The Pitcher

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm a little nervous."

"Don't be. I'm a good guy. A really good guy. Like, super good. I'm not going to do anything you don't want. But . . . . can I ask another favor?"

"Sure."

"I like to be begged."

"I think I already begged you."

"Beg me some more. I want you to beg me to do exactly what you want me to do. I want you to beg me while I'm doing it. And, I want you to tell me exactly how I'm making you feel."

I had never before been verbal during sex. It had always been a silent affair, interrupted only by the occasional grunt, instruction, or moan. I was going to have to go outside my little box.

I begged him to hook his arms under my knees. When he had, I begged him to fuck me. When he stopped part way in so I could adjust to him, I begged him to fill me with all he had. When he had pushed in as far as he could and started giving me long, languid strokes, my body burned for him. I begged him to go deeper and faster and harder.

As he did, his chest, his face, and his hair became slick with sweat. He dripped sweat onto my chest and face.

I told him how good he felt. I wasn't lying. He was a great lay.

I told him how hot he looked. I wasn't lying. With his curly hair wet with sweat, he was a sight to behold.

I told him how much I loved what he was doing to me. I wasn't lying. It was great sex.

He lasted a long time. When I couldn't take any more, I begged him to come. He pulled out, ripped the condom off, scrambled over me, and jacked himself all over my chest and face. He growled as he came.

He stuck his dick in my mouth.

"Suck the cum out of it," he demanded.

I did as I was told. As I did, he reached around, grabbed my erection, and jacked me across the line I was already breaking. As I came, he put his thumb over my piss slit and squeezed my glans, both stifling and intensifying my orgasm. My dick tingled like a sleeping limb trying to wake up.

He pulled out of my mouth and rolled off of me. I was still tied up.

"Sorry," he said, rolling toward me and kissing my cheek. "I sweat a lot."

"That's okay," I answered. "I like sweat."

"Then you're going to love me," he answered. At that moment, I had no idea how prescient his declaration was.

After he untied me, we recovered on the bed facing each other. He smiled at me.

"Why are you smiling?" I asked.

"Because I trust you."

"You haven't known me long enough to trust me."

"I know. But I do. There's something about you. I can't quite put my finger on it. But, it's there. Maybe it's because you trusted me. I don't know. But there's something trustworthy about you."

"You're right," I answered, with an earnestness that belied the moment. "I'm actually very trustworthy."

"I hope so. Because I'm going to tell you something you can't tell anyone."

"Already?"

"Already . . . . So, here's the thing. My name isn't Jake. It's Calvin. Calvin Lowden. My friends call me Cal. I told you my name is Jake because I'm a major league baseball player. I have to keep my thing for guys hush hush. I never tell tricks who I really am."

I had stopped following baseball long ago, when my dream of following Ozzie Smith died. I didn't recognize him or his name.

I also didn't like his reference to me as a trick. But, I knew that's exactly what I was. I took slight comfort in knowing he was the exact same thing.

"What team?" I asked. "The Cubs?"

"No. The Royals. We're in town to play the White Sox."

"What position?"

"Pitcher."

I burst out laughing at his answer.

"Why are laughing?" He asked.

"After what you just did to my ass," I choked out, "it's hilarious that you're a pitcher."

"Oh, God," he answered, laughing along with me. "I didn't even think of that. I guess that makes you a catcher."

Neither of us could stop laughing. Jake's - Calvin's - eyes danced when he laughed, and the divots of his cheeks and chin formed a perfect triangle around his smile. I moved my hand to his cheek and pulled him into a giggling kiss. Like I said, I had an addictive personality. I was already heading toward being addicted to him.

"You can't tell anyone," he said.

"That you're a pitcher?"

"No, Asshole. That I like the D."

"Never," I promised. He answered my promise with a soft kiss on the lips.

"How often do you do this?" I asked.

"Only on the road."

"Every road trip?"

"No. I have to be in a safe place."

"What's safe and what isn't?"

"Chicago's safe. Cleveland isn't. Minneapolis is safe. Detroit isn't."

"What makes a city safe or not?"

"I'm not sure. It has to have a feel about it."

"You seemed well-prepared."

"Like I said, I was a Boy Scout growing up. We're prepared for everything."

"What would you have done if I hadn't been stood up?"

"Technically, you weren't. When you stand someone up, you can't claim to have been stood up."

