"Mind if I light a smoke?" he asked.

"Isn't that what you came for in the first place?" she queried back.

He chuckled, nervously fidgeting with the pack, checking one last time if anyone he knew was there like a teenager who'd dusted off his dad's stash of old Hustlers.

"Aren't you a bit old to care about what others think?" she chided him playfully and added, under her breath, "Bloody first-timers," not caring whether it came over as too cynical or not.

His hands were shaking far beyond the mere anxiousness as it took him several attempts at getting a stable flame off the near-empty Zippo. She was watching him with a mix of pity and annoyance at how, in the limited microcosmos of his little bubble, he was making a fool of himself—pure material for the guaranteed ensuing self-loathing he seemed to keep indulging in, she thought.

No one was watching anyway. They were all much too absorbed by their drinks, cigarettes, and tears over their soon-to-be ex-lovers. No one came to this bar to keep steady with whomever they were with. Everyone knew that except for the few pitifully naïve couples that arrived happy only to leave the place heartbroken. It just had this kind of weird magic.

He had been through with all this already, only asked her for comfort over his loss—and was now nearly vomiting his lungs out like a terminal tuberculosis patient, only adding to his misery.

"Don't inhale so much at a time, dumbass," she kept scolding him before taking a hit of her own butt. "That's how you make people look. You're gonna give yourself away as easy prey," she reminded him of the nature of this place. "Anyway, why are you doing this to yourself?"

He tried a second drag—a lot less this time. He could keep it far better but was still struggling as could be easily taken from the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

She looked at him, slowly shaking her head, concern written all over her face. "You're so pathetic," came her half-hearted try at covering her compassion—and the years of unreciprocated love. "Don't you see what you're doing to yourself? Damn, so she heard about your little secret, made a huge scene, used it as a pretext to leave you and move in with the one person you thought had been your best buddy for close to twenty years and happens to have fathered the two kids you thought were yours. Boo fucking hoo."

She recognized the tear that rolled down his cheek did not stem from the irritation of his lungs. At this sight, she pressed her lips together not to start crying over both her loving pity and her lack of sensitivity. Teeth chattering from the mixture of anger and sadness she was fighting, she took his hands and looked at his puppy-eyed face ready to burst any second.

"Fuck, I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry," she tried, hesitated, then let it all out, "It's just that I knew all of it and tried to tell you but you just wouldn't listen. I wanted to be there for you—scratch this, I was there for you the whole time and while I kept loving you and putting up a brave front. I saw how she methodically chipped away your sanity one piece at a time for nothing more than her evil pleasure. You could have had me and you knew that all along. It's only now that your life is shattered in pieces that I'm good enough for you to come crawling back. How do you think this makes me feel?"

She sighed as she saw the shame in his crimson-cheeked, guilt-ridden features that, distorted by sadness, all but avoided her gaze, searching her eyes for pity and understanding, yet only finding more accusations to pile up.

"You know I still love you but fifteen years of suffering your ignorance and gullible trust towards this whore are just too painful to forget," she bitterly whispered, close to her own tears.

She swallowed the lump that had grown to a sizeable chunk in her throat and downed the double J&B as a chaser. Cigarettes and dishwater-grade booze always seemed to do the trick. She knew that from years of experience. He copied her with moderate success.

"So tell me about your little secret, then," she sighed, barely succeeding at omitting 'if that's all I'm good for to you,' hoping to get him to talk so he wouldn't just refill his empty glass with tears—and for the simple reason that his moping was tearing her heart apart too. "I thought that's what you asked me to meet you for, no?"

"Five years ago... early August," he tried, voice negligibly more stable than before. He rubbed the root of his nose, obviously struggling to keep his emotions from bursting. "Summer vacation—school vacation, anyway."

She could hear him inhale deeply, hardly able to hold the air in his lungs. As she reached out to squeeze his hand he held the cigarette in, yet avoiding his gaze, his breathing somewhat calmed.

***

I was supposed to coach a karate lesson. Many students I teach are high schoolers. Most others have school-age kids. On school vacation time, almost no one shows. Summer, right? Barbecuing, sharing a couple of cold ones, and skinny dipping... so much more chill.

Now, this particular Summer even tested my love for coaching. The temperatures were scorching and the humidity so high just walking the three-story staircase basically showered you in sweat.

This day was no different. Only one student showed. Best I ever had. Never missed a lesson. Would have surpassed me had he not gotten married and moved away three years ago. Women...

