Reporter's Cardiac Muscle Nearly Shattered

WARNING: This isn't like my usual posts ... this is not what I consider a "happy ending" on any level, but the event has been weighing heavily on me as of late and I thought "saying it out loud" might help.


He's been gone more than five weeks ... transferred to another newspaper in our "network" somewhere in Illinois. I skipped his going away party, maybe to make a point. He trumped me by not attending my father's funeral. Love sucks!!

When I started work at this paper, Mark Wilson ... sports editor, local hero, and everyone's friend ... was just a byline accompanied by a tiny, grainy photo. I wasn't included in many meetings those first few weeks, so I never actually saw him "in the flesh." I knew from office talk that he had been at the paper for more than four years and was well known in the community as a track and field superstar from a local high school. He also wrestled in college with distinction, so the "sports beat" was a natural place for his interests and charisma. Mark was married to his high school sweetheart and had two children ... a boy and a girl. Stable, admired ... he was living the American dream.

So the day when he walked through my wing of the main newspaper building and introduced himself ... complete with sparkling blue eyes, a blunt nose, and adorable freckles across his cheeks ... all I could do was take his hand in a rough shake and quietly inhale his masculine scent. I was even more surprised when he asked "So how would the 'new guy' like to go to lunch? ... my treat!" My workday was pretty light, but I would have left a potential Pulitzer on the burner to spend some time with this hottie!

We drove separately to a nearby greasy spoon and dined on incredibly spicy wings and a pile of onion rings drowning in ranch dressing. Mark also ordered beer. "One never hurt anyone," he chuckled innocently. But by "one" he meant one pitcher ... each. The brew hit me surprisingly hard. I was a bit woozy and overheated, so it was a good thing that lunch consisted of more than two hours of story-swapping and youthful comparisons between us. He was easily the sexiest, most earnest, and playful man I had met in months ... years maybe. Every story he told was raccous and meaningful at the same time. I spoke little, mesmerized by his voice and the way his whole face and body worked as he regaled me. I was also exquisitely hard the entire time. I had to adjust my dick below the table about every ten minutes ... I just hoped I didn't have any obvious pre-cum stains showing when I stood up.

Those 120+ minutes were the start of an awesome friendship. We were both the "babies" of multiple-sibling families so we compared "war stories" about growing up with aggressive, overbearing brothers and sisters. We also both attended large universities ... major rivals, actually ... so we tried to outdo each other with tales of collegiate mischief and chicanery.

Lunch for "Mark and me" quickly became a two- or three-time-a-week thing. I so looked forward to seeing him and learning more about him. Sometimes we brought our lunches from home and just sat outside and ate. We went back to the diner a bunch of times too ... when they saw us the order for "wings and rings" went straight to the kitchen. And our conversations acquired a deeper level of sharing. Mark and I both lost our mothers to illness at a young age and we talked about the traumas openly ... more so, I think, than with others in our lives. He was from a very strict Irish Catholic family and I think his "recovery" process was even more tortured than my own. The sporty guy also admitted to having occasional "weed phases," and we often met after work and shared a joint or two and just talked about the stresses of work. Other times, like on weekends, we would meet up and get baked at my apartment, talking and laughing about God knows what ... just enjoying the unfiltered ease of being with someone you trusted. The workday started to become a daily exercise in anxiety ... waiting for his phone calls and e-mails ... hoping to run into him in the halls ... sometimes thinking I caught his scent when in a meeting or passing an open office.

And I'll "fess up" ... I started fantasized ... just a little ... about our friendship morphing into something more. There was many a night that I jerked my meat thinking about throating Mark's gorgeous unclipped cock. Or when I pushed a finger or two deep inside my suctioning rectum, I had my eyes closed and was imagining the wonderful sensations were in actuality his rod thrusting into me without hesitation.

Mark was a very physical guy, never short on hi-fives and playful hugs. And each one usually caused a stiffening in my briefs ... at least on the days I was wearing underwear. Mark lived about 35 minutes outside the city, and lots of evenings he would stay in town and we would hit a bar to play pool or go bowling or go listen to really crappy local bands. I know he and his wife fought sometimes, and he stayed in town to avoid going home right away ... letting things cool down for a few hours before making the commute into suburbia. It didn't matter to me ... I just liked having a good buddy to do things with.

