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| Part 2 by Castgimp |
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| I had the presence of mind to lock the gym door with the key the coach had left us. I hadn't focused on the fact that the door had been unlocked the whole time we were grinding together on the floor, and anyone could have walked in on us. It was just getting dark when we left the gym, so it must have been right around five o'clock. After the warmth of the gym, the evening air was bitter cold. I hugged John closer to me as we limped across the street, trying to share some body warmth. John seemed to hug me back, grabbing my shoulder more tightly, maybe for better balance and support, maybe because he was cold, and maybe, just maybe, I allowed myself to imagine, maybe because he wanted to hug me back. My apartment was on the fourth floor, but my building had an elevator, which obviated the need for navigating a difficult staircase with only three working legs between us. Outside my apartment door, John leaned on the wall while I fumbled with our bags and my coat to find my keys and get the door unlocked. I felt very self-conscious suddenly. Had I engineered this whole thing to get John back to my apartment? No. It hadn't been as deliberate as that. There had always been a tension between John and I, bred in part from our wrestling rivalry, and that tension had always had an aggressive sexual edge. This afternoon, alone in the gym, that had finally come to a head. Injuring John's ankle had almost been incidental. I had felt a strong sexual need to dominate him, and hurt him even. His ankle had presented itself during our scuffle. My libido took over, and without thinking I wrestled him into submission, twisting his ankle, thrilling at the sound of him crying out in pain, wild with desire at the opportunity to hold and twist his beautiful foot. But that was as far as it went. I hadn't planned it ahead of time. I hadn't hoped that somehow it would end in my apartment with his ankle on ice. And yet here we were. I was nervous the way you're nervous when you bring someone home for the first time, hoping that things will work out, but afraid to hope too much. I didn't really think that John and I would end up in bed together. He seemed homophobic enough that any sort of mutual sexual attraction we might share was beyond his ability to act on. And yet there was very fresh in my memory the reality of John grinding away with his hips this afternoon and coming in his shorts beneath me. Was John capable of recognizing and dealing with his own ambiguous sexual desires? I doubted it. He had been quick to articulate the fact that he was not a faggot. Still, fag or no fag, he had humped my wrestler's butt this afternoon and had enjoyed it in spite of himself. I was not, I told myself standing at the threshold of my apartment with my keys in my hand, going to force the issue. I was not going to take advantage of the situation. I was not going to force myself on John. If he wanted me, if he wanted some additional physical contact, he was going to have to initiate it. He knew I was gay. He knew I thought he was sexy. He knew he had creamed his drawers grinding his hard-on against my leg this afternoon. If he wanted to put the pieces together and advance the ball it was up to him. I was open to something happening. Shit, I wanted something to happen, but I wasn't going to force it. I wasn't going to rape John in any sense. If something were going to happen, he would have to choose it. If we ended up in bed together, I wasn't going to let John blame it all on me. At least I hoped I was strong enough and in control enough to hold back. I would simply minister to John's sore ankle, the cold detached clinician. Maybe, I thought with a stupid smile on my face as I finally worked the key in the lock to open the apartment, maybe he'd beg me for more. "This is it," I announced, bracing the door open with our gym bags so that I could maneuver us both through the doorway. "It's not very clean, I'm afraid." We limped together across the small entryway and into the one room that constituted my studio apartment. There was an unmade double bed against the wall in the far corner, a beat-up couch in the middle of the room facing a large television screen, and one armchair, underneath my only reading light. "Let's get you situated on the couch." I managed to set him down without either one of us falling. "You need to get that ankle elevated. I'll get the ice packs." I retreated to the kitchen area on the other side of the room, to find the ice, and clear my head. "The clinician," I reminded myself, "the cool, detached clinician." Gel-packs in hand, I grabbed both pillows off my bed, composed myself for the best bedside manner I could muster, and returned to the patient on the couch. "Let's take a look at that ankle," I said, kneeling down next to the couch. I gently pulled his sweat pant leg up to his shin, exposing his ankle. I raised his leg by pulling on the pant leg from the top, and then set it back down gently on the two pillows. "The whole key to managing a sprained ankle is minimizing the swelling." I ran my fingers lightly down his ankle joint. It was more swollen than when I looked at it at the gym, but it wasn't too bad. There was no discoloration yet. There were no visible deformities. If his ankle was broken, the bones didn't appear to be displaced. I pushed gently on the swollen