He always impressed me: his persistence, his talent, his sheer will and the speed with which he learned. Unparalleled. As his master, I admired him although he wouldn't drop the 'sensei' schtick despite that he knew I hated it. Never wanted to be seen as this scary-ass high-horse grandmaster. Get respected, yes, but never wanted this type of adoration. He wouldn't have it, though. Kept insisting I be called that.

Still, he was far more than just a good student—we were good friends. Even outside the dojo, he often sought my advice.

He was, in many ways, an unpolished diamond and I felt privileged to teach him. He just had this way of making me smile and happy to see him.

That day, since he was alone, he insisted I don't hold back with my warm-up program. He knew I'm a merciless coach and my warm-ups are tough and that's one more reason why I enjoyed working with him so much. Like the little masochist he was, he used to jump at every chance of asking me to break him. I really enjoyed the lessons where I could indulge in the almost perverse pleasure I took from hearing my students moan in desperate exhaustion, and he just asked me to torture him, a wide grin on his face, knowing I would not stop until I myself reached my limits.

After the warm-up and a good gallon of piss-hot water between the two of us, I suggested partner stretching exercises.

Damn, the air in the dojo was so thick with our sweat you could smell the sheer masculinity of two male bodies working out, and the tatami had turned slippery as an ice rink.

In combination with the high temperatures, it was hard to form coherent thoughts through the mist of my testosterone-clouded mind—even more so in a position where we were sitting on the tatami, facing each other—he with legs split, me keeping them apart with my feet against his ankles while pulling him towards me by his shoulders so his face was hovering mere inches above my crotch.

It could have just as well been the sticky goo my brain was simmering in but I thought I could hear his desperate tries at sniffing my stench inconspicuously. Realizing this, I had to remind myself not to give in to the images that were forming in my mind—forget that! I was trying to keep my erection from growing to full size by distracting myself with images of defecating cows, really... with very mediocre success. My hormones just decided to go with the flow and insist on exploring this burning thirst unquenched.

Before I lost myself completely in this attraction that threatened to shatter my thus far unrelenting conviction about my sexual preferences, I got reminded it was time to swap positions by his painful moan—or was it his desire for me?

I took a deep breath and spread my legs near full-split. He didn't need pulling me much because my face would, from alone, fall onto his lower belly, right above his crotch. Without thinking much, I rested my forehead right underneath his navel. Not the most comfortable position, you might object, but at that moment, my body had completely forgotten how to be comfortable, to begin with.

I was too anxious to create an awkward situation or to give away the excitement that grew in my loins by moving my head too much in quest for a more suiting position so I was left with letting his rich scent of steroids and the faint, yet distinct note of pre-cum fill my nose. Luckily, the color on my face passed for exhaustion, protecting my inexplicably excited state from his prying eyes.

I kept reminding myself that his labored breath came from the exercises and was not lust-filled panting as my ears desperately tried to tell me.

When he released the pull on my shoulders to let me sit up and slide away to slowly close my legs again, I caught his gaze quickly turn away from mine, clear abashment written all over his face. His breath went shallow and somewhat shaky for two draws before he stood and asked me in all formality if he may excuse himself for another drink.

Desperate for an excuse like this, I agreed and absentmindedly watched him walk to his sports bag—more precisely, watch his buttocks move under the white gi that had turned transparent from all the sweat and now clung to his sculpted cheeks. His whole body radiated virile masculinity, pure strength and the heavy stink of male pheromones.

Before he could turn around and see me ogle him, I realized what I was doing, quickly stood up, and started easily hopping from one foot to the other to loosen the stretched feeling in my muscles. This also helped me clear my mind and remember I was here to teach, not to get laid.

Since he was my only student that day, I offered him to choose the training program, so he asked me to correct his posture with side-kicks for he was compensating for his lack of balance at the expense of impact force. I let him do a few kicks against mitts and in the air so I could assess his issues. I smiled inwardly at the idea that this gave me the possibility to ogle him without him noticing.

The issue was quickly found, as he made his delectable posterior protrude like a duck's booty when throwing the kicks.

I first mirrored him and showed him how to erect his upper body so he would stand straight while holding the stretched leg in midair. To help him, I held his airborne foot and made him pivot on the ball of the foot he was standing on a little more until his butt was in perfect alignment with the kick.

Once I let go of his foot, I told him to hold the position and let his body memorize it. I saw in his face that he was fighting cramps in the small of his back as well as his gluteus minimus—typical for erroneously inculcated malpositions in side-kicks.

