Golf Seduction

Archibald “Archie” Templeton was a man of routines: a polite greeting, a well-cooked roast, and a handshake firm enough to convey sincerity without bruising. A retired insurance adjuster and widower for five years, he lived alone in a spotless bungalow on Sycamore Lane. His Hawaiian shirts were organized by hue, his calendar marked with little rituals—Wednesday’s newspaper, Thursday’s meatloaf, and Tuesday golf at Ridgewood Pines.

Golf was a novelty. He’d agreed to join a Rotary Club charity scramble, drawn more by sandwich platters and sunshine than competition. But somewhere around the fourth hole—after he’d driven the wrong ball and teed off from the ladies’ markers—he heard a voice behind him:

“You lining up for the green or planning to annex it?”

It was Stanley Dupree. Stan had been part of Ridgewood’s landscape as long as Archie could recall—always tanned, impeccably pressed in whites, with a half-smile hinting at secrets. Rumors swirled about his past: cruise-ship dancer, Liberace’s florist. Archie just saw someone who clearly enjoyed life.

Stan zeroed in on him at once. First came an invite for a full round the next week, then the week after. He appeared with pitchers of lemon water, offered rides home, praised Archie’s aim even when luck played a larger part than skill. He’d subtly guide Archie’s grip—hand over hand, breath close—and lingered on pats to the back longer than courtesy required.

Archie wasn’t oblivious, but he chalked it up to Stan’s exuberant nature—warm, theatrical, tactile. When Stan once quipped, “If you tire of dating apps, I offer a more personalized service,” Archie laughed it off and steered the talk elsewhere. Still, the remark stuck.

On a stifling afternoon after a long round, Archie peeled off his damp shirt in the locker room. Stan stood nearby, clad only in a towel, casually drying himself. At sixty-two, he was lean—not out of vanity, but ease.

“You did well today,” Stan said, glancing his way. “No carts overturned, no balls gone missing. Almost pro level.”

Archie grabbed his towel and shrugged. “I quit after nine holes. It got too hot.”

“I thought you might’ve been trying to impress me.” Stan stepped closer. “You know, Arch… you’re hard to read. But I’ve been trying.”

Archie arched an eyebrow. “Read?”

“For months I’ve dropped hints—the lemon water, the locker beside yours, letting you win putting drills. Figured you’d notice.”

“I noticed,” Archie admitted, settling on the bench, towel across his lap. “I just wasn’t sure it was real.”

“It is.” Stan’s tone softened. “I like you, Archie. Not just out there on the course. I like your kindness, how you meticulously line up each shot, your stubborn refusal to slather on sunscreen.”

Archie gave a dry chuckle. “I suppose that’s flattering.”

“You should be.” Stan smiled. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Not with someone I wanted to wait for.”

Archie sat rigidly, a towel draped over the back of his neck, his eyes following the play of light on the tiles. At the sink, Stan was massaging lotion into his hands, maintaining that steady, warm gaze at the mirror.

Archie replayed the months of gradual, intentional flirtations, a series of gestures he had previously categorized as “Stan just being Stan.” The way Stan would always suggest grabbing coffee after every game, how he would touch Archie’s shoulder during a laugh, and the way he remembered Archie’s favorite deli order so personally—all of it now took on new significance, emphasized in his mind. Even in the quiet of the locker room, Archie could feel the subtle anticipation beneath Stan's casual demeanor, as if Stan was awaiting a call he was certain would come.

He’d thought about it before—Stan’s weathered hands on a club, the smell of his aftershave tinged with honey, the grape-hued sunburn along his collarbone every Tuesday. But a passing thought was one thing; hearing it spoken aloud, without escape, was another. Men like him didn’t get this. Not at his age, not in a locker room built on old country-club jokes.

A knot of panic rose, as though Evelyn—his late wife—stood behind him, shaking her head in disbelief. Why me? he thought. He was pasty, soft around the middle, hair like a frail duster, teeth drifting out of line. If Stan wanted a companion, he had better options—the stockbroker from two lanes over, for one.

“Arch?” Stan’s voice was gentle.

Archie forced himself to look up. He could deflect with humor—tell Stan to take a number, that his dance card was full. But that hopeful softness in Stan’s eyes urged honesty. He rubbed the condensation off a cold club-soda can he’d grabbed.

He waited, the locker room corners feeling unnervingly close. Finally, he said quietly, “I’ve never really thought about being with a man. Not seriously.”

Stan nodded. “That’s fine. We don’t need labels. Just come sit with me in the steam room. I’ll scrub your back. That’s it.”

Archie clenched the towel, hesitated—then stood. “Okay. Just no eucalyptus—that stuff makes me sneeze.”

Stan grinned. “Duly noted.”

