Dr. Tim and the Boys
The following story is fiction. It involves sexually- explicit erotic events between males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or live in an area where it is not allowed, don't read it. In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms. In the real world, everyone should practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
My thanks go to Tom for his editorial help (and for the recipe). Thanks also to Evan, Patrick, Ash, and Tom for their great ideas and steadfast encouragement. -Tim
timmead88@Yahoo.com Chapter 9: The Doctor Examined
TIM:
I've just had dinner with Stan. He is a remarkable person. Don't get me wrong. I love Ced and plan to hang on to him for the rest of my life if I can, but I feel a bit starstruck. Here's what happened:
Ced had come by the office, as promised, the day after I finally got to suck his dick. There was the usual kissing, ball-fondling, ass-grabbing greeting, and then we sat for a few minutes. He told me that Mark's dad would pick me up at my place at 7:00 on Saturday evening. A little embarrassed about my apartment, I asked Ced to tell Mark that I'd be out front. Ced promised to relay the message.
I wasn't sure what to expect. Ced loves Mark, who does seem to be a pretty good guy. He's great looking and smart, that much I know already. Ced also seems to have a special fondness for Stan. He lights up when he talks about him.
Saturday afternoon I polished my cordovan loafers, pressed up my newest pair of khakis, and inspected my navy blazer for lint. Then I shaved, though I really didn't need to, and showered. I wear my hair a little longer than the four guys who were suddenly so much a part of my life, long enough to part and comb. It tends to be wavy, so I don't let it get too long. I didn't blow-dry it because that makes it too fluffy. I just combed it while it was still wet. I've always wished it were another color. Any other color. I have never understood why people fuss about it so.
I suppose I could have worn a suit, but I decided the blazer was more appropriate for a Saturday evening. I wore my usual blue oxford button-down with a green and blue regimental striped tie. Once I was dressed, I thought the total effect terribly preppy, but it was too late to change. If I really want to look like a professor instead of a kid in prep school, I could get a tweed jacket with elbow patches. I'm not quite ready for that yet, even if I do look impossibly young. Oh, speaking of looking too young, I wore my glasses instead of my contacts.
At 6:55 I was standing on the steps of my building. Ced hadn't told me what sort of car Stan would be driving, so I didn't pay much attention when a bright red Mustang, one of the classic jobs, pulled up to the curb. The driver got up out of the car and came around it toward me. And there he was!
Stan must be about 5'8". He's a little shorter than Ced and Mark, a little taller than me. He's bigger in the chest and shoulders than Mark but has about the same size waist. He obviously works out often. Not muscle bound, mind you, just a man who takes very good care of his body.
He was wearing a khaki-colored suit of what I guessed was a tropical worsted fabric. It obviously didn't come off the rack. He had a shirt the color of denim, but it looked to be some fine, silky cotton. His tie had a pattern of little chain links in dark blue and silver against a gold background. He, too, was wearing cordovan loafers, but his were Italian and probably cost four times as much as mine.
His curly hair had at one time been black like Mark's, but now it was liberally sprinkled with gray, not just at the temples, but all over. He looks a lot like Mark, too, but he wears a carefully-trimmed mustache and goatee, both with more gray than the hair on his head. He and Mark have the same intense blue eyes, but Stan's are arresting, mesmerizing, incredibly sexy.
I was taken by his looks, by a magnetism that I sensed immediately, and most of all by those eyes. I was startled when he asked, "Dr. Mead?"
"Oh," I said, flustered. Extending my hand, I continued, "You must be Mr. Mason."
When he smiled I noticed that he did not have dimples. Mark must have gotten them from his mother. But the smile was breathtaking. This was a man who could have just about anything he wanted, I suspected.
"Please, Mark's friends all call me Stan. I hope you will, too."
"Right, Stan, and, as I'm sure you know, it's Tim."
He smiled again, gesturing toward the car, and said, "Yes, Tim, I've heard a lot about you."
I could feel that damned blush coming from my chest to my face. He obviously knew the story. "I dare say you have, " I said as I got into the Mustang.
To change the subject, when he got behind the wheel, I said, "Great car!"
"She's a lot of fun, but she's pretty demanding at her age. I'm lucky to have a mechanic who can still find parts for a 66 model and knows how to treat her right."
As he pulled out into traffic and headed toward the edge of town, where Stefan's was located, he said, "Tim, I couldn't help noticing your blush. I do know that whole sorry story, and I want to say up front that I've told those guys I could kick their butts for what they did. Except Ced, of course. But I also know how you and Ced extracted a moderate and wonderfully appropriate revenge from each of the culprits."