"Po-tay-to po-tah-to," I answered, although I never understood the reference. No one ever said po-tah-to. It was only po-tay-to. Po-tah-to was quite clearly not a word.

"I'd have probably gone to bed alone. I haven't been with a guy in awhile, and I wasn't thinking about sex tonight. I just didn't feel like I should look a gift horse in the mouth."

"If you had been looking, would you have gone out to the bars?"

"No. I can't do that. I'd have called a service."

"Like a hooker?"

"An escort. They're very discreet."

We lay like that for awhile, just looking at each other. He was enigmatic to me. Romantic and sweet and then brutally dominant. Also, his explanation hadn't made sense. Why did the city matter if he was limiting himself to escorts. Or, did he not always?

"So, a pitcher," I said, taking his hand and sucking on one of his fingers. "Is that why your nails are so perfect?" I asked, sucking on another one.

"It is," he answered, his face flushed. "In my line of work, a blister or an ingrown nail is a a threat."

"I should get going," I finally offered, after I allowed the second finger to slip from my mouth.

"I disagree. I think you should spend the night, here with me."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. I thought he would be a one and done, even with the "trust" confession. A guy accustomed to escorts seemed unlikely to seek a sleepover.

"Really," he answered, using his right hand to tuck my hair behind my left ear. "I'd like you to be here when I wake up."

I couldn't answer him. The moment was too sweet for any more words.

We fell asleep, dirty and naked and wrapped around each other. It had been a long time since I had slept with anyone. I had forgotten how comforting and intimate it could be.

In the middle of the night, I woke up cold. I rutted around, found a blanket in the closet, wrapped it around me, and settled back into the bed.

"Hey, I want some," he said, pulling the blanket open and sliding in next to me. His skin was warm, much warmer than mine.

"I do, too," I answered, rolling into him and pressing my mouth to his. We kissed and kissed, neither of us knowing what time it was.

When we broke, I whispered "I like kissing."

He answered, "I do, too."

I took him in my hand as we kissed. He reciprocated. We jerked each other, our mouths never leaving each other's. I came first. He sucked my tongue as I did.

When I felt him start to come, I sucked his tongue hard into my mouth. He purred as he coated my stomach.

We fell asleep kissing, neither of us caring that the other's cum would dry on us.

The next morning, I awoke first. Cal was on his right side, his left leg out in front of him. I moved behind him, reached my left arm around him, and pulled the bulk of him back against me as best I could. I tickled his chest hair and nipples.

"This is a nice way to wake up," he said, groggily.

"It is," I confirmed, kissing the back of his head as I did.

"You know what would make it nicer?" he asked.

"If I fucked you?" I answered.

"I fuck," he answered, adamantly. "I don't get fucked."

"That's only because you haven't been fucked by me."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," I answered, pressing my erection to his backside. "Besides, it's only fair."

"I'm not into fair. I tried it once. It didn't work."

"Trust me," I said, using his words against him.

He didn't answer. I took his silence as assent.

A condom wrapper was torn, and a condom was rolled on. Lube was applied, likely too much. Legs were spread. Breath was held. Coaxing and coaching was given. Walls relaxed. A neck was bitten. A prostate and then a rhythm was found.

"Oh God, Jake," I swore. "I'm really close."

"Me, too," he panted back. "But I'm Cal, not Jake."

I laughed as I started to come. The release of my laughter tore through me, as I came as hard and as deeply as I could.

I reached around and grabbed him. In no time, he came all over the blanket I had found in the night.

"How was that?" I asked.

"I didn't love it."

"You came like you did," I answered, pressing my mouth to his and forcing my tongue between his lips. He was much stronger than I. He rolled me onto my back and covered my body with his. We kissed the taste of the morning away.

"Tell me about your first time," I said. He moved off of me, propped his head, and moved his right hand over my chest and stomach.

"It was my senior year of high school. I was eighteen. My fraternal twin, Conrad, ran around with a group of guys. They were all Seniors, too. When they were together in the basement, they often fake raped each other. When I ventured down there, they fake raped me."

"Fake raped?"

"You know. Held me down. Pretended to fuck me through my clothes."

"Weird."

