Make a Decision

On the off weekend in the middle of the Lipton ATP, Todd rented a car and drove Sean down to Key West to party in high gay style. They did that, driving back on the Florida Keys causeway still half looped. It was during that drive that Sean had wanted to know where their relationship was going and Todd laughed the question off, revealing that he already had cut one of the local players in the Miami tournament out of the herd and relieved him of his virginity. Angry, Sean had grabbed for the steering wheel of the car, sending them off the causeway and into the waters of the Gulf. The water hadn’t been deep, and Todd pulled them out of the car, but Sean had shattered a leg and would never play tennis again.

Consumed with remorse and guilt at having been so casual with the affair and not considering Sean’s perceptions of what they were doing and, probably even more, shocked at how quickly and effectively the career of a promising young American tennis player had been shattered along with his leg, Todd became obsessed with Sean’s well-being. He saw to the young man’s medical care and gave him such lavish presents to set up a new life for him as this Crescent Beach condo. When Sean could walk—or at least limp—again they even resumed having sex occasionally, often here in the condo when Todd was in Florida. To spice it up and lift the arousal over their mixed feelings for each other, they moved into experimenting more deeply with bondage and assorted mild sex toys. It wasn’t committed sex—it was guilt based on Todd’s part and forgiving, with residual feelings of love once lost, on Sean’s part. Todd didn’t stop notching his bedposts with first-time conquests of young tennis players and other male celebrities.

This phase had lasted for eight years—until Todd got married and had children as his tennis career was ending and he needed to settle down and clean up his sports reputation by entering the commercial and media world. Just before then, though, Sean had broken away from the strained and twisted relationship himself in the only definitive way he could think of—he enrolled in a Catholic seminary and started the journey to becoming a Catholic priest.

He broke completely with Todd when he went into the seminary. That didn’t mean that Sean gave up occasional casual homosexual sex, and he moved into a cycle of obsession with sex; relieved by substitution of the bottle, usually to combat pain from his continuing leg issues; followed by periods of sobriety and abstinence before the cycle took another revolution. It had been manageable and as neither homosexual sex nor drunkenness were unfamiliar patterns in the church and because he limited his indulgences and only had sex with willing, legal-age men, mostly other priests and ones with power in the church, the church had supported, hidden, and protected him, as it did the priests he lay with.

All that had come to a head in the past six months, though. From out of the blue, Todd Littlepage had called him.

“I thought you deserved to know, Sean,” he said. “I will have a tell-all book coming out posthumously—in the not-too-distant future.”

“Posthumous?” Sean had asked in shock. “You’re ill?”

“Terminally so, I’m afraid. The point is that it’s very honest and very graphic. It should sell well, because there are celebrities involved who haven’t been outed yet.”

“I don’t know why you are doing this, Todd—or why you needed to tell me.”

“I tell all about 1998—about you and me and the auto accident—about my keeping you as essentially my mistress for years—about the fetish sex, and that you’re a priest now. I didn’t put the bishop’s name in there; I saw no need to go that far. I recognize that it will shatter your life and I’ll be gone, so you can’t make me back down from revealing all. As far as why, the publisher tells me it will make a lot of money. I need a lot of money to leave for the family. I haven’t lied in the book. It’s all true. It’s what we were and what we did—and what you continued doing.”

“What I continued doing?”

“Luigi Capiletto is an archbishop now, Sean.”

Sean didn’t have to ask what could be in the book about Luigi, who was much of the reason why Sean had not been tossed out of the priesthood any time over the last decade. “You wouldn’t, Todd.”

“I had no choice, Sean. But, as I said, Capiletto isn’t identified in the book. It isn’t just the money. When I signed the contract to publish, the researchers for the publisher had already been hard at work. I didn’t have to tell them what I’d done and who I’d done it with. They knew. They knew all there was for me to say about you too. Most of it’s coming out whether there’s a book or not. I did negotiate some of what they knew out of the final book.”

By the time Sean contacted his church superiors, they already knew about it too. The publisher had contacted them for verification. Capiletto was in Rome in a powerful but out-of-the-public-purview position.

“You can be protected too, Brother Charles,” the monsignor had said, using Sean’s church name. “But not here in the States. Luigi can protect you if you go to Rome too. But there can be no more scandal. No more vices. No young men and no drowning in the bottle. It’s your decision. You can leave the church or you can leave the country and go into obscurity.”