area. "Does that hurt?" "Shit yes. Don't push on it man." "I still don't think it's broken John. But it does look like you've sprained it. A sprain is really just a tear or rip in the muscles or tendons in your ankle. When you tear the tissue, it actually bleeds a little bit internally. That's what causes the swelling. By elevating the joint and icing it, you minimize the swelling and speed-up the recovery process. It's also important to immobilize and support the injured joint. For most sprains an elastic bandage is enough to support the ankle and limit the range of motion. For the first forty-eight hours you want to stay off the ankle entirely. After that, as much as the pain will allow, you really need to begin some gradual weight-bearing exercises. Usually, unless it's a severe injury, gradually working to increase your use of the ankle soon after the injury actually speeds us the healing process, by strengthening the injured muscles." I knew I was sounding like a textbook. "Shut the fuck up," I thought to myself. "You're carrying this clinician thing too far. Just ice his fucking ankle." "Whoa Doctor Bob! Sounds like you've been studying up on this." "Hey, chill out John. I'm just trying to help. I took a first aid course last semester and we learned all about this shit. I actually know what I'm talking about, so fuck you. Let's get some ice on this. Here, put one of these underneath, and the other one over the top, like this" "Shit that's cold, man." "Well yes, John, that's the nature of ice. The coldness is the whole point. Heat actually increases the bleeding. Often people with a sprained ankle think they should soak their ankle in hot water, or use a heating pad on it, or sit in a hot bathtub. That's the worst thing you can do. It just makes the swelling worse. The cold actually helps stop the bleeding and the swelling." "Doctor Bob has spoken." "Fuck you. Just sit there and be miserable for a while. You'll thank me afterwards. Let me get a towel to put over those ice packs to keep them in place." I headed toward the bathroom to find him a towel. His sarcasm was really starting to get on my nerves. My bedside manner was about to crumble, and I was either going to have to smack him or throw him out in the cold. I wasn't very good at pretending I wasn't sexually aroused by this whole thing, and I had about run out of clinical things to say to divert attention from my overwhelming desire to rip John's clothes off and play with his wrestler's body some more. I had held my desire in check for four years wrestling him in the gym; having let myself go with him this afternoon I was having a hard time (hard being the operative word) reining it in now. Standing with my head in the linen closet I gave myself another pep talk. "Don't play to John's stereotypes. Don't let him have the satisfaction of knowing you want him. Be cool. Be aloof. Let him sit and stew. You know he wants something more from you than some TLC and an ice pack. Make him ask. Make him articulate his desire. Make him start something. Don't make the first move. You did that this afternoon. The ball is in his court. Or maybe the ball is in my court. He's in my apartment. He's not going anywhere. He can't fucking walk and he doesn't have a pair of crutches. He needs me. Fuck he needs me just to take a leak. He needs me to get him something to eat. He can be an asshole as long as he wants. I can fucking ignore him. Sooner or later he's going to have to ask me for something. And he's going to have to ask real nice." I brought him a fresh bath towel to wrap the ice packs with. "If you don't mind, John, I think I'm going to take a shower and get cleaned up. I feel like I'm starting to smell." "What about me?" he whined. "What about you? I think you're stuck for the moment. I don't think you're ready to navigate the shower on one foot, and I don't think you're ready for a shower with me, but do tell me if I'm wrong on that count. And I don't think I can permit the patient to sit in the bathtub for at least the next twenty-four hours-- not until we bring that swelling down, so I guess you'll just have to stink up the place. Perhaps we can arrange something in a sponge bath a little later in the evening to help with that nasty crust you've no doubt developed from coming in your short this afternoon." "Fuck you." "Fuck you too." I walked out and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I felt like kicking myself. Why had I taunted him? Why had I introduced sex into the conversation? Why couldn't I just let the little fucker sit and stew on the couch? I pulled the water on in the tub and stepped out of my wrestling shorts and tank top. I stepped on my socks to pull them off without bending over and felt the water with my hand. I always had to wait forever for hot water in this building. Finally the hot water arrived, and I climbed in. I liked it very hot. I stood naked under the stream of water, letting it hit my shoulders and back and neck. I shut my eyes. The water felt incredibly good. My shoulders and neck were tense. My wrestling match with John had turned into a lot more than I had bargained for. I didn't know how far ahead John had thought, but regardless of what came to pass between he and I, we had to think up something to tell coach. Whether his ankle was broken or merely sprained, there was no way he was going to be able to wrestle in the regional championships next weekend, and coach was going to have to know that