One Summer at Steven's Point

ONE SUMMER AT STEVENS POINT by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2001 by the author.

[part two]

Back in my dorm room I was too keyed up to sleep. There was no doubt that Mike Wagner wanted me, but he wasn't going to let himself have me. And there was nothing I could do about it. He wasn't the first man I'd encountered this week who was terrified of his own self.

I finally decided to get in bed, hoping maybe sleep would sneak up on me. I clicked off the light, lay down and tried to relax. I tossed and turned for a long while, but finally physical fatigue got the upper hand. Just as I felt pleasant drowsiness finally begin to take over, my eyes flew open.

There it was again, an unmistakable soft tap at my door.

I quickly got up, snapped on the light and opened the door, not bothering to cover myself up even though I was dressed only in my briefs. I knew without looking who it was.

Mike was standing there, dressed in shorts and old T-shirt. He was barefoot, his hair still slightly damp. "I woke you up." He spoke softly, apologetically.

I shook my head. "It's okay. Come on in."

He hesitated. I jerked my head insistently. I knew he had gathered all his courage to be here and I was going to do my damnedest not to let him get away now.

"Come on in before some mother sees me like this and reports me to the director."

He smiled at that and stepped forward. I drew back to let him in, then shut the door.

"Want to sit down?"

Mike shook his head. He tried to speak but only a croak came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I-- I know it's late and I'm sorry. I don't why I came here..."

"Yes you do," I said.

He opened his mouth to speak but I didn't give him a chance. Quickly I put an arm around him, drew him toward me and placed my lips on his, letting my tongue dart into his mouth. He tensed and tried to pull away, uttering a muffled protest, but I tightened my grip. After a moment he returned the kiss, his body relaxing against mine. I slid one hand underneath the waistband of his shorts and claimed, for the second time, the swelling cock in his thicket of pubic hair. Deftly I worked it to full erection, drawing his shorts down with my other hand.

I knelt and engulfed him, tasting the distinctive acrid flavor of an uncut penis, letting my tongue play over the sensitive area just below the head. Salty precum flowed into my mouth. Mike sighed softly and stroked my hair with one hand. I worked him until he began to groan more audibly, then abruptly I pulled away, leaving his cock wet with my spit, the head engorged and red.

I stood and looked into Mike's eyes. "Why did you stop?" he asked.

"I don't do guys for trade," I said.

"Trade?"

"I'm not into men who play straight by standing and doing nothing," I said. This, of course, was not quite true. "Time to put out, Dad."

I was taking a calculated risk--he might turn on his heels and leave again. On the other hand, I sensed that Mike wasn't going to take the lead. For him to get any further on his journey of self-discovery I was going to have to push him.

He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry. This is all so new to me. I know I'm acting like an idiot. Tell me what to do, Alan."

I shook my head, smiling a little. "You don't need a teacher, Mike. Not for this. Just go with the flow."

Mike hesitated, then slowly raised his hand and ran it down my chest. "You have a nice body," he said.

"Thanks," I said. His hand crept into my briefs and grasped my cock tentatively.

"Feels nice," I encouraged him.

"May--may I suck it?"

I was amused but touched by his shy request. "Sure," I said. Mike moved toward me, his shorts still halfway down his thighs. "Hold on." I pulled off my underwear, then turned my efforts to undressing the rest of him.

"You are one magnificent looking man," I said, taking hold of his wrist and drawing him with me as I backed toward the bed.

In a moment he was kneeling with his head in my crotch as I sat on the edge of the bed, bobbing up and down with awkward eagerness. His obvious need made up for his lack of technique, but finally he accidentally scraped me hard enough so that I yelped.

"Watch those teeth, man."

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry," he said.

I pulled him upward. "Stop apologizing. It's not going to be perfect the first time you try it. You should know that, being a Suzuki Dad."

I lay back on the bed, Mike stretching out on top of me. We kissed some more, but somehow the mood wasn't right. I nudged him over onto his back and grasped his cock, intending to bring him off and end it. As I got a rhythm going, though, Mike stopped me.

"I don't want to cum yet."

I stifled a sigh. "Tell me what you want, then."

Mike looked at me. "You're sweet, Alan. Thanks for putting up with me. I know I must seem foolish to you."

I shook my head, embarrassed that he had read my mind. "No, Mike--"

He continued as if he hadn't heard, the words rushing from him. "I always knew I had these--feelings. But you can't be that way in a small town in Wisconsin. So I buried them, for the sake of my marriage, my daughter.