“Do I have to decide now?”

“Not right this minute, but soon. The book will publish soon, and it will unleash the hounds of hell. Decide soon. Call me when you have. You will have to become celibate in every sense of the word if you remain in the priesthood—or you’ll have to be placed under Archbishop Capiletto and become his full responsibility.”

And thus the dilemma and the decision to be made. The book was launching tomorrow. It already was in the news. His name—although not the name he’d been using for a decade—and his life were already being dropped into the public media. He didn’t have long to decide. He’d already fallen off both the sex and drinking pedestals. Was the decision being made for him? Could he survive outside the church financially? Yes, he was self-sustaining for those needs. Could he handle it mentally? That was the key question. Did he want to be a prisoner to sex and/or the bottle anymore? Did he?

Sean stood from the table, put the photo back on the bookcase shelf, with a sigh, and walked over to the kitchen counter. This called for a drink, his backup to avoiding sex. But there was nothing to drink. The bourbon bottle was empty and that had been the last of the liquor in the condo. With another sigh, he went into the bedroom, retrieved his wallet and car keys, and headed for the door.

From habit of the last few days rather than turn right to go down the rise his condo building was on and past the swimming pool to his car, a rental Corolla, he turned left toward the ocean and looked down on the beach to see what Pete was doing. Pete was always doing something on the beach—flying his kite or surfing or a combination of the two. He was always there. And in the back of Sean’s mind, he knew that he didn’t want to leave Pete’s abrupt escape from the condo as it was. They needed to reach some sort of accommodation. They were sharing this beach.

Pete wasn’t there—at least not on the part of the beach Sean could see. There was a lot of beach hidden by the curve of the sand dune between the one the condo buildings were on and the one between that and the ocean. There was no kite up, though, and Pete usually had his surfboard upright in the sand near his towels and small beach umbrella within sight of the condo. None of that was there. Without a thought to what he’d come out to get—more bourbon—Sean took the wooden bridge across the dunes that gave the condo complex access to the beach.

Pete wasn’t on the beach. Where had he said the man lived who let Pete pitch a tent in his yard? South, Sean thought. Several properties to the south, but still on the beach. Sean walked down the beach between the dunes and the ocean. Six properties south, all with private houses from various eras on them, Sean saw the nose of Pete’s surfboard buried in the sand and a couple of kites on the beach next to it, their lead strings wound around the surfboard to keep them from being blown away.

He looked up to the sand dunes, a shorter one, covered with desert foliage in front, and a taller one behind that with the house perched on it. A wooden bridge arched from the beach to the yard of the house. There was a terrace with a swimming pool between the edge of the dune and a modern, mostly glass, round tower of a house—not big, but expensive looking. There was an army pup tent erected by the terrace, so this obviously was where Pete was camping out. The driveway came up to the north side of the house and Sean could see the nose of a fire engine red Ford 250 double cab monster truck pulled up beside the house.

He also could see, though, two figures in the shadows between the side of the truck and the house. One guy, big and bulky, had the other guy, smaller, blond, pushed up against the side of the house. The big guy’s shorts were down around his calves, with the belt hanging out and swinging to the rhythm of the fuck. The smaller guy—obviously Pete—was backed against the wall. His knees were hooked on the big guys hips and his arms were slung around the bigger man’s neck. The big guy was cupping Pete’s bare buttocks in his hands and was rocking him against the wall, piston fucking him.

So, that’s why Sean hadn’t found Pete on the beach and was why they couldn’t talk and smooth things out between them right now.

Sean returned to the condo complex and went to his car. The condo complex fronted on the old Route A1A Ocean Highway and, if he drove north on that, he’d be in downtown St. Augustine, the Spanish-style, longest continuously inhabited town in the United States, in less than fifteen minutes. He didn’t have to drive that far for bourbon, though. There was a strip mall not more than a mile up the road from his beach complex that had a liquor store in it.

He parked in front of the store and got out of the Corolla. He noticed that there was a used bookstore next door to it and he remembered that he needed some reading material. He needed anything he could get hold of to soak up time from thinking about sex or drinking—or doing them in obsessive excess. He was feeling that this important decision he had to make was being taken out of his hands—by his own weakness.

