Point Shot 02 - Game Misconduct

“So last night that guy on TV was talking about the laws that govern the universe.”

I threw a fast glance over my shoulder to see the hole we had just played disappearing into the distance. I looked to my left. Dan was driving. ‘Nuff said. I should know better than to let the man handle anything besides a hockey stick or my dick.

“Think you can keep it on the path and off the green?” I asked as the golf cart bounded and bounced along. Dan chuckled. He always seemed to find great amusement at my discomfort, the sadistic little Hobbit.

“So what did you think?” Dan asked. I looked down, wishing for a seat belt. Given the amount of cash Dan and I had coughed up to join this fucking country club, you’d think the pretentious prigs would at least put seat belts on their carts. Guess the muckety-mucks at the Seneca Springs Country Club had never figured on Dan Arou, future NASCAR driver, being behind the wheel. My fingers gripped the dashboard.

“I think you need to slow the fuck down, Mario Andretti,” I snapped as my ass left the seat. Arou chortled, then whipped the golf cart to the left to avoid some dude in pink shorts and striped socks stepping off the green.

“Sorry!” Dan shouted over his shoulder. Pink shorts guy showered us with expletives. “So, what do you think?”

“I think I’m fucking driving for the rest of the game.”

“No, not about driving, about the laws of the universe,” Dan said, looking from the well-maintained cart path to me. I guessed we’d reached the sharing stream-of-consciousness point in our relationship. Yippee.

Although the man looked extremely doable in his white golf shirt, blue-and-white shorts and pricey golf shoes. The sexy shit even made his stupid golf cap look hot. Summer fucking rocked. Dan Arou in shorts made me hot and hard. Dan Arou out of his shorts did the same thing. I loved looking at his tan skin. Touching and tasting it was even better, but since we were on a golf course with other Cougars in the immediate vicinity, I had to content myself with visually enjoying his meaty calves. We were still not out of the closet.

“Do you think there are set rules to the universe? Like for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction?”

“The TV was on last night?” I didn’t recall. Of course, once I had Dan’s prick in my mouth and my fingers in his ass, I wouldn’t notice an F-5 tornado coming through our little apartment. “Would you please watch where you’re going? Do they not make teenagers take driving lessons before licensing them in the Shire?”

Dan wheeled us back onto the path, gravel flying in our wake. Someone shouted at us to stop acting like hooligans, and that made me chuckle despite my life flashing before my eyes. Don’t people know that hockey players are paid to be hooligans?

“You never pay attention to nothing,” Dan mumbled.

I begged to differ. I paid attention to a lot. Like how his long dark hair was blowing in the wind, and how his cheeks were covered with scruff.

“Keep an eye open for McGarrity and Buttonwood,” he said.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find a man in a kilt around here,” I commented, then cursed as the cart flew over a hump in the path, sending my skull into the roof.

“Sorry. So yeah, the rules of the universe sound right. I think that if we send out bad vibes, they come back to us, you know?” Dan kept looking at me.

I waved a hand at the path. “Cosmic league bylaws, you mean.”

We began to slow, thank you, baby Jesus, when we approached our next hole. I nearly leaped out of the cart. No way was the man driving home. He was a fucking maniac behind the wheel.

“I think if you’re talking physics then yeah, there are rules that apply. Newton’s laws about motion and shit are solid.”

I picked up my cap from the floor of the cart and crammed it onto my red hair. Sun and pale Poles do not mix. Where Dan had simply gotten darker over the months of June and July, I had burned and peeled twice so far. Each round of pain and peel had resulted in me being just as pasty as I had been previously.

“If you’re talking about new age rules about karma and what goes around comes around, or coming back as a bug if you spent your life stepping on anthills, then no. That’s complete bullshit. There is no God looking down on us, trust me. Bad shit happens because bad people like doing bad things to other people.”

I reached in and tugged my bag of clubs out of the back. Dan was standing in the sun, staring at me as if I had just said I thought I wanted to join the circus. I knew that look. He always wore the same one when he thought I was talking about my mother or my childhood. His deep-blue eyes would get all sentimental and compassionate and he would start to probe.

“Don’t,” I said as I hefted my bag onto my shoulder. As much as I love golf, and I do, those celebrity golf things got old fast. Instead of being able to enjoy eighteen holes, we had to brown-nose with the press and other sports celebrities from the Cayuga area. Yawn. If the funds raised hadn’t been going to benefit local kids in need, I would have told the organizers to shove it.

