"The end of the semester,
gentlemen..." he had said it for so many years, he sometimes forgot. "And ladies." He bowed a little to them. They tittered and he chastised them gently
with an indulgent look. "Is hoving
into view. Hoving, is, of course, an
improper use of the perfect past tense of the verb 'to heave'. But it is an idiom and though I would never
let you write a piece of copy with such an idiom in it and survive beyond a C
level, I will employ it here. Since this
is the case, I submit to you that the examination for the semester will be held
December 9, at 9:30 o'clock in this room.
That's only a few weeks away and time is fleeting. When you return from Thanksgiving break, as
stuffed, I am sure, as the turkeys you consumed, we will meet only six times
before the exam, for which you will all be here, and I'm sure, you will all be
prepared. This is the time, and the last
time, perhaps, that, should you be harboring any doubts about your grasp of the
material that you betake yourself to my office for advice. Thank you and good afternoon."
With a great rustling of clothing, pulling
on of jackets for the boys and fur-collars coats or cloaks for the girls, they
gathered themselves and went on to their next classes.
He watched as the students filed out of the
classroom. Matthews was lagging behind,
as usual, at the top lip of the amphitheatre-like bowl of the classroom, just
under the large, many-lighted windows.
Enough late autumn glare came through it that he was silhouetted against
the light. A bright boy.
"Have a nice weekend, Dr. Fletcher."
"Hm?" He looked up, smiled quickly. That Beaumont girl, in a tight-bodiced button
up dress, dark blue silk, the skirt ending just below her knees. Fine legs, black high heels. He remembered in a flash his aunt, when he
was small, and the other women. Their
skirts brushed the floor, and their bustles hid any line that nature intended
for the feminine form. Her lines were
all too evident, breasts high, tightly-packed, almost conical. Her lips were dark, full. She would go places. She had the look about her. She would have gone places with him if he'd
have her. "Thank you," he
purred. "And you." She flashed
all her teeth, and he scoffed. She
tossed her head, loving the game. Her
thrust, his parry. It was the game, and
she knew it better than any other female he had ever encountered in almost
twenty-five years of teaching. She had
an A, without ever putting pen to paper.
She swept out of the room in a gale of "My Sin".
He turned and picked up his lecture notes,
tamped them against the desk and replaced them in their file. "Have a nice weekend, sir," another
student said.
"You, too." He tied the brown strings around the dark
folder and picked up his gold pen. He
moved slowly. There was no hurry. Matthews was still talking to Jenkins and
Simons. Three veterans. The place was filthy with them, these
twenty-five to thirty-year old men, seasoned from their years in service, from
fighting Nazi's or Japs or Turks, whoever wherever. They had seen it all and come back
different. They mixed in with the
farm-bred adolescents in an uneven, yet somehow appealing amalgam.
They were coming down the steep steps along
the curved backed wooden seats.
"Matthews," he said, almost sharply, his breath catching
uncharacteristically.
Matthews turned with military precision,
instantly dropping his conversation with the other two.
"A word."
"Yes, sir." The other two mumbled goodbyes quickly and
pushed through the door. It swung closed
and clicked with a slow brass-on-brass sound.
Matthews was about twenty-six, probably.
He was tallish, built like a young soldier should be, muscular without
being overstated, strong physically, but still maleable, still able and willing
to take orders. His hair was cropped
short, like all the other boys, neat lines of demarcation between the
smooth-shaved Mediterranean-tanned skin of neck and throat and the short, dark
silky hair.
"Matthews, your work shows definite
improvement."
"Thank you."
"You wrote before?"
"Yes, sir. For the batallion paper. And short stories. And articles for the local paper at
home. Sarcoxie. I've wanted to be a writer for a long
time."
"Well.
This last piece of yours was quite interesting and very well
written. I've passed it on to the Mr.
Smart for inclusion in the Missourian, even though I don't usually have
anything to do with the copy in there."
Matthews bobbed furiously. "Thank you,
sir."
He picked up his file and put it under his
arm, turning toward the door. He slipped
a paternalistic hand to Matthews shoulders.
"I was thinking. I'm having
a party Saturday night at my apartment.
The best people. Some
influencial, rather dignified gentlemen not only from Columbia, but from St.
Louis as well, and I think an executive from a press in Chicago will probably
be coming by. Some are involved in the
writing profession, but others are in other fields. Very exclusive group. I was thinking you might be interested in
joining us."
"Me, sir?"
"Yes.
You, sir. I like to bring some of
the more up-and-coming young men into the circle from time to time. It leavens the whole lump, keeps us from
thinking civilization ended in 1932."
Matthew's eyes travelled up the
double-breasted suit, paused at the silk tie, and then continued to his
face. Students were awed by him. It got better every year, in fact. When he started as a professor, he was only
twenty-four years old and looked like a kid.
There were boys in his classes that looked older than him, that were
older than him. But it was a damned good
thing they were in awe of him. It made
life so much easier. He smiled gently,
nodding a little. "Let me give you
the address. It's 108 Freedmont Apartments.
Do you know where that is?"
"Yes, sir. Right off campus."
"Yes.
It's the one just to the left of the front door. You'll see the atrial and the long French
windows that open out onto a small balcony.
That's my apartment. Come around,
oh, eight or so."
"Jacket and tie, I assume,
sir?" They had paused in front of
the door. Through the icy glass, cut
into diamonds by the safety wires, they could see students moving outside,
shadowy shapes, defined in soft lines with no details, only muted colors. Laughter and conversation drifted in through
the transom.
"Of course. You have a jacket and tie, I assume?"
"Yes, sir." Fletcher smiled. The boy would scurry around all day trying to
borrow one, he could tell.
"Good.
And Matthews?"
"Yes, sir."
"Call me Ellis."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"See you, then, on Saturday?"
"Yes..."
"Ellis. Try it."
Matthews blushed deeply and rolled his
large brown eyes up the black chalkboard to the ceiling where the lights hung
in fluted fixtures. "Um..."
"Maybe later." Ellis smiled,
patted his shoulder and then swung his hand away, in an almost dismissive
gesture.
"Thank you, sir. Have a nice evening."
"I will." Matthews pushed out the door and for a moment
Ellis Fletcher turned back to the classroom, and stood staring into
nothing. How many classes had he taught
here, in this room? Twenty-five
years. Twenty-five years. It was a good room. From the high windows, he could see a few
branches of a great sycamore tree outside, and watched it go through its paces. Only for the last ten, of course. Before that the tree hadn't been tall enough
to be seen outside these second floor windows.
He drew a long breath. A moment,
and then back to the reality of life.
Two giggling girls came to the door.
"Oh," one simpered. "Excuse
us, sir. Are you through? We're in the next class."
"What?
Oh, yes. Excuse me," he
bowed a little stiffly and went into the hallway. The giggles followed him down the hall. Silly little bitches.
* *
*
She was waiting for him at his office door,
that Parmore thing.
"Miss Parmore," he said, turning
the brass door handle. "Did you
come to see me?" Miss Parmore was
to Journanlism 128 as Miss Beamont was to Journalism 250.
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher."
"Come on in then." He motioned her to a chair and put his file
on the desk. Everything was in perfect
order. Betty had dropped several pieces
of mail on his desk. One was a obviously
personal, handwritten in a gradeschoolish scrawl. Otterville.
They shouldn't write to him at the office. They shouldn't write at all. He smiled wanly at her.
"Mr. Fletcher," she purred. "You mentioned the exam." Miss Parmore was cut from the same cloth as
Beaumont. They were both ambitious,
over-sexed and aggressive.
"Yes."
"I'm a little worried about
it." She adjusted her chair, no
doubt, he was sure, hoping to manipulate it so that her legs would swing out
beyond the desk. The room was, mercifully, too small.
"Ah.
Well, Miss Parmore, what specifically are you concerned about?"
"The whole thing." She waved her hand. Her fingernails were long, filed to perfect,
fashionable claws, and painted with bright red enamel that matched her
lips. Why women thought men liked that
sort of thing was beyond knowing.
"Start to finish? Are you telling me in sixteen weeks you've
managed to assimilate nothing I have said?"
"No, sir," she wilted
demurely. "Of course not. I've been to almost every class." One of the nails went between the bright red
lips. She smiled, feigning shyness.
"Almost," he tapped his pencil
against the desk. "Almost."
"Almost," she shrugged. She slipped one hand over the other and
straightened up, catlike.
"Hm." He furrowed his brow. "Miss Parmore, I cannot possibly
re-teach in any less than sixteen weeks what it took me sixteen weeks to teach
in the first place. You can, however,
ask me specific questions about specific topics and I will gladly help as best
I can. You might try getting notes from
other students who were more assiduous in their attendance, as well. In fact,
you might ask that Simpson boy. He sits
three rows down and a few seats over from you.
Quite a nice fellow, and very attentive to the material. Shall I give you his number?"
"Well," she hesitated, adjusting
the chain that held a gigantic class ring that fell down between her
breasts. "I was thinking. Oh, Mr. Fletcher. If there's anything I can
do..."
"For a better grade?" he asked
softly, narrowing his eyes. She was a
fine girl, it was true. "Is that
it?"
She fingered the neck of her soft, pale
pink sweater and nodded silently. He leaned
back in the chair and glanced out the window at the bare trees below. He put his elbows on the arms of the chair
and steepled his fingers. She sat
silent, but the room was so filled with apprehension that even the silence was
deafening. Two stories below, students
were moving back and forth on the sidewalk.
These girls. They wanted
University educations. They wanted to
play like they were men. But in truth, they weren't. They were nothing like
men. But they would fuck their way
through classes, fuck their way into jobs, fuck their way into fucking up the
profession, into diluting it with their inadequacies.
He shot her a sidelong look. "Yes," he said, rising slowly. "Yes, Miss Parmore. There is something
you can do." He came to the front
of the desk, and leaned against it.
"Yes." She lifted her
face expectantly, almost rising out of the chair. He sensed the moist anticipation of her body,
the tautness of her limbs, of her chest and belly, ready, ready. "Yes, Miss Parmore," he
purred. "You can do
something."
"What, sir?" It was breathless, her response.
"You can study." He paused a moment for effect, smiled slowly,
fully, and watched the scarlet color her face as the tautness in her frame
dissolved. She stammered a little, rose
quickly. He was inclined to say that if
he was to fuck every girl in the school who wanted an A, he would be far to
exhausted to drag himself to the podium to deliver even one lecture a day, let
alone four on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and two on Tuesday and Thursday. It was too great a load as it was.
"Thank you, sir," she said,
grasping her books and pressing them against the bodice of her sweater. She turned quickly, stumbled over the edge of
the chair and escaped. Beaumont was a
slut, but she never would be so blatant.
She would get her A. She was a
slut, but she did the work.
* *
*
There were men everywhere, in the
vestibule, in the living room, in the bedrooms, in the kitchen, the small
dining room, even, if he guessed right, in the bathroom. There were tinkling glasses, the polite hum
of gentlemanly conversation, the mingled scents of cologne and cigarettes and
liquor. Over it all, or maybe under it,
there was Mozart on the record player--oboe concertoes. He had pushed Winnie's popular music records
aside. Winnie had no taste. No taste at all.
Matthews had just come in, in a jacket that
swam on him, looking ill at ease, fidgetting with his cigarette, staring at the
others, a little lost. He tamped it on
the back of the metal lighter, and then would put it toward his lips and then
tamp it again. He would mix, just not
well at first. Damn Winnie or whoever
let Matthews in, to leave him to his own devices. It wasn't the way things were done. Fletcher transferred his cigarette from one
hand to the other and poured a drink. He
came up behind Matthews and reached over his shoulder with the drink.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he
asked softly.
"Yes, sir."
"Ellis."
"Thank you."
"You aren't," Fletcher
purred. "Have a drink and either
light than damned cigarette or put it away.
Come on, let me introduce you to a few people." He took Matthews by the elbow and led him up
behind several men.
"Excuse me," he said. "James Williams, I want you to meet a
young friend of mine, Theo Matthews. From
Sarcoxie." He pronounced it
delicately.
"Sounds painful."
"I'm sorry?" Young Matthews said.
The others, more accustomed to Williams'
offbeat sense of humor, laughed at the pun while he turned and smiled. The effect was dazzling. He put out his hand, gold cufflinks sparkling
in the auburn glow of the incandescent lamps.