"Then Lois died, suddenly. Heart attack. I was devastated, of course. But slowly I started thinking about--being with someone again. Only I knew it couldn't be a woman. I had absolutely no idea where I'd ever find anyone, though. I'd just about given up, until this week. But I've watched you teach Molly, talked to you, heard you play. You're a kind and gifted man. And you're so handsome."

Now I was blushing. "Geez, Mike, I'm not God or anything. Just a horny guy who thinks you're hot stuff."

Unexpectedly a knowing look appeared in his eye. "Am I hot enough for you to--fuck?"

Caught by surprise, I sputtered. "You--you want me to fuck you?"

Mike nodded.

"Well, I don't know." All of sudden I was the uncertain one. "You know, it can be hard the first time. I don't want to hurt you. Maybe we should just take it slow right now, you know--"

"Alan. I'm forty-six years old. I've thought about being with another man for so long. I don't know when I'll have another chance with someone like you. Please."

I thought of another objection. "Problem is, I don't have any protection--" All of a sudden I remembered that wasn't true. There was a condom tucked away in the outer pocket of my toilet kit.

"I don't care." Mike's chin came up. "I trust you."

I shook my head, stroking his bearded cheek. "Let me teach you one thing right now, Dad. Never trust anyone who wants to put their cock up your ass on a first date." I changed tack and playfully tapped his nose. "Besides, I lied. Hang on just a sec."

I reached to the desk next to the bed and retrieved the kit. Sure enough, it was there when I unzipped the pocket, the wrapper a bit battered but intact.

"Now let's see." I fished out a bottle of Cornhusker's Lotion. "Hmm--oil free. That ought to do." Cornholer's would be a better name for the stuff, I thought. This wasn't the first time I'd used it for this purpose, though I wasn't going to tell Mike that. He was lying on his back, his eyes following my every move.

I opened the bottle and poured the thick, fragrant substance onto the fingers of my right hand. "Knees up," I said. Mike obeyed, planting his feet apart to give me access. I reached underneath his balls into the crevice between his cheeks, found the soft, puckered flesh of his asshole and slipped inside with one finger. I heard his quick intake of breath.

"Hurt?" I asked.

"No. Just feels strange."

"Take it easy, try to relax." I slid past the smooth warm flesh and gently stroked the firmer mass of his prostate.

"Nice."

I pushed a second finger in and began to slide in and out, twisting my hand, opening him up. Mike's feet rose in the air and he tossed his head from side to side, sighing with pleasure. Seeing his enjoyment was definitely getting my juices flowing again, judging from the state of my cock.

"Damn, that's nice, Alan."

"Ready for the next step?" I asked him.

"God, yes."

"I'll be honest with you, Mike. It might hurt a little at first. Let's try it with you on top," I said, pulling him to a sitting position. I tore open my condom, quickly unrolled it over myself and covered it with another handful of Cornhusker's.

I lay on my back on the bed. "Straddle me," I said. Mike obediently knelt above my prone form, his cock pointing stiffly outward, dripping precum. I couldn't resist and took a twisting swipe at it with my greased hand, grinning at him as he gasped.

"Now just sit down slowly. I'll make sure it gets to the right place." I took my sheathed cock in one hand and his ass with the other. As he bent his knees and lowered himself toward me, I looked into his face and smiled encouragingly.

"Take a deep breath and relax. Pretend you're taking a shit, push out."

Mike closed his eyes. I felt the head of my cock slowly slide in, stretching him. All of a sudden I felt the ring of his sphincter muscles close around my shaft and knew I was in.

"Oh god!" Mike cried. "It hurts." Abruptly he pulled his body up, disengaging himself. "Shit. I wanted this so bad."

"Mike, listen to me. Nothing terrible happened. Your muscles cramped, that's all, they're not used to it. Rest a moment and we'll try it again."

He shook his head, his face forlorn. "I don't think I can."

"Mike." I wasn't going to let him turn back. "You said you trusted me. Do you trust me now?"

A beat, then Mike nodded. "Good man," I said. "It's going to happen this time. Do exactly what you did before." I pressed up into him again, even more gently and slowly, whispering, "Relax...take it easy...breathe." Again I felt him opening, and the ring of muscle grab my rod. His anus squeezed my cock spasmodically as he took more and more of me. He didn't pull up this time. Finally I felt his weight on my pubic bone. He had taken me all the way in.

"You got it all, baby. How does it feel?"

Mike's eyes were screwed shut, his mouth taking in quick gasps of air. He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Jesus, I did it. I'm getting fucked. I can't believe it."

