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1

BEN

Wet heat sucks on my cock, a clever finger tapping against my taint. So close, so close. I close my senses to the pounding EDM and flashing, sparkling lights from Club Babylon’s disco balls. In this dark corner of Denver, it is just me and this hot, wet mouth. The tongue circling around my cock head as his hand strokes then down his lips plunge, almost able to take me into his throat. I can feel him swallowing around me.

I strain, back arching against the black wall, hips thrusting helplessly, and I close my eyes. Damn, so good. Strong fingers tunnel under my hoodie, pull my Rockies t-shirt from my jeans, then crawl under the hem. Blunt nails scrape my skin until those clever fingers find my nipple and flick, then tug. Electricity arcs from my nipple to my cock.

I look down into his eyes through the glasses I don’t need, my hands pushing back his shaggy white-blond hair. Up and back down, sucking so hard his cheeks hollow. His pretty gray eyes are lined in black and sparkle as he sucks my cock down his throat, swallowing me down as I moan. So close. His fist pumps faster as he sucks on my cock head, then his fingers release my nipple.

He sucks a finger into his mouth. Ah, god, is he going to… He wriggles his hand into my baggy jeans and yes, he is going to… slide that slick finger onto my dark hole. I try to widen my legs for him, trapped by my jeans and his fingertip breaches the darkness, up, up. Ah god, yes, there it is. My eyes roll back as I tumble over the precipice, my legs locking tight, hips thrusting one last time, then my cock pumps cum into his mouth. Wave upon wave, ah god, jerking off is never this good. He sucks hard, milking my orgasm for as much as he can pull from me. Gasping for air, I lean back against the wall as he licks me clean, then tucks my cock away, tucks my shirt back in, tugs my hoodie into place and zips up my jeans. Standing, he presses a quick kiss to my mouth. I taste cherry-flavored lip balm and my cum.

“Thanks, Daddy,” he giggles as he prances away, disappearing into the dancing throng.

When my legs function properly, I edge my way around the dance floor to the bar, giving Freddie a nod as I slide onto a vacant stool near the end of the long, gleaming wood surface. He plunks a heavy rocks glass in front of me, ice and Scotch swirling together in the heavy crystal. His bushy mustache harks back to the eighties, as does his unbuttoned black polyester shirt showing off a very hairy chest. The streaks of rainbow colors over the shoulders and down the sleeves echo the multiple banners around the bar. Damn, I do so love a gay bar. Servers wander through the crowd, shirtless, wearing tight black shorts and rainbow suspenders crossing their nipples.

“You should get yourself a Boy,” Freddie smirks as he clears away empty bottles of beer and wipes the spills away.

I shrug. We’ve had this conversation before, and my reply never changes. “I don’t have the patience and travel too much. Can’t even have a dog of my own, much less a guy. I have a few plants that my sister waters. No room for more.”

I watch a stunning young server weaving through the crowd, tray held high as he maneuvers through groping hands, laughing as someone snaps his rainbow suspenders. One tat high on his shoulder, a broken heart, otherwise his body is a gorgeous blank canvas. Shaggy brown hair, lovely wide shoulders, and an ass that begs for fingers to grip it. Pretty.

Freddie shakes his head. “Plenty of guys would love to travel with. You are a hot Daddy, you know.” I chuckle and sip my Scotch, turning to watch the dance floor. Men of all ages and body types writhe together, grinding to the beat. Some split off, heading to dark corners as I had done ten minutes ago.

My thirty-nine-year-old body is tighter than many of the men out there. While some golfers can get away with a fat gut, my game goes to shit if my body isn’t tight. Those men on the dance floor are free to relax and enjoy life’s pleasures, drink the beer, eat the burgers, and to hell with fitness. They don’t wear caps and hoodies and black-rimmed glasses that they don’t need. The lines on my face, silver at my temples and sprinkled in my hair and beard, those give away my age, but my outfit hides the real me, the golfer ranked twenty-one in the U.S.