He started to speak. It sounded like a probe on the horizon.

I held up a finger. Dan stared at the digit in the pale-blue golf glove. Only Dan Arou could make me wear color-coordinated golf attire. “Do not go there.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he lied.

I gave him a look that screamed disbelief.

“You don’t think good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people because of something outside humanity?” Dan took off his cap, shook his hair from his face and placed the cap back on his head. He’d grown it out at my request. I liked having enough hair to get a tight hold on when I was fucking him.

“No.” I turned to watch the hordes coming at us.

Reporters, photographers, news crews with perky blonde women with mediocre caps and microphones moved closer. I squinted past the group coming at us, trying to see if McGarrity and Buttonwood, our team captain, were putting. They were. I shoved through the crowd trying to ask me pointless questions. The Italian-Scot, who had partnered with Mike Buttonwood for the event, saw me coming. A shit-eating grin appeared on his face. Mario McGarrity was one of the few Cougars I could stomach, aside from Dan. Buttonwood worked on my nerves like a broken tooth.

“Hey, Captain, you sizing up that hole to see if your dick will fit into it?” I inquired of Buttonwood. The crowd behind me gasped as a whole. Dan appeared on my left, wearing that goofy smile I was so fond of. Nice to see him smiling again after that set-down with the Barracudas.

My old team had done some fancy trading after the post-season and acquired Frank Ledger, a big name from the L.A. Pipers, in a trade. Cost them a couple of nice draft picks and some big cash. Ledger coming from Tinseltown meant Dan had been shuttled back to the AHL. The dude had taken it hard, but being a yo-yo happens in hockey. You just have to suck it up. Call me a shitty cohabitation buddy, but I was glad he’d been sent back. Who has two thumbs and freely admits he’s a petty, greedy, narcissistic assmunch? This guy. At least we were together now on a daily basis. Long-range romance sucks.

Buttonwood was ignoring me, which only made me want to start heckling him with more vigor—I had a winner about that hole and his wife—but someone elbowing me gently in the ribs stalled the jibe. I glanced downward. Dan shook his head softly. My eyebrows knotted.

“I know you, Vic,” he whispered while Buttonwood tapped his ball into the cup.

“You just
think
you know me,” I countered, wondering if it was good or bad that this man could read me so well.

So yeah, there are times when having someone know you well has great bennies. For instance, the moment I sat down beside Arou the evening after the golf tournament, he knew I wanted him. Must have been that he could read my eyes or facial expression. It freaked me out at times. We had been together for something like nine months. No man-fuck thing had ever gone past three months. Gina and I had limped along to six months. This thing was Dan was the longest thing I’d ever been in.

Chicks seemed to hang in longer. Maybe women just have more patience, or maybe it’s because they think they can change a dude. They can’t, but bless their hearts, they sure do try. Perhaps they’re just willing to work harder at making it succeed. Gina sure was. She tried. No blame for that failure rested on her shoulders. I’d fucked people left and right behind her back and she’d finally had enough of it. Smart girl. I lived in constant fear of Dan waking up to discover the mistake he’d made. If he walked, it would cripple me in ways that Satan would envy.

Dan tossed the remote onto the coffee table, then pulled his golf shirt over his head. The landlady’s dog, Mansfield, was out in the backyard barking at something. Wind, probably, or a squirrel farting. Mutt yapped at everything except strangers. Those, he bounced up to with a wagging tail. Pick of the litter, that one.

“Shuck off the shorts.” My gaze roamed over his compact upper body. Olive-skinned and strong, covered with black hair, his chest rose and fell with increasing speed as he unzipped and kicked off his shorts and underwear. I moved closer. Dan tensed in anticipation. I took his stiff prick in my right hand. His eyes closed then slowly reopened, lapis-blue gems lighting up with passion. I stroked him softly. My left arm lay over the back of the sofa. Dan reached for me, jerked my mouth to his, but I pulled back slightly, just enough to keep my nose in contact with his.

“Kiss me,” he growled. I shook my head and squeezed his cock. He winced slightly but his hips flexed upward. He smelled good. Better than good; fabulous, hot and ready for sex. Pheromones pumped out of his sweaty skin, filling my nostrils with his scent. It was unique. It was Dan. Just smelling him on the sheets made me hard. No other man or woman has ever had that effect on me. It still terrified the living shit out of me. “Vic,” he moaned.

