19th Hole

Big Dick

The 19th Hole (Part One)

I am Kyle Dalton, golfer. When I was younger, I was one of the most decorated Amateur golfers in my state, having won its Amateur Championship and that of a neighboring state in the same summer. I followed that by anchoring my college golf team and then trying to make it as a professional. When I failed, I returned home.

I am now 30.

I am an amateur once again, earning my living as an investment advisor and playing golf on weekends with buddies at my Club. I also teach golf a little on the side.

I have wavy, dark hair. I pay little attention to it. It does whatever it wants, so my attention is both unnecessary and pointless.

I am part Cherokee. I have smooth, soft skin. My body is almost hairless, except for a nice, full bush above my dick.

I am lean. Not muscular. Sinewy.

My eyes are a bit narrow and too small. My nose is also small.

My smile is my best feature. I have full lips and large, naturally straight white teeth. I do not smile easily or often. When I do, I get my way.

If I had to give you a referent for me, I’d use Joseph Gordon-Levitt. In Don Jon, not 3rd Rock From The Sun. Only, he’s a little more debonaire than I am. I am a t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops guy. I don’t “dress.”

I am single and straight. I am restless, so I prefer one-night stands. I do not want a relationship. I certainly don’t want to get married. I just want to get and go. I like to sleep alone. So, I sex there, and then head back to my home.

I like to drink. I like light drugs, especially pot. I am not an addict, but I drink and smoke a lot. There’s almost nothing I won’t try once.


For the final round of our Club Championship, I was paired with Michael Cavaner. A new member, he was a surprise member of the final pairing.

Michael joining our Club was a big deal. He was our first openly gay member. I knew a gay guy had joined the Club a few months before, but I had not met him before the first tee for the final round. I had heard he could play.

I could not lose to a gay guy. I just couldn’t.

I was not anti-gay. I hate the word homophobe, as I do not think anyone really has a phobia about gay people. They’re not spiders. People aren’t afraid of them. People are just assholes about them.

I was also not pro-gay. I was liberal and open-minded, but gay was nothing I ever cared about.

When I was in college, we had driven into the city on weekends and found ourselves late at a gay bar. For some reason, gay bars stayed open later than straight bars. So, they were the place to be after a certain hour.

I was perfectly comfortable in gay bars (I was perfectly comfortable most everywhere). I even got fired on. It was flattering, although it never interested me in the least.

I was also perfectly comfortable with gay guys. I had never had sex with a man, but I had come close. When I was a Senior in college, my best friend, Jordan, and I were sitting on my bed, leaning against the wall, getting high and listening to this or that. Jordan was the funniest guy I had ever met, seeing the humor in the most absurd situations. He turned things on their ends, held them up to the light, and then turned them on their ends again. He saw what others either could not or did not see.

As we smoked, Jordan pressed his leg to mine. I did not move it away. A one-way game of chicken ensued. Jordan placed his hand on my knew. I did not cry fowl. Jordan moved his hand to my thigh. I did not cry fowl. Jordan moved his hand to my groin. I did not cry fowl. As Jordan worked my dick through my shorts, I did not cry fowl. When Jordan moved his hand inside my shorts, I did not cry fowl. It was only when Jordan released my dick and moved his mouth toward it that I cried fowl, grabbing him by the neck and stopping him just as he was about to blow me.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t do that,” I interrupted.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I am.”

I really wasn’t. I wanted to let him blow me. I wanted to know what a blow job from a guy was like. The head I had gotten from women had not lived up to my adolescent expectations. I hardly ever came from a blow job; it was just a brief prelude to fucking.

Jordan and I graduated five days later. We had kept in touch since college, but we never spoke of the night he almost sucked my dick. Jordan is married now, with two kids.

Anyway, my first encounter with Michael surprised me. He did not look gay. He looked like a golfer.

He was about my age, but looked a little older. Like he had been through more life than I had. He was about my height, and well-built. He had dark hair with a hint of grey popping through on the sides. If I had to pick a referent for him, it would be Matt Bomer, the admittedly beautiful gay guy from White Collar.

Michael’s grey/green eyes were lively. They made him look like a wolf. Or a vampire.

