Chapter Text
On the night before classes started all the dorms were humming with music and light and the exuberance brought on by consuming strange colored drinks from plastic cups. Somewhere, in the sleepy suburbs of Vermont, an old man having the last of his pipe adjusted his hearing aid against the invisible noise. All music and sound were melded into a cacophonous roar, lyrics in English were sung with tongues ripped with vodka and sounded like archaic chanting, devil worship. The crashing of a tree branch breaking off its host, unable to hold the weights of eleven coeds playing at Tarzan, harmonized with girlish squeals biting into scorched marshmallows. A splash then a scream. Orgasms outside and behind every door, prologues to the inevitable awkwardness and avoidance of tomorrow morning. Drunken hoots could be heard out of every other window in Hampden followed by expletive-filled reproaches by the students who had elected to get to bed at a reasonable time and were then either goaded into joining the fun by the seductive beats of celebration or drowned out by the radio getting its volume knob spun a little too far to the right.
I could not fit into either of those camps, not nearly drunk enough to find the parties enticing while too full of giddy energy to sleep. Having been invited to join Julian Morrow’s classics course, to become apart of the elite, my mind raced, impatient and anxious. I burned for someone to talk to, for all my anxieties to gush like a waterfall into ears that wouldn’t judge or tease, that would care, even just a little bit. I knew I could sit on Judy Poovey’s bed, clutching one of her furry pillows to my chest while she painted powder blue dots where her eyebrows used to be, listening halfheartedly, doling out half thought out wisecracks about being a pussy and to get my homework done on time and get her the mascara in the orange tube, offer me more coke; chat to a random girl or guy, high off their ass and wouldn't remember all of last week let alone me; seek out one of Julian's students, befriend them ahead of time, if ever I were brave enough to. Nightmarish images of rejection and humiliation stampeded through my psyche.
There wasn’t much preparation I could do, safe freeze time and memorize the whole of Greek vocabulary, and I had already torn through my closet, taking note of what was suitable, what needed replacing, what needed upgrading, and what needed to be burnt in one of those raging campus bonfires, and settled on my outfit, something sharp, the very picture of a serious academic. Ballpoints for fountains, tennis shoes for hand-me-down Oxfords. My tattered composition notebooks had been replaced in favor of a charming moleskin journal, unlined so when I had practiced my longhand in it, the writing curved at a diagonal slant; those pages were now at the bottom of my wastepaper basket.
My bed, the sheets, were confining, leg-irons, anchors, weighing me down to an unspeakable type of floundering. The desk lamp let off an eye-burning glow, but off, it plunged the room into near-darkness, a box knocked about by the pace of a bounding sailboat through a storm. I paced the cramped dorm room in wide circles, a book in front of my nose, the words spinning, working off whatever jitters permeated my body so completely.
I so badly wanted to measure up to the other students. The chat Julian and I had early in the day seemed to consist of nothing but praises for his bright, industrious quintet and should I want to earn their confidences straight away, I had to steal into their group so quietly that they would forget life without me. It was Will Rogers who had said you never get a second chance to make a first impression. Or was that Dorothy Parker?
The night still being young, and the parties on a course to continue until sunrise, I elected to take myself off campus, a nice quiet bar to decompress so I would be able to lie still in bed long enough to fall asleep. Iliad in hand, I managed to catch a ride into town with a group of very friendly sophomores who were on an errand for more tequila. Eye makeup dark as raccoons, they cooed over me, plucking at the threads of my sweater, teasing me for thinking it was cold (they were clad in bikini tops and denim shorts), and tousling my hair. Their breasts bumped against my arms whenever we swung around a corner, and my past year of celibacy burned with sharp focus. Freely, they shared what was left in the opaque vodka bottle, greedily groping the air instead of needing words, dribbles of alcohol bursting where they fell on their skin, laughing through mouthfuls, complementing each other unabashedly. Eventually, they stopped in the parking lot of a fluorescently lit liquor store and clambered out. A chorus of goodbyes followed me as we parted, ruddied my cheeks.
It made me want to be a girl sometimes, watching the closeness they shared, knowing I'd only ever get that kind of intimacy with a girlfriend, with the expectation of romance hanging like the Sword of Damocles. It's not that I craved physical contact or even really emotional contact, but rather I wished I could have reached out and held one of them in my lap, stroked their hair, kissed them on the lips once I'd gotten into the spirit of the car. To be able to take advantage of the brotherhood of man to embrace a teary-eyed stranger on the street, hold the hand of the person sitting next to me in the cinema. Though if something like that happened to me, I'd be stiff to the marrow, waiting for the fool to pry themselves off me. Maybe it was selfish of me to want the world to play along with my fantasies. One person would satisfy me, Plato's ideal friendship.