He’d check out the books and buy a few to take home with the bourbon—and then have a struggle with himself on putting off opening the bourbon bottle for as long as possible. Flashes of the vision of the burly man fucking Pete against the wall of his house back on the beach ran through Sean’s mind, but he forced that demon out of his brain as well.

There was a good-looking hippie-type, dark-haired, slight and slim guy behind the desk when Sean entered the bookstore. His hair was probably shoulder-length, but it now was pulled up into a pony tail at the back of his head. He had a T-shirt on that showed good chest musculature, and his arms were tattooed up and down, all black and blue ink and in no particular pattern. He smiled at Sean, his silver earrings and eyebrow ring catching the light reflect off the opening door. Sean smiled back.

“Hope you’re here about the ‘help wanted’ sign,” the young man, who couldn’t be more than twenty, said.

“The help wanted sign?” Sean asked.

“Yes. It’s there in the window.”

Sean turned and looked. “So, it is. No, I’m bored and antsy. I thought I’d get some books to read.”

“Pity. We really could use the help. And you look like you could be fun.”

“I do?” Sean laughed.

“Yes, you do. What sort of books were you looking for? Novels? Biographies? Exercise books?—although you don’t look like you need anything like that.”

He was giving Sean “the look.” Sean knew about the look, and the young guy looked good to him. He smiled back. “Novels I guess are the best.”

“Straight or gay?” the young guy asked. “My name is Chet.”

There was a pause before Sean asked, “You have gay novels in here?”

“Lots of them. One of our specialties. If you want those, go on through to the back, third room back. We’ve got plenty.”

He gave Sean a level, appraising look to see if that’s where Sean would go. He did. He came back with four paperbacks.

“Ah, some of the better ones,” Chet said.

“You’ve read them?”

“Sure. I’m gay. I don’t think you said what your name is.”

“Sean. I’m Sean Steele.”

“Sounds familiar. Have I seen you around? You go to Paddie’s Bar at the end of Mickler’s Road on the Matanzas River side of the island?”

“No, I haven’t heard of it. I have a condo here at Quail Hollow down the AIA, but I don’t get to the beach much. Is there a reason I might want to go to Paddie’s Bar?”

“There is if you’re gay. And, judging by what you chose to read . . . I mean these are pretty graphically. Three of these include bondage sex.”

“Yes, they do.” Chet gave his customer a long look, and Sean spoke before the bookseller could. “I’ll have to try Paddie’s out then.”

“I could take you there sometime.”

“Sure. That would be great,” Sean said. He almost added, and I could try you out then, but it was really too soon and too forward for that as yet.

“Four books? You must have a lot of time on your hands.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you sure then, that you might not be interested in working here part time? We certainly could use the help, and I’d like the company from time to time.”

Now there was a way to pin his time down, Sean thought. He didn’t need the money. He’d made a wad during his short professional tennis career and had banked most of that—and his family was wealthy. He’d inherited enough to live on and had banked that too, as he’d been living on the Catholic Church. But he did need some structure in his life as long as he was here. The siren songs of his weaknesses were blaring just too loud. He needed to settle down and do some serious decision making—and soon.

“Maybe,” he said. “You got some application paperwork I could look over?”

“Sure thing,” Chet said, with a big grin. When he handed the paper over, he held Sean’s fingers longer than necessary, quite pointedly wrapping a finger around Sean’s thumb loosely and stroking the thumb inside the sheath he’d created. This was a widely recognized signal of a submissive offering himself, and the signal wasn’t lost on Sean.

He nodded and said, “See you around sometime. I’d like to try that bar out even if I don’t take a job working here. And maybe you’d like to see my condo. It’s right on the beach and has some special features.”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” Chet said, with a smile.

Sean was all the way back to his parking space at the condo complex before he realized he hadn’t gone to the liquor store from the used bookstore. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe working somewhere part time was a good idea for keeping away from his vices.

Well, at least one. That store clerk, Chet, was sex on a stick. He’d be a beauty with his hair let down. Sean thought he’d be fucking Chet—and he also thought that Chet would let him. In fact, the guy had signaled hard, even on the bondage angle. Sean hadn’t been shopping for sex when he went into the store, but he had to admit that his book choice was made to see if he could sound the guy out on his interests and what he was willing to do, and that had worked a charm. Sean hadn’t been shopping, at least consciously so.