And like good friends, we attempted to embrace our differences. I forced Mark to attend an art opening at a local gallery. He hated it, saying the whole thing was pretentious and idiotic. He then, in turn, tried to get me to be his "workout buddy" at the gym on a semi-regular basis. I wasn't disciplined enough to make that little adventure work, plus I'm extremely insecure around "muscle gods" with massive chests and biceps as big around as my waist. Who isn't? Well, other over-built studs, I guess. Anyway, I went a few times to appease him and was rewarded by finally seeing my pal naked in the showers. His chest was heavily muscled, covered by a coppery pelt and sporting the most succulent nipples I'd ever seen. Mark was beautiful, wet and soapy and working his wide hands over his tree-trunk thighs and sinewy arms. He had a thick, uncut cock ... maybe seven inches in length ... and the fattest lowhangers I had seen in a long, long time. The same reddish-brown curls covered his balls and the base of his manhood. I could feel Mark's presence in the showers ... he was an alpha male and he knew I was checking him out. If nothing else, my raging hard-on was difficult to disguise. Once, he turned away and reached around to soap up his hair-entrenched crack. He spread his cheeks apart and really spent some time massaging his crevice with a handful of liquid soap. I almost fainted from the show he put on. But for most of our time together under the spray, I couldn't take my eyes off his feet. His feet are what drove me to casually jack my own eight-inch pecker, not caring who saw me. Mark had the feet of a serious runner ... six or seven miles every day when he could manage the time. They were cracked, calloused, and over-developed with horrible split and gnarled nails. In short, they were sexy as all fuck!!

After about three months of friendship, Mark begged me to sign up for a wilderness run hosted by a big state park in southern Ohio. The event included several levels, like a "junior run" ... a 14-mile course that lots of people of all ages walked, trotted, or jogged at a leisurely pace ... which is what he challenged me to do. He would be competing in a more advanced, timed 40-mile endurance event that followed some of the same route as the junior run but also utilized some trails that meandered deep into the parkland. Even with my bad knee and painful memories of the two years I ran high school cross country, I couldn't say "no" to my best bud. Before I could change my mind or think up a good excuse, Mark was online registering us both.

The event started early on a Saturday, so we drove down Friday after work and acquired a motel room ... two double beds ... through Sunday. The ride south was uneventful and we settled for a light supper and early bedtime because Mark had a 6 a.m. start time for his leg of the run ... my larger group didn't kick off their "run" until 8:30 a.m. It was autumn so the air was crisp and the foliage was beautiful. It took me close to six hours to transverse the course, but at the end of the race I was wobbly but proud. Seldom-used muscles continued to send hostile messages to my brain as I hobbled to the park's lodge to relax and wait for Mark. But even in my discomfort, I was riding a unique "high" ... three times during the race, Mark and I intersected out on the trails. Each time he startled me with a war cry and then playfully swatted my ass as he ran by. Immediately following each encounter, I briefly considered going "off road" to jack off ... my pecker was so stiff and throbbing in my jock strap and sky-blue basketball shorts ... but I figured that the event organizers and park officials probably frowned on that kind of "seeding" in their forest.

It was very late in the day when Mark finished up ... earning a solid "middle" time. Each of us received a certificate, t-shirt, and a bag of trinkets and freebie items. We grabbed a huge pizza with everything on it and a case of beer and retreated to our motel room to lick our wounds. Once inside, we dropped out gear and cranked up the AC. Mark grabbed a slice and devoured half of it with gusto, some grease dripping seductively down and around his stubbled chin. He ducked into the bathroom to shower first but left the door open so we could talk. As he heralded me with the difficulties he encountered in the park, I surreptitiously fondled my cock and balls thinking of Mark touching himself as he washed off a day of heavy exertion. He was just wrapping a towel around himself as he exited the bathroom and I got a great look at his fuzzy, pale posterior. Before I began cleaning up, Mark filled a big tub he'd brought with him full of hot water and mixed in some mineral salts. While he soaked his aching, sexy feet, I took my turn in the shower. I was already semi-hard when I stepped under the lukewarm jet, but when I noticed a few stray reddish hairs stuck to the small bar of complimentary motel soap, my bloated rod rose to its full glory and I rubbed and tugged to the point just shy of shooting. I'm not sure why I didn't nut to release my sexual tension ... for some reason I wanted to remain agitated and "squirrelly" and see how the evening progressed.

I dried off in the bathroom and donned a fresh pair of gray boxer briefs and a T-shirt. Mark had left me some pizza, so I put the box on my bed and ate hungrily. We had had the forethought to bring along a bottle of whiskey, so the conversation and the crappy cable TV we watched became

extremely funny. Eventually we shut the television and the lights off and laid down on our respective beds to continue drinking and talking. I tried to keep things light and NOT try to catch glimpses of Mark's naked flesh, but Mark, whose every other statement was "shit, I'm so buzzed," turned to some deeper topics.