I found a bar, quaint place, gave an order for sherry and took a seat in the near back where I had a good view of the people playing darts but not of the dart board. I could see their faces screw up with concentration then collapse in disappointment or stretch wide with satisfaction. I turned to my book, nothing I hadn’t been drilled over countless times in California, but I wanted to keep keen, have the basics down so I couldn’t be caught off guard and be made a fool of. It was a favorite of mine. Though my preference leaned more towards the English versions, Lawrence's translation was a personal favorite, this copy was purely Greek.
It didn’t help, the book that is. Exploits of murder and triumph put my own troubles in shaming perspective. What was fashion and pen brands to the corpse of a best friend laid out in your tent, rotting and entreating you to hold his funeral? I’d never had a friend who would do that for me, wanted to have our ashes mixed so we’d be together in the afterlife. Maybe not so specific, but the sentiment was the same. Having someone who would assuredly mourn for me.
I blushed. It was a strange thought. Of course, no one had wanted to do that to me. I had never found someone I felt so strongly about that I would want to entwine myself with them for the rest of eternity. No relationships I’d ever observed seem intense enough that they would make that kind of decision, certainly not my parents.
I set the book down, shoved it to the back of the table, and cradled my sherry closely. Moored in the midst of such joie de vivre, the patrons softly laughing, chatting with the ease of small-town familiarity, a strain of melancholy anticipation ran through me; couples sat at the bar, ankles hooked around each other, silently enjoying their company. My only comfort was the thought that in several weeks I would have a companion to rest against my shoulder, here, my dorm, theirs, somewhere we could curl up and be close without speaking, without having to speak. I sunk down in my seat, imagining.
Julian had mentioned a Camilla, and, without even meeting, I was obsessed. He described her as ‘our beautiful’, light words that set my imagination afire with images of a girl dainty as a glass slipper and just as sharp. We would become lovers, I hypothesized, come to places like this on the weekend; she’d fall asleep on me, her only flaw, her desire for study keeping her frenetic by candlelight, but she’d be able to rest in our favorite spot.
The bar was exceedingly cozy. Warm, though my drink did nothing to add to that, the tart flavor sent an eruption of chills up my spine with each sip, and I wondered if it was an acquired taste. It had seemed like the right thing to drink, what scholars drank while discussing Homer under soft candlelight, just the ticket to warm them up in a drafty English estate. My palate had too long been a home to Heineken and Budweiser to mull over the subtleties of vintages and flavor profiles. Back home, wine was a drink to be smuggled from a parent’s liquor cabinet and diluted with grape juice as a truly heinous but potent concoction that would either get a person buzzed off the alcohol or the sugar.
A shadow passed over me, and I jumped in fear, quickly molding the grimace on my face into an expression of affected serenity.
“This seat taken?” The shadow said. The voice was low, intelligent, a hint of some metropolitan accent mingled with the telltale rasp of a cigarette smoker, highly - and devastatingly - sophisticated.
“No, no, of course not,” I stuttered. A splash of sherry tipped out of the rim as I slammed it to the table in order to sweep my book close to my chest, and in my haste to wipe it away, knocked the rest of the glass over, the red seeping into my sweater when I went to dry it. For an instant, the shadow disappeared before returning in haste with a fistful of napkins. Together we soaked up what remained of my sherry. I apologized profusely, my gaze fixated on the cracked leather of the opposite booth. My sweater felt exceedingly tight at my throat, but my hands stayed still so I couldn’t be seen as fidgety, not in addition to clumsy.
The shadow took his seat - the napkins, a wet mess reeking of alcohol, safely deposited in the trash - bemused at my misconduct, a pale line cut into an even paler face. “It’s alright,” he said and, indicating his own dark glass and book, smiled sympathetically. “It would have happened to one of us. I’ll pay to have that dry cleaned if you need.”
“Thank you.” I wouldn’t take him up on his offer, the sweater could be thrown into a washing machine and only need an ironing to be good as new, I’d had it for three years and it had endured worse stains than sherry.
“Could I buy you another drink? I would hate for you to stay sober after such a display.”
Despite myself, I laughed. “I’ll be fine.” Then, realizing the implication, shook my head vehemently. “I’ll be fine,” I repeated, all traces of laughter gone from my voice.
