We were walking out to the first tee when Jerry sidled over, put an arm around my shoulders then smacked me on the butt with his golf glove. “Play ya for a fuck, stud.”
“Match or stroke?”
“Well, buddy, for what I’m gonna give you, gotta be stroke.”
“You’re on.”
He drifted away while I thought about what a good loser Jerry was though at times I wondered if I was just keeping his hole opened for somebody else. Didn’t matter, in my bag I had a good supply of condoms of various sorts so whatever he gave another guy or gal, he wouldn’t give to me. Not to mention some toys not usually associated with golf.
We were our semi-usual foursome, me, Jerry, my Dad, Francois Sr. and his usual partner, a guy called “Balls” although why, and this was after numerous showers in the locker room, I could not imagine. Dad winked at me which said, “Son I’ve got money on this one, back in the grill”. I smiled over my sun glasses and he knew he was covered.
A strong, long five par hole with a slight dog leg to the left concealing the pin. Dad had the honor so he was first up. Got out there a good 190 to 200 yards. Jerry was next, a paltry 150 followed by Balls who knocked it a country mile but with a really bad hook. We all stood there, waiting and, yep, just as usual, you could hear the shattering of glass in the parking lot. At least he’d have no trouble finding the object it hit, along with a note, with his card and a scrawled apology. I was up, the long hard, fluiid muscles in my arms and legs not really apparent then whacked it almost straight but a little to the right. At least 250 yards. Plus, by going just to the edge of the fairway, I’d set myself up to clearly see the pin which was an easy shot for me. Down in two, maybe a two putt and I’d be one under.
My father’s French accent had a smile in it. “Did I say that he and his team won the NCAA golf championship? He is National Champion of this wonderful country! I am so proud of him but, he is the good son and still plays with his father and old men.” Well, they’d been told and warned about something they already knew. My father was indulged in this because, well, it was a matter of pride for him and, I guess, they liked me so his Gallic charm seemed warm and fatherly, not just the words of a braggart.
University. I was rushed by every fraternity on campus and declined all of them. I knew why and what they wanted and it was my skill at golf. For intramural meets, I’d Captain every winning team and, they thought, they couldn’t lose. I was laughing and gracious in my refusal but between my major, Medicine, and golf, my time was gone. My excuse was credible but I did leave the door slightly open when I added that, for a friendly game, give me a ring and I’d see what my schedule was. This was a scam my charming father and I worked. Not wanting to fuck up my Amateur Status with the USGA, I never even bet a penny on anything even vaguely golf related nor did I accept any prize, trivial though it might be. However, this didn’t say that my father couldn’t hustle the fathers of the guys I’d be playing with and put, to him, modest wagers on the game. I never lost-unless Dad bet it the other way and took the over-he was generous in turning over half the winnings to me.
I won the first three holes both in strokes and match but Jerry, still the unbeliever, slipped over while we were watching Balls make a tricky putt at four and offered me double or nothing. Of course I took it. Adding only that they couldn’t be consecutive as i didn’t have that kind of time. To dress up that lie I said I only played in this foursome as it gave me some father/son time. It also gave us, usually, close to five grand as Dad collected the wagers on the game. Naturally, it wasn’t just a straight up bet about who would win, that wouldn’t have attracted much but peripherals such as who could carry the water hole, longest putt made etc. were just as lucrative. He had a perfectly good job working in import/export but this we considered to be bonuses necessary to let us live just slightly better than otherwise. Naturally I was on a full ride scholarship-one the school had no reason to regret-and, quietly, certain clothing manufacturers made things such as shirts or pants available. Of course, only one or two but when I turned pro, as it was expected I would, they’d have an inside line for an endorsement. Dad also was suited up, to a degree, by these same companies, many of whom were in Europe and so he could very legitimately wear them as part of what he imported and, of course, wore to sell. Convenient to own an Import/Export business. I hadn’t paid for socks, underwear, my jocks and certain other things he brought in for years. We wore about the same size, or did after I quit growing, which made it even more difficult to suggest that I was accepting “gifts”. Prove, please, that a growing kid, even one playing pretty sturdy golf, breaks Amateur Status by having the same brand of bikini briefs or jocks also worn by his father. You can’t.
One of the mistakes the frat boys made was that they wasted their time fucking the girls in the sororities without doing any background. Whose father was what? Banker? Attorney? Heavy Industry? They were whoring themselves for the simple gain of loss of sperm. I carefully did have one “steady” who was stunningly beautiful, but we stayed out of bed and attended the better parties given, not by the Greek community but by corporations. We both looked forward to a career and this was the basis. Of course, I carried it one step further and fucked some of the fathers of the daughters being screwed by the frat boys. These men were grateful for the attention of a man, younger, true, but sophisticated and clearly on his way up. A golfing Doctor? what could be better.
These gentleman with whom I was having sex didn’t start out as sexual partners, they usually started out as golfing partners who asked me to join their foursome. I was clear about wagering, which they all understood, but my addition added more than a cachet. Tall, good looking, firm of muscle, large of bulge, I was the fantasy son they all aspired to; In many cases they couldn’t have got their offspring to play tiddly winks with them even stuck at home in a blizzard yet here I was, delighted to be with them. I gave myself to them as the son they didn’t quite have. Playing on the course led to playing around in their offices which led to playing around in hotels and resorts at some distance from town. My whole body was nicely sun tanned and to see it standing over them, my cock loaded to be used as they wished….I could be used as they wished-no limits….It added up to my using them as I wished. There were no regrets, at least none voiced to me, and many repeat “friendship” meetings. Inwardly I had to laugh because I knew their son was attempting to get a piece of ass while I had the best piece of ass, the one most helpful laying on the bed waiting for me to do whatever. And whatever covered a very wide skein. In my golf bag, along with my clubs, there were hand cuffs, rope, an electric gadget for cocks that wouldn’t come up. Lots of things.
There was one stud at a Frat who made the mistake of referring to French father as “That Frog with his tadpole kid”. Of course he played football, not the captain, not even first team, he wasn’t that good, but he was muscled up, had the school mascot tatted on his forearm and some other shit elsewhere. A tight dirty blond crew cut, teeth that after football, would need major work again, plus his bulge which, I privately thought, was where he carried his football. Like me or loathe me, I had the starring role on campus, I was a National Champion ergo a stud and studs hung together at least according to his play book. His frat felt they had the inroad to getting me to play “pick up” games after classes and particularly when it still stayed light until eight or nine. Of course I knew who was playing or which other group of idiots were to play against us. It was easy to call Dad, give him some names and let Gallic charm put money on the line. On a good day, when I got home, there was chilled Champagne in the bucket and several thousand dollars in an envelope. We always drank to the suckers.
My faux best friend was called “Spike” although his real name was Nicholas-I called him Nick which made our “friendship” seem slightly more intimate and though he had trouble saying mine, I was called Francois after my father, which Spike tried shortening that to “Frank” once but that got nipped in the bud. It was my father’s name and I was proud of it. Shame he didn’t practice the same veneration on his Dad. Nick Sr. was a really nice guy, a whopping success in the brokerage business, nice. elegantly handsome looking and completely ignored by “Spike”. We were often at their home/estate and I made time to see how his father was, whom I genuinely liked, have a drink with him, let him air out if there was something on his mind. Eventually, when Nick Jr. was on the road with the losing team, I was having a sleep over with Nick Sr. and got him up to speed on some further elements of sex of which he wasn’t aware. Naturally I couldn’t invest, in theory I had no money, but my father could and, it pleased me, the two men did become close friends. Our investments did very well under his watchful eyes making my father a very wealthy man. (There was an up side to this one had to be close to Dad and me and know the USGA to understand. Now with him certified as well to do, or rich-a term he considered “trop vulgaire”-no one at the USGA bothered to question something that was a bit on the expensive side; My father bought it for me. Too, the university rather pushed me as a fashion plate helped by European designers only too happy to provide, quietly, custom designed golf clothes. I made the cover of mens magazines first as the golf champion but second, because I looked great. One other “planted” picture was of me in the locker room wearing only a jock, manufacturer of no importance. The issue in which that picture appeared sold out plus the publisher made available, at the cost of a donation to a specified charity of my choice, an eight by ten glossy of me and my jock. If one looked closely at it, and millions did, I was no more exposed than if I’d been in a very scanty Speedo but, to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, a jock is a jock is a jock and the implication, in the minds of some, was that they saw what wasn’t there. Another too candid photo of Dad and me was also from the locker room but in this all we’re covered by is water from the shower. That one was never seen although Dad kept it framed, carefully airbrushed, in his office plus one I’d given to Nick Sr.
One weekend when “Spike” was two states away losing another game for the team with a classic school boy fumble, his father broke down and told me what an ass hole his son was, that he was tired of being called an “old fucker, useless” and the list spiraled out. Why, he wondered, couldn’t I have been his son? He knew I had a great father, but….if I could clone myself….and through blurry eyes looked at me and tried to smile. He was hugged and kissed and told that he was like a second dad to me-this was true-I was proud and grateful that my father was his closest friend and, I thought, he would be pleased for me to have an honorary father. But I took it one step further. You will imagine that my father and I had discussed “Spike” and what a shitty son he was so when I called him, told him what Nick Sr. wanted, he asked to be put on the phone. Of course, I didn’t hear the conversation but as it went on, he drew me close to him, hugged me, was effusively grateful to Dad…that’s where the call ended. All smiles and happiness, he said that my father had proposed a sort of understanding that I was “sort of” his son as well. No mention was made of “Spike” but I knew full well he wanted no part of him.
That night Nick was the best he’d ever been. Said that having his ‘son ‘ as a bed partner was all he could ask for and how much he loved me. I slowly sank into him, whispering how good he felt, how long I wanted to be inside him, how he needed to be bred so we could truly become two men together. It was a long time but when we finally slept, Nick was cuddled in my arms, smiling, happy and assured of at least one child who would not disappoint. I did genuinely care deeply for him so when I had sex or made love with him, there was no hypocrisy. Plus, he was really good at sex. Surprized me a few times with what he’d recently learned or, as I discovered, had an instructor teach him how to do whatever then, to make sure the person understood the motivation, showed him a picture of me, nude, I’d had taken just for him. Full frontal. I had one of my Dad plus there was one of the two of us stark naked; One could see the resemblance immediately. For all that those were posed, the classic was the one of us in the shower as it was completely natural and one could easily see the affection between father and son.
It might be wondered if my Dad knew what the exact relationship with the other, older men was? Simple, yes, I told him. The first time he was slightly distressed but as he came to see my point and the good it did both of us, he endorsed my being a whore of sorts whole heartedly. Wondered if there was money in it for him. We both laughed at that although I said at the time that IF he was interested, there were men who’d asked me about him, his availability……To his French eyes, it was just a matter of my learning to be a man sexually, something that happened in Europe all the time. Usually it was normal for the older man to take the younger man but I’d reversed that. It worked out nicely, all were happy plus neither of us was ever horny so no fault no loss.
We finally got to the end of a very boring game. Jerry couldn’t have flubbed that many shots on purpose just to get screwed so I chalked it up to the reality that he was just a lousy golfer. Dad was second, Balls was third and Jerry….well, Jerry was a fucked up fourth. I told him I didn’t have time to do what I wanted to do with him but to save some time over the weekend. Maybe overnight on his cabin cruiser that he kept docked at a local marina.
Lake Howbert was a mud collector built by the Army Corps of Engineers and one must think it was a test for some of their junior officers. Built in the wrong place based on the topography, at its deepest it was possibly forty feet and that silted up very quickly. Wave runners could get around but cabin cruisers, such as Jerry had, were in deep mud if they wandered even a mile from the marina. The up side was that I could get him on the boat, out on the water, run it into the mud and, after I’d done everything up to and including making him walk the plank, could dive in and swim back to shore. While not a good fuck, he was game for anything and this time, I’d settled on something he might not like to have but was going to get anyway; I left him well tied with his schlong taped over the edge so he could take a piss when he felt like it. Thought about branding him, maybe with a golf ball emblem but needed to have that made. Another time.
Dad and I walked back toward the club, smiling-there was a photographer, both of us looking like pros, tan, slightly sweaty head, perfectly dressed, the father and son even Golf Digest liked in their pages. As we walked I asked him, in French, how much he’d managed to lay off and his answer was an encouraging twenty grand, some were dressed up based on how I performed on certain holes. I assumed, and said so to him, that my carrying the water hole then sinking it without a putt was a money maker. He just smiled and said…we could build a swimming pool. Back at the club, in the locker room, I showered with my father while other men I knew looked on and anticipated our next meeting. I stayed undressed, talking with people, while Dad just pulled on his very microscopic (some said typically French) briefs and a T shirt. Again, save for my being nude, a great photo op. One thing we’d learned to do was cover for each other as we opened our respective lockers. There were usually several cards or notes tucked through the air vents and their presence didn’t need to be noticed by anyone but us.
As to the wagers, of course Dad didn’t collect that day, the punters didn’t have that kind of money and, besides, wasn’t it better, even encouraging for future bets, to express sorrow for their loss, be told, in front of a few people, to take their time paying it off then buy them a drink. Just all good friends; Those bets were paid off, in cash, in less than 24 hours, 36 tops.
It was approaching the holiday season when Nick Sr. proposed that both sons and fathers should get away from the growing cold, go to some place warm, play golf, just relax. (Nick Jr’s team was so far from post season play that Spike had lots of available time.) I was sure my father would be delighted to accept, what I needed to get from him was a list of places where he had bettors who bet on golf. Florida was, of course, not even a consideration. He suggested La Jolla and Nick Sr. made the arrangements. We’d take his Learjet, stay at the Beach and Tennis club, play Torrey pines, maybe fly up to Pebble Beach, just have a nice holiday, two fathers and their well loved sons. Well, one loved son. Spike went along under duress. I had made it clear to him that whatever he thought of his father, I dangled the word “inheritance” in front of him pointing out he couldn’t play football forever. (I doubted if any professional league anywhere would even give him a try out but that was for him to discover in his future.) Grudgingly was how I might describe his acceptance but then, the rest of us didn’t give a shit if he attempted to fuck a rattle snake and suffered the sad consequences.
My father had been and still was an excellent tennis player so the Beach and Tennis club provided him with daily activity if he chose to accept the many invitations. I had my own stack of invitations from local, and not so local, golfers who just wanted to play a round or two. The few I accepted were told I was going to bring my Godfather who would just walk the course. Fine with them. When they found out who that was, he was more than welcomed. As to Spike, his father rented a car for him so that he could go up the coast and find surfer studs-that he’d never surfed in his life wasn’t a consideration…to Spike. In his full body neoprene suit he looked the perfect fool but why mention it? He announced he would be gone for “a while” which was fine. One might have hoped it was the zenith of shark feeding season but that was almost too much to hope for. Closer to possible was annoying a sea lion which would then tear holes in his neoprene letting in very cold water. Very. Maybe he’d even sink-on two occasions I’d had to dive in to his own pool and get him out before he drowned.
