Fell For It

"And what would be the price if I paid cash?"

Vince Jacobs nearly gagged on his beer. He'd recognized who he was dealing with as soon as Chaz Nelson walked into the Rail Pub in oldtown Savannah, Georgia, for their meeting about the oceanfront property on Tybee Island. He knew Nelson was a young pro tennis player. But he wasn't first tier. How much did second- and third-tier tennis pros make? Vince wondered.

"I'll have to call Mr. Hopkins for that figure. It wouldn't be anything less than a million, though, I'm sure." Jacobs was trying to call the young man off calling Hopkins and embarrassing them all. The asking price for the small oceanfront house on Tybee Island to the south of Savannah was $1.2 million. The house itself was a 1,000-square foot fixer upper. The value was in the waterfront lot in an upscale ocean resort. Even at $1.2 million, a buyer probably would be interested in knocking the house down and building a mansion. Nelson had indicated a house that small was fine with him.

"Who is Mr. Hopkins?" Nelson asked.

"He's the head of Peach State Homes, the Realty company handling the property."

"Yes, then please call him."

"I'll go to the head when I do so, if you don't mind." Jacobs would want to let Hopkins know who they were dealing with and he'd prefer doing it out of the young tennis player's hearing.

While he was gone Nelson went over the transaction in his mind. Did he still want to do this? The money wasn't the issue. He'd done well during the last two seasons on the pro circuit, although he'd gotten a late start, having played collegiate tennis for two years before going pro. He'd only won a couple of minor tournaments, but he'd made it to round two in two majors, which paid very well. Most of the money had come endorsements. Major companies, in pursuing political correctness, sponsored him because he was openly gay--and extremely photogenic.

He languished in the high thirties in ranking, but considering how many were trying to make it as pros, that was good. He'd put half his earnings aside for two years to buy someplace he could call home. He'd been surprised when he'd seen the Tybee Island property listing. He was interested for nostalgic purposes.

When Jacobs came back, he said, "For cash, we could let the property go for one million. It' $1.2 million if financed, with $200,000 up front to the seller. But I want to be sure that you understand that it's small and needs a lot of work. The value is in the lot. There's no need to go out there and inspect it if you know up front it's not what you want."

"I understand. I'm still interested. Who is the seller?" Was it Marty? Marty had been his first tennis coach. That's how Chaz knew about the property already. He'd been there before. But Marty was in prison now, incarcerated for how he'd messed around with the young male tennis players he'd coached, one of whom committed suicide, which brought it all into the public spotlight. And from what Chaz had heard, Marty was sick with heart problems and probably would never come out of prison.

"The seller wants to remain nameless," Jacobs answered.

"That's OK, I don't need to know," Nelson said. But I certainly would like to know if Marty was the one getting this much money he'd never be able to spend for a property he'd never again be able to use. But, he thought, that was being catty. At twenty-one, he'd made his peace with his past relationship with Marty Fowler years ago. There was both bad and good and he could only feel sorry that Marty probably would never taste freedom again. He'd been a great coach despite all the rest of it. Nelson wouldn't have been where he was in tennis today without the training he'd gotten from Fowler. Would he have been openly gay, though? One didn't know the answer to that one.

"Yes, I'm still interested in the property," he reiterated, "paying cash. Can we go see it now?"

"Yes, of course," Vince answered. "Here, let me get this tab." One million was five times what they were hoping to make out of this. Covering a lunch tab was peanuts. "I didn't ask. Where are you staying in Savannah?"

"I'm booked at the Foley House Inn."

"Great place," Vince said.

"Yes. I was told it was gay friendly and it has proven to be that." There, that established that, Chaz thought, if the man hadn't already figured out who he was and that he was gay. Vince exhibited as gay himself: good looking, nice build, dress style conscious, a bit effeminate, maybe. If gay, he probably was a submissive. Chaz wondered if Hopkins had chosen Vince to be the Realtor for the Tybee Island property for Chaz because he knew Chaz was gay and a top.

As a matter of fact, yes, Hopkins had done so. Hopkins was not one to overlook any possible advantage in this transaction. He had even known that the property belonged to the imprisoned tennis coach, Marty Fowler, and that Chaz Nelson had been coached by Fowler. Knowing this, he'd made sure that Nelson found out the property was for sale.