“Alright then.” He opened his book, the Symposium, a good-natured smirk playing on his lips. Following his lead, I scrambled to find my right page. He sounded terse but he wasn’t tense, his hand moving elegantly to turn the page, even the turning of a page sounded refined, a delicate whisper to my uncouth scraping. I was the tense one. His eyes weren’t on me, but surely his senses were attuned to every little shuffle I made. Clenched into a knot, the nerves in the back of my neck growing stiff, I finally took a good look at him.
He was tall, towering even, with a coiffed mass of regal red hair, the same shade as the gaudiest portraits of Queen Elizabeth I. He cut a sharp silhouette, a straight Grecian nose coupled with a graceful jawline gave him an almost androgynous outline. He sniffed in distaste at something in the book, startling me, and the pince-nez balanced on his nose jerked unevenly. His dress was impeccable, neat black and white suit under a midnight colored greatcoat. Had Prince Phillip abandoned Aurora to pursue a life in between the archival stacks of medieval Italian manuscripts, translations of The Decameron, he would have looked uncannily like the man who sat across from me. But despite his appearance, it was his aura that was most attractive.
He had this atmosphere of unflappable cool. The antique mode of dress and face and a more modern nonchalance gave him the air of a baroque James Dean. I wanted to talk with him, pick his brain on every topic from the archaic to the contemporary, yet he scared me. A threatening glowering air quivered around him like the artificial rainbows in soap bubbles, so fragile it might break with a breath. But that only added to his allure. It was no wonder he was sitting with me in the back, instead of upfront at the bar, girls would be throwing themselves at him, dying to tear off his coat to see what lay beneath. Compared to him, I must have been a mess, what with the big dripping sherry stain on the arm of my cream sweater, the sweat that had plastered a good amount of my hair to my forehead, and the embarrassingly frayed collar of my T-shirt, printed with the name of a band I didn’t remember seeing.
I struggled out of the sweater, taking my chances with his judgment, for the sherry had gotten on my skin, making it clammy and cold.
And the Symposium! I had read it, but Plato had never touched me the way Homer had. Philosophical texts, morality texts were more laborious than the straightforward narratives, long, intricate descriptions of armor, of Helen, the speeches of Sophocles and Euripides that must have inspired Shakespeare in his youth. It was always said to be a foundational text, important and necessary. It made me feel so incredibly stupid that I didn’t like it. There must have been a sense of jealousy with which I watched him. A dog salivating over a juicy bone, so high that only the crows could reach it.
So I watched him, sloppily, not bothering to hold my book high enough so that I could drop my gaze into it when he inevitably felt the itch of voyeurism on his white cheek and tried to catch me in the act. The Iliad was lain flat open, in the wrong place no doubt, I hadn’t bothered even to thumb to the right book, and when the man flicked his eyes up to me, I panicked.
“What are you reading?” I blurted. He looked at the cover as if to make sure it hadn’t changed in the second since I’d spoken, making sure he hadn’t entered some parallel universe where strange boys ask unprompted questions about obvious things.
“Plato’s Symposium,” he answered. “Rereading it really. What about you? Anything good?”
“Oh, yes. Very.” I lifted my book, and he nodded appreciatively.
“An old favorite of mine, too. Business or pleasure?” My stomach lurched, though his expression was quite placid. I swallowed hard.
“Business originally, but pleasure tonight. It’s my third time through.” I shrugged. “Maybe I should start something else. Feels like a waste of time considering I know what’s going to happen anyway.” I set the book aside with some distaste.
“Don’t say that. It’s my fifth time with this thing. There has to be something to going back into the past as often we do.” He stood up and slid in next to me. Our shoulders bumped as he reached over me to grab the book. Thumbing through the pages, he stayed fixed on me. “Now what’s your best part? Let me read it to you. You could use a fresh voice if yours is going to be disparaging.” I tried to protest, logically I might add, the words were all of an ancient language that he would have squinted at in revulsion and confusion. It’s one thing to read classic literature; it’s another to buy a copy with the original language tattooed vulgarly over every clean white page.
“I like Patroclus’s funeral games. Book 23,” I said reluctantly. “Just there.” Pointing at the vortex of turning pages, a sharp sting manifested on my fingerprint, a ruby droplet blurred the first syllable of Agamemnon. The taste of iron sunk in my tongue as I held the finger to my lips.
“Well, I won’t be reading you the whole thing, but I’ll give you the first stanza if it pleases you.” He cleared his throat, smiling, and finally placing his gaze on the words, but the recoil I had been expecting did not come, for instead, he read. Fluently, as if his paleness was indicative of the fact he was an ancient statue come to life, a masculine Galatea, intricate and intimate details covered with the new style of toga. There was a lazy rhythm to his voice, gravelly and self-important that made me sigh inwardly with contentment. If ever there was a mouth that Ancient Greek fit inside, his was it.
