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Ever since I had jumped in the T-Bird and started racing down through Washington and Oregon and along the California coastal highway to put my final fight with Clem out of my mind, I'd been searching for some way to calm my combined anger and grief at the loss of that angelic, young free spirit who had made me forget these last two years that I now was on the wrong side of thirty-five no matter how much I pumped iron and groomed my body. I was grabbing at the last vestiges of my youth and the privilege of a vigorous, hard body, and I thought I had found that fountain of youth in Clem. I had gloried in his vibrancy and supple, lithe body, and he had seemed mesmerized by my blond good looks and hunky muscles and the mastery of my thick nine-inch sword. Our lovemaking helped me maintain the edge I needed to continue to compete at the pro level. I took Clem's desertion of me for a younger man as a sign of what was to come with my professional football career, and, although I couldn't admit it to myself, I was so afraid of the future that my hands trembled on the steering wheel. I kept on the move as if standing still would drag me down and accelerate the aging process.

I had always had my pick of young men to fuck. Clem had been my first attempt to settle down with one of them, and he had betrayed me and justified all my latent fears by walking out on me with that new football recruit straight off the university gridiron—the same recruit who seemed so greedily to be eyeing my position on the squad. The recruit had let me bring him home and fuck him and then, when he had exhausted me, he'd pumped Clem in my bed and stolen him right from ...

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