Tailback Preacher

I stood there next to the baggage carousel, waiting for Lincoln Douglas's flight from New York. I was nervous and wondering why I'd said I would meet him and put him up for three nights. He was some high muckety-muck preacher with a big church in Harlem, who was down here in the research triangle of North Carolina to watch his grandson play in the Duke-Georgia Tech football game. His grandson, who is black, had married the white granddaughter of a professor at UNC-Chapel Hill, and everyone in the church the professor's family and I went to were all over themselves to make the union welcome. Everyone was falling over him and herself to show they had more progressive attitudes than anyone else.

Preacher Douglas was known nationally not just because he had a big church in Harlem but also because he'd been an NFL football player and had come out gay. We were a pretty liberal Methodist church and wanted to show off how supportive we were of all of that. What most in the church honed in on, though, was that he'd been a professional football player.

The Reverend Douglas had been asked to preach at our church anytime it was convenient for him, and he'd said this Sunday was convenient for him on very short notice. His newlywed grandson and wife had no room to house the Harlem preacher, so Reverend Steve had put out a call for hosting—or, rather, he'd just called me.

"Is it because I'm gay too, Steve?" I asked when he called. "It isn't because I'm black or play football, I don't think."

"It's because you have room for him, Trip," he'd answered and then, after a pause, "and I guess, yes, because you'd be more comfortable hosting a gay man on short notice."

More comfortable than whom, I wondered. Steve had plenty of room at the church manse to put the man up.

I was gay, yes, and I had lost my partner four months earlier, and Steve had made me a "case" because I'd withdrawn from most of the world after Evan had unexpectedly died. We'd both taught at Chapel Hill and had a nice two-bedroom wooden cottage on a cul-de-sac of similar houses on small lots backing up to a small lake in the Carrboro area of the research triangle. I couldn't say I didn't have room for a guest or competing activities. I had, indeed, pretty much withdrawn from the world when Evan had had a heart attack and died quickly. He'd been twenty years older than I was but was only in his late forties. We both were runners and competitive swimmers, so it was a real shock when he'd died.

"Most in the church don't know that Preacher Douglas is a homosexual," Reverend Steve said. "They just know he was a pro football player on the Atlanta Falcons and became a big-time preacher in New York and the CEO of a major relief nonprofit. It's known in New York, of course, but most in this church hadn't heard of him at all before last week. There's no reason they need to know more, and, if they do, I'm sure they will still be welcoming. But, still, it will be good for him to stay with someone who will be comfortable with him. He's black too."

Evan had been black, so Reverend Steve assumed I would be comfortable hosting a black man. And, of course, I was. It was just that I was comfortable in my grief and aloneness too. But Steve had told me, in less bald terms, that I'd become too comfortable with that—that I was milking the grief ride and it was about time I stopped doing that. So, I could see that asking me to host this black preacher was intentional—that Steve was doing his good works, in his mind, with me as well as the black preacher. With that in mind I could see why Steve asked me to house the preacher rather than Steve doing it.

I did know Lincoln Douglas was gay. It had been a big deal in the gay community when he'd declared as such nearly twenty years earlier, when he was with the Atlanta Falcons. He had been a tailback on the offense on his university team but then he had grown taller and heavier and, when he turned pro, was moved to a strong safety position on the defensive team. His wife had died a few years before that, and Douglas had turned to someone else—a male set designer in New York—for solace. He and that man had been very publicly together and out for a good fifteen years before the set designer had died earlier this year, about the same time Evan had. And all that time Douglas was reinventing himself—leaving the Falcons, under duress, being picked up by the New York Jets but not lasting long there either, becoming a minister preaching acceptance and then a more famous preacher and, finally, adding heading up a major disaster relief nonprofit organization to his other jobs.

And now he was coming here, to Raleigh-Durham, to go to a football game I was being invited to go to too, to preach in my church, and to sleep in my guest bed. I worked over in my mind how old he must be and came up with sixty. He was a grandfather of a college student. But now that I thought about it, I remember reading in his Wiki file that he was something like fifty-seven or fifty-eight. In any case, he'd be an old codger. Older than Evan, who was in great shape and very arousing still when he died. So, no problem there. I did have a "thing" for black men, and there had been black men in my life before Evan.