When he finished, he closed the book in satisfaction and held it out to me. I was just about to accept it, but I saw concern etched lightly across his face.
“I’m sorry, did you want it in English? I just assumed because the text was Greek…”
“No, it was fine. You read beautifully.”
He smiled, tossing his hair.
“I would hope so,” he mumbled.
“What’s your favorite part of the Symposium?” I was desperate to keep talking now. There were only going to be five other students in Julian’s class, so I might need someone outside the bounds of campus to rely on should I fuck tomorrow up. Besides, it was rare I met someone who was interested in the Classics on a basis other than passing a course.
After a bitten lip and a think, he answered, “Phaedrus. I’ve always thought it was romantic, in its own twisted way. A bit silly of me to choose the part that comes right at the beginning. I get nothing to look forward to at the end.”
“That’s a lot different than me. ‘Cause I like the part at the end, I have to slog through the rest of it to get there. Not that I think this is a slog. It’s a really good book, just that the better parts are at the end. Not the better parts objectively, you can like the other sections obviously-”
“What were you drinking?” He rested his cheek on his fist in the apathetic way I always found maddeningly attractive when it was done by girls, the uninterested way that only made me all the more eager to please. I was mesmerized.
“What? Oh. Sherry.” For a moment I was grateful I was only in my T-shirt, a terrifically hot line of sweat fell from the nape of my neck past my waistband.
“Would you like some more? It’s the least I could do considering I was the catalyst to you knocking it over and ruining your lovely sweater.” He lifted said sweater, sniffed it, and draped it around my shoulders.
“No, thank you. It wasn’t much to my liking anyway.”
“Would you like some of mine then?” The orange liquid cascaded into my glass until we had equal shares. It was a delicious looking color, and my throat was dry. It was sour, but I liked it; it reminded me of the Italian ices on the boardwalk.
“A Sidecar,” I surmised.
“Full marks,” he said and slipped the rest of his down his throat with a wince. “Though I have much better cognac at home. Would you like to try some?”
“Right now?”
“Sure, if you have nothing better to do.” He sounded a touch offended, quailing with the entitlement of a lost Romanoff duke.
“I don’t.” And followed him from the bar without trepidation. What had been a sunset teeming with color when I entered was now a velvet glove, violet by the streetlights, and the stars spun like pinwheels in a slow summer breeze. I shivered.
“Cold?” The little ember of a cigarette glowed beside his mouth. The snap of his lighter had been drowned out by the hacking cough of a bum passing into the bar.
“I’m more used to it being warmer around this time,” I said apologetically.
“You’re a Southern boy then.” Unbuttoning his coat, he gave me his cigarette to hold and, out of habit, I took it in my mouth, feeling the wetness of the paper on my lips. Automatically, I held out my arms behind me so he could push the sleeves of his coat on them. I had always wanted a greatcoat, in same deep navy blue as well, but even though he wasn’t much taller than me, the hem still swept against the ground and the sleeves were drafty. His body heat still clung on the inside of it though, and I was graciously warmed.
On the drive, we spoke of inconsequential things. He wanted to know how long I had been studying Greek and laughed as wildly as the wind that whipped our hair, the windows were down for the sake of the smoke, but I didn’t get the sense he was mocking me. The bit of sherry and the bump of coke I’d gotten off Judy Poovey weren’t what made me feel drunk, and not even the kind of drunk of a town fool, more like the best-man-flirting-with-the-maid-of-honor drunk, the kind that preceded an unspoken bond and followed a grand event. The cigarette could have been pot for how giddy it made me.
His house was dark, both in terms of lighting and atmosphere. He led me in, holding the door open with one large hand as he finished off the last of the cigarette, stamping it out a safe distance from the bristled welcome mat.
I barely had the time to admire the interior of the house, for as soon as he shut the door I was thrown against it, a tongue tasting of ash on my own. My eyes widened, but I didn’t know what to do. His kiss was bruising, harder than I would have expected from him; his teeth scraped my bottom lip and a sprig of pain bloomed, quickly soothed by a swipe of his tongue. Saliva was a natural clotting agent, my addled mind remembered, a useless bit of information from Anatomy 101.
I couldn’t shove him away, it would be rude to, so I reciprocated, lifting my hands to hold his face, smooth and cool as stone, while the inside of his mouth was a blast of heat and pliant, opening and closing around me. He wanted me. He reached into his coat and held me by the waist. A thrill ran through me, one that was not entirely borne of shock. His pince-nez bumped me.