"Theo. Sorry about
that. No insult meant to your home town. Nice to meet you. One of Fletcher's boys?"
"Yes, sir. I'm in his Advertising Theory class."
"Hm.
An ad man. I should be careful
around you. No, that Fletcher, he's a
born ad man. Born and bred." He reached over and squeezed Fletcher's
forearm.
"I come by it honestly then," he
smiled. He patted Matthews on the
shoulder. "Come on, son. Light your cigarette and relax. You're among friends."
"Thank you, sir."
"It isn't sir. It's Ellis.
And this is James, Jimmy if you like," and Pete. Winnie is somewhere. Did you meet Winnie when you came in?"
"I don't think so."
"James, take our young Theo in hand
and see that he doesn't get into any mischief," he smiled again and when
he looked at them a half hour later, James was slipping his jacket on and
rhapsodizing about his new car.
Matthews, grinning was struggling to get the oversized jacket into his
undersized camel coat.
"It'll be a long time before England
gets her production of sports cars back up. I was lucky to get this
one." James came alongside
Fletcher. "We may be back," he
said. "A little spin in my
Dusty."
"If we don't see you tonight..."
"I'll be back in the morning. I have to leave for Chicago in the
afternoon. My wife's father wants me to
address a meeting of his board at lunch on Monday, so I have to be back. But we can luncheon together tomorrow after
church if you like, before I leave."
"Good.
You'll be at Calvary?"
"Yes, certainly."
"We can go from there then after the
11:00 service."
"Good."
"We'll see you tomorrow
then." Ellis smiled, shook James's
hand and then raised a hand to Theo, who was too far away to reach with a
handshake. The boy smiled.
* *
*
It was two in the morning. He was almost mindlessly exhausted, but at
the same time strangely excited. Winnie
was in the kitchen already, washing up.
A young man was also in the kitchen, one of the boys from the party,
taking dishes and wiping them quickly, with the demeanor of a drug store soda
jerk. They turned when they saw him come
in.
"Johnson," he said cordially,
recognizing the young man. "Did you
have a good time tonight?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Fletcher. I did."
"Relax. You aren't in class, Johnson. Call me Ellis."
"Then you should probably call me
Chip." There was a twinkle in his
eye, probably inspired by the liquor, but the boy was the likely sort,
good-humored and lively. He had done
well enough in class, though he was, by no means, an outstanding student.
"Chip?" Ellis groaned and covered his eyes as if in
pain. "Must I?"
"Chester, then," the boy said
sheepishly, flailing the towel a little.
Ellis laughed.
"Well, Chip, I'm glad you enjoyed
yourself. Is there anything left to
eat?"
"A little cavier, some (), and a few
pieces of ()," Winnie said. "Help yourself, Chip. You young men are always hungry. Finish it off."
"Thanks." He leaned over and took a bit of () and
spread it with (), popped it into his mouth and chewed happily. He sorted through the glasses for a
half-filled one and slugged the liquor back.
"Don't worry about this now,"
Ellis said quickly. "You know, we
do have a maid. She can wash up."
"We're almost through," Winnie
said, a little thickly. Chip began
giggling. They were both obviously
beyond two sheets to the wind and were working on their third. Ellis chuckled.
"I can see that. Please yourself."
Winnie handed off a glass to Chip, but Chip
missed. It slipped through his hands and
onto the floor, shattering to bits. They
all stared at it for a moment as if time had been suspended. Winnie and Chip had the obvious and unique
concentration of drunks. Ellis had
nothing better to do for the moment than stare at it and wait for the other
shoe to drop. Breathing apologies, Chip
sank to the floor and started gathering up the pieces. "So sorry, Mr. Fletcher. Ellis.
Mr. Fletcher. You have such fine
things. Ruined your set."
"It's fine..." he said, watching
the top of the boy's head move over the pieces of glass. "Don't worry about it. Just..."
"It's like a Jewish wedding,"
Winnie laughed, pawing for the fawcet handle to turn off the splashing water.
"A what?" The boy's face came up, flushed and broad,
his mouth open, his throat almost swanlike in the incandescent light.
"Stay right there," Ellis said
softly. "Don't move." His hand went quickly to the fly of his
trousers, and in an instant he moved forward, his other hand slipping behind
the boy's head. He knew. The kid knew.
He leaned into it, into the recesses of Ellis's trousers and
trunks. For a horrible moment, Ellis tried
to remember the last time he'd used the toilet.
No, it was before he showered.
There shouldn't be anything, not even the slightest hint of anything
maloderous or tainted. He'd been smoking
and drinking, but so had the boy. It
would be alright. He relaxed against the
counter.
The warm mouth pressed first against him
outside the white cotton, eagerly defining the shape of his member through the
cloth, sucking the shaft without touching the head, and then with a groan from
both the younger and elder man, the boy burrowed in deep, pulled the head free
and Ellis was enveloped in the warm, soft moistness of a good mouth, an
experienced mouth. He could pick
them. He knew them, almost
instinctively. He closed his eyes, let
his head drop back and leaned heavily against the sink, caressing the short,
soft hair. Ellis hated dressed hair,
stiff but fashionable. He liked this.
Short. Short enough that when it got good, he could grasp it in his fists and
his knuckles would roll hard against warm skin.
He knew better than to take a boy by the ears, but it was still
tempting.
Winnie moved around to watch from the
side. Opening his own clothing quickly,
he pulled his dick out. Ellis could see
his chest moving as the tempo of his breathing increased with his excitement. As irritating as Winnie could be, as trying
as their relationship was, it still excited Ellis to see Winnie excited. The boy was moving delicious against him,
making wonderful, delighted, desperate noises.
Winnie stroked himself, his eyes half closed, cat like. Ellis began to move his hips. Winnie liked that, liked to watch it go in
and out of a boy's mouth. The fingers at
his hips sank in deeper, the moans became insistant. Winnie's hand speeded up and he grunted
softly, mumbling garbled encouragements to the boy. "Get his balls," he said
quickly. "Get his balls." The boy's hand scooped into the trunks again,
while the other one smoothed around the cheek of his buttock, the fingers
exploring the valley. Ellis reached out
and grabbed for Winnie. Winnie came
close under his arm, Winnie proferring his own dick to the boy, but availing
nothing, squirted his load past the boy's cheek onto the floor. Chip suddenly broke contact, stood up. He was
a few inches taller than Ellis, and it suddenly surprised Ellis for a moment.
"You don't mind," he panted. "If I get undressed now, do
you?" He was half-stripped before
they could answer.
* *
*
The church was less crowded than usual,
already redolent with the scent of warm beeswax on a cold morning. He caught sight of Williams and sidled into
the pew next to him, knelt down for a few minutes, his hands reverently in
front of his face. They both sat back on
the pew. He glanced at the program in
his hands.
"So?"
"So."
"How is our young Theo?"
"Fine.
Very fine. Suffering, I think,
from Sore Cocksie this morning."
Ellis stifled a laugh. "You let him spend the night?"
"Why not? He was good for a few turns. I didn't sleep much. It'll be a hell of a drive back to Chicago
this afternoon. I told him when the
semester ends to come up and I'd find something for him in my ad room."
"Good.
Good. Thanks." Mixed feelings washed over him. He couldn't keep them all for himself. They had to go away and have their own
careers. He would get around to the boy
before he left, though. If nothing else,
the kid owed him. He pursed his
lips. That was an ungentlemanly thought. Crass.
He wasn't like that. But there
were still three weeks left in the semester, surely the boy owed him a courtesy
call at least.
"Glad to. He was a little uneasy at first, I
think. But after a few more drinks, he
was lively enough. He likes going to
church."
"Does he?"
"Hmm.
Well, he spent a lot of time on his knees. We went down on the Hinkson Creek, someplace
he knew with an incredible hanging rock.
He said he brought girls down there from time to time. He's a good one, though. I like him."
"You're a real card."
"Yes. I am."
Tremulous notes streamed down from the
organ in the choir loft. "Oh,
yes. Accomplished on the organ,
too."
"Mouth organ?" Ellis
whispered. Two elderly women in boxy
shoes clicked into the pew behind them.
"So, will you be attending the National Association of Advertising
Professional meeting this year?"
"Where is it?"
"Syrcacuse, I think. I'm trying to get back up to Columbia for a
seminar this summer."
"Might be edifying at that."
"Yes."
"I try to get up to New York every few
months. It's a entirely different
cultural atmosphere, even than Chicago.
Certainly than here."
"Ah, true. But I like it here. I love teaching. I love what I do."
"Then you're a lucky man." But that went without saying. Where else in the world could he have a good
hundred new students to choose from every autumn. There were about 3,500 students in the
University, more than half men. Of
those, about eight hundred were in the school of journalism. That meant, any given fall, he had a new
class of about a hundred boys, and the last few years had been better than any
in the past. He sighed and glanced
around the cool stone walls of the church.
It was a beautiful little church, charming. The organist, who had been meandering through
some Bach, suddenly got down to business and the sonorous tones of the introit
hymn filled the church. In a body, the
congregation rose, himself and Williams included, paged quickly through to the
proper hymn and began singing. The
acolyte, a pretty-faced curly haired boy in his lacy surplus and cassock
preceeded the priest down the aisle, holding the ornate cross on its long,
highly polished hardwood pole before his face.
He passed and Ellis heard Williams give an almost inaudible snort.
The priest followed the boys with the
candles and entered the altar area.
"The Lord is in his holy temple," (or is it t his is the day
the lord has made? What are the first
lines of the episcopal morning prayer?
What's it called? he said, when
the last resonances of the hymn died down.
Ellis smiled a little.
* *
*
He was stiff when he got out of the
car. Jefferson City wasn't that far,
only about thirty miles. It was a fairly
easy drive, though, despite a few tight turns and hills. The drive from Columbia to Jeff was about the
only time he spent alone, he mused.
Every other time and place there were others around. He didn't object to constant company. He'd grown up in a house full of people. When his mother died of consumption when he
was 21 months old, his father had moved house back into his own father's
home. Ellis, Sr., Ellis' grandfather,
was an important man in Sedalia, mayor for a few years, and then state
representative. He had a clothing store,
upscale apparel and furnishings for gentlemen.
There was a house full of uncles, three of them, and a maiden aunt, and
lodgers, men in their late twenties. He
came by his tastes honestly, then, for these men on the cusp of thirty. He had known them since childhood. Men were good natured at that age, horny as
hell, but good to a boy. They treated
him like a prince, and once he got the hang of what was expected, it was
good. He had never suffered that he
could remember, except when they left, especially if they left without saying
anything.
He locked the car outside the Governor and went
inside. The desk clerk snapped to. "Mr. Fletcher," he said.
"Good evening."
"How are you this evening, sir?"
"Well.
Thank you, Bill. You?"
"Well, sir. Thank you for asking. Same room?"
"Yes.
That'll be fine." The young
man pulled the keys from the hook.
"Anything interesting afoot tonight?"
"Not really, sir. A few people in the lounge."
He slid a dollar bill across the counter to
the boy.
"Thank you, sir. You might find an interesting party in the
lounge at that, sir. Have a good evening."
"Thank you, Bill." He slipped his coat off and over his arm and
strode through the door to the lounge.
The place was only about half-full, but then, it was early yet. He nodded to one. "Senator," he said.
"Mr. Fletcher." The senator raised his glass in salute. Fletcher passed another table, patted the
shoulder of an undersecretary of the highway department. He was with a different blonde than he had
been last time Fletcher had been in. He
sat down at the bar, and the bartender came over.
"Mr. Fletcher," he said
politely. "Usual?"
"Thank you, Fred."
"How you keepin', sir?"
"Well, well. I'll be glad when the semester is over."
"Yes, sir." He put a glass in front of Ellis and poured
from the dark bottle. "I'm sure you
will."
"Anything interesting?"
"Yes.
I would direct your attention to the young man at the end of the
bar."
He craned back a little, discreetly,
though. "I haven't seen him in here
before."
"Me either. But he has a certain air about him."
"Well, what about him?"
The bartender shrugged.
He was a youngish man, late twenties, not
small by any means. He was wearing a
fairly good suit. His hair was a little
longer than usual, but it was fairly loose.
"Wbat's he drinking?"