His happiness was contagious and I smiled in response. "Believe it. Now use me. I'm all yours."

Mike quickly got the hang of it and began to ride my cock. I pushed his knees upward and planted his feet on the bed so that he was squatting, thrusting my body upward to meet his downstrokes. He grunted with pleasure at every movement, his face turned upward, his eyes closed, drinking in the sensations coursing through his body.

"Lean backward," I said. Mike obeyed and his eyes flew open. I knew my cock was rubbing against his prostate. "Good, huh?"

Mike grinned down at me. "What other things can you teach me?"

I struggled to a sitting position, keeping him impaled on me as I cradled him on my lap. I bent forward and tongued one of his nipples. Abruptly Mike's hand grasped my head, drawing my face toward his. Our mouths met, teeth, lips and tongues grinding against one another. I reached down and began to masturbate him as we kissed. Muffled noises began to emanate from Mike's throat.

He broke away and cried out, "Oh god, I'm going to cum."

"Do it," I said through gritted teeth as our movements became frantic. "C'mon fucker, give me that sweet load."

We were both conscious of the thin dorm walls, but Mike's gasping breaths seemed as loud as shouts in my ear as hot fluid erupted from his cock, matting the hairs on his heaving stomach and chest and running down over my pumping hand. I felt myself lurch past the point of no return and screwed my eyes shut, grunting half in agony, half in ecstasy as I shot, and shot again into the rubber buried in Mike's ass. I let go of his cock and clamped my arms around his body as both of us heaved and shook with the convulsions of orgasm.

Finally I relaxed my grip, and we melted into a sweaty, sticky embrace. After a while I eased Mike's body back onto the bed, pulling my spent cock gently out of him. He grimaced as it popped out. "I think I'm going to feel this in the morning," he said.

"You will. Every time you take a step you'll think of me," I teased him. I bent down and licked some of the cum off his stomach.

"That's not safe, is it?"

I smiled at him. "I trust you."

I sat up and pulled the rubber off, wrapping it in tissue paper and tossing it in the wastebasket. When I was done, I lay down next to him on the narrow bed and took him in my arms. Mike nestled his head against my shoulder.

After a few minutes he stirred. "I'll fall asleep if I stay here any longer. I've got to get back. If Molly wakes up alone she'll be scared."

I knew better than to argue. "Okay. Let me clean you up." I got a towel from a nearby chair and wiped his body, mournful at the thought I wouldn't be seeing it again. Mike stood and put on his clothes, then turned to me. We hugged, prolonging the moment as long as we could.

"I probably won't see you in the morning." His voice was gruff. "We're going to get an early start, around six." He stopped. "Alan, I don't know what to say. Thank you."

I smiled at him, though my chest felt tight. "Thank you will do just fine. You're welcome. See you next year?"

Mike nodded. "I hope so. Good night." He slipped out the door.

The bustle and noise of the building being vacated woke me at six-thirty, voices and feet hurrying past my door. I dressed quickly, opened the door and padded in my slippers down the hallway to where Mike and his daughter had been staying. The door was open, the room empty. I had known they would probably be gone, but a hollow feeling still rose in me. I walked in and stood a while. A faint scent of aftershave hung in the air. Finally I turned and went back to start my own packing.

My evaluations from the students I taught and their parents were good, and I was rehired for the following summer. Sitting in another small dorm room a year later, I scanned my roster looking for Molly's name, but it wasn't there. The Wagners weren't listed on the master schedule either.

I mentioned them to Dorothy King, the Institute director, who had a remarkable memory for names and faces, considering how many kids and parents came to Institute every summer.

"I noticed they weren't back," she said. "No idea why. Nice family. Unusual for a single father to come with his child."

She sensed my disappointment. "You know, we have everyone who's been to Institute during the last five years in our database. You can come by the office and get their information if you want to contact them."

I shrugged and said, "It's nothing. Thanks anyway."

Later that week, though, I changed my mind. When I got home that August I sat at my desk in my apartment, with the paper on which I had written Mike Wagner's address in front of me. Beneath it I also had written his phone number, but I knew I would never use it.

Over the next few hours and with many false starts, I wrote, inquiring after him and Molly, hoping that she hadn't stopped playing the violin, keeping everything light and conventional in tone. Only at the end did I add: "I missed seeing you this year. I hope you'll keep in touch."

