Reaching for Gold

John awoke with a groan and seeing stars. Worse, his ass felt like a telephone pole had been jammed up there. The sound from Jim's bed was evidence that he wasn't in any better shape. The Turks were gone and the dawn was fighting to invade the curtain hanging loosely across their window.

John saw the orange juice carton on the floor and picked it up. It was empty. He regretted that at this moment. He instinctively thought that orange juice would somehow deliver him from the pain. His eyes drifted over to the pile of condom packets on the nightstand and then back to the floor, where he methodically counted nine condoms, all wrinkled and thick with white fluid at the tips.

Nine? He looked around. Was one hiding, or had one of them gotten one more fuck than the other had?

John laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh, though. It was a bitter, nearly hysterical laugh. What was he doing this morning counting condoms—and sensing competition with his brother on who had gotten more of what?

"John," Jim whimpered. "It's six. We're on the apparatuses at nine."

"Fuck," John said.

"I'm afraid so," Jim answered in a very, very small voice.

At almost precisely 9:00 AM, John was making his approach to the balance beam. This was his premier event. He felt like hell. He could barely see the beam let alone remember how he was supposed to get up there—and how he possibly could stand on anything that thin. His ass felt like it was on fire.

The crowd noise was deafening. He looked over toward the sidelines, where the other countries' teams were forming up, almost as if he was looking for an escape.

That's when he saw them. The Turkish gymnast, Ahmet Ergin, was standing just inside the tunnel under the stands, half in the shadows. Facing him, covering his body close and leaning down to give him a deep kiss—a kiss of encouragement and assurance of victory, John realized at that moment—was the Turkish wrestler, Yakup.