Not knowing quite what to say, I waited.
"So, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I hope we can have a pleasant evening and get to know each other better."
During the rest of the drive to the restaurant we chatted about the Indians' prospects for the coming baseball season. He asked if I had seen them play in Jacobs Field, and I said I had. We talked about what a nice facility that was. Then he wanted to know if I had seen the reinstated Browns play in their new stadium by the lake. I said I hadn't. He said it was a nice facility, too, but that he was a Steelers fan. We joked about the Browns-Steelers rivalry for a few minutes. And then he pulled up to the porte-cochere at Stefan's.
The parking valet was obviously a university student. He wore a maroon golf shirt with the Stefan's logo and khaki pants.
"Good evening, Mr. Mason. It's nice to see you, sir," he said, giving Stan a big smile.
"Hi, Drew. How's your mother?"
"Oh, she's fine, sir. She started back to work last month. I'll tell her you asked."
Stan handed Drew the keys and a bill.
"You won't need a claim check," Drew said. "I'll just bring your car up when you're ready."
I was impressed. Stan lived in Meadville, over the border a little way in Pennsylvania. Why would he know a college guy here at the university? Well, it was none of my business.
The maitre d', whose name turned out to be Maurice, greeted Stan with enthusiasm. "Bienvenu, mon cher Monsieur Mason. It's a pleasure to have you with us this evening."
"Hi, Maurice," Stan said. "This is Dr. Mead, of the university faculty."
I was about to offer him my hand when Maurice bowed slightly and said, "I am happy to make your acquaintance, Dr. Mead. Bienvenu a Stefan's."
"Thanks, Maurice, it's good to know you."
He led us quite a way back through the restaurant, which was nearly full on a Saturday evening. The clientele was well dressed, and there was a subdued hum of conversation. Our table was in an alcove beside a window that looked out on a small lake. "This is the table you requested, I believe, Mr. Mason."
"Exactly, Maurice. Merci infiniment!"
"De quoi, m'sieu. Your server this evening, again according to your request, will be Kent. He will be here momentarily to take your drink orders."
Kent appeared almost immediately. Maurice was wearing a tuxedo. The wait staff wore the whole formal rig except for the jacket. So there was Kent with white wing-collar shirt with studs, black pants, and black loafers. There was Kent, blond with brown eyes, 6'2", a knockout.
"Mr. Mason, good evening, sir. It's nice to have you with us."
"Kent, babe, how ya doin'?" Stan reached over and took Kent's right hand in his left and held it for a minute. "It's nice to see you, too. Did you debaters have a good season this year?"
Kent beamed down at Stan and said, "Yeah, we only lost once."
"Good man."
"Can I get you and your, uh, friend something to drink?"
"I'm sorry, " Stan said. "This is Dr. Timothy Mead of the university English Department. Tim, this is Kent Statten."
Kent smiled and said, "Oh, you're `The Iceman'!" Then he looked stricken and said, "Ohmygod, I can't believe I said that. I'm sorry, Dr. Mead."
Stan and I both howled, causing people to look our way. "It's OK, Kent," I said. "I plead guilty."
"Look, professor," he said, still embarrassed, "I really AM sorry. Maurice would have my tail if he knew I'd said that."
"No problem. You're on the university debate team? " He nodded. A light bulb went on in my head. "Oh, then you're a friend of Mark's."
"Yeah, that's how come I happen to know Mr. Mason here."
"Yes," Stan said, "but I always ask for Kent when I'm going to be at Stefan's. He's going to be a first-rate lawyer. He's already first-rate at this job."
"Thanks, sir. Now that I've made a first-rate fool of myself, can I take your drink order?"
"Tim, what's your pleasure? I understand you're a beer drinker."
"Actually, Stan, I drink beer with the guys, just to fit in. I'd really rather have a glass of wine, a chardonnay maybe. I'm still learning about wine."
"Chardonnay it is, then. Any preference?"
"You can help me here, I think. Let's have something you like but that's not outrageously expensive, so I could afford it again later."
"Have you tried Kendall-Jackson?"
"Yeah, nice stuff."
"Kent, how about a bottle of the Guenoc? I think Dr. Mead may like that."
"Coming right up, gentlemen."