I mailed it the next day. I told myself I didn't care whether he responded or not, but the way my stomach clenched every time I collected my mail that fall mocked my attempts at self-deception. The Christmas holidays came and went before I knew that he wasn't going to write back.

Though I returned to Stevens Point to teach year after year, I never saw Mike Wagner and his daughter again.

It didn't hurt to remember him after a while. Once in while, either at the Point during the summer, or in the big city during the year, usually in bed just before falling asleep, images would come back--his salt-and-pepper beard setting off his blue eyes, the warmth on his face when he talked of his daughter, the hair on his chest, his gasps as he climaxed, his hot seed running over my urgent hand. Meanwhile, my own life proceeded, and I was mostly alone. I tried to bury myself in my work, and most of the time I succeeded. Mike Wagner's memory was a mirage, a faraway dream. Perhaps I had imagined the whole thing. Still, I treasured what remained.

I can't postpone getting up any longer. I haul my body out of bed--for a guy in his mid-forties I'm holding up okay--and get ready for the first class day. It's business as usual this year--three master classes, each with four young kids and their parents, and two larger groups. No teacher training this year, thank goodness. I go through the motions of teaching, cajoling, exhorting the students to improve, using lots of positive reinforcement. By the middle of the first day I find that I'm having fun in spite of myself. Stevens Point has that effect on almost everyone.

There's a boy in one of my afternoon classes named Jared Morgan, five years old. His mother is dark-haired, pretty and very attentive to my instruction. She and the home teacher have taught her son well--he has a beautiful position and bow hold. We work on polishing his Twinkle variations as the week flies by.

"You're playing so well," I praise him sometime during the week.

"My Mommy plays the violin even better than I do," he replies. Mrs. Morgan laughs and shakes her head.

"So you play?" I ask her.

"Yes," she says. After class that day she lingers in the room until the other parents and children have left.

"Mr. Hewitt," she says, smiling and offering her hand. "I really should have introduced myself to you before this. Molly Morgan."

I shake her hand, thinking she looks vaguely familiar. She seems to realize that more needs to be said.

"My name wasn't Morgan, of course, when I was your student."

"You were my student?"

"Yes," she says, "Here at Stevens Point, a long time ago. You worked me hard on that Vivaldi Concerto, I learned a lot. My name was Molly Wagner back then."

It all suddenly falls into place. Of course. She'd be in her twenties by now. She has a kid of her own and is having him take violin lessons, as so many former Suzuki children do.

"I remember," I say. "I'm glad you still play."

"Well," Molly laughs. "My son is being kind. I don't play much these days. I did get a music degree before I got married and had Jared, though."

"You came here with your father." I'm trying to work up the nerve to ask the question.

"That's right. We came here for several years in a row after my mother died. Those were wonderful times. Funny thing is, after that summer I had you as a teacher, Dad kind of changed. Started saying stuff about we should do other things, maybe go to other institutes. I cried, I loved coming here, but he was an incredibly stubborn man when he'd made up his mind."

Was? "How is he now?" I ask, dreading the answer.

Molly laughs again. The good humor I remembered in her as a little girl is unchanged, it seems. "Oh, just fine. Sixty-two years old, retired and running marathons. He lives in St. Paul now with his friend. He'll be coming to see Jared play on the final concert Friday night, actually. I'm sure he'd love to see you."

I'm not so sure, but I say, "I'd like to see him too."

"Mommy, can we go?" Jared asks. He's been sitting in a chair all this time holding his instrument, waiting with remarkable patience for a five-year old.

"In a minute, honey." Molly turns to him, then says over her shoulder, "Look for us in the gym Friday night, Mr. Hewitt."

The final violin concert at Stevens Point is a huge, noisy, festive affair, quite unlike the usual staid classical music concert. Some teachers elect not to play but I always do. Everyone who studies Suzuki violin plays the same songs, and one of the cornerstones of the method is knowing all of the old ones. So all the violin kids, from the oldest to the youngest, stand on the stage and also take up a large portion of the floor (the gym is the only place on campus they can pack them all into one room and also have room for the audience of doting parents, relatives and friends). The students who are most advanced play first. Then the concert works its way backward through the literature. The further back they go, of course, the more students know the songs. The grand finale is always the Twinkle, Little Star variations, the first song in the first book. By that time everyone who can hold a violin in that place is standing up and playing their heart out. It's a sight and sound to behold, and many mothers cry. I'm not ashamed to admit I still get choked up too.

As we release the last note of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the entire audience stands, applauding, whooping, and shouting "Bravo." A galaxy of flashbulbs goes off as the group bows again and again, violins and bows bobbing in unison, cued by chords banged out by the brave pianist who has accompanied the concert with the aid of a P.A. system.