I let him do a few more slow kicks in front of the mirror so he could critically observe and adjust his own body. While his improvements were great after a good dozen of kicks, his movements were still a far cry from actually being correct, so I asked him to keep his leg up and hold his balance as best as he could.

He did and I, now fully back in teacher mode, stood behind him, held his leg in side-kick position with one arm, wrapped the other around his chest to press him against my body so he would have an upright posture whilst my hips were pushing against his buttocks to prevent him from falling into his habitual position.

I had done this on countless of my students, never wasting a single sexual thought about it but there... It is only when I found my semi seeking to slide between his toned buns that I realized in what position we were in. I knew then and there that there was absolutely no way whatsoever that he didn't notice.

In that moment, we just stood there, letting the sweep hand of the wall clock rhythmically march away as our bodies, both drenched from the effort, were pressed together.

As I felt his leg get heavy, I let it go so he could put it down again. I put my chin on his shoulder and wrapped my other arm around him too. He let it happen. I could smell his skin, the musk of his sweat, the weight of his pheromones on my thoughts. I felt the heat radiating from his neck I desperately wanted to nibble on.

I was startled when I felt his fingers run through my hair, his hand pulling me close, guiding me to plant my lips on the raspy five o'clock shadow on his neck. Hesitant, I first just breathed against it, feeling his stubbles stand up against my lips as the goosebumps formed. His gasp encouraged me to brush them with my lips and plant a first tentative kiss.

Upon my touch, I felt his fingers scratch my scalp approvingly while his other hand grabbed mine. I felt him push back against me, seeking friction between my full erection and his ass crack.

Slowly, he turned his head to look into my eyes. He was nibbling on his bottom lip, gaze unsteadily changing between my mouth and eyes. Slowly, our lips met, then our tongues. It was shy at first. Just probing, trying, sampling. Soon enough, though, our mouths were devouring each other, me still standing behind him leaning over his shoulders while my hands were roaming his upper body. He kept scratching my scalp, pulling me against his face, showing me he was yearning for my touch.

Soon he was grinding against my raging hard-on whilst my hands were firmly gripped around his through his drenched pants, pumping him slowly. For once, the sounds heard in the dojo were not perfectly-timed battle cries as we let the excitement take over and guide our actions.

We lost track of time, lost in our shy quest for each other’s pleasure, yet not moving out of fear of fully indulging in our escapade, not wanting to scare each other. Still, the sounds of lust grew louder, deeper until I felt his body tense up and I let go of him.

As we broke the kiss, I stole a glance at the clock only to find time was up. His lesson was over.

We parted, our eyes unsure where to look, gaze nervously meeting for a few seconds over and over again until I ordered, with cracking voice, "Seiza!"

We knelt down, meditated, and then bowed as tradition demanded.

Both of us knew that this ritual marked the end of the lesson and the return to our daily lives. Our slip had been part of the lesson and was, therefore, never talked about or repeated.

Even in the showers of the dressing room, each of us went by his habitual washing routine, and before he left, we, as we usually did, sent our best regards to our respective Missus.

***

"And as I said earlier, sadly, he got married and moved away with his wife," he concluded his narration. Tears almost overwhelming him again, he added, “And when mine found out, she had her pretext to leave me. She told me to my face she had been planning this for years, only waiting for an occasion... while she was still sleeping with me and whispering her vows of love into my ear when we did.”

He looked at his friend who was now far beyond capable of listening as the sheer number of empty glasses in front of her face-planted head testified. Between the surrounding noise, he believed he could hear her snoring.

Jaw trembling, he muttered, “Bitch!” unsure to whom it was addressed.

The fact that his once closest friend had let him down didn't change much to his state. He pressed his lips together sadly, a tear rolling down his cheeks as he realized she had long ago scraped him and how much none other than he himself had driven her away.

Holding his half-full glass in a shaky hand, he contemplated his possibilities while fighting the swelling feeling in his chest.

Just as he was about to stand up, having made up his mind which cheap bottle of bourbon to use to end his miserable night in an ethylic coma—possibly at the ICU with a tube draining his digestive system—he felt a poke against his shoulder.

Startled, he turned around to see him, an equally sad smile over his face, telling volumes about what brought him into this bar where nothing happened but hearts being broken.

An almost inaudible, “Long time no see,” passed his lips, a ray of hopeful joy radiating through his veil of misery.