We kissed for a while whilst I looked for an opportunity to make my excuses and leave. I thought there was an opening when he drew back, but it was only to take his coat off me, and I was much too surprised to take action. He shed his suit jacket as well, and the full white of his shirt was almost blinding. So white, like his skin, it was like I was seeing him half-naked, and my body grew hot. The cuff against my cheek was soft with creasing and sent a chill of goosebumps over the bridge of my nose where the cold cufflink touched me.
It had been only once before that I had kissed another man, on prom night; someone’s basement; my cousin’s date and a game of truth or dare; I wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t be fucked up on a whole day’s marathon of pot; he was way more interested in it than I was; not a great memory. Though, despite the novelty of the kiss, as it when on, I grew acclimated. I was no stranger to the act and soon attuned myself to his rhythm. After the initial heat, he slowed, his movements careful and gentle. He stroked my side over my shirt then moved his hands to my face, rubbing circles over my temples. The ashy taste of him softened too, and the sweeter flavors of lemon from the Sidecar and honeysuckle came through. The honeysuckle reminded me of high school, walking at dusk, lightheaded with drugs, plucking woodbine from the tangle of chain link fences and drinking the nectar like it was a shot of whiskey, sometimes alone, sometimes with people who I would spill my guts to and see in line at the 7-eleven and not speak to, my treasured confidants buying bags of Doritos and Marlboros. What would he look like in California, among the traffic and the beating sun? I never needed to find out. He was happy to keep me in Vermont as I was happy to stay.
He wanted me. The barely veiled intensity came through in how lightly he drew his fingers over my collarbone, down my neck, restrained before the windows, shielded as they were with heavy curtains. I didn’t know what prevented him from taking me there, right on the doorstep, but if we were somewhere more private, there was no doubt in my mind the acts of foreplay would have progressed farther much quicker. His fists gripped my T-shirt like it was the reigns of a wild stallion. The faint sound of splitting threads was heard, and I silently marveled at his strength. If I had ever been desired like this before, I must have forgotten.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, his very slim waist, and laughed when he tripped over himself as I pulled him closer. As some form of revenge, he reached between us, a wicked grin preventing me from kissing him, and took hold of my belt and not for the first time that night, I froze.
Except for my heart, that is, which began beating furiously.
The rattle of metal echoed distantly in my ears and, to distract him, I drew him to another kiss, languid and dirty, feeling all the ridges, gentle curves, of his mouth with my tongue. He pushed against me. I could feel his erection on my leg.
By the grace of some god - Judeo-Christian, Celtic pagan, Our Lady of the Cock-Block - the phone, an old rotary thing, rang, impatiently dancing on the cradle, bright tinny squawks of noise that were earthquakes in a room that was only before filled with soft breaths.
He broke from me. “You don’t mind if I get that, do you?” He asked. His eyes were glistening in the dark. Our chests touched.
“Not at all.” I was breathless.
“Great,” he said and kissed me affectionately on the cheek. Once his back was turned, I allowed myself to slump against the wall. I wiped my forehead off with the hem of my shirt, my stomach, sinking and rising, exposed. When I looked back up, he was gone and so was the phone, the cord a black snake, a thread leading into the mouth of the labyrinthine house. He reappeared, the receiver balanced in the crook of his neck, with two frosted glasses, one already half emptied, and a squat bottle in either hand. The bottle, flush with cognac, was safely deposited next to the cradle.
Laughter, barely concealed, bled through his voice, relaxing me immeasurably. “No, I - I’m sorry, you can’t. Not tonight. I’m actually busy or at least I plan to be. I’ve got a guest.” At that, he shot a wink towards me. “Listen, we’ll see each other tomorrow, and we can talk about - What?” Sharply, he slammed the glasses down. “You are not. I forbid you to. I’m not - Oh, because you aren’t either. Give me a second. I need a drink if I’m going to keep talking with you, just hold on.” As furious as one can be while pouring a drink, he unscrewed the cap, a nails-down-the-chalkboard-like screech, and let the amber liquid cascade into the glass, nearly to the top, drinking it all down without a breath or a pause.
“Go to bed Charles - haha very funny - and have Milly make you a strong cup of tea, if you don’t drink it she can at least throw it in your face. Great, fuck you too.” He banged the phone down and refilled and emptied his glass in quick succession.