I decided to show my Dads how much they meant to me so, somehow, got enough beds together so that we could all sleep, nude, with each other. As was my filial duty, I blew both men and then had bed time chatter which evolved into sleep, the sound of the waves being as good as any white noise as existed.
The next day was happier for all. Nick found a florist and had our suites, both of which extended out into the ocean, decorated for Christmas. Both men were happy, you could see them bonding, beginning to have interior conversations to which I was not part. Looking forward to….the future. I wondered if my Dad was on the verge of having a partner, certainly there couldn’t be a better choice than Nick Sr. Unfortunately he came with Nick Jr. who served no useful purpose. I happened to know that, as a result of some stupid plays that had cost the team games, he wouldn’t be playing next year. But I knew it and got it from someone who should know thus I believed him. When Nick Jr. found that out, there would be no living with him or even around him. That night in bed with my Dad we talked about it during which I also asked about the growing relationship with Nick Sr.
“Would that make you happy?”
“Only if it would give you someone that gave you happiness.”
“Ah, mon petit garcon, you are so good, your love for me is…a gift that I do not always deserve.”
He held me against his shaggy chest. “Nick is a fine man, yes but….I do not love him as, maybe I think I should, no?”
“Love. If it happens it’s great but maybe I think love is for those who can accept it fully. You and Nick could never do that but could you be happy? Yes, I think so. No need to live together, just have more time for each other, we all know c’est un biroutte his son is, no love or comfort there.” Dad could only measure father/son relationships based on what he and I had so how Spike treated Nick was incomprehensible to him; He knew it for what it really was which was starting at disrespectful and going down to vicious and cruel.
“It’s true but that is why I share you with him. He gets a wonderful son and I get to have a fine man for me as well. So I think, yes, I will speak with Nick and say to him….we shall be partners.” He smiled then looked at me. The look turned into an embrace, the embrace into a kiss the kiss into cock worship then cock sucking. We both liked to edge each other so after the first time, we did that, groaning in agony knowing we were applying pain to the other and then…..more sperm! The good thing about sucking dick is that there’s no clean up, no sticky sheets, just a full feeling on both parts. I offered my ass to him and, with a Gallic shrug that usually means, why not? He mounted me. We curled around until we were in each others arms and, listening to the sea call the living to the death of sleep.
Dad woke me screaming, “Vite, Vite’ then I heard the noise and ran with him. Next door Nick Jr. had come home, had his father on the floor having already extensively punched him around and was prepared for a stomping. But it stopped there. Dad and I grabbed him and held him. We were strong men ourselves and when one is calm, containing someone who is out of control is somewhat easier. Knowing it would never be noticed, I picked up a heavy metal decorative lamp and struck him on his head. Down for the count. Next I called 911 while Dad got on the floor to see how badly injured Nick was. I was concerned that he might have some broken ribs, a cracked jaw, lost teeth and, most certainly, two black eyes. Working, hurriedly, in a shift, we got clothes on so when the cops arrived we looked like what we were, dear friends of the family who were vacationing together. I had ripped a bed sheet, tied down Nick Jr. and quickly checked to make sure he wasn’t badly damaged (They say never kick a man when he’s down? Fuck that shit. I got Nick Jr. a couple of good ones right in his testicles and stepped on his cock; My only regret was that I wasn’t wearing my golf spikes.), nothing more than a stop at the hospital en route to the San Diego County Jail would require. We kept his father on the floor but covered him to keep him warm. Dad sat with Nick’s head in his lap, I was sitting on Junior just in case and that’s how the officers found us.
It was a simple if sad story. Son comes home, drunk, attempts to beat up his father, friends of the family hear the commotion, come in stop the beating, restrain the son all of which the officers could see for themselves. La Jolla was a golfing community and I had some celebrity which gave veritas to what I said then there was Nick Sr who had clearly been badly beaten. An ambulance took him to Scripps Hospital while a police cruiser took Jr. to some hospital convenient to jail. Statements were taken, the officers agreed it was a sad story, one they saw too often…just not at the Beach and Tennis Club.
Joy oh Joy the best of Christmas gifts, Junior was found to be awash in illegal drugs both in him and on him. Didn’t even ask what the penalty was, just assured ourselves that he could not get out. Nope, was the answer. The amount of drugs found in his wet suit qualified him for a tidy sentence and, certainly, no bail. The attack on his father, while unfortunate, was the least of the charges, the drugs being the top charge. Then, on further inspection his car was found to be a cave of drugs, all for sale. It just got worse.
At the hospital Nick had been X-rayed, was given a CT scan and given something for pain that clearly was working. He looked at us, tried to smile, and croaked out, “You’re what a man needs in a situation like this, his family around him.” And started to cry.
Dad dealt with the medical part, the X-rays and scan showed that he’d have to have his jaw wired back, the ribs hadn’t broken, just bent and while painful in recovery, would heal properly. Two black eyes did not conceal any damage to the socket and, as with all black eyes, would heal. The only other issue were deep tissue bruising which, with a lot of time would heal. Eventually. He was in great health and strength so the doctors said, do the surgery, give him a few days of hospital bed rest and we could have him back. If they were puzzled about who was whom and to whom was everyone, we just let them. Surgery was for the next day and as they’d pretty much knocked him out, Dad and I went back to the club and collapsed.
“Well, that solves one problem, Nick Jr. I can only hope that his father doesn’t waste money on a good attorney or tries to bail him out. I don’t know much about law but, even if it runs to seven figures, there will be a bail set.” Dad said that later that day, after he’d been processed, he’d go to the jail and see Junior, just to make some things clear to him such as being banned from his home-when he got out in however many years that might be and also to give him the unwelcome news that his father had taken a lover and he was it. I wanted his reaction on video tape. While he did that, I went back to the hospital just to be with Nick. He was in a very nice room with a view of the ocean although just then, he wouldn’t have noticed if it were a view of the trash heap in Pittsburgh. Even in his doped up state, maybe he could feel something pleasurable so I ducked under the cover and gave him a blow job. I’ll say this, he was loaded and ready to shoot.
Dad did backtrack a little and found a capable attorney, one who could understand the situation and what the future might be. He was instructed to tell Junior, when he met with him, there would be no bail paid as well as explain the gravity of the charges and what the potential sentence might be. As we’d thought it ran into years, something about a minimum of 20 just on the drug charges alone. We wouldn’t bother to attend the arraignment, the attorney did and afterwards, briefed us on what had happened. Basically, there had been a bail set of half a million, he was bound over for trial and was taken back to jail He would meet with him later and did we have any messages? We didn’t. He said he expected as much.
The surgery was the next morning and, as we’d been told, no grave damage was discovered. His jaw was aligned and wired, nothing but soft food, when he was allowed food, ribs were bruised, there were some deep tissue bruising that looked as if he’d been kicked but all that would rectify itself in time. It would be months before the wiring could come out but there was no reason it couldn’t be done at home, he’d do some research and provide us with the name of a surgeon as well as send all the films etc to the doctor. He was clearly out for the count and the nice head nurse said that unless we had some morbid reason to stay, we could go home and they’d call when he was somewhat awake.
On the way back we stopped in La Jolla village, found a coffee shop that served sandwiches and salads which reminded us we were hungry. They also had beer so that with a gigantic sandwich-the waitress said that’s why it was served with a bag marked “For The Dog” -was lunch and a good jump on dinner. That I was not of legal drinking age bothered no one, I looked considerably older than I actually was and, just then, unshaven and very casually dressed, no reason to question my age and, after all, I was with a man who had to be my father…..no other explanation as we were both speaking French.
We got back to our suite and didn’t so much relax as collapse. I threw on some shorts and T shirt to go wading while I thought. If you stayed just at the edge, the water wasn’t too cold which was better than some tropical place where the warm water wasn’t pleasant, just warm. I stood and watched the sun slowly set; It always amazes me that at that time of day, one can actually see the sun move down, the edges frilled by the distortion of the atmosphere.
I felt hands on my shoulders. It was Dad who also wanted to get out, get some fresh air, be at peace with his son. He brought me a canvas zip front hoodie, such as he was wearing and together we walked along headed toward the cove, the tide slowly putting us in slightly deeper water. When it was over our knees we just stood, waiting for it to take us to nowhere in particular. We looked out to sea looking for some sort of closure to that day and the one previous. Dad stood behind me, his arms holding me tight. “Just when I think I couldn’t love you more than I already do….you prove that you’re a fine man. Not just a fine son, but a fine man who has led me all my life I just didn’t realize it. Whenever I thought, well, merde, go back to France, take the child, you kept me here with something silly and I was glad I stayed. Now I need to say something to you I’ve never said and….I’m not sure just how but…..Son, I’m horny and want you to be in me so I know you’re there.”
I smiled to myself for in spite of all the hoorah, I was horny as well. Nice that we would have something to share.
We walked back in the almost darkness, the water now deep enough to make walking difficult and touching the bottom of our nuts which made them scatter North. Pausing, I took off my clothes and plunged into the sea swam out a few hundred yards in the cold water then caught up with Dad as he’d kept walking along. Then it was his turn to strip and turn toward the sea and make the dark surface foam with white as he stroked the water. Eventually we got to our patio wall, now with water about a foot up the side, jumped over, hurried in the house and immediately into a warm shower.
Face to face but our faces on our shoulders, we gathered heat from each other as well as the water. He was running his hand over me. “You will eventual have the hair like your papa, nice and full, a long stream going down to your cock and balls. Just like me. Fuck that make me happy. If we have the salt off and have warmed up, lets dry down and get under the covers. I looked at him, got a towel then started to dry him paying special attention to the hair on his chest and the cascade of fur as it went to his meat…which was growing up and hard. “Oui, papa, it’s time to get in bed.” We smiled at each other, held hands and walked into the bedroom.
It was hardly the first time I’d fucked him but I always started out letting him set the pace. He liked it rough, as did I, but to get there, we started slowly and built up. I slid in easily, causing him to groan only a bit, and continued till my bush was brushing the entrance to his paradise. Only a slight movement, I was letting my cock expand to fill the area, I wanted him to feel the blood pulsing on the veins on the outside of my stalk. He needed to know that this blood came from him at first and was now being returned to him. I wanted him to take my cock and eat the head, chew it up, look at me and swallow it. It would be my payment to him for a wonderful life. That would never happen but as I rode him like a comfortable saddle horse, all sorts of things went through my mind. All of them involved me making grotesque sacrifices to and for him. All involving blood, my testicles, my penis, my prostate. I was moaning in lust for what I wanted done to me for him while I grew much larger and stretched him. I had already shot in him and didn’t notice it, it was simply a son returning to his father what his father had loaned him. How I loved him. I was in tears and they fell on his chest, pooled between his breasts and made their own placid pond, a symbol of fealty. I suddenly pulled out, offered him my nuts and ordered him to bite them off, chew them off, unman me, make me his own. Then fell on him in waves of love and desire. He responded by quickly rolling me over, stabbing his symbol of man hood in me and violently thrust in and out. I’d never been so aroused and more so because it was my own father whom I loved.
Finally he fell beside me, blood from my interior on his cock which I licked off. He held, ran his hands over me, pulled my head onto his shoulder and whispered that never could any two people have the love and sex that we did. Never. Hearing that, I put my hand on his breast. the nipple between my thumb and index finger and passed out.
Surgery went as we’d been told. No complications, he was in excellent physical shape which is always a help to surgeons. The doctor who briefed us afterward said he didn’t get that many men over thirty who were in the condition he was in. Dad asked if he was better in the hospital or back at the Beach Club with us? He let that slide saying that they’d see tomorrow and, wherever he went, he was looking at several weeks of pain gradually diminishing to discomfort. Naturally he’d write a prescription for something for pain but added that at first, they wouldn’t be much good. Dad asked if he had a private duty nurse if a drip IV could be set up for a few days of morphine? The doctor shrugged said sure, it just wasn’t a common request in these times, insurance wouldn’t probably cover a nickel of it but, remembering who his patient was, said that wasn’t a consideration. Said we could go in but not to expect much meaningful conversation.
He looked very white even against the sheets. His jaw was bandaged as was his chest. There was a covering of some sort over his eyes so, for now, he couldn’t see. Probably just as well. Nick was a fine looking man and would be again but now…..already the ugly color from the black eyes was beginning to spread. Dad took his hand, said something, Nick garbled something back and tears came from under his bandaging. He was clearly heavily sedated so after we both gave him a squeeze on his hand-A hug might have sent him back to surgery-we left saying we’d be back the next day. I’d been in hospital for some surgeries and knew that just now, “tomorrow” or “the next day” was without relevance. In the car we held each other and cried. And then got mad. Simply put, he was tempted to bail Junior out, castrate him, and turn him back. I liked the idea but could see some legal problems. Best we could do about that was let the law handle him and hope when he got to prison, his braggadocio would get him punched out and put on a list of men who could be butt fucked or any other sexual act possible. I was a pen pal with a former pro golfer now a federal prisoner and made a note to write him at some point in the future to ask if he knew anyone at whatever point of confinement Junior was. And, ,if he did, there were some things to be known.
Neither of us felt like much of anything. Dad called the hospital and confirmed that the doctor had left orders regarding the private duty nurse and the drip IV. The hospital referred us to a local service that provided special duty Registered Nurses and we called them. Not knowing precisely any dates, they said they’d work with the hospital and get everything set up, we needn’t worry.
That left the rest of the day. Torrey Pines was a public course so we headed there with our equipment. As I’d rather planned, I was recognized and both of us were invited to join several foursomes that had tee times in the next hour. I finally selected one that had a man whose name I recognized from the Wall Street Journal and his partner for the day, a Junior Senator from an unimportant state. As usual, I made my speech about not gambling and my amateur status. All understood and so off we went.
Torrey Pines is set parallel to the sea on top of a very high tor. It’s a good test of golf and, on this day, was a better one as the sometimes annoying fog had burned off making it bright, the holes easier to read and the air scented with the odor of Eucalyptus. ( The Santa Fe railroad had planted thousands of them hoping to use them as ties on their railroad. Not enough research had been done and they were useless to the railroad but provided an attractive setting for a golf course.)
As per usual, I won but it really was a friendly game during which I gave lessons to those who approached me and asked questions. At some point one of the Sports guys from the San Diego Union showed up so while I putted out on 12, I was interviewed. Next came the cameras so that interview was given as we walked down the fairway on a long par five. Naturally I introduced my father and the other two gentlemen with whom we were paired. I knew from past experience that it might be a good idea if we slipped into the forest and got the duck out of fodge. It was probably a slow news day and having an NCAA champion was at least a good story. As was the Senator and his partner, a Finnish Ship builder. We got to the parking lot just as the uplink truck arrived and were safely away before a friendly interview became a frenzy. We’d asked the other gentlemen to meet us at the club for a drink-for this sort of occasion I had no alcohol.
We were asked, but declined, a dinner invitation using the very real excuse of another member of our party being in hospital. We did however, take a “raincheck:” Cards, numbers and addresses were exchanged and given some strong looks and a stiffening member, I could see a trip to Helsinki in my future.