"().
Shall I send one on you?"
"Why not?"
The bartender poured a drink, and went down
to the young man. He leaned up, almost
furtively, to listen to the bartender, and they nodded. He turned toward Ellis, lifted the glass and
nodded. His face was longish,
fine-boned, the picture of a young romantic Norman nobleman, a Lancelot,
perhaps, or a Tristan. He rose, then,
and slid the drink down the bar, came up alongside Ellis. They regarded each other coolly.
"Thanks for the drink," he said,
cocking his head a little. "Do you
make a habit of buying drinks for strange men?"
"Not a habit. Not at all.
Sit down, if you like."
"Thanks."
"Ellis Fletcher." He put out his hand.
"Henry David Waterson."
"Henry David."
The young man grinned, even white teeth in
a good mouth. One of his canines was a
little more prominant than the others, but the slight imperfection only added a
certain tang to the rest. "My
father was nuts about Thoreau."
"I see. Have you read him?"
"Yes.
As a matter of fact. Cover to
cover. A few times. I really like some of what he
says." He turned the barstool
around toward the room and leaned his elbows back on the table. "I suppose the two parts that most
struck me are the ones in which he talks about man standing in the manliest
relation to men..."
"Yes."
"And how he talks about preferring
clothing where he can get his hands on himself in the dark." He laughed, a wonderful laugh. He threw back the rest of the drink and
turned on the stool back toward the bar.
He motioned to the bartender, who came and refilled it.
"I haven't seen you in here
before."
"This is my first time. I don't live here."
"Where do you live?"
"Hannibal."
"You're a little far off course, Henry
David Waterson."
He laughed a little. He laughed easily. His face was perfect, flawless. He turned a little again on the stool, and
Ellis stole a look at his shoes. They
were well shined. He was no
wastrel. "My father and brother
have a stoneworking business. They wanted
to put in a bid for some government buildings going up here. I brought it down for them."
"Do you have a chance?"
He shook his head. "No.
They only want to use native stone and we deal mostly in stone cut in
Iowa."
"Too bad."
"Yep.
It's a great little town, though, don't you think?" He pulled up his sleeve and rubbed his wrist
a little. The cufflinks weren't real
gold but at least he had the sense to wear them in a place like this.
They talked for a while, as the place
filled up. There was a dinner-dance in
the resturaunt and couples in tuxes and fur-collared coats came in and drank
while they waited. How much of what
anyone said was true was anybody's guess.
As for Ellis, he used his usual cover--he was a reporter for an obscure,
actually nonexistant paper in St. Louis, covering legislative news. Henry David accepted this without comment and
chattered happily on about himself. The
place began to empty. The younger man
was an excellent conversationalist, quick on the uptake, witty, charming. He used his hands a lot when he talked,
gestured, and by nine was putting his hand on Ellis's arm to punctuate points,
by ten, touching his shoulder. As the
evening wore on, and he became looser and more familiar, he would lean his head
closer to Ellis, close enough that Ellis could smell his cologne. It was cheap, but went through his olfactory
sensors straight to his loins. This was
a fine one. He wasn't completely sure,
though. There was that modicom of
doubt. What if he was wrong? What if the boy wouldn't go? What if, this time, it was a schill, a plant,
set out to trap him. Two years to life,
in a penitentiary not three blocks from this very hotel.
Everything proceeded step by step. They moved to a small table. The drinking, smoking, finally each lighting
the other's cigarettes. Very
polite. Very proper. Finally, shortly
after midnight, Henry David stretched a little, yawned. He was exhausted, he said. His eyes were heavy. Too much driving for one day, too much
beaurocratic bullshit. Ellis
smiled. Too much drinking, too. He stretched again, and then put his feet out
away from the table, at full length, crossing his feet one over the other,
cozy, familiar. After four hours of
conversation, he was loosened up enough to lounge.
Ellis pulled out his cigarette case, tamped
one and put it to his lips. Henry David
was there with the light, but this time, his fingers touched Ellis's as he
steadied them to hold the flame. They
sat for an instant, hands cupped over the flame, over the now-burning
cigarette. His hand stayed. Ellis looked up, his eyes meeting those of
the other. He snapped the case closed
and put it back in his breastpocket.
"I have a room," he said shortly.
Henry David nodded.
"Shall we?"
There was silence. He rose and put some change on the bar and
looked back at Henry David. "Are
you coming?"
"Yes.
I'm exhausted. Thanks."
They walked to the elevator. The attendant
slid the ornate brass gate open and nodded politely to them. They stepped inside and the man closed the
gate and set the switch in motion.
"Fourth floor, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Yes, Bart. Thank you."
The elevator jerked to a stop and Henry
David made a little sick noise. "I
hate elevators. We don't have anything
like that in Hannibal."
"I bet there's a lot you don't have in
Hannibal."
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "You might be surprised what we have in
Hannibal."
Ellis pulled the key from his jacket pocket
and unlocked the door. He stepped
inside, smoothed his hand down the wall for the light switch.
"Don't turn it on," Henry David
said quickly. "It'll be too
bright. I think I'm going to get a
headache."
"Do you want some aspirin? I can order some for you from the desk."
"Thanks. Maybe later." Henry opened his jacket, slipped to the bed and
sat down on it, tested it for bounce. He
smiled a little, spread his arms and laid back on it.
"You're drunk," Ellis said
flatly.
"I am.
I am at that." He looked at
Ellis, but didn't move. Ellis came
alongside the bed and sat down gingerly on it.
He reached over and took firm hold of Henry David's belt. Slipping the tongue out from under the (), he
pulled the tongue from the hole. Henry
David was watching him, but didn't move.
Ellis stood up. He watched the other man's
face carefully. At the slightest move,
gesture of disapproval, it was over. He
was still not convinced it was safe.
Without taking his eyes off Henry's, he began taking his jacket
off. He laid it over the chair. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off as
well, his white sleeveless undershirt defining his body. Yes. He was getting older, but his body was
as good as most men in their early thirties.
A smile flickered to Henry's face confirmed his hope that he was still
desirable.
Henry sat up, put his fingers under Ellis's
belt and pulled him closer, spreading his legs so that his crotch would be
against Ellis's thighs. There was no
mistaking it. It was a hit. The hand was running down the outside of his
trousers now, and he was filled with the delightful agony of anticipation. In Sedalia, when something wasn't going
well, his grandfather would say, "Son, this dog won't hunt." But this dog would hunt.
He reached down and pushed the jacket off
Henry's shoulders, pushed him back down onto the bed and slowly unbuttoned the
white shirt. Henry's hands were moving
over his chest. He made appreciative
noises, feminine sounds. "You have
a wonderful body," he said in a soft, sweet tone, totally different from
the one he had been using in the bar.
"So firm. How old are
you?"
"Forty-eight."
"You can't be," the voice was
smiling, even in the dark, he could hear it.
"I can't imagine you're more than a few years older than me."
"I've had the same job for twenty-four
years, young man." He stood up and
slipped his shoes off, his socks and took his trousers down. He was hard already. He needed no more arousal, but it wouldn't do
any harm, either. "Henry, I want
light. I want to see you. I want to see everything."
"It's so..."
"I want to look at you."
There was a moment's pause. "Turn it on then. Whatever you want." Breathy, sweet, like a movie starlet. "Whatever you say."
He leaned up and snapped on the light next
to the bed. It fell fully on Henry, soft
light, not garish like daylight. He was
exquisite. It was going to be an incredible
pleasure. He had taken excellent care of
his skin. It was soft and glowed,
shimmering in the light. There was
almost no hair on his body, none at all on his chest, except a very little
around each of this pale but firm nipplse.
He had clipped his pubic hair back so that it was only a light dusting
of reddish gold. He threw his arm up
over his head. He had shaved his
axillaries as well, more like the living embodiment of a perfectly smooth,
clean Greek statue than a mid-Missouri boy in 1946.
Henry's hand travelled down Ellis's naked
flank, stopped just above his hipbone.
Ellis raised himself and laid down fully on Henry. He took the man's face, slowly, came close,
closer. He didn't turn away. He seemed high enough class to accept a
mouth, and Ellis opened his lips and covered the other's mouth. In a moment, he
was too excited to maintain any pretense.
He drove his tongue into Henry's mouth and Henry reciprocated,
instantaneously, almost wildly, his hands opening and closing against Ellis's
flesh.
"Oh, God," Ellis moaned. "Raise your legs." Henry complied quickly, and Ellis raised up
over him, his dick hanging down heavily between them.
"Oh, my God," Henry almost
sobbed. "You can't. You're too big."
"What?" He was instantly taken
aback. What did he mean? He wasn't overly large, really more or less
average. He'd seen a great many dicks
bigger than his own.
"You're too big. You're too big," he repeated. "You'll hurt me. I can't take
that."
"It's alright," he said,
instantly concerned. It seemed
strange. This one seemed to know what he
was doing, seemed experienced. Had he
misjudged him? He reached down into his
jacket pocket and pulled out a small jar of vaseline. He juggled the package and managed to pull
the lid off, applying it to himself first.
He reached quickly between Henry's legs, wiped it around the opening,
his whole body tingling at as he touched the balls, the perineum, the other's
rosebud. It would be good, later, to
take his time and explore this one, fingers and tongue. But for now, he wanted in. It was late, and he was tired.
"You can't. It won't go.
I can't take it...Please," he moaned.
Ellis closed his eyes. That tone of voice, the motions, the
gestures. It was a game. He pinned the man down, hard against the bed. "It is too big," he said
harshly. "You're right. But I'm going to fuck your ass anyway. Shut up now." It was a far cry from the gentleman he
usually affected, but what the hell.
"Oh, God."
"You better pray." He supported Henry's legs in his arms and
pressed forward. It slipped in
easily. He let his breath out in a gasp,
and Henry cried out like a woman, wriggled and writhed. He was a big man, at that, probably
outweighing Ellis by a good ten pounds, and it was everything he could do to
stay above him with the man wiggling with abandon. In a scant minute or two, Ellis had come, and
collapsed, sweating against the other.
Arms encircled him.
"Sweet boy," Henry said softly,
kissing his forehead. "Sweet. Oh, yes.
You are sweet."
He tightened his arms around the other and
held him close for a moment. The hands
were moving along his back now. He was
drained. "Now me," the soft
voice begged. "Honey, suck me off,
won't you?"
He pulled himself sleepily off Henry and
laid his head opposite Henry's dick. It
wasn't very big, at least it was smaller than his, more like an adolescent
boy's, but it was extremely hard, and he had good balls. He nuzzled it, savored the hardness against
his cheek and then began, slowly, gently.
Afterwards they lay together for a few
minutes. Ellis stood up. "I have to shower," he said.
"Now?" Henry sat up.
"I have to go home."
"Now?" Henry repeated. "Why?"
"Someone is waiting for me."
"You're married?"
"Not me."
Henry pulled the sheet up over himself and
yawned. "Well, I shouldn't think
so. A man?"
"Yes. I've been living with a friend
for about sixteen years."
"That's a long time." There was
silence.
"I have to shower," he repeated.
"I live with one, too. A man. Not a shower. Well, I have a shower,
too. But a man. I live with a man. His name is William."
"Hm." Ellis went to the bathroom
and snapped on the light. He looked at
himself quickly in the mirror. There
were red marks on his chest and neck from Henry's fingers. They tingled.
It felt good. He turned on the
shower and washed quickly, wrapped a towel around himself and came back into
the bedroom.
"You can keep the room if you
like," he said. "It's paid for until eleven."
"Thanks. I am completely worn out." He paused.
"Do it again."
"Oh, I don't know." Ellis said in
an offhand way. "I think it's too
big."
Henry bit his lip, looked sheepish and then
burst out laughing. "You're a good
one."
"Thanks. So are you." He was sorely tempted but it would mean
showering again and it wasn't quite worth it.
He was too drunk and too tired, and the drive was forty minutes back
home. If he wasn't back by two, Winnie
would be angry. By three he would be
frantic. Better not to risk that.
He looked at the man lying on the bed, so
coy, one hairless leg drawn up over the other knee. "So.
What do they call you?"
"Me?" That sweet voice
again. "You can call me
Hazel."
"Hazel? You're far too lovely for a common name like
that..."
"Hmmm.
That's nice of you to say. But
Hazel it is."