Finally it's over and the audience begins to break up in cheerful chaos. I put up my fiddle and walk into the crowd, aware of how difficult it will be to find anyone in this milling mass of people. I've agreed to meet Molly and her family, but haven't said anything about where. I suddenly realize that, if Mike Wagner is here after all these years, I very much want to see him.

I start to search faces in the crowd without much hope, first going to the main entrance at the back of the gymnasium, then walking around the building, looking at the lines of people pouring from the other doors. No luck. I run into some other parents and students that I've worked with this week, further distracting me from my quest. When I finally extricate myself from the last conversation, there's almost no one around. Depression settles over me. I'm turning to go back to my dorm room with my fiddle, when I hear someone call my name.

Molly's walking toward me, waving. Behind her follows Jared, clutching his small violin case in one hand. Holding his other hand is a tall man with curly silver hair, dressed in denim shirt and jeans. He's clean-shaven, but even in the dim summer twilight I recognize Mike Wagner at once.

Molly reaches me and speaks breathlessly. "I'm sorry, it was so stupid of me not to say where we would be after the concert. I'm glad we found you. Dad, you remember Mr. Hewitt?"

We shake hands. Molly's father has a conventional smile on his face, but his eyes hold another expression that I can't read.

"Sure I do," he says. "How are you, Alan?"

"Good to see you, Mike," I say just as mechanically. To my surprise, there's a lump in my throat and it's difficult to talk. "It's been a long while."

We're saved from having to make more conversation at that moment by Jared. "Mommy, when are we going to get the ice cream?" he says, tugging at the waistband of his mother's jeans.

Molly looks at me and rolls her eyes. "I promised him ice cream if he remembered all his Twinkles for the concert. Of course he says he did."

I look at Jared and smile. "I believe it."

Molly says, "Would you care to join us?"

I look at the three of them together, not directly at Mike. "I'd like that, if it's okay with everyone."

Jared jumps in the air. "Goody!"

Mike says, "Great."

We walk in the cool evening air to a Dairy Queen on the main drag, just across from campus. Unfortunately, it seems we're the last of many people from the Institute to have the same idea. The place is packed and noisy with parents and children. We're hard put to get served or even find a place to sit. Mike suggests he stand in line while we find seats. There are none inside, and Molly, Jared and I end up outdoors, perched on concrete barriers at the edge of the parking lot.

Jared's grandfather finally appears, carrying chocolate-dipped cones for the boy and his mother, Diet Cokes for himself and me. By this time Jared is tired and fretful, his violin lying forgotten in a nearby patch of grass. He doesn't even finish his ice cream before he begins to nod off in Molly's lap.

Molly looks at him, then at Mike and me. "I'd better put him to bed. He's had a long day, and so have I."

We all stand up. "It's okay, we all don't have to go," she says. "Why don't you guys stay and talk? I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning, right, Dad?"

Mike nods. "Meet you at the Burger Chef at eight."

She turns to me and offers her hand. "If I don't see you, Mr. Hewitt, thanks for a wonderful week. You really helped Jared. And brought back some nice memories for me."

I shake it, saying, "The pleasure's all mine, Molly." She's leaving me alone with her father. I don't know whether I'm glad or sorry.

She hugs and kisses Mike on the cheek, then tries to deal with her sleepy son and his violin--Jared doesn't want to carry it. Molly gently tries to persuade him, without success.

Mike says, "Leave that with me, Molly. I'll give it to you in the morning. Jared isn't going to be practicing tonight anyway."

Molly nods, says good night one more time and walks off, cranky son in tow. Mike and I watch them go. Some distance away on the sidewalk they stop. I hear her clear voice in the evening air. "Okay, I'll carry you across the street, but you'll have to walk once we get to the other side, okay? You're too heavy for me to carry you the whole way back."

"She's a good mother," I say to Mike.

Mike chuckles. "She's a perfectionist. Must be that Suzuki training. You should have heard her grousing because Steve--Jared's dad--couldn't be here this week. He travels a lot on business."

Silence falls between us, gradually becoming strained. I pick up my paper cup and finish my now diluted drink.

Mike says, "It's a nice night. Want to walk awhile?"

I nod and we move down the sidewalk away from campus. Mike clutches the small violin case in his hand. He smiles when he catches me looking at it.

"This brings back so many memories. I did this for Molly when she was little. Then her teacher told me she was supposed to carry her own."