He took off his pince-nez, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Without reason to, a righteous anger filled me. Who did this person think he was? Not being privy to the other side of the conversation, I had no choice but to take the side of my near lover, but I was sure I would agree with him had I known what the other person was saying. He looked so forlorn by the phone, disheveled and small, fighting back tears and doing a good job of hiding it.
He was so sweet, so kind, deserved so much better than what I was giving him. Deserving someone as enthusiastic as he was, who could hold him close and comfort him when things like bad phone calls happened. Not me, who stuck to the wall like a piece of taxidermy.
Not of my own volition, my legs worked on autopilot, closing the distance between us. Shaking ever so slightly, I lifted his chin. There were no lamps lit but I could see the glimmer in his eyes, and the anger was replaced with a tenderness that frightened me with its depth. My hold on him weakened, and he brushed me off, falling on a plump leather sofa once he was far enough away, the bottle as a safety blanket, clutched in his fist.
“Cognac? I swear to you it’s good, though as it seems my word doesn’t go for much around here,” he said ruefully. The fine red coif on his head had gone rumpled, windblown, stormy as his mood. It still looked good on him, a milliner couldn’t have hatted him better.
I brought the glasses over, my feet almost caught on the edge of the carpet, and sat on the adjacent sofa. We drank in silence. He was right. The cognac was a bolt of silk compared to the square of cotton the Sidecar was, smoothly masculine, like whiskey, with a hint of sweetness. Honeysuckle. I wondered if he had tasted the sherry on my tongue when we kissed.
His glass was empty again, and he reached for the bottle. I put a hand on his wrist. With a look of confusion, he withdrew. With a mouthful of cognac, I kissed him. He drank from me like I was a holy wellspring.
“Do you want to see my bedroom?”
“Okay.”
He had me chase him up the stairs. Intermittently, we fell against the banister, hard on my back, weak and straining under our leaning, my pulse pushing its way into his mouth, and a delirious terror filled my head, how I imagined a man stringing himself up for masturbation might feel, on the knife’s edge of death and pleasure, fear of discovery wrapping its hands around, asphyxiating, the fading bit of rationality left in a gasping brain. His skin was so soft. I wanted to stroke it like I would a sleepy kitten.
It was fun. Terrible, reckless fun, walking along the edge of a cliff fun. All at once I wanted to dangle my feet over the craggy margin and scramble back to the safety of level ground. He whispered a line of Greek past my ear I was too dizzy to translate. It was almost a threat.
There was a moment, when he touched the back of my knee, that I thought he would scoop me up and carry me bridal-style to his room, and my stomach flip-flopped in anticipation because I would have to be gentle with my arms around his neck, not let my fear get the better of me and hold on as tightly as leg-irons around the ankles of a guilty man, acting as if having my feet off the ground, my life in his hands, didn’t scare me shitless.
Once we entered his bedroom - dark again, quiet mostly except for the sounds of our discarded shoes tumbling down the stairs, thump, thump, thump like a heartbeat - he got sentimental, the romance of a conventional setting getting to him, made him dreamy and ponderous, touches more lingering, eye contact heavier. The buttons on his shirt were small, my hands clumsy, the task to unfasten the first three was Herculean which he found amusing, helping me to slip off my shirt with a self-satisfied smirk. Not one borne of cruelty but of endearment. Thankfully the darkness obscured the blush dripping down my cheeks.
He draped himself over top of me, light as gossamer, and I had his throat on my tongue, making him writhe and whine in harsh staccato moans, hands gripping fistfuls of my hair, his erection pressing on the seam of my jeans made my hips, involuntarily, leap up to meet him. A fantastic flood of endorphins jumped from synapse to synapse, like they were dancing the tarantella, and I pushed against him, chasing the feeling.
Suddenly, he pulled back. Sat up and straddling my thighs, shadowed curls of orange hair falling every which way, a line of spit tracing down his neck and onto his heaving chest, disappearing into his unbuttoned shirt, he looked unbelievably erotic. Above my hip bones, two white thumbs rubbed artful circles on my bare skin and two dark eyes held my gaze with invariable magnetism. A telltale bulge tented my pants.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t,” I said. Then, not thinking, “It’s Richard.”
“Richard.” He said it slowly, savoring the shape of it in his mouth. “If we were to go all the way tonight, would you stay?”
It was like all my organs were working overtime: my heart, my lungs, my liver chewing out the sherry to make me clear headed, my testicles quivering for release, my eyes scouring his body with a desire that terrified me.
“No,” I said honestly, with a gulp. I wasn’t planning on having sex with him; I didn’t even know his name for God’s sake, but our current positions suggested a more intimate connection than what would have been observed at the bar. Had an interruption not occurred, there was little doubt we would have advanced past the point of no return. Though certainly, as soon as the act was finished, I would have been out the door, sprinting to find a taxi or a group of Hampenites to take me home, a prayer on my lips to never see him again.