Alone, Dad and I peeled off our father and son golfer duds-I’m embarrassed to say we’d worn matching outfits, the idea of a designer in Europe. I will say this, I’d given the man from Finland quite a bit to ogle as my pants were closely fitted to the point of one leg being slightly wider to accommodate a loose cock. They were deep Navy Blue so it wasn’t obvious but there was a definite outline if one looked closely. Dad had the same arrangement.
Loosed from my designer clothes, I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed and confessed that I felt somewhat guilty about all that had happened. I’d intentionally let a friendship develop with someone I didn’t like, admire or be around and, had I not done that….I wanted expiation of some sort, maybe let Nick kick me in the nuts every day until I was sterile. Dad laughed but said my being sterile answered nothing and, looked at from a different perspective, Junior was going to be volatile wherever he was and if they’d been at home, it was possible no one would have heard leaving Nick on the floor with who knew how much damage while Junior, realizing he’d fucked up, was on the road to avoid being picked up. He was right and, as I told him, I was glad not to have the spectre of being kicked in my nuts over me.
He laughed and said maybe I could do something for my fellow man and let him give me a hard fuck. A real hard fuck. He was already stiff at the idea and, if I got on all fours, he’d get stiffer. Did I still have my cuffs in my bag? The rope? If there was one thing he always liked it was a son who was obedient and took their punishment like a man. The punishment he was going to give me. Instantly I was so stiff I could have drilled rivet holes in steel. He noticed that and did something I had no idea he knew. There’s a form of castration in which the scrotum is tied very tightly and left there until the blood flow stops, the testicles die and the whole scrotum falls off. When he was a boy in France he’d go to the country where his grandfather had goats which were castrated just like that. He still remembered how to do it and, tied up and cuffed up, wondering how long he might let me wonder if he’d go to far did seem a punishment to him.
Already bound, there was nothing to do but wait as I felt the slim plastic cord be wound around, ever tighter, more painful. as my nuts screamed out for blood. Dad sat there and kept up a running dialogue as to the color of my sack, how it was going to dark red, to purple….and I was in tears because I’d lost the feeling there….Mercifully, he had a sharp knife which cut all the binding at once and though very painful, I knew I wasn’t going to be a steer. Then he fucked me and, as promised, hard. He said watching me suffer drove him even deeper into desiring me knowing that if he wanted to, I would let him…..finish them off. For him it was erotic and made him love me knowing I’d submitted to his dominance. There was the suggestion that at some point in the future, we might have a father son experience of having both our nut sacks tied off……
After that evening, we both knew we’d taken our father/son relationship to a point where many elements could be added in to strengthen our already tight bond. Effectively we’d cleared the path to whatever we wanted to try and the thought that we could and would was more than erotic to both of us.
(Subsequently, I found that what his grandfather was doing was called ‘elastrating’ his goats. In the US there were hand held plier like utensils which held a very strong elastic band that was slipped over the scrotum, released and, after a time, the blood dried up and the balls died. Further reading told me that guys often played with one of these for their own amusement as part of BDSM. Of course I bought one, and the bands, then hung it in Dad’s closet surrounded with yellow caution chevrons. It was some time until he mentioned it and when he did, it was when he presented me with something similar from the “No Bull” company, makers of fine castration devices. I hung it in my closet also surrounded by yellow caution chevrons.)
They kept Nick a day longer than expected; The wiring in his mouth to hold his jaw needed to be partially redone. Eventually, he was released to us without hugs and kisses. We thought a man screaming in pain from friendship in a hospital parking lot gave the wrong impression. What gave a great impression was the Registered Nurse, Frosty Lazarewicz by name. He was from Poland and Poland must have been sorry to see him go. About 5’7′ but very muscular, very blond and very amusing. He was in what I suppose we might call Nurse casual in that he wore a scrub top and camouflage cargo shorts. As is typical of nurses, he stuck a pair of tape scissors in one shoe. He had the IV already for his patient who arrived chocked full of a combination of Fentanyl, Versed and a pain medication. He looked happy enough….actually with his jaw and black eyes he looked like a prize fighter who should have considered another career path. He knew we were there and then Frosty-his white blond hair, I should have explained-turned up the morphine and Nick drifted away.
“Gentlemen, go do something for two or three days, cuz he’s not going to really be available for anything and conversation….uhuh.” We liked Frosty on sight. He also said, hope it wouldn’t distract anyone, that he had just lost his lover of several years to a shark so…We told him on the spot that Dad and I had expanded the father/son relationship into the physical so welcome aboard. The non communicating gentleman was part of our threesome and, to further confuse him, I was explained as the son to one and the sort of son to the other yet another son was currently in the county jail facing a flotilla of charges the least of which was the battery on his father. Like the cops, he said he’d seen it too often.
With three days to kill, Dad decided we might do a little private fund raising for our own charity, us.. Thanks to our day on Torrey Pines, we had guest cards to several local clubs, we found two that were particularly glad to have me come out and make up a foursome. Fine, that’s what we did. Even contacted the gentleman who’d made this possible and asked if he cared to join us. Of course he would. The club pro, with my permission, even put together a small gallery and, this was also approved, they charged ten bucks a pop to be part of it; I approved this because the monies raised went to a local charity. Nice day, bit windy, but you expect that near an ocean. I was presented with my team all of whom were members of the San Diego State Golf team and whom I vaguely knew. This time, we were all on one side and the object today wasn’t to win so much as put on a display of young men enjoying a round of golf. That all of us pleasant looking and easy going, helped. I don’t remember which one it was but when he wasn’t actively playing, he’d saunter over to the gallery and just chat with the folks. Seeing an excellent idea, we all did and, by the time we were twelve or so holes in, had certain members of the gallery on the course with a ball where ours were seeing how their shots went versus ours. I swam the water hazard on the 18th and was followed by all the others. Termed a success, we hadn’t been back in the room a minute before the in house operator called to say we’d better pick up our messages at the front desk. On our way there I happened to ask Dad what his take had been. He smiled, reached in his jock and pulled out a good sized wad, all hundreds. I told him sometime he must tell me how he bet this one….
I did accept one other club to basically do a rehash of the first one but, with some time, their gallery was five times larger and this time the foursome was composed of me and three men who’d each paid a thousand dollars to play the circuit. Again, the monies, and quite a lot of it, went to charity but, as we were driving back, I told Dad the pay to watch the play concept was giving me hiccups about any possible problems with my amateur status. He agreed and no further exhibitions were scheduled. What I did do was play a few holes with men who’d been helpful while we’d been in California. The surgeon, his son and my Dad who worked on Nick, the attorney who was making sure that Junior was going to be incarcerated for a long time, guys like that. These were fun games, everyone was told to come casual and I set the standard by wearing a ragged pair of torn off Levi shorts and a T shirt pushing motor oil. Again, the guys seemed to have a good time and I enjoyed it as well.
One morning Frosty announced that his patient was receiving visitors so long as we kept it reasonably short. We tumbled in almost knocking Frosty into a broom closet and there was Nick. He, carefully put out his hands and said a man never had two better friends at which my Dad stopped him and said, “A man never had two better relatives” which brought tears to his eyes. He may be recovering but he was awfully fragile. The good news we had for him was that his son, on the mounting drug charges, was now facing 40 to life with some chance of parole after 25 years. He was…pensive. We watched him emotionally cast off that son but, fortunately he had another son. I smiled as brightly as I could. He nodded that yes, he did have a fine son one whose balls were bigger than his golf balls. He was beginning to drift-I’d seen Frosty open a valve and some fluid went down the line and into him. We each very carefully kissed him and then, because we were grateful, kissed Frosty as well.
Dad came in from playing tennis looking happy and couldn’t wait to tell me something; His doubles partner had asked him to dinner the following evening. How nice, but, and I looked at him, what is this dinner going to cost…and I didn’t mean who was going to pay for the food. Strangely evasive he looked at me in his Gallic way, gave shrug as if to indicate he had no idea what I was suggesting. Since subtlety wasn’t working I went with a direct statement that had elements of a question in it.
“Okay, Bobby Riggs, what did this doubles partner offer you for an evening of your company and offered to throw in food just for the look of the thing?”
“Mon petit, you are not the only one admired for your form….and your body. Non, I am good prime boeuf.”
I poked him in his belly. “Just remember that one day your ‘boeuf’ could be pot roast.”
He slapped me and started to walk away.
“Just let me remind you that IF you’ve exchanged money for sex, that’s prostitution and could land you in the same jail as Junior. I would have to tough out going back home and you….would probably have to set up some sort of business that involved a telephone and invitations to discuss Ex/I’m. Now, how much?”
“He’s making a donation to charity.”
“Really? How nice, how generous and, lest you forget, you have a partner who will take a cut, as usual, from the ‘charity’ funds. Or would you like me to hand out cards saying, ;’Ask me about our other bargains’?”
Making some sort of noise, probably indicating disgust and annoyance with his child, he went off to our room to shower and sit out being pissed off at me.
Frosty had been casually leaning against the door jamb, listening.
“There’s a first time for every thing. This is his first time hooking and, by the way, I agree with you, that’s what he’s doing however he wishes to think of it in his own mind….as something else. One thing, and again, you’re on the right road, whatever he’s been offered, he’ll have to carry it home in a bag. But….this is La Jolla where that sort of crime draws no attention. And I speak from experience.” That said, he went back to see how Nick was doing leaving me alone and annoyed. Mostly because i’d been disrespectful to a man I loved-the slap was deserved. Contrition plus penance is sometimes best done immediately so I got up, walked into the bathroom, opened the shower door, walked in, got on my knees and gave him a blow job. After which I apologized. Then I peeled off my wet clothes and while I was doing that, he got down on his knees and blew me right back. Once again all was well.
When he went out, he looked just like my Dad on any evening he might go out. Nicely dressed, handsome, well groomed. Whoever he was meeting and whatever they wanted, there was no reason to think they could object to the packaging. After that? You pay for what you get and I had no idea what specifically, they wanted. Took a moment to talk to Frosty as he’d alluded to some activity in the home entertainment business himself then thought better of it. I liked him and didn’t want to pry in to what probably happened a long time ago. Still, it would make an interesting story. Sometime.
I was asleep when Dad crawled into bed at whatever late hour it might have been. I came to enough to see he was unharmed, looked just like the man who’d left hours earlier….and went back to sleep. Whatever happened, I’d find out later…if at all.
Morning. Frosty had made coffee so I got a mug and remembered to put on some clothes as these mornings were chilly. First on my to do list was to drop in to see how Nick was doing and the answer was much better. To the degree that it was physically possible he was conversant and seemed clearer in his mind. Frosty quietly pointed at the morphine and signaled that he’d cut it back. When I arrived, Frosty was giving him his liquid diet through a straw. Perhaps if I’d seen it before it was whipped into something that resembled Russian Dressing, Coca Cola and vomit it might have been more appealing. Must have tasted alright, he was sucking it down, encouraged by Frosty who said, candidly, “Gotta get you back up so you can fuck this handsome man”. I was tempted to say as well as fucking you but that seemed snide and this was a room that needed happy people wishing the best for him.
Even with his increased speech skills, they were still somewhat limited but he did have one request; Go see Spike in jail, see how he’s doing, if he can have some money for whatever he could buy and might need, arrange it for him to have it. “Sure, Dad, I’ll shower, find some clothes suitable for wearing to jail and I’ll be off.” At least Frosty laughed.
An hour later I was headed for downtown San Diego with only the vaguest directions as to how to get where I was going. Annoyingly, those I asked gave me incomplete instructions and concluded by saying, “You can’t miss it”. Some where in my descending colon i bet I could. Finally found a cop on a motorcycle who was parked giving a ticket. i waiting then, showing him my license, told him what i was trying to find. He laughed. “Don’t get many people trying to get into the lock up but, rather than confuse you more, bird dog me and I’ll lead you straight to it.” He added, “you can’t miss it,” the only time i believed anyone uttering those words. I had the presence of mind to ask for his card saying I’d drop a note to his Captain noting his courtesy to the permanently puzzled as well as lost. He laughed, swung one leg over his bike, put on his helmet, got his radio gear up, attached and we were on our way.
A couple of miles on, he flashed his red lights, waved his arm indicating that I should pull over. He was all smiles when he came to the window. “I’m a big golf fan and I watched you win at Shinnecock, those last three holes had me holding my breath.” “Me too, and I was there.”.
“Listen, I can’t walk you in but….here….are…some cards that will help. Give this one to the guy at the parking lot and he’ll let you into officer parking. Now this one will cut through a shit load of red tape once you get in. It still takes a helluva lot of time but this will help some.” I felt like I owed him something.
“Hey, officer, you, me Torrey pines? When you’ve got the time?”
“Bitchin; How do I find you?”
“The Beach and Tennis club. In La Jolla just ask for me….”
“Will do and it’ll be a real pleasure. Thanks, buddy.”
Everything he’d said and done proved to be accurate. I did get into officers parking, got into the building through their entrance but then had to join everyone else. His second card got me taken out of line, quickly pat searched, filled out a form stating I wasn’t carrying a gun, no drugs, no photography equipment, no explosive devices and finally a quick chat with some man behind a desk who ran my name through a data base. He looked up, smiled, offered his hand and his congratulations then yelled for a deputy to take me to a room and go get the prisoner.
Spike as an inmate….I was glad Nick wasn’t here to see his son, manacled, cuffed and wearing an orange jumpsuit with “Inmate” on the back in large letters. There was a glass wall between us so we had to speak on phones. An officer unlocked his wrists leaving one free to pick up the phone but recuffed the other to a steel ring on the table. Apparently he’d been a bad boy already and the staff had a way of dealing with that.
His opening conversation said lots. “Why the fuck are you here? I thought a visit from your French fag father was enough.”
“Your father asked me to come, see how you are, put some money up for you to have if there are things you can purchase…”
“How much?”
“Well, Nick, I’ll give you show and tell time.” I took a stack of bills from my pocket and put it on my side of the table. All twenties about five hundred dollars all in all. “Now, each time you piss me off, I’m going to subtract a certain amount from what you’ll get and, with your father’s permission, I may not give you anything at all.”
“You really are a shit head.l….Ya know?” I took three twenties away.
“I can get whatever I want in here without his charity. Fucking old fag.” That cost him one hundred dollars.
“You can tell me, was he really a good fuck or did you just screw him to get to him?” Only forty for that.
“Actually, he’s a great fucker, strong, willing, appreciative and a mouth like a vacuum cleaner. Ever notice he’s nicely hung? Good meaty balls? Schlong that puffs up when it’s deep in you.” To change the topic…”We’re getting an attorney to represent you, a good one….but from what I’ve read, been told, you’re dead meat speaking of things fucked over. Gotta ask, Spike, if they offered you a deal, you get your nuts and your cock cut off and your sentence is a year or two of house arrest…would you take it?”
He was just enough afraid of prison, and the long sentence he, too, knew was coming to give it a nanosecond’s consideration. “Fuck you, cocksucker, I can get more pussy in prison than on the street and won’t cost me anything either.” I wondered about the truth of that statement and felt there would be a moment when I could ask someone who would really know. Picked up another hundred.
