Magnus Force
by Miriam Heddy
1-1. General
The Game of Golf consists of playing a ball with a club from the teeing ground into the hole by a stroke or successive strokes in accordance with the Rules.
For many values of N, it is impossible to cover the golf ball uniformly without gaps. Symmetry is important or the ball will wobble or its flight will depend on which part of the ball is forwards or sideways as the ball spins.1
The game was apparently about follow-through, at least according to his Dad, who tended to say things like that with a certain, gentle emphasis, like you might miss the message if he didn’t give it an extra push. The game was also apparently about walking long distances without feeling you were ever actually getting anywhere, despite the clearly marked holes which suggested, or at least promised, progress. Golf was also about getting sunburnt despite carefully timing the sunscreen applications (and something was clearly wrong with their calculations there, although the little scratch pad was too small to give the problem its due), all the while looking inept while swinging at a ball that seemed to defy your attempts to quantify its trajectory as if words like “wind speed” meant nothing if you had dimples. Now Larry had--
“Wow, just feel that air. The air doesn’t get much better than this, Charlie.” Dad clapped him on the back, and then rubbed his hands together, and Charlie did his best to feel the air and look appropriately appreciative. If the air was particularly good today, it seemed to be doing nothing at all for his performance. It didn’t matter that there were still golf courses at country clubs that wouldn’t let his family play the game. He still couldn’t see it as either privilege or pleasure, though for all he knew, that was precisely what made his Dad love it so much.
Larry made it look easy, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched the ball arc up and away, smiling again as it at last bounced gently just over two feet from the next hole.
Moments ago, Don had reminded him that golf was a lesson in patience, to which Charlie had been tempted to remind Don about Jenny Levine. Charlie figured it wasn’t an accident that Don had drunkenly moved from that confession to bragging that he’d achieved the second highest score for marksmanship at the Academy.
But that was on the edge of whining again, which he promised himself he wouldn’t do, because it gave Don too much satisfaction playing wise older brother. This wasn’t about one-upmanship, or accomplishing anything. This was about family, and bonding with Dad, and that meant not arguing with Don, and okay, he could probably do that once a week, because look how happy Dad was. Dad was all about good air. Simplicity. He was his house: clean paint lines and polished wood, and old, beveled glass. Something... on the edge of a metaphor that Charlie couldn’t quite put into words. Words were harder than numbers, but it was Dad who had always read him poetry, insisting that it was important even if he didn’t see what Dad saw there, noticing only the mathematics of rhythm and rhyme scheme and the subtle disruptions in the patterns that would jerk him awake.
Don was up, looking at his ball with an incredible amount of aggressive focus and no patience at all. Don played golf like he played baseball, like it was about results, now, yesterday, and again tomorrow, that ball was going to go where he needed it to go, and with no arguments. “What do you mean you don’t know? Do you not get that people are dying here?” Don was about stealing every base you could steal, and going forward with half the problem figured out and the rest a big blank of guesswork you acted on because you had to. In Don’s world, everything was knowable and actionable.
But Larry--Larry approached the ball slowly, slyly. Then again, Larry operated on an entirely different scale: eons and the beginning of Time itself, and the unimaginable you tried to imagine anyway, and numbers that suggested the pristine unknowability of G-d, with a little Buddha thrown in for good measure. Larry gripped the club hard and then caressed it, and eyed the simplicity of the Big Bang with a great deal of skepticism, saying that it was just like people to be satisfied prematurely and leave off just when it all got interesting.
Charlie held his own driver in a loose grip, sweeping it just above the green, barely disturbing the regimented line of the turf. Ahead of him, Larry had moved to talk to Dad, and he watched the easy way Larry still held the driver, gesturing idly with it as he talked. Charlie wondered at the strangeness of the whole relationship, and how it had come about. One day, he was asking Larry over to dinner, and the next day, his Dad was asking Larry over to dinner.
Larry was his friend, first, only now he was a family friend--which was why, he considered, it was Dad who invited Larry over for dinner after the game, along with a couple of Dad’s other friends from shul, none of them under fifty and none of the rest of them academics, and then there’d be him and Don answering the same old questions about what it was like to be in the FBI, and did he really spend all day adding things up, or did they do it all on computers nowadays? Don had already tried, and failed, to find a way out of it, and it seemed in poor taste to wish for a big crime to give them both a way out, especially as Larry wouldn’t get a day pass. Though Larry seemed to enjoy those little get-togethers, or at least was too polite to say otherwise.