Vince had been engaging in some signaling that he was a gay submissive but was unsure Chaz had gotten the message--until they left the pub and were getting in Vince's car. Chaz opened the driver's door for Vince, who touched him on the forearm as he came around to enter the vehicle. The gesture of opening the door in itself was a declaration of dominance, but to drive the act home, Chaz palmed Vince's buttocks before the Realtor slid into the driver's seat.

* * * *

"So, what do you think?" Vince Jacobs asked after they'd been through the property on the ocean near the intersection of Butler Avenue and 7th Street on Tybee Island. He knew what Chaz should think. He should think that the building should be razed and something new built here--and he should lose interest in spending a million dollars this way, assuming the young guy really did have a million dollars to spend this way. Jacobs wasn't convinced this was the case yet.

The house really was small, but then so was the lot. All it had going for it was that it did have a wooden walkway in relative good condition floating over two waves of dunes and down to the ocean beach. The house was a story and a half, clapboard, built probably in the 1950s, with a hallway entrance on the street side. When entering, there was a bedroom to the left and a bath and kitchen to the left. This then opened out to a dining room area, then a living room, opening out onto the deck facing the ocean. The living-dining area was a story and a half high under a sloping roof. A loft area over the bedroom and kitchen provided a second bedroom area with bath. The kitchen opened to the dining area with a counter. The condition of everything could be characterized as "a bit sad" and certainly outdated.

How could a young tennis pro be attracted to this? Jacobs wondered--especially at a cost of a million. And the Savannah area didn't have any professional tennis facilities near it. Why did this guy even make the trip out to look at the place? But then he paid attention to how Nelson reacted to everything he saw while he slowly walked through the small house and then out onto the deck, staring out to the ocean.

"You've been here before, haven't you?" he asked, coming up to stand next to Chaz on the deck.

"Yes, a few years ago," Chaz answered. This was where he'd lost his virginity to men. And that hadn't been all bad--it had, in fact, released him from frustrations he would have had even if Marty Fowler hadn't been his demanding coach. Demanding more than just discipline in the playing of tennis. It hadn't all been bad here. Not bad at all, really.

He didn't provide a further explanation, but Jacobs didn't really need one. He could fill in the blanks on his own. As they stood there, Chaz put an arm around Vince, and the Realtor leaned into him. The two of them had increasingly warmed to each other during the drive out to the ocean. Jacobs knew the Foley House Inn on West Bull Street, near Orleans Square, catered to gays. He'd used this understanding--even where he'd chosen for them to meet, at the Rail Bar, which was gay friendly--to signal his interest. Nelson was a blond god, in great shape, as he'd have to be to succeed in tennis on the pro circuit. Smaller, darker, lithe, Jacobs thought the two of them would be a perfect fit. Nelson's responses to his signaling had indicated he thought that as well.

"Yes, I'll take it," Chaz said.

"For?"

"I'll pay cash."

"If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I'll have to get with Mr. Hopkins. He'll make up the paperwork. He said he'll want a cashier's check if you chose cash. I could get him to--"

"No, that will be fine, if you'll let me know how to do that." Chaz was a tennis player, not an accountant. He had no idea what the various options and pitfalls of payment mechanisms were.

"Well, what do you want to do from here?" Vince asked.

"You mean today? Tonight? Well, this place has been stripped. No beds."

Vince laughed, somewhat nervously. This was the first strong signal Nelson was giving back to him. He went with it.

"We could do dinner here at a seafood house to celebrate. Then we could go back to Savannah and take in the show at Club One. You know about Club One?"

"A gay nightclub? Drag Shows? Yes, I've heard of that. I was hoping to check it out. Then maybe back to where I'm staying, the Foley House Inn?"

"Yes, of course, if you'd like."

"I'd like."

* * * *

They drove down the island in Vince's rented Porsche to Tybrissa Street and Bernie's Oyster House restaurant.

"You've been here before?" Vince asked.

"Yes, several times," Chaz answered, looking around, dredging up the memories.

"Has it changed?"

Chaz laughed. "It hasn't been that long ago."

"Can you talk about it?"

