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| Part 3 |
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| I don't know what he'll say to me when he wakes up. I try to brace myselfagainst his anger. I calculate that in any event I will surely be able tooutrun him. I focus my attention on his ankle. I stare at the hard whiteplaster cast that holds his foot at a ninety-degree angle to his ankle. Inthe stale room I can smell the fresh plaster. I can see there is a smear ofwhite plaster on his big toe. I am hard inside my shorts but I will not letmy hand go to my crotch. As much as I want to, I do not touch myself there.I look at the crutches leaning against the wall and wonder what it would belike to use them, to have them under my armpits, to swing my weight forwardon them. Inevitably Joey's eyes eventually open, and he sees me. "What are you doing here?" "Just sitting." "How'd you get here?" "Your mother let me in." There is a long silence between us. Finally I break it. "How you feeling?" "Not too good. My ankle's busted." "I know. I'm sorry. Does it hurt much?" "Yeah. A lot. And I gotta pee." He reaches for his crutches and then swings his legs over the edge of thebed. I can see in his face the wave of pain that washes over him. Hegrimaces, and then launches himself forward uncertainly. The white plasterencasing his ankle looks heavy. I watch him swing forward on his crutches,wearing just his undershorts and a crumpled T-shirt. His jockey shorts arefull of his stiff morning hard-on. "How does it feel?" He pauses on his crutches and looks at me, unspeaking. He holds his footcarefully aloft, bent at the knee, not letting his toes touch the hardwooden floor. Finally he answers. "Moving around really hurts. It's allright if I don't move much." He swings past me, and I watch him move on his crutches, watch his ass workto carry his broken ankle, watch him move the weight of his leg plaster,watch him pause to breathe, leaning heavily forward on the crutches,balanced on one foot. Despite the awkwardness and newness of it all, hemoves gracefully. When he stops in front of the bathroom door he draws hisinjured ankle up, higher, as if to relieve the strain. He reminds me of abird at the beach, standing on one leg. His strong hands grip the crutches,which he uses to push the door open and then propel himself forward. I wantto ask him if he needs help but don't dare. I am as physically taken by himas I had ever been. I think to myself that I would follow him anywhere. He comes out of the bathroom and we go into the sitting room. He sits onthe Davenport, with his leg up. I sit in the wooden rocker. I make himsome coffee and toast. He talks about his injury. He says that when hisfoot hit the bag he could hear his ankle break. He says it was like apopping noise. He says he knew it was broken right away. He says the painwas immediate, and fierce. He says it was like a white flash of sharp pain,and then waves of more muted throbbing pain. He says he knew he couldn'twalk on it. He was lying on his back by second base grabbing at his ankle,holding his shin, screaming in pain. He says nobody splinted his anklebefore they moved him. The coach had two of his teammates pick him up andcarry him on their shoulders to his car. He says he thought he was going topass out while they were moving him. He says that during the ride incoach's car, with his ankle bumping on the back seat every time coach rodeover a bump, he could feel the bones moving in his ankle. He says the worstpart was when they set the bones back in place at the hospital. He says itwas like they were wrestling his bones around. One doctor lay his chestdown on top of Joey's to hold him down. The other doctor pulled on Joey'sankle and foot, twisting and yanking the loose bones. Three times he didthat before he was done. They did all this without any shots or painmedicine. Joey says they gave him a rag to bite down on. He says his teethare sore this morning, and feel like they are loose, because he bit down sohard. Now today he says his ankle hurts differently. He says it is like adeep ache in his bones. He says it hurts to move. He says it throbs unlesshe keeps his ankle up. I am surprised how much Joey talks about his ankle.He says he thinks his baseball career is over. I tell him he is being toonegative, that lots of ball players recover from broken ankles. I tell himthat a broken ankle is kind of like a right of passage for athletes-that heshould think of it as something he has achieved that puts him among theranks of the most serious athletes. I tell him it shows how tough he is,what a gritty player he is. I tell him he will look back on it and tellstories about it. I tell him it