I stay silent, concentrating on the view down the main street. It's past ten now, completely dark, and the stores are closed and silent. The traffic lights are blinking yellow.

"Molly says you've been terrific with Jared. I figured you would be."

"I've enjoyed working with him, and seeing her again," I say, carefully. "I hope you've had a good visit with them. He's a great kid."

Mike says, "It's been nice, yes." Then he adds, "But I didn't come just to see them."

I keep my voice casual. "If you're talking about the last time we saw each other--Mike, it was a long time ago. It looks like we're both doing just fine. Why don't we just leave it at that."

Silence falls over us again. In a minute we'll be on the highway heading out of town. Then Mike says, "Well, I do want to say one thing--I've always felt bad that I didn't respond to your letter."

Old feelings surge up, hot and unexpected. "Why didn't you?" I'm still trying to sound polite and neutral, but Mike's face tells me I'm not fooling him.

"Why don't we sit a bit?" he suggests. There's one last store, a sporting goods shop, along this strip. We head across the empty parking lot and sit on the concrete stoop, our violin cases at our sides, looking like two itinerant musicians lost in the heartland.

Mike stares across the asphalt for a long time. Finally he begins to speak. "That night I came to your room--you can't know what it did to me."

He looks over at me. "It was unbelievable. Everything felt so good, so right. It scared me to death."

Again he waits for me to say something, but when I don't, he continues. "I went back home and decided I couldn't ever do anything like that again. I told Molly we were going to go somewhere else next summer. The next year, when I got your letter, I tossed it without opening it. I'm sorry about that still.

"Of course it didn't work. After a while I started doing stuff--anonymous, mostly. The guilt and pressure of sneaking around got so bad I thought about ending it. I actually tried once--took some pills I'd been prescribed to help me sleep with booze. Everyone thought it was an accident but I did it on purpose."

"What got you through?" I ask, my own feelings forgotten for the moment.

Warmth appears in Mike's face. "My daughter, of course. Lying in that hospital bed after having my stomach pumped out I realized what a selfish bastard I was, thinking I could just check out and leave her. That was when I made up my mind."

"To do what?"

Mike's chin comes up in the same determined gesture I remember from so long ago. "I'd wait till Molly went to college, and could be on her own. Then I'd sell the house, move, live the life I had to live. And that's what I did."

He shakes his head. "It wasn't as simple as I'm making it sound. Molly was plenty upset when I told her about me. Took her a long time to come around. She's still not sure about letting George spend time with Jared, which makes me real sad."

"She told me you had someone."

Mike brightens. "Well, maybe that's a good sign, that she can talk about it now. Anyway, in the past few years, since I settled in St. Paul with George, I've thought about you a lot, Alan. When Molly told me you were teaching Jared this year, it seemed like the right time to come back here." He reaches out and places a hand on my arm. "I wanted to thank you properly."

I look at his hand. "Well," I say. "Better late than never, I guess."

Mike withdraws uncertainly, aware that I'm pissed off but not understanding why. I'm not sure myself. Out of nowhere I start to tell a story.

"You know," I say, "Years ago, after I graduated from college, I was living and teaching in Boston. I had a little boy who was really good, a nice kid. Nice mom too, or so I thought. We stopped lessons one summer after they'd been with me a few years. They were going on vacation, I was teaching at some summer things, you know, the usual. That fall I called them to talk about starting lessons again and their phone was disconnected. She'd never said a word about moving.

"Years later I saw them at some weekend workshop, I can't even remember where now. The boy was older but I recognized him. I went up to the mother. She was embarrassed but I have to give her credit, she stood and talked to me.

"It took a while but finally she said she was sorry. She had been thinking of changing teachers for a while, they were moving further away anyway and it just seemed like the best way, she said. Never mind that she made me feel like dirt."

"I see."

"Do you, Mike?" Now that I was letting myself feel things I had kept buried for so long, my breath was coming rapidly and my heart was pounding. "Even after that I don't think she understood. I cared about that kid. He--they were a part of my life. So maybe she didn't think something was going well. She had no right to just cut me out, as if I were the hired help."

I turned and looked him straight in the eye. "I only knew you and Molly for that short week, Mike. But I cared. For years I wondered how you were doing, how she was doing. But you'd decided I wasn't going to be in the loop, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. That hurt."

Mike said nothing.

"So, you got yourself together and came out. You have a good life with your lover, and you still have your family. You did it on your own, and that's great. But don't expect me to fall all over myself being happy for you."