Kent was back soon with hot French rolls, butter with what looked like chive in it, and the wine. Stan went through the whole silly sniffing and tasting and approving ritual, but he did it with a gleam in his eye which said to me that he knew it was pretentious.
"I'll be back in a minute with your salads," Kent said.
"Hey, Kent," Stan said. "Take your time. We'd like to have a fairly slow pace this evening. Dr. Mead and I have a lot to talk about."
"Got it, Mr. Mason. A slow pace it is. I'll check back later to see if you're ready for your salads. And then I can take your orders for your entrees."
"Perfect, Kent, thanks." Then, after the server was gone, he said, "Tim, I'll bet you're wondering what this is all about."
"I confess I had wondered after Ced called me to set this up."
"I don't want to spoil the evening with too many questions, but I'm curious about this man who has suddenly appeared in Mark and Ced's lives. I'd just like to get to know you better. OK?"
This was beginning to seem a little pushy, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Sure, why not?"
I took a piece of roll, slathered some of the nearly-white chive butter on it, and tasted it. I closed my eyes and smiled in appreciation. Then I had a sip of the chilled chardonnay. Heaven. Assistant professors don't get to live like that. I decided to keep some good wine in the fridge, but there was no way I could have rolls and butter like this at home.
When I opened my eyes, Stan was - I can only call it "sparkling" at me. "Good?"
"Oh, yeah. The chardonnay's excellent. Stan, this is a real treat. So what do you want to know about me?"
"Well, Tim, I already know a good deal. You were a pretty fair thin-clad at Kenyon. You graduated from there summa cum laude in English. You dated regularly but were never really serious with anyone. Then you went to Stanford, where you took your Ph.D. in, let's see, dos Passos?"
I was amazed. "How could you possibly know all of that?"
"There's an awful lot of material out there on the web, you know." Then he winked at me and said, "And my friend Randall Clarke was pretty helpful, too."
"You know Dr. Clarke?" Randall Clarke was - still is, for that matter - the head of the English Department at Kenyon. He was a real friend to me when I was there. He's the one who encouraged me when I asked if I had what it took to get a Ph.D. and teach at the university level.
"I'm on the Board of Trustees at Kenyon, so I know a number of faculty members there. But Randy and I were undergrads together at Oberlin. All it really took was a phone call to my old friend."
Kent brought our salads, mixed field greens with some sort of wonderful, light, lemony vinaigrette. "Kent," Stan said, "the way my friend here has been tearing into those rolls, I think you'd better bring us some more."
"Right away, sir," Kent said. I noticed that he had a nice package as well as a nice smile.
"Stan, I'm sorry. Have I been pigging out?"
"Not to worry. It's good to see you enjoying your meal. Either you are very hungry, or else you have the kind of metabolism the rest of us only long for. I'll bet you can eat whatever you want and don't have to worry about your weight."
"Yes. My mother says I eat like a cormorant. But sometimes I just don't feel like eating, and then I'm likely to skip a meal or two. It doesn't seem to make much difference whether I eat or not. My weight stays the same."
"Well, just make sure you eat healthily. When you live alone, as I can tell you, it's pretty easy to rely on junk food, fast food, and pizza."
I laughed and said, "I think you just summed up my diet." After pausing to take another forkful of salad and a sip of wine, I continued, "Now, Stan, tit for tat. How about you? I know from Mark that you are the city manager in Meadville, that you have a son you must really be proud of, and that Cedric thinks you're the greatest thing since sliced bread."
Laughing, Stan sipped his wine and said, "Oh, yes. I'm really proud of Mark. I couldn't ask for a better son. It wasn't easy for him after his mother and I divorced. She left me, you know. She found a guy more to her liking, so at least I haven't had enormous alimony payments. She got custody, for the usual reasons. Mark and I were always close, though, and when he was old enough to do so legally, he chose to come and live with me."
It was about then, I think, that Kent appeared unobtrusively. "Would you gentlemen like more time, or are you ready for the menus?"
When Stan indicated our readiness, Kent disappeared, returning almost at once with the menus. Then he recited a long list of the evening's specials without any faltering. "I'm impressed, Kent," I said. "I can't seem to get my students to remember four rules for using commas, and you just ran through all those specials without a hitch."
Stan laughed and said, "It's a matter of motivation, I suspect."
Neither of us needed to spend time over the menus as we both ordered one of the specials, Stan opting for tournedos of beef while I chose salmon.
When Kent had left, Stan asked, "Can I make any assumptions about your political views because you did your dissertation on dos Passos?"
