A Place for Cliff (16 page)

Quentin who was sitting passenger seat up front turned to goad him. “So don’t you think maybe you’re going a wee bit fast? Fucking the good lookin’ lad is all good, but you got him all moved in now. We’ve never seen you move so fast with anyone before.”

“Because I have never been so sure as I am now before.” Pyotr’s face dropped a bit, but only to feel the beaming emotions and confidence he felt in his relationship with Cliff.

“But how can you be sure?” Quentin asked.

Pyotr looked back up at the stout New York Irish man and then the others all rubber necking at him, waiting for some magic word. He shrugged, “You just feel this certainty and you have to trust it if you want to enjoy it.”

Darko looked at his older brother. He’d been worried over this from the start and now seemed the best chance he’d had to ask him on it. “But what if you’re just letting your desires to have a family making you see what you want to see and not what’s really there?”

Pyotr slapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder and nodded confidently, “Where would we be today if we let fear be the deciding factor for us when we first talked about competing?” And his friends and teammates finally understood and nodded.

Tom who was sitting behind him leaned up over the back of Pyotr’s seat unable to pass up a chance to razz his buddy to lighten the mood back up. “So you’re not at all worried about leaving your boy toy unattended?”

“Who said I’ve left him unattended? He knows he belongs to me.”

“Don’t let him fool you.”Quentin chimed in, “Pyotr probably put salt peter in the boy’s food while he’s gone.” The comment got the guys laughing.

“Say it isn’t so.” Tom stammered.

“And risk ruining that beautiful pecker on him?” While Pyotr managed to keep a straight face his eyes were already laughing, “Absolutely not. I put an ankle band on him instead.” And that got the men roaring and Tom slapped him on the shoulder and sat back as the trucks pulled off.

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~

Pyotr watched his men carefully as they unloaded the trailers and walked the long shells down to the water and began reassembling of the rigging.

They’d long since earned their keep in the district and for the most part the slander among the peers had stopped. But
this
was a new level; the Regional Masters head race hosted by both British Rowing Club and Essex Rowing Club was bringing in teams they had never raced against until now. So the smirks and whispers. The strange looks and the silent hate were back. And his team could feel it. It wasn’t good for them. They had two days before the race and Pyotr had decided a long hard day of rowing on the Merrimack River to acclimate themselves would do them some good.

He spotted York Sterling, one of the district organizers from New York over at the boat house and decided to go check in with him.

“Ah Pyotr.” York took Pyotr’s hand as he stepped up, “You and your boys have made it. And already setting up for a trial run on the river I see.”

“Yes, first time to the regional has putting some jitter in them its best we row it out.” Pyotr gave him a cordial chuckle.

York’s face tightened some and he leaned closer, “There have been some unpleasant murmuring among some of the unfamiliar teams already spreading. I won’t have this Pyotr. Anyone give you problems you come to me right away. We won’t tolerate bad sportsmanship. We’re Gentlemen here.”

Pyotr could only offer a smile for his friend. York was a true gentleman, he once confessed privately with him he was uncertain if homosexuality was a sin or not. But such things mattered not in the sport of rowing and he had always seen to it that others followed by his rules. He had always seen them as an inspiring team to the sport just like any other. For that Pyotr had always been grateful. “If we hear of any will just wink and blow kisses at hem as we pass their asses on the river.”

York let out a hearty laugh, “To the duels then.” They shook hands again, “I’ll have your credentials ready when you boys come back in.”

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~

Pyotr and his squad sat lined up in the boat shell. To their right, their team’s second eight-man, making two out of only nine crews that had converted back to sculling style rowing on the eight man boats, where most rowing teams stuck with the sweep method which was only one oar per man. Pyotr glanced over to Quentin on the second squad who sat in the last slider like he did and gave him a nod. And they both spoke to their team mates to talk them thru the tension drawing their minds into focus. All of them—tense—waiting for the start of the race.

“Glistening water, smooth and waiting for us. Like bugs skidding across her surface—we will glide.” Pyotr whispered to River who sat in front of him who then whispered it to Mitch, then Cody, Hemi, Andreas, Trofim and then Zane who sat in lead.

