Big Dawg

There was a golf club on his mantle. And apparently it wasn't just any golf club. It was the “Big Dawg.” And as the saying went, it was time to let the Big Dawg eat.

Douglas sighed and squirmed into the couch, settling deeper amongst the cushions. He really didn't “get” all of this golf stuff. None of the terminology made sense to him. Like, why was it the Big Dawg and what exactly was it eating? Golf balls? Grass? Chunks of dirt that his lover managed to flip in the air when he attempted to hit a ball?

He took a sip of coffee while he pondered those questions. Oh, he'd asked his furry lover, but the man had grumbled at him about disrespecting the “game.” God forbid he disrespects the “game.” ‘Cause of course the “game” had feelings.

Shuffling footsteps sounded in the bedroom, followed by the whoosh of a toilet flushing, letting Douglas know that his lover had finally risen.

The day promised to be a long one since it was the opening day of Mac's golf course, Dawg Track. The man had tried explaining the symbolism behind the name, but again, Douglas didn't get it. But he didn't have to understand everything his lover did, just as long as Mac loved him. Or so Mac kept reiterating and Douglas chose to believe the big man. After all, he loved him.

Douglas grabbed the cup of coffee he'd prepared for Mac from the table and headed toward the bedroom, anticipation already building. The coffee? It was a ploy and Mac would see it as such the moment he walked through the door. But Douglas still hadn't learned to ask for what he wanted, so drinks in the bedroom had turned into their secret code for “fuck me like you mean it."

The sound of water colliding with tile, the tinkling creating its own song, filled the bathroom. Douglas leaned against the wall outside of the shower and raised his voice over the sounds. “Brought you some coffee, baby."

Mac stuck his head around the curtain. “Really?” He waggled his eyebrows and Douglas stared in wonder at the man. No matter how long they'd been together, Douglas couldn't get enough of staring at him.

Mac had a square face with deep-set, brown eyes that always had a sparkle in them, as if he knew a joke no one else did. His lips were full, smile-wide and always at the ready. His hair had grown long during the course's construction and Douglas secretly hoped he'd keep it that way. Mac always complained of helmet hair when he rode his Harley, but Douglas loved running his fingers through the longer locks.

Even bending down, Mac towered over Douglas's smaller frame. At nearly six feet versus Douglas’ own five-foot-five, the difference was startling. But none of it mattered when the big man with his broad shoulders and chiseled muscles looked at him as if he'd like to swallow Douglas whole.