I smiled, leaned back, and said, "Stan, I had better warn you. You shouldn't ask me about dos Passos. I tend to talk forever when people do that. So, I'll just answer your question and then bite my tongue, ok?"
He grinned and nodded.
"I could say that I chose JDP because, aside from Joyce and Faulkner, he did more fascinating things with narrative technique, point of view, and the like than any twentieth- century novelist. And that would be true." I paused and glanced at Stan.
He was attentive, obviously waiting for me to continue. "But, yes, I confess, I admire his political views, too. My father calls me a P.L.S."
Stan raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"Pissy liberal shit."
"Well, Tim, wasn't it Wendell Willkie who said, `If a man isn't a liberal at twenty, there's something wrong with his heart. If he's still a liberal at thirty, there's something wrong with his head'?"
"Yes," I replied. "So tell me Stan, did Willkie get elected?"
He roared at that, leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, "So the Iceman has a heart. Tim, I think you and I will do just fine."
It had gotten dark outside, and lights had come on along a path leading down to the water. I saw a couple, both smoking. She was sitting on a bench, he standing beside her, looking across the lake. Though they were clearly together, they seemed at that moment oblivious of each other. I felt the poignancy of their being somehow connected yet so obviously apart and thought of new connections and impending disconnections in my own life.
Across the room I spotted Gwen Fairchild with a man I didn't know. She was stunning, as usual, in a dress of soft wool in a Wedgwood blue. She wore a very expensive-looking scarf of white, Wedgwood, and navy. They were having an animated conversation, and I could tell from her expression that she was enjoying herself. She looked across the room at us and wiggled her fingers in a wave. I started to wave back until I realized she was waving at Stan, who, with a dazzling smile, lifted his glass to her.
Stan topped up our glasses. "You sure you're not minding this inquisition?"
"I seem to be surviving. What's next?"
"Cedric's next. He and Mark have been rooming together since they were freshmen. I think you know why Ced and I have a special connection."
"You mean because you're both . . ."
"The word is `gay,' Tim. You can say that here. I asked for this table because we have complete privacy. You may as well get used to saying it. Yes, Ced and I share something that Mark and I can't share. I think of him as a second son."
"And Mark's OK with all of this?"
"Mark's amazing. He loves us both. He's always been perfectly accepting about my being gay."
"Is Mark as straight as he seems?"
Stan looked at me directly. The twinkle was gone, for the moment, replaced by a steely look. "Yes." A warning, perhaps?
Thinking that, dammit, two could play at this game, I said, "We're supposed to be getting to know each other, but you're doing all the asking, and I'm doing all the answering." Giving him my best effort at a steely gaze, I continued, "Would you like to tell me what you mean when you say Cedric is like a son to you?"
Stan raised both hands, palms out, and said, "Whoa, Tim, I've offended you. Let me apologize. I've obviously overstepped the bounds. I AM asking too many questions, and the look I just gave you was pure instinct, a dad protecting his son. Both the questions and the look were out of order." He twinkled at me again. "Forgive me?"
I was only partially mollified, but what could I do? Then something occurred to me. "Stan, apology accepted. You know, it's funny. Here you've been suspecting that I'm some sort of a letch fooling around with one of his students and perhaps with designs on Mark, too, while I just wondered if you were a dirty old lusting after his son's roommate."
He laughed. "Tim, as I said, the look I gave you WAS inappropriate. Maybe it would help if I told you a story. You game?"
"Is this a parable, Stan, or a true story?"
"Pure autobiography, I'm afraid."
I put my salad fork down and nodded for him to go ahead.
"Not long after I moved to Meadville, I had an affair with a very young professor at Allegheny, which you know is in Meadville, don't you?"
"Oh, yeah, I ran against them when I was at Kenyon."
"I say it was an affair, but I really thought it was more than that. His name was Leigh. Much taller than me, Nordic type, blond, blue-eyed, broad shoulders and no hips at all. He teaches music theory. Still there."
"Sounds nice."
"Oh, he was nice all right. The sex was fantastic, but it was much more than that. We enjoyed doing things together, going to concerts, the theater, art galleries. I arranged my vacation time so that he and I could travel together. We walked down the Castro in San Francisco, we went to a gay resort in St. Petersburg. I took him to Paris and London. We always wanted to go to Key West, but never made that trip. We talked books and music and history and politics. He helped me in the garden."
"That sounds pretty wonderful."