To the left a Michigan team snickered racial verbiage at them, but Pyotr only minded his men to keep their focus. Only the race mattered now.

On the bridge, just behind the starter point where the rowing teams floated, fans and spectators filled up and spilled down along the river banks. Several groups mixed with both men and women stood waving rainbow flags and homemade posters that declared the love and support for the New York GQ’s. For them it balanced it out. They had become one of the most popular teams around. Bringing in long sought after attention to a near forgotten sport. Of course having twenty-six men most of which were pretty damn hunky seemed to help and the girls didn’t seem to mind one bit that none of them were straight.

A temporary docking station floated across the river with fingers that jutted out. Each one, a young man or woman laid out on their bellies held the sixty foot sculls in place while the rowers sat quietly, motionless—their oars up and positioned back for the that vital first dip that made every bit of difference of positioning.

Calon was in the coxswain for them while his twin brother Calob had the cox’n seat on the  second eight man team.

 A man dressed as if he planned to greet the British royal stepped up on the elevated dock and took position.

The men’s arms tensed—oars easing back but keeping clear of the water—heads bowed.. backs arched over—

The gun fired off and nine long shells of men dipped and lunged forward with a myriad of chanting cries. But none so predominant as the one the Greenwich Queens had. While chants were usually called out by the coxswain Hemi was pure blood Maori and he had been given a
Strong Haka
by his
Kodo
for his team. So Hemi called out the first verse as they all slid forward on the tracks of the seats, bearing oars back and then they all responded as they dipped and pulled with all their strength—arms, legs and souls.

“WHAY CHAY HOWA!”

“HOYH!”

“KQUATAH QUATAH HAY HO!”

“HOYH!”

KEE OCUHEE NAM ME TAH!

The shells sliced through the water’s surface surging forward with every pull of the oars and in those first two or three Pyotr’s team took the lead position. The coxswain now took over the Haka leading them in unison with the words that told their enemy what would be left of them once they had finished with them in this race.

Calon and Calob called in together,
“Ka mate! Ka mate!”

And their teams all responded,
“Ka Ora! Ka Ora! Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka Ora! Ka Ora! Tenei te tangata Puburu huru! Nana I tiki mai Whakawhiti te ra! A. upa
—
ne! A, upa
—
ne!”

Pyotr strained with all his muscles his mind working in balance with his body, watching his men. Each set of oars a nano second behind the first. They worked like a precision time piece and he couldn’t help but feel a boost of pride just then.  Legs pushed and straightened, while backs and arms pulled for that extra effort. The Haka they sang out—part war cry part aggressive grunting—to kept them in focus and in time like a drum beat. Slid and pull—slide and pull.

“A upane, ka upane Whiti t era
—
Hi!”
they all called out the final part of the Haka and took off down the river in the lead.

While the rowing strokes looked fluid from an outside perspective they were made up of four sequential elements: the catch, the drive, the finish and the recovery. And as they moved down the river the movements became a hypnotic
cadence,
counting in their heads with only the cox’n keeping them monitored and controlled the rudder.

As the race reached the last bend in the river, muscles burned like hot coals from a fire. Sweat soaked their bodies and stung in their eyes. The prime eight man team was in the lead, but just barely. The next two shell, another from New York and the Michigan team still keeping a close pace to them and it was time to leave them behind. Only Calon would not call for the double pace until just the right time.

The New York Rowing Regiment was drawing up beside them and that was a position they couldn’t afford and the call was made.

“Up step!” Calon called out and the men began forcing their bodies to pull harder and faster into a double time for 20 strokes. Growling burning and pulling Pyotr’s teammates stayed so focused on keeping their lead position they didn’t pause even a breath when the other team suffered a collision of oars and suddenly fell back and out of shot for second or third place.

And just as they reached the end of their twenty, Calon called for a power 10. Ten strokes of their hardest, most grueling strength and to see to it they felt it he called out the Haka once more. Giving them what they needed to keep their mental strength.