Mike nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

I storm on. "Did it ever occur to you how I felt about that night? It was damn terrific for me too. I knew there wasn't a ghost of a chance that it would happen again. But I wanted it to."

"You--you did?"

I snort. "Don't give me that modesty crap. You were fucking hot and you knew it. The way you came up to me that morning with only those tiny little running shorts on. The way you sat in my room and snickered about how the other moms were checking you out. Letting me see you hard in the shower. You knew exactly what you were doing."

Mike's eyes flash. "So, Alan. If I told you that you look better than ever now with that bit of gray in your hair and that goatee, does that mean I'm trying to seduce you? How about if I tell you I'm staying in a room by myself at the new motel on Route 10?"

I shake my head in disbelief and start to turn away, only to be abruptly pulled back by Mike's hands on my shoulders. The next moment his lips are on mine, warm and tender. I don't pull away.

We break apart. After a moment I start to laugh, softly.

"What's so damn funny?" Mike demands, but he's smiling too.

I'm laughing as much at myself as at Mike. "You are something else." I slap him gently on one cheek, then run my hand through his wiry, close-cropped hair. "This kindly grandfather act is total bullshit. You did that on purpose, didn't you? Got me mad enough to tell you how I really felt. Good work."

"So does this mean you're coming back to the motel with me?" Mike asks.

"What about George?"

"George," he says firmly, "is sick to death of hearing me moan about you. You know what he said when I was coming down here? I hope you drag him to your room and get him out of your system, he said. That answer your question?"

I lean forward, grab his head and kiss him again, harder and longer.

"My car's back at the visitor lot," Mike says when we come up for air, his voice breathless. We stand together, my arm thrown around his shoulder. Then I remember where we are and drop it.

Mike understands. "Let's not forget the fiddles," he says, pointing to the ground.

In his motel room I watch Mike Wagner unbutton and remove his shirt. His skin is leathery from years of sun, but his body's in astonishing condition, his torso so devoid of fat that the ribs show, every row of abdominal muscle visible. Something nags at my brain and after a second I realize what it is. I walk up to him and run my hand over his smooth chest. Mike smiles.

"I know what you're going to ask," he says.

"Electrolysis?"

Mike laughs. "Yikes, nothing that drastic. I shave it. George and I belong to a gay runners' club back home. I know it's vanity, but my chest hair's snow white now. That's why I lost the beard too. Otherwise I'd look like an anorexic Santa Claus."

"Go on, you look great," I say. "I'm embarrassed to get naked in front of you."

Mike shakes his head as he reaches out and draws me to him. "Don't be. You look just fine."

Once we're in bed I forget about my own body in the joy of having his in my arms again. Mike quickly gets me underneath him, overwhelming me with his urgency. He doesn't in the least resemble the shy, hesitant lover of sixteen years ago. I shudder at the constantly changing touch of his fingers, his hands, his mouth.

He sucks me for a while, then his hands are lifting my thighs in the air and his head is between my cheeks. I feel his tongue flicker into my hole. Soon I'm groaning as he rims me greedily, one hand reaching up and grasping my hard, hard cock.

Mike's face reappears, lips swollen, blue eyes dancing. He clambers up my body until his face is over mine. "I have to tell you something," he says. "George is what you might call an insatiable bottom. So I've learned a few things since we were together."

I can't help chuckling at this former Suzuki dad uttering the words "insatiable bottom." "Fine with me. I'm versatile."

"Good." Mike gets off the bed, his cock swinging in front of him, and returns with rubbers and lube. He quickly sheathes himself and covers the condom with more of the clear gel. Then, without putting any on me, he bends me double, positions himself above my hole and slides all the way in with one huge, smooth motion. "Jesus Christ!" I scream as what feels like a flaming sword surges through my insides. I writhe and struggle, but Mike leans his full weight on me and grips my wrists, pinning me to the bed. My body can't escape the invader.

"Gotcha," Mike grins. The shock of the quick penetration is starting to recede. I don't know whether to laugh at his goofy triumph or spit in his face in anger at being blindsided like this. I decide I'm mad.

"You could have warned me, asshole," I shout, trying to get a hand free so I can clip him one. Not a chance.

"Could have," Mike agrees, not at all bothered by my struggles.

"Fuck you."

"Think you have it backwards," Mike says, pulling his cock partway out and slamming it back in, drawing another astonished "Oomph!" out of my lungs. A few more of these pelvic assaults and my resistance is gone. Mike senses this and releases me. He grins again and begins to fuck me in earnest, his powerful thighs working in rapid staccato thrusts. Soon his expression becomes manic, as his face reddens and sweat from his brow begins to drip like rain on my face. I'm hanging onto him for dear life.