sooner rather than later. I hoped we could agree on a story other than what had really happened. Even without the sexual overlay, our little wrestling battle was going to be hard to explain to coach. And the sex thing was simply unexplainable to coach. I'd never hidden my sexuality, but I'd never flaunted it either, and I was pretty sure coach was clueless. I was also pretty sure John would never bring it up. I couldn't imagine him telling coach he had humped my leg while I twisted his ankle until it popped. On the other hand, I didn't put it past John to try to turn this into some sort of assault where I was the sicko pervert and he was the innocent victim. Well, no matter. It was pretty clear that we couldn't go backwards on this. What was done was done and we would have to think up something to tell coach, and then live with the consequences. I grabbed the bar of soap and began to lather up. As I soaped my balls and cock I was instantly hard. It had been a long day. I had never come during our struggle in the gym and now the temptation to slowly jerk off in the hot shower was great. Soaping up always felt so fucking good. I made myself let go. "No touching," I told myself. "You're too close to the edge. Don't waste it. Save it. Save it for what? Save it for later, for John. Yeah right." I rinsed off, without any further stroking, and managed to wash my hair and get out of the shower still semi-hard, but my load intact. I was going to have to do something about this. Perhaps John really did want me. My cock twitched as I toweled dry. "Don't touch," I had to remind myself. "Save it." I walked out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist. My dresser was in the same room John was in, the same room my couch and TV and bed were in, the only room I had. I crossed in front of John self-consciously and stood in front to my dresser. I dropped my towel and stepped into a pair of clean undershorts. I didn't turn around to see if John was watching me get dressed or not. How could he not be? There was nothing else to look at in this place. I hadn't even put the TV on for him. I slipped into some clean jeans and a sweatshirt. "Let's take another look at that ankle. Is the ice helping any?" "I can't tell. It feels all right." "There's one other thing I want to do. It's a test they taught us in that first aid class. It's called the Drawer test. You use it to help diagnose a sprained ankle when you don't have an x-ray to look at. I just want to be sure we aren't dealing with a fracture. This won't rule it out but it will make me feel better." "Doctor Bob is nervous that he has broken my ankle." "I am not. I'm sure it's not broken. It didn't feel like I broke it. I didn't feel anything break, and I don't think I'm strong enough to break your ankle with my bare hands. I just want to try this test we learned." "Have you ever done this before?" "Not really. Not on a real sprained ankle. We practiced on each other, and on a dummy. It's easy. People use it in the field all the time." "Does it hurt?" "I don't think so. Here, scoot over a bit." I sat next to him on the couch. "Bend your knee, like this." I demonstrated, bringing my knee up toward my chest. I grabbed a book off the floor. "Put your foot flat on this book. Set it down gently. Rest it on the book but don't put any pressure on it." I put my hand around the back of his lower leg, above his heel but below his calf. His ankle was cold from the ice packs. I gently shifted his heel from right to left and back. There was significant play in the joint. I could move the joint back and forth without moving his foot. It seemed like a classic presentation of a sprained ankle to me. I tried the same test from the other side, holding his ankle in front. I could push his lower shin forward and back, and from right to left. "It really looks like a sprain to me John. That movement suggests the tendons are a little stretched or torn. We really should wrap this. You should be OK in a week or so I would guess. If you stay off it completely, you ought to be able to begin putting some weight on it in a couple of days-- maybe even Monday. We should have somebody look at it, so we can get you some crutches, but I don't think we have to take you anywhere tonight to have it looked at. I really don't think it's broken. I'm sorry I hurt you man." I hadn't planned to say that. I hadn't thought about apologizing. I had said it before I could stop myself. John was quiet. "Let's get some ice back on that for a while." "Hey it's OK man, you know, about my ankle. We were both horsing around. If I'd have gotten that first takedown I probably would have hurt you, like maybe broken your arm or punched you in the face or given you a fucking wedgie like when I was a kid. It was a weird scene in the gym." He smiled. I wrapped the ice packs back in the towel and placed them around his ankle. "A wedgie, huh? I haven't heard that word in a long time. I'll bet you've administered your fair share of wedgies, haven't you?" "Yeah, I guess I have. When I was a kid." I thought back to grade school and memories of having the back of my underwear hoisted up over my head by some sixth grader. There was a kid on my block who was a geek, and a couple of years younger than me. He always wanted to play with me and my brother, and we were always trying to get rid of him. I remembered one day I had given him a very serious wedgie, ripping his underwear and bouncing him off the ground by the