"Well, Hazel, I've enjoyed being with
you."
"Will you come back?"
He finished dressing, combed his hair
carefully in front of the mirror.
"Would you like me to?"
"Yes."
"Here, then? In two week's time?"
"Yes.
I'll be here."
Hazel stood up and slipped his shirt on.
"I'll walk you to the door. Are you
sure you have to go?"
"Yes.
We have an agreement."
"Mmmm.
He's a lucky man."
"So is William." They kissed softly, gently. Hazel's hands were caressing again. Ellis was almost afraid to let the kiss go
deep. He would have a hard time
leaving. This one was fine. But he had to go. He could tear himself
away. If worse came to worst, there was
Winnie at home. He could have him.
"Next time," Ellis said. "We won't waste so much time on
talking." He smiled, and bit Hazel
gently at the base of the throat. He
groaned and held Ellis's head tight against him for a moment.
"I didn't know if you could be
trusted," Hazel breathed. "I wanted
you from the moment you walked in. I
saw you at the door, that camel coat over your arm and I thought, 'There's a
big hard dick in those trousers, Hazel, and you're going to have it in your ass
if you're a good girl.'"
"And you did."
"And I did."
"And you'll have it again. I promise." He kissed the other lightly. "I have to go. Now."
"Good bye."
He walked quickly to the elevator without
looking back, took it to the lobby and walked out past the desk. "Goodnight, Bill," he said.
"Goodnight, Mr. Fletcher. See you again soon."
"Thank you." The doorman opened the glass door for him and
he strode out into the cold night. The
air hit him like a solid wall, and he realized how exhausted he really
was. It filled his lungs and he was
suddenly suffused in a feeling so satisfied, he could barely remember its
equal. He should turn and go back
upstairs, take that bastard again, from the back this time, hold that tight
hard adolescent prick hard in his hands, jerk him off until...he had to get home. Damn.
It was like being married.
He drove home, lightly fingering
himself. It wouldn't do to pull it out
on the dark road. After all, if he had
an accident, that would be a fine way to find him, with his hand stuck down in
his trousers. It had only been about two
weeks since the Bradford Harlin, the venerable Democratic magistrate had been
killed instantly on this road when a young man head-oned him in the middle of
the night about five miles south of town.
It he were killed, the headline would read, "Veteran journalism
professor killed instantly when struck headon by a vehicle driven. Masturbating at the time. Hundreds mourn." Still, he felt good. He felt damned good.
The road was empty, dark, and the sensation
of rolling over the hills and around the gentle curves one after another,
almost hypnotic. The headlights of his
Buick made wide, pale circles of light that danced before the car like
something alive, molding and adapting to the changes in the macadam
surface. They flashed, on the periphery,
up into the trunks and bowls of the close-standing trees that lined the
road. Between the stands of trees, there
were fields beyond, now lying fallow, ready for the spring planting.
Three or four hills away, the dim
headlights of an oncoming car. As they
approached one another, the lights would disappear below the hill and then
reappear a few seconds later at the top of the next one. They finally became brighter and brighter,
until they passed and then, in the rear-view he could see the pair of red
lights moving away, around the curves in the road. He leaned back in the seat, and put his hand
back in his lap.
* *
*
The two weeks had ground along. He thought of Hazel every day, many times a
day. At first, he was thoroughly
confident they would meet again, and he satisfied himself a number of times in
the faculty men's room stall in the Journalism school thinking about him. He didn't mention Hazel to Winnie. They had an agreement. Just an
understanding. Not a commitment. Neither of them were supposed to be going off
and doing anything without the other one at least having the opportunity to
share in it. Winnie went of and scouted
up boys. Ellis was far too dignified to
do that, at least in town. Winnie knew
he was going to Jefferson City. Surely
he must have known for what.
Still, understanding or no understanding
this one was different. He didn't want
to share him. In fact, the more he
thought about him, the more he could imagine him in the apartment, taking over
Winnie's duties. Winnie wouldn't last
forever. But then, Hazel had someone
else, too. It was better this way. What
if he didn't come? By the middle of the
second week he was kicking himself for not getting arranging to meet sooner,
but Thanksgiving had intervened and he'd been in Kansas City with the relatives
for the weekend. He should have gotten a
phone number.
It didn't matter. If he drove to Jefferson City and the little
ass wasn't there, there'd be someone else just as good. Maybe not just as good, but close
enough.
After work, he got in the car and started
down to the capital. He had that almost wonderful, horrible queasy feeling in
his stomach. He went in, picked up the
key, went to the lounge. His eyes
adjusted to the dimness. There he
was. End of the bar. Same place.
Good boy.
He started toward him. Hazel, perceiving the approach of someone,
looked up, his glass poised at his lips.
Without drinking, without lowering the glass, his lips curled into a smile,
almost a mischevious smile. He pulled
some coins from his pocket and tossed them on the bar. "Thanks, Mac," he said, standing
up. "See you 'round."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The bartender nodded. "Evening, Mr. Fletcher."
"Evening." He turned silently to
Hazel, who was slipping his jacket on.
"You have a room?"
"I do," he said soberly.
"Let's go."
"I need a drink first." He
hesitated, suddenly feeling shy, tense.
How after so many years could he still be uneasy about it?
"Bartender," Hazel said
firmly. "Give me a bottle of
Scotch, will you?"
"Certainly." He pulled one off the wall. Hazel tamped out his cigarette and put his
foot on the bar. He flipped a bill over
toward the bartender. "Pay me back
later," he said quickly, offhanded to Fletcher as if they were old and
close friends.
"Of course."
Hazel slipped the bottle under his
arm. "Come on, then," he said
quickly and Ellis followed him to the elevator.
It was almost too indiscreet. But
there was also something exciting in the cheek of it. They stepped into the elevator, stood at the
back wall staring forward. Hazel turned
and studied him in profile behind the back of the elevator attendant. It was a new boy. Ellis shifted his eyes to meet Hazel's. They were surprisingly hard, and Ellis felt
persperation mist up on his chest, and at the small of his back. Damn.
He hated to sweat. What if he
started to smell bad? He could shower
first. He would shower first.
They stepped out of the elevator and he
unlocked the door and let it swing open.
If he had any concern that Hazel's feelings were any different, they
were dispelled by the quickness and firmness of the arms that took him up
immediately.
They lay entwined on the bed, panting. He couldn't breathe. "Get off," he said. "It's too hot."
"I like you. I want to lay here with
you."
"Let me get my breath."
Hazel, reluctantly, rolled off, his
beautifully formed, hairless arm thrown up over his head. Ellis sat up.
"I almost forgot."
"What?"
"I have something for you." He leaned over and reached for his
jacket. A hand stroked down his side, to
the top of his buttocks.
"You're a fine-looking man,"
Hazel purred. "God, you're so
masculine, so strong. I feel small next
to you."
Ellis suppressed the urge to laugh. He fumbled in the pocket and drew out a small
white box. "Here."
"For me?" Hazel shot up quickly, sat up Indian-style,
his dick like a stubby elephant trunk or a pale lolling tongue started to
harden again, and Ellis laid back against the headboard, touching Hazel's shoulder. "I love surprises."
"I hope you like this one," he
said smoothly. The lid came off and
Hazel moved the cotton aside.
"Oh, Christ. They're beautiful." He pulled out the gold cuff links. They were best the jewelry store had to offer
that were still understated and tasteful.
"Just beautiful. Good
God. Gold?"
"Of course," he stroked down
Hazel's curved spine, caressing down each of the vertebrae. "Would you think I would offer you
anything less?"
"Christ. You are a gentleman."
"I try," he said, not even
feigning humility.
"Will your friend mind?"
"I don't think so. He has cufflinks of his own. If you're a good boy, I'll bring you the tie
bar that goes with them. But I don't want
to spoil you." He was only
half-teasing.
Suddenly Hazel smiled, took one cufflink
into either hand and held them up to his ears.
"I don't know. What do you
think?" he asked in his feminine voice.
"Are they me?" He
tossed his hair coquettishly and stared up at the ceiling like a model.
Ellis growled. "Get down here, now," he said. "I want you."
* *
*
"Two weeks?" Hazel said, leading.
"I don't think I can wait that
long," he admitted. "Next
week."
"Same time, same station?"
"Yes.
Same time, same station."
"You won't spend the night?"
"I still have to go. Hazel, my situation will not change, for the
present. You'll have to
adjust." He said it to himself as
much as to Hazel, who leaned up, supporting himself against one arm, his cheek
pressed coyly against his shoulder.
"But I want you," he whined. "I want to sleep with you. I want to wake up with you first thing in the
morning..."
"Sometime." He stood up and fastened his belt, pulled his
jacket on and ran his comb through his hair.
"We'll do it sometime," he said soothingly. Naked, Hazel rose from the bed and followed
him to the door. "Sleep
well." He reached out, stroked the
other's face, kissed him gently. The
naked body pressed against his fully clothed one, conformed itself to his body,
and he was aroused again, this time by the juxtaposition of naked and suited,
the most vulnerable posture pressed against the most powerful one. But he was too tired to do it again. He had to leave sometime.
"Good night, Hazel," he said
softly.
* *
*
He went into the bar, almost breathlessly,
anticipating seeing the man. He had,
over the week, memorized everything he could about Hazel, what he had been
wearing, what his hair was like, his profile, how he stripped his clothes off, how he would arc
back a little, run his hands over his taut body idly, as if he didn't know how
beautiful he was, and yet, knowing, no doubt, the effect so simple a gesture
could have on an innocent bystander.
His eyes went to the end of the bar first,
but there was no one there. He glanced,
disappointed, around the small, darkened room.
He wasn't there. He sat down at
the bar.
"Usual, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Yes, thanks," he muttered. He pulled himself together. "Thanks," he said again when the
bartender brought the drink.
"Anything interesting I should know about?"
"Not really, sir. It's been slow tonight."
He yearned to ask if Hazel had been in
yet. If he had he was probably just in
the men's room. He settled back, lit a
cigarette and drew a long draught. But a
thought propelled his body forward and he leaned against heavily against his
elbows. What if he had met someone
else? What if he was upstairs, even now,
in a room with another man, sucking him off, rolling over, moaning it was going
to hurt. Stupid, Ellis thought. It would just be one more thing. Somebody else would come in. He could manage. He took a sip of the drink and tamped out his
cigarette. My God, what if he didn't
come at all?
There was a rustling behind him, and a
woman was at his elbow. He glanced at
her quickly, his eyes moving down her form.
She was tall, willowy, in a tight grey, chalk-striped dress with mammoth
muttonchop sleeves. She smelled heavily
of White Shoulders. Her dark hair was
full around her face, pulled back in a long snood. "Waiting for someone?" she purred.
"Yes.
I am."
"Me too. Is this seat taken? Can I join you?"
He hesitated. Why not.
"Of course," he gestured to it and she elegantly poured
herself onto the stool. "Can I buy
you a drink?"
"Thanks." She put her purse on the counter. "Manhattan?"
He nodded at the bartender and
ordered. She leaned forward, arching her
back and turning back toward him slightly, her upper body a torgued S-curve
with her buttocks the bottom upturned curve of the S. Very elegant, very Hollywood.
She talked idly, above this and that,
moving quickly from one subject to the next.
If she was intelligent, she made a great show of hiding it, demurring to
him constantly in that self-effacing way women have. He didn't mind being considered the greater
intellect, but damn it, he wanted some competition for the honor. This was just passing the time, and it was a
waste. But the time was passing, and he
grew more concerned. He wasn't
coming. It was nearing nine and he
wasn't there.
As if a mindreader, the woman cocked her
head at him, her thickly painted lips curling into a sympathetic smile. "So you think she stood you up?"
"Who?"
"The friend you were waiting
for."
"I wouldn't say that," he
retorted, a little gruffly.
"Maybe not, but she did." There was a teasing in her voice. He glanced at her again. She had too much makeup on. He looked away.
"Besides. It wasn't a woman. It was a man."
"Oh.
You're that kind."
He felt the blood drain from his face. "What kind?" he asked smoothly.
"Who meets men in bars."
"I travel. I meet people that I like to visit with and
sometimes we have drinks in a bar."
His palms were beginning to feel moist.
He picked up his cold, sweating glass and rolled it between his
hands.