I laughed and looked at him. “Hope your dreams come true….buddy….if not, well, as I’m plugging your Dad and actually loving him and his body, I’ll think of you…..”
He looked glazed. Well, it was his father and nothing I’d said was in any of his memory banks. Did he take my word for it?
“Sure, and he’s got five titties, six nuts and can shit and fuck at the same time.” Another C note.
“I guess I can report that you’re your same old self which is about as lousy as I can say. This is the last time I’ll ever see you Nick and for that I’m grateful. Dad and I felt that the only punishment that truly fitted you was to have all the surgeries that would turn you into a fat, ugly woman whose only attraction to men was a cunt that could seat six. If you’re lucky when you get where ever they send you, they’ll only rip off one ball. If you’re lucky and fuck what you think. Enjoy your diet of cream of cock.” I hung up my phone leaving him staring at the pile of money all of which I picked up and, for a second, I saw remorse but only for what he’d just lost.
Getting out was far easier than getting in. All I wanted to do was go home, take a shower, scrub the scum of the earth off me, find Dad and Nick, kiss both of them then tell them how much I loved them, what they meant to me. Might even kiss Frosty if he was about. By the time I finally got home, it was approaching sunset so we all moved onto the terrace to watch. It was cool so everyone was clad for that, I was tempted to ask Dad if he wanted to go for another walk in the surf but that was a spontaneous event, trying to recreate was a poor idea. Frosty got Nick up, wrapped like an Indian squaw and the four of us watched the sun turn the ocean from bright and frothy to dead black. We, ourselves, went through the spectrum finally only illuminated by a small light. I found myself laying on Nicks lap with his hand on my head, Dad pushed up close to me, even Frosty was given a hand to hold by Nick. We were four men, just for then, contented
Frosty caught the phone then waved at me. “Someone called Scott? For you.” I gave him the ‘Who?’ look and took the receiver.
Ten minutes later I was explaining to Dad that he and I were going to have to lead two foursomes of San Diego County Motorcycle cops on a round at Torrey Pines. The ‘Scott’ was the nice guy who’d given me cards to get into the jail and I’d…..given him my card and suggested, as he was a golf fan, knew I was the NCAA champion, that we get up a group and play Torrey Pines. He’d taken me seriously, just too seriously. He apologized but…said he’d mouthed off and some other guys wanted to play as well. When he finally got it all straightened out, there were six, including himself, and, to accommodate schedules, could we tee off at seven the following morning.?
“You get three and I get three. Two foursomes, they’re nice guys, they’d have to be to ride bikes and play golf so this is a big deal to them. Playing with a Champion.” I looked at my father who normally would have indulged this easily but, as the student in the family, I was used to rising at God Awful hours while he was not. I know because I slept with him.
“Maybe….we could have them here for coffee and, I don’t know, sort of a continental breakfast…..Dad, he was awfully good to me at a moment when I needed precisely what he did….and he seemed so anxious.” I paused before admitting one more thing. “Of course, I can call him back, say it doesn’t work out, try another time, he said, just now if this was in any way an inconvenience….” I’m not good at the big eyed pleading, also I’m too old for that.
Frosty off handedly asked to see the officers card.
“Sure, I’ll do it. Who knows, we may need bike officers for a cortege some day.” I kissed him but was interrupted.
“I know this guy, Scott, worked with him lots of times, really sweet guy, great officer and a helluva biker, you two will have nothing but a blast with him and whoever he’s got with him.” On occasion, his Polish accent made American Slang seem….unusual.
“You know him?”
“Sure, when I worked the ER, he was in and out all the time making sure collars were being seen then he could hand them over to street officers. Could take hours, that’s when we got tight.”
“In that case, you call him back, tell him we’d love to and to come by here before hand for coffee and juice and whatever.”
His eyes sparkled as he went off to find the phone and, after that, the sound of laughter, cursing, the general way men get reacquainted.
Nick said he wished he could go. This was a good sign as, up to now his interest in anything outside our suites was non-existent.
I wondered if there was a way and made a note to ask Frosty for his thoughts.
Sitting by Nick was something I enjoyed and, apparently, he did as well. I’d become accustomed to being quiet on a golf course even while galleries, trying to be quiet, set up a backdrop that sounded like a plague of locusts approaching crossed with Catarrh. We were playing USC once-I was sorry they hadn’t set up a course in the Coliseum, when both teams had commented to the judges that the noise was getting a bit much. That combined with the fact that we were playing at The Los Angeles Country Club which had a loud, traffic clogged Wishire Boulevard as a neighbor-and at one point, the course crossed the street on an overpass, made concentrating difficult. The word back was that if the Pros could put up with it when the US Open was played there, a bunch of stud college kids should be able to rise above it and play. (At a water fountain the Captain of the USC team said he’d knock one into the balls of one judge if I’d take out another. Of course we couldn’t shake on it…..a few holes down, and almost simultaneously, a medic had to be called as two judges suffered injuries “of an undisclosed nature”. We won, but I felt a closeness to USC and, I learned later, they did to us as well. ) It was the sort of vignette Nick liked, made him feel like the father he wasn’t. To that moment I’d never said a word about Junior, save that I’d seen him.
I needed to remember that Nick was hardly old, not yet fifty, and in fine physical shape for a man who worked a long, involving schedule. There was a small gym at the brokerage house which he owned and, until the cops had advised him not to, he’d walked several miles to and from his office. I suppose when word gets about that you’ve moved into the Billionaire club, some people will take umbrage while others might try and take a shot. I could tell he was feeling much better when he quietly placed his hand on my upper thigh and moved under my shorts for the trophy he sought.
5:30 came awfully early for Dad; I made him shower with me just to make sure he didn’t find a dogs leg and aim back to bed. Rather unfairly and unexpectedly, to him, I suddenly turned off the hot and upped the cold just to close pores and open eyes. “Merde” was his response but that told me he was up and launched into the day. To keep it casual, but remembering Torrey Pines could be covered in cold fog, we both wore V neck sweaters over Polo shirts plus some new camouflage printed golf pants, split at the bottom hem for an inch or so just to be safe, Dad being Dad, dictated that we take jackets, “just in case”. I was impressed with the pants, told him so and learned they were from a designer in Milan who, thoughtfully, had made the crotches on the pairs we were wearing, a bit more exposing of what lay underneath. I mentioned that these were cops, not guys on the make. His response was that they were men, surely they liked to get out of uniform and into something different.
Bless Frosty and the Club’s kitchen;’ We had enough coffee for twelve as well as fine looking pastries, juices, a good spread for that early. Almost by design the whole troop arrived at once, all smiles, greetings, names, really looking forward to this, great of us to let them play. I tried to remember six names and place them with faces as the only one I’d seen was Scott and he’d been in uniform behind sunglasses and a helmet. I suddenly understood why people at group events wore ugly badges that said, “Hello! My Name is….”, Up front I apologized knowing that I wouldn’t get them all sorted out until the 17th green so, if they didn’t mind, I’d stick with “Officer in the blue shirt”. Laughter, fine with them.
A head count proved I was short an officer, realized it was Scott then figured he and Frosty were having their own moment of reunion. I wondered if, in all those nights in the ER they’d become closer than the “tight” Frosty mentioned. If so, fine, I liked Scott from the moment he led me to jail and, of course, Frosty was almost one of the family. Indeed I had every intention of taking him with us when we went home even if Nick no longer needed that level of care. That was for later.
One thing I did know was that tee times are sacred and to miss yours can cause havoc not to mention being delayed in teeing off. Torrey Pines was not only a public course, but a well known one and, even now in early winter, would attract golfing snow birds. To that end I began the round up, got our bags, Scott and we all headed for the parking lot. To haul all the equipment for eight men, someone had “borrowed” a step van from the San Diego Sheriff’s department which was plainly decorated as a police vehicle. If I’d wanted to keep this low keep, not really noticeable, that idea was lost to flight and song. Two of the guys were married so they had station wagons leaving the rest of us to pair up in a variety of trucks and small cars. I rode with Scott in his Ford 150, Dad was with Officer Somebody in his snazzy Corvette that must have been a hit on his salary. Still, all the guys looked sharp, almost young and eager to get out and play,. Twenty minutes later we were making the turn for the golf course and, half andhour after that, we were set to tee off. Dad and his three went first followed, tournament style, by Scott, me and one called, maybe, Juan and the other was Don. I think.
It was fun playing with the guys as they knew they weren’t particularly good, but the camaraderie, being with their own breed when nothing was required but to have a good time…that was a release. I could tell from the first tee that this was going to be a longer game than I’d planned; Teeing off took three of them on a guided tour of the first fairway, rough and into the trees looking for balls. The fog was no help in that a white ball into semi-white fog just….disappears. Sometimes you hear it drop, sometimes you hear leaves being torn from branches as it whizzes through them or, more often, nothing. Where I could easily stroke it out over two hundred yards, max for them was, if they were lucky, just over half that. By the third hole members of both foursomes were calling back and forth trying to determine if the ball they’d found, tho not theirs, belonged to another in one of the groups. I could see Dad, vaguely, leaning on a club while his guys scattered throughout the course. Even in the tendrils of fog and sunlight he looked handsome, so handsome….
There were a series of popping noises, someone yelled, “Shots fired”, I felt a terrific pain in my shoulder then my thigh. I fell to the ground, I could hear gun fire, lots of gun fire then what seemed to be a machine gun the rattatattattat…
Somewhere I swam into consciousness, bright lights, my clothes being cut from me….blood on a hand that I raised, noise, confusion, the metal clank of instruments, a kaleidoscope of noise and oh my God the agonizing pain….a face, not smiling, looking at me, a pinch in my arm and the release from pain to sleep.
It seemed like the room Nick had been in at Scripps. Same view of the ocean, same paint on the walls….but no one I knew, where was Dad? I called for him then screamed for him: heard someone burst into tears. Sleep.
Nick, Frosty are there. And Scott some one of the other guys but…they look wrong, grim faced, some torn bloody clothes, one officer has a dressing on his arm. Nick is holding my hand but he’s been crying. Where’s Dad? I tried to be angry, demand my father but someone with a syringe stuck it in something and I went away.
Later, or I guess it was. It’s dark out. Frosty is there, Nick is there seated in a comfortable recliner, but why is he wearing sunglasses? Why is everything backwards? What’s wrong with me? A man in a uniform comes in, not like the uniforms of the guys on bikes, this is a suit with flashes, braid, gold buttons, a large badge. He looks somber.
“Has he been told?”
“No, Sir. We thought….”
The man looks at me, leans over, says, “Son, I have to tell you your Dad was shot when you were out at Torrey Pines.” I stare at him, translate what he said into French and then back. “You and our men were attacked by a bunch of drug dealers who had been told you or your father had a stash of drugs in your golf bags….we shot two of them, the other two are in jail.”
I just look at him. Nick stands up, comes to me, holds my head in his hands. “Son, I’m so fucking sorry. It was my son’s fault. I should be hanged for what he did, hanged, killed for what he did to you.” He was suddenly unstable and an officer in regular uniform helped him back in the chair. I thought I should ask, but what?
“Am I alright?”. He looks like someone who’s been thrown a lifeline, this is a question he can and will answer, “Son, they messed up your shoulder and collapsed one lung, got you in the thigh, splintered a bone but….surgery has you fixed up…you’ll be fine, son, just fine.” He was being professional. Why I did it, habit, good training, I thanked him, put out the hand that seemed to work and shook his hand. Thanked him then closed my eyes.
Days later I was in a hospital bed at the Beach Club. Frosty was being Frosty which is to say taking good care of me. Nick sat by my bed almost constantly and no longer said anything, just stared at me or the ocean. Other than the movement of air there seemed to be no sound. I kept looking for Dad though I knew he wasn’t around, never would be again.
My motorcyclists had all dropped by more than once, particularly Scott. I finally figured out that, apparently, he’d taken some private time and was staying near me to do whatever but there was nothing. I would recover, whether I could play golf at the level I had was something yet to discover. The University had sent messages, the golf team had sent messages, called but all calls were handled by others. Reporters had wanted to speak to me but they had been blocked by the cops or their buddies on the force. We’d made the national news but I didn’t watch or read the papers. All I had to do was get well. Whatever that meant.
The first time the physical therapist arrived, his stated goal was to get me out of bed and standing upright. That was his idea. I’m no slouch when it comes to pain but I’d never had anything like this, even the time a flock of bees took umbrage at having their hive knocked down by a golf ball then attacked the golfers….everyone. The team, the coaches, the gallery. amazing little fuckers, the panic and horror they suddenly inspired was far greater than any cinematic thrills designed to make you panic and shocked with horror. The bees would have been welcome if only to offset the agony, particularly in my leg.
His name was Diego, “call me Dago” and had previously been involved in body building up to and winning titles for his symmetry, the last of which was Senor Tia Juana. A good instinct suggested to him that keeping his body shaved, oiled and packed full of steroids didn’t add up to a full time career once he passed his days in a posing strap and a big smile,. Well, the smile remained. He’d converted symmetry in physique to the sorts of muscles that could and did help others. Nor was that his only accomplishment; Speaking only fragmentary English he enrolled at USC (How was a story I really wanted to hear.) learned Engish and, after eight years, got his Masters in Physical Therapy. As he said, along the road to that, he’d done what every other Spic (his word) did in California, he worked for a commercial lawn service and, to add another arrow to his growing list of accomplishments, was a talented landscape….architect. Just one with no degree and the only credentials being the enthusiastic reports of his clients. Which brought us to today and his determination that I would get out of bed and stand upright. My reward for doing this came from Frosty who was sitting on the end of my bed as fascinated as was I by the tale we were hearing; “Get up, stand up and stay up and I’ll blow you.” Dago didn’t blink an eye nor did I. “You’re on” and remembering something from a long time ago, “Double or nothing:”
Dago faced some challenges that were more technical than philosophical;’ I’d been severely wounded but on opposing sides. It was almost impossible for me to balance but I tried. And succeeded. While there and standing, I whistled Frosty over, said to pay up and the double, I looked at Dago, turned Frosty to him, he was the miracle worker so this suck job goes to him. He’s going to earn it. Did anyone register surprize, shock, astonishment? No. Frosty made mine a quickie and, for my viewing pleasure, ate Dago starting with a good nut wash and moved North. Gotta hand it to him, he went through climax standing even if his eyes almost crossed with pleasure. Beyond that interlude, everything else was more in the realm of assessment as to what needed to be done, what he would do and then….we’d see where we were. It was a clever evasion that dropped the issue of what results I might expect. Frosty offered to show him out but forgot I did still have one good side which I used to pop him on his magnificent butt saying, “I would imagine he can find his way back to town, Alone,” Frosty flashed me a mischievous grin as well as giving me the finger.
That was the day I really did as they say, “turned the corner” and started down the yellow brick road to getting….better? Well?
One visitor was a genuine surprise as I’d forgot about our brief moment of conspiracy and that was Bryan, the team Captain from USC.
