The following narrative involves sexually-explicit erotic events between males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or live in an area where that sort of thing isn't allowed, don't read it.
This is a work of fiction. No similarity between the characters here and any real person is intended or should be inferred.
In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms. In the real world, you should care enough about yourself and others to always practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
Thanks, as always, to Tommy, Patrick, Ash, Evan, and Mickey.
This chapter is a sort of addendum to "Out of the Night." Readers first heard about Rick when Doug told Stan about him in chapter 5.
Timmead88@Yahoo.com Chapter 12: Rick's Story
Aristotle says to begin a narrative in medias res, in the middle of things. That's not often done in stories posted here, and I'm not going to do it either. You may as well know a little about me from the outset.
My name, for example. I'm Richard Modarelli, called Rick by my friends and, occasionally, Rick the Prick by people I've managed to piss off. I'm from Chicago. My dad has a condo in a high rise overlooking Lake Michigan and a cabin in the woods of Greenbriar County, West Virginia. My mother died when I was six. If you follow national politics, you have probably heard of my dad, Peter Modarelli. He's a senator from Illinois. He started as a lawyer, made lots of money, and then decided to make a run for Congress. His election surprised the "experts." After all, what were the chances of a guy with an Italian name in Irish Chicago? Well, he fooled them. And he became a popular congressman.
I need to stress here that I loved my father. After Mother died, he never remarried. He devoted himself to me and to his career. There must have been other women occasionally, but he never had a woman when he and I were together. He was terribly busy with his law practice when I was little, but he spent as much time with me as he could on weekends. He took off a whole month to spend with me every summer, and he devoted himself to me during those times. He was loving, patient, indulgent, and supportive. He realized how difficult it was for me without a mother and with him so busy. But I loved the time we could spend together and I adored him. He was tall (I got the short genes from my mother), very handsome, utterly charming. Some of our best times were at the "cabin" in West Virginia. It was pretty luxurious for a cabin. But we lolled around, cooked together, listened to music. We talked about everything. He treated me and my ideas with respect even when I was a mildly rebellious adolescent.
We had a live-in housekeeper/nanny for me in the Chicago condo, but when he was elected to Congress as I was going to enter ninth grade, we decided that I'd go to boarding school. When I finished at Phillips (won't tell you which one), I decided to go to a small, quiet middle-western college to get away from all the East-Coast snobs. I was the son of a well-known politician, and that brought me a certain amount of cachet, but, although we are reasonably well off, it wasn't old money. And with a name like Modarelli, you are an immigrant in the eyes of some of those insufferably arrogant WASP preppie types, no matter how long your family may have been in this country.
I wound up at Cranmer. I'm not sure why, but it was a good fit. I had lots of friends. It is a pretty campus. As a Chicagoan, I don't mind snow, nor did the long, cold, gray winters in northwestern Ohio bother me. Oh, everybody bitched once in a while as we left the frat house for class when there was snow and a ball-shrinking wind coming out of the northwest, but I enjoyed sitting and reading in the big, nineteenth-century fake-gothic library on those dreary days. The place was warm, I loved the smell of old books, and I could happily lose myself there for a whole afternoon.
When I got to Cranmer, I was rushed by a fraternity that had a lot of jocks. Cranmer isn't a big sports school. In fact, it's a small, liberal arts college. They had about 2500 students when I was there. Most Cranmer students go on to graduate or professional school somewhere. But any college has its jocks, and many of them were in the fraternity I pledged. Why did they want me? Perhaps because I am a fair soccer player, and, as it turned out, I made the team. I was never a star, though I did play regularly. Cranmer's team has traditionally been excellent, and the sport is popular on that campus. I think the fraternity also wanted me, however, because they thought I'd help raise their academic average, you know, have a GPA that would help the fraternity look good.
Considering where this story is making its appearance, the reader is unlikely to be surprised when I reveal that I'm gay. I've known I was gay since about the time I began to get pubic hair. Phillips was fun for me. Lots of the guys there were gay, and I had a series of discreet "affairs." Or, since there wasn't anything like love involved, maybe I should just admit that I had several fuckbuddies.
