Page 27 of Wood

I hear his shower start up. We have separate bathrooms in this suite as I did not want to take a chance of a repeat of walking in on him again. As much as I want to see him naked.

I wash my hands and pull up my sweats and head out to the living room for some Scotch and Stewie. He comes out of his shower just in his sweats hanging low on his hips, smelling of Old Spice, toweling off his hair. He pours himself a bit of Scotch and plops onto the other end of the couch, laughing at Meg in motorcycle gear.

I watch his naked chest in the light of the TV, the way his pecs and arms move as he lifts the tumbler, the line of his neck as he tips back to sip. His jaw is straight and cut sharper than when we met, the slight softness receding, reflecting his work on what he eats and his workouts. The broken heart tat on his shoulder. I’m close enough to see the ribbon across the break with a date from last Spring. Probably the day his folks died. I turn back to the TV.

In the morning, he doesn’t look at my face as we go over the final pin placement. He’s been out early again to get those greens drawn up for us to go over. I’ve retrieved breakfast sandwiches for us, making sure he gets his morning quota before we head out for our final loop. We have time before tee off as I’m ranking in the top ten again.

I try not to be awkward. I mostly fail. It’s a relief to walk to the first tee.

He is still my rock on the course. The mental force field he creates is such perfection. The energy is dialed in and we click out there in a way I never thought existed.

And I rise in my final standings. At the American Open, I was tied for tenth. In Connecticut, I finish eighth.

18

GEOFF

Monday nights are usually dead at Club Babylon and tonight is no exception. Perfect. I really want some quiet time to talk to Freddie.

Last week, I put miles on my car, driving down to Colorado Springs. Up North into Wyoming to Cheyenne. East to the state line, blasting along back country roads with cows and wheat and nothing else. West along twisty mountain roads, up to Estes Park, stopping for the massive herd of elk to cross the road. Staying away from Ben Vance. I should get my own apartment. Being so close to him 24/7 and unable to touch is killing me.

I swung by my ex-roommates’ place to show my car off and I barely kept my keys out of their grabby hands. “Fuck no, you are not borrowing my car to pick up women. Knock it the fuck off!” Last time I let those assholes near my new baby.

I’ve hooked up a couple times since we’ve been back, fast blow jobs from kind older men. I texted the couple that gave me their number and had an afternoon romp, but it didn’t thrill me. The husband didn’t join in, didn’t even strip, just watched his wife get fucked. Good for an orgasm, but nowhere close to touching that obsession, that craving I have for Ben. I deleted their contact info when I drove off.

I’ve jerked off in my massive shower several times a day, in my fabulous soft bed every night. Once in Ben’s shower when he was out. Once in his bed, his cedar scent in my nose. Always with Ben’s face in my head. Ben’s hands on my body, fingers, lips wrapped around my cock, those strong lips… fuck, I am a mess.

We leave for Ireland in fifteen days and I’m struggling. Ben has clearly drawn a line, and I don’t know how to obliterate it. I need to blow that fucking line way the hell away.

We’ve watched a bunch of Family Guy and Star Trek and sports together, Ben always choosing to sit in an overstuffed chair, leaving the couch to me. He’s always covered in sexy as fuck workout shorts and a t-shirt when we hang out. He makes sure to leave a foot of space between us when we share a meal or pore over the online yardage books for Royal Banks Golf Club. I am clearly in the friend zone, and I hate it. I have got to change it.

I hit up a barber shop in Capitol Hill with a rainbow barber pole. It’s in a small strip of shops and down some iron stairs, tucked between a coffee place and a nail salon. The pink neon sign in the window just says CUTS. The chairs are old, the walls painted in rainbow stripes and black and white photos of guys with sharp fades are taped up all around the mirror.

The skinny black man fawns over me as I sit. “Hey, sweetie, I’m Mark. Just sit your pretty self down.” He starts rubbing my shoulders in a massage before he starts. “Oh, honey, you are so tense! We need to loosen you up!” Hips swivel on each syllable of ‘loosen you up’.

“What are we doing today?” He runs his long fingers through my shaggy mop. “What are we thinking? Just a trim? Change it up?” He plays with it a bit, tucks the sides behind my ears. “Hm, high and tight is not right for you, no, no, no,” head shaking. He tugs the sides back and tight, lips pursing. “Ooh, Peaky Blinders look would be so hot, you would melt their briefs right off, mm, mm, mm! Everyone is asking for Peaky Blinders and I am not hating it.”

“Do it, gimme Peaky Blinders. Tight on the sides, leave it longer up top.”

He cackles with delight, “Leave enough to grab, you got it darlin’,” and the clippers come out, that low buzz starting up and he tips my head forward with two fingers.

He talks the whole time, not to me exactly, just filling the silence. He tells me about some guy who came in yesterday wanting a mullet “and I mean an actual mullet, on purpose, can you believe it? I almost said no”, a story about his boyfriend forgetting an anniversary, all of it easy background noise while the clippers work up the sides of my head.

I watch myself change in the mirror, hair getting shorter, sharper, older, even. A new version of me being revealed.

“You seeing anybody?” he asks, mirror-eyes catching mine.

“No,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I meant it to.

He just nods, like that is what he expected, goes back to the clippers, doesn’t push for more. Twenty minutes later he holds a hand mirror up so I can see the back, and I look ten years sharper than when I walked in. This is what I wanted, the whole point of a haircut like this. I look like I’ve got somewhere to be and somebody to be it for. #GuardDogCaddie has a bad boy look. Give me some dark sunglasses and stay the fuck away from my golfer.

I feel empowered.

And I need some advice. Time to blow that line the fuck away.

I’m nursing a club soda with lime as Freddie mixes margaritas. A cute twink waiter waits to whisk away the cocktails when Freddie finishes pouring. Bright pink hair, dramatic eyeliner, earrings studding both ears with a giant plug at the bottom stretching out the lobe. A nose and an eyebrow ring complete the piercing array. The twink’s shorts have ‘Emotional Support Bottom’ on his ass in rainbow sparkles. I do not snap the suspenders.

The DJ tonight is Pearl, and he’s spinning some fast country tunes. Guys on the dance floor are gyrating in lines, hands draping over shoulders and at waists as men move through the steps, hips swiveling and feet shuffling with a lot of ‘Yee-Haw’.