This was more than a social call as he came with an offer from USC, and their Medical School, to see if I’d like to transfer to Los Angeles and their virtually vertical campus. No mention was made of golf, though that was probably the genesis for all this. They did have a very fine school of medicine, something my school did not, could easily take care of whatever I’d need in the future and, he hoped I wouldn’t be embarrassed, a full ride scholarship. Nick who seemed always to be in some quiet shaded corner pointed out that as far as finance was concerned, he’d prefer to see the Scholarship go to someone who did need it as I did not. Absolutely….and a question….How was Bryan paying for his education? Captain of the Golf team, full ride? I hadn’t seen anyone drop their head in embarrassment and blush in a very long time.
Helluva nice guy, worked like fury to keep his grades at nearly perfect, worked at-the long arm of coincidence-landscaping for after school, he planned on going into agronomy, one of the pillars, if less known, of golf. I looked at Nick who quietly put his thumb in the air. Bryan just got a sort of home made scholarship, plus some spending money for shoes, balls, clubs, whatever he might need. He left us in a state of shock to the extent I was tempted to call one of the motorcycle officers to follow him, at least to the Orange County line. I was left with my good hand in the air prepared to shake his but…..and I understood….good shocks are somewhat like bad shocks, they interfere with your thought processing and cancel your agenda immediately.
It was time for me to hear about the day, the shooting, all the information I did not know. Whether Scott volunteered or not…it didn’t matter. He’d been there, standing by me and had watched the whole event there, elsewhere and now it was time to tell me.
I’d noticed Nick distraught, something about his son, responsibility, but that was at a time when pain suppressant did more than just suppress pain, it scrambled my brain and deprived me of cogent thought for some little time. That was now over, it was just the two of us and the facts as well as the truth. Seems young Spike through jail house connections made it known that he’d left a very large stash of cocaine in both our golf bags. That there was no time he could have done this didn’t matter to the listener. What they knew was while he’d been up the coast theoretically SCUBA diving, which he may have done, he was setting up a drug deal to get a large amount and stow it on his father’s plane to be sold thousands of miles away at a tidy profit. He didn’t make a very good criminal and he fucked himself up when he attacked his father. Still in his neoprene suit, a true surfer would have peeled out of it, the cops had found more than enough drugs to quickly get him several felony charges. Why he concocted the story about putting the dope in our golf bags was almost as dumb as every other thing he did; If he was going down, he was going down as a stud dealer, not some street corner hustler. It took no time for him to find someone in jail with him who got the word out. We made it almost too easy when we hit a foggy Torrey Pines course with players who were all over the place trying to find their balls. They’d been shadowing us from golf carts, everyone looking like a tourist come to play. Naturally no one caught it until the shooting started. I was closest so I took the first bullets but Scott was with me and got me down, even being grazed himself.
Spike had further loaded the problem by not saying which of us had the most “goods” so just take both bags, They hadn’t planned on our partners being cops and the only delay there was each officer had to get to his bag and pull out his gun. Scott was providing cover from where we were but….they got Dad in the head the first time. All he said was that….he was almost decapitated by a hollow point so could not have suffered. I suppose that was comforting.
It was falling apart from then on, two of theirs were dropped straight away, one was hit but with his buddy got away but only for a few minutes. After that, squad cars full of officers, EMS, the coroner who pronounced Dad dead at the scene but the thrust was to get me to an ER as I was losing a lot of blood until the guys from EMS got some of it stopped. After that….it was clean up. The two they got were put in body bags, as was my father and all were taken away to the morgue. He stopped, looked at me, tried to hold me but I resisted, I’d faced it now I didn’t need sympathy, I needed to recover.
There weren’t things I wanted, when it came to possessions I could have what I wanted when I wanted. If I ran short, Nick would pick up the slack but that had never happened. All his careful investing had me, as the sole heir, a very wealthy young man. Banged up just now but improving, every day, improving. I drove Dago as hard as I drove myself. The largest issue was walking and the best place for that was the beach. Bare foot, it provided resistance which forced me to work harder, occasionally, with Dago yelling not to, going into the cold water and swimming a bit. As I said, he was hard on me and after a stunt like that would pound me a good one on the side that was available to be swatted. The only thing I didn’t have was my Dad and that was a depth I wasn’t sure I would ever fill. For almost twenty years we’d been every thing to each other and now there was no one who provided me with what he had. Nick was great, often would pull me over and have me lean on his shoulder or put my head in his lap, he knew not to try to be a father but…we had a history that included, now, an amazing number of things ranging from sex to murder, not many people could say that.
Privately Nick and I were planning on leaving La Jolla and the Beach Club, nice as they both were. What we weren’t going to do was go alone as we both planned on taking Frosty, Scott and Dago with us. That we hadn’t bothered to determine whether they were in line with that plan was of no consequence to us, we weren’t the sort of men to whom things were denied simply because someone else didn’t agree. Also, I was certain that in every way saving I’d not been told, Frosty and Scott were 99% of a couple. Did they know it? In a sense but I doubt that it was discussed at least not directly.
It was also around this time that I developed a hard edge, one that took no shit and could be sharp with those not familiar to me. I trusted no one who wasn’t part of our inner circle, even Bryan from USC mentioned that on one of his frequent visits that I didn’t seem quite…..like me. Well, hell, who would? Tho that’s not what I said to him. There was one thing I wanted and couldn’t get, at least not right away and that was to more that even the score with Spike/Nick Jr. In some tortuously worded conversation with Sammy, my guy who was doing 25 to life on a murder one charge, I carefully asked that he put something in the pipeline that would, finally, convey to Spike the idea that he fucked up and it was now time to pay up. Sammy and I had been good friends-he’d helped Dad hustle suckers when I first started winning. Ten years older than me, he and Dad had an interesting relationship that, I often thought, had a sexual quotient but I hardly concerned myself. Dad had provided him with expensive, designer clothing from Europe, signed for loans for a car he wanted, and, of course, his loyalty to our family was unquestioned. The murder thing? He was overcharged though he did kill the guy. Once he’d grasped about Dad and Torrey Pines, I’d sent him some articles about the event so he was…..motivated.
To get me out of the house, and out of the state, I took Scott and Dago then flew to the prison where Sammy was doing his time. Overwhelmingly glad to see me, even Scott though he was a cop, we could get closer physically and I could tell Sammy more specifically what had happened not only that day but many other days with Spike. Having Scott was an inspiration as he could explain to him just how cold blooded it had all been, how Spike was absolutely responsible-there were jail house tapes as well as jail house snitches who screwed him to the wall in terms of ring leader. Well, he always wanted to make it big at something and now he had. I told Sammy exactly what I wanted for Spike making it clear that it should happen over years….he was nodding his head. Violence, pain, blood, I had no compunction but I did have money should that be necessary. Sammy looked at me and smiled a mean smile. “Ever shot anyone?” Of course I hadn’t. “Ask the officer how it feels when you get your first man, particularly if he deserves it.” He looked right at Scott. “You’re gonna see he gets a man, at least his first one. Do we understand each other, officer, Do we.?”
Scott had been looking down but rolled his head and eyes up until they were even with Sammy. “I remember my first man…..Some people just deserve to get their first man, don’t ya think Sammy?”
They looked at each other and the topic was dropped. Apart from gossip, we stayed away from the murder, it was good to see Sammy, just not good to see him where he was. I made arrangements for him to have the max he was allowed as to canteen money, spending money and whatever else could be bought. As we rose, we shook hands and he drove the nail on his index finger into my wrist. Nothing more to say, we left.
Scott spotted the bruise and said nothing other than he’d expected something like that and, like it or not, I now had a whole group of new ‘friends’. On the flight back I tried to get him to explain further but all he would say was that when I needed to know, I would. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until we landed and we were driving back to the Beach Club. So much so that I passed out.
Whether it was stress, worry, memories of Dad….I needed the world to stop and leave me behind for a time. Nick realized that what I needed was to be away from La Jolla, the Beach Club, California and back home. While I might have wondered how to corral Frosty, Dago and Scott into coming back with us, Nick put it on a cash basis which guaranteed results, it also required a bigger plane but that was no problem. Nick found a really comfortable Boeing Bizjet, which was actually a small 737 with Intercontinental range. It was comfortable so much so he bought it then wet leased it when he wasn’t using it which was most of the time.
I was healing but it was a slow process. Dago was adding Range of Motion to getting me loosened up from the shots. It was slow going but he was as determined as anyone could have been so slowly I came around. More X-rays to check on bones not broken but shattered were now knitting. No one mentioned golf so I didn’t ask though I felt I knew what the answer might be. Under any circumstances I couldn’t attend school ergo not play on the team though I was name Honorary Captain. I really appreciated the gesture….but for whatever reason, it reminded me of Dad but then, most things, now that we were home, did.
I moved to Nick’s house, sold mine-being in it and with memories was more than I wanted to try and overcome. Nick arranged the sale for far more than I might have got so that money was added to what I already had. One purpose for it was to retain a firm of criminal attorneys and set them to the impossible task of freeing Sammy or get his sentence reduced, anything. They promised nothing but said if there was any movement, they’d let me know.
There was happy news. Frosty and Scott came to Nick to announce they were officially a pair, mated, partners. They had been afraid to tell me as it might have seemed disloyal. That left Dago unattached which bothered me only because he was in a house full of men all of whom had someone, another man, as a companion and he….did not. I mentioned this to him and he laughed, said getting me well and playing was his mistress at the moment and a hard cocksucker she was proving to be. There were so many reasons, not discussed, I was grateful to him, not the least of which was his tacit assumption that I would be well and socking a golf ball three hundred yards down the fairway. He made me believe him tho I would not have admitted it.
Nick was now unwired and found he had a lot to say much of it to me concerning the future, our future, just the future in general. I was sleeping in his bed although we both had to be awfully careful not to mash some spots on me that were beyond tender. I mentioned to Dago that it was odd to sleep in a bed with a man with whom I’d previously had a sexual relationship but nothing now. In short, I was horny. That wasn’t a problem, at least in the short run; He had been working on ROM with me sitting on the edge of a bad, naked as usual, so he leaned in and blew me. With my cum running down his lip he looked up, smiled and said he hoped that would help. For the moment.
Why did that surprise me? I’d never thought about Dago and what his sexual preferences might be. All that body building, oiling up, getting other guys to shave his whole body, his doing the same for them, parading around in two cocktail napkins joined at the perineum…Gay was an easily drawn conclusion but, I’m not the son of a thrifty, pensive French man, I didn’t complete conclude it, just held it as a strong possibility. When he talked about himself it was generally to tell an amusing story about his lack of English and some mess it got him into or things at school, where he was much older and, clearly, did not look like the typical student. As he explained, that was during the time he was still working out a bit so finding him in a class probably allowed most instructors to think here was another problem, courtesy the football team. Didn’t take long to trash that notion and find him a good an amiable student who could, if necessary, gain order quickly and efficiently. Polite, almost courtly, he charmed the female staff and his raw sports ability got the men. So what was he? Whom did he prefer? Who cared.
Life at home had a settling quality on all of us, even the trio of Californians, some of whom were seeing their first snow. Frosty and Scott had found a nice apartment just off the property, Dago lived in as did several household staff, or at least lived there occasionally. We were still fighting the press who, turning a bit vicious, were having problems as to why I’d never issued a statement about the event. I had put one out saying that my father was a dreadful loss to me personally and many others both in the United States and France. That hotted up Agence France Presse who for weeks called to speak to me but, because we could all read caller ID always got Dago who used a vulgar Spanish that they didn’t understand. Or maybe they did. Just to learn something I didn’t know, I had him teach some of it to me and, in return, I improved his street knowledge of French in a way the Academe Francais would not have approved. C’est La Merde.
My former team asked me, as honorary captain, to go to Nationals with them. Even banged up I was the Champion and would be until the next man took my place. I thought of Bryan and USC, hoped maybe it could be him but found, with his new scholarship, he had left the team to pursue his academics. If nothing else, I was sorry not to see him.
I probably shouldn’t have gone in that I exposed myself to the media and their too personal questions about how it felt to see your father’s head shot off. That comment got heard and resented by some men who were also players for the Pittsburgh Steelers. They took it poorly and, beyond setting up a cordon around me, assisted by a couple of off duty cops who also found it repugnant, until the end of the day. We didn’t stay for the finals-Houston won-or the elevation of one player to be the new Champion; It was almost a relief. In a sense I felt guilty about not staying to congratulate him and the team from Houston but I’d been spooked by the media and golf courses are too exposed, too available….whether it was for gun men or the press.
Nick was seriously worried, or so I was to find out, at my silent retreat into nothingness except trying to get well. At night he’d talk to me, tell me how important I was to him, to all the people around us, that I was worrying them. On those nights I rolled on my side and had him butt fuck me until I cried from pleasure and he bred me and bred me and bred me. Calling me son as he did meant a lot to me, it represented stability with a man I loved almost like a father, just….not my father. When he’d exhausted himself we’d cuddle for a bit until he drifted off to sleep and I….waited and, naked, wandered through his very large estate. Finally I’d find a big chair that faced away from the room, slump into it and cry until I went to sleep. Frosty, who was the early riser, was the one who most often found me and, without saying anything to me, spoke to Nick who spoke to Dago who said nothing in return.
It was also Dago who, after several months, started what I thought was a casual conversation but soon turned to what he thought my future might be vis a vis golf and mobility in general. There were significant problems in trunk rotation and one shoulder, while it would steadily improve, was questionable as to whether it would improve enough to play the high level tournament golf I was used to. I thought he was going to cry as he tried to be calm, specific and direct…but when you’ve worked on your body as I had over the years-he could understand this from his body building days-you instinctively know what is, what isn’t and…what will never come back to what it was. One other problem was that….he doubted I could ever do surgery and, he knew, the last thing I wanted was to be a general practitioner who listened to endless stupid people whose main problem was….boredom. At the end he said we’d take several more months when he might have clearer picture but, now, he wanted me to understand so that I wouldn’t create an artificial situation that could never be. He promised he’d do everything he could…and I knew that.
That night in bed I told Nick what Dago had said adding that it was about what I expected. After all, I’d seen surgeons here and while they weren’t as negative, neither were they overly optimistic. They, too, said effectively what Dago said, give it some time and we’ll see where we are; A common surgical evasion to questions. And then they’d discuss golf with me. I put my head on his chest, listened to his regular heart beat, wound my fingers through his hair as it led to his crotch while my other hand played with his nipple. Was I leading him on? Certainly.
“Do you want to try for something a bit more than sleep? It’s been a while and I’ve missed my Dad’s poker up my ass….”
“What did the Doctor say about your upper thigh? Did he clear it…”
“Dad, I’m not going to fuck the doctor, I want you to fuck me, slowly and if it doesn’t work out, well, there are other things. I don’t think your jaw is ready but mine is, always had been. We can;’t lay here and not want each other, no one would believe that. Are there some obstacles? Yes but it’s time to find out what they are….:” I ran my hand along his rapidly stiffening rod and smiled to myself. No more conversation, I slid down, took his nuts in one hand, the head of his cock in my mouth and settled in for a long, satisfying suck. The next morning found us in better spirits.