Being in the fraternity at Cranmer did two things for me. It was a kind of camouflage since most of my brothers were jocks and therefore considered super straight. Besides, the eye candy was the best on campus. Who wouldn't take a deal like that? I should also say that the greek organizations didn't have a lock on social life on campus. There were lots more independents than at some colleges. And, again, the typical Cranmer student just wasn't as snobbish as my prep school friends had been.
It's always seemed to me terribly narcissistic that so many Nifty stories begin with the narrator describing himself. Who cares what I look like? Certainly I'm not remarkable. I'm short, only 5'6", with black curly hair and practically black eyes. You would expect a guy named Modarelli to be a redhead maybe? I'm kind of stocky, but what with soccer and working out, none of it is fat. What is fat is my six-inch cock. Some of my liaisons have had a little problem with that, but I'm very patient and gentle. I've found it helps to start with a long, slow rim job.
Now that you know the personal data, I may as well make it clear that this story is not primarily about sex. It's about guilt. My guilt. I know what I did was wrong. I have bad dreams about what I did to Doug. At times I have an overpowering urge to find out where he is and go tell him how sorry I am, perhaps explain to him. But I don't know what's become of him, and, if I were able to find him, I doubt that he'd agree to see me. Why would he? I may have ruined his life. I know I ended his career. I don't think I'm a monster. Weak? Maybe. Stupid? Perhaps. (No, my IQ is high enough, but we've all done really dumb things at one time or another, haven't we?) However. I'm getting ahead of my story, as they say.
Like so many others, when I arrived on campus for freshman orientation, I checked "Undecided" on all those forms that ask about your major. I had no very clear notion of what I wanted to do with my life. Dad, always a benevolent father, was a little disappointed that I had chosen to go to Cranmer College in Ohio, but he agreed to it, saying that I might perhaps "find myself" there, and that I could always transfer to a "better school" when I discovered my true calling.
I took to Cranmer like the proverbial duck to water. Not all of my fraternity brothers were stupid, and I had both male and female friends with whom to have a coffee or a beer and talk about those problems that all college students think they've discovered and are sure, given time, they can solve. I remember Cranmer as a place where we talked endlessly, seriously, but with growing affection for one another, a place of late-night bull sessions, exhilaration over things of the mind and spirit. There was good sex, too, but I'll get back to that.
Somewhere early in the second semester of freshman year, I realized that I'd like nothing better than to spend my life in academia. I wanted to be a college professor, and by that time I knew pretty well which discipline, too. I had had enough AP work before I got there that I was excused from Cranmer's freshman comp and intro to lit courses. So I was taking a two-semester survey of American literature my first year and loving it. I declared an English major before the year was out.
The rest of that year and the next two passed quickly. Our soccer team did brilliantly, and we carried a nineteen-game winning streak into the fall of our senior year. I had lots of friends. I loved most of my classes. I was something of the "fair-haired boy" around the English Department. My professors kept asking me where I was going to graduate school and telling me they'd be happy to write letters supporting my applications.
But that fall of 96 is when it all started. The shit, I mean. As a senior, I had been able to snag a single room in the fraternity house. It must have been during the first week of the semester. Sitting there reading about 11:00 one evening, I heard a knock. When I opened the door, three of my fraternity brothers were standing there. I invited them in.
They were an interesting assortment. There was Marcus Seacliffe, the president of the fraternity. Marcus was the stereotypical jock in some ways. He was blond and brawny, as befitted the running-back captain of the football team. He had a crew cut and blue eyes, and he was pushy and insensitive. I don't know how he got to be president of the fraternity. It certainly wasn't with my vote. With him was his sidekick and roommate, Larry "Fumblefingers" Malone, who came by his nickname honestly. He was a bit of a fumblebrain, too, in my book. About the same size as Seacliffe, he had short, black hair, blue eyes, and, by that time, a lot of black stubble on his face, far beyond "five o'clock shadow." With them was someone I knew very well. Ned Branscomb, 5'11," with brown hair and hazel eyes, one of my soccer teammates, and gorgeous, stood there looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was holding a large manila envelope. As I said, I knew Ned very well, and I could sense he really didn't want to be there just then.