And then I turned and saw him approaching with the arrivals from his flight. And I immediately went hard. He was unmistakable in the approaching group of people, given that I knew he had been a professional football player. He was well over six feet tall and large bodied—not fat. Powerfully built. Imposing. Commanding. His face was square-jawed and handsome and his hair was cropped so close that, if there was gray in it, it wasn't particularly evident. And he was looking at me, smiling, picking me out in those standing at the baggage carousel as the man who was there to let him sleep in my guest bed.

When he spoke, it was with a rich, cultured deep baritone. And of course he did; he was a renowned preacher. His white-toothed smile was dazzling. "You must be Trip Sinclair," he said. "Brian has told me good things about you. A UNC English professor and soccer team coach?"

Brian was his grandson who played for the Duke football team and who looked very much like a younger Lincoln Douglas. I had given the grandson a couple of lustful looks, I had to admit. "Only an assistant professor and an assistant coach," I answered.

"Give it time, son, and you'll get there if you want to," the preacher said. He probably was going to be a "we can do this" optimist the whole time he was here. I wasn't sure what I thought about that. Four months after losing Evan I was still feeling sorry for myself. I wasn't ready to give that up. This hunk made me feel better already, which wasn't exactly in my program plan. I was still very much in the "feeling sorry for myself" phase.

On the way back to my house on the small lake in Carrboro, we spoke of how he'd come to be invited here. He'd been here to help officiate in his grandson's wedding. I'd been out of town for that. And Reverend Steve, who had helped to officiate the wedding, had invited him to preach in the church the next time he came back. The next time was the Duke-Georgia Tech football game, which was tomorrow. He'd played for Georgia Tech before going pro. His grandson, who wanted to go pro too, played for Duke.

"So, you and your grandson will be exchanging friendly jabs all weekend about your football teams."

"I've had my college football shot," Linc said. "I'll do nothing but promote Duke—and that's the side we'll be sitting on—I have a ticket for you too if you can come to the game—and whatever I'm thinking in my mind, I'll be cheering on my grandson and his team on the field."

"I guess if you're going to be that noble, I'll cheer for Duke too. Even though the university I work for, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, is located right next door to Duke, and we are rivals in everything, I'll take your lead and cheer for Duke tomorrow too."

We both laughed. And with that I'd agreed to go to the football game with him. I hadn't really intended to when I only knew Lincoln Douglas in the abstract. But now that I'd met him in the flesh, I was being mesmerized by him. I now wanted to be with him the whole time he was in town.

He went on talking while we drove, telling me about his coming out while he was with the Falcons but remaining with his wife who already was sinking into dementia at that time, and how he didn't become actively gay until after she'd died. That he'd met Sean, the set designer, while he was breaking up with the Falcons and had gone with him more permanently after he'd gone to the Jets. He was very open about his struggles in only slowly and grudgingly having become accepted and only then when he'd gone through seminary, started working with gays in New York, and built that whole ministry in a church that was fully inclusive, very popular in Harlem, and no longer completely gay even.

"I'm sorry if talking so openly about my background embarrasses you, but Steven did say that you were—"

"Gay," I said. "Not as famously open as you are about it, though," I added.

"Yes, I'm afraid it has become central to who I am and the message I try to bring to the people," he said. "But what I've been told about you. I understand you lost your partner a short while ago."

"Yes," I said. "Evan died four months ago. We worked on the same faculty at UNC. He was the scientific one, though. He taught physics. But here we are at our house. I'm sorry. It was actually Evan's house. I haven't been able to stop referring to it as our house."

"Yes, it takes a while. It's been about the same time since I lost Sean."

"Let's go inside and get your suitcase in the guest room. You can change and freshen up, if you like. I'll meet you on the screened porch at the back of the house. Wine, beer, or soda?"

"Beer would be great," he answered. "What a lovely house it is."

"Just a small cottage, but it suited us, the neighbors are friendly and supportive, and we loved sitting out on the screened porch and watching the life in the marshes around the lake. But there I go referring to 'we' again."