"Tim, I loved Leigh. I thought we had something really special, as corny as that sounds. But it turns out he was more interested in what I could buy for him and the places I could take him than he was in me."
"That must have been painful. So you broke it off?"
"Not exactly. Leigh spent so much time at my place, he was hardly ever in his apartment. Or so I thought. Turns out he had a coed living there. He got her pregnant and then married her. I see them both occasionally. Meadville's too small a place for me to be able to avoid them entirely."
"Stan, I'm sorry. Leigh sounds like a real jerk."
"You could say that. I have to tell you, I was really shaken to think that he could betray me like that. And I never had an inkling of what was going on. Not to sound like cheap fiction, but I felt so `used.'"
"Has there been anyone since?" I asked.
"Just for casual sex once in a while. But I need a good man in my life. You know, someone for the long haul. It still hurts a lot because I thought Leigh was the guy."
`So the poised, polished, charming, super-confident Stan knows what it's like to be thrown over, knows what it's like to hurt,' I thought. I suddenly felt a great surge of affection for him that I had not felt before.
He continued, "The point is that I won't allow anything like that to happen to Ced. I couldn't stand for him to have to go through what I went through. After being with you this evening, Tim, I've seen enough of you to know that you aren't a letch."
He looked me in the eye and gave me a rather sad smile, "I hope you can give me the benefit of the doubt, too. As you know very well, Ced is the kind of kid any father would be proud of. He's brilliant. He's a fine athlete. Most important, though, he has one of the sweetest natures of anybody I've ever known. I think I was able to help him when we first met three years ago and he told me about being gay. I've met his parents, who are delightful folks, by the way, and enlightened people. They've never given him a hard time over being gay. But he found it helpful to talk to an older man who also happened to be gay, something his real dad can't do for him. We've had many talks since. But I couldn't any more fool around with him than I could with Mark. Does that allay your suspicions?"
"Yes, Stan, it helps enormously. That instant stab of jealousy surprised me. It must be an indication of how completely I love Ced. You deserve to know that I'm ready to make any kind of commitment to him he wants, including coming out if he wants that. I'll do whatever it takes to hang on to him." I reached over and put my hand on his. (To hell with Gwen!) "And for what it's worth, I hope you find your guy."
He smiled again, this time with more of his usual sparkle. "Thanks, Tim, I appreciate that. And I wish only the best for you and Ced. It isn't going to be easy for you two, but if you love each other as much as you both say you do, you'll work it out as you go along. And a really great guy is worth making some sacrifices for, if necessary."
The first thing I picked up on was that Ced must have told Stan he loves me! I felt the blush coming. Then I felt moisture in my boxers.
Stan couldn't know about the leaking, but he saw the blush. "That blush does you credit, Tim. It tells me more than words how you feel about young Cedric."
The intensity of that exchange forced the conversation to more general topics for a while. I asked about Oberlin, and Stan talked about the college as he remembered it and as it had become lately.
Then he said, "Tim, now I am really reluctant to ask you any more questions. In the cause of growing a friendship, however, would you tell me a little about your family?"
By this point it would have been surly of me to refuse. And I did want to pursue a friendship with this man. "Well, I grew up in Belpre, and my folks still live there. Ever hear of Belpre?"
"Sure, it's near Marietta, just across the river from Parkersburg. I know Rudy Mayhew, the mayor."
"Why does that not surprise me?" I asked, smiling.
"So, go on, please."
"Dad's a chemist. He's always worked across the river at the Dupont plant. Mom was a nurse when they met, but she quit working when I was born."
"And how would you describe your relationship with your parents? Or am I getting too personal? I DO have a reason for asking."
I could imagine what the reason was. It seemed reasonable for one gay man getting to know another to ask about childhood experiences. I just hoped that sometime I'd get a chance to ask him similar questions. But this was his party. And it WAS good to be able to talk about this with him. I'd apparently been repressing so much that I'd never talked with anyone about my sexuality until Ced practically burst into my life. And he and I had been too busy doing things to each other to talk much about ourselves.
"Mom's a dear," I said. "As an only child, I think she dotes on me. She was glad I went to college in Ohio, hated it when I was in California for three years, and is happy I'm back in the state. She plays bridge and golf and loves to shop and redecorate the house."
"And your dad?"
