scare you off,â Marvin said. âIn time, youâll find it amusing. Youâll be able to predict which ego will get crushed on the track first. Thereâs a lot of ... well ... a lot of personality in this club. I swear if it hasnât driven you away yet, youâll be good to go around here for quite some time.â
âMy heart hasnât raced like that in quite some time.â Liam realized he batted his eyelashes in a flirtatious reflex. He thought of the arc of Marvinâs engorged shaft from the shower the other week. âAnd I guess thatâs a good thing.â
âSo come to the restaurant with us now. Itâs just around the corner. Youâll get a bigger peek into the club psyche.â
Liam smiled in acquiescence. He did have to eat dinner after all.
A badly conceived cocktail of Washington Heights locals and post-workout runners, the restaurant wore the unsavory scent of cheap musk and drying sweat. As the group entered the pub, a jovial black man greeted Zane with a televangelistâs hallelujah smile and an immense hug. He waved the Fast Trackers toward a back room that was somewhat shielded from the off-key wails of the barâs karaoke Tuesday. As he sat down at the table of twelve, Liam could hear the reverberation of the screaming chorus: âI only WANNA see you, baby, in the purple rain!â
Some of the faces around the table looked familiar. Directly across from him sat Zane and next to him Gary, the leader in the park whom Liam learned was lovingly called G-Lo by the team, a moniker that apparently substituted for the clumsier Gary Loblonicki. A few cute young guys dotted the perimeter of the oblong table, and Gene and Marvin were there too. In fact, Marvin plunked down right next to Liam and began nervously tapping his foot so that his hairy leg brushed up against Liam ever so slightly. Marvin had mentioned his partner when they first met, but Liam had met enough couples with special âarrangementsâ to know that did not guarantee exclusivity or fidelity. As Liam leaned into conversation with Zane to avoid Marvinâs coy advance, Liam felt the press of his penis against the threadbare cotton of his boxer shorts.
On the train ride downtown after dinner, Liam sat purposefully alone, choosing a spot across the train car and several feet from the bench that the other Fast Trackers had occupied. A young guy (he had to be around Liamâs age) with features that were round, though not quite fat, stood up and scooted down the car to sit next to Liam. Feeling burdened by the prospect of small talk, Liam avoided eye contact and handed the fellow a section of The New York Times .
âCome on, you can do better than that. Youâre new. Itâs your duty to endear yourself to people like me.â The guy threaded each syllable with just enough comic edge to disable Liam from both acting put out and from taking him seriously. But it was also far too late at night for Liam to manufacture any biting repartee.
âIâll try to improve on that next time,â he said and returned to the paper.
âI get it. I get it. The whole cultivating an air of mystery.â The guy, who still hadnât volunteered his name, now slid his Elvis Costello eyeglasses down and then up his nose. âA sense of the forbidden unknown ... the loner mystique.â
âJust reading the newspaperânothing mysterious or forbidden about that.â Immediately after he spoke, Liam regretted the now-go-shoo! tone of his statement, although he still wanted more than anything to be left alone.
âLook, do me a favor and just chat with me already. Iâm tired as anything of all their talk about mile splits from the results from the last 10K or which half marathon they plan to race next. I have a rule that you canât talk about a race for longer than it took to run it. And forget about that Gene; heâs the worst offender. He has talked about
âMy heart hasnât raced like that in quite some time.â Liam realized he batted his eyelashes in a flirtatious reflex. He thought of the arc of Marvinâs engorged shaft from the shower the other week. âAnd I guess thatâs a good thing.â
âSo come to the restaurant with us now. Itâs just around the corner. Youâll get a bigger peek into the club psyche.â
Liam smiled in acquiescence. He did have to eat dinner after all.
A badly conceived cocktail of Washington Heights locals and post-workout runners, the restaurant wore the unsavory scent of cheap musk and drying sweat. As the group entered the pub, a jovial black man greeted Zane with a televangelistâs hallelujah smile and an immense hug. He waved the Fast Trackers toward a back room that was somewhat shielded from the off-key wails of the barâs karaoke Tuesday. As he sat down at the table of twelve, Liam could hear the reverberation of the screaming chorus: âI only WANNA see you, baby, in the purple rain!â
Some of the faces around the table looked familiar. Directly across from him sat Zane and next to him Gary, the leader in the park whom Liam learned was lovingly called G-Lo by the team, a moniker that apparently substituted for the clumsier Gary Loblonicki. A few cute young guys dotted the perimeter of the oblong table, and Gene and Marvin were there too. In fact, Marvin plunked down right next to Liam and began nervously tapping his foot so that his hairy leg brushed up against Liam ever so slightly. Marvin had mentioned his partner when they first met, but Liam had met enough couples with special âarrangementsâ to know that did not guarantee exclusivity or fidelity. As Liam leaned into conversation with Zane to avoid Marvinâs coy advance, Liam felt the press of his penis against the threadbare cotton of his boxer shorts.
On the train ride downtown after dinner, Liam sat purposefully alone, choosing a spot across the train car and several feet from the bench that the other Fast Trackers had occupied. A young guy (he had to be around Liamâs age) with features that were round, though not quite fat, stood up and scooted down the car to sit next to Liam. Feeling burdened by the prospect of small talk, Liam avoided eye contact and handed the fellow a section of The New York Times .
âCome on, you can do better than that. Youâre new. Itâs your duty to endear yourself to people like me.â The guy threaded each syllable with just enough comic edge to disable Liam from both acting put out and from taking him seriously. But it was also far too late at night for Liam to manufacture any biting repartee.
âIâll try to improve on that next time,â he said and returned to the paper.
âI get it. I get it. The whole cultivating an air of mystery.â The guy, who still hadnât volunteered his name, now slid his Elvis Costello eyeglasses down and then up his nose. âA sense of the forbidden unknown ... the loner mystique.â
âJust reading the newspaperânothing mysterious or forbidden about that.â Immediately after he spoke, Liam regretted the now-go-shoo! tone of his statement, although he still wanted more than anything to be left alone.
âLook, do me a favor and just chat with me already. Iâm tired as anything of all their talk about mile splits from the results from the last 10K or which half marathon they plan to race next. I have a rule that you canât talk about a race for longer than it took to run it. And forget about that Gene; heâs the worst offender. He has talked about