The Trainer

  The Trainer

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2021 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781646567638

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  The Trainer

  By R.W. Clinger

  “Alex Lee? Alex, is that you?” I felt someone tug on my right elbow outside Pages, the bookstore on Penn Avenue. The somebody spun me around. He looked familiar and handsome with a military cut, bright blue eyes, and blond scruff on his cheeks and chin. His six-three frame resembled a Greek god’s: muscular in all the right places, V-shaped chest, pointed nipples in a too-tight T-shirt, tube of long cock under Nike running shorts, no underwear. The one and only Squire Land.

  “Hey.” I didn’t know what else to say. We hadn’t made eye contact in two years. Hollywood kept me busy.

  He athletically bounced on the balls of his feet, excited to see me. The pearly white grin on his face proved his enthusiasm. “What are you doing in Pittsburgh?”

  “Working. I’m here for a job. Staying for most of the summer. My sister has an apartment above her garage on Joiner Street. I’m crashing there.”

  “I remember that. Are you still making movies?” Pleasure bloomed on his face. A real smile. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was smitten, but didn’t know why.

  Why was he speaking to me? The guy never wanted anything to do with me in high school…or in my adulthood. Never. Not once. I wasn’t gorgeous and a pumped jock. I wasn’t physically fit and rock-hard handsome like him. I wasn’t in his league or walked among his arrogant crowd and beefy friends.

  “Always. It’s what I do.”

  “I saw your last one. Hex Witch. It wasn’t your best work, but I liked it.”

  The horror movie was a piece of shit. But it exploded at the box office. Fans loved it. In my opinion, the writer could have done better. And the actress, Olivia Daye, some pissy vixen with high demands and a higher attitude, was the absolute worst. But the flick paid embarrassingly well.

  “A lot of people saw it. A second part is in the works. It should come out next year.”

  He checked me out from my toes to my head: hairy legs, khaki shorts with too many pockets, narrow waist, a medium-size chest in a frumpy polo, hairless face, emerald eyes, and black hair. “Thirty-four is treating you well. You look good. In fact, you haven’t changed at all. It’s why I like you.”

  I had changed. I lost twenty pounds in the last twenty-four months, and kept it off. I made six movies in that time. Some short. Some long. My heart was a little broken because my younger—twenty-eight and a Robert Pattinson look-alike—brother had too much too drink, became a little sloppy, and drowned in the Allegheny River during a Memorial Day party. I told Squire, “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  We shook hands. Kept smiling. “I’m training these days. I have my own business. I call it Fitland.”

  Clever. The word fit before his last name. “Nice,” I told him. “You still own the gym with Todd?”

  The two had a partnership at a gym called Barbells, not far from Pages. He shook his head. “We had a falling out and different views about running the place. He eventually bought me out.” He shrugged and his smile slightly disappeared. “Things happen. Life moves forward. Sometimes we expect bumps. Sometimes we don’t.”

  “We sure do. Sounds like you got through it.”

  He bowed his head and lowered his tone, “I’m sorry about your brother. Kent was the best guy. I’m sure that was pretty ugly for you to go through.”

  I didn’t lie. “Still is ugly. I think about him every day. I’m still getting through it.”

  He paused.

  I paused.

  Eventually I asked about his twin, “How’s Safford?”

  “Good. Good.” He nodded. “Still designing and building houses, and he’s married to Cassie Ringwald. They’re expecting a third kid. They want a half dozen. Something tells me they aren’t going to stop until they do.”

  “That’s great.” It was. Unlike Squire, Safford always wanted to design and build houses, have a large family, and to be Cassie’s husband. “How are your mom and dad?”

  “Fully retired now and living in Camden, Maine. Mom loves it up there. She’s close to her sister. And Dad is fishing whenever he can. I visit them during the major holidays.”

  His cell phone chirped and he looked down at its screen. After reviewing its message, he told me, “A reminder. I gotta run. I have a client meeting. Someone new I’m training. A writer named Gregory Dicks. Ever hear of him?”

  I shook my head. “I read a lot, but don’t know him.”

  “He writes queer and raunchy erotica shit. The nastiest things you can’t imagine happening between two or three men in the sack, among other places.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Very interesting.”

  We shook hands again.

  He winked at me. “Nice to see you, Lee. Stay in touch.”

  Off he went, running away to his meeting.

  I turned around, walked back into Pages, and bought the last paperback copy of Gregory Dicks’ newest best-seller: Man Overboard.

  * * * *

  The small apartment above my sister’s garage wasn’t intended for a long-term stay. The toilet only flushed sometimes. The queen-size bed needed a new mattress. Two of the three windows wouldn’t close and allowed rain and bugs access. And the dishwasher didn’t work.