After they'd ordered, Chaz did talk about it--about how he had worshipped Marty Fowler, who was teaching him to be an excellent tennis player and who had taken him under his wing after an uncle and aunt were more than willing to get him off their hands. He was just beginning to be a burden for them in his moodiness and lack of response to their trying to fit him into the heterosexual world. His parents had died years earlier in an auto accident.

"Is it true, though, what has been charged about his relationships with his male tennis students?" Vince asked.

"Yes, it's true," Chaz answered. He said he was already leaning gay when Marty took him under his wing and to a Orlanda, Florida, tennis academy Marty was affiliated with. The coach owned this house on Tybee Island, where he liked to go to "get away." For a couple of years, he brought Chaz with him.

"I doubt I have to spell it out for you," he said to Vince as their meal arrived. And then he added, "I won't say the memories of that were bad. It opened a whole new world for me."

"No, I guess the memories weren't bad if you're buying the house."

"Thanks for understanding. Here's our food. Looks delicious, as always. Shall we tuck in?"

They did concentrate on the meal and kept their conversation focused on the food while they ate.

After they'd finished, Vince said. "I wonder..." but was finding it hard to continue.

"You're wondering where we go from here?" Chaz asked.

"Yes, sort of. I wonder if we can drop the Realtor and client relationship for the evening and maybe do some clubbing in Savannah. I'd mentioned Club One and you seemed interested."

"You mean go on a date?"

"Yes, I guess that's what I mean."

"Sounds good to me--on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That maybe we drop the Realtor and client relationship for longer--have it extend over the night."

Vince smiled.

They caught the early show at the drag queen Club One near the river and then went on to the Club 51 Degrees gay nightclub for dancing and drinking.

They wound up, a bit tipsy, electrified, and holding each other up in Chaz's Foley House Inn room on West Hull Street. No one had given them a second look or challenged Chaz taking a man to his room as they mounted the stairs.

The room was one of the smaller ones at the inn, one meant for single occupancy. The bed was a double four poster, with strong corner posts. From the marks on the corner posts, they'd obviously been used for restraints before.

Acknowledging his position as the submissive, Vince went down on his knees in front of Chaz as soon as they entered the room, unzipped and freed him, and opened his mouth to the tennis players half erection. The two of them peeled down their clothes while Vince serviced Chaz's shaft, bringing him to full erection.

When the were both naked, their clothes intertwined on the floor around them, Chaz lifted Vince and half walked, half carried him over to the bed, laying the smaller man's butt on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed. Vince lifted and spread his legs, pressing his feet to the corner posts on either side.

"Please. Our belts. My ankles. I like it bound."

Chaz laughed. He went back and retrieved their belts from their trousers. Coming back he lashed Vince's ankles to the corner posts on either side, leaving the smaller man's legs raised, spread, and captive. Then he went down on his knees at the foot of the bed and, initially, took Vince's shaft in his mouth until that was hard and then moved to eating Vince's hole out and spreading it open, while Vince moaned, arched his back, and reached down to cup Chaz's head between his hands to hold him in place.

Satisfied that Vince was open enough, Chaz rose, crouched over Vince's prone body, put his erection in position with one hand while gliding the other one up Vince's undulating torso, stopping briefly at Vince's nubs while Chaz rubbed his cock head over Vince's hole. The hand moved up to clutching Vince's throat, holding his head to the mattress, while working his cock inside the spreading hole. Vince moaned and egged Chaz on as the tennis player fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Later in the night, Chaz moved a moaning and completely pliable Vince up onto the bed after untying the belts trapping the Realtor's ankles. Higher on the bed, he retied Vince's wrists to the intertwined corner posts at the head of the bed, put Vince's ankles on his shoulders, and gave him another good fucking.

The coupling was sensual--slow, both men fully involved in the rolling and rocking of their hips, both of them whispering, "Yes, yes. Just like that." Each of them totally into reaching for and achieving mutual pleasure in each other's bodies.

Even later Chaz freed Vince, turned him over on his side, moved his right leg over Vince's legs, found purchase of cock in hole, and fucked them both into exhaustion and sleep.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Vince rose, showered, dressed, and left. His note said he'd let Chaz know when closing on the house was and that they'd try to keep the transaction as simple as possible. "No need for a bunch of lawyers and a ceremony at the lawyer's office," the note said.