"He's always been pretty much into his work. He's active in the church and in Kiwanis, likes to play golf on weekends. To be honest, I think I've always been a disappointment to him. He would have liked a rugged, jock-type son. Don't get me wrong, I know he loves me, and I couldn't have gotten my education without his help. But he and I just can't seem to find much to say to each other. I'd characterize him, now that I think about it, as, let's see, supportive, genial, and remote. Knowing him, though, he'd probably be a lot less genial and considerably more remote if he knew I'm . . . ."
"Tim, you've got to get used to saying it. You're gay."
"Well, I've had some pretty good straight sex, too, Stan. So the more accurate term would appear to be `bi'."
He smiled. "I stand corrected, professor. `Bi' it is. Now, may I ask one or two more questions before I let you off the hook?"
I took the last roll from the basket and nodded.
"What about church?"
"Mom and Dad are Methodists. In Belpre that means, among other things, that you believe every word of the Bible is the `inspired word of God.' I was made to go to Sunday school and church every Sunday of my life. In college, I got away from all of that, so I guess right now I'd have to say I'm nothing, agnostic maybe."
"You must have some sort of ethical system."
"I should hope so! After all, you don't have to be religious to be ethical. The Greeks knew that. In fact, doing what you know is right because it IS right strikes me as being more admirable than doing something for fear of not going to heaven."
About then Kent showed up with Stan's tournedos and my Alaska salmon.
"Can I get you gentlemen another bottle of the Guenoc, or perhaps something else?" Kent asked.
"No, Kent, thanks. I'm driving, and I suspect Dr. Mead's had all he wants, too, right, Tim?"
I realized I must have had at least three glasses of the wine. Not wanting to make a fool of myself with this man, I said, "Right! I've had plenty, thanks."
I picked up my fork, broke off a chunk of the tender salmon, and tasted bliss. Stan was concerned for a few moments with his beef. Then he looked at me.
"How is it?"
"Oh, man! A guy could get used to this."
We busied ourselves for a few minutes, tasting each item on our plates. Then I took the opportunity to find out more about my host.
"Stan, weren't you, or aren't you a lawyer? I think I remember Mark saying something about that."
"Yeah, after Oberlin I went to Michigan, was on the Law Review there. As soon as I passed the bar, I was hired by a big firm in Pittsburgh and did corporate law work for twenty some years."
"What happened? Why did you quit?"
The mixed grilled veggies were tender-crisp, perfect with the salmon. I also had a goodly portion of rice that tasted like perfume, so I left it. Stan had some sort of potatoes that looked as if they had been shredded and then maybe fried like a potato cake, very brown and crisp. He, too, had the mixed vegetables.
We occupied ourselves again with the food, glancing at each other often and making appreciative noises.
"Where were we? Let's see. Why did I quit lawyering? Made a pile of money. And was bored out of my gourd! So I decided to get out before I fossilized."
I took another forkful of the salmon, which had a tart mango chutney topping, and waited for him to continue.
He put down his knife and fork and leaned toward me. "Tim, I realized I was helping fat cats get richer. I had already made more money than I'll ever need. Why should I spend the last 25 years of my working life making more just so I can leave it to Mark, who probably won't ever need it anyway?"
We both chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and then he continued. "I had felt for some time that I wanted to be more useful, to `put something back,' as they say. Then one day I bumped into a friend from my Michigan days. He was teaching at Allegheny. We had dinner together, and I was telling him about my restlessness, about wanting to get into something more satisfying. That's when he told me that Meadville was looking for a city manager. He pressed me to apply for the job."
"So you did, and the rest is history," I said.
"Well, to apply took a lot of soul-searching and maybe more courage than I thought I had. I talked it over with Mark. He's the one who finally convinced me that I should do it. He said, `Pops, I think you should go for it!' So I did."
Suddenly I envied Mark and Stan their relationship. Stan was obviously, and from what I could observe, for good reason, proud of Mark. Mark's acceptance of Stan and his encouraging his dad to make a significant career change were evidence that he loved and honored his father. Ced, too, obviously loved this man.
As I worked on my salmon and vegetables, avoiding the --what was it? "jasmine rice"-I watched Stan eat, aware as I did so of his power, his magnetism. I felt wistful somehow. And then something occurred to me. I was obviously being checked out. Why? Could it be that I was being weighed for inclusion? What a thought!
I put my knife and fork parallel on the plate and sat back. Just as I did that, Stan looked at me directly and I knew! I was right. I was on the verge, at least, of being accepted into this man's life.
He placed his silverware on the plate, leaned back, and smiled. Neither of us said anything.
Unobtrusively, Kent was back, clearing. "Would you like to see the dessert menu?"