His first big announcement was that the bickering between him and his wife, Linda, had escalated to the point where once or twice he had considered leaving her. Sometimes they fought about money, he explained. Other times the shouting was centered on his staying out and not being home enough to help with the kids. That made me feel a little guilty. "And it's been months since we've touched each other ... hell, you're probably getting more action than I am!" he proclaimed as he swilled his can of suds. I added nothing to illicit further discussion.

After a brief pause, Mark was off and running about the "good old days" of college when he and Linda were attending separate schools. He had all the benefits of having a "girlfriend at home" but still took full advantage of all the parties and drinking and indiscriminate sex he could find. This particular discussion thread had me rock hard as Mark recounted the first time he'd jerked off with his roommate snoring right above him in the top bunk ... his first threesome after crashing a fraternity kegger ... his first time with an older woman sitting alone at a local bar ... his first time with a dude ...

"WHAT?!" I practically shouted, almost spilling the shot of Wild Turkey poised at my lips.

I couldn't see his expression clearly ... the only sources of light were some weak beams sneaking through the room's only window and the crack of light emitted by the bathroom fixture through the mostly-closed door. I assumed his face was full of trepidation ... wondering what I'd say next. He didn't give me a chance. "Buddy, promise you won't breathe a word of this to anyone ... my junior year I moved off campus with a buddy from the wrestling team and his dorm mate. This other guy, Kip, was so much fun. It was like living with a stand-up comedian ... every word out of his mouth was fuckin' hilarious! And he could tell a joke or spin a story like no one I know ... well, maybe you. Yeah!! You remind me a lot of Kip! Anyway, one night me and Kip were kicking back watching basketball on ESPN and we're demolishing a case of Coors really fast. Well, I leaned over to get a fresh one and Kip just leans over too and kisses me! BAM!! ... plants one right on my lips!!"

"I was shocked," Mark continued from across a small gulf of darkness ... which was fortuitous because I was openly stroking my stick through my clinging undies. "But it felt good. Real good ... better and harder than with most chicks. Then Kip kind of pulled me out of my chair and down on top of him on the sofa and we really made out. His mouth was on fire and he bit my lips and sucked on my tongue like a crazy fucker. It was so noisy and sloppy. Fuck, dude ... it was so freakin' fun!! After a minute or two, this Kip guy reached down and grabbed my ass. It felt good ... him squeezing me like that ... so I worked my hands under him and worked his butt. It was small and all muscle. Then one of his hands let go and reached up and grabbed one of my nips. It felt awesome so I grabbed one of his and started twisting it. He moaned a little and kissed me even harder. Finally, he pulled his head back and whispered in my ear that he wanted to suck my cock." Mark took an audible breath and plunged ahead with his story. "So I let him. Just like that ... I was standing there with the TV blaring and my pants around my ankles and Kip was on his knees blowing me. He really worked my cock like a pro. Finally he looked up at me with this sexy little smirk and I got caught up in his scruffy goatee and watery green eyes and I just went off. And the fucker swallowed every drop of the best load I've ever nutted. And get this ... he wipes his mouth, gets back up into his seat on the sofa, and just starts watching the game again. Like nothing happened. And we never talked about it ... ever ... and nothing was ever any different for the rest of the school year we lived together."

Apparently the story was over because I suddenly noticed how deathly quiet the motel room had become. Then Mark's bed creaked as he shifted position, leaning toward me, and his face became a bit more distinct in the feeble light. His gaze was intense and pleading, challenging me for some type of response to his confession. I had a million questions ... and a million desires I wanted to share. But I took the coward's road and simply changed the subject and told him that my father's treatment for his colon cancer was not going well and that I was very scared. "I'm sorry about that," he whispered; I was sorry that I wasn't brave enough to seize the opportunity and do something about my feelings.

Noting the time, Mark suggested we get some shuteye. He got off of his bed and went to click off the bathroom light. Then he moved into a spot where a fairly strong shaft of light filtered into the room from the parking lot. He was facing me, almost waiting to see if he had my attention, when he peeled off his towel and tossed it to the floor.

His body was cast in sexy shades of silvery gray and umber. His fully-erect cock jutted provocatively away from his groin, and the helmet-shaped crown looked huge and inviting. Looking directly at me, Mark pumped his succulent prick for three or four languid strokes. Then he climbed under his covers and dissolved into sleep. My mind was filled with so many things ... images and emotions ... but my body was tired and responding to the somniferous effects of the alcohol. I too drifted off with a hard dick and unresolved feelings.