"Is that all?" she asked
insistantly.
"Yes, that's all. Who are you meeting?"
"I'm here to meet a man. To take him upstairs and fuck him until he
can't stand up."
"Oh, God," he felt queasy. What was she?
"You want to be that man?"
He snorted out a bitter laugh, choked, set
his glass down. She had an edge to her
voice now. Was she a prostitute? Maybe a detective, out to trap him either as
a john or, worse, a queer. She was
probably just goading him about meeting a man.
Or maybe she was just forthright, trying to arouse him. He turned his eyes from the drink back to her
face.
"I think you misunderstand me,
miss. I've enjoyed having a drink with
you. You're very good company. But I'm a
married man, and I don't fool around.
I'm flattered, of course, and if I were cut from different cloth, I
would happily oblige you. But I simply
can't." He fumbled in his pocket
for change for the tip. His fingertips
touched the box from the jewelry store.
He drew back to rise from the stool.
"Where are you going?" she
purred, seductively. He stood up. She reached out her leg a little, wound the
top part of her high-heeled foot around the lower part of his calf. He felt the heat of her skin even through his
trouser leg.
"Home.
It's late."
"What about your room?"
"What room?" he could barely
breathe.
"Upstairs. You have a room. You come in every Friday and you get the same
room. You come to the bar. You pick up a man."
"Oh, God."
"Yes, you do. Come with me now. We should talk."
How did she know? Damn.
He hadn't exactly been subtle. He
wavered. She slinked up from the
barstool, and started out, her hips slung slow, moving with that model's gait,
elegant but impractical for covering
long distances. She led him to the
elevator and stepped in. The attendant
looked a little surprised, but closed the gate and took them to the fourth
floor. Ellis paused at the door.
"Go on," she urged. "Open it."
"Listen to me," he said
firmly. "I don't know who..."
"Open the door now. We can talk inside." She was right. He heard a door down the dimly lit, carpetted
hall, heard the faint sound of cheerful voices.
He pushed the key in the keyhole almost frantically and pushed the door
open. She stepped inside.
He had to close the door. He turned quickly to her. "Listen," he said firmly. "What do you want?"
"I want you."
"Not possible. You're very lovely. But I couldn't do that. I told you, I'm married."
"You're a liar."
"I'm not."
"You're a queer."
He
swallowed hard.
"You're a cocksucking, ass-licking,
butt-fucking queer." She was too
close now, whispering, taunting.
He was about to vomit. "What do you want?" he asked
numbly. "I'll give you money. I don't want any trouble."
"I want a tie bar."
"What?" He swallowed again.
"What did you say?"
Her hands reached out for his face,
gently. He started to turn from her.
"I said I want a tie bar."
"I don't understand." She moved closer to him. He backed up against the door.
"To go with the cufflinks."
There was a hideous moment when he felt
suddenly and completely disembodied as if his body were divorced from his mind
and soul, and all three had gone into separate places in the room. Seconds passed. Her hands slipped inside his jacket.
Paralysed, he let her touch his chest, her hands moving down over his
ribs. He caught her hand. "Hazel?" he breathed.
"Honey," she answered. "Did I scare you?"
"Oh, my God." Sweat broke out on his forehead. "Oh, my God." He collapsed against the door. He grasped Hazel's shoulder. "You bastard."
"Shhh.
Not now. Let me do it."
"How could you?"
"Later, honey. Later.
Fuck me now. Fuck me hard. I need you.
You're such a fine, big man."
"Oh, God. You think I could get hard after that? You scared the daylights out of me."
But his relief was greater than his fear,
and the hands were expert and in a few minutes, Hazel was on her back, still
mostly clothed, smooth legs held high, moaning like a woman, crying out in
either genuine or mock passion. Ellis
couldn't tell. Ellis didn't care.
* *
*
Hazel was suitably impressed with the tie
bar. "Mmm. You are good to me. You know, you don't have to give me presents,
Ellis. I'd fuck you anyway."
"I like to. You should have nice things." He lay back and slipped his hand around
Hazel's midsection.
"So, I had you completely
fooled?"
"Completely," he said, almost
bitterly. Hazel laughed. "Why did you do that?"
"Just to give you a little thrill. Come on.
It was good afterwards, wasn't it?
It was really good," he lay
back and rested his head on Ellis's chest.
Ellis blew the smoke out his nose and flicked a loose piece of tobacco
from the tip of his tongue with his thumb.
"It was good. But you're still a bastard."
Hazel was still moist, lightly misted over
all with sweat. "Ha." He
turned. "I'm going to fuck you
tonight."
"I don't know."
"Come on. Roll over," He tugged gently at Ellis's hip. Ellis leaned
back and tamped the cigarette out in the ceramic tray beside the bed on the
nightstand. "You haven't been
fucked in a long time. I can tell. I want to fuck you. Now."
It had been a long time. It would be him crying out that the other's
dick was too big if he tried it. The younger
man's hand was firm on him, turning him over.
He smoothed his hands over Ellis's back, following the caresses with
kisses.
"Good muscles. You exercise a lot?"
"Every day," he breathed.
"Hmm.
I hope I look this good when I'm almost fifty, Ellis. You're a hell of a
man. Trim. Good butt." He ran his hands over the curve of his
buttocks, then pressed in, and Ellis felt the warmth of his breath before he
felt the tongue. He grasped the pillow
in an embrace, squeezed his eyes shut and spread his legs.
For a smallish man, he had a damned good
stroke and he hit the right spot. Hazel
hauled him up, nearly insentient, and grasped his dick, holding it tight with a
spit-lubricated hand until he came across the bed. He moaned, collapsing.
"That's not all for you," Hazel
purred, letting up his stroke a little.
"Not by a long shot."
His hand went back between Ellis's legs, behind his balls, to the place
between, and pressed hard. In a
surprisingly short time, he was hard again.
He squeezed down again, and Ellis gave himself up. His conscious mind
had ceased to function, and he was abandoned.
Hazel kept up a stream of talk, some poetic, some merely banal, some too
dirty to comprehend. He would never
tolerate such talk from Winnie, never, even if Winnie had the presence of mind
to concoct anything like it.
"Is it good?"
"Yes.
God, yes."
"You know what I wish? I wish my little brother was here. He's twelve."
"Oh, God."
"Yeh.
He's good. He can suck off a
fellow in about thirty seconds, and he's got a tight little ass, but he relaxes
right into it. You'd like him. He's a
bright boy, too."
"Oh, God."
"I'd get him down in front of you and
make him suck you off just like this while I fuck you."
"Oh, God," he moaned, his balls
tightening. "Oh, God."
"Yeh.
You'd like that, wouldn't you, Ellis?
Me and my little brother together.
He'd swallow it too, every drop, and then suck me off, too. He loves to eat it."
"Oh, God." He was off again, panting, suddenly drained,
ready to crawl off Ellis's dick and pass into oblivion. His body relaxed completely, but hands held
him back.
"You think you're done, Ellis? Honey, I've just started with you. You aren't finished. I want everything you can do in a night. I can make you come five, six, seven times,
just fucking you like this."
"Oh, God." Hazel had staying power if nothing else. He would come close to coming and then slow
off, cool down a little, go at it again.
Finally, he grasped the back of Ellis's
hair, held him hard against the bed so that he was flat against the
mattress. Ellis had long-since pulled
the tightly folded bottom sheet away from the edges of the mattress, clutching
it almost frantically against the onslaught of Hazel's passions. With a long stream of preparatory talk and
finally a deep, almost inhuman growl, Hazel came in him. He lay stunned, the body over him, now as
still and quiet as it had, only seconds before, been animated and
agitated. For a moment there was no
motion at all from Hazel and then he started breathing again, panting
hard. Ellis lay under him, inert,
relishing and loathing the weight.
Finally, Hazel stirred. He kissed
Ellis's shoulder and pulled up, still half-hard and Ellis reflexively pushed
down, shit him out, as the Romans used to say.
The Romans. What it would have
been like to have lived among them. What
did Shakespeare mean when he said, 'I am more an antique Roman than a
Dane?' "How
many brothers do you have?" he asked when he was sufficiently
recovered.
"Three. And four sisters. You liked what I said, didn't you?"
"Hmm.
Are the others like this?"
"Yes."
Ellis laughed. "My god.
Your parents deserve some sort of congressional medal then. I am impressed."
"Stay with me."
"Not tonight."
"Damn it. Ellis.
Stay with me. Take a nap. We can do it again."
He laughed.
"Hazel, I won't be able to have office hours on Monday at this
rate. It requires being able to sit, and
I'm in grave doubt at this point."
He touched Hazel's shoulder.
"You are amazing. I have to
shower."
"Take a bath."
"Why?"
"So I can sit with you and we can
talk."
He snorted a little. "Fine."
Hazel followed him to the bathroom and sat
on the closed toilet while he filled the tub.
"How did you get to be like this?"
"Like what? Queer?"
"Well, the thing with the
cross-dressing."
"I'm good, aren't I?"
"You are." In truth, though, he realized now there were
little details that had bothered him about the woman. And he hadn't looked that closely at her, and
it was dark. But overall, it was a
complete and perfect illusion.
He stepped into the tub, and the warm water
flowed gently, soothingly around him.
His ass was sore, but not unpleasantly so. Tingling.
Open. He knew there'd been
something there. Hazel moved to the edge
of the tub, took up a fluffy white terrycloth washcloth and soaped it,
massaging it along Ellis's back and neck.
"When I was in the army, everybody got
bored really easily. Hell, it was
boring. And, really, Ellis,
terrifying. You been in the army?"
"No," he said, a little
sheepishly. "I was a little too
young for the First Great War, the War to End All Wars, and a little too old
for the second War to End All Wars."
"Well, you didn't miss much. Or maybe you did. Anyway.
I've always had musical talent. I
play the piano, violin, and I can sing and dance. My parents wanted me to be Fred Astaire, I
think. Do you think he's queer?"
Ellis laughed, and took the washcloth from
Hazel. "I wouldn't venture a
guess."
"Well, anyway, everybody was bored and
where we were the U.S.O. wouldn't come.
Some of us guys put on shows for the rest of the men. But who wants to hear a man sing a song? They wanted to see women. So some of us started dressing like women. It
was good, because we were already that way, and it was just like the icing on
the cake. We could dress like women,
perform like women, and then afterwards, we had our pick of lonely, horny
officers."
"Oh, God. This man's army."
"Yeh."
Ellis snorted. He began to wash his parts but Hazel was on
his knees beside the tub, fumbling with the soap. He took Ellis's exhausted dick in his hands.
"Hazel, there's a limit."
"Yes," Hazel said, that same
lilting tease in his voice. He stepped
into the tub. "And we haven't
reached it yet."
* *
*
By Tuesday, he was dispairing. He wanted him again. As a man or a woman, it didn't matter. But he wanted him. It was a physical hunger. To hell with Hazel's William. To hell with Hannibal. He stared at the phone on his desk.
Damn. There was no way that Hazel was
going to get in touch with him. He
hadn't given his correct name. He hadn't
told him where he lived or where he worked.
He'd told him something, but it was all lies.
He wanted it right. This one he could trust. It would take some explaining but he would
work out the problem with telling him falsehoods. After all, Hazel was no kid. He knew what the world was about.
He picked up the phone. He wanted to see him. It wasn't going to happen if he didn't make
it happen. He got up and stared out the
window. The afternoon was drawing into
evening. It came on quickly now, the
shortest days of the year. The longest
nights. He wanted to wrap exhausted arms
around Hazel, grow soft inside the protective walls of the other's body. He hadn't felt this way about anyone since
early in the relationship with Winnie.
Even so, after a few months, maybe a few years, it was all routine. Comfortable, but routine. Did he love Hazel? Did he love Winnie? Did he love anyone. Was there anything like love?
He turned from the window and opened the
office door. He looked out the hall, the
long beige corridor punctuated with rich dark wooden doors and doorjambs. Betty was just getting back from lunch. She pulled her deep fur-collared coat off and
hung it on the tree, pushed her bouffanted hair up a little and sat down. She fumbled in her purse for a compact,
snapped it open and studied her face, touching her cheek with the tip of her
little finger. She applied lipstick
quickly, rolled her lips together to even it out and looked up selfconsciously.
"Oh, Mr. Fletcher. Sorry.