  No problem. The space was free, and she occasionally fed me when her husband, Mick, cooked, giving me the leftovers. Plus, the guy across the alley, some eighteen- or nineteen-year-old stud named Ben Malin, did guy-shows for me. He lived with his grandmother. The kid was built like a wall: powerful and lots of muscle. He would cut the grass in nothing more than a pair of shorts and sneakers, showed off his ass, biceps, and back. Such a fine-looking dude.

  Malin blew my world apart with his Harry Styles look. Tempted me to jack off to his hot and semi-naked body. I relished the patch of curly brown hair between his firm pecs. Studied the line of hair beneath his navel that fell into his shorts. Wanted to lick his perspiration-covered thighs. Needed to bite his firm nipples. Desired nothing less than to shower with the young man and soap up his gym-fit body. Damn, how I desired that young man: sexually, without erotic limitations, unconditionally blissful. Pure sex is what I wanted from the kid, and nothing more.

  * * * *

  The next day, Melissa “Sis” Lee-MacKramer, my sister, visited me. She looked like me with a feminine beauty to her edges, more refined. She taught kindergarten at High Street Elementary. She had the summer off and checked up on me almost every day. Her questions were endless:

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Are you still watching Mrs. Rose Malin’s grandson cutting the grass? Yes, he’s hot. But you know he’s too young for you. He’s just a boy, Alex.”

  “Mick is cooking ribs tonight. I’ll see that you get some.”

  “Do you really read this shit? Man Overboard. I thought you enjoyed the classics, and better writing? Of Mice and Men. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Wuthering Heights…”

  I always had to cut her off. Not that that ended her rants. She only continued her spiels:

  “Squire…Squire Land stopped by. Isn’t he that twin from high school that you were in love with and he ignored you? He was a jock, right? He was popular? Anyway, he was looking for you. He left his number and wants you to give him a call.”

  * * * *

  The movie I worked on that summer was called River Death. Liv Tyler was supposed to be the lead actress, but “something Hollywood” happened to her and I ended up working with a nobody actress named Geneva Shy.

  Geneva—twenty-nine, five-eight, platinum blonde, brown eyes, next to no breasts—hated queers so I stayed away from her, not that it became a challenge for me because my position as a grip made it easy. Truth said, she hated everyone. I couldn’t count how many times she yelled at the people around her, humiliating the staff. The only time I can remember her being pleasant was when she drank too much: always white wine, never anything else. Her only good attribute: Geneva knew her lines and usually nailed them on the first shot.

  The mystery/thriller, River Death, was to take twelve weeks to film. I had read the 120-page script three times, memorizing some of the lines and scenes
. Oscar pre-buzz about the script compared it to Silence of the Lambs. Most of the shots were filmed by the city’s three rivers (Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio), and at night (the director wanted a dark and menacing tone/essence to the film). I did most of my sleeping in the early morning hours, usually until noon.

  * * * *

  Two days after my arrival. Thunder raked across the city’s gray-black ceiling and lightning dashed here and there looking like golden bright fireworks. The rivers didn’t rise along their banks, but they usually did during the rainy season. It didn’t feel like summertime because of the downpour. The rain lingered for a day…two days.

  I loved the rain, but expected the June heat and sunshine to rise to the occasion. Unfortunately, Pittsburgh turned into a humid vat of sweat, challenging me, and all I could hope for was that the rain would stop and the small areas of the city like McKenzie, Rothtail, and Shumar dried.

  The rain gave me time to think about Squire and his visit to see Sis. What did he want with me? I was a little surprised that Sis gave me his cell phone number. I was more surprised when, after passing me his number—she had scrawled it on the back of a dollar store receipt—she told me, “Squire’s a cute guy. He’s also single. You could have some fun with him this summer. Life is short. Very short. Play hard.”

  “How exactly am I supposed to have fun with him?”

  She laughed at me. “I heard through a friend of a friend that he’s out of the closet. Squire is queer. He’s into guys these days. Not the ladies.”

  “The Squire Land? No way. He loves the ladies. He’s always loved the ladies. The guy was a sex machine with girls in high school. I can’t even tell you how many girls he slept with.”

  “I’m just telling you what I heard. The ladies are out of the picture. If I may be frank, he does dick now.”

  “So you’re thinking that he and I should swordfight?”

  She shrugged and giggled. “Whatever you gays like to do in private. It’s none of my business.” And then she winked at me.

  * * * *

  That seductive stud Malin cut his grandmother’s grass every few days, even when it didn’t need it. Rain or shine, he had a Toro in his clutches. I watched him in action during a short drizzle, thick humidity, and scorching sunshine.

  The sun shined bright on June 5. His golden-brown flesh sucked up the rays, heat, and glistened. Droplets of sweat hung off his youthful forehead, smooth chin, rosy cheeks, pumped pecs, puffed abs, and dented navel. I determined he had fallen in love with the sun, and the act of cutting grass. His title of ‘lawn boy’ didn’t seem wasted. On the contrary, he lived up to its potential, fully engrossed in the task.