"I think it's something teenaged boys do. Skin hunger and all that. . . . Anyway, I noticed that one of the guys - Tom - did it more often than the others and often was hard when he did it. One night, he came over looking for Conrad, who shared my room. When I told him Conrad was out, he asked if he could wait in our room. I said sure. I was sitting at the desk doing homework and he was sitting on Conrad's bed, flipping through the swimsuit edition of a Sports Illustrated. He called me over and started showing me pictures and commenting on this one's tits or that one's legs. After awhile, he slid his leg over mine and scooted closer to me. I was titillated as our bodies touched. He kept flipping. He casually mentioned that he was getting boned up. I answered 'me, too.' He laid the magazine on our legs and flipped pages with his left hand. With his right, he took hold of my dick through my shorts and started rubbing the head with his thumb. I took hold of him with my left hand and did to him what he was doing to me. He slid his hand into my shorts and took hold of me. With my left hand, I untied his sweatpants, slid my hand into them, and took hold of him. We continued to stare at the magazine as we jerked each other off. When he came, I wiped my hand on my shirt. When I came, he also wiped his hand on my shirt. When Connie got home, we acted like nothing had happened."

"Was that it?"

"No. He started finding reasons to come over when Connie wasn't home. When he did, he always waited in our room. After a few handjobs, he gave me a blow job, so I gave him one back. I liked it more than I thought I would. I actually liked giving blowjobs better than I liked getting them."

"How long did you guys fool around?"

"Until we left for college. I'm not sure if Connie knew what was going on or not. If he did, he never mentioned it."

"How did you get away with it?"

"Tom and I became friends apart from Connie. We started hanging out. He started inviting me over for sleepovers. We never did much sleeping. We had a lot of sex."

"Did you fuck?"

"I fucked him. He never fucked me."

"Did he like it?"

"No. He loved it. I'd fuck him, finish, and then suck him."

"Did you kiss?"

"All the time. Without ever saying so, we were boyfriends. We were together all the time."

"What happened when he stayed at your house?"

"It didn't happen often. With four boys of their own, my parents weren't wild about having more boys over. I usually stayed over there."

"What happened?"

"We went off to college, him for academics, me for sports, and that was that."

"Did you love him?"

"I don't think so. I liked having sex. But, I don't think I loved Tom. I don't think he loved me, either."

"Was he gay?"

"I don't know. He's married now, so maybe not."

"Was he your only boyfriend?"

"No. I had one in A ball, too."

We had known each other for twelve hours. It seemed like it had been twelve years.

We decided we needed to wash the dried cum and sweat away. We showered together. Cal slowly, steadily washed my body with his bare hands. It was one of the most erotic experiences of my life. His hands were strong, but not rough. He explored my body with purpose, but not precision. It was random and scattered and extremely erotic.

I reciprocated, noticing things I hadn't noticed before. His long hair covered ears that stuck way out, like Luke Hochever's. He had a trache scar on his neck, the result of an EMT's efforts after he had swallowed a bolt as a two year old and turned blue. He had large, dark nipples. He had a scar from when they had removed his appendix, also in an emergency as it was about to burst. He had a scar on his left knee from where they had repaired a torn ACL. He also had a scar on his left calf from where they had repaired a torn achilles tendon. Like his wrists, his ankles were thick. His feet were large, athletic, and hairless, but for a dusting of curly brown hair on the tops of his toes.

We talked as we dried ourselves. He had spent a lot of his career on the disabled list. This season, he was finally healthy.

"Are you a reliever or a starter?"

"Like all relievers, I'm a failed starter."

"Are you right- or left-handed?"

"Luckily, I'm a Southpaw. I have more margin for error. Righties are a dime a dozen. Lefties are rare."

"Are you good?"

"Well . . . . I'm in the show."

"I mean, are you good, for a major leaguer?"

"I had a strong year last year. I'm having a better year this year. Which is a good thing. It's my walk year. I'm working on an extension with the Royals now. They stuck with me when I was hurt. I'd like to return the loyalty, even if it costs me a little dough."

I was drying my feet. I smiled at the floor. I like what he had just revealed about his character.

When breakfast arrived, I ducked into the bathroom. I was not to be heard or seen.

"We'll have to share a plate," he said, apologetically. "I had to order for one. To be careful."

We breakfasted in robes, listening to classical music and talking casually. As we finished, he asked if he could see me that night after the game. Without hesitation, I agreed.

"You should know something, though."

"What's that?" I asked, fearing he was going to tell me he had lied about being clean or married.

"I have a girlfriend."

"Oh," I answered, the disappointment plain on my face and in my voice.

"She's a disguise," he answered. "No one can know who I am. Baseball's not ready. I'd get run out of the league."