The steam room was quiet and close. Mist hung in the air like a veil, softening the lines of everything. They sat side by side, thighs just brushing. Stan’s hand found Archie’s shoulder, kneading gently.

“You’re carrying the weight of the whole course back here,” he murmured.

Archie let out a slow breath. “Feels like I’ve been carrying it a long time.”

They didn’t speak for a while. Stan’s hands moved with care—not insistent, but confident. It wasn’t about seduction so much as comfort, permission. When Stan’s fingers drifted lower, Archie didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes.

“You alright?” Stan asked.

“I think so,” Archie said.

Stan’s touch grew firmer, thumbs tracing slow circles between the blades of Archie’s shuddering back. With the door shut, the world faded to a pulse of water on tile and the hiss of breath. Archie felt every careful inch of contact, the heat inside him blooming larger than the room’s haze.

Stan’s palm slid from shoulder to chest, and he said nothing at all. Archie let himself be guided—he didn’t know where the move would end, just that it wasn’t the place it started. When Stan’s mouth touched his, tentative at first and then certain, Archie inhaled sharply, a sound that was almost surprise, almost gratitude. The air was thick, wet, and it seemed at once impossible and perfectly ordinary that he was kissing another man: two old bodies pressed together in a capsule of hot, swirling air, their skin pale and ridiculous, marked with age and sun.

Stan’s lips were softer than he expected, his hand steady at the back of Archie’s head. There was no hunger; it was a taste, a permission. It might have felt comic if not for the undertow of sincerity, the way Stan’s thumb pressed behind Archie’s ear, as if to hush the voice that told him this was foolish or late.

They broke apart, foreheads bumping. Archie let out a laugh that sounded like steam escaping a valve.

“Well,” he said, smiling in spite of himself, “suppose we’ve done it now.”

Stan grinned and gave Archie’s knee a squeeze. “Couldn’t help myself.”

They sat, steam collecting on their brows, shoulders leaning together.

The door opened.

Two other golfers stepped in, mid-conversation, and barely registered them on the bench. But the moment was broken. Archie cleared his throat, adjusting his towel.

Stan’s hand retreated, and he nodded. “Let’s go. My place isn’t far.”

Archie hesitated only a moment. Then: “Lead the way.”

Stan’s condo was tidy but lived-in. Colorful pillows, a few bold art prints, and the faint scent of citrus. Archie stood awkwardly by the door until Stan took his hand and gave it a light squeeze.

“Still alright?”

Archie nodded. “Just feels like I’m in a movie I don’t remember auditioning for.”

“Well, we can take it slow. Or fast. Or stop. Whatever you want.”

Archie smiled, finally relaxing. “I think I just want to see what this feels like.”

Stan led him to the bedroom, and as they undressed—shirts off in one clean pull, shorts discarded unceremoniously—Archie was surprised by the casualness, the way two men at this age could shed everything from linen to inhibition with the quick, transactional grace of old friends splitting a lunch tab. The light from the window skated across Stan’s chest, following the deep valleys between ribs. Archie stared, aware of his own body’s lumpiness, his chest a pale shelf, stomach a gentle overhang. But Stan’s gaze didn’t flicker. If anything, it sharpened as he looked over Archie’s flesh with open, appreciative hunger.

Stan stepped forward, taking Archie’s head in broad, hard hands, then kissed him slow enough to prove a point. It was almost ceremonial, the first press of mouth—hesitant, then fuller, then all in, Stan’s stubble rough against Archie’s lip. Archie was uncertain what to do with his own hands at first. He left them hanging, then, feeling foolish, set one on Stan’s bare hip, the smooth, eager heat startling under his palm.

Stan moved them wordlessly to the bed, pulling Archie down, and the mattress sank under their combined and entangled weight. For a while there was nothing but the awkward choreography of newness: knees bumping, an elbow to the jaw, the blurry search for a rhythm. Stan didn’t mind. He laughed at the flubs, whispered “like this,” and guided Archie’s face to his chest.

Stan’s nipples were a deep, warm brown, impossibly soft beneath Archie’s lips. He felt the other man shudder with pleasure, and Archie realized with a quiet shock that he wanted—badly—to do everything Stan showed him. Stan ran his hands over Archie’s back, then lower, and Archie followed suit, fumbling along the ridges of Stan’s spine, the sharp wings of his shoulder blades.

Somewhere in it, Stan’s cock brushed Archie’s thigh, surprisingly hard, and Archie startled with a gasp and then a nervous chuckle. Stan grinned, shameless. “You make me feel twenty-two,” he said, then pressed Archie’s hand around it, gently, as if settling an egg into a nest.