Freddie never gets the full story. Pro golfers are not gay. Pro golf sponsors do not support anyone other than conservative, hetero-normative players. Until I am ready to step away from The Tour, I’ll stick to one-offs in dark corners. No taking on the risk of a dating app. I tug my plain gray hoodie back over my Rockies ball cap. Freddie thinks I am in sales. IT or some such. I never disabuse him of his assumption.

Closing my tab, I summon a car from the service. Time to head home and get some sleep. Tomorrow, I fly out to Pennsylvania. My caddie, Julian, and I will walk the course for the next two days, play the following four days, then head back home. I’m skipping the tournaments in Texas. May in Texas is fucking brutal and no thank you, I’ve earned my spot in the top sixty and don’t need to subject myself to that grind. Spring was good to me; no need to force out more rounds to pad my paycheck.

2

GEOFF

“FUCK! SHIT! DAMMIT!” the skinny, bald man screams as his ball hooks left into deep native grass. Joey Viñata theatrically pounds his club into the grass on the tee. I keep well back until he is done with his temper tantrum. He flings the driver at me and I grimace as the heavy head whacks my shin. Guessing this will not be a good tip day, I say nothing, just pick up the club, slide the purple dinosaur head cover over it and slip it into the empty slot before hefting the heavy bag to my left shoulder.

I trudge towards the ball, having noted the spot where it stopped in the deep rough. As I wait for him to reach me, I take a moment to enjoy the gorgeous mountain morning. Sunlight sparkles in the small pond where ducks, geese, and cormorants paddle and dive. A hummingbird blazes past us, trilling in challenge. A splash in the pond draws my eye, and I spot a muskrat climbing onto the bank, a small fish its morning meal. The slight breeze smells of pine and sage, and perhaps a campfire.

As I step closer to the edge of the native grass, eye on the white ball in a large tuft of green, I hear the distinct rasp of a rattle and freeze. Scanning, I spot the tan diamonds of the snake’s body under a small branch. It has given me plenty of warning, and I wait, holding a hand up to halt the golfer.

“Rattler, sir, if you could wait a bit to let it move on?” I caution.

The man stops in his tracks and shrieks, “A FUCKING RATTLESNAKE?!”

The snake moves into the grass, further from the obnoxious loud man. Yeah, man, I wish I could move away, too. Genesee Hills Club sits in the Rocky Mountain front range, at low enough altitude that rattlers come out in the day to sun.

“Fuck that shit, I’m dropping a ball,” the man growls, pulling a ball from his pocket and dropping it several yards onto the fairway. Whatever, this isn’t a tournament, no skin off my back if he cheats.

Setting his bag down in front of me, I pull out the cheap scope I got from the caddie shack and get a distance. “One-ninety-five to the pin, sir,” I state. “But it’s playing slightly uphill into the wind, so it’s a two-hundred-and-five-yard shot. Let’s take a five-wood, aim at the left edge of the bunker and let the ball draw toward the center of the green, sir?”

He doesn’t reply, just holds his hand out, shaking it impatiently. I hand him the club and step further back, checking that the rattler has indeed moved before I take another step. I gather up the first ball as I wait, cleaning it off before putting it in the pocket of my white caddie jumpsuit. This time Joey slices into the pond to the right of the green. Another litany of unimaginative curses pours from his lips, and I struggle not to laugh. Good thing he doesn’t even look at me as he throws the club to the ground and marches towards the green. I pick up the thrown wood and follow.

Another dropped ball, this one on the edge of the green versus the designated drop zone. I hand him his expensive putter and step to the pin. “In or out, sir?” I ask.

“Leave it,” Joey snarls. “I like the backboard effect.”

I step off the green and wait. Four putts later, we head to the next hole. I don’t write down a score; Joey clearly doesn’t care.

Cherry Parker trundles towards us in her bright yellow club beverage cart, and Joey waves his hand to her. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail that she threaded through her white golf hat. White golf shirt, skirt and Keds; her uniform is cute but conservative, her makeup not over the top. She is the epitome of a private golf club. The help is here to serve. Plastering on a welcoming smile, she prepares him a double vodka Red Bull, and I wince. That will not improve the man’s disposition nor his skill. He does tip her, at least.