In the golf club lounge, Greg had just finished a croissant sandwich loaded with turkey, cheese and tomato and was cleaning his hands on a napkin when he spotted someone out of his past across the room.
The pulses in his throat throbbed. His mouth went dry. Images flooded his memory.
They’d been so young–maybe nineteen–playing in an international collegiate tournament when they’d met. They’d had a smoldering, three-night affair. It wasn’t Greg’s first time with a male, but it was the first and only time it had meant more than sex to him.
Days, it was a wonder they could swing a club at all after staying up most of the night talking and fucking their balls off, but, even though shaky, they’d managed to play. And play well. At night, they’d laughed themselves silly over how out of it they’d been and how successful. Then the laughter would fade into a blend of hungry mouths and hands touching and rubbing, of cocks pulsing as sensual ecstasy thundered through them in utter abandon.
The tournament ended. So did the affair. They’d returned to their respective countries, separated by almost five thousand miles. Like so many guys that age, they weren’t into writing, but Greg had sent one letter. When there was no response, he hadn’t written again. Or called. An overseas call didn’t fit his wallet, and he wasn’t eager for another rebuff like the unanswered letter.
He’d always thought the loss of this friendship was because he’d beaten the gifted Vargas in the final round. It gave Team USA the win over Team Madrid. Still, he’d wake from a dream in the night and the image, the feel and taste of that lover would be there. He’d lie in the darkness for hours before he could claim sleep again.
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