"So, gentlemen, what brings you here at this hour?"
It was, of course, President Marcus who did the talking.
"Brother Rick, the time has come for you to do something to help out our brotherhood."
"What do you need for me to do?"
I'll spare you Marcus's inept language. What they wanted me to do was unthinkable, and I refused.
"You'd better reconsider that, Brother Rick. We've known you are a fag for a long time, and you owe your brothers for keeping your little secret."
"Okay, so you know I'm gay. I've been very discreet, I think, in order not to embarrass the fraternity. So why have you waited until senior year, Marcus, to bring this up?"
"Because now we have this problem, and you are just the brother to help us with it."
"I can't believe you'd ask me to do that. You know I am a loyal brother. I'd do just about anything, so long as it wasn't unethical. But what you are asking me is really wrong, and I can't do it."
Fumblefingers stood there looking blank. Why was he there? For "moral support"? Hardly. It was the intimidation factor, I surmised. Marcus was growing angrier by the moment at having his "request" denied. And poor Ned gripped that envelope looking as if he wished he were invisible.
"OK, Brother Ned," Marcus said with a faked sigh, "I guess you'll have to show Brother Rick what's in the envelope."
Ned handed me the envelope, and I opened it. Inside were a handful of very clear pictures of Ned and me having sex. I should say they were pictures of me having sex with someone whose face never showed, but whom I knew to be Ned. He and I had had a hot time during the previous spring semester. Ned was a sweet, tender, and very sexy man. We were good friends, and I had hoped we might resume our relationship that term.
In one of the photos I was giving Ned a rim job. My face was quite recognizable, but only his ass showed. In another I was on my knees with his cock in my mouth. I was looking up at him. In another Ned was on his hands and knees with his head down. I was behind him, in him, with my head thrown back, obviously at the moment of climax. In yet another I was lying on my back getting fucked. My cock was lying hard, red, and dripping against my stomach. Ned was holding my legs up by the ankles. I was grinning broadly at him. His head wasn't in the picture. The camera was shooting me over his shoulder. The location was clearly his room, and the pictures were obviously taken by a camera connected to his pc one night the previous spring. They'd set all this up and just held onto the pictures over the summer.
I looked fixedly at Ned. He looked back at me with tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Rickie, they made me."
"It's OK, Ned. Now that we see how Brother Marcus works, I can just imagine what he did to coerce you into doing this. Just tell me this . . . "
"What, Rick?"
"Were you just screwing me because they made you?"
"No, man. They found out about it somehow after we had been doing it for weeks. We had a good time, Rick, and I'm sorry as hell about all this."
"That's enough, Brother Ned," Marcus commanded. "You two can go do your sick stuff later. Right now, we have to tell Brother Rick what he will do for the fraternity unless he wants the media to get these pictures. Just think," he said, turning to me, "what fun The Star would have with these pics of the son of Congressman Pete Modarelli!"
I thought about that. I thought of the damage to Dad's career if those pics were made public. Not even a rag like The Star would show them as they were, but they could have a field day describing them, and I didn't doubt for a minute that they'd be all over the web in no time. My dad knew I was gay and was very understanding. He'd done his best to be a good father to me, and he'd have been wounded to think that I had allowed myself to do something that would be such a blow to his reputation. Having a gay son was one thing, but having a gay slut for a son was something else again. It might not have done too much damage if word simply got out that Congressman Modarelli had a son who was gay. But the pictures would have been extremely useful to any nasty-minded person who wanted to run against him. To make things worse, I knew, as Marcus apparently had found out also, that Dad was planning a run for the Senate in the next elections. It was tough enough for a man with an Italian name to be elected in Irish-dominated Chicago. But Chicago is overwhelmingly Catholic, too; in view of the church's position on homosexuality, those pictures would probably have been the end of Dad's hopes for the Senate.