When he came out onto the porch, he'd changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals, without socks. This revealed his body to be even harder and more muscular than the suit he'd flown in did. He was holding a photograph of Evan and me. So, he now knew Evan had been black. I hadn't mentioned that. And Evan had been completely different from what this commanding former pro football player was. Evan hadn't been any taller than my five-foot-nine, which had to be six inches shorter than Linc was. And Evan had been slim and sinewy, almost gaunt at the end, a runner and cyclist like I was. Linc was at least 240 pounds of muscle. He had both Evan and me by seventy or eighty pounds each. Evan was lighter skinned than Linc's ebony too. And Evan had died in his late forties. Linc was in his late fifties.

"This must be your partner," he said, showing me the photo he'd taken from the fireplace mantel in the living room. There were photos of us all over the cottage, so the relationship would have been hard to hide.

"Yes," I said as we settled beside each other on a long rattan sofa with deep cushions on the porch, facing the lake.

He didn't note that Evan had been black. He went right for the wound.

"Do you miss it?"

"Yes, I miss him very much," I answered.

"No, that's not what I'm asked," Linc said. "Do you miss it—the relationship in bed. The two of you look very happy—and very committed to and contented with each other—in the photos you have around. I have worked with a lot of gay people. It's clear you were happy with each other in bed."

"Yes," I said with a sigh. "I miss it very much."

"Was he the dominant and you the submissive?" Linc asked. He certainly didn't have to tell me what position he'd take in partnered sex.

"Yes," I said. "But I guess all of that is in the past. I haven't been with anyone since Evan died."

"That's too bad," the preacher said.

Somehow that touched a sore point and I pushed back. "It's been four months for you too. Do you miss sex much?" I was a little "aren't we getting too personal" in the tone of my response.

He neither took umbrage at my question or tone nor backed away from the question. "No, I don't miss it—the sex. I miss having sex with Sean, of course. We were very compatible. But I don't miss sex because I didn't stop having sex. I never sleep alone if I can help it."

I was shocked. "You don't think that's being disloyal to your departed partner?"

"No, not at all. It's a biological and emotional need. I'm a highly sexed man. Sean knew that, because we frequently had sex—very enthusiastic sex. Just because I have sex with other men now that he's gone isn't something that I see as disloyal. It's an affirmation of what a good thing we had together when we were together. We aren't apart because the sex wasn't good. It's because he died. It's the same way with you, isn't it? If you stop having enjoyable sex now that you can't have it with your Evan, isn't it rather a denial of the pleasure of sex you had with Evan? Was your Evan someone who would want you to just dry up and whither after he was gone?"

"I don't know. We never discussed it. We didn't contemplate that one of us could die as soon as he did," I said. And, indeed, I didn't know how Evan would think about me having sex again now. Linc sounded so reasonable and sensible, and he had a soothing voice and a commanding presence that could seduce the fuzz off a peach. I certainly hadn't been a happy man in the four months Evan had been gone. And a lot of that was the tension of not having sex after Evan and I had led such an active and satisfying sex life.

Could it be that it wouldn't be a sign of disloyalty to Evan to have sex with other men—even to have another committed sexual relationship with a man? Linc seemed to be saying that to do so would confirm rather than deny the goodness, the rightness, of the relationship Evan and I had had. I could see how this preacher had become so persuasive in his message of tolerance and acceptance of one's natural nature in his church work.

And "this man" was sitting close to me on the rattan sofa and had an arm around me. He cupped my chin in his other hand and looked intensely into my eyes with his commanding ones. I knew he was going to kiss me. I knew I was going to let him.

"Have you not thought of letting another man into your life as you let your Evan in?" he asked. "Steven rather thought that someone named De'Andre from the church was compatible with you—that you liked each other."

Yes, I had fantasized about De'Andre Wills. He was a young black man who was going to the church—maybe three years younger than I was. He was a hunk and a half, but he was a construction worker. We were from two different social worlds. But was I just being a snob there? Did sexual compatibility have much to do with social equality?

