*Note from site administrator. This post was originally posted June 10, 2012. Due to a server glitch, it’s been re-posted on June 11, 2012.
Do you like preparing meals as much as I do? My boyfriend and I take turns cooking; we’re both pretty handy in the culinary arts. But it would be nice to have a cute houseboy to help with prep work and with cleaning up. Maybe someone like the young man at left. He’d look good in my kitchen, I think.
I took a nice walk on the beach this morning, about eight AM. Conditions were nice:partly cloudy, with a light breeze. The Gulf was calm and I took a dip before coming home to bathe in our patio’s outdoor shower. What a great way to start the morning.
I’ll spend my morning writing new fiction. Then my boyfriend and I have a tee time at a very nice private club, on an island right next to ours. Non-members can’t normally play there, but since it’s summertime, they let non-members play in the afternoon, at a reasonable price.
Yesterday, I promised I would post new free Martin Delacroix fiction, in thanks for the amazing support all of you have given me in recent weeks, as I rebuild this site from the ruins of my old blog. So, today I’m posting the first installment of my short story, Track Meat. This story originally appeared in a 2011 Cleis Press anthology titled Hot Jocks. It takes place in Tallahassee, where I attended law school, a million years ago. It’s a sexy tale, one I think you’ll all enjoy.
Just remember, Track Meat comes with a caveat: This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between gay males. If this sort of material offends you, or if you are under the age of eighteen, don’t read Track Meat.
* * * *
Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2010
The Runner is beautiful.
Every weekday afternoon I visit the university track, a Tartan turf oval with an emerald infield, aluminum bleachers and a press box. I run laps for an hour or so: a fast lap, then a slower “recovery” lap, then another fast one. It’s called “interval training.”
The Runner is always there. He keeps a steady pace—six-minute miles; I’ve timed him—for about an hour as well, a ten-mile workout.
When we pass each other on the oval I barely hear his shoes touch the track; it’s like he’s floating. His running shorts are flimsy, slit at the hips for ease of movement. His T-shirts fit tightly, clinging to his sternum and darkening under his arms after he’s run a mile or two.
He looks nineteen, maybe twenty.
I’m six-foot-two and The Runner’s a bit shorter than me. His onyx hair is wavy; it grows over the tops of his ears and falls into his dark eyes. He’s lanky and fair-skinned, just my type. One evening, after he’d finished his workout, he peeled off his T-shirt to mop his brow. He walked past me and I caught a glimpse of his dark armpits, defined chest and striated belly. His nipples were small and dark as raisins. A line of dark hair descended from his navel. He walked the track in the outside lane, shorts clinging to the crack of his ass, and my mouth went sticky, just looking.
Now it’s a Friday in late October. Tallahassee’s evening air is cool and a bit damp. There’s a smell of approaching rain. I wear a sweatshirt over my T-shirt. I’m seated on the infield grass, stretching my legs, when The Runner enters the facility through a chain link gate. He wears a long sleeved T-shirt, his usual running shorts and racing shoes. The sun has set and the track’s field lights are on; their glow reflects in his hair while he ambles toward me. He sits on the grass and bends his knees. Bringing the soles of his shoes together, he grips his feet and stretches his hamstrings. He’s no more than ten yards away.
He swings his gaze to me and gives me a nod, a quick dip of the chin.
I give him a nod back. “How’s it going,” I say. It’s the first I’ve ever spoken to him.
His voice is deep for a guy his age “I’m doing great,” he says. “How about you?”
I say I’m fine.
He extends his legs, doing toe-touches. I study the bulge in his crotch, the dark hair dusting his calves. His lips are red as raw beef; they draw back from his teeth when he bends at the waist and brushes the tips of his shoes with his fingers. His eyebrows gather—he’s concentrating on his stretch—but then he glances up, catches me staring.
Our gazes meet and he crinkles his forehead as if to say, “What?”
Heat rising in my cheeks, I look away. I feel like an idiot.
Get up and get moving.
Because it’s the weekend, the crowd at the track is a third its normal size. About fifteen people—a mix of students, faculty, and townies like me—are present. I step onto the track and commence my interval training, starting with a slow lap to warm up, then sprinting a quarter mile, lungs heaving, heart pumping. After a few laps my brain empties itself of thought. I am only a running machine, concentrating on my breathing, my pulse. I check my speed on my wristwatch to be sure I’m not slacking.
The Runner’s on the track now. While I run a recovery lap, The Runner floats past me. He moves like a dream—fluidly and efficiently. His arms barely move. I stare at his compact buttocks and my cock twitches in my shorts. How long has it been since I’ve touched a man his age? Ten years? How would it feel to run my hands over his lithe body? To feel his skin against mine, to smell his youthful sweat?
I shake my head. Forget it. You have a dozen years on him at least.
* * * *
Okay, readers, that’s all for today. I’ll post the second installment tomorrow. In the meantime, have a nice Monday.