"Marcus, be reasonable. You know I can't let you distribute these pictures. But you are asking me to trade my father for Dr. Curtis."
"Yeah, that's about it. If you don't help us get Curtis, we'll put these where they'll really embarrass your old man. I guess that's what you get for having a Congressman for a pops."
Under other circumstances, I'd have wanted to spend some time thinking about what that last statement said about Marcus, but the exigency of the moment took over.
"Okay, spell it all out. Just what is it I'm expected to do?"
And he laid it all out for me. I was horrified, but I couldn't see any way to avoid doing as Marcus demanded. I loved my father too much, I owed him too much to let this sick shit ruin his career. Besides, Dad was a damn fine congressman.
When he was through, I asked, "But what's Dr. Curtis done to you?"
"Oh, the old fag hasn't just done it to me. He is the toughest grader in the English Department, and many of us have gotten lower grades than we should have in his comp and intro to lit courses. Besides, he's a queer. He's never been outed, and we think people should know the son of a bitch is a cocksucker."
"Do you KNOW he's a cocksucker, Marcus? Do you even KNOW he's gay?"
He grinned. "Well, Brother Rick, that's what you're going to find out for us. And you're going to report everything you and the prof do. Got it?"
What could I say? I agreed partly because I didn't see that I had any choice and partly to stall for time. I hoped I could figure out some way to abort Marcus's plan before it was completed.
I felt sorry for Neddie. I could see that Marcus had coerced him into betraying me, and I understood why he might have complied. In the days that followed, probably because of embarrassment, Ned avoided me as much as one fraternity brother could avoid another. And, though I felt more sympathetic than angry with Ned, I didn't particularly want to be with him (He and I resumed our friendship by email when we were both in grad school.)
The astute reader will have already inferred the outlines of Marcus's scheme. I was to do anything I could to have "an affair," as Marcus had said, with Dr. Douglas Curtis, one of the most admired professors in the English Department. Then the details of that affair would be made known on campus so as to discredit him.
I had seen Curtis around Weems Hall, the home of the English Department, and I had seen him fairly regularly when he was serving the chalice at the Eucharist at Trinity Episcopal Church. (Yes, I'm from a Catholic family, but Dad and I are only nominally Catholic. Ned had invited me to go to services with him at Trinity. It seemed familiar and comfortable, so I went back several times.)
I had never had a course with Curtis before, but I had been looking forward to the Faulkner course in which I had enrolled that fall. The first few days had shown me that the professor was as excellent as everyone had said. He was relaxed, easy going, approachable. He obviously loved Faulkner's work, and he managed to make that enthusiasm contagious. He was especially good with class discussions. He encouraged the ten of us in the class to think for ourselves and to exchange ideas. I could see that Curtis was often guiding the conversation, but he did it subtly, giving us barely-noticeable nudges from time to time.
I began stopping by his desk each day after class. There was always something else I wanted to ask him. He seemed happy to talk with me. Some professors gather up their notes or whatever and seem to be rushing home to their wife and kiddies or their brandies, or whatever. Not Dr. Curtis. He always had time for anyone with a question or problem.
I discovered that the prof kept office hours late in the afternoons. When soccer practice didn't interfere, I started dropping by his office. There often weren't any other faculty members in their offices at that time. He always seemed happy to see me, and I found that we could talk about things that weren't involved in the course I was taking. It took him a while to make the connection between my name and my father's. Then one day he asked me if we were related. He was delighted when I told him that Peter Modarelli was indeed my father. He asked me several questions about my father's career, his stand on several specific issues. This man certainly wasn't living in an ivory tower.
A few days later, Doug asked if I liked classical music. When I told him it was a very important part of my life, though I had no particular musical talent, he laughed.
"I was afraid you were going to say that you hated the classics and only liked rock."
Through our rambling talks, I discovered that he liked to cook. He was surprised that I did, too. I explained that I'd spent a lot of my time alone in Chicago and that I preferred to cook for myself rather than eat alone in restaurants all the time. Besides, as I told him, Dad and I enjoyed cooking together when we were at the cabin in West Virginia.