Charlie was dreading dinner almost as much as he was dreading the next few hours of slow progress over this course. It was like being eleven again and being invited to sit at the adults’ table, knowing you had to say something intelligent to justify your place there, which should have been easy, but strangely enough wasn’t, as there was a fine line between awkward silence and giving a lecture on string theory. Don’s people were easier, because they’d sit there like your average freshman class, fidgeting and grinning at each other like they were sharing a secret joke (“look at Don’s geeky Jewish brother,” and he hadn’t figured out why, but he knew that there was something about carrying a gun that got you that much closer to Christ in their book, on some sort of subconscious level they’d never articulate, but was there anyway, and maybe Larry was rubbing off on him if he was doing sociological analysis of the FBI). Still, they listened to him lecture until they got bored, or lost, or he managed to say something they thought they could use.
Larry didn’t fidget in his seat, and he never got lost. He just nodded, and looked interested until Charlie started to suspect that he was really bored, or just plain out of his mind, inhabiting his own mental space plotting the trajectory of stars, or golf balls, or somehow doing both at once. His Dad, meanwhile, always got that funny, proud, really embarrassing smile when Charlie was talking-- exactly the same smile he got when he showed people--including Larry, naturally--the pictures of Charlie when he was going through his exceedingly awkward stage (which ended about five years ago, yes, but the memory was still a bit too fresh to be thoroughly pleasant, even if Larry had the courtesy not to laugh at his braces and his nose, which seemed to take a while to find a reasonable relationship with the rest of his face).
Larry gave him an encouraging smile, and he shook his head. He stepped up to the ball and stared at it, wondering whether it was possible to close his eyes and swing randomly and do any worse than he’d been doing. He really did suck at this. And small talk. And figuring out how to deal with being attracted to a guy his own Dad could talk to, and who looked perfectly at ease wearing stupid plaid golf pants and one of those little old man hats that sure, Charlie was wearing too, but Larry wore it entirely without irony.
Charlie wondered if this was what it felt like to fall in love.
1-2. Exerting Influence on Ball
A player or caddie must not take any action to influence the position or the movement of a ball except in accordance with the Rules.
(Removal of movable obstruction — see Rule 24-1.)
Penalty for Breach of Rule 1-2:
Match play — Loss of hole; Stroke play — Two strokes.
Note: In the case of a serious breach of Rule 1-2, the Committee may impose a penalty of disqualification.
In general, turbulence increases drag, because the energy needed to stir the air up and make it swirl around is energy that the ball has lost... A ball moving quickly through a fluid like the air will have air flowing in a laminar fashion in some places and in a turbulent fashion in others.2
“But--”
“Charles, I’m not saying it’s impossible. Simply that it’s unlikely. And no, don’t ask me to quantify that, because I can’t, and if I could, well....”
“Unlikely. Unlikely? How is it--” He stared at the blackboard until the lines blurred and rubbed his eyes, hoping to see what Larry was seeing. Finally, he shook his head. “Nope. I’ve got nothing. Scratch that--if I had nothing, that would actually be a good thing. I’ve now got bupkus, which, in the common parlance of both the FBI and my father, I have come to understand as precisely half of nothing.”
“You’re merely looking in the wrong place.”
Again. Larry didn’t say it. He turned around, about to say something unflattering about how he didn’t have time to figure this out--and to remind Larry that Don was counting on him to figure this out--that people were going to die if he didn’t figure this out. And where the hell was the right place to look? Why the hell did everything have to be a lesson?
But Larry’s expression of shared frustration took the anger right out of him, and he sat down heavily, just as Larry got up and walked to the board and started erasing and then, with a few strokes, gestured towards a whole other problem that Larry probably couldn’t even solve himself, but that he knew just enough to ask, and everything suddenly made sense in that way that it sometimes did, so perfectly Charlie could feel it in in the soles of his feet, which, seeming of their own accord, lifted him up and carried him to stand behind Larry, and so he rested his chin on Larry’s shoulder and just stood there, admiring. And then he took the chalk away from Larry and Larry ducked under his arm and stood behind him, again, maybe a little too close.
“That’s it,” Larry said, approving, and Charlie flashed on the way Larry’s hands had felt over his, gripping the driver, ignoring the part of that moment when Don laughed as he missed the ball entirely and hit his own foot, nearly missing taking Larry out with his follow-through.