Six months went by. To fill the time I wasn’t with Dago, I’d be at Dad’s office learning the mechanics of the brokerage business. Truthfully, while it was moderately interesting, it wasn’t a career I would ever choose so his teaching me was more, this wasn’t said, about how to manage his enormous estate when he died. Having lost one father, the thought of losing another was chilling, often made me leave the office to find the gym and just…do something. Nick had bought Dago his own Physical Therapy business which was doing well for a start up. It came with a professional gym, a lap pool, good locker room, showers, a lot of amenities that only money could and did buy. He once commented that being away from Mexico took the “spic” out of him in the eyes of others and he was now Hispanic. I looked at him. He looked at me and said, “I think that’s polite for ‘Spic’ around here.”. He’d set out a series of exercises, weightlifting and, one I hadn’t expected to like but did, gymnastics. Even at 20 I would have been considered too old as well as too tall but the exercise was great and, without my noticing it, my body began to change. It had always been good, at least good for what I did. Flat bellied, broad shoulders, arms that until now did not display the actual strength golf takes. Now they added some bulk as did my calves and thighs. The only thing I noticed was that buying clothes to accommodate the changes was puzzling in that some things went up and out while others went in and down. My waist was now below 32 but my chest was wandering toward 50 inches. Dago said I looked like I was cut from the bodybuilder mold save I was really flexible. Dago said he was working on his successor to being the next Senor Tia Juana. I laughed but got hooked on seeing what I could do with my body. Given that there was already a great physique, all Dago had to do was add some lifting, the cross training and the gymnastics. One day, in the locker room, he tossed me a scrap of material and told me to put it on then look at the mirror. Even with no posing, no pumping of muscles, it was a body to contend with. One last thing, a specialty of his, street fighting. Or fighting dirty. The two of us went at it until we’d ripped our togs off and it was time for the sexual release from hard, physical work; We fucked each other.
Things hurt, sometimes quite a lot but there was no question I was beyond just improving, I was wholly improved. Nick said it was like having a new man in bed with him although the old parts of which he was fond were still there. Nothing much Dago could do about those.
One day for no reason I was at the club and remembered my father and I both had lockers there, neither of which had probably been opened for a very long time-just hoped there hadn’t been anything dirty that would have degraded by now. For that, I hadn’t been at the club, dues were paid, I got the circulars, addressed to my late father, announcing a dance, the opening of the pool, a new indoor tennis complex etc. All these had been tossed out. There were lingering memories, some of my best memories were there when I was younger, when I had a Father who spoke French….so I just hadn’t gone by but this day I did.
What I had not planned on was the hush that came over the mens’ grill when I came in and followed me to the locker room. I sat where I’d always sat, opened the locks and suddenly I couldn’t go further. Behind those two wooden doors lay the only remnants that hadn’t been dealt with and now….I opened mine first. An avalanche of cards from well meaning people who didn’t want to bother me but did want me to know how sorry, how horrified, how while they could not empathize with my suffering, they knew I was. And so forth. As best I could I tried to organize them neatly so that I could box or bag them up and take them home. That left the locker next to mine, the one with the flag of France on it. I knew there were men about me, many of whom I knew, who were trying to act as if my being there was an everyday occurrence when we all knew it wasn’t.
Papa’s locker was empty save for his things that he’d left there the last time he’d played. No cards, no nothing, just whatever he’d left, things a man would leave in a locker, packaged golf balls, spikes, gloves, a picture of the two of us in the shower, detritus that he had simply allowed to accumulate with the intention of doing something ‘when he got around to it’. Normal. Nothing that really said “Dad” to me, nothing excessively personal. Just an open door on a locker, could have been anyone’s locker even I had trouble accepting that it was the property of a man I’d loved and now….like his spikes, not really good for anything but walking on turf. I closed the door and just sat there, trying to think what to do about the mess that had cascaded out which represented the love and affection for me as well as for him.
Was there a cloud in that room? Did people appear from it? Spectral forms and voices and one of them proved to be Jerry who said nothing, just sat down and put his arm around my shoulder.
“You need to break the spell, get out there, play, I’ll grab a coupla guys and we won’t even start on the first tee, just find a good looking tee and start from there. Francois, you need to do this…not for him, for you….”
Slowly I got up, reached in, took my father’s spikes, looked at Jerry and said, “You’re on, double or nothing.”
My clubs one set of them, had been stored so apart from not quite being dressed for it, I was ready to play, Now we would find IF Dago’s work had really had any results. Jerry got a cart plus Phil and Darren, whom I knew but not well enough to have any memory association from the past. And so we walked to the first tee, I was given the honor, put my tee in, ball on it, pulled a three wood, did some quick bending and stretching-not to many stretches-finally put my club on the ground, my eye on the ball, wound up and made a good flowing rotation and…missed the ball entirely. We all fell out with laughter, it was the perfect thing to have happen. Since the ball was still on the tee, I started over, this time caught it perfectly and out it went on a long, straight shot, over two hundred yards.
Jerry said, “Gentlemen, start preparing to lose again.”
I played the full eighteen with diminishing ability. By eighteen, I was back to being an above average club player but I’d proved that I could play golf. As I once had? No. That was to be seen IF I cared to find out. Back in the locker room, sat by my locker, my usual jock and nothing else. Men wandered by, shook my hand, glad to see me, wondered about a game “when I felt like it”, nice people, trying to find the wedge between condolences and expressing both sorrow and genuine pleasure in seeing me. Jerry plunked down where Dad would have been, wrapped in a towel-he’d lost some weight, shaped up a bit, looked good on him. “When would you like to play again?”
He held up some of the many cards…”Use a couple of games to acknowledge them without, you know, having to say the words.” I thought about that.
“Jerry, remember a while back, you went for double or nothing? I still owe you both of them and I’m concealing a ready to pop balloon full of gizz. The only question is…where do you want it?” To say he looked stunned is understatement. “Still got the cabin cruiser?” His head bobbled in what I took to be a positive response. “Grab whatever you need for a weekend on the lake,. I’ll see you there in a coupla hours.” Pushing all the snow drift of paper back into my locker I closed mine then the one next to me, got dressed and left. I was right, I was ready for some man sex and Jerry would do nicely. Only stopped once at the house, told Nick I’d played, we’d talk about it later and that I was going on a poker cruise with Jerry. It all sounded possible, was pleased to see me get out, be with some of the men I knew, maybe have some fun……momentarily forget…..and remembered something I’d learned courtesy Sammy. Something I needed to know.
I packed a duffel bag, not much I’d really need, added some things I’d had made for….someone else…..my illegally owned Smith and Wesson as well as a rifle and ammo, clothes, special toys….and was out the door.
Lake Howbert was no more attractive than the last time I’d seen it, maybe a bit muddier but that was hard to tell. Jerry was almost dancing with excitement-or he really needed to take a leak-at the end of the pier where his ostentatious boat floated in who knew how few feet of water. Good thing he had a depth finder, that would get us out and away from the marina. There were inlets accessible to anyone due to the silt but you had to watch your depth finder like NORAD looking for incoming so you could find a spot that was several miles away from anyone, anchor, or just run up on a mud bank, and park. One needn’t worry about passing anything save birds and, infrequently, wave riders but even those had been known to find a mound of silt that hadn’t been there yesterday so they stayed closer in. For reasons of safety I’d piloted the craft-Jerry had proved he had no ability and the fact that he hadn’t sunk it before now was a matter of public amazement. Sitting in the forward wheel area in a minimal jock, I was ready for whatever came along. A quick swim, a quick fuck….whatever he felt should be on the menu. On my way to semi-nudity in the wheel house I’d dropped my duffel In what I knew to be the owner’s cabin; Wondered if Jerry would paw through it to see what I’d brought for my amusement and his, well, those things that would be applied to him. Knowing this and after I’d opened it and laid it on the bunk, I’d set a rat trap for anyone for anyone who put there hands where they shouldn’t belong.
Jerry showed up wearing a micro Speedo and rubbing his right hand. It took no deep thought to know when he finally removed the hand doing the rubbing, there’d be a nice straight mark that, as all bruises do, would turn colours but also be a dead give away as to what he’d done. I said nothing, dimmed the few lights where we were, told him to go drop anchor as we were wherever we were going. In some places throwing out the anchor can be something of an occasion as the chain comes up from the locker, scoots over the edge and follows the anchor wherever it’s going. Here it’s going about three feet and there was a vaguely nauseous sound like a toilet considering being plugged as the anchor went into the mud. One thing, it would stay there, no chance of it hooking on an abandoned car or old refrigerator that had been tossed in to dispose of and then, concealed in the water, became traps for anchors and hooks.
Why he’d even bought this monstrosity is beyond me. He knew, as everyone did, that the lake for which it was destined was wholly inappropriate. Having a bit on insight into Jerry, I could think of two reasons he’d acquired it; It was an amazing bargain or he took it over in payment of some debt, either way, he now had an eighty five foot cabin cruiser on a lake where even a short draft sail boat was considered about all one needed. Plus, of course, the wave riders and he had two of those hanging like life rafts to be lowered when he wanted to run about, something his cruiser couldn’t do. The name of this boat in too little water? “The Nineteenth Hole”. Well, it was better than a guy in Honolulu who called his yacht “The Wet Dream”.
Something you generally didn’t do in a lake but, as night came on, a series of lights were turned on pointed at the water. They at once served as running lights but more importantly kept watch on the muddy side of the channel you’d found to park in. Didn’t take much for them to move and trap you and, a boat like Jerry’s, how you’d get it out…..?
“How about a muddy?” This was actually kind of fun. You jumped over the side aiming for the mud, rolled around, got well covered and then in the very clear water between the mud and the boat could get completely shed of mud. It was a nice way to get prudes naked tho of course neither Jerry nor I were prudes. There was a diving board on the level above which added to the splat and the sinking into the gooey mess. Fun, actually but you needed someone standing by with a rope in the off chance you went in a bit too deep, a rope, and a blunted grappling hook could get you out. And, again, the very clear water between the side of the boar and the mud provided a great place to swim.
“it’s a beaut, isn’t she. All eighty five feet….isn’t much you can’t do on her.” He made a move to my crotch which I offset. “No, Jerry, Christ, don’t you know anything about groping the Captain? You don’t until the wheel’s tied down and he’s sure they’ll be no midnight drift if a wind comes up.” He knew none of this but he needed to have someone on board who knew did. These sun drenched, shallow depth lakes could take an unpleasant turn in the night if an approaching storm had an strong gust front which could tear the anchor from it’s very unstable mooring. Before Jerry got to the area where I was I’d unplugged the radios, leaving only the running lights on to prevent a crash although why anyone save a warder would be out here….
I tied down the wheel, a move which confused him, turned and walked toward the Master Suite with the Master, a term open to transference.
Jerry was in a lounge that featured a long, curved bar, some semi-dirty pictures of men doing whatever on the walls not to mention every coat hook I’d seen was made like a mans cock. With low hanging balls. No decorator ever had a hand in that. I thought of Aristotle Onassis who had the seats at his bar covered in whale foreskins. A quick guess was that Jerry had to limit his guests to men who he had some sort of sexual relationship with, probably paid for, or guys who felt it would be good to have him as a buddy and overlooked some of the shit that might have inwardly disgusted them. My late father had been on board a couple of times and came home with descriptions, in French and English, that were hard to believe until one saw it for themselves. He made it clear that Jerry had made it clear he wanted him, and badly, there was no possible way that would happen. To bring the stench of that man to his magnificent son? Non.
“Drink?”
“No thanks, I’m not much on alcohol, always tastes like cleaning fluid.”
He forced a laugh as the stepped behind the bar, got a glass, ice and filled most of it with something, probably whiskey or bourbon. Splash of water…:”Sure I can’t make you a house special?”
“What would that be?”
“Well, first I’d have to suck up the milk to make one….sure you aren’t game? I’m a good milker.”
“Then get over here, get down there, on the floor, get me still and go to work. I’ll give you a special but you’re gonna have to work for it and, remember, this is just a casual suck between friends, nothing serious, only a welcome aboard sorta suck.”
He looked a little taken aback. He wasn’t used to me seeming to call the shots but it was early. I looked at him.
“Isn’t this what you want? Hot hunk? All weekend? Doing whatever we want, so what we do is fair game….isn’t that why I’m here?”
I put one elbow on the back of a sofa causing a bicep to flex while, leaning back, showed the plate stomach that held the hard six pack above the carefully trimmed bush over the long cock and over the large, ovoid balls in a sack almost too small. “Well, Jerry? What’s your pleasure?”
“Oh, jeez, mother fuck, all of it, you in me, breed me, fuck me, whatever, yeah, a weekend, no holds barred….”
“Then get it stiff and get started then we’ll see what’s next we’d both enjoy…..”
Jerry was easier than a putt made from one inch out. I could have suggested anything from castrating him to drowning him while he came and he’d have been for it. Easiest was first and since it more or less was the “reason” I was there, told him to get on all fours and I’d take my time giving him a good, deep fuck. He was instantly up, or should I say down for that, on the floor, his ass waving like an alien flower ready to be plucked and identified. I wanted him dry so only worked my cock head around his gaping hole, made more so as he was pulling it apart, then went straight in. All the way. I could touch bottom with my engorging head. The surprise caused him to remove his hands, his chute clamped shut and I was held a temporary prisoner. Took only one good swat to relax him so that I could start the vicious, hard strokes that bashed his prostate and scraped his soft, inner tissues as I levered him.
He was moaning about my shooting in him, but that was not to be. I’d learned lots and one of the first things I’d been taught was how to hold in my own cum until I was ready for it. As he was about to find out.
I withdrew so suddenly there was an audible ‘pop’ while his back door seemingly hung ajar trying to figure out where the horse cock had gone. He was rolled on his back, arms and legs akimbo with no direction as to what they should do next; The answer was nothing. I was on my hands and knees, dangling my cock over his mouth. I didn’t ask, just lowered myself until he had to take the meat stick and let it go as far into his mouth as I wanted it to. “Suck….and keep sucking til I tell you to stop. Go.”
He was anxious to please and even more anxious to feel the veins on the side of my cock as they pulsed slightly keeping me nicely hard.
As lousy at sex as he was at golf, I couldn’t decide whether it was from lack of experience or just plain stupidity. To my certain knowledge he wasn’t balling many other guys, just a couple of the caddies and a waiter from the formal dining room. I wasn’t in a position to get a quality statement from them but knowing they’d been paid, they were probably indifferent to his style and technique. And I use those words, when applied to him, only as frames of reference, not with any commentary behind them.
“Stop!! Okay, skipper, that’s enough for now, don’t want to spring your jaw now do we.” He looked as if he knew I’d loved it, looked forward to more and whatever else was being considered. I knew he had a list, but would he get to do all of it? His tea leaves were looking cloudy, over spread with tea bags.
Keeping it light…”Hey, how about lighting up the fire pit on the fan tail, roast some nuts and some steaks, have a real guys dinner, booze and meat.”