Another day he surprised me by saying that he was familiar with my reputation in the English Department but that he had also seen me play often. I had no idea that he followed our team, and, as we talked, I discovered that he was knowledgeable about soccer and seemed to enjoy it.
I was really coming to like the man. I knew that my "assignment" was to have sex with him, and at first I wasn't sure how I felt about that. After all, he was at least 50, and the thought of having sex with anyone that old was distasteful to me.
I must say, however, he had a lean, lithe physique. He looked distinguished with just a little bit of gray at the temples. His face was no more wrinkled than that of some thirty-year olds, and he came to seem less old to me.
In another of my courses, "The Age of Samuel Johnson," I was discovering that I was fascinated by the second half of the eighteenth century. I admired Johnson, who turned off many of my classmates. Thomas Jefferson and the American philosophes of his era also intrigued me. Doug, as I was beginning to think of him, was surprisingly knowledgeable about that period, and we had several long conversations about late eighteenth-century thought. He suggested that I should inform myself about the art and architecture of the period, too, which I did, much to my delight. And then one day he asked me to think about the music of Mozart and Haydn as it related to the thought and the visual art of the time. All of that so stimulated me that I persuaded Dr. Burns, my eighteenth century professor, to let me do my term paper in his course on the music of the age of Johnson. Well, it didn't take much persuading, for he was delighted. When I told him it was Curtis who had first given me the idea, he smiled and said, "I might have known."
During those weeks of the autumn I had frequent attacks of guilt and depression. I was coming to love Doug Curtis. He was almost exactly the same age as my father, however, and I was betraying him to save my father. I had many terrible nights because I realized that what I was helping Marcus do was so cruel. Marcus, characteristically, dropped by my room often for progress reports.
"Come on, Modarelli, when are you going to get him in the sack? Sounds to me like you guys have had enough foreplay. And, listen, here's something I want you to do. From the moment there's anything physical, anything at all, between you two, you will come back here and write it down. I want a complete log of all your sex. Got that?"
"Look, Marcus, I don't know whether it will ever get that far. I mean, why should he be interested in sex with one of his students? Especially me? What if all this accomplishes nothing?" (I was secretly hoping that Doug would manage to distance himself from me, worrying all the while about what Marcus would do if he did.)
Let me go back to something I said earlier. I realized I was beginning to have feelings about Doug that I'd never had for anybody else. I looked forward to being with him. I loved our talks, loved his smile, loved his kindness to me. He seemed lonely, and I wondered if I was filling some need he had. I desperately hoped so on the one hand, and on the other was terrified that he was coming to feel for me as I did for him.
Yet, I longed to touch him, to stroke him, to make him feel good. I began to fantasize about what he would look like naked, about the size and shape of his cock, his nipples. I masturbated wondering what his butt looked like. And, as I wiped up my semen, I was ashamed that I had these feelings for a man in his fifties, a man who was being kind to me, a man whom I was supposed to disgrace.
One day, after some particularly insistent prodding by Marcus, I got tickets for the Detroit Symphony concert that Saturday night. Radu Lupu was doing the Beethoven 4th concerto, and I knew Doug liked both the piece and the artist. I asked him to go with me.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to take one of your friends? Don't you have a girl friend, or a fraternity brother or someone whom you would rather be with?"
"No, Dr. Curtis, no girlfriend. No one, actually, that I'd rather be with." That was the truth, too.
He thought about it a moment, smiled at me very sweetly, and said in that case, he'd love to come.
He offered to drive, but I told him this was my party and that I'd pick him up.
We ate at a restaurant near the big civic center where the Detroit Symphony plays, but I confess I don't remember much about it. I was too nervous about what I was planning later.
The program was excellent. It began with the overture to Bernstein's "Candide." Then there was Mozart's "Prague" Symphony. After the intermission, Lupu did the Beethoven. His reading of the concerto was what I'd call very "romantic." Doug and I both loved it. As we walked to my car, Doug put his arm around my shoulders for just a moment, smiled down at me, and said, "Thank you, Rick." I think I knew from that moment the evening would be a success.