He leaned back, so that Larry bumped into him and had to step back, except there was a brief interval when Larry failed to react, and he felt Larry’s breath on his neck and Larry’s hand on his shoulder, steadying them both.
“Sorry,” he said, quietly, and when he turned around, Larry had snuck back behind his desk and was shuffling papers there, a sharp line between his eyes making him suddenly seem... old.
1-3. Agreement to Waive Rules
Players must not agree to exclude the operation of any Rule or to waive any penalty incurred.
Penalty for Breach of Rule 1-3:
Match play — Disqualification of both sides;
Stroke play — Disqualification of competitors concerned.
(Agreeing to play out of turn in stroke play — see Rule 10-2c.)
Directly behind the ball there will be a turbulent "wake", and surrounding that will be smoothly flowing air. The whole idea behind reducing the drag is to make the turbulent wake small.3
“In a universe in which stars are born and die without our even noticing, a dust mote is a very, very small thing.” That Larry slurred the last part did little to diminish its profundity, Charlie decided.
“Which is your way of saying you’re not planning to replace your vacuum?”
“Hmm? Oh, well, I don’t know. I suppose I will, eventually.”
The vacuum--now reduced to its component parts--was an impressively abstract pile of yellow and black plastic that looked like something Charlie had seen on display in one of the university’s ubiquitous art exhibits.
Larry had his feet up on the arm of the sofa, and Charlie had the leather armchair, and he couldn’t remember why he’d come over late this afternoon, though he assumed it had something to do with Larry’s research, to which he was ostensibly contributing his expertise, and nothing at all to do with getting stoned, which they had. At the moment, with the sun going down on a bottle of very good scotch, and having somehow gotten diverted by the problem of whether a Dyson could really spin the dust out of the air with 100,000 times the force of gravity, Charlie didn’t suppose they had many brain cells available between them. It was, he thought, a very irresponsible thing to do with a brain in its prime, though probably less of an insult to Larry’s brain, which was already past its prime. He really did love prime. He laughed, and Larry smiled indulgently at him.
“He’s an attractive man, isn’t he? Something about the way he talks about suction....”
“What?”
“I don’t know that I would have bought the thing otherwise.” Larry squinted at him, then seemed to realize he’d said all that aloud. “Well, yes. Amita--now there’s a man’s m--um. A woman’s woman? A female of the first degree, in any case. Sweet, ripe, fresh, and utterly forbidden. Forbidden flesh. I can see the appeal, I really can. A few decades ago, in your shoes, and times--times being somewhat different with respect to the care and feeding of mentees....well, I don’t suppose I would’ve been quite so charmingly obvious. Oblivious? Obscure. Obfuscate. Obsequious. Obdurate? Obstinate. Yes, obstinate it is.”
Charlie would’ve defended himself, but Larry was sort of right about Amita--at least the forbidden part, but he was still kind of weirded out that Larry had just admitted to having a thing for a guy who sold overpriced household appliances. He couldn’t think of anything to say after that, and after he was apparently silent for too long, Larry spoke again, his tone a little more defiant, edging on being whiny.
“Wow. Would you look at the time.” And Charlie noted that Larry hadn’t. There wasn’t even a clock in the room and Larry wasn’t wearing a watch. Even the VCR was blindly blinking 12:00. “We’re obviously not going to get anything done here. You should probably be heading back to your--”
“Dad?” Charlie asked, because really, that’s about all that was waiting for him tonight, and even his Dad probably wasn’t waiting. He had said something about some friends he was going out with tonight, and how he’d probably be getting home late, all of which, Charlie realized now, was his Dad’s way of encouraging him to go out tonight, maybe bring someone home....
This was probably not what he had in mind.
Larry sighed, reaching out toward his empty glass, and Charlie leaned over and refilled both their glasses, realizing he didn’t want to leave.
“We could order in some food,” he offered, not getting any closer to the door.
Larry, now looking slightly morose, frowned. “All right. I think I have a menu here somewhere.” But he made no move to move, and so Charlie forced himself to stand, swaying slightly at first and then finding his balance. The menus he found after a short search, buried under a yellowed stack of Astronomische Nachrichten, all of them addressed to Larry Fleinhardt. He looked at the dates, noticing that three of them were published before he was even born--around the time Larry got his doctorate, which was a strangely sobering fact.