My two shot lead over him was too close for comfort. I did not want a stressful back nine. I was there to win eryaman escort the Club Championship, not to make a friend. I would do both.

It did not take long. I birdied one to take my lead to three, and Michael hit it out of bounds on 2. When he double bogeyed, my lead was five, and I was on cruise control.

If Michael was disappointed, he did not show it. He stayed upbeat and exuded grace throughout the round.

He also was the opposite of what I expected. He did not flit or flounce around the course. He stalked. He moved like Dustin Johnson, taking long, languid steps that hinted of swagger. They were “I have a big dick and I know it” steps (When I was a freshman in college, my roommate had a monster cock, and he moved with the same “big dick” confidence with which Michael moved; like moths to a light, women flocked to that confidence).

Michael also had the same sense of calm and cool that Dustin had. It was a casual diffidence that, I later learned, masked a raging competitive fire.

As the tournament became mine, we talked about things other than golf. Michael was into sports, hard. He knew everything about all of them. He was also into politics, but as a spectator, not an adherent. He was conversant in all things political, and his conversation betrayed no party bias.

All in all, he seemed like a great guy. Not a great gay guy. A great guy.

When we putted out on 18, he congratulated me on my victory, removing his visor, taking my hand in his, looking me straight in the eyes, and offering a sincere, “Congratulations. Well played.”

There was a small cocktail party in the Men’s Grill to celebrate my win. Michael was there, and he sent a Grey Goose on the rocks to me. When I held the drink up to him as a thank you, he smiled and nodded back. He left as soon as he finished his drink.


I asked the Pro Shop for Michael’s contact information and texted him mid-week. “Great to meet you Sunday. We have a spot Saturday if you’d like to join us.”

Michael texted back on Friday. “Just rec’d this. Not much of a texter. I put my name in for 2morrow. Thx.”

My buddies were surprised when I told them I had invited Michael as our 5th.

“Isn’t that the gay dude?”


“We’re not giving him strokes, if you know what I mean,” one joked.

“I bet he’ll want to give us strokes,” another joked back.

I assured them he was a great guy, but I feared I had made a mistake. My buddies weren’t anti-gay, but they also were not mature. I hoped they would not offend Michael, but I expected they would.

I’d find out soon enough. On the first tee, John introduced himself to “Mike.” Michael quickly corrected him, “Actually, it’s Michael.”

John gracelessly responded, “Of course it is.” John, I am sure, thought all gays insisted on their full Christian names. It was not Jeff, it was Jeffrey. It was not Jon, it was Jonathan. It was not Eddie, it was Edward.

Michael gracefully did not respond to John’s provocation.

On the third hole, Dave missed from about three feet and muttered “you stupid faggot” under his breath. Everyone but Dave immediately looked at Michael. It seemed like one of those moments. If Michael got offended, then he surely wouldn’t be back in our group.

He did not. Instead, he deadpanned, “I’m a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

The group’s laughter cut the tension. The rest of the round went smoothly. If Michael was at all uncomfortable, his game did not show it. He made three birdies and three bogeys, shooting an even par 72 and netting a $105 profit on the swing with Sam against me, Dave, and John.

We learned a lot about Michael during the round, as he played carelessly and confidently. He had grown up in a small, southern Missouri town, far from either of Missouri’s cities. He had left to go to Vanderbilt for college. He had stayed in the south for law school, choosing Emory over more prestigious options. He was an Assistant United States Attorney, a prosecutor of sex crimes. He was an only child, estranged from his Evangelical parents (and everyone else in his hometown) over being gay. He loved the St. Louis Cardinals more than anyone or anything. He lived alone. He worked a lot.

We did not learn about his love life. While it seemed natural for him to ask us if we were married and had kids (all but me were married, but none of us had kids yet), none of us asked him if he was married or even if he had a boyfriend. I did not realize our omission until I was at home that afternoon. I wondered if Michael had noticed. Or, if he was just used to it. I suspected it was more the norm for him than it should have been.

After our round, Michael bought drinks for the group in the Men’s Card Room, including a Hendricks on the rocks for himself and another Grey Goose on the rocks for me. After quickly draining his drink, Michael thanked us for including him in the game and excused himself. It was a noticeably quick sincan escort exit, and I wondered if we made him uncomfortable with our guyness.