On the drive back to Cranmer, we talked about other favorite performers and about various symphony orchestras we'd heard. He wasn't all that much ahead of me in that department, for Dad and I had heard most of the world's big-name orchestras when they came to Chicago.
When we pulled up in front of his house, I said, "Dr. Curtis, this has been such a special evening, I hate to have it end. I know it's late, but it is Saturday. Could I come in for a few minutes?"
It was then, I think, that he asked me to call him Doug when we weren't in class or around others in the English Department. He hesitated at my question, however.
"I'm in your debt for this lovely evening, Rick. Of course you could come in for a few minutes. Perhaps you'd like a glass of port? Or some sherry?"
"Yes, Doug, I'd really like that," I said.
By that time we both needed to relieve ourselves, so he showed me where the downstairs lavatory was, and he went upstairs to use the bathroom.
When we were both back in his living room, he asked whether I'd prefer sherry or port or maybe just a Coke.
I chose the port, which was more than decent. He set a bowl of salted pecan halves in front of me. As we nibbled the nuts, sipped our wine, and chatted about particular things we'd enjoyed that evening, I looked around the room. I don't know what I expected. Dark bookshelves and a dark, beamed ceiling? It wasn't that way at all. The only thing traditional about the room was the oriental rug, obviously very old, but in excellent condition given its age. The upholstered furniture was contemporary leather of the same color as the dark red in the rug. The white walls had a variety of original contemporary art works.
I asked him about them.
"Well, Rick, I can't afford `great' art, obviously, but I'd rather have good originals than prints of the greats. Everything you see here is by a Cranmer undergraduate. I go to the student shows, and when I see something I particularly like, I try to buy it. That helps the artist and allows me to hang things by talented people whom I can say I have at least talked with. Some of them I've gotten to know a little better because they've taken classes with me."
We talked until the port was gone. Then, I knew, I had to force the issue. I had been sitting on one end of a sofa. Doug was in a chair across from it. I went around the coffee table and straddled his knees. He has long thighs, and I was able just to sit down on them. I leaned forward and put my lips against his. He started to say something, a protest most likely, so I simply inserted the tip of my tongue between his lips. He tensed up for a moment, so I put my hands gently on either side of his head and continued pushing with my tongue.
As he relaxed and responded to the kiss, I knew I was "in," in more ways than one.
I make it sound as if he was easy. He wasn't.
When the kiss was over, he smiled at me and said, "Thanks, Rick. That was lovely. Now you must go home before this gets out of hand."
"But, Doug, I don't want to go home. Please, may I stay here with you?"
I got up and sat on the sofa again, facing him, the coffee table between us so he'd know I wasn't going to sexually assault him.
Very gently, he said, "No, that wouldn't be a good idea. The college has rules about `fraternization' between faculty and students. I'm old enough to be your father. And, even if you've figured out that I'm gay, I'm not in the habit of deflowering virgins. Now, thank you for the . . . "
I laughed at his last remark, and he looked puzzled.
"What did I say?"
"Doug, you dear man, I'm far from a virgin. I've been fucking and getting fucked by guys since I was thirteen. I've had lots of experience, and if you'll let me stay, I think I can promise you a great ride."
He chuckled. "Well, I admit that I'm floored. I had no idea you were gay. So much for gaydar. Tell me then, am I being seduced?"
"I certainly hope so."
"Would you be offended if I ask why?"
Here was the difficult part. I was about to say what I truly felt, but yet I knew I was being an absolute bastard to say it.
"Doug, I've never met anybody I felt about the way I feel about you. As I said, I've been having sex with men for ten years, and some of it has been with guys I really liked. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I think I love you. I want to be with you. I think about you when I'm not with you to the point where it is distracting when I'm trying to study. And I beat off every night thinking of you."
"But . . . "
"Please, just let me finish. I know I'm not much to look at, but I promise if you let me I can make you feel good. I've had lots of experience. I know what I'm doing. And I want to make you happy. Give me a chance?"