Stan looked at me. "Tim, I'm going to take a liberty here. Let me order dessert?"
"Hey, Pops, go for it!"
Kent looked puzzled, especially when Stan roared with laughter.
"Ced's found himself a treasure!. I should explain that the menu here at Stefan's is pretty eclectic. But Stefan himself is Austrian, and, despite the length of the dessert menu, on your first visit here, you have to have the Sachertorte."
"With some coffee, perhaps?" Kent asked.
"Sounds great," I said. Then, when Kent was gone, I continued, "Stan, this has all been wonderful. The food has been extraordinary, especially for this very junior professor. And I think I see why Ced is so fond of you. It's been a real treat getting to know you. But look, I'm still not sure I understand why you've gone to all this trouble."
"Before I answer that question, let me just say something else about my job change a few years ago."
"Please."
"Tim, life is full of opportunities. We never know what doors are going to open up for us. We have to be willing to go through those doors, to find out what's possible on the other side. Life is too damned much fun to hang back. On the other hand, we can't give ourselves over entirely to fun. We have to act responsibly. We have to commit ourselves to others and do what we can to help them. Are you with me?"
"I understand what you are saying, and, for what it's worth, I agree with you absolutely."
He beamed at me.
"I think I've found out what I needed to know."
I was still puzzled, and I must have looked it.
"It's like this, baby. Mark told me all about those really nasty things the guys did to you. I think he learned a valuable lesson from all of that, but it was at your expense. I admire you for thinking that they needed some sort of payback. I also admire you for your moderate response. So I was prepared to think you might be a pretty decent sort. But they told me about your being called "The Iceman." So, I had an image of some sort of stern, older guy. And when I learned that Ced was head over heels in love with you, I was worried. I had to find out for myself who he had gotten himself hooked up with. So, this evening was to check out Ced's new lover. Besides that, as unlikely as it seems, you appear to have become a good friend of Mark and Trey as well. I just HAD to find out about you. Do you mind too much?"
I laughed. "That depends on whether I pass the test."
Kent showed up with the sinfully rich dessert. This once I was glad for my inefficient metabolism, as I enjoyed every bite.
"Tim, there's just one more question on the exam, perhaps the stickiest one."
"And that would be . . . ?"
"I understand you are engaged."
Woops! "Yeah."
"Forgive me, but what's with that? You're having a hot relationship with Ced, and you're engaged to someone?"
"Guilty as charged, counselor, `guilty' being the operative word."
He waited, obviously expecting more.
"This whole thing has thrown me for a loop. Two weeks ago I would have denied that I'm bi."
"You want to tell me about that?"
It was a rhetorical question, but I considered it anyway. Did I want to tell him? Yes, he was just the person I COULD talk to about it.
"Briefly, then. When I was a young teen, I was attracted to other guys. But growing up in southern Ohio you learned early on that homosexuality was an abomination. So I told myself that those urges were the devil's work and squelched them. I dated various girls in high school, lost my virginity, and had sex with several of my dates. In college, I continued the pattern. I just sort of assumed that's the way things were supposed to be. I enjoyed women, enjoyed being with them and talking with them and, face it, screwing them. If I ever caught myself looking at another guy, I just told myself to forget that and get back on track."
Stan hadn't moved. He sat there, smiling at me, silently encouraging me to continue. Sexy! I smiled back.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. I realize I've got to tell Amy. I owe it to her to let her know as soon as possible. I've just had so much to think about. I still can't believe how suddenly I accepted the gay side of my nature. Ced just bowled me over, and I loved it. I love him. I hope I never lose him. But what to tell Amy? How to tell Amy? I just haven't figured out how to do it."
"Tim, you've got to tell her, and soon. She deserves that. And there's something you may not have considered."
"What's that?"
"How do you suppose Ced feels, knowing that you're having sex with him but haven't broken off your engagement yet?"
"My God, Stan. I hadn't thought of that!"
He reached over and put his hand on mine. Again, I thought of my senior colleague across the room. And again I didn't care. I reveled in this man's strong hand on mine, in the power I felt from it. At that moment, everything was so good I was beyond worry.
"So, Tim, out of concern for your lover and for Amy you've got to break it off right away."
"Stan, you're right. Thank you. I've been so mixed up with all of that, I've forgotten what's right and decent. I'll call Amy tomorrow. I hate to do it over the phone, but I can't possibly get to Indianapolis before a week from today, and that's too long, isn't it?"
