Tacklehug

TACKLEHUG

Cindy Rosmus

Bitch. She was at it again.

With . . . him. Always him. It was all about him. Him and his crazy site. . . .

The Michael Shaver Forum. Ex-cuse me, “Sir” Michael Shaver. And . . . harem was more like it, Artie thought, bitterly.

As he watched from the doorway, Artie’s muscles were clenched. His jaw ached, like it’d been wired shut, and he couldn’t scream if he tried. Frustration, a little voice said. You need some. A good, hot fuck.

At that PC, her back to him, his wife Mara obviously didn’t. At least not from Artie. As long as Shaver was alive, Mara and her “e”-pals wanted only him!

Shaver, who was like ninety. This British “chick magnet” from old movies who was still going strong, thanks to the Web. Artie cringed. Not just Mara, a whole shitload of crazy bitches were hot for Shaver. Babes of all ages, from all over the world, had their hopes up!

For what? Artie kept wondering. That Shaver would fuck them? All of them? And at his age?

“Michael is not old,” he’d watched Mara key in. Right behind her, he’d stood, but she was oblivious to him. “Not to us! Who love him. We keep him . . . forever . . . young!”

When that face flashed on the screen, Artie jumped. Shaver’s high-cheekboned, handsome . . . young face. It was eerie. Artie began to sweat. Thick, dark hair, Shaver had. With no grays. Eyes dark, almost black, and so deep, they reached the earth’s very heart. But with no wrinkles underneath! On that fan site, Shaver still looked—as crazy as it sounded—as young as Artie.

But he wasn’t.

Artie was thirty-six. Younger than Mara. Just eight years, but still. And he was some catch! Lean, with almost no fat content! Naturally, that intimidated chicks. His devilish goatee made him look cooler than he was. Chicks saw through that. But most dug his melting, brown eyes. Okay, he was short, and crabby, and insecure. He wasn’t perfect, but who was? And he had a great job.

* * *

In Brazil, he’d met her, six months ago. A widow with two teen daughters. Love at first sight. At least he’d thought so, dope that he was! Mara was hot: tits and ass like you wouldn’t believe. A smile like a blast of sunshine after a storm. A great sense of humor. A throbbing, giving heart…

But he’d never got past the tits and ass.

All he’d heard about Brazilian babes made him long for the one thing . . .

He wasn’t getting now.

* * *

His job, Artie thought then, had won her over. Leaving the teens with her mom, she’d married him, moved to the States so fast, heads spun. That she couldn’t—that most people couldn’t figure out his “mystery” job—had been most of it. “Something with computers,” he’d told her, when she’d asked. Snickering to himself. A “mouse” he would teach her, does not eat cheese.”

But she knew almost as much as him.

High-tech shit. Her English was bad? No problem! There was software for that. Translated her Portuguese faster than his cock could droop. Online, she made a good living for herself, doing “some kind of sales.” Artie could’ve kicked himself. She didn’t need him. So why’d she come here? In fact, why had she even married him?

And why, he wondered, was she hot for a crusty, old fuck?

He smiled, cruelly. Snuck off for his laptop. Out on the balcony, it would be quiet and cool.

Being a hacker had its rewards.

* * *

“Hey, Gurl! Got the ‘real thing’! From sixty-three!” That was “GIGGLES” from New Zealand, or somewhere down under. “Un-cut! The Scarlet Pirate: Sir Mikey at his best! Slits their throats before he boffs them! Sucks them dry!”

“That is hot!” Mara wrote back. “I must get.”

Over my dead body, Artie thought. His chest felt tight. For hours he’d been out here, on the balcony. He bet Mara hadn’t even missed him. From inside came the wild clicking of keys. Wouldn’t she ever stop?

“Wouldn’t you just die . . .” wrote “NOT!,” the teen Swede, “to tacklehug Mikey?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Mara’s words cried out from the screen.

“Tacklehug”? Artie almost puked. And he was worried? This was kid stuff. Like how an old bag might feel about Elvis.

But Elvis was dead.

Just one hour on this site, and Artie was an expert on Sir Mikey. Besides being super-tall, super-sexy, and one great actor, Shaver was hot shit on a stick. Somehow, way back, he’d gotten himself knighted. He was always doing something “absolutely fascinating.”

Heave ho! Artie thought. Each time Shaver’s face flashed on the screen, he wanted to spit on it.

Six wives, Shaver had had. And lovers like you wouldn’t believe. Gorgeous, famous chicks, he had to beat off with a club. Just his looking at you could break your heart.

Artie couldn’t take it. All he’d eaten in the past week felt ready to come back up.

Then, the best part. Thirty, make that forty years back, Shaver had almost been killed on the set, in some “fake” car crash. Had done nothing since: no movies, no TV shows. Jack shit. It was almost like he had died back then. Ya think? Artie thought, smirking.

But to Shaver fans . . .

It was like he’d just left the room, his cigarette still burning. You could still smell him on your sheets. Your pussy still throbbed, ached for another round. No matter who you fucked, you wanted it to be him. In your heart, it was him!

Artie yawned. How late was it, anyway? And it was chilly out here.

He was about to give up, when Mara finally logged off. His heart lurched, as her screen name flashed:

“Te Adoro.”

* * *

“Te adoro.” Coming from him, it sounded mysterious, even to himself. Magical, like if he said it three times, he’d be granted a wish.

“Te adoro!” He rolled over in bed. That he’d said it twice, made Mara suck in her breath. Her brown eyes were so trusting. He squeezed her breast, lightly. You didn’t want to hurt her. Somehow, she seemed fragile.

