KNIGHT #2
It’s been two weeks since I parted ways with Sullivan and we “broke up” or whatever.
I’ve been getting off at least once a day, and I’m trying a new form of self-inflicted conversion therapy by only jerking off to straight porn.
I get off on watching the guy a hundred percent of the time, but baby steps.
Sullivan isn’t altogether wrong about the wisdom of having a girlfriend.
I’ve been thinking about that, too. Do I think I’m gonna find one who’d be super cool with a very low to non-existent sex life and wants to be with the quarterback?
I highly doubt it, but anything’s possible.
Still, I don’t even have any friends who are girls.
The best idea I’ve come up with is meeting someone online and having a permanent long-distance thing going.
I could see her once a quarter or something, get a few cute pics to post on my social media and take a Viagra to fuck her.
It could work. But work to do what? Am I supposed to marry her? Put babies in her? Do I even want that?
I don’t hate the idea of having a son to play ball with—keep the Winters’ legacy alive—but what if he’s like me? Do I really want to expose a little boy to this world? The kind of world that will only accept him under certain conditions?
As much as I want to call Sullivan, I get the distinct feeling he’s in a place where he can’t take my call.
I’ve gathered a lot from context clues and little things he’s let slip.
I think I understand that he has a sugar daddy or something like it.
One who hurts him—or who has hurt him in the past. One he’s almost completely dependent on.
And it makes me sick. I think it’s connected to his music, too, and I hate all these assumptions equally.
I’m no longer bothering to deny to myself that I’m completely in love with him.
I think I have been since our first summer.
He was different then than he is now, but seeing his softer side does it for me, too.
Physically and emotionally. I can’t imagine how we’ll manage to be “just friends” this fall, but as long as I get to keep him in my life, I’ll take it.
Hopefully he’s stronger than I am at resisting the pull between us, because I truly suck at it.
I even went extra hard on the chest press trying to visualize pushing him away.
Obviously I’d never shove him, but it worked in the moment. I hit a personal record. This being in love mess, though, is what’s making that phone call last night especially hard to digest. It’s also what’s keeping me restless now—the hoping to God he’ll keep his promise and call me tonight, too.
If he doesn’t…
I can’t think about that.
I pull up a porn video with a hot guy and a woman, give myself a little lube, and force myself not to hit the mute button to block out the woman’s sounds, which are obnoxious and endless.
My mom gave me the porn talk way back when I was in middle school, assuring me that real life sex with a woman was not like this.
Her timing was weirdly good, too, because the guys at school had just discovered Pornhub.
She made me watch a bunch of movies with fade to black sex in them where she explained that that was the kind of sex women actually wanted to have.
Being a preteen boy, even I asked—doesn’t that depend on the woman?
She specifically said, “Well. Never assume.”
I’ve heard a lot of locker room talk at this point about good lays versus bad lays.
Apparently, not everyone got a talk with their mom about this, because according to the guys I know, shit like this video would be considered a good lay.
A totally uncomfortable position for the woman with the dude just banging away at her, and her pretending to come over and over again.
I get off on the cum shot. He comes on her face, of course, because I’m sure women love that.
Still, it absolutely makes me bust. The dude’s grunt is epic, and I blow hard.
I shower when I’m done and get dressed to leave for the night. I need to pick up a few things from the store before I head over to the house my mom assigned me. When I go to get the code from her, though, she hesitates.
She’s in the kitchen, slicing a block of cheddar cheese, and she says, “Hey, you. Can we talk about what happened with your dad earlier?”
“Do we have to? I’m about to head out, and I need to get to the store.”
“He loves you, Knight. And he supports you, too.”
“Yeah, whatever, I get it.”
“Honey…”
I sigh and look her in the eyes. “What?”
“I know you don’t have kids, but if you ever do, I think you might understand a little better how strong the urge to protect them is.”
“Protect me from what? Following my dream? I’m getting a degree, Mom. I’m in college. I don’t get what he’s on me about.”
“You’re getting a marketing degree when you could easily get a law degree.”
I stare at her, disbelieving. “You, too, huh? Wow.”
“You could get any degree. You’re so fucking smart.”
“Does it embarrass you or something? The fact that I want to play football? And can I remind you that you married a quarterback?”
“Of course it doesn’t embarrass me.” Her eyes are like—pleading—as she stares back at me, and I don’t fucking get it. “I just know what that life is like, and I know you, and I—”
“I can handle it. Jesus.”
She holds up both hands, likely to keep me from exploding. “I know. I know you can handle it. You’re one of the strongest people I know, but you’re also—” She snaps her mouth shut and turns back to the cutting board. “So smart,” she says.
That’s not what she was gonna say, and it’s about as obvious as the blush taking over her face.
“I’m also what?”
She sniffs, wiping an arm across her brow. “Important to me. And your father. We love you so much.”
“Then just fucking support me. Stop telling me I’m making a huge mistake.”
“I don’t think you’re making a mistake,” she says in a whisper. “You’re not understanding.”
“Then what?” The way things are going with my parents, I might be moving back to Missouri this summer.
“Just don’t waste this time, okay? Study what you want to study and play ball. You can do both. But I also hope you have a life outside of football. Because once you’re in the NFL, you belong to them. Remember that, okay?”
Okay, well, that resonates. And it makes me think of Sullivan. “I will.”
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. Thank you for listening and not blowing up at me. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She picks up her phone from the counter, and her finger shakes as she types in the code for the house and texts it to me. “I hope you have a nice night.”
I give her a long hug before I go.
Sullivan does call that night. He’s alive, and he’s sad, and we talk for two hours about everything except what happened today. He says he loved the song, and I make him promise to call me tomorrow.
He does.