As soon as he was gone, the group’s talk turned to how Michael did not seem gay at all, except for his insistence on being “Michael.” After a bit of banter back and forth, I interjected, “What’d you expect? That he’d stare at your crotches all day?”

“Not ours. But maybe yours.”

I should have expected that. My buddies called me “pretty boy” and referred to me as “gay good looking” (in our parlance, “gay good looking” was “so good looking you could be gay”).

“Nah. I don’t think he’s like that at all.”

The group agreed. The group also credited him for being cool about the slur on three, at the same time using Dave’s stupidity to force him to buy a round for the rest of us.

When I got back to my apartment, I texted Michael. “We have a spot next Sat. if you want to join.” It was about 48 hours before I received back “Sure. Thx.”

Michael became a regular in our Saturday morning group. After about the third or fourth Saturday he joined us, he thanked us for including him. As he did, he admitted “It’s been a little tough to get a regular game.”

Dave, seeming to love the taste of his own foot, immediately asked, “Because you’re gay?”

Michael rebuffed him. “No, because I’m new. And, meeting new people is tough for me. I’m an only child, we lived outside of town, and I’ve been a loner pretty much my whole life.”

Michael and I were the last two at the table. He was caught in a Juniper bush, and I was drinking my way through a sizable bottle of Grey Goose. We ended up having dinner together. Neither of us talked much as we ate. It was a casual comfort. As we sat there, I realized we were friends. I was pleased by the realization.

As we finished, Michael thanked me personally for including him in the group. “No worries,” I said, “you’re a cool dude.”

Michael did not say anything back. He just smiled. His whole face transformed when he smiled. His active eyebrows arched. His eyes danced. His cheeks dimpled.

When we stood to leave, we realized we were in no condition to drive. I suggested we walk to my apartment, which was only a few blocks from the Club. Michael quickly accepted.

We staggered more than we walked. When we got to my apartment, we (not so) smartly drank more and watched the the Royals together. Michael fell asleep/passed out sitting in my recliner, so I went to bed. When I awoke, Michael was gone. He had left a note on a kleenex. It said only “Thanks for caring for me.” Not, “Thanks for taking care of me,” but “Thanks for caring for me.” Michael was not one to choose words carelessly. I was struck by the intimacy of his note.

The 19th Hole (Part Two)

Michael and I were quickly thick as thieves, conspirators in a gay/straight bromance. At 30, it was not easy to make new friends. Being with Michael was like writing on a blank page. He did not demand, judge, or react. He took what he got. He did not expect or insist on more. He was an easy friend.

In our bromance, I learned Michael had grown up very poor, the only child of two alcoholic parents who refused to work. His father was Mike, and Michael thought so little of him that he insisted on his full Christian name, as he was the full man he thought his father was not.

Michael started life in a shitty neighborhood in a forgotten Missouri town. When he was 8, he moved to a farmhouse outside the forgotten town. He had to feel like he lived on the edge of the abyss.

Michael was pretty much on his own from the get go, no siblings and, in his formative years, no neighbors. He had learned to entertain himself and to be comfortable on his own. He had been bullied for being “different” and “smart” throughout, especially in High School. The “different” was almost certainly “gay.” The “smart” was almost certainly “smarter than everyone else.”

Michael was the smartest person I’d ever met. He could talk about anything. He seemed to have read everything. Maybe that’s what you do when you are alone all the time.

He was also the kindest person I’d ever met. The worst I ever heard him say about another human was “I’m not sure he’s a good person.” From Michael, that was a stinging indictment.

I quickly loved Michael. I did not tell him that. But, I did. He made me feel better about myself simply by being my friend. He was the best person I’d ever met. Nothing in his upbringing portended the man I knew.

And he loved me. I could see it in the way he looked at me. I could tell it in the way he treated me. I just could not figure out why. I was not near the person he was.

We spent a lot of time together. We were the yin to each other’s yang.

And, he left me alone. Mostly. I had caught him meat gazing me a little, but I did not mind. I had nice junk, and it was generally visible (the head of my dick was big and easily showed through my shorts etlik escort and my jeans, especially since I rarely wore underwear).