"Does she know?"

"God no."

"Do you fuck her?"

"Yes."

"So, what, you're bi?"

"No. I'm less than the 65/35 you claim. I'm like 80/20, at best. I'd rather have a boyfriend. I just can't, at least not publicly. I have to have a girlfriend. I fuck her so she doesn't get suspicious. What twenty-seven year old guy doesn't fuck his girlfriend?"

"This is a lot to take in."

"I know. It was a lot to say. You're the first guy I've told. With everyone else, I'm always someone else. And I don't do repeats."

"Repeats?"

"I don't see them again. I'm a one and done."

We finished our food in silence. I was stumped. I didn't know how to digest what he had told me. I also didn't know how to digest that he had told me. I barely knew him, yet he had entrusted me with his biggest secret. If I wanted, I could rain havoc down on him.

Like he was reading my mind, he said, "It's good to tell someone. It's a lot to carry."

"I won't tell anyone," I promised. "Ever."

"Thank you. . . . You should come to the game tonight. I'll leave a ticket at Will Call, in case you decide to. If not, we can meet back here after."

I suggested I should get going. Without a word, Cal coaxed me toward a little more carnality before I left. He stood up, dropped his robe to the floor, and stood before me. It was an arrogant move, but I liked it. His hip bones and muscles formed that perfect V that points to the promised land. His muscles rippled. He had little body fat.

I wordlessly moved toward him. "Raise your arms," I said. He did, and I buried my face in the manliness of his armpit, my tongue lapping at the tenderness and hairiness of it. I moved to his sides and then to his hip bone. By the time I got to his groin, he was hard. I licked the precum from his slit, the intersection of his leg and crotch, and his balls. I was headed down his inner thighs when he grabbed my face and forced himself into my mouth and then my throat. I was happy to allow him complete control, willing to play the submissive and let him dominate my face again. He came hard, over and over, again without warning. I swallowed it all.

Before I could wipe the cum off my chin, Cal pulled me up and kneeled in frontof me. After adding his hand, he worked me as purposefully as he could. My body started to tingle, and my orgasm started in my balls and shot through me and into his mouth. He moaned as he swallowed all I had. Sweat broke out all over my body as he climbed up me and wrapped his body around mine.

"I could get used to this," he said.

"Me, too," I answered, surprising myself with my honesty.

*****

At work, my nurse inquired about my date with Michael. I was embarrassed to admit I was late and had missed him.

"Matthew!"

"It's Matthias, not Matthew. But, I know. I'm sorry. I'm a heel."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I told you I'm horrible at meeting new people. And, I'm even worse at dating. There's a reason my longest adult relationship was shorter than an ectopic pregnancy."

It was a game we played. I always tried to one-up myself with my metaphors. I took after my grandfather.

"Matt!"

I answered her with the most mischievous smile I could muster, after I told her it was "Matty Joe," not "Matt."

To make it up to her, I took her to lunch. Over south side tacos, I casually asked if she had ever heard of Calvin Lowden.

"Of course," she answered. "He's a pitcher for the Royals. He has a beautiful girlfriend who's one of the heirs of a Kansas City candy fortune. The two of them have been on the cover of People magazine. . . . Why do you ask?"

"I met him last night. I thought he was Michael. It was pretty funny actually."

"You met him last night? Did you talk to him?"

"I did. We shared a drink."

"Wow."

"That's all. Don't get all fussy."

"Is he as hot in person as he is on TV?"

"I've never seen him other than in person. But, he's definitely hot in person."

"And, what, you two just sat and talked?"

"We did. He's a really cool guy. He totally took the fact that I mistook him for my date in stride."

"Lucky you."

Yes, I thought to myself, lucky me.

*****

That night, I watched from afar as the Royals drubbed the White Sox. Cal didn't pitch. He was a left-handed relief specialist. He didn't mop up.

After a cab ride to the Drake, I took an elevator to twelve and then climbed five flights of stairs to seventeen. I assumed there were cameras in the elevators, and I didn't want to exit on seventeen two nights in a row. As I ascended, I realized the error of my ways: I should have taken the elevator to twenty-two and then descended five flights to seventeen!

I entered Cal's room as stealthily as I could. He was on the bed, on the telephone. Wearing only gym shorts, he held up this thumb and forefinger to signal he would be on the telephone a while longer. From the tone of his voice, I suspected he was talking to Kate, the heiress to the candy fortune.