Archie took the cue. He stroked, clumsy but eager, and then, knowing what Stan wanted, and wanting it too, moved down, lips brushing the head he put the penis into his mouth. It felt so strange at first—the taste, the heat, the foreignness of the act—but Stan threaded his fingers into Archie’s hair, murmuring nothing words, and Archie leaned in, hollowing his cheeks. There was a kind of grace in the way Stan guided him, a patience that made Archie feel capable, even skilled.

Stan pulled him back for a kiss, long and deep, and then laughed, dizzy. “You taste like me,” he whispered, as if this was a secret and an honor.

More and more, the sweatslick of their torsos felt like an old truth, something inevitable, even easy. When Stan rolled to his stomach, Archie hesitated. Stan turned, looked at him over his shoulder, his eyes steady, and said, “If you want, you can…” and left it there, as if they had all the time in the world for Archie to figure the rest out.

Archie thought, at first, that he wouldn’t, that it was too much, too far, too absurd for a man his age to consider. However, as Stan drew his knees up and arched his back, Archie felt a surge of curiosity, followed by desire, and eventually, his mouth found its way to Stan's opening.

He ran his tongue along the length of Stan, tentative, then firmer, tasting salt and soap and something else. Stan moaned, a rough, undignified sound that made Archie’s cock twitch with something he could only call happiness.

Stan groaned, reached back, and hooked a hand behind Archie’s neck, dragging their faces together until they mashed noses. “Arch. Listen.” His voice was a low, bullfrog rasp. “I want you in me.” There was a pause. “Like, in in me. The jelly’s in the nightstand.”

He groped for the lidless tub on the nightstand, hands slippery with anxiety. Stan was on his belly, blinking up at the headboard like it was a cartoon in a dentist’s office. Archie scooped the cold gel, and, following blunt instinct, eased it onto himself, overdoing it on purpose, because how the hell do you gauge the right amount?

Stan craned his neck and grinned like a jackal. “C’mere,” he said, and drew his knees up, ass in the air and shamelessness draping every angle.

Archie lined himself up, letting his belly drop across the swell of Stan’s cheeks, and pressed his erection forward—a small give, a pulse and a snap, and then he was inside. His mouth went dry. Stan exhaled with a drawn-out, yipping whimper, then shoved his hips back to meet him.

The first half-dozen thrusts were awkward, more shoving than sex. Archie tried to angle differently, even out the rhythm, but Stan kept meeting him, force for force, noisy and hungry, until the uncertainty burned away. The room pooled with heat and ozone and bodies.

"Harder," Stan whispered, gripping a pillow tightly. Archie responded instinctively, his actions driven by impulse rather than thought, following each smack of skin with another. His stomach pressed against the curve of Stan's back, sweat making their connection slick, and the feeling—intense, chaotic, not entirely comfortable—oscillated between pain and urgency. This was two men striving for something they had never considered before: providing each other with satisfaction. There was a sense of anticipation that something had to give very soon.

Stan came first, with a shudder and a sound that almost made Archie laugh out loud—a whoop like he’d nailed a hole-in-one across the fairway. His body went rigid, toes splaying, and Archie, caught up in the sheer spectacle, felt himself succumb, breath shuddering through clenched teeth and eyes shut so tight the colors behind his lids seemed to vibrate. When he came, it was with a violence that startled him—a raw pulse, a primal throb, a splaying inside of Stan. Archie kept his forehead wedged between Stan’s shoulder blades.

He collapsed, trembling,

After catching his breath, Stan rolled sideways, face alight.

“You alright?” Stan asked.

Archie lay on his back, staring at the cracked whorl in the plaster ceiling. He felt gutted, cleansed, as if he’d been hollowed out and repacked with something sharp and new.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’m more than alright.”

Stan grinned, then

When at last they finished, bodies pressed together, Archie’s head on Stan’s chest, the sweat cooling between them, they lay still. Archie listened to Stan’s breathing and the faint tick of the ceiling fan. After a while, Stan said, “That was better than shooting par.”

Archie propped on one elbow, looking down at this man—his friend, his lover, whatever this new word might end up being. “I never thought I would do something like this,” he admitted.

Stan grinned. “Most people don’t. That’s why it’s fun.”

Archie grinned back, marvelling at the plainness of it all, the way his own nakedness was just another fact in the room, no more outlandish than the chipped alarm clock or the dust motes in Stan’s window. He rolled onto his back, hands stacked behind his head, and considered the neatness of the afternoon.

“You know,” he said, “I never even asked if you like meatloaf.”

Stan chuckled, his eyes closing in contentment. “Love it,” he said. “Especially on Thursdays.”

Archie laughed, a real laugh this time, deep enough to shake the bed. Maybe this was not the life he’d imagined, but it was the one he had, and suddenly, it felt—if not perfect—at least right enough for now.