"Alan," he says once. He reaches down with one hand, grasps my cock and begins to jack it rapidly, using my precum as lube. I can only take a few moments of this before I feel the cum boiling up in me.

"Oh, fuck," I say, as my cock expels its hot white load, some of it hitting Mike's chest, the rest spattering over my stomach. Mike's eyes are screwed tightly shut, his teeth gritted and bared in a snarl of desire. He's thrusting into me at machine-gun pace. A low animal growl issues from his throat and erupts into a shout of triumph as he empties himself into me.

Finally his head drops, his chest heaving with release. He lets his body sag onto mine. It's a long time before his breathing slows to anywhere near normal. At last he raises his head and looks into my face. His eyes glitter in the dim light of the one lamp we've left on.

Mike says, "I'm sorry I got so rough."

I shrug, still trapped underneath him. "I'm still alive."

"I'll let you have your revenge later, if you want."

"What do you mean?"

Mike gestures toward the end table. "I have more rubbers." He shakes a finger playfully in my face. "And you're not the only versatile one in this room."

"Where do you get the energy?" I say, only half joking. "No Viagra for you, I can tell."

Mike recoils in mock horror. "No way. Not ever, hopefully." He kisses me. "I don't know, must be the environment."

"Please, no Suzuki jokes," I groan. "Now let me up, so I can figure out whether I'm still in one piece."

"Okay. But only if you promise you'll fuck me."

He withdraws and releases me. I unfold my stiff limbs. "I don't know. I don't suppose you have a cock ring with you."

Mike grins wickedly. "I didn't bring one, no. But there are some extra strings in Jared's violin case."

I have to laugh at that one.

As it turns out, I don't need any mechanical aids. I fuck Mike standing up while he lies on his back at the edge of the mattress, a pillow underneath his butt. I hold his legs apart and watch my penis, safely covered in latex, slide in and out of the crevice between his buns of steel. It's surprising enough that I've gotten it up again, but I even cum after a while, groaning at the exquisite, unfamiliar pain of a second climax.

I keep my softening cock inside Mike afterward and watch him masturbate, pulling his balls downward with his free hand. He makes no sound when he cums other than quickened breath, and he doesn't close his eyes, but keeps them locked on mine as the few small spurts fall from his cock onto his taut belly. His mouth curls in a slight smile.

We lie entwined afterward, two men who've definitively exhausted their sexual reserves.

"So," Mike says, then stops.

I look at him inquiringly.

"Are we okay now?"

I know what he's trying to say. "Yeah, we're okay."

He snuggles against me. "The best is yet to come. I get to sleep with you, finally."

I'm really touched by that, but my perverse self has to spoil the sweetness of the moment. "But I don't get to go to breakfast with you all, do I?"

Mike looks at me and sighs. "I'm being a coward, I know, Alan."

I decide to let him off the hook. "Actually, I think you're right. You can explain sleeping with me to George a lot easier than you can explain me at breakfast to Molly and Jared."

He looks at me gratefully.

"I hope she'll come around about Jared seeing George. Really."

"I hope so too."

"You WILL let me know how that goes, right, Mike?" I tease him, shoving his shoulder a bit rougher than necessary.

Mike stays serious. "Yes, I will. Promise."

In the early morning light he lets me out of his car near campus. Holding my violin case, that appendage that goes wherever I go, I turn back to him on the sidewalk. Mike's smile is tight, and his blue eyes even more vivid than usual.

"Goodbye, Mike Wagner, and safe journey," I say, squeezing his shoulder through the open window.

"We'll stay in touch," he says.

"You damn well better." I look around to make sure no one's nearby, then lean down and touch my lips to his.

He turns and drives off. I watch the car disappear, and draw a long shuddering sigh. There he goes, my love? My friend? My--?

How inadequate words are to describe the ways in which men's lives come together, fly apart, and touch once more.

I start walking and soon reach the dorm where I've been staying during the week. It's a beehive, its fickle occupants busily moving themselves out. In the midst of the noise and bustle I hear, inexplicably, the sound of a violin through an open window on one of the upper floors. Why would anyone be practicing now? Whoever it is plays well--the tone is sweet, the intonation true.

I recognize the piece. It's Pugnani's Largo from Book Eight, one of my favorites. I start to hum a snatch of it as I enter the building.

END