“You really mean?” That she answered in her special “busted” English, turned Artie on most. Made him want to marry her, right now! Here in Brazil.

Here it was summer: hot, delightful. Back home, just one week ago, he’d skidded on the ice en route to the airport.

Her girls were in the next room, but he didn’t care. His cock was so hard, it ached. “Te adoro, Mar-ita!”

And his wish was granted.

* * *

Somebody new, he was today. And female. A lot younger. Same age as NOT!, that Swedish “Lolita.” It was okay to hail from the States. Mara would never suspect. But instead of Jersey, he’d be from L.A.

Artie loved his new identity, but mostly the name: “Tacklehug.”

He smiled. It had been so easy.

A storm was brewing. This humid, summer night, he shouldn’t be out here on the balcony. If lightning struck . . . That tree was too damn close, branches grazing the railing. Like a skeletal arm, the longest branch groped for him.

But he just couldn’t wait. He had to work fast.

As he popped open his laptop, something felt . . . wrong. It was too quiet. Somehow, something was missing. But what?

That . . . sound. Of Mara’s keys clicking away, inside their apartment. It was something you expected, though you didn’t realize it. Like a clock’s ticking.

Now he heard something else. Heavy breathing, like Mara was wearing herself out. But, how? Doing what? And these . . . moans. How long since he’d heard those sounds?

Too long.

He got up so fast, the laptop slammed shut.

The moans got louder.

On his way inside, he almost fell. He tasted fear, dread, like never before. His heart seemed to race him into the bedroom.

Artie stopped dead.

Him!

He was fucking her, fast and hot. Pumping so hard, it just had to hurt. But at the same time, feel so good. Raw, and dirty, the way she liked it.

rtie groaned. That…face! The one he hated! From that fan site! Those eyes … How could it be?

How did he get here?

Shaver looked Artie’s age. No, younger! His long body, gleaming with sweat, was even leaner than Artie’s! Smirking, he rammed Mara hard. Like he knew how she liked it. Mara squealed.

Artie’s cheeks burned. Shocked as he was, his pants felt tight.

Can’t be real, he thought, blinking wildly. My God, could this really be happening?

As she writhed and groaned beneath Shaver, Mara looked so happy. Like this was real. Like Artie wasn’t. She looked right at Artie but didn’t even see him.

But Shaver did. And he smiled. That arrogant smile Artie hated so much. That made Artie want to curl up and die.

Still smiling, Shaver ground Mara savagely, till she came.

Then he vanished.

* * *

Makes no sense! Artie thought. It had to be a dream. But he’d never been asleep. Or had he?

Earlier, he’d been out on the balcony. He was back there now. Like before, the storm was still brewing. Leaves rustling, wildly. More branches reaching over the balcony, way too close for comfort.

What had been missing earlier, he heard now. Keys, clicking away inside.

“Tacklehugged by Mikey!” would be Mara’s new thread.

That squeal.

Teeth clenched, he threw open the laptop. He logged on. Like thunder, his heart pounded, as he clicked on “New Thread.”

The whole world felt like his very own, as he typed those two cataclysmic words:

“HE’S DEAD!”

Arms folded, he sat back and waited.

Down on the street, teen girls were shrieking and shoving each other. Nothing new. Somebody groaned, loudly.

No, he realized. That was thunder.

Lightning flashed.

On Artie’s screen, Giggles, from “down under,” replied. “Sick joke!”

“U bitch!” wrote NOT!. “U sick fuck!” Then, “It can’t be! When? How did he die? U lying little . . .”

Again, lightning flashed. Real close, this time. You smelled rain coming, fast.

“I do not understand!” Even Mara’s typing looked scared. “How can this be?”

“I have proof,” Tacklehug wrote back. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Grandpa was a cop. Here in L.A.! I saw the death certificate! Our idol is dead. Sir Mikey has been dead…for forty years!”

Her scream was heartrending. Even from inside, it nearly pierced his skull.

“Mara!” He jumped up.

Another scream, then loud sobs, as she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

“Mara!” he yelled again. He shoved back the laptop. Tripped, and fell over the chair.

Thunder crashed. The rain came hard, blew around with the wind. A collective wail he heard, from everywhere at once.

Where he lay, wet branches battered him. Now he was crying. “Mara!”

It happened so fast, it was like a dream. White-hot, and glorious, it coursed right through him. His heart popped. Around him, things shattered. Everything got soaked.

Inside, safe and dry, Mara whimpered.

* * *

“What I want to know . . .” His voice was rich, British. But, where was it coming from? “Is how you knew.”

Artie still lay on the balcony floor. It was drenched, littered with parts of that tree, that chair. That damn laptop. So was he. Without opening his eyes, he picked a wet branch off his scorched chest.

“Arthur?”

He opened his eyes. Above him loomed Shaver, who looked dry. Impeccably neat, and handsome as always. And of course, young. But royally pissed. “My secret,” he said. “It’s been kept for years, by my family. From the whole world. How did you find out?”

Artie sat up, blinking. It wasn’t night anymore. But it wasn’t day, either. This eerie, charcoal gray, the sky was. Like the sky before that big storm.

What had happened? He felt so . . . strange. So unlike himself.

Shaver gripped the balcony. He had long, elegant fingers. “You’ve upset everyone, unnecessarily. My fans . . .” His voice drifted off. His profile looked chiseled out of that gray, treeless sky. He was so unbelievably handsome.

Artie’s heart leapt. If he was a chick . . .

He would just die.

THE END