is like a battle scar. He says he doesn'tthink he will be able to run. I tell him he needs to stay off it and dowhat the doctor says. He says the doctor was a fool. We don't speak about that Sunday in April. I make us sandwiches for lunch.I tell him I have to go to work. I ask him if I can come back tomorrow. Hesays if you want. I think about Joey all afternoon at work. At dinner my mother asks me whereI was all day. I tell her I was at Joey's. She doesn't ask me anythingelse. In bed I am finally alone and I jerk off thinking about Joey, and sleepsoundly. The next morning I am up early again. I shower and dress and eat mybreakfast standing at the sink again. I arrive before Mrs. Mayfield hasleft for work. Joey is still sleeping. She and I have coffee togetherbefore she goes. I watch Joey sleeping, and then I make fresh coffee forhim when he wakes up. Joey has not bathed since his accident, and he isbeginning to have an odor. It is not unpleasant. He smells like a lockerroom and like his bedroom first thing in the morning when the windows havebeen closed. His hair stands up, and is matted in the back. He is back onthe Davenport with his ankle up on a pillow. I ask him if the pain isdifferent than yesterday. He says he doesn't know. He guesses it feelsabout the same. He says there is a dull ache that comes up from deep insidehis ankle, and it still throbs when he puts his ankle down. I ask him if I can try his crutches. He lets me. I take them and put thebroad rubber tops up under my arms. I like the feel of them in my hands. Ihold my left foot up off the ground, as if it were injured. I reach forwardwith the crutches and then launch myself forward. I swing through the smallsitting room and almost into the kitchen with a single leap. As I land Icome down with both feet, forgetting about my injury. There isn't room inthe house to go very far. I tell Joey I want to try them in the street. Itake them outside and swing my way up the street half a block, consciouslytrying to hold my foot up off the ground. I get going pretty fast, andstumble when I try to stop. I am exhilarated. Having the wooden crutchesunder my arms, swinging up the street on them, begins to make me hard. I am randy and restless as I head back to the Mayfield's small house. Ileave the crutches outside on the front porch and walk into the housewithout them. Right away Joey wants to know where his crutches are. "I left them outside." "What the fuck for you ass-hole?" It is the first time he has been surlywith me since he broke his ankle. "I don't know. They're all right. They're just on the porch. You don'tneed them." "Fuck I don't! I can't walk without them. Bring 'em back in!" I am standing by the front door. I put my hands in my pockets. I can feelmy dick half-hard through the cotton of my pocket. I look at Joey lying onthe couch in his rumpled T-shirt and underwear, unwashed, his toes stickingup out of the hard white plaster cast on his ankle. My dick stirs in myhand, moving as it swells. "No." "What?" "I said no." "What do you mean, no? Get my fucking crutches." I smile at him. "Why should I?" "What the fuck is wrong with you? Get my fucking crutches." His yelling is making me harder. I could get him his crutches but I don't. "You're don't need to go anywhere." "You're fucked up. Get my fucking crutches!" He starts to raise himself upoff the Davenport, balancing on his good leg. I open the door and grab hiscrutches, pulling them inside, but I don't give them to him. "Where do you need to go?" I hold the crutches over my head, near theceiling. I am getting a charge out of taunting him. "Give me my fucking crutches!!" He hops toward me, holding his injuredankle up off the ground. I step back quickly into the kitchen, out of hisreach, still holding the crutches over my head. My cock is completely erectin my jeans, straining against my undershorts. He holds himself up againstthe wall, and then hops forward again awkwardly, landing hard on his leftfoot, and stumbling. I watch him as he falls forward, almost as if I amwatching a movie. Again I feel as if I have somehow left my body, as if Iam floating somewhere up near the ceiling, watching myself watching him.His wrists hit the ground first, breaking his fall, but he falls hard, andhis cast clatters against the red linoleum floor as it hits. "Shit!!" hewails, half yelling, half-crying. Without even thinking I throw his crutches across the kitchen floor to theopposite end of the room. He starts to crawl toward them, dragging himselfacross the floor. His broken ankle trails behind him. I step in front ofhim, blocking his way. He swings at my shins, hitting me with his fists."Get the fuck out of my house you faggot!" I drop