dontravis.com blog post #500
How about that… my 500th post, or so my count goes. The site probably differs because I occasionally forget to change the number. At any rate, that seems a milestone.
But I get ahead of myself. Let’s tell it as it happened.
Damon Dutton was the hero of Frijoles Cañon College. He was astonishingly handsome and oozed manliness. His graceful evasion of blockers on the football field was matched only by his lisson evasion of opponents on the basketball court. And we all admired his athleticism on the tennis courts. That’s where I met him.
“Dolph Hardy,” I said, offering him a hand across the net.
“Damon Dutton. Dolph. Is that Randolph or Rudolph?”
“Randolph,” I affirmed.
His smile seemed to light up the entire court. “Good to meet you. I hear you’re a whizz with a racket. Try not to make me look too bad, okay?”
“From what I hear, that won’t be a problem.”
And it wasn’t. The first set lasted over an hour before I finally took it. The second set was hard-fought, but turned out to be his. The third set wasn’t even a contest. His stamina was worlds better than mine, and he ran me ragged chasing returns. He took the contest, beamed like he hadn’t even worked up a sweat, and then offered a milkshake after a shower.
I’d heard about Damon the first day I got to Frijoles. A junior standout who had it all. Brains. Beauty. Talent. Everyone’s hero. I figured he wouldn’t deign to cast a glance on a lowly underclassman, but he sorta adopted me after that match. Of course, I was flattered beyond reason by his attention. Before long, I became a member of the legion of Damon worshipers on campus.
In high school, I’d been a mini-Damon, myself. Good student. Athletics confined to tennis, but I was a star at that. Popular. No slouch in the looks department, I usually found a date whenever I wanted with whatever girl I wanted. In fact, I busted my cherry in my junior year at seventeen with the homecoming queen. And I dug it. Really dug it.
At Frijoles, I was just another freshman, except on the tennis court. Even here, I was a standout at that sport, and it was beginning to open doors for me by the time I had my match with Damon. After that, the embrace of his friendship got me everything I wanted, including a new girlfriend. Phillipa, a blue-eyed blond, was a terror on the court on the distaff side. We were already casting eyes at one another, but when Damon made clear his friendship, she stopped playing the “standoffish” game, and we became an item. Even so, it wasn’t until a double date with Damon and his playmate of the moment that I scored with her. While Damon drew cries of ecstasy from his girl in the front seat of his Chevvy Impala, I achieved nirvana in the back seat with Phillipa. College was going great!
Damon’s friendship came with benefits. Soon I was invited to parties where junior and even seniors engaged me in more or less adult discussions… and some serious drinking. Alcohol and I were never on a first-name basis, but we got close to it after that. I’d had an alcoholic Uncle Dewey, so I was well aware of the danger. Even so, I got snockered a couple of times.
By the time I returned for the second semester after spring break, I more or less recognized that my friendship with Damon had slipped into near idolatry. Almost everything I’d done on the break brought a vague “wondering what Damon would do” thought. I even called his cell a couple of times, but got sent to voicemail. I worried when he didn’t call back the first time, but he responded the second, sounding just like the Damon I knew, full of vitality and curiosity about what I’d been up to. Come to think of it, I didn’t call Phillipa once.
Everything seemed copacetic upon the beginning of the semester with both Damon and my girlfriend. I eased back into college life without a care in the world.
Things got even better when Damon selected me as his doubles partner for an upcoming tennis tournament. Some of the luster faded when he insisted I play for the opposite team in practice sessions, but his reasoning made sense. He wanted to play against the best. Then as the tournament neared, we teamed up to get accustomed to one another’s style of play. I played net, he played backfield. And it worked. We beat all the other local teams and advanced to playoffs.
It had sneaked up on me, but as we stood in the showers after our winning match, I noticed that I liked looking at him as he scrubbed away the sweat and grime of his efforts. I waited until he washed his hair or face before taking a good look south of the navel. And I always got a tingle when thinking of that thing buried in his girlfriend of the moment. I never mentioned anything because I liked the nonchalance with which he displayed his nakedness. Made it seem natural… normal.
A week before we were to meet the Rio Grande Valley champs for our leg of the playoff, we were driving to a party at the private home of one of the local campus girls, when he caught me by surprise.
“Okay, Dolph, we gotta get serious about this upcoming match.”
“I am serious, Damon.”
“No, what I mean is we gotta save our strength, build up our stamina.”
“Work on it every day.”
“You’re not getting my point. Tonight’s the last time we ought to get it off until after the meet. No more sex after tonight.”
I blinked. “But Phillipa’s not even going to be at the party.”
I laughed. “I’m not like you. I don’t have girlfriends all over the place.”
Does Damon, that paragon of physical beauty and masculine demeanor, have a scheme in mind? Stay tuned.
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