“I want to watch you,” I whispered over his slightly parted lips. The corners of his mouth, that wet hot mouth, tweaked upward.

“Yeah, watch me come,” he murmured thickly. I released his cock and raised my hand. He spat in it. I jerked at the contact of his warm spit, then wrapped my fingers around his fat cock. I began working him with quick strokes that ran tip to base. Dan trembled at my side, his strong hands clasping at the couch cushions. My dick was throbbing in my shorts. I inhaled deeply with each breath, sucking Dan’s aroma into my lungs, tasting his sexed-up smell on my tongue. I wished he hadn’t turned the TV on. It interfered with the sound of my spittle-covered hand working his cock. Nothing makes me hotter than hearing myself making Dan come.

I nudged at his chin with my nose. He rolled his head to the side. I made like a cat and rubbed my face over his jaw, raking red whiskers over coarse black ones. We both shuddered at the abrasion.

“Oh man,” Dan moaned.

I paused only long enough to spit into my hand, then went back to getting him off. He was close. I could tell. I was getting to know him as well. His hips rolled up and down with more and more speed. I suckled on his neck, my hand pumping him hard. His back stiffened and a roar of pleasure filled our apartment. I jerked several times, milking him, then fell hungrily on his cock. Dan’s groans nearly made me cream my skivvies. I cleaned him up with my tongue, then moved to his stomach, lapping up the milky-white droplets that speckled his lower belly and chest. He grabbed my hand, wresting it from his still-pulsing dick, and ran his tongue between my fingers. Watching him clean his spunk from my fingers pushed some sort of button in my head.

I climbed over him. He kept my index finger between his lips, his white teeth clamped tightly to the digit. His eyes were smoldering sin. I placed my knees on either side of his nude thighs.

“You want something else to chew on?” I asked. He nodded slowly, his mouth curling up into a wanton smile. He released my finger, then freed my cock from my sky-blue golf shorts.

“God, you’ve got a great cock,” he said, then took the head of my dick between his plump lips.

“And you have a delicious mouth,” I said, then thrust upward. My cock slid into the back of his throat. Dan choked and I instantly pulled back. Eyes watering slightly, he grabbed my pale ass cheeks with two powerful hands, then pushed my cock farther into his mouth. My fingers dropped to his shoulders then moved to his head. His hair was stiff with dried sweat. Golfing in late July is hot entertainment but not as hot as Dan sucking me off. Nothing is hotter than Dan and me together. I began pumping in and out of his mouth. His grip on my ass cheeks was painful. I tipped forward a bit, enough to get my hands on the back of the couch for leverage.

“Take it all,” I panted raggedly.

Dan closed his eyes and I eased that last inch or two of hard prick into his mouth. His cute nose rested in the thick thatch of red pubes around my dick. I inhaled and stilled, his throat working, his breathing hot and moist as he exhaled through his nose into the springy ginger nest.

“Oh fuck.” I could think of nothing better to say when I glanced down. This was the stuff of erotic dreams. Fuck gay porn. I didn’t need it. I lived it. He continued to take all I had in long, sweet pulls. When I was on the cusp, he spread my ass cheeks with his hands then found my rosette with his middle finger. His teeth raked on the underside of my dick when I lurched awkwardly forward. The man toyed with my ass, rimming it with his fingertip.

“Do it,” I huffed, my grip on the couch cushions so tight my knuckles were probably white. He pushed that finger in up to the first knuckle, dry. My spine contracted, my balls constricted and I came wildly. My hips moved like pistons. Dan coughed and choked as I blew everything I had into the back of his throat. One of the cushions ripped slightly from where it was attached to the couch as I thrashed around. I pulled out as soon as my decent self returned—and yes, there is one, it’s just really well hidden. We rolled onto the couch, me holding on to Dan. He lay on top of me, his mouth on mine, his tongue sharing my taste. My fingers moved over his wide back, enjoying the way the muscles twitched and played.

“Did I hurt you?” I asked when he dropped down on top of me like a winded wolverine. I stole a glance at the mutant on his beefy biceps. Yeah, that fit my man. Short, fierce, lethal to a man’s heart. Only thing separating Dan and Wolverine were those adamantium claws and a healing factor. And Dan was sweet and loving and trusting. Logan lacked a few of those traits. It was too hot to cuddle, but Dan was always looking for kisses and coos after a good fuck in the mouth.