Didn't see you."
"Do something for you, Mr. Fletcher?"
"Not now. Thanks," he turned away and in an
instant was flooded with the thought of not seeing Hazel for another four
days. It was too much. "I just...can you get a number for me in
Hannibal, Missouri?"
"Sure, sir. Who is it?"
"It's a...rock company. What are they called?"
"A mine?"
"Not a mine, no. A quarry, but I think they work in building
stone, large, ornamental, marble I suppose, from Iowa. Not gravel for roads, you see? Owned by some people named Waterson, I
think. Can you manage it?"
"Sure think, sir," she
smiled. He turned and strolled back down
the hall, his hands locked behind his back.
She would manage it. He looked at
the bulletin board. The exam
schedule. Christmas cards from alumnni
and former faculty members. He looked at
the floor below, where sparkles from the cards had fallen on the wide, highly
polished hardwood planks. He ambled back
to his office and sat down. He picked up
a memo and discarded it.
She was at the door. "Got your number for you, Mr. Fletcher."
A secretary in a journalism department and
she was incapable of using the personal pronoun in the first person. "Thank you, Betty." He took the slip of paper.
"Anything else?"
"Not now, thank you."
She excused herself. He looked at the slip of paper with her
familiar scrawl on it as if the letters were writ in gold. He picked up the horn of the telephone and
held it to his ear.
"Operator?"
"Yes, this is the operator."
"I'd like to place a long distance
call, please. Station to station to Hannibal,
Missouri."
"Yes, sir. Thank you.
What is your number, sir?"
He read the digits off and in a moment,
there was a metallic jangling on the other end.
The sound of the receiver rattling as it was picked up made his stomach
jump.
"Waterson Stoneworks."
"Hello. This is Ellis Fletcher, from the University
of Missouri. I'm calling for..."
Hazel. He was calling for Hazel. What was... "Henry David Waterson."
There was a long pause. Static.
"You say your from the University of Missouri?" He could hear the strain as the man tried to
overcome the telephone noise or cover the land distance from Hannibal to
Columbia.
"Yes, sir," he said evenly. "Is Mr. Waterson in?"
"I'm Mr. Waterson, his father. His application was turned down last
month. He couldn't find a place to live
and they wouldn't accept him. Did you
change your minds? You find someplace
for him to stay? You know, all those
G.I.s." There was an eagerness in
his voice.
"I'm sorry?
"You're calling long distance from
Columbia?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll be damned." There was a momentary pause. "Oh, sorry, sir. We were so disappointed when they turned him
down."
"Is he in?"
"Not right now. Can I give him a message?"
"Yes.
When do you expect him?"
"Oh, half an hour."
He gave the father the number and then rung
off. He sat, stunned. It was almost like he had met the father of
the bride. "Hello, Mr.
Waterson. I've been fucking your son for
a few weeks and I want to tell you..."
He smiled. The telephone jangled
and he picked it up, his heart almost in his mouth.
Betty's voice on the other line. "Mr. Fletcher, it's Mr. Markins on the
other line, from Buster's Shoe store. He
wants to talk to you about continuing their advertising through the new years,
but he wants copy changes."
"Surely. Thank you." There was a click and the incomparable dull
Mr. Markins came on the line.
"Hey, there, Max. How are you today?"
"Rushed off my feet. Christmas rush. You know the damned city told
all the downtown merchants they had to brownout? We've only been able to have half the display
lights lit in the show windows. I've
been fighting with them all afternoon because somebody complained we had too
many Christmas lights that we left on. I
think it's because I supported McFarland in the last election."
"Ah, small town politics," he
smiled. A smile can be heard over the
telephone. Always smile on a sales call,
even if it is on the telephone. "What
can I do for you?"
"Well..." The man proceeded to knit out a yarn about
his advertising woes. That's why he had
called Ellis directly, not just going through the boys in the ad room. Ellis soothed him, praying that the call from
Hazel wouldn't come during this call. On the other hand, Betty would get it
first. McMarkins kept on and on. He was a friendly man, bumptuous. Had a wife and about nine children, but shoes
were his life. He knew that Ellis's
grandfather had a clothing store from the 1880s and that one of his uncles
owned a shoe factory. It practically
related them, but shoelaces, which, Ellis suspected, was probably stronger than
blood.
In a few minutes, Betty popped her head in
the door. "Hannibal on the line,
sir."
He choked.
"Max, can I get right back to you.
I've got a long distance on the line."
"Good.
Sure. You just take care of it, and I'll talk to you later."
"Right. Good to talk to you." He depressed the lever. "This is Fletcher," he said. It was his usual salutation. Hazel didn't know who Fletcher was.
"This is Henry David Waterson. My father said you called?"
"Yes, Mr. Waterson..."
"But the girl said it was the
journalism school."
"Yes."
"I apply to Education..." He
sounded confused, but it was the right voice.
Ellis's hand went to his fly.
"Yes.
Henry, are you alone?"
"Sir?" Bewildered.
"Are you alone. This is Ellis."
"What?" he spat. If Ellis had been writing a Victorian novel,
he would have written, 'What?' the young man ejaculated. His dick was warm and little in his hand,
filling lopsidedly. He squeezed it
gently. "Ellis?"
"Yes."
"What..."
"Henry, did you make application to
the University?"
"Yes.
William and I both did. But they
turned down anyone without verification of housing. There were abotu 3,500 that got in. We didn't."
"I can get you in."
"What?"
"You want in? You want to come here in January? I'll get you in."
"Where would we live?"
"Stay with me. I'll sign the voucher."
There was a long pause. "The deadline was..."
"Never mind the deadline."
"Say," he said slowly. "Who are you?"
"I'm assistant and acting dean of the
school of journalism."
"You are?"
"Yes."
"You're E. M. Flethcer?"
"Yes."
"God.
You're kidding. You're
famous. I heard about you in
Europe. Shit."
"Hush," he scolded. "Don't use language like that."
"Hell, everybody wanted to be a writer
when they heard about you. You're
legendary. Amazing. E. M. Fletcher."
"Do you want to come or
not?" He could only keep his
breathing even with difficulty. His hand
moved up and down the shaft quickly.
"Oh, God, Henry. If you were
here..." What if someone was
listening on another phone? Either here
or there.
"Yeh.
Yes. I want to come."
"Get up here tonight."
"Jefferson City?"
"No. Come to my office. I'll get the papers taken care of now. My office is at Ness Hall, at the corner of
Ninth and Elm Streets. You'll know it by
the great large Chinese lions under a lit portico. My office is in the wing to the northwest of
the lions. Second floor."
"Should I bring William?"
He considered for a moment. He only wanted Hazel. He would have to work around William. "Do you have an understanding with
hm?"
"Yes.
You'll like him, Ellis. I promise."
"Good.
Give me both of your full names and dates of birth and discharge dates
and all that. I'll put you up in a hotel
here tonight, alright? We'll get all the
paperwork done yet this afternoon if you hurry."
"I'll be there in an hour and a
half."
"Good boy."
He rung off, put the receiver back in the
cradle and mopped up with some tissues.
He leaned back in his chair, turned and looked out the window again.
Great blobs of snowflakes were falling, almost blissfully, into the dark
upreaching arms of the trees.
He rang Registration. The damned phone was busy. He was too anxious to wait. He stood up and pulled his dark coat from the
hook and his hat from the hook above. He
slipped it on, and then picked up the phone again. Busy.
He called Winnie.
"Winnie, I have news."
"What?"
"We're having company tonight."
"Oh?"
"Two veterans from Hannibal."
There was a pause. "Cartheginians?"
"Very funny, Winnie." It smarted.
Sometimes Winnie was sharper than Ellis liked to give him credit
for.
"How are they?"
"Good.
You'll them. I'll be bringing
them home."
"Okay." He rang off.
The snow was picking up. He was
supposed to go to the lecture tonight, but the hell with that. He passed Betty's desk. "Betty, I'm going to take care of some
registration problems for a couple of students.
Anyone need me for anything?"
"Don't think so, sir."
"I'll be back."
"Yes, sir." She simpered a little. He struck out, down the steps at a quick
clip, and out the heavy door, with it's diamond lights and brass fittings. There were the columns from the
administration building that had burned in the year of his birth. They were wrapped in thick, bare vines and
swathed in snow. It was falling quickly
in the dimming light. He pulled his coat
closer about him and relished the sensation.
Hazel. In Columia. A
student. Every day, every night, if he
wanted it. There might be some changes
made. He'd have to see how well stuck
together Hazel and William were.
He had been with Winnie for almost twenty
years, had been living with him for almost sixteen. Of course, it wasn't like they were married
or something. They just lived together. It was convenient. They didn't even fuck any more. Of course he loved Winnie, like a brother and
father and mother and wife all rolled into one.
But twenty years. Winnie was
getting old, getting bolder. He was out
trolling more often, picking up men.
Ellis was sure he wasn't bringing all of them home for Ellis,
either.
He walked down the sidewalk past the
venerable red brick buildings to Jesse Hall, the great ediface under a tall,
spire-topped dome. He passed Thomas
Jefferson's original tomb marker which stood just to the east of the building,
in a little garden. He had a sort of
mystical love of this spot, as if Thomas Jefferson himself was there, not just
a stone that had been replaced by a nobler one when they redecorated
Monticello's graveyard.
He went up the stairs to Jesse. What went on in there, away from the prying
eyes was almost weepingly erotic. He
pulled the door open and went in. It was
a cavernous building, like a train station. Everything echoed. The bookstore was off to one side and the
sculpture gallery on the opposite side, with a magnificent collection of
plaster casts of the great Greek and Roman sculptures. It was a coup that they had it, and something
of a joke that the men's lounge was so close by. It was a legendary lounge, where boys went to
peep at other boys through holes in the walls while the unknowing ones jerked
themselves off or sucked each other. He
hadn't been in there since he'd gotten his A.M. in 1929. Still, it hadn't changed much if the stories
were to be believed.
He turned, instead, to Registration. There was a young woman clerking. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon. I'm E. M. Fletcher from the school of
Journalism."
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher."
"Your phone is busy a lot," he
chided.
"Yes, sir. It's getting busy right
before the holidays."
"Well.
I have two students who need to get their registrations taken care
of."
"Admissions were closed as of December
1."
"That's too bad." he purred. "Isn't there anything you can do?" "Let
me let you talk to the director of Admissions, sir.
"Good idea."
She came around and opened the door for him
and he stepped into the crowded little office.
There were a number of women at desks.
He nodded to them and they nodded back, politely. She showed him through to the director's
office. He stood up, stiffly and put out
a pudgy hand. He hadn't taken his wedding ring off in years, and the pale flesh
ballooned out around it.
"Mr. Fletcher. Good to see you. What can I do you for?"
He laughed a little. God, he hated these midwestern boors. "I have two veterans from Hannibal that
need to get enrolled."
"Names?"
"Henry David Waterson and William
Morris Sanderson."
"Literary types, eh?"
"I suppose. At least their fathers were."
"Ahhh.
Well, follow me. Let's see what
we have." The director led him back into the secretarial area and pulled
out a long drawer of cards. "I can do that for you, sir," the
secretary said quickly.
"That's fine, sweetie. I got
it." He let out a long sigh, and peered
through the bottom of his glasses as he rifled through a series of cards, his
mouth gaping. "Uh huh? Here's one and....here's the other. Alrightee.
Let's see what we have." He
perused the cards for a moment in silence.
"Vets, eh?" He led Ellis back to his office and pointed to the
chair. Ellis sank into it, trying to
look less apprehensive than he was. The
director lit a cigarette. Ellis followed
suit.
"Yes."
"Hmm.
Yes. Well, looks like they were
both turned down on October 15. No housing."
"I know. I've agreed to put them up at my apartment
for the time being."
The director looked a little taken
aback. "How big is your
apartment?"
"Big enough," he smiled. "These boys both show great
promise."
"As journalists?"
"Yes."
"Well, they both made application to
the College of Education."
"For the time being. Can you get them in?"
"Well, registration is closed,
Fletcher."
They stared at each other blankly. "I know," Ellis said. "I thought, maybe...Say, doesn't your
son have the Dodge dealership down on Broadway?"
"Yeh.
He does. Doing really well,
too. Did you see the newest one? Radio in the dashboard and everything."