* * * *

Chet worked the morning shift with Sean later that week when Sean’s paperwork went through. Sean would work just four-hour shifts three times a week. That’s all they really needed someone for. They had been willing to take someone on for longer hours to make the work worthwhile for them, but Sean made clear it was more having something regularly scheduled to do that interested him, not the money. Of course, he also was interested in Chet.

“Let’s celebrate your coming aboard,” Chet said at the end of the shift. “I could show you where Paddie’s Bar is and we could lift a few.”

“It’s a bit early for lifting, I think. And I can’t lift a few and remain on track.”

“It’s like that with you, then?” Chet said. “You have trouble with that vice.”

“Among other vices,” Sean answered.

“Some vices are more fun than others. One tip of the mug won’t hurt you, I don’t think.”

“I’ll drive,” Sean said.

“That’s good, because all I’ve got is a bicycle.” Chet laughed.

While the bartender at Paddie’s was setting up their third drink, Chet went off to the can. They’d been talking with another guy, older than Sean’s forty-one, as they lined up at the bar on stools. It was early in the day and business was light. The guy’s name was Tom and he said he owned a gas station nearby on the AIA. He seemed to know Chet real well.

“So, are you and Chet going to do it?” Tom asked Sean after Chet had walked away.

“Maybe. Do you recommend him?”

“He’s pretty kinky. You’d best prepare yourself for that.”

“Good to know.”

“You said ‘maybe.’ He’s not at all reluctant. You’re home free if you want to be. I can tell he wants it from you.”

“I got that message too,” Sean answered, as he lifted his third beer.

“But you’re reluctant?”

“Let’s just say, I should limit myself, taper off to nothing, like I should be doing with this drink.”

“But you’re not.”

“No, I’m not. I guess I’m just weak.”

“Maybe just getting on with the life you’re meant to do rather than being weak. Maybe there’s nothing more important than getting pleasure out of life. You’re not an emergency room doctor or anything, are you? No wife and kids at home? You being measured for a Superman suit, or is it good enough for you to ease through life and take your pleasures while you’re alive? You’re a good-looking man. I’d say you don’t have much trouble finding your pleasures. Is what you think you should be saving yourself for worth it?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Sean asked as they watched Chet strutting back from the men’s room.

“Me, I gotta get back to the gas pumps,” Tom said, rising from his stool. He leaned over and winked at Sean. “Whatever, you could hold the ‘save the world’ campaign for tomorrow you know—and enjoy Chet today. He’s a real honey.”

Sean looked at his beer glass and saw that it was empty. He signaled the bartender for another. The man was right. There always was tomorrow to start—if that’s what he was going to decide to do.

Neither one of them had eaten since breakfast. “I’ve got a hamper and blanket in the trunk of the car,” Sean offered. “We could stop at the supermarket and collect things for a lunch, put them in the hamper, and eat out on the beach at my place.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chet said. “And maybe you’ll show me your condo you’ve been telling me about.”

“Maybe,” Sean said. Both of them knew it would take a real blowup of some sort for that not to happen now.

Sean was weaving a bit as they went out to the car and that accentuated that he had a limp. Chet didn’t ask about the limp, though, although the limp tugged at the name Sean had given him. There was something about a Sean Steele and a limp that Chet remembered hearing about at some point, but, for now, he was more worried that Sean didn’t seem to be in complete control with four beers under his belt. Chet had only had two.

“Maybe you should let me drive,” Chet said.

“That’s OK by me,” Sean answered.

They rolled the blanket out just in the lee of the first sand dune from the ocean below Sean’s condo complex. They both took their shirts off to take in the sun while they ate their sandwiches and drank their drinks. Sean was having another beer. Chet was drinking designer water. Some guys had a volleyball net up down the beach to the south. There were four of them playing a desultory game. Pete’s surfboard was stuck in the sand near them. Sean could tell that one of the players was Pete, and he watched them play with detached interest, because he also was interested in Chet. Chet’s tattoos were a real display. He didn’t tell Chet, though, that he knew one of the guys down the beach—certainly not that he’d known him biblically.