He seemed to be having some sort of inner struggle. At first I thought that it was pity that had won out over his scruples.
He looked at me very seriously. "Rick, are you SURE you want this?"
I was sure and I wasn't. I wanted him. I desperately wanted him. But I didn't want the consequences that would happen to him as a result of what we were about to do.
An image of my father flashed across my mind. "Yes, Doug," I said, "I'm sure."
He smiled at me and stood up. Reaching for my hand, he said, "Okay, kiddo, I have misgivings about this, but you have convinced me you know what you want." He took my hand and led me upstairs to his bedroom. As we climbed the stairs, he said, "By the way, you said you weren't much to look at?"
"Truly."
"Not so. I think you're beautiful."
What a coming together that was! We exhausted our repertoires and ourselves. There isn't much two gay men can do that we didn't do. I was surprised by Doug's stamina. He kept up with me all the way! He was able to take my fat cock with no trouble, and I teased him about being a slut. He did things to me with his long dick that no one had ever done to me before. I knew when we were finished that I had been, as the British say, well and truly fucked. I think it was perhaps 4:00 AM when we collapsed into a cummy, sweaty heap and slept.
I can still remember waking up Sunday morning. The room glowed with the reflection of the sun shining on maple trees in the yard outside. It was 10:00. I was alone in the bed. And I smelled sausage cooking. Pulling on my boxers, I went downstairs. Doug, looking wonderful in jeans and a green Cranmer sweat top, gave me a long kiss. Then he suggested I go back up and take a shower while he finished fixing pancakes and sausage.
He had laid out clean towels for me, and I enjoyed a long, hot shower.
When I got back downstairs, now clean and dressed, though uncomfortable in yesterday's socks and underwear, he handed me a big glass of orange juice. I didn't put back on the tie I had worn to the concert, nor had I yet donned my suit jacket. I had brought a light topcoat, but it was still out in the car.
Breakfast was a delight. We were both still glowing from the previous night, though I was also a little tender in the nether regions. He grinned when he saw me sit down carefully and said, "Yeah, me too!"
As I was leaving, I said, "Doug, I hope this wasn't a one-time thing. It's been so beautiful."
He grinned. "We'll have to be very discreet, Rick, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that last night was special. Sure, let's plan a rematch. And, by the way, you kept your promise."
"What's that?"
"You told me you'd make me feel good. You did that in spades, young `un."
He gave me a hug and a kiss, and I went back to my room at the fraternity house.
Marcus was waiting for me with a disgusting grin on his face. "Well, well, well. It looks like Brother Rickie pulled it off. You were out all night, and your car was parked in front of Curtis's house. So, did you do the nasty?"
"What we did wasn't nasty, Marcus. And Doug's a wonderful person. You are such a bastard to do this to him."
"Watch it, brother! You are breaking all sorts of house rules talking to me that way. So, before I have to call a disciplinary session, you get started on your notes on what happened last night. Do it now while all the juicy details are fresh in your mind and his jizz is still in your ass. I don't suppose fresh would be the word for that, would it?" He looked at me with contempt.
"We used condoms," I protested to his back as he left my room.
I should have thought my notes about that one night would have given Marcus all he needed, but he wanted more.
Again, my dilemma was that I, too, wanted more. I couldn't get enough of Doug, but I always had this sick feeling knowing that my notes were providing Marcus the material he would use to ruin Doug's reputation on campus.
My guilt was coming to overpower my desire to be with Doug. I went to Marcus one day and pleaded with him to let me stop.
"Oh, you can stop anytime you want, Brother Rick," he said with a smirk. I wanted to smash his smug face, but he outweighed me by a hundred pounds, and, as he immediately pointed out, he still had those pictures of me.
So, under orders I could think of no way to refuse, I continued to be with Doug just about every weekend.
Our soccer team had an undefeated season, pushing the winning streak beyond any the school had ever had in any sport. Sometimes when the football team had an away game, we'd have a match on Saturday afternoon. I'd arrive at Doug's afterward, physically tired but emotionally pumped over our victory.