“It’s cool,” he said into my neck. I wiggled him to the side a bit. “Man, it is hot in here. We need some AC.”

“I agree,” I yawned, lifting my leg to make room for him to slip between the sofa and me. The dude fit perfectly at my side. “Tomorrow let’s get to the appliance shop and get a couple. August is going to roast our nuts.”

“Sounds good,” Dan sleepily murmured. The stuffy atmosphere lulled us both asleep.

I woke up about forty-five minutes later, soaked with sweat. Dan was sprawled over me, arms and legs glued to my wet skin. I nudged him off, then got to my feet. The tiny apartment was sweltering. Dan slowly sat up, his long hair knotted and his face slack. I bent over, kissed him on the mouth, and stepped into my baby-blue shorts.

“Want to help me wash the cars?” I asked as I padded over to open the window wider. I looked down into the tiny backyard. Mr. and Mrs. Rupert, the property owners, sat out in the yard under a shady tree, tossing a tennis ball for the tiny toy poodle. “We can do the Ruperts’ too,” I added, then turned to see that Dan had fallen back asleep.

Flat on his back with his arms over his head and his short, strong legs spread, he was a buffet that, it seemed, I never got tired of sampling. Despite the urge to start something, I let the man sleep. Late afternoon was killer up here on the second floor. I slid my big feet into an old pair of sneakers by the front door and went down the stairs. The neighborhood was busy. Kids rode past on bikes, middle-income women power-walked by, men mowed lawns and dogs barked. John Mellencamp would be in his element spending a summer evening in Cayuga. The Americana was so thick it would make Captain America gag.

After getting the go-ahead from the Ruperts to wash the three cars in the small driveway, I set to work. Bare-chested and enjoying the cold spray of the hose, I soon had a maroon minivan and Dan’s new ride, a Jeep Cherokee, sparkling clean. I was standing beside my Escalade, hosing it off in preparation for the suds, when a local sheriff’s cruiser went by. He lifted a hand in greeting. I did the same. Then he pulled to the curb and got out of his car. It was nothing unusual around here.

Everyone, including the local law, just walked up to you to chat, get an autograph or ask for a selfie with you. Two weeks earlier, one of the local PD had barged into a game of front-lawn Frisbee between Dan and me, looking sheepish but carrying a Cougars T-shirt for us both to autograph. This sheriff probably wanted my John Hancock and a chance to jaw about the Cougars’ chances this upcoming season. Slim to none, if you asked me. The Mighty Ducks we ain’t, but you didn’t hear that from me. Coach Lambert felt I needed to work on my media personality. Which translated to “Lie through your teeth, feed the public upbeat rah-rah-rah crap, and don’t call anyone outside the locker room a cock-smooch”. It was much harder than you would think. Being polite grated against my nature.

“‘Sup,” I said as I ran water over my ride. The sheriff smiled and stood at my side. I knew he wanted something. He was probably trying to figure out how to ask if I would meet his kid or sign his wife’s tit. Yes to the first, because kids rocked, and it depended on the tit to the second.

“Nice ride. Cadillac, right?” he asked. I nodded and gave him a look. He was a big man, maybe linebacker in high school or college going by the size of his neck and arms. The dude was dressed in his dark-green uniform and wore those standard-issue mirrored sunglasses. The badge on his chest identified him as Sergeant Piskott. He reminded me of Dwayne Johnson. Yeah, he was that kind of big.

“Yep,” I replied as water sluiced over the Caddy’s hood.

“Rides nice, I bet,” he said.

“Like a dream,” I responded, and waited. He would ask soon. Had to get some small talk in before—

“You’re Victor Kalinski, correct?”

Annnd there it is.
I nodded and looked over at the neighbors’ privacy fence. They had some sort of creeping purple flowers that made the air smell sickly sweet. Bees swarmed the wall of green and purple.

“That would be me.” I smiled politely. It always paid to be nice to the constabulary. Who knew what kind of dung would pile up outside my door at any given time? “You want me to sign something for your son or something?”

“Actually I’m here to serve you these papers requesting that you submit to the court for proof of parentage of the unborn child of Heather Pavlick. Any questions, Mr. Kalinski?” he asked in a most friendly manner as the hose slid from my hand to the lawn. My feet got considerable wetter.

Any questions, he’d said. Only a few thousand, Sarge, starting with who the
fuck
is Heather Pavlick?