“Then would you mind if we didn’t? If instead we just went to sleep?” His thumbs slid up my body, bypassing my nipples, as he lowered himself down on me once more, his breath in my ear, methodical, matching the gentle ebb and flow of his chest. There was an open-palm stroking the curves of my shoulders. I put my arms around him. It was so cozy, so relaxing, I almost drifted off right then.
“Okay,” I said into his chest. He nodded. I couldn’t see his smile, but I could feel it on my bare skin, gentler than the one at the bar, not a production or a seduction, just instinctual happiness laid out against me. I wanted to lay there forever but, just as before, he climbed off of me and a chill ran over me, suddenly exposed to the loneliness of freedom. One of his wondrously plump pillows was my shield of choice.
“I have to brush my teeth,” was his explanation and still he bent over me to deliver a kiss to my forehead where it stayed fresh as a daisy in sugar water. Water gushed behind the closed bathroom door while light bled through its cracks, bright enough that I hid my face in the pillow, peeking out on the occasion to see his presence pass in a black hyphen around the floor. I shed my jeans in a manner meant to be entirely innocent; they would be uncomfortable to sleep in.
I was making myself comfortable under his blankets when he finally emerged from the bathroom, wreathed in a cloud of light like a vengeful angel, nearly naked except for a pair of thin white drawers that did nothing to disguise the red hairs curling up from the waistband. The blankets were all too heavy.
He climbed in next to me, the bed split down the middle by an invisible line, Lucy and Desi wishing each other sweet dreams.
“Well,” he said uncertainly, “Goodnight,” and shuffled deeper into the buxom bedding, tugging his corner of the blanket tightly. Attempting to get some sleep out of this nerve-wracking ordeal, I turned on my side, my preferred position, but try as I might I couldn’t fall asleep despite the herds of sheep I counted. His presence behind me was haunting, and I moved to face him.
“Wait.”
“Yes?” A note of weakness; I couldn’t tell if it was hope or fear. The sheets whispered as he turned towards me, minty breath floating mist-like past my nose.
“What’s your name?”
“Francis.”
“Okay.” I thought his name would be something like Edward or George but, as I mulled it over in my head, found it suited him perfectly. “Goodnight Francis.”
“Goodnight Richard.”
* * *
We slept separately, but when I awoke Francis had his ear to my navel, the blankets kicked down to the floor in a mess of waves. It was the best sleep I’d had in years, remarkably. The urge to shut my eyes and return to oblivion was paltry compared to the sunlight streaming in through windows, the promise of a new day, the exhilaration of morning. I put my hand in Francis’s hair - how strange it was to finally give his face a name, face I could finally see clearly, unobscured by the copper glow of the bar or the gloom of a quiet house - and felt his stomach rising and falling peacefully on my thigh, relishing the tranquility.
“What time is it,” he mumbled, stirring.
“I, uh, I don’t know.” Softly groaning, he slipped his hands out from under me and groped for an alarm clock on the bedside table, peering at the face with drowsy fixation. He settled back on me.
“Only eight,” he reported, laying a kiss next to my navel and I leapt up in a panic. He barely managed to save himself from my knee knocking his jaw off. My jeans were in a tangle on the floor, one leg inside out, and I furiously shoved myself into them, doing up the belt a notch too loose, my hands were shaking too hard to get an accurate measure.
“Shit,” I muttered. “Shit. Goddamnit, do you know where my shirt went?” It wasn’t on my side of the bed nor under it from the quick sweep I took of the area. Our eyes only met for a second, mine were occupied with zig-zagging around the room in the world’s most anxiety-inducing scavenger hunt, and he was fully awake and sat up in bed, his legs folded under him like the Copenhagen mermaid, confusion painted broadly across his face, a bit of hurt too. I slumped. He hadn’t done anything wrong but there was just no time to explain.
I couldn’t very well start digging through his room, tearing through dressers, upending carpets, so I stayed in the same place, buzzing, bouncing from foot to foot as if I would get any different an angle. Sunlight caught in my eyes through the glass, momentarily blinding me in a brilliant golden blink and in the hazy photograph flash, Francis turned negative against the bed, bending over the edge of the mattress, a foot in the air, toes wiggling in effort. When I finally regained my sight, he was waving my shirt in a surrendering motion. In relief I crawled over to him, denim-clad knees dragging vulgarly on the ivory sheets. He snapped it out of my reach playfully, smirking.
“ ‘Poppaea Sabina.’ Sound pretty good actually. I hope they get up here at some point.” I snatched the shirt away from him and pulled it over my head, by the time it hung off my shoulders, stretched and smelling of something that wasn’t my motheaten suitcase, it was already eight oh three and Francis was out of bed and out of sight. I stuttered down the stairs in my sock feet (five feet eleven in one sock, I thought with a laugh, stumbling on the final step.)
The house came to life under the light and I had to stop to look around at the foyer, at the furniture, worn by use but given care and tenderness, only treated with the viciousness of someone entirely comfortable with their surroundings, free to toss their body on any available surface and spill a teaspoon of wine when the carousing increased without admonishments that were anything more than fond. Cowering from previous abuse, the rotary phone had a sheen of dust, snowy mites blew in the sunshine, crouched in anticipation to be cleaned and regain the glossy black finish that was its primary draw. Cool colors, warm with welcome. The memory of black coffee hid around a corner on small feet. A twinge of longing hit me with a force that was almost crippling.
I had to leave now but I could come back, couldn’t I?
I threw on my shoes, they were in surprisingly close proximity with those of Francis but it wasn’t difficult to tell which belonged to who. They were decent enough things, fit comfortably and wouldn’t be too be worse for wear after a sprint. The laces were being tightened when Francis came billowing down the stairs in a carmine checkered bathrobe safely knotted around his slim waist, a good deal of his white chest was showing until he held the two halves together and I turned away to focus on tying my double knots.
“I have a class at nine I can’t miss,” I said, more to myself than him.
“I could drive you if you like.” He sat down next to me, legs crossed. His face was as bright and big as the moon, a slice of snowy thigh fell out from the robe; I turned away. The glasses from last night were left on the table, casting fractured crystal shadows across the wood, and the cognac was left opened to attract butterflies. He capped the bottle swiftly, we were both thinking of last night. The mealy taste of sleep was moist on my tongue but I thought if I tried I could remember how the cognac felt pouring from my mouth to his.
“No, I couldn’t trouble you like that,” I said as he said, “It would be no trouble at all.”
“Really,” I said once we were finished blushing. “It’s not a long walk or I’ll find a cab.” As I stood up from the sofa, an invisible force seemed hellbent on dragging me back down. His hand was not on my wrist.
Leather protested as he stood up, looming over me. He said, “Let me get your sweater.” The flannel of the robe brushed my skin as he passed me. I could stay still, the rabble in my head was quieted by the domesticity of it. For a second, when he took a little too long, I thought he was fetching me a mug of coffee, would wish me well, and retire until I came home, full of stories about my classmates and plans to invite them for dinner and then we’d go to bed, him tumbling off my lap into my arms, into silver dreams. Arousal jerked at my waist, cut through with a harsh whistle. Francis shook out my sweater, a mote of fluff floated to the floor.
His hands were gentle as he tied the sleeves around my waist, if he bumped against my groin, feeling hardness, he didn’t react. My book was solidly placed in my hands. He took me by the shoulders, his gaze soft.
“Have a nice day,” he said and kissed me on the forehead.
I left on feet I couldn’t feel.
* * *
I had managed to make it back to my dorm in time to shower and change, though my hair was wet and impossible to arrange in the semi-pompadour Francis wore so well.
Julian introduced me to the pack: Henry and Bunny, opposites in demeanor, twins in eyewear, and the real twins, Charles, bored and blond, and Camilla. As I shook her hand the biggest feeling of “Yes” rippled through me, God whispering and pointing out my destiny, dressed in white, sleepy eyes blinking as if seeing for the first time. The rapture was interrupted by a pair of lips on her cheek, snapping our eye contact as her head was pushed by the force.
“Sorry I’m behind on time, love. Had a late morning.” Camilla smiled, a brilliant lilt of light falling from her mouth in a giggle. Green envy beginning its growth in my chest, I turned to confront this intruder and my stomach fell to my shoes.
Clean and polished as if he had had hours to get ready, Francis stood before me, red eyebrows quirking in arrowheads.
“And Francis,” said Julian. “I assure you, Richard, he’s usually more punctual than this.”
We shook hands cordially but he lingered, squeezing my hand before we took our seats. I was able to keep my mind focused squarely on the lesson thanks to Julian’s oratory skills and the intrigue of the subject. Halfway through class, our eyes met and he looked down at his notebook, smiling gently. When he finally turned back at Julian, there was a far-off, dreamy sort of look in his eyes. I couldn’t really focus afterwards.