elastic. It was one of the very first times I remember getting a real sexual charge out of hurting someone. I knew I was hurting him but I couldn't stop. I don't know that I was conscious of it at the time, but years later, thinking back, I know it made my little pecker hard. I enjoyed torturing that little kid. Kids are violent sexual little creatures no matter how you look at it. Anyhow I remembered this kid's mom was furious, and marched down to my parents' house. They had to take this kid to the doctor. They were afraid I had really hurt his testicles. He was fine, but my parents were furious. My father grounded me for a week. The thought that I could have really hurt this kid scared me but turned me on at the same time. I couldn't say that I wouldn't do it again. I hadn't thought of this whole episode in years, but hearing John say the word wedgie brought it all flooding back. I was starting to be able to connect up some of the things in my life, at least in my own head. My wrestling match with John in the gym this afternoon was not unrelated to that wedgie a long time ago. John's voice broke my reverie. "Listen, what should I do? I mean, tonight, you know? I mean you could take me home or maybe I could call someone or..." "Listen John," I interrupted him, "you're welcome to stay here. It really is better for your ankle if you keep it elevated and stay off it completely. Getting around your place with the stairs and no crutches is not very practical. You're welcome to the bed. I sleep on the couch all the time when I have company. I nap on the couch. Sometimes I prefer it to the bed. I can get us something to eat. Maybe we'll get a pizza or something. I've got a couple beers in the fridge. I can run out to the pharmacy and get a couple elastic bandages so we can get you wrapped up. I don't mind. I mean, you're welcome to stay. I fucked you up man. It's the least I can do. But I mean, you know, if you're not comfortable here, I mean, with me, you know, then we can call a cab or security or something and try to take you back to your place." I was flooding the place with words, running off at the mouth, as I always did when I was nervous. "Shut up," I thought. I'd felt the tension had eased a bit, and we had approached some sort of almost intimacy or friendship or something a few minutes ago with the wedgie discussion, and I didn't want to poison that. I didn't want to go backwards with this, and I really didn't want John to leave. I wanted him to spend the night, even if it meant that I was on the couch and he was in the bed. And I really did think it was the best thing for his ankle. For all of my medical bravado, I wasn't sure what the hell we had done to his ankle, but no matter what, I knew we should keep him off of it as much as we could for now. "OK," he said simply, once I'd stopped talking. And then nothing. "Well," I began, suddenly awkward and unsure what to do next, "great. I guess I should rustle up some pizza and an ace bandage and we'll call it a Saturday night. What would you like on your pizza?" "Umm, pepperoni I guess, or whatever you want. I like almost anything." "Pepperoni and mushrooms OK?" "Sure. That's great." I phoned for the pizza, put the TV on for John, and put my coat on to head out into the cold. "I shouldn't be long. I'm just going to the pharmacy on the corner, and then I'll pick up the pizza on the way back. Will you be OK here for a little bit by yourself?" "I'll be fine Bob." He hadn't said Doctor this time. "I don't really have any money. I can get some..." "Don't worry about it. This is definitely on me. I've got some cash. Don't bother with the phone if it rings. I'll be right back." And so I ran my errands and came back with pizza and a three-pack of two-inch elastic bandages by Ace and I carefully wrapped his ankle, from the bottom, pulling his toes gently upward just like in the illustration in my textbook. Touching his foot and ankle again like that, it was all I could do to keep myself from pulling on my dick. Nothing had ever made me this horny. But somehow, I managed to restrain myself, and we passed an agreeable evening together watching TV, eating pizza, and drinking beer. Sometime after eleven I helped him across the room to the bed, arranged him with his ankle up on pillows, and turned out the lights. It had been a long strange day and I was tired, but I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing, reviewing the odd events that had transpired. It seemed nearly incomprehensible to me that I had hurt John. Lying there on the couch in the dark I could hear his breathing change across the room as he fell asleep. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what he would look like with his ankle in a cast, pulling himself along on crutches. It was a very pleasant image. How could I have let myself get so carried away? How could I have gotten so wrapped up in my own sexual feelings that I actually hurt another person badly enough that he couldn't walk? I wasn't that kind of person. It was upsetting, and confusing. I chose not to think about it. Instead I let my imagination return to that picture of John with a cast on his ankle. I could picture it so vividly I almost imagined that if I got up and walked across the room he really would have a cast on. Suddenly the idea of taking John to the emergency room didn't seen so scary, especially if he was going to end up with a cast. |
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