I never drove to his house after that night we first made love. He insisted that we be cautious, and I wasn't allowed to tell him that didn't matter.
I wrote "made love" just now. That's what it had become for me and, I think, for Doug. After that first session of pyrotechnic sex, our times together became gentler, more loving.
After the second semester began in January, soccer was over, and I was able to be with Doug every weekend. Sometimes we even went to Detroit for the weekend. We usually went to a concert or a play, but sometimes we just spent the evening in bed, and those were immensely satisfying. Or, I should say, they were satisfying when I was able to stifle the voice inside that kept reminding me how perfidious I was being with this man I had come to care so much about.
Finally, about a month before the end of the second semester, Marcus did the deed. I don't know what ever happened to the notes he made me give him about my times with Doug. But the content of those notes was whispered all over campus almost overnight. Rumors began to spread about Doug. I have to say that Marcus kept me out of it. My friends told me the rumors about Doug, but no one seemed to know who his student lover was.
Not only were all sorts of stories circulating, but some of Marcus's coterie at the fraternity who were in Doug's classes began to make sly remarks to him about being fond of fudge, and other sophomoric things like that.
I didn't know what to do with myself when Marcus carried out his campaign, and I was unable to face Doug. Fortunately I didn't have any classes with him, so I was able to avoid him.
He called me at the fraternity house, but I had caller ID, and I just never picked up when he called. Most of my non-greek friends were sympathetic to what had happened to Doug and were furious at whoever had started the rumors. It got so I couldn't stand to be with them because their quite justifiable anger only made me feel worse.
In the midst of all this I had somehow managed to keep my grades up and to apply to several graduate schools. I was elated when I was accepted at Brown. The English Department had a sherry party to recognize the senior majors who had been accepted to grad school. I made some excuse for not going. Doug wasn't there either.
A few days later I heard he was leaving the university at the end of the term, though no one seemed too sure where he was going. I assumed he had found a position somewhere else.
I understood why he wanted to leave. That's the kind of guy he was. He knew what he was good at. He had a healthy self respect, but he was also shy sometimes and very vulnerable. I'll feel remorse all my life for what I did to him. I wish I could have explained what forced me to betray him. Even more, I wish I could tell him that I did, that I DO love him. But I love Dad, too.
I don't know where Doug is. I called Goldy, the English Department secretary, one day while I was at Brown to ask if she had an address for him. She told me that he hadn't gone to another position, that he had retired, and that she had been asked not to give out his address.
Doug retired? He was too young to retire! He had too much to offer, too much knowledge to share, too much help to give. And I denied his students all that, denied him the joy of being able to do that. Again, I was sickened by what I had done. In retrospect, I tell myself that I should have gone to my father and told him about Marcus's story. He might have said "publish and be damned." Having a gay son probably wouldn't have hurt his career all that much if he were still in private practice. But he was a popular public figure, and he was, as Marcus had noted, considering running for the Senate at that time.
For years I have been tormented by a question. Did I give in to Marcus because I couldn't face the thought of those pictures of me turning up on the web? Was Doug's career sacrificed to my pride?
Incidentally, most people know that my dad, the junior senator from Illinois, is getting ready to run for his second term.
Not that anyone should care, but I now have my Ph.D. from Brown. I did my dissertation on some of the members of Dr. Johnson's circle. I took a year off after getting the degree. I traveled some alone, spent time with Dad when he was available, and wrote two articles, which have now been published in respectable journals. And I'm being interviewed for a position at several places. Brown PhD's in English are sought after, even in today's job market.
I have an interview coming up at a large state university in Northeast Ohio. Normally I wouldn't be interested in a big state school, but this place is getting a reputation for its undergraduate and graduate English programs. They seem to be recruiting some hot young scholars. They already had Gwen Fairchild, who's a nationally-recognized Chaucer scholar. I've also been hearing things about this young guy who specializes in the Lost Generation, Timothy Mead. Apparently he's considered quite a hotshot. He recently had a book on dos Passos published by Stanford, and the critics were unusually generous with their praise. So