But that was all I encountered. I have a healthy ego, and I expected Michael at some point to move on me. We were drunk and high and horny together a lot. But, he didn’t.

It was winter. The golf season was over. Michael and I had settled into a routine. On Tuesday nights, I went to his apartment, and we played Scrabble or cards. We drank a little, but not a lot, as we both had to work the next day.

On Friday nights, we met for drinks after work downtown with a group of my friends. We’d find someplace for dinner, either as a group or as a pair. We’d go out after dinner, almost always to straight bars. We’d finish the night by getting high back at my apartment. Michael often stayed over. He always slept on the sofa. He was always gone when I woke up.

Saturdays were for trying to get laid, so we went our separate ways. On Sunday, we met for brunch at 11 at the Club. Michael always asked about my Saturday. I never asked about his. I knew I should, but I just couldn’t.

One random November brunch, I decided to quit being a bitch and asked Michael if he was seeing anyone or getting laid. Michael was candid in his response.

“Nah. I’m not good at it. And, I’m too busy chasing rainbows.”

I wondered if I was the rainbow.

My birthday was Friday, December 17. When we got back to my house, Michael handed me a package. It was an autographed picture of Jack Nicklaus, my childhood hero, with his putter raised over his head on the 17th green at the 1986 Masters, which he had won in stunning fashion at the age of 46, in the twilight of his heroic career. Michael included a simple note, “Thank you for being my friend.”

I was touched. I hugged Michael and thanked him. It was the first time we had hugged. It lasted a little too long, as Michael pulled me close and held me tight.

When I pulled away, Michael’s eyes were wet. I asked why. Michael’s answer overwhelmed me.

“I’ve never had a best friend. I’ve wanted one my whole life.”

I hugged Michael again. He cried into my shoulder.

I had no idea what it was like to live life on the outside looking in. I had always been on the mountaintop. I was white, came from a good family, was attractive and athletic, and had always had a seat at the table. I remembered kids like Michael, the ones who seemed to disappear when the last bell rang. I always wondered where they went and what they did before the first bell rang. But, I never took a single step to find out.

I did not know what it meant to grow up Michael. I did not know the feeling of being bullied in school, as Michael had been. I did not know the feeling of being alone most of my life, as Michael had been. And, I did not know the feeling of being spurned by my parents, as Michael had been.

Michael stayed over again that night. Unlike prior nights, I told him to sleep with me. With the emotion of the evening, it seemed like the right thing. We both slept on top of the covers in our jeans and sweaters. As always, Michael was gone when I woke up. I had not felt him leave.

I had wondered if Michael would move on me in the night. I had not decided what I’d do if he did. I may have been a little disappointed he hadn’t.

The next Friday night was Christmas Eve. We went through our regular routine and wound up back at my apartment with drinks and a bong. I was spending the next day with my family. I was sad to learn Michael was spending it alone. I was more sad when he answered “I’m used to it” when I shared my disappointment. I knew I should invite him to my family’s, but I was 30, unmarried, and I didn’t want to try to explain to my extended family why I was bringing a hot gay guy home for Christmas. So, I looked out for myself, not Michael.

It was snowing. We could hear the snow through the windows, which is one of my favorite sounds. It’s like falling peace.

The lights were dim, we were high, and we were listening to one of my Cat Stevens albums (I had an awesome record collection, having inherited it from my dad when my parents downsized).

When “Peace Train” came on, I decided to broach the subject of Michael’s lack of interest in me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Why haven’t you ever made a move on me?”



“You really are, like, the vainest person ever,” he chided. Then, he broke into song, “You’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you, don’t you?” He had a beautiful singing voice.

“Isn’t it?” I jokede.

“It’s not. I bet you have never gavotted. I bet you don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

“To answer your question, we’re friends, you’re straight, and I wouldn’t want the fact that I’m not straight ruin the fact that we’re friends. Our friendship means too much to me. I’m not going to risk it. Like I told you, I’ve never had a best friend before.”

I soaked Michael’s answer in. It was not an “‘I don’t want to’ answer.” It was an “‘It’s not a good idea’ answer.”

We sat in silence, my question and Michael’s answer hanging between and over us. Michael broke the silence.

“Have you ever?”

“No. My best friend in college almost blew me once, but I stopped him.”

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