The note didn't say how much Vince had enjoyed the sex, although he certainly seemed to be in full approval while it was happening. Chaz had felt this good, this sexy and satiated, in sex before. He wanted to hook up with Vince again--and he maybe wanted more than just a one-night stand.

There would be opportunity at closing on the house, Chaz assumed.

* * * *

Chaz Nelson was in Qatar unexpectedly in the third round of a tournament there when notice came through on closing on the Tybee Island house. It came in a voice mail. Chaz turned his phone off for the day of any pro match until it was over. The call was sent by Vince Jacobs, suggesting April 2nd, at the Tybee house for taking care of all of the closing documents.

"Say 3:00 p.m. in the afternoon, if you can make it. We could ditch the lawyers and go into Savannah for a repeat of the last time, if you're interested."

Chaz didn't answer that evening until late, which was still morning in Georgia. He had some celebrating to do for having survived the third round at the Qatar Open. He did send a brief message agreeing to the time and place. He would have texted more but he had a hot date in his hotel room--in his hotel room bathroom, taking a presex shower--and there wasn't time to text more.

The next morning another voice message was waiting for him when he woke up, messed around a bit more with the guy in his bed, and had seen the guy off, showered, dressed, and checked his phone.

"Hello, Mr. Nelson. This is Hank Hopkins of Peach State Homes. We need to change the closing on the Tybee Island house, if you can manage. How about April 1st at 3:00 p.m. at the Peachtree Plaza Hotel in Atlanta? You can ask for the room number under my name at the reception desk. We'll do all of the document signing then. Please remember to bring a cashier's check for the one million."

Chaz remembered that Hopkins was the decisionmaker at the Realty company handling the Tybee house. He checked his schedule. He could be in Atlanta that day. He still wanted the house, so he'd do what was needed to be able to get to closing on time. He called Hopkins back, getting him on the phone, and they pinned down a closing date, time, and place. April 1st at 3:00 p.m. in a Peachtree Plaza Hotel room in Atlanta, Georgia.

Without thinking further about the transaction because suddenly his tennis results were improving--he was getting deeper into each tournament he entered--Chaz got the cashier's check and flew into Atlanta on the morning of April 1st. He had a ticket to fly back out from there that night to get set up for the Barcelona Open tournament that he had a court date for in Spain on April 7th.

He made the closing meeting in Hank Hopkins's room at the Peachtree Plaza Hotel--if, indeed that was the man's name. No one else was in the room. Hopkins had some fancy documents presigned by everyone supposedly involved except for Chaz. He got Chaz's signature on the documents and took the cashier's check from the tennis player, Who simultaneously was hitting a snag on his room reservations in Barcelona and was on the phone on and off during the meeting to Spain. Chaz didn't pay much attention to the house transaction, just doing everything Hopkins told him he had to do to get the deal closed.

He was in the airport before he realized that he hadn't gotten the keys to the Tybee house. He tried calling Hopkins's phone number--and Vince Jacobs's too--and both were out of service. He went on to Barcelona, once more made it through the third round, and didn't have time to try to touch base with Peach State Homes again until he lost in the fourth round. He was happy, though. The payoff for making the third round was quite good.

Crickets. He could find no trace of either Hopkins or Jacobs--or, for that matter, Peach State Homes--anywhere.

Chaz skipped the next tournament he could have gone to and flew into Atlanta, the supposed registered location of Peach State Homes, and contacted the police department there. A detective reviewed the documents Chaz had, declared them worthless junk paper, and informed Chaz that a cashier's check's history after it left the tennis player's hand was virtually untraceable.

The man said, "Shit," as he looked through the paperwork.

"What? What do you see?" Chaz asked, a note of hope in his voice.

"Everything is dated and signed on April 1st," the detective said. "Son, you've not only been scammed out of a million dollars but these guys have rubbed your nose in it--making it an elaborate--and very expensive for you--April Fools Day joke. Sorry, son, the house isn't yours and you're out your money. I seriously doubt these scammers had permission to sell the house at all. And you don't go to closing on a house in a hotel room with just the Realtor present; you do it in a lawyer's office with both parties represented. Don't you know that?"