down to my knees in front of him, and he continues to pound on mylegs with his fists. I put my hands out to shield myself, and he grabs myfingers, bending them backwards. I push back. Kneeling, I have betterleverage, and bend his wrists backwards until he cries out. He tries toscoot around and kick me with his bare left foot. I throw my weight acrosshim, and knock him back flat against the floor. He is yelling at me andtrying to swing his fists. He gets a hand in my hair and pulls hard. Iknock his hand away with my elbow, and pin his wrist to the floor. We arewrestling. He weighs more than I do but I am on top. His broken ankleprevents him from throwing his weight against me and rolling me over. Iswing my body around so I am sitting on top of him. He is on his back. Ihold both of his arms to the ground on either side of his head. I lower myface down toward his. I open my mouth to speak, and these words come out:"I love you Joey." He spits up into my face. "Fuck you!" "Fuck you Joey." I grind my knuckles down into the soft flesh of hisforearms, hurting him. He grimaces in pain, struggling to free himself. Islide my butt further down his chest and over his belly. I can feel hishard cock beneath me. I lower my face again down close to his face, andcover his mouth with mine. He tries to move his head away by thrashingsideways but I pin him with my weight. I release one of his wrists andreach around behind me to grab his hard cock through his underwear. Heflails his free hand and hits my face and head with his hand. I grab theelastic waistband of his underwear and pull hard, ripping it free. My handencircles his naked cock, pulling on the tight hot skin. I force my tongueinto his mouth, separating his teeth. His thrashing stops, and his bodyslumps against the floor. I stroke his cock gently behind me. Slowly histongue begins to move against mine. I shift my weight off him slightly, so that I am more beside him than on topof him. I move my hand from his cock to his balls and back to his cock. NowI can see his broken ankle again. I am surprised again by the size andweight of the white plaster, and by the length of his toes sticking up outof the cast. I move my face down along his chest and stomach toward hisgroin, and then, again, after more than three months, I take his cock in mymouth. He sucks in his breath at the warm wetness. His hips move slowlyagainst my face. I watch his cast as I suck on his cock. I move my handbetween his legs, playing with his balls, and tickling the short hairs thatguard his ass. He comes without warning, his whole body shuddering as heshoots hot cum against the back of my throat. I grab my own cock through myjeans and just that touch is enough to bring me off. I cream in my shortswith Joey's cock still in my mouth. When it is over I am afraid. I am now very much in my body and I cannotbelieve what I have done. I tense against Joey's fists and prepare myselfto flee. I expect him to spit on me, or hit me, or worse, but he does not.As we both begin to catch our breaths, I see that Joey is crying. He istrying to breathe normally but he cannot. He struggles with the heaving inhis chest, and tears spill down the sides of his face. His eyes are closedbut from the creases beside them tears roll down and over his unshaven face.From the back of his throat a raw sound erupts. Again I bend down and kissJoey, and he kisses me back. He opens his eyes and looks at me while we arekissing. I help Joey up off the floor. He puts his arm around my shoulder forsupport. He is wearing just his rumpled and now soiled T-shirt, and hiscast. His flaccid sticky cock hangs between his legs. He leans heavily onme, and we move slowly, awkwardly, toward the bedroom. I can feel thehardness of his cast knocking against my leg. I help him sit down slowly onthe edge of the bed, and then I lean down and lift his cast gently up ontothe bed for him. He scrunches his hips up against the sheets. I lift hiscast again and slide a pillow beneath it. "Thank you," he whispers. I sit beside him and hold his hand. "I'm sorry," I say. "Don't." It is one word only. "Do you think your ankle is OK? I mean when you fell, did we, I mean didyou . . . ?" "I don't know. I think I'm OK." "I'm glad." There is a long silence. He is lying on his back, nearly naked, and I amsitting beside him, fully clothed. His crutches are still on the kitchenfloor. I start again to say something. "I meant what I said Joey. I loveyou." "Don't." It is that single word again. He squeezes my hand. We sit likethat for a long time-until I realize that he is asleep. I continue to sitthere, careful not to move so that I don't wake him. |
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