The next day, just like in his man-on-man college connection, Mark acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened or been discussed the previous night. The ride home was strangely normal ... casual banter and small talk ... but I felt something coiled in my stomach that would not relax.

I'm sure some people would consider this "girly" or "queeny" or label it in some derogatory fashion, but the events following the wilderness run and Mark's disclosure forced me to start playing the "Maybe Game." In some small corner of my brain, I think I'd been playing the game for weeks. Maybe he's gay. Maybe he has feelings for me. Maybe he'd divorce his wife and ask me to move away with him and start a new, more progressive life ... Portland or Seattle or Boston, I fantasized. Maybe we'd never look at anyone else but each other. Maybe we'd spice things up with a "buddy" from time to time just to keep our sex life fresh and exciting. Maybe, I thought, he'd eventually use the "L Word" and make my heart melt. Maybe I'm an idiot!!

Around two weeks later, Mark and I were sitting in a bar ... shocking, I know. He had just called his wife and things turned tense. "I don't know how long this sports banquet is gonna last," he lied. "I'll try not to wake you when I come in." And after a short pause on his end, "Fine ... I'll sleep on the couch. Bye." His cell phone disappeared to be replaced by a beer mug as if by magic. Mark took a long drink; I watched his throat muscles flex and felt my crotch stir as naughty thoughts invaded my slightly-fuzzy brain.

We drank in silence for a few minutes, each of us glancing around at neighboring patrons and occasionally craning our necks to see what was on the TV located above the shelf of shiny liquor bottles a few feet to the right.

"Hell, I don't even wanna go home."

I took a hefty swig of liquid courage. "Well," I said conspiratorily, "we could do the motel thing again."

"Huh?" he muttered as he swiveled his stool toward me.

"You know ... get a room so we don't have to be out driving tonight. Maybe we could even take things a little further than last time." There ... it was on the table ... I'd taken the plunge. What's the worst that could happen? I lazily asked myself.

The color in Mark's cheeks went from a light carnation to deepest crimson in a flash of fury. "What are you getting ... are you ... dude, are you fagging out on me?!"

My reflection in the big bar mirror looked frightened and stricken, as if slapped across the face. He continued to stare and sputter his vitriol. "You can't be ... you can't seriously think I'd ... you're queer? A fag?" My eyes felt wet and wide and they whispered all my secrets. "You're a fucking cocksucker!! I can't believe this ... I can't believe I've been spending my ... I so don't need this shit!!" He stood up somewhat unsteadily, his mouth working to form more viscious barbs but nothing emerged. He looked like a trout gasping for breath. The legs on his bar stool screeched heavily on the dusty oak floor as he shoved away from the bar and walked directly out the door.

Several other people at the bar were looking at me, various opinions displayed on their sweaty faces. I didn't know what to do. So I drank. And drank. And drank some more.

The DUI I was charged with that night kept me home "sick" and out of the office for three days. I spent that time making legal arrangements and looking at a silly scrapbook I'd assembled to depict my friendship with Mark ... concert tickets, the program from the art show I dragged him to, some great photos of us just hanging out, the arrowhead necklace given out at the wilderness run, a lottery ticket stub from the time I'd won $50 and we spent it on a nice dinner, and a crumpled credit card receipt from a club where Mark unknowlingly flirted with a tranny.

When I returned to work, everything was eerily normal ... no sly looks or accusing glances or any catty gossip that I could discern. But also no Mark. He skipped meetings where he knew I would be attending, or sat stiffly avoiding any eye contact whatsoever. My phone messages went unanswered. Ditto with e-mails. I tried justifying the situation ad nauseum. He's embarrassed and doesn't know how to deal with me, I considered to myself. He's married and he has a family silently crossed my mind. He's afraid of his feelings, I gently mused. But finally, I settled on you're just not good enough ... not worth the risk!!

When it was announced at work that Mark Wilson was leaving to take a job at a bigger newspaper, I'm not sure if I felt more relieved or devastated. His final "two weeks" were horrible for me. I just walked through my days in a lugubrious stupor, going through the motions of living and working. A few friends and co-workers noticed the changes in me, but they atrributed my lethargy to my father's failing health. About a week after Mark was officially gone ... though I knew he and his family weren't moving for another few days ... my Dad lost his battle with cancer. My battle with a broken heart had just begun!

HEADLINE: Reporter's Cardiac Muscle Nearly Shattered