"We could still get an ad in before
Christmas."
"Well, he's a little strapped..."
"Oh, well, who isn't? These are tight times. Half a page, maybe, opposite the
sports?"
"A half page?"
"Hm.
I think we could manage it. Saw a
great ad campaign for a dealership in St. Louis, a girl and boy dancing and she
pulls back a little and says, 'So do you really drive a Buick?' Cute campaign. Sex sells.
We could do something like that."
He had the man's interest. He smiled knowingly.
"Yeh. Yes. That'd be good. He's been worried. Business is slow."
"We'll see if we can't perk it up a little,
eh?" He said in his most conciliatory, supercilious tone. A real ad would be a young man sucking off
another on the running board of the damned Dodge.
"Good.
Yeh. I think there won't be a
problem with your students, Mr. Fletcher."
He bellowed for the secretary and she appeared, genii-like, at the
door. "Get paperwork fixed up for
these two students. We're admitting them
on a provisional basis. Fill out the
residency voucher with Mr. Fletcher's address.
Now, you go along with these forms to the Veteran's Administration
officer and if he okays it, I'm okay with it."
"Thanks. I'll send a boy around to your son's place
with a mockup of the ad, what's today?
Tuesday? Oh, I can have it out on
Thursday. We'll run it on Wednesday and
Sundays through the beginning of the year, alright?"
"Sounds great." The man stood and extended his pudgy
hand. He was glowing, though. He took the paper work and stepped out of the
office, through the opposite door from the one he had entered the hall by. The ground was dusted white now, and he drew
the cold moist air into his body and delighted in it. The view was definitely marred by the
presence of the quonsot huts, dull silvery half-tubes. He pulled the loose wooded screen door open
and then the other door. There was a
secretary at the front desk and men in uniform milling in the center of the
tube around the coffee urn.
"I'm Mr. Fletcher of the Journalism
department. I've come from Mr. ()'s
office at Registration. I need to verify
housing for two veterans from Hannibal.
"Registration is closed, sir,"
the girl said politely but firmly.
"I'm sorry."
"Registration is willing to let the
boys in, and I personally am guaranteeing their housing. All you have to do is agree to pay."
"Let me let you talk to my
supervisor."
"Good.
Thank you."
"Have a seat?" She gestured to some uncomfortable looking
vinyl covered chairs. He stood, looking
at the announcements tacked up on the cork board.
A man came up behind him. "Mr. Fletcher." He turned.
"Yes, sir."
"Journalism?"
"Yes.
Assistant dean."
"Well, sir, if you are personally
guaranteeing their residence, I am more than willing to sign off on these
papers."
They shook hands. He stepped out of the office and took a long,
deep, wonderful breath, twirled the rim of his hat in his hands and took the
stairs back up to the rear of Jesse Hall two at a time. He looked through the sculptures
quickly. So beautiful. So perfect, those Greeks. They knew what they were about. Beautiful young men, not so young as to be
girlish anymore, but fine, fully formed, well muscled men, delicious men. Men who had it in them to give as good as
they got. Where had he read that they
shaved their bodies, all but the pubic hair, like Hazel. And then there were the Gauls, who shaved
everything off but their moustaches.
What a life to be in the company of men who fought naked, their
hairless, muscular bodies toned to perfection, conquoring men, men given to
every passion, without conventional morality, without the straitjacket of
Victorians, or censors or laws. He could
slip into the lounge. It would be
alright. If he was careful, maybe there
wouldn't be anyone watching. He could
check the stalls first, the walls. The
building was quiet. It was late
afternoon, for Gods sake, and snowing.
Everyone had gone home.
He pushed the door open, barely able to
breathe and stood quietly for a moment.
He pushed the stall doors open, one by one. The last one was locked. Someone was in there. There was a small hole bored in the door. He
turned away for a second, then pushed on it again, harder. It swung open. He blew his breath out, relieved. He went to the sink and washed his hands,
slowly. The door opened from the
lobby. Friend or foe.
He turned.
The boy was youngish, probably nineteen, a little softer looking than
most, pudgy. He shook the water off his
hands and reached for the towel.
"You check the stalls?" the boy asked.
Ellis nodded.
"All clear?"
He nodded again. The boy stepped beside him, reached
over. Ellis hurriedly unzipped his
trouser and pulled it out, while the boy did the same. He reached over, without hesitation and took
the boy's in his hand, stroked it until he was excited as well. He moved the
boy in front of the urinals, turned him quickly toward the wall, his hands up
on the tiles, spread above his head.
Ellis masturbated him as if it was himself, only a few inches
forward. The boy came silently, with
almost no warning, and then turned to him.
"Suck it," Ellis said, and the
boy silently dropped to his knees and did the job. He came in the boy's mouth and he merely
coughed a little, and cleared his throat.
Ellis smiled, washed his hands again and started to the door. "Thank you," he said.
The boy said something and Ellis was back
in the cooler air of the lobby. He
passed the naked statues. What had the
boy said? It suddenly occured to
him. He said, "Thank you, Mr.
Fletcher." He groaned a
little. He was notorious. He was notorious, at that. But he was calm again, filled with that
infinite post-come sense of well-being.
He suddenly regretted going to the lounge, afraid he wouldn't be able to
be aroused again.
Dean Williams caught him at the front
vestible, just under the bust of Jesse himself.
"Ah, Mr. Fletcher, you save me a walk all the way over to
Journalism," he said, and cheerfully belabored Ellis for a good fifteen
minutes about something, plans for a Christmas party and invitations to write
something for somebody, generalized townish chit-chat. When Williams finally let loose, Ellis pushed
out into the cold air of the quadrangle, and slipped down the stone stairs to
the sidewalk. It was a glorious afternoon,
magnificently grey, lit with the lights along the sidewalk, the light of the
city held down against it, blanket-like by the cold air and clouds. The snow, the feel of cold on his hands, the
warm, attended-to feelings in his dick.
He sighed and looked at his watch.
If they had left the instant he hung up the phone, which was impossible,
they would be here in a half hour. He
was worried. What about this
William? What if he was jealous or
possessive? He wanted Hazel, wanted him
now, the minute he walked through the door.
He would bend him over the table, papers and paperweights and letter
openers flying in all directions, strip the trousers off his trim little ass,
push the cheeks open and drive it home.
No talk. No useless conversation. Just fuck him. The air came out of his body in a gasp. Ah.
Come to think of it, that little diversion in the lounge hadn't cause
irreparable damage. His dick tingled to
life again at the thought of Hazel grasping the sides of his desk, trying to
maintain his balance against the drive of Ellis's dick, howling with delight
that it hurt, that he was too big. God,
in Hazel's hands he felt too big. What
did truth matter? It was all copy. All ad copy.
All of life is one big, long stream of ad copy. He smiled, took his cigarettes from the
inside pocket of his jacket and lit one.
He couldn't go in yet, couldn't face the stuffy air of the office, the
stuffy air of conventional dull, impotent men and women who droned through
their lives without ever knowing the passion, the art of passion. It was an art, no less than the sculpture or music
or theatre. Hazel was the Mozart, the
Praxidiles of fucking. He himself,
Ellis, was the Dinu Lipetti of the dick.
He snorted, smiling to himself, let the smoke come out of his body in a
long, thin stream, watched it dissolve into the misty white air, join its
whiteness with that of the snowflakes.
A couple came along the sidewalk. He had his collar up around his ears, his hat
pulled down. She was clutching the top
of her coat, the skirt of the coat blowing open, the skirt of her dress lapping
in the wind against his legs. Their
heads were together, close, under his umbrella.
They didn't know he was there.
They didn't care. He hoped they
were going somewhere private, to his car, maybe, or a room somewhere where he
would give her a good fucking. Things
were so much different now. A man could
ask a nice girl to fuck and half-expect she'd say yes. He couldn't get used to it, was too set in
his ways to ever even consider suggesting to a woman that she might want to do
something like that, any more than he could imagine the elimination of gravity.
But he envied the young men their freedom.
The fact is, he thought, everyone should enjoy it, enjoy their bodies,
enjoy the affection. When he was growing
up there were two kinds of women. Prostitutes and women who hated sex. Maybe
prostitutes hated sex, too, but they did it.
He remembered the busts in the old days.
A girl in a room, even a girl fully clothed, meant arrest and public
disgrace for them both.
But then, when he was growing up, Sedalia
was a whore town. They did everything
big in Sedalia. They had nine newpapers,
when Columbia had only two. Any town
with nine newspapers is bound to err on the side of excess. They had whores and whorehouses in
profusion. He had been warned away from
them from the start, never allowed to cross the railroad tracks into the north
part of town where the whores ran the streets and they played ragtime music in
the bars. He had been warned from
disease-ridden, thieving women who had bruisers behind them ready to jump the
nearest unsuspecting youngster who ventured into their woman's clutches. Women like that were not to be trusted. But how did one ask a nice woman to get one
her knees and suck a man off? It was
impossible to imagine that a nice woman would even be able to consider such a
thing and yet he liked it so well, could never see giving up what he liked so
much just for the liberty of reproducing, and a life of misery and sorrow like
his father had, when the sainted woman died.
So much better to have a circle of men one could trust, cautious men,
dignified, affectionate. He remembered
the first time, and felt his eyes burn.
It hurt like hell. He'd been
touched before, touched others. He had
three uncles, and two of them played with him from time to time, ever since he
could remember. But Wood, Wood was the
first one who even tried to put it in.
It hurt, alright. But afterwords Wood,
one of his grandfather's boarders had rubbed his back and soothed him. "Buck up, boy," he said gently,
touching the tear away that Ellis, for all he was worth hadn't been able to
keep from running down his cheek.
"It's always like this the first time, even for girls. It hurts for a while, and then you realize
how much you like it, after a couple times.
Then you don't ever want to quit.
You'll see." He kissed him
over and over, told him what a good boy he was.
Wood kept him in his bed that night, held him, and in the morning, he
was still sore, but they did it again, and he knew he loved the man. He loved him with the most single-minded
devotion right up until the day Wood left, without a word. Fired from his job at the car shops, and
gone. He was stunned, knew he would
never do it again, but he was desperate.
Not two days had passed before Deal, another of his father's boarders
who knew what was going on, got on his back and he felt like himself again.
He looked at his watch. It had been an hour and twenty minutes. Come on, Hazel. Come on.
He went up to the office. It was
going to be impossible. William was
going to be there, and then they would have to go to the apartment and Winnie
would be there, and there wouldn't be any time to get him alone. He had things to explain to him. There wouldn't be time. He was getting queasy. He should eat something. He took the stairs two at a time to the
office. "Betty," he said.
"I'm going to step back out for a bite. If anyone comes, have them wait in
my office."
"Yes, sir. It's four, sir."
"I'll be back in fifteen."
"Yes, sir."
He walked across the street to the coffee
shop and picked up a cellophane-wrapped sandwich from the tray beside the cash
register. He paid quickly and stepped
back into the street. He pulled the cellophane
off the white bread. Pimento
cheese. Damn. He should have looked. He took a bite anyway, crossing the street in
front of a large, bulletnosed dark sedan.
The horn blared. He looked up,
distracted.
The driver was waving, grinning. He backed up, to the curb again, and the
snow-covered side window rolled down.
"Ellis." It was Hazel.
"You made it," he said with
almost intoxicated relief. "I was
worried about the roads."
"They were fine."
He ducked down and looked through the
window. There was a smaller man on the
other side of the car, dark hair.
"This is William," Hazel sang out. Ellis thrust his hand through the window and
shook William's upraised hand.
"Good to meet you. You boys are
in."
"You fixed it?"
"I fixed it." A horn blared behind him.
"Motherfucker," Hazel said
goodnaturedly. "Here. Where do I park?" "Pull
over anywhere." He walked alongside
the car on the sidewalk as they found a parking spot on the street opposite
McAlester Hall, next to the Chancellor's residence.
Hazel got out of the car first, stretched
and yawned deliciously. It took every
bit of Ellis's strength not to grab him around the waist and mouth his taut
throat. He could smell, throught the icy
air, Hazel's cologne.
"What are you eating?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Pimento cheese on white bread."
"Ooooh, disgusting," Hazel turned
away, slapping the door closed. The
other door opened and the dark haired William got out and closed his door. He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked
up and down the street. Hazel and Ellis
stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Well.