"Yes, there's De'Andre," I said. "He's quite attractive. But he seems so serious and I don't think we have much in common. He's a construction worker and I teach English in college."

"Does he arouse you sexually? Does he have a cock? Can he hold an erection? Steven tells me he's a gay top who won't even look at anyone but you and is sexually frustrated that you aren't looking back at him."

"Are you always this blunt about putting people together?" I asked.

"Yes. Life is too short not to live in the present. Don't be trapped by the past and don't worry too much about the future. My question is, are you still sexually attracted to other men? Are you sexually attracted to me?"

"Yes." What could I say? He was running his hands on my body. He knew I was hard. He knew it was for him.

"Yes, both to other men and to me?"

"Yes." He damn well knew that.

"I am just checking to make sure," he said, with a chuckle, as if he had read my thoughts. "Are you sexually attractive to this construction worker Steven tells me about?"

"Yes, but—"

"You know what I think, Trip?" he murmured. "I think Steve knew what he was doing—what both of us, you and I, needed—when he put us together. Please don't say no to me."

While he was kissing me on the lips; the cheeks; my throat; my nipples, as he unbuttoned and spread my shirt open; and then on my belly, as he slipped my trousers off, I never once tried to say no. He gently repositioned me on my back on the sofa cushions, and I spread my legs so that he could lay between them. He supported his weight on his knees and elbows, or he would have crushed me. The size and weight of him held me psychologically captive under him on the sofa. If he hadn't let me push him away or roll out from under him, I would not have had the physical strength to do so. He was so charismatic and overwhelming that I didn't try.

As he sucked my cock and rolled my balls with his fingers, all I could do was continually, whimper "yes, yes, yes." I came in this throat quickly. The tension had been building up in me so long that I came in a flood of release.

He raised up on his knees between my legs, and I took in my breath at the magnificent ebony musculature of his torso as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and discarded it on the floor. I heard the zipper of his shorts being pulled down, and he stood up from the sofa briefly to pull his shorts and briefs off and to roll a condom on his erection. I sucked in my breath again and began to pant.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry," I murmured, leaving no question that I would accept him.

With all of the dissimilarities between Evan and Linc, there was one thing in which they were the same—they both were as hung as bulls. Where Evan had been cut and the skin of his cock was the same milk-chocolate shade of his skin, Linc was uncut and, though his skin was an ebony color, his cock was even darker, jet black.

I didn't have long to observe it, though, as he was descending on his knees between my spread thighs again, was grasping and spreading and lifting my butt cheeks to his crotch, and was rimming my entrance with his sheathed cock bulb. I arched my back, reached over my head and gripped the curled rattan arm of the sofa to hold myself steady, and cried out in both pain and ecstasy as he forced himself inside me, and then deeper and deeper yet, spreading my channel as it had never been spread before, even by Evan. As he began to move inside me, in and out and in and out, in deeper and then deeper yet, I felt my walls roll open for him and my passage muscles begin to ripple over his steel-hard, ever-probing cock. We set up a mutual rhythm of the fuck, both of us panting and moaning and working to meld with each other with the pleasure and primeval beat of the fuck. Both of us had done this frequently before; but I, at least, hadn't done it for several months.

When he'd finished me, me ejaculating up his flat, hard belly again, and him jerking and gushing into the bulb of his condom three times, we lay there, panting, him holding me in a close embrace. Only then did I realize that he was smothering me with his extra seventy pounds of muscle.

"You're crushing me," I murmured.

"Sorry. So sorry," he answered. He moved most of his weight to his knees and elbows. "Sorry," he said again.

I thought the second "sorry" was for more than his crushing weight. "You needn't be sorry," I whispered. "You are right. I needed that. I was just fooling myself and feeling sorry for myself for too long."

"I wasn't saying I was sorry for fucking you. I'm going to do it again when we've recovered. I'm going to take you upstairs and bed you."

"Yes," I said. "But not my bed. Not that . . . yet."

"I understand." And, strangely enough, I accepted that he did understand that I wasn't ready yet to bring anyone into the bed that had been Evan's and mine. I felt this charismatic preacher man understood it all. And I trusted him to make it all right.