Page 29 of Poetry On Ice

That’ll put an end to the madness.

13

Ant Decker

Long story short, Iowe Robbie McGuire ten thousand dollars.

I’m not happy about it.

Not to sock shame anyone, but if you insist on walking around hotel rooms in nothing but boxer briefs and the sluttiest socks known to man, this is the kind of shit that happens.

It’s not just the socks that were the problem, although admittedly, they were a pretty big problem. White knit. Snug fit. Two blue parallel lines on the cuff, designed for the express purpose of drawing the eye up. It was his legs and the way the socks hit them right under the calves. An inch or less under the curved line of calf muscle. A little shadow that dipped and disappeared when he moved. A shadow that tempted me. A shadow that spelled out my name and wrote it all over the walls and the ceiling.

He’s on his knees now, cheerfully mopping up copious amounts of semen off the floor with a long lengthof balled-up toilet paper. I’m lying back in the armchair in the corner of our hotel room, boneless. My legs are splayed out and though I’ve tried to move twice, I’ve been unsuccessful at sustaining an upright posture both times.

“I take cash or check,” he titters. “PayPal, Venmo, or Zelle. Honestly, any cash app would work. I don’t mind. If it works for you, it works for me, you know.”

I drop my head against the chair back and breathe deeply. Mental clarity is in short supply right now, so I might be wrong, but holy shit, I can’t think of a single time a guy has taken me apart like this. I’m not even sure how it happened. One minute, I was strong, staring out the window, and the next, he was there, in the center of the room, the only thing I could see. It was the socks and the white Calvins. It was the legs. But mostly, it was his face. He raised his shoulders slightly before he spoke and smiled shyly, pinching his bottom lip between two fingers before letting it go.

“Decker.” He said it softly, as though that made it better. As though that made it less real. Less scary. “Tell me I’m pretty.”

I lost it.

I fucking lost it.

Reason. Reality. Humanity. It was all there one second and then it was gone. I was gone. I’m not sure exactly what happened. I don’t know who moved first or even who did what. The only thing I know for sure is that something major happened to me. My spine is aching from arching so hard and my balls are empty. McGuire has a Cheshire cat grin and a streak of saliva or cum running down from one corner of his mouth, and the echo of my orgasm is ricocheting around the room.

14

Robbie McGuire

Well, I’m super happy.We won our game, I just won ten grand,andI got to suck Decker’s dick again.

Not going to lie. Decker letting me blow him last week and then trying to cut me off the next day was a shock. He’s upset me a lot since I joined the Vipers, but that little stunt might have been the thing that got to me most. It wasn’t until he said we couldn’t do it again that things really fell into place for me. The second he started that bullshit apology, a bunch of stuff came into crystal-clear focus. As he spoke, I realized what this is to me.

I realized what I want. Not just want. Need.

This curiosity, or whatever you’d call it, cropped up quite a bit when I was younger, but it’s mostly lain dormant for the last few years. Even when I was younger, it was more of a quiet murmur than something that demanded attention. It was a question that raised its head now and again but was happy enough to gounanswered. It was there but easy to ignore, especially since my attraction to women has always been strong.

In the past, it was confusing when a guy tripped my switch. Uncomfortable almost. No, not uncomfortable, unsettling. A skin-deep, hard-to-place feeling of wanting something unnamed from certain guys. Their company. Their approval. I was never really sure if it was a case of hero worship or more. It was always one of thoseDo I want to be him? orDoI want to do him? vibes.

It was like that with Decker when we met. I straight-up hero-worshipped him. He was the best player I’d ever played against by a long way. He was huge. And dark. And enigmatic. He was only a kid himself when we met, but something about him made him seem older. Like he had his shit together. Like he could call himself a man, and people wouldn’t laugh if they heard him say it.

He was different back then. Less angry. Less of a dick. More friendly.

God, I looked up to him.

Once, at junior league hockey camp, I hit a really good backhand, and Decker said, “Nice shot, McGuire,” and I swear to God, I felt like I was floating. It was the second I knew hockey was more than a sport for me. More thana dream. That off-hand comment from Decker was all it took to make me believe I had what it took to go pro.

I followed his career like a hawk for the first few years after that camp. It’s embarrassing to admit, but for a while, I had a picture of him on my bedroom wall above my desk. For a long time, I felt a muddled pull whenever I looked at it. It’s mortifying to think of it now, but I even told my mom all about him. I told her he was the best, a nice guy, a great player. I obviously misread him. I took a couple of meaningless conversations and a compliment or two and built it into a charged friendship in my mind.

I left the picture of him up forever. I only took it down when it became absolutely clear to me that he was a dick.

I feel different now.

There’s no more confusion. I’m on my knees, cleaning up the mess I just made. I have the taste of Decker’s dick in my mouth and my throat hurts when I swallow. I’m more clear-headed than I’ve been in weeks. This isn’t a murmur. It isn’t uncertain, and it can’t be ignored. It isn’t a low rumble, and it isn’t skin deep. It’s bone-deep. It runs through my marrow, heating it and making it sizzle. The question has been asked and answered.

I know what I want.