I have to go back to the office for a few minutes and settle things
there. Why don't you come along and then
we'll get you taken care of."
"Thanks. Is this alright with your..."
"Winnie. Winston, actually. Winston Barrows. I told him.
He's fine with it."
"Good.
We don't want to impose."
"It's not an imposition at all."
Winnie would have pups, of course, but he would square it with him. He perused William. Winnie could have him as a consolation prize. "William," he said firmly,
paternalistically. "What are you
going to study?" How much had Hazel
told William about Ellis? He didn't know
how to be.
"Education," the head tossed a
little and the voice was soft and whispy. He was infinitely more fey than
Hazel, almost embarrassingly so, and Hazel could pull off full drag. These were odd boys, at that.
"Well, good. It's a good school."
They walked three abreast down the
sidewalk. One of the older women who
worked at the library passed and, almost in unison, the three lifted their hats
to her. She simpered past.
"Dried up old cunt," Hazel
whispered, and William snorted a laugh.
Ellis was shocked.
"Shh," he whispered. "Sound
carries. She's a fine woman."
"Oh, I know. Sorry.
Never mind." They walked a
few more steps and Ellis felt the soft warmth of Hazel's fingertips touch the
bare cold skin of his hand. It was like
an live electrical wire had sparked between them. He closed his fingers around the fingertips
for an instant and dropped them, moved away.
* *
*
(At a
party)
Hazel tipped his drink a little and looked
at the paper. "Danny Kaye's got a new movie out. You think he's
queer?"
"Wouldn't surprise me a bit,"
Matthews said.
"Fred Astaire? I think he must
be."
"Well what about Carry Grant. He lives with ()>"
"God, I would give my eyeteeth to suck
him off. Either of them."
"I wonder how many of them are
queer?"
"Gentlemen," Ellis said
soothingly. "I think the question
may be more, who isn't than who is, because in my experience..."
"Which is considerable..."
"Which is indeed, I find a lot more
men who will than those who won't."
* *
*
"Can I see them?" he asked. His voice rasped through dry lips.
"By and by," the officer smiled a
little. "Yeh. You can see 'em. Just not yet. They talk a lot, you know, for queers."
He looked down at his hands and said
nothing.
"You want to know what they
said?"
"If you want to tell me."
"They said you're all
cocksuckers."
Fletcher shifted uneasily in the chair, but
said nothing.
"Your little Winnie says you and he
don't fuck anymore. He just watches you
when you fuck other men."
The air came out of Fletcher in a single
pant.
"Yeh.
Signed it, too. Want to read
it?" The grinning bastard slid the
paper across the desk. Fletcher took it
with fingers that shook more than he cared to admit, more than he hoped the man
noticed.
It was there, typed with the same kind of
typewriter that he used to crank out ad copy, pointless superfluous bullshit
about Florsheim shoes and Hart, Shaffner and Marx suits, about beauty contests
and garden clubs. Names, dates,
addresses. Winnie's signature. It was shaky.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
There was another, Herman's. Just as blatant, just as detailed. Another.
Tiff's. God.
"You want to talk about it?" the
man said with a sort of over-the-fence neighborly kind of simper.
"What is there for me to say?" he
asked softly, trying not to sound belligerant.
The man pushed his chair back. The legs made a screeching sound on the
floor. He stood up. He was big.
He swayed back and pulled his trousers up, hooked his thumbs under the
belt.
"Look, Fletcher. You're a cocksucker and we all know it. It'll go a lot easier for you and your
friends if you just admit it."
"Admit what?"
The man swung around the table. "Look, it wouldn't do to have to work
you over, alright? I don't want to dirty
my hands with another of you. You've got
friends in high places, I know. So,
let's go easy on each other. We've got
you, Fletcher. We've got signed
statements from three men that they had relations with you, or you with them,
I'm not sure which. Admit it yourself
and maybe they'll go easy on you. It's
two years to life, Fletcher."
Fletcher looked away, suddenly unable to
breathe. There was a long pause. The second man in the room fingered his
rubber nightstick.
Union
Station, Late May 1949
The place was packed. The voices echoed in the high ceilinged
hall. It was incomprehensibly large, far
larger than any structure in either Sedalia or Columbia. The trains were pulling away, their squealing
amplified by the cave-like room. He had
been here only a few times since coming to Kansas City. It always unnerved him
and he'd left without making contact.
But it was another night. The day had been unseasonably warm, but by
dusk the air was cooling, and as it grew dark below the bowls of the trees that
lined the streets, he had the same, strange, sad urge. The fireflies were coming out, early this
year. Probably early. Who knew.
He hadn't meant to come. His feet just landed one in front of the
other. His hand had grasped the great
bronze handle and pulled it open. In the
station, it was hot. He peered down at
the people, at the women waiting with their children, at young madchens who
stared up boldly at him, at rough-looking working class men in their shirt
sleeves and men in suits. Young boys who
would ripen in their season.
They sat on the long benches, looking off
into space, they milled about, they perused magazines on the stands, looked at
the pictures on the covers, thumbed through the empty pages. Meaningless words. Idiotic copy.
Ads that cajoled, seduced, promised satisfaction and then left the buyer
flat. He caught eyes on his face, but
could not even curl his lips into what would pass for a smile. Not anymore.
He saw a kerchief hanging out of the back
pocket of the jeans of a strapping young man.
His back was turned, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled well above
the elbow revealing good muscles. He had
a high, well-formed lean ass, good looking thighs. He could do the job.
His stomach fluttered. It had been a long time since his stomach had
fluttered. Everything else in the
terminal seemed to fade away. He moved
quickly, but another man, another working class type intercepted. They greeted each other. The white shirt turned toward the newcomer
without moving his feet, his chest torgued.
He ran his fingers up his chest, laughing at something the newcomer had
said. He had a good face too, newly
tanned in the summer sun, a glimpse of gleaming white skin beyond the
collar. They went off together. He blew out his breath, disgusted.
A voice made him jump. "There's only one man in the world who
would wear a suit to pick up cocksuckers in a train station," it
said. He turned quickly.
"Winnie," he breathed. "You..."
"I scared you, didn't I? Scared the piss out of you." Winnie was grinning like a dog who's been
whipped, a scared little grin, hopeful.
He shook his head. If in twenty years he hadn't succeeded in
giving Winnie any class, he wasn't going to start now. "Yes.
You did."
Winnie laughed. He'd lost weight, looked older. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, short
sleeves, garish colors. Still, it looked
good on him. Ellis knew the chest under
the shirt too well, the feel and color of the nipples that were only hinted at
under great white blossoms. There was
blue throughout the shirt, a beach scene motif repeated ad infinitum. "You never change. You're still the elder statesman of
cocksuckers aren't you?"
"Winnie," he began severely, but
stopped. What did it matter?
"Haven't seen you in a long time. I called your brother's house a few times. I
called your father. I even went to see
him at the Y. He said you didn't want to
see me."
"I just..."
"It was a bad time, Ellis," he
said, his eyes going soft. "For all
of us."
"I didn't betray you, Winnie."
"You would have. If they'd got you first, you'd have, after
what they'd have done to you."
In his soul, Ellis knew it was true. Winnie stood silent, sucking his lower lip
under his teeth. "I'm sorry,"
he added.
"I know. I know.
Winnie, it wasn't you. I
just...the whole thing. I wanted to
get..."
"I know. Me too.
You get a job?"
He shook his head.
Winnie shook his. "Sorry."
"It's nothing. I didn't try very hard, really. I only had one interview. I didn't want the job anyway. I've been helping my brother."
"Freight company?"
"Yes." He remembered.
"Lot of truck drivers?" The grin was lopsided now.
Ellis tried to stifle his. His snorted a little. "Yeh.
Lot of truckdrivers."
"Good for you." They fell silent, looking at their respective
shoes.
"You ever see Herman?" he asked
at length. It had been gnawing at him,
but he'd been afraid to speak the words.
"Yeh.
He comes around about once a week or so.
Same schedule as always. We talk
about you a lot. He misses you. I miss you."
"Didn't change at all?"
"No.
Why? Why should it have?"
"It's just...we weren't supposed to
consort with each other. Terms of the
probation. We aren't supposed to engage
in whatever..."
Winnie thrust his hands in his pockets,
rocked on his heels and looked toward the signs. "Where are you going?" he asked
abruptly.
"What?"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm not going anywhere," he
answered a little sharply.
"Then what are you doing in a train
station." Winnie shot him a
sidelong, knowing look. He smiled
slowly. "Same thing I am? Ellis, you can't change. You don't want to change. You are what you are."
"I just came to look around."
"You haven't done it since we last saw
you?"
"Not at all. I don't want to go to the penitentiary,
Winnie. They'd have me over a thousand
times. I'm an old man."
Winnie had worked his way around in front
of Ellis, behind a column. His hand
reached out and took hold of the top button of Ellis's jacket. He fondled it gently without speaking. There was something inately moving about the
gesture. He cocked his head to the side
and studied Ellis's face.
"Not so old," he purred, moving
down to the next button. "I
remember the first time I saw you naked.
What was it, 1928? You were the
handsomest man I'd ever seen, that I could ever imagine."
"Winnie, there's no point..." he
said faintly. They had been through too
much, even just the weight of twenty years together.
"You still are," his hand dropped
another button. It was indiscreet. There were railroad dicks everywhere.
"Winnie," he said. He had always been the leader, always been
the one who called the shots, always been the one to make the approaches. Winnie was the follower. "Aren't you afraid you'll be
reported?"
"For what?" he smirked a
little. "Picking up old men in a
train station?
"Oh, God, Winnie. I think I'm being watched. Aren't you?" "Ellis,
they aren't interested in you. They want
the ones who are chasing boys, kids, not middle-aged men who want to suck each
other off." He paused. "Come home with me."
Something in his stomach dropped, and he
felt himself involuntarily open as certainly as if someone had flipped a
switch, opened the circuit, let something electrical, hot and fluid run through
his entire body.
He looked into the eyes, so familiar, and
for a moment, the light lines that marked the skin around those eyes seemed
like nothing, and Winnie could have been that same nineteen year old boy in the
factory, the same one who almost without hesitation, dropped to his knees to
serve him. "Winnie," he
breathed. "I can't."
"Ellis, you can. We've been through the worst already. There's nothing worse they can do to us
now. We've been through it. Come home with me. Stay with me.
I miss you."
"Winnie, I..."
"You like staying with your
brother?"
"Not really," he admitted.
"Look.
I have a job. Thirty-five a week,
guaranteed at the Palace Clothing Company, right downtown. I have a little apartment. No one bothers me. I got down to the probation man and he says,
what have you been doing? I say,
'nothing.' He says, 'Well, see you next month.'
Don't get upset about it. It's a
nice place. On a nice street. You'll like it. You don't have to move in. Just stay with me."
"Winnie, I can't say I'll stay with
you."
They looked at each other deeply. Winnie's hand was now resting on the bottom
button of his jacket. Ellis felt
suddently, completely, drained. The
strength flowed out of his legs, his knees into oblivion. He wanted to lay down, wanted to lay down on
Winnie laying down, to put his head against the soft, yielding, hollow part
just below Winnie's ribs.
"Just tonight then," Winnie said
softly, glancing up at the exit sign.
"We'll see what happens in the morning. I'll fix you breakfast and you see how you
feel."
Coffee in bed, toast, feet against feet,
the warm smooth skin of the top of Winnie's foot silking its way up over his
feet, the soft hair on Winnie's calves moving gently against his own calves in
a slow caress. Winnie embraced with his
whole body when he was still sleepy, only awake enough to make coffe and bring
toast to bed. He remembered the dull
light of winter mornings, the cold sweating glass, the clanking radiator,
Winnie's coffee, the smell of clean skin and that which made Winnie Winnie. For the first time, the thought of the
apartment didn't make him ache. It was
the memory of Winnie in the apartment that redeemed it. Summer mornings when they woke stuck
together, all the mornings when he awoke with Winnie spooned behind him,
Winnie's hand protectively, lovingly cupped around his parts as intimately as
if they were Winnie's own parts.
"Yes, for tonight, then," he said
quickly. "Yes." Winnie smiled a little, turned and led him
out under the exit sign back into the street.