He surveyed the rest of the desk, seeing a stack of six unpaid bills, which he ignored, and, next to that, a biography of Benjamin Banneker, face down, spine broken. Then another pile of printed-out e-mails, and an old scientific calculator held together with duct tape used as a paperweight for a stack of graded papers, the topmost getting only a C-, poor kid. And next to that, a photo of the two of them, in a silver frame, the picture taken at a faculty event Charlie vaguely remembered attending. It was printed on that yellow cardstock they used for interdepartmental newsletters. Larry must’ve cut it out and put it in the frame. Charlie set it down, not sure what to think about that, whether he should get Larry a real picture of them, and what it might mean that he wanted one for himself.
He wasn’t any good at this kind of thing. He didn’t know what to do with this evidence, and how to make sense now of Larry’s unsubtle revelations about Professor Wilson’s trail sense, and the way Larry’s fingers felt gripping his biceps, drawing him into a conversation, into a room, into a problem, and into some very strange mental places he couldn’t easily reconcile while sober, much less now, halfway to maudlin and falling fast.
“Found them,” he said at last, but when he came back into the living room, Larry was asleep, snoring quietly, his slight frame curled into the back of the sofa, one hand splayed out against it as if holding something back.
1-4. Points Not Covered by Rules
If any point in dispute is not covered by the Rules, the decision should be made in accordance with equity.
The air that slides past the ball very close to it is called the "boundary layer". At the place where the turbulent wake starts is called "separation of the boundary layer" where the smoothly flowing air departs from the ball and does not close up behind the ball nicely but rather swirls around in small vortices. If the boundary layer can be encouraged to stick to the ball a little longer, then the turbulent part of the wake can be reduced. It turns out that adding a little extra turbulence in the boundary layer itself all over the ball allows the main smoothly-flowing air currents to stay closer to the ball and delays the separation of the boundary layer.4
He’d missed lunch, and the lo mein was greasy and perfect. The scallion pancakes were even better. Larry slept on, and Charlie ate quickly, hoping his appetite meant he hadn’t drunk enough yet to regret it later. Asleep, Larry looked almost boyish, though actually, he looked pretty boyish awake, too. Every few minutes, Larry would murmur something in his sleep, and once, Larry said “pi” pretty clearly, though from the way Larry licked his lips afterwards, Charlie suspected it might’ve actually been “pie,” which sounded pretty good, and Charlie broke away from the Chinese to scope out the kitchen for dessert.
Larry finally woke up just as Charlie finished off a mini-Baby Ruth that tasted more like the wrapper than chocolate should, but was still pretty good.
“You’re still here.” Larry yawned and stretched, and Charlie nodded, still chewing, putting down the book about Banneker, which he was probably going to borrow.
“Got hungry.”
“Hmm. Is there anything left?”
He nodded, and Larry sat up, stretching again. Charlie watched Larry pick up the chopsticks and dig in, and thought again about that photo, which wasn’t anything, really--they weren’t even touching--and how good it felt when they sometimes did, and how easy it was to be charmingly oblivious, not to mention obdurate, and how maybe he didn’t want to be either right now.
“This is quite good. Chang’s?”
“Yeah.”
“And I see you found the chocolate.”
“Sorry--I think I got the last one.”
“I hope it wasn’t stale.”
“Halloween?”
“Valentine’s Day, actually.”
“Professor Wilson, I presume?” He forced a smile, hoping it sounded casual.
Larry grinned, pointing a chopstick at him. “She likes Godiva, actually, and doesn’t believe in any holiday based on a bloody massacre.”
“How very... gentile of her.”
Larry actually giggled. “Oh, yes, very much so. Genteel as well, actually. Especially in her galoshes.”
Larry got up to put on some music: Billie Holiday, which Charlie remembered was on when he first got to Larry’s, back when he still thought he knew who he was and why he was here.
Charlie sat back and rested his hands on his stomach, not sure if he was sated, still hungry, or a little nauseous. He wondered if there was any more chocolate around, and if Larry was going to eat the last pancake.
He must’ve been staring, because Larry said, “Be my guest, which, in fact, you already are.”
Charlie got up and sat down beside Larry on the sofa, telling himself it was easier to reach the food this way.
“I think I’m not as high anymore,” he said just as Larry finished eating. “You?”
“‘The blues are brewin’, Charles.” And Larry sighed.
Charlie felt the sofa dip slightly as Larry leaned forward to set down his carton, then wiped his hands on a crumpled napkin. When he settled back again, Charlie took a chance and edged closer, so their shoulders bumped.