“Ka mate! Ka mate!”

And their teams all responded,
“Ka Ora! Ka Ora! Ka mate! Ka mate! Ka Ora! Ka Ora! Tenei te tangata Puburu huru! Nana I tiki mai Whakawhiti te ra! A. upa
—
ne! A, upa
—
ne!”

And just then Pyotr saw the ribbon slip past them and snap as they drifted past it and cheers and rainbow flags met them from all sides of the river. Relief made his body melt in that instant and he slumped over too happy and too tired to do anything else. They had won.

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~

Shortly after, the four-man crews came in sight— Pavle, Stefan, Theo and Noah were holding fourth place. Even more exciting was when the singles started coming up the river and Pyotr’s brother Darko was ahead by a land slide in an intense race against nearly thirty other rowers. When Darko crossed the finish line ribbon, the guys hardly gave any wait to the matter and bounded into the water.

Pyotr scooped his brother up right away and planted a deep kiss on his lips then hoisted him off his feet.

They all gathered around, rejoicing in their accomplishment. The hard training and perseverance had paid off today.

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~

The final high was standing on the temporary platform when they were ceremoniously handed over their trophies. They felt like kings on top of mount Everest in that moment, but someone stepped through the crowd that brought a sudden concerting memory and Pyotr quickly glanced at his younger brother Trofim who had also spotted his ex partner Shay Wilks walking up fast.

Pyotr quickly brushed past Zane who’d been standing between them, but Trofim was already backing away so fast he nearly went crashing of the back edge. Trofim spun and darted down the steps and took off in the other direction, Pyotr follow down only to head Shay off at the pass. And caught the man by the arm bringing him to a stop.

Shay, tall and handsome had certainly matured over the past five years, but one thing apparently didn’t change in him. He still loved Trofim very much. It was written all over his face with an excited expression that quickly melted away when he turned glancing at Pyotr and recognized the road block for what it was.

Pain and weariness filled his eyes then, “I want to see him. Please.” It was almost a demand if it weren’t for the hurt pleading inside there somewhere.

Pyotr wished nothing more than to let these two be together again but the price for his brother’s life was too steep to not intervene. He looked out past Shay—to the crowd of spectators. Benjamin Wilks had to be out there somewhere; this was too good of an opportunity to boast about his son and to look positive in the political world. “Your father is probably looking to congratulate you.” Shay’s face went stark blank as if all will to live or fight left him. Now only an empty man stood before Pyotr and he slowly turned and walked away.

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~

After a brief chat of catch-up between Pyotr and Vida at the door, Pyotr and Cliff walked inside Club Pain and was surprised finding the Dominus Trenton Leos at the bar waiting for them.

Pyotr felt the immediate tension on his young lover as they slowly approached what was essential his final ‘coming out’ though it was not the purpose of their scheduled evening. Still it was something that could not be dismissed and his arm closed around Cliff to comfort him and assure him they would be doing this together. He was
not
alone in any of this.

Since they had begun their relationship they had done a number of things publicly. And it was often more that they were doing anything that revealed that Cliff didn’t have an active life outside of work. His club nights being his only personal escape. So showing up here at Club Pain now as a
Sub
and not the Dom he tried so hard to be was understandably unnerving.

Cliff felt every bit of nerve-racking adrenalin racing thru him. His stomach twisting and flipping and nothing not even the familiarity of Trenton’s demeanor eased it back any. He watched as the Dominus shook hands and greeted Pyotr, a slight shifted glance his way and that was all the recognition he got. Not that he had expected a friendly greeting in the first place but he perhaps thought he would have received more than just a glimmer from him since he was with Pyotr.

After the two spoke into each other’s ears to hear over the music that already thrummed and pounded in the club, Pyotr’s arms snaked around his waist and brought him about face pulling them together. “Keep your eyes on me.” Pyotr whispered to him and began to kiss him lightly. Cliff closed his eyes trying to escape into that kiss, but it was over too soon and he still felt as much the pretzel as he did a second ago.