“Got some great prime KC strips, you eat two apiece?”
“Sure like to try. You?”
“Till I bust, Jesus I love meat…on the hoof and on the man.” He winked and gave my cock a flick with his finger.
“I need to get some things, hit the can, get you anything while I’m forward?”
“Nah, I planned on this, just remember, we aren’t dressing for dinner….cept on the salad ‘n I was thinkin’ maybe some man cream with bleu cheese….”
“Sounds good, I’ll be back directly.”
It was a quick trip to get my duffel back, slip on a jock with a heavy duty cup worn under some white cargo shorts and over all that, a zip front white canvas hoodie, also with large kangaroo pockets-the last time I’d worn it was wading with my father in the ocean…. I got the duffel bag in the lounge but put where he wouldn’t notice it and a smaller sack just casually dropped adjacent to the opening to the fan tail where the blaze was taller than I was.
As I’d feared, Jerry had started the fire with a WHOMPF that could have been seen by the space station. Part of the overhang that covered the dining area was still smoldering while dropping bits of hot plastic on the deck. So much for the hand rubbed Mahogany. The bulk of the blaze had passed but the remaining flames still were higher than my head. I’ll say this, we weren’t going to have a mosquito problem between the Tiki torches and the fire pit.
He looked a trifle disappointed seeing an apparition all in white with nothing of interest to him showing. He was naked, his legs spread and, as he’d said, was roasting or toasting his nuts, didn’t matter to me. “Hey, buddy, what’s with the outfit? Thought this was going to be casual, just us guys….”
“Don’t worry, you can talk me out of all of them…..but that’s going to be part of the fun, I figure, you want a chance to do everything to me that you ever dreamed of and…..I’m giving you that chance. I got that figured about right?”
He couldn’t suppress a nasty sort of smile. “…..everything I ever wanted to do to you…and your Dad. Used to imagine the two of you tied back to back on either side of a pole, I got a whip and when I’m done….your balls, both sets are split open…..nuts hanging by their cords than make both of you castrate the other….maybe cut off your dicks……” He was not longer talking to me, just telling me his ultimate fantasy. I knew it had originally been Dad but then I grew up and he made it a double play. He was the true pervert, no pleasure, just his being gratified in whatever he thought up. I turned, looked at him and smiled.
“What’s first on your list….after dinner that is?”
“Well, stud, gotta get you stripped for action, all nicely tied down, your boner up and your balls down then, when I get bored with them, roll you over and start drilling…..”
A tiki torch, too heavily soaked with what smelled like gas or kerosene, finally exploded in flames then fell over the side to a sizzling splash as the water turned off the Tiki. Jerry looked in that direction. “Well shit, that keeps happening and we’ll be doing everything by moonlight. Kinda romantic but….I’m betting neither or us is in this for the romance….”
“I’ll cover that bet and double it for my Dad.”
“Always wondered…..how much did he make betting on golf and, of course, his son?”
“Sorry to disappoint you but, and you know this, back then I held on to my Amateur Status like it was my dick….I didn’t ask him about what he did and he didn’t tell me how to play. Just a guess….but one game he suggested had paid for the swimming pool so figure it out…..Before you rope me like a stud, there was mention of cooked steer….you planning on not being a genial host?”
He laughed, “Nope, we’ll all get a good meal, want you to think of me as your buddy, your friend, your golfing partner now that you’re playing again…..I suppose that shit about Amateur Status is off the table…..?”
I smiled and let him interpret that however he chose. He was already getting involved with cooking and drinking while he cooked. My job was to stay up wind of the conflagration and keep his glass filled. He needed something to keep his interest and desire perking along so I asked if the diving board above this deck was secured? Told to help myself, I slowly removed everything except for my cup lined jock, found a staircase up and to the board. Not quite trusting him, I walked out, gave it a few light bounces, then some heavier ones. I knew he was watching as the steak on the fork in the fire had started to spit fat and then char: About two more minutes and it, like the Tiki Torch, would burst into flame. As I stood on the board, making sure my package was well displayed and ready to be opened, he was hit with a volley of hot fat spit from the steak, a couple of which got him in the scrotum and I know that as that’s where he slapped his hand and yelped. I was tempted to pretend to do some stretching exercises, maybe even slide out of my jock if I’d thought the whole steak would become one fat spitting factory. I’d have laughed and that would not have kept the mood where it was.
The trick to this was to avoid the mud. The answer to that was odd but worked; Instead of going off the end of the board, I went from the side giving me a lane three or four feet wide but a mile or more long of clear water. Did a simple forward summersault and a pretty good entry. Jerry was impressed. I swam out about two hundred yards then looked back. It wasn’t a pretty sight, the fire in the pit while down a little, still suggested suttee and Jerry, now about a quart full not counting ice cubes, was having trouble maintaining vertical. Perfect. What I’d thought might work now would, all that remained was to try and choke down something that didn’t seem to have come from a crematorium and then start the evening’s entertainment.
It was a nice night for a swim, even when surrounded by mud, the water was pleasant, very clean and clear…no reason to not get some exercise. Maybe half a mile away I looked back and, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear the boat was about to go up in flames starting from the fan tail and working down the length of the craft. This was not an idle thought. I’d noticed some red cans that held whatever he was using to start the fire, drench the Tiki torches…..rather too well. Too nice to go back so I rolled on my back, slipped my jock down and beat off. Nothing elaborate, just that good feeling kind that starts in your pecs, works its way South until you know there’s an explosion. After that I rested, thought about what might come then headed back.
Jerry may or may not have noticed my absence as he was laying on the deck, several hundred dollars worth of raw meat surrounding him. He’d made it so easy, actually took some of the fun from it but…that couldn’t be helped. Go with the flow and he just did.
The next morning, after I shot him up with an EpiPen, he blustered his way to consciousness to find he was thoroughly tied up in a spiders’ web of polypropylene rope, the sort that has flex but is much, much stronger than regular hemp, I’d worked long and hard to learn how to do Shibari, the Japanese art of rope binding but, just from looking at him and his binding, I knew it was all worth it. And the fun hadn’t even started. Gagged, I really wanted him silent, I offered him coffee which maybe he accepted, maybe he didn’t, mattered not to me. I’d made a full pot of very strong coffee which I now poured into an enema bag, stuck the tube from the bag up his ass and, when he was full, popped a jumbo butt plug in just to make sure he got the full goodness of his morning wake up fluid. The caffeine went right into the soft interior walls of his ass and perked him up better than anything that wasn’t in a syringe. Might say he moved right on to wild eyed from his coffee high. Interesting to watch. I’d learned that trick, as I had many others from Dago, said it was something the drug cartels used to “remind” people of debt or whatever. Based on what I knew of the cartels, which wasn’t much, this seemed modest but to look at Jerry and the effect it had on him-being bound enhanced his jumpiness-maybe they were on to something.
Jerry looked toad-eyed not only at me but at his situation which, he figured was a gag on my part and, for a time, I let him think that. Right up to the moment I gave him a round house right to the groin. It was a good shot, the sort that can start a hematoma which would need to be excised and, fortunately, I’d brought my set of scalpels just for that sort of emergency and other purposes.
My Dad was a gentleman, always said to make sure someone understood what was happening or was going to happen and why they were going to be trashed. No reason not to know, they could probably figure it out but better to clear the air, makes the penance they’re about to pay clearer. Never leave a man wondering what hit him….tell the son of a bitch then beat the shit out of him. Or whatever you’ve in mind to do. And, in Jerry’s case, I had a fine reason, damn fine one might even say.
I’d wandered around, found a desk in which there was a box of a thousand stick pins, the sharp, short ones with a coloured nob on top. While I walked around him telling him what was new and what had me pissed off, I stuck one or two at a time in him. No particular place, just a random scattering hoping I could hit a nerve or a bone….
“Jerry, you remember my Dad, great man, got decapitated with a shot gun by a drug dealer. Remember that?” I didn’t look to see if he responded as best he could, just stuck some pins in the back of his neck and two or three into his hair. “Probably know that Nick’s kid, Spike, was charged and found guilty of masterminding it, got forty to life but….my money’s on he won’t make it to ten. Fuck his playing football, they’ll take him down in there the first time he shoots off his mouth and that, as they say, will be that. All well and good but….and I’m not alone in thinking this…..Spike isn’t smart enough to mastermind a raid on a strawberry patch so that left some unanswered questions. Of the four who made the attack, two were shot on the spot, one was hit in the head and is now mindless so that left just one to answer any questions someone might ask.”
I paused took a swallow of my own coffee. Looked out the windows to a fog bound day that guaranteed us privacy. The fog would have to either lift or burn off before we were visible and, as all the radio wires were disconnected, even if we were being hailed, we wouldn’t know it. Lake Howbert was the sort of place, thanks to the mud, people got stuck all the time, no one was ever seriously injured but form dictated that all craft on the lake were accounted for….or not. There was no serious concern and, certainly, with a boat the size of this one, not much could happen short of being taken by aliens….No one was looking.
It was pleasant, just watching the fog-a distant fog horn would have made it better-knowing I had as long as I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. Jerry wasn’t going anywhere, at least not then so it was going to be a peaceful day. Up to the moment the screaming started.
I took a fire bucket that was partially filled with sand and put it below Jerry’s rump. Just to avoid certain smells, I tied about twenty feet of cord to the butt plug, opened some windows as I walked out of doors then pulled the plug. I gave it thirty minutes to clear then went back, dragged the bucket outside, shoved it over the side and mentally apologized to any fish that caught in the dreck as it fell through the clear water. The bucket was retrievable should there be a use for it. Back at the now vacant hole, it was clear it heeded filling which made me look around for something ass sized, preferably with no sharp edges. There was a golf trophy-I could not believe he’d won it-that suggested itself but was probably made from pot metal so parts of it would break off and that would require surgery. I hated to use something already dirtied but….I did. What had held the coffee in now just was stuck in as far as it would go. Probably further than it was meant to as I thought I heard a groan…..more stick pins around his tail-good thing he wasn’t going to sit down-plus some on his thighs and calves. Remember the old tale about the Japanese in WWII pushing bamboo shoots under finger nails? I wondered if you could do the same with stick pins? Hmmm.
I sat in a comfortable chair facing him, looking relaxed, glad to be there, glad to have him as he was. “Jerry, I’m not going to fuck around about this.
” Later, after we have a talk, I’m not sure what I’m going to do but…I know you’d agree….that the punishment should fit the crime. But we’ll get to that. Remember Spike? Nick’s kid? What happened was about what we thought would happen; He couldn’t take prison though it took him. One afternoon while someone held a razor under his nuts, he broke and told what really happened. I’m telling you what you probably know but….the pleasure of telling it is mine. Seems you made a deal with young Spike, go along, you had a connection up the coast buried in the surfer community so that’s where he went. He made the pick up but didn’t do what he’d been told to do, he decided he was too smart for you, across the border was Mexico and purchasers of drugs so….that’s what he had in mind. Of course, he told the lie about the golf bags and they believed him. They knew you, they knew you had the money to front the deal so one day when we were all going out for a friendly game, they jumped us on the course, shot Dad dead, me, a couple of officers but that’s where things went very wrong. How could anyone know we’d be playing with six cops all were armed and that’s how two of your guys got dropped. “
“I’m telling you what you know but it’s important that you realize I know and I’m not the only one; Nick knows, Dago knows, all the cops in San Diego know, a buddy of mine in prison was the brother, my bro, who brought Spike down and that just leaves….you. When we get back, there are officers waiting to take whatever I chose to leave of you into custody, fly you to California where you’ll be charged with everything anyone can think of including murder. ‘Course, after today, you may want the death penalty now, maybe not. You fucked up so many places and the first was trusting an idiot like Spike, right there you signed your own warrants. Oh, by the way, he’s now in something called “adseg” which is where they put prisoners who are at high risk. See, you didn’t realize that whatever you thought, my Dad, me, Nick, Balls and lots of other men, really liked us. Admired Dad for raising me alone and admired me for paying him back by being a champion. But no need for sociology, lets get on with what needs doing. Oh, remember I mentioned about the punishment fitting the crime? Dad’s head was blown off, decapitated, right in front of me. Think about this, what’s the punishment for that?”
I let some time swim through the room as I watched him. No doubt he believed me, no doubt he knew I was going to do something to him, probably something awful. He could see revenge almost tattooed on every part of my body but what did that mean to and for him?
I went outside to breathe and decompress for a bit. No need to go into this like a man possessed, the best way to do these things was calmly, telling him what was coming, don’t emphasize anything but the agony and make sure they understand that you can and will do whatever you say you will. Dago had got some films of Cartel guys torturing men for very minor crimes, his only comment was that he hoped I’d find them instructional. In one way I did; I watched the men wielding the knives, I wanted to see their expressions to see if they were getting any pleasure and, only at the end, was there a smile but it was of satisfaction, not enjoyment or pleasure. Dago said that they enjoyed catching a guy who really feared them, that was when it was fun.
On my way back in I picked up the bag I’d left by the door, inconspicuously, the evening before. In front of Jerry I opened it then took out something, looked kind of like reverse pliers. “See these? My Dad taught me about these. When he was a boy in France he’d spend the summer with his grandfather up in the hills. His grandfather raised goats and that’s where Dad learned how to use these, fact is, these were my grandfather’s, I’ve just had them polished, greased, make sure the mechanism work. You probably know this, may have even used a set yourself, but these are called elastrators and they were used to castrate goats, at least the male ones. Remember I mentioned Dad’s head? Well, you’re safe there, I want you to go to trial and, maybe, to the death room at some fine prison but I still want a head.” I flicked at his cock which was getting aroused whether he wanted it to or not, almost like the prisoner looking for the hangman.
“These are very small, very hard rubber bands, not the kind you use in your home but the kind you use to castrate…well, about anything male that has nuts that hang down.” I hefted his balls, stuck some pins in them and returned to the elastrator. “Takes a minute to load as these are sons of bitches to get in and then…..I just…..squeeze the handles….good thing I’m strong, not every man could do this as easily as I can……there. All loaded. You know what I’m going to do, I said I wanted a head and here’s the one I’m going to lop off.”
With that I pulled his meat through the oddly shaped rectangle formed by the extended band and slowly let the handles close allowing the band to shorten and surround his corona. I clicked a lever, the band came off and was tightly grasping the flesh. Didn’t take a minute for his piss hole to show just a tinge of blood and the head itself started to change color. “We’ve got lots of time so eventually that’ll turn
purply black and that’s all she wrote, one dead cock head.” I leaned over and kissed then took it in my mouth giving it a good suck. In a very short time he had a conflict between pleasure, pain and the loss that was coming.
“I have other things to get done but…..getting you off in your present condition…..” I went for my duffel bag and pulled out an electrical unit which had two long wires attached that ended in two round metal circles. Not bothering to explain my actions, I put the two circles around his cock, one at the base and the other half way between that and the head. Quick flick of the switch and the rings, one at a time, shot a jolt of electricity up his cock almost like being jacked off. Of course, the more sperm that accumulated waiting to expel, the more pain….