  When watching him: I licked my lips, rubbed two fingertips over one of my nipples, and brushed a hand along my shorts-covered cock. Perhaps I had enjoyed Malin as much as he enjoyed grass cutting because bubbles of dick-juice leaked into my boxer-briefs.

  I was sure.

  If he asked to fuck me, I would have agreed.

  I was sure.

  * * * *

  Between scenes of River Death, on a short break, I tried to reach out to Squire. I should have been nervous, but wasn’t. I had known the Land twins since my freshman year at Talmore High School. Although Squire and I hadn’t traveled in the same pack of friends, we had classes like gym, algebra, and biology together.

  Jock. Handsome. Popular. Girl magnet. Outgoing. Intelligent. Always arrogant. Always confident. Into his body. Straight. Those were just a few ways I had described Squire in high school.

  I wouldn’t lie to myself while making the phone call: I always had a crush on him in high school; I imagined kissing him numerous times; I studied him like an entomologist would study a beetle. A god I had fallen in love with then. A young man-boy I had wanted to suck off. The most handsome man in high school who I wanted to doggy-fuck me again and again and again. Too bad he ignored me back in the day. Maybe today would be different. Who knew?

  Following high school, Squire and I went our separate ways. At least I did. I moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles and attended the Rodmar School of Arts. There, I learned about filmmaking. And there I obtained a degree in film and media.

  Shortly after graduating from the college, I picked up a job with Weslington Productions as an assistant director’s messenger boy. The AD was Harold Denny, who fell in love with me. Three times my age, barely able to use his dick, I fucked him hard and worked my way up the ladder at Weslington. I learned every position in filmmaking, in and out: production, directing, lighting, sound, casting, catering, set designing, costuming, art directing, visual effects, animation, and so many other aspects of the filming world. At one point or another in the last twenty years I had worked with all the divisions at Weslington, but seemed to enjoy being a grip the best. It became my life and world eight years ago. I didn’t want anything more in Hollywood. Never. Completely satisfied.

  I knew very little of what Squire Land had accomplished in the last sixteen years. I knew he didn’t go to college, that he had been married a few years,

  According to Sis:

  “He never went to college.”

  “He worked as an assistant coach at Dubois University, but not for long. Although he was great at the job, the university found out that he didn’t have a college degree and ended up firing him.”

  “He’s worked at a number of gyms in the last dozen years.”

  “He doesn’t have any kids.”

  “He lives in a small Tudor on West Harlon Street in Southington.”

  “He drives an aqua Rivian R1T.”

  “I can’t count how many girls he’s been on dates with. He always had a lady on his arm…until recently. But with his good looks, why wouldn’t he have a beautiful person at his side? Man or woman, right?”

  “Barbells was his baby. It was lucrative and popular. Still is. I don’t know the details of his parting from the place. Something happened with Todd.”

  “He’s a personal trainer now and runs Fitland. Did you know this, Alex? He helps his clients become fit and healthy. He’s really good at his job. He cares about his clients and their lives.”

  * * * *

  Squire didn’t pick up his phone. It went directly to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.

  In the middle of the night, following my shift on the set of River Death, I drove my rented Fiat past Barbells on Greson Street. Three beefy fitness junkies were working out. Todd Scaler wasn’t inside. Not that I expected to see him. Something told me he was at home underneath a good looking man, or inside him, and doing nasty and naked pushups. Horny Todd. Always looking for dick like horny Squire was always looking for a lady. Always easy. Porn-handsome and fuck-friendly all the time.

  I didn’t have a history with Todd. Yes, he liked dick. And yes, I knew he fucked a few of my gay friends during and after high school. But I never fell for his ginger looks when visiting my family in Pittsburgh. Not once. Not his sharp jaw and green-green eyes. Not his curly orange hair or freckled nose. Not his pale skin and pinkish nipples. Not the bush of orange hair above his ten-inch veined dick. Nothing like that ever happened between us.

  Truth said, I never liked gingers. And I never really liked Todd. I always thought him obnoxious because he wanted to be the center of attention, because he was arrogant, and because he knew that a lot of men dropped to their knees for him and ate him up. That wasn’t me. I didn’t do that with Todd. Never would.

  * * * *

  Malin finished cutting his grandmother’s grass and parked the Toro mower in the single-car garage. The mouth of the garage faced one of my apartment windows. Rose Malin never parked her Buick in the garage. It gave plenty of room for Malin to sit on two spare rubber tires and…

  He knew I was watching him jack off. Had to. Because he put on an erotic show for me by pushing his shorts down to his sneakers and found a seat on the top of the two tires. He played with himself, bringing his seven-inch dick to life. He spit on his shaft and used the saliva as lubrication. The actor spread his legs for me and arched his back. He pumped his right fist a number of times. Sweat flung off his arms. I watched him cringe, coming, but I couldn’t hear his grunts and groans—I only imagined them—because my window was closed. And he drizzled white and creamy looking ejaculation on his tight abs, over his pecs, and his corded neck.