Larry turned towards him, one eyebrow raised in question. “This is probably not a good idea.”
“Getting stoned on a Friday night was probably not a good idea.” Especially not when your brother worked for the FBI and had given him more than one lecture on the subject, warning him several times about those college boys at Princeton who would try to tempt him with their devastating peer pressure. It was just his luck that they hadn’t ever offered him anything harder than a few tantalizing glimpses of near-pornographic masculinity in the dormitory showers. And that had been hard enough.
“And your point is that neither of us has been making entirely rational choices tonight?”
“My point is that--”
And he kissed Larry, to make his point, unable to think of another way to make his case. Larry kissed like he played golf, with a sort of ease and quiet intensity and absolutely no irony, and when he leaned back further into the sofa, resting his head on the arm of it, he drew Charlie down on top of him so that their bodies were pressed together, so he could feel Larry getting hard under him. Larry thrust against him as they kissed, and Charlie managed to lever himself up on his elbow and get one hand between them to unbuckle Larry’s belt and unbutton his pants, and unsnap his own jeans, then got stuck at that point, too uncoordinated to get their pants down because he really, really just wanted to lie down. Larry laughed softly and offered to help, but he only got in the way with his insistent, rhythmic thrusting, which was pushing Charlie to the edge, until Charlie finally sighed, whispering, “Bedroom,” half-afraid Larry would come to his senses and refuse. But Larry just pushed him off and stood up, not bothering to straighten up at all, and Charlie followed Larry to the bedroom, feeling oddly disassociated, stopping in the doorway while Larry continued to the bed, taking his pants off in an easy gesture that betrayed no nervousness or indecision, then working on the buttons of his shirt before seeming to notice that Charlie was still standing there.
“Change your mind? Because it’s all right if you did, Charles. I can just climb into bed and pretend I was going to sleep it off, which would not be a bad idea at all, under the circumstances.”
He shook his head, not wanting to accept Larry’s offer, because he knew that it would just be a temporary measure. He knew, even if Larry didn’t, that he’d find some way of coming back here, to this moment, every time, until he finally managed to get past it, with or without Larry’s help. He was trapped in a degrading orbit, he wanted to argue, knowing it was ridiculous, but that yes, eventually, Larry’s gravity would take over, and after that, there’d just be friction and heat, and wow, yes, okay, so he was definitely still a little high, a little irrational. And still very hard. His erection would have seemed pretty embarrassing if he were entirely sober, and if Larry hadn’t been in a similar state.
He leaned on the doorframe, wondering if Larry always kept his bedroom so neat, everything at pleasingly perfect angles, or if he’d cleaned up, anticipating. The bedside lamp was creating a halo around Larry’s curly hair, and Charlie almost got lost staring at it.
“I might still be high,” he admitted, finally, wondering if it mattered.
Larry shrugged. “I’m not, at least not very, though I certainly wouldn’t chance driving a car at the moment, nor would I risk operating any heavy machinery in this condition. Not that I do much of that sort of thing while sober, come to think of it. Unless one were to count the telescope, which must weigh at least as much as your average backhoe. Actually, the same might be said of the electron microscope, which, just between us, I believe I have operated while under the influence. There’s nothing quite like seeing the universe writ small to give one the proper perspective on--”
“Larry, please, I just want--I want--” he held his hands out, palms up, not sure what he was trying to say.
But Larry just stopped talking and finished unbuttoning his shirt, taking it off and tossing it into the hamper in the corner of the room. He was still wearing his undershirt and boxers and socks, and Charlie couldn’t say why, but he thought that was kind of sexy, in an entirely different way from the upperclassmen he used to ogle.
Once he’d decided it had to happen, it had taken him three years to lose his virginity, which was longer than it had taken to finish his doctorate, and came just a year afterward. And he’d yet to actually have sex with another man, though not for lack of wanting. It was the follow-through that was difficult, not the desire itself. It was this. Getting in the door.
The desire--that was there, all the time, vibrating underneath everything like it had its own nearly discernible frequency, a pattern following alongside his pulse, in his blood, warming him.
Larry’s skin looked oddly golden in the light from the lamp, and Charlie managed to break free from his paralysis and walk to the bed, working himself up to kiss Larry again, because in that moment, it had all seemed easy. He felt like he could’ve solved P versus NP, if he’d only had Larry’s body pressed against his for a few more seconds.