Didn’t mean to but…I pulled out his gag just to see how loud he’d scream as well as the curses he’d heap on me. “You’re enjoying this” he said between wincing when the electro flowed. “Little cocksucker, you and that French fag dad of yours, I could have made you a fortune….” He screamed as it got him a good one and the pain from the banding was probably kicking in.
“I’m sure you could but….could you have made me as wealthy as I am now? Nick’s heir? Worth Billions. What I got from Dad’s estate….Jerry, you couldn’t have offered me jack shit.” He screamed again which led me to believe our conversation was over. Apart from some on going pinning, there was just one thing left to do but I was tired with all my efforts so left him, in his web, while I lay down on his bed and drifted off, visions of Jerry with a Five iron shoved up his butt.
It was later, I hadn’t looked at a clock but, as I walked into the lounge were Jerry was, I had a good stretch, noticed most if not all the pins had fallen out. He was either asleep or passed out, either way it made no difference. The head of his cock was almost black and drooping, ready to be removed permanently and before gangrene could set in. I wanted him awake for this, that and one or two other things I’d planned for him none of them designed to improve his day but would make mine. Slapping him was easy, he came right around. I took out his gag, gave him a straw and a glass of water, which he sucked up faster than any cock, and the gag went back in. I’d set the electric jack off unit for thirty minutes and it had turned off. First thing, that dead cock. Back to my duffel and pulled out a box, foot long, four inches on each side. A long tubular thing with a cord at the end slid out. I plugged it in but laid it aside for now.
Just to be tidy, I put down some towels, got some bolt cutters-okay, that was excessive-and nipped off the head which went plop on the ground leaving just a little blood and the band. I picked up the tube thing and explained that this was a cautery pen which I would use to cauterize his wound to prevent infection, a task quickly done.
“There’s another use for these, you may have heard of it. Some people don’t think their tattoos are permanent enough so they’re having them filled in with a pen like this to make a scar, can very depending on the tip, from a pencil to an inch or two wide. You can see this is pen sized. You don’t have ink, yet, prison will give you that, but I want the guys there to know just the kind of person you are.” I took the pen and moved it toward his chest. “In prison, even out of prison, there’s one word that gets you fucked and fucked over….I’ll just put it here…..”. I wrote SNITCH in all caps in an arch from his nipple to nipple. “You can get an inkslinger to see if they can cover it but that’ll have to be in prison. ” Jerry was completely beaten, his whole body slumped, it was time to take him down, carefully, and get him secured in something like a reasonably comfortable chair. The web was made to unfasten in only four places which expedited moving him. Just to encourage him, I reached in my pocket and took out a very large gun.. It would have made a hole in him and whatever was behind him.
After he was cut down he did what I expected and slumped to the floor unable to walk. Using the web ropes, I pulled him toward the chair where he’d spend the last of his freedom. It wasn’t too difficult but I got him up and bound. One hand was allowed some movement so when I brought some food and water he could use it for that purpose. And one other. “Want to jerk off? See how the new equipment works? You’ve got a lot of sperm built up even though some of it leaked out. Go on, take that hand, feel that cock, shuck it down. You’ve got all day. As I turned to walk away there were tears coming from his eyes….it had all hit him, the past, what had just happened, what would happen….all his fault because he trusted a stupid man who was without honor as was Jerry. Behind him where he couldn’t see what I was doing, I tied two of the chair legs so that he couldn’t bounce the chair and move it. If he wanted to commit suicide…I thought about that….I might offer him that option. Seemed that the cowards way out but….he was a coward. See what transpired as his time for whatever I wanted to do ticked backward.
The next morning started out as the day before had but the slightest breeze quickly blew the fog away making it time to weigh anchor and head for home and the people waiting there. I took my phone and sent a slightly coded message to someone who was waiting for it then went forward, plugged things in, turned on the depth finder started the engines, put them in neutral while I went back to see how Jerry was doing. Not good would be the answer but I expected that. He needed to be moved to the fan tail where it was fresher and was where he’d get an offer he was not expecting.
Getting him out there was relatively easy as he could walk to the extent that the rope allowed. (Everyone should know Shibari) It was nice out there, the fire had, finally, burned itself out, two more Tiki torches had either burned up or fallen into the water. Now, in the sunlight, it hardly mattered. I pulled out his gag and gave him a moment to work his jaw. Even got him a stiff drink. Whether he appreciated it or not….? We sat there, the low rumble of the engine was about the only noise.
“I guess asking if you’re free for another foursome is out…” he laughed.
“Jerry, I know what my father would do, he was a gentleman and even after he’d beat the crap out of someone, he’d always extend his hand to help them up. To honor him, I’m giving you something I don’t think you deserve but this is for my Dad so….”
He looked at me. “What?” He knew there was a deal and one that probably favored him, whatever it was, he was going to take it.
“I’ll take you up to the diving board, weight you down, shoot you, then push you into the mud where you’ll sink. Years before anyone will find you and I’ll say that, I’d told you about what we knew, you seemed as calm as could be….I went to bed and this morning….you were gone. Whether they believe it or not, I don’t give a shit, awfully hard to disprove and since most guys think you’re a coward, probably be believed…..I’m going to start moving forward in sixty minutes. Either you’re on board or….” I glanced over the side.
‘Why didn’t you just rip off my balls you little hustler, you cocksucking faggot….give me a real choice, not some dumb suicide, I don’t go that way. Take that piece and blow me away, stand me up here, blow my fucking head off, that should make you happy.”
“Deal, balls first.”
He gasped, tried to undo what he’d just done but the gag was in his mouth so whatever he wanted to try and deal out of, well, I’ll never know.
Left over from the previous “cook out” I found a steak knife that seemed pretty sharp, enough so that with a little sawing, his nuts would drop off. I thought of Yukio Mishima and wondered how he would have done this….stripped, came toward him. Even bound he pushed himself back and up the railing, like most cowards, he feared losing his manhood more than death….maybe he’d get both. I stuck the knife point into a spot that neatly divided his nut sack, reached down to grab one side, took out the knife and plunged it through his testicle, waited, watching him look at first the trickle and then the stream of blood, showed him his ball, cut the cord and threw it over the side. I was rewarded by the sound of some sort of fish finding a tasty meal. I was in no hurry, the diesel engine needed to warm up…fiddled around with what was left of his ball binder then, as with the other one, ran the shif through his last contact with being a man, pulled it, cut the cord, showed him and, just like the Trevi Fountain, tossed my fat, fibrous coin over my back. Forgot to make a wish, I’d already got it. That just left his.
Don’t ask people for something you really don’t want. From his expression, even with the gag, it was clearly that when he’d wished he wanted his head blown off, he perhaps he didn’t mean it literally; He may not have thought about but if he had a nanosecond or two, prison would have looked a far better choice. I almost didn’t but then I did, pull out his gag. Had no intention of listening but they say you should always wait for the death rattles and….these stupid pleadings were his.
I had been calculating whether up close or a little back produced the optimum result; Both ended up with him dead but, like my Dad, I wanted him decapitated. I knew the price for me but, fuck it, this was for us, Dad and me and it was what he would do. Maybe he was there, his hands on my shoulders, praising me, don’t know, never when in for that sort of crap.
Caught up in figuring angles, I tuned Jerry out could not now or then tell you one iota of what he said mainly because it varied between pleading with me and cursing me. HoHum. Thinking about Mishima and his orderly way of death, I knelt so that t was an angle up shot, aimed just below his chin so the bullet would sever the top of the spinal cord and the sheer power of the .50 millimeters would remove his head, not as neatly as a guillotine but I wasn’t going for tidy, just his head and death.
Naked, kneeling on the deck I sighted just above the trachea, slowly started to squeeze and…there was a roar, I was knocked on my ass but, when I rolled up, there was only part of Jerry, the head completely missing. I got up then looked over the side; Wasn’t enough weight to make it sink instantly but the various parts were clearly going down. Saw no reason to let them be alone. Cut his ropes and, as he was already pushed up on the railing, took only a fairly smart push to have him tip over and make a one point splash down. That was that.
Clean up took an hour and then, slowly, took the boat back to the Marina.
I called the cops, asked for homicide, reported I’d killed Jerry and would wait to be taken in by Lake Howbert at the Marina. The body? Somewhere in or near a mud bank.
Dago looked at me in horror. Said nothing but stood beside me for the time it took for the cops to show up. Even after I’d told them the whole story, well, most of it, cutting off the head of his cock added nothing to the narrative, they didn’t really believe me. Showed them the gun, recently fired so, reluctantly, they cuffed me and, eventually I was locked in a cell while everyone tried to sort out just what had happened; It took a while. Nick bailed me out, appalled at my story but not believing it. And time moved forward. No one, civil prosecutors, our attorneys, the press, wanted to believe what I’d said happened. Indeed there were more stories blaming the victim, about his questionable deals compare to my being the fair haired boy that I seriously wondered if they would ever accept the truth.
It took a year but finally they did. Bail was with drawn, I surrendered, was charged but only with Murder Two, or, a choice for a jury, Manslaughter One. That wasn’t what I had in mind. Also, too much sympathy was for me, I would have, not the prosecution, have had to asked for a change of venue. I was getting weary of telling the fucking truth-even to then they’d never found his body, even bits of it so…no corpse almost automatically took away Murder One.
There wasn’t trial as, in deep exasperation, I made a deal, one they were loathe to accept. We lived in a death penalty state so in return for sparing all concerned the expense, embarrassment and time of a trial, I would take the death penalty, agreed to first degree premeditated murder and that would be that. It took several days for them to make a decision-I was out on a huge bail-it had increased in size as my story came to be generally believed-lt put up by Nick and which I regretted he’d done it-but they accepted. Back in jail, sentencing then the prison.
It’s one thing to get the death penalty, it’s another thing to get it done. There are automatic appeals, requests for new trials, attempts by groups to whom I had no interest who were against the death penalty were filing petitions on my behalf until my attorneys stopped them. I thought about American Traitor, Timothy Mc Vey who got fed up and petitioned the Feds to carry out the sentence which they were only too happy to do. Remembering him, I had the prison barber shave my head into a short flat top. We chatted about the good old days when he shaved heads for men who would be electrocuted. I said I was sorry hanging was no longer allowable, that would have been my choice. And that got me a lot of prison cred. While the legal fights, mainly put up by Nick, raged on I learned life in prison can be pretty good if, as the song says, “you don’t mind taking it the way it turns out”. I had money and was seen as a good/bad guy who they admired. The best tat artist sent word with a guard that whatever I wanted, he could and would do. I accepted and, through two more seasons of legal wrangling, got two sleeves a full back piece, my hands and, my personal favorite, a very realistic noose around my neck with the thirteen turns on the rope down my chest. And, of course, the large tear meaning I was a killer. Great work and though he’d offered it as tribute to my Dad, I saw to it that he got what he was owed in the way of commissary and whatever else. One thing I did with him, he got a good fucker to do me while he inked my neck; Weird experience. Back in my own cell, my cellie and I hit a nice sexual balance, we did everything to and for each other which, on a cold night, could warm it up. That strong body Dago had produced was admired and I pumped iron with the other big men.
Finally the courts, tired of all the wrangling, and with my permission, clotured all arguments sealing the sentence which means I left my buddies. I no longer feared the press so, as I was transferred I shouted answers, vulgar ones, to as many questions as I heard.
I was moved to the only prison in the state where it was still possible to carry out executions. Some guys there had been around waiting for over a decade and, as they launched more pleas and petitions, it would be, easy, another decade. Some of them were interesting, some deserved what we were all supposed to get. From the truly criminal element, I was a youthful hero, did exactly what they’d want their kid to do if their dad got popped. A few letters to and from Sammy who said very little save one reference to the pleasure of getting a first man. He dressed the sentence so it wouldn’t read that directly, but I knew what he meant.
My petition for speedy justice was approved, an execution date set and….I asked there be no more visitors. Just me and the other deathees. I was calm, jerked off now and then (some of them joined me) and waited. The day would come.
That day, the last day, as I hoped up on the table and the needles to carry the lines were threaded into my veins, I thought….for the Championship, one last difficult hole to make but this hole has no bottom, just a dark hole.
From PJ-
I am aware there are continuity problems as well as some just dumb errors that I will tidy up as I have time. This was a story that took almost twelve hours to write and then I wrestled with the last part, rewrote it six times which is why it appears to almost have two endings. I wanted to make sure that the message “The end justifies the means” was not a theme, hence the ending. On the other hand, I also wanted to describe how crime, particularly at that level, is never as innocent or as far from us as we might think.
As to places and things. I was a member of the Beach and Tennis club, owned a home in La Jolla when I was in grad school-it was my retreat right on the Wind and Sea Beach, 210 Rosemont, the upper duplex. I’m not aware of any murder such as described at Torrey Pines-a course I’ve played often- ever occurring however, one pretty much as described did take place in Colombia which was my model. I do speak French but, as I am of illegitimate birth, my father may have spoken Urdu.
The attack by the son on the father is a very real problem that Law Enforcement does encounter more than one might suspect. Think of the Menendez Brothers.
I never played for a University Golf Team although I’m aware that Houston was a perennial winner and that USC had an equally good team. I know a lot about golf as my adopted father was, at various moments during his years on the USGA Executive committee Chairman of all the disciplines which they oversee. (His year or so on Junior Golf brought him head to head with Jack Nicklaus whom he, and many USGA and Augusta members loathed. Mention of his name at our dining table would cause him to slam the table so hard ice cubes would jump from the water goblets and he would have to leave the room.)
The characters in this are, generally, all fictitious tho many of them are composed of persons I have known or known of. “Jerry” was almost based on one man who was murdered in his own home over gambling-his testicles were cut off as was his head; In some ways, art imitates life. I’ve written with affection about motorcycle cops on a couple of occasions possibly because I was an avid rider myself and did ride with a bunch of guys from a local Sherriff’s patrol. Frosty was and is a real nurse. Just not from Poland and works only in surgery.
In some ways, many of the elements in this are that of an old man romancing about his past life. Many have said to me, “PJ, you and all that sex? Come on.” Shame there aren’t illustrations. When you start on your trek to gay sex at age 12-and I’m not talking about tossing off in the middle of the night under your sheets-one can cover an amazing distance. Also, being open minded and willing to try…anything can be instructive.
If I have one immodest hope for the reader it’s that I have portrayed this sufficiently so that occasionally the people in it almost focus, certainly they do for me. I once wrote a very direct autobiography which my attorney asked if he might read. Certainly and dropped a manuscript at his office. Several months later, at a cocktail party, I remembered to ask him about it. His response was that he and every Senior and Junior Partner had laughed their asses off and it was now in their safe for, “Even if it’s true, they can still sue”. He of course knew that it was true….
I, like all others who contribute the gaiety of the laity love comments so, please, do me the honour of leaving some for me. Here’s something else that might amuse you; Add a cast list as to whom you would play who; Tom Cruise is Jerry as I think he deserves…..
PJ
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