As I started to leave his office, Neil said, "You probably could do a lot worse than Luke as your dominant bull, you know."
"You really think so? To me, he's an arrogant, anti-intellectual, autocrat-loving, grievance-filled, misogynistic brute. Not to mention a dumb jock, the kind I used to hate in high school."
"To me, he seems like a pretty nice guy. He's also very successful, so it sounds to me like you're underestimating his intelligence. Maybe he has a bit of a point about your elitism, Walter."
"Maybe you're right. But you don't really know him like I do. You've only spent a few hours him, one evening. Believe me, Luke is a textbook asshole. Anyhow, thanks again. I really mean it."
"I know you do. See you later."
So, overall, I felt somewhat better about things after that conversation. Still, I also had a feeling of unease--one no doubt exacerbated by Neil's unbelievable remark that Luke seemed like a nice guy.
The following Sunday, Brooke and I attended Luke's team's second home game. Brooke dressed in her skimpy cheerleading uniform, much to the delight of Luke's teammates (as well as their opponents, no doubt). I'm sure Brooke was humiliated, but seeing her erect nipples pushing out the top of her uniform, she was clearly aroused as well. Observing her with Luke these past several months, I had concluded that Brooke must be a switch of sorts -- so in control with me, so acquiescent with him.
In public, I was spared from having to wear my matching pink uniform that I wore at home to send off and greet Luke before and after his away games. Instead, I wore a male cheerleader's uniform Brooke and Luke ordered for me from some on-line retailer that made customized uniforms. It was in the colors of Luke's team (white, blue and gold) with the name of his team emblazoned across the chest. The pants and shirt were long but tight, a clingy, synthetic, uncomfortable fabric. The shirt exposed about an inch of midriff (more when I jumped or stretched, in mid cheer) and the gold was glittery (unlike the players' uniforms). It was about as emasculating as it could possibly be for a nominally male uniform, especially on an overweight, 38 year old wearing a chastity cage. This effect, of course, was made much worse by the fact that, with Brooke, I was required to wave pom poms in the team's colors during several of the routines we had rehearsed. The field was only about a half hour's drive from campus, so I was constantly in dread of being seen by one of my current or former students, or someone else who knew me through the college.
Because it was a brisk, windy fall afternoon, we both wore jackets when not cheering; Brooke's completely bare, taut midriff was especially vulnerable. Luke expected us to cheer at the start of the game, anytime his team scored, and especially anytime he made an open field tackle, or some other notable play. And also, of course, if they won -- which they did decisively (24-6) that afternoon. Luke had three quarterback sacks and 8 open field tackles, so Brooke and I cheered our asses off. We moved so much that we didn't need to wear our jackets for most of the game despite the temperature; in fact, we were both quite sweaty by its conclusion.
With the exception of twin 10-year-old girls, the daughters of the team's place kicker, Brooke and I were the only cheerleaders in attendance. Luke's teammates thought it was hilarious that he had his ex-wife and her new husband cheering him on, in such humiliating attire. The two girls were also highly amused. When not cheering, I did double duty as the team's towel boy-- though I was probably at least a decade older than all of them except possibly for the kicker--bringing Luke and his teammates towels and liquid refreshments throughout the game. I also had to pick up their sweaty towels and stuff them into an enormous duffel bag at the conclusion of the game, following which Luke generously volunteered my services of washing everyone's towels back at our home. Why not their dirty uniforms, socks and underwear, too, I wondered bitterly to myself. As it turned out, the following season and thereafter, after the city's new field was completed with adjacent locker rooms and shower stalls, I did indeed become responsible for collecting all of their sweaty clothes to take home to wash and dry. That's still the case today. It takes five or six loads each time, and multiple hours.
While Luke was on the field playing defense in the fourth quarter, his team's running back, a light skinned black man, probably only in his mid 20s, said to me (in front of Brooke and two offensive linemen), "Damn man. You're married to Luke's ex, and you're wearing that ridiculous uniform and cheering him on and shit? Bringing him towels and shit? With your wife dressed that way, jumpin around with her tits bouncing up and down. That's fucked up."
Before I had a chance to respond-- not having any clue what I would say to him (and basically agreeing with everything he had said to me)-- one of the offensive lineman (a huge white guy, probably 300 pounds) bailed me out.
"Leave him alone, Buckner. Luke's just up to his usual shit."
The third player (also huge) added, "Yeah, come on, Buckner, you know Hanover. He's got trophy cucks the way some guys have trophy wives."
"Yeah, but this is the first time I've ever seen him with a trophy EX-wife," said the first lineman. All three of them laughed.
Just then Luke had his third and final sack of the day. The larger of the two massive lineman said to Brooke, "Your man just got another sack, sugar tits. Time to look alive. You too, cuck." I could take being called cuck, but I resented this gigantic oaf referring to Brooke in that demeaning manner. I wanted to punch him in the face. Still, I did not wish to be hospitalized, so I grabbed my pom poms and followed Brooke out onto the sidelines.
And, so, we launched into our cheer celebrating Luke specifically ("Stronger than steel..."). I executed my moves with enthusiasm, still recalling the pain of the spanking Luke had administered with his bare hands in our living room following his team's victory in its home opener three weeks earlier, after finding my cheerleading efforts to be lackluster. At the conclusion of the game, after being named MVP by his teammates, Luke sat on the top step of the bleachers surrounded by them, sipping a large bottle of Gatorade I had brought him. Brooke and I sat on the bottom step, catching our breath after our post game cheer.
"Man, my feet are killing me," he announced. Looking at Brooke and me, he simply said, "Massage," nodding at his feet.
Brooke and I quickly ascended the steps, kneeling on the one two below where his feet were resting. We each removed one of his shoes and socks, and began kneading his soles in unison. Luke looked around with an entitled, self-satisfied expression.
His teammates were not shy about commenting on this unusual spectacle.
"Must be good to be Hanover."
"Must suck to be the cuck." General laughter.
"The way you were running around there today, Hanover, your feet must stink to high heaven.
The running back was the first to leave, while Brooke and I were still working on Luke's feet. As he walked down the steps past me, he looked down and caught my eye momentarily, saying, "Fucking pathetic. Have some dignity, man." He was like a one man Greek chorus in the sordid, surreal little drama in which I found myself. Would it end in tragedy, I wondered?
Luke and Brooke couldn't even wait until they got home. He took her from behind in the backseat of his truck, after instructing me to drive to an empty corner of the field parking lot. I sat in shame in the driver's seat, glancing several times in the rear view mirror, usually following some particularly loud moan or yelp emanating from Brooke or loud smacking of flesh against flesh. Afterwards, I drove them home (nervous driving such a huge vehicle for the first time, a very different experience than driving my 2011 Prius), thereby adding chauffeur to cheerleader, towel boy and foot masseur on my ever expanding list of servile responsibilities. And all of those on that one day alone.
Fucking pathetic, indeed.