Larry took his hand and eased him back into place as easy as that, so that they were again pressed together, only this time, Larry rolled him onto his side and somehow got his pants off of him, his underwear coming off too, and before he could register how that felt, Larry was lowering himself onto him, first kissing him again and then moving down, taking him into his mouth, and Charlie had to focus on not coming at the first touch of Larry’s mouth, on not coming, on thinking about golf, and not noticing the scrape of Larry’s teeth just in precisely the right place, and the flat palm Larry placed on his stomach, holding him down as he started to thrust into Larry’s mouth.
And then he was coming, and couldn’t stop it, Larry’s grip on the base of his cock urging him on.
He lay, panting and gasping at the popcorn ceiling, dimly aware of Larry’s hand still on his stomach tracing spherical patterns there. At last, he managed to turn over onto his side. Larry had taken off his own boxers and t-shirt and was smiling a small, private smile that made Charlie blush and lean over and kiss him again, noticing that Larry now smelled like duck sauce and come, a salty-sweet, nearly perfect combination that made him hungry again.
Larry was still looking at him with that soft, gentle, pleased expression, and Charlie put his arms around him a little awkwardly at first, letting his hands glide down Larry’s back to grip his bare ass, pressing their hips together and pulling Larry on top of him. Larry’s chest hair tickled his skin, as did the hair on his stomach, but otherwise, the sensations of skin on skin were familiar, a strange mix of his fantasies and actual experience, but nothing at all like the gay porn he’d watched a few years ago, trying to decide if he was really, definitely, incontrovertibly gay, or if maybe he was not (which would’ve been a good explanation for why he hadn’t managed to actually have sex with another guy yet). He really was, though, he admitted now, opening his thighs a bit so Larry’s cock rubbed up against his balls, the friction almost painful and then nothing but pleasure. He couldn’t get it up again, probably, but he didn’t care, letting Larry rub against him, not saying anything at all--a rare silence between them--until Larry gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and then stilled only to thrust again, short stuttering strokes, one, two, three, four, before collapsing on top of him, an ungainly sprawl of limbs Charlie gathered into a fierce hug.
“I love you.” He said the words into the hollow of Larry’s throat, and felt Larry’s response as he heard it, a low whisper.
“I suspect that’s the endorphins talking, Charles, but nonetheless, I appreciate the sentiment.”
“But you don’t return it,” Charlie said, carefully, holding Larry too closely to have to look him in the eye. His left hand was curled around the soft skin at Larry’s side, just above his hip bone, and he took some small satisfaction in getting this far. It meant something--meant he was getting better at this relationship thing. He wanted to promise Larry he could do this, really.
“Charles, I don’t return gifts. I appreciate them, very very much. But--” And with that, Larry sighed, resting his chin on top of Charlie’s head. “I love you, too. Does it make a difference--saying it? Yes, yes, I suppose it does. I suppose you need to hear it and so I need to say it. And tomorrow--”
“Tomorrow,” Charlie broke in, not letting Larry dismiss this--not yet-- “I’m going to buy you some more chocolate and fix your vacuum.” His own voice rougher than he’d expected, his throat tight. If he could, he’d forestall any talk of regrets about the things he couldn’t fix, in favor of focusing on the things he could. He wanted--no, he needed--Larry to take the long view on this.
“Tomorrow I’ll look for that warranty, and we will very likely both be deservedly hungover and promising to never touch the stuff again.”
“Let me see if I can fix it, first.” The weird tightness was easing, a little.
“Your expertise--such as it is--is entirely theoretical, as I think we established today.”
He drew his hand down and cupped Larry’s lax penis, not expecting anything yet, but enjoying the privilege. “I’d say this was more than theoretical.”
“But far from expert,” Larry said, yet surprise surprise, he was showing signs of renewed interest.
“Oh, teach me, Master.”
“You smug little bastard.”
And suddenly, it was all right, because they were kissing again and things had only just started to get interesting.
The End.
Feed the Muse.
Thanks to Sigrid for putting up with the golf flashbacks and my errant wedges.
1 http://van.hep.uiuc.edu/van/qa/section/Everything_Else/Sports/20020812054128.htm
2 http://van.hep.uiuc.edu/van/qa/section/everything_else/sports/20020510112102.htm
3 ibid
4 ibid
Rules of Golf from the USGA.
Illustration of drag (and I do love drag) from GolfJoy.com