"Yeah, you can't put it off that long. I know you'll find the right thing to say to her."
"I'd rather not tell her I'm gay, Stan. She'd tell her parents, and they'd tell everybody, including my parents, and I'm not ready to deal with that -- yet."
"Why don't you just tell her you've found somebody else? That wouldn't be a lie, and that's all she really needs to know, except, of course, that you are sorry you've put her through all of this."
Feeling guilty for being so happy with Ced and for being such a rat to Amy, I said, "Thanks, Stan. I appreciate this wakeup call."
We sipped the last of our coffee. Stan looked at me, very serious now, and said, "I think young Cedric is pretty lucky. But so are you, you know."
I said, "Yeah, Stan, I know."
Kent brought the check, which Stan glanced at briefly. "Thanks, Kent. I'll tell Maurice what a great job you did," he said, handing over a pile of money.
"Thanks, Mr. Mason. I'll be right back with your change."
When Stan said, "No need, babe," I thought Kent was going to pass out. Apparently the tip was hefty.
Stan did catch Maurice, compliment him on the food, thank him for the special table, and mention what an attentive job Kent had done. Outside, Drew spotted us before we saw him. "I'll have your car here in just a moment, Mr. Mason," he said, already trotting away.
Stan slipped him another bill as he got into the Mustang. I climbed in beside him, and we purred away.
"Tim," he said, "you might think about getting a dark green blazer, you know, like the winner's jacket at the Masters'. It would be great with your eyes and that gorgeous hair. You'd have to fight `em off."
I laughed. "I never thought of a green blazer. Thanks, Stan. If you think I should, I'll be sure to look for one."
"Yeah, hot stuff, and take Ced with you when you shop."
"Hey, that would be fun."
"Oh, and Timmy, get some decent dress slacks. Forget the khakis when you're spiffing up."
"Yes, Pops," I said.
He beamed at that. Then we were quiet for a while. I think we were both too full of good food and wine to talk much more. And I had plenty to think about.
When he pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment, I thanked him again, telling him what a treat the evening had been and how much I had enjoyed getting to know him.
He reached over, put his right hand behind my head, pulled me toward him, and gave me a big, passionate, wet kiss! I almost passed out, first with surprise and then with the heat of it all. When he let go of my tongue and my head, he said, "Timmy, we must do this again sometime. But remember, if you do anything to hurt Ced, I'll cut your balls off. And I'd like to have copies of those pictures of Mark - you know, with the lily?" I was desperately trying to catch my breath. He put his right hand on my thigh, squeezed, and said, "Good night, little stud."
Dumbfounded, unable to think straight, I got out of the car and shut the door. Stan smiled that killer smile, waved, and roared away.
I felt the wetness in my shorts, looked down, and saw a big spot on the front of my khakis, which were tented by my rigid, leaking cock. I turned quickly and went inside.
(By now you know this is going to be continued, right? -- Tim)
My buddy Tom, who is German, has sent me his recipe for Sachertorte, the dessert Stan and Tim had at Stefan's. I'm including it below in case anyone wants to try it. Tom has considerately supplied both metric and US quantities.
Tom W's Sachertorte
Grease the bottom of a 26cm/10" spring form pan or put wax paper in it. (Tom prefers the wax paper.)
Separate 8 eggs.
Whisk the egg whites until stiff; add 100g (1/2 cup) of sugar while whisking.
In another bowl, beat the egg yolks with 100g (1/2 cup) of sugar.
Add 60g (1/4 cup) of powdered baking chocolate, 120g (a bit more than « cup) of flour, and 100g (1/2 cup) melted butter, and stir it in. Don't stir too much!
Put the stiff egg whites and 50g (1/4 cup) of ground ladyfingers (or stale white cake) into that mixture and fold it in carefully. Again, don't stir too much, or it will all collapse!)
Pour the dough into the spring form pan and bake in a preheated oven at 200 degrees C (392 F) for 40 minutes. Don't open the oven during the first 15 minutes!
When the cake is done, shut the oven off, but leave the cake in it for a while. Then take it out of the form and let it rest for at least six hours.
Cut the cake in half horizontally. Heat and stir a cup of apricot jam. Fill and coat the whole cake with the jam, but don't use too much or it gets too sweet.
Finally, frost the whole cake with chocolate icing or, to get a more authentic look and texture, melt bittersweet chocolate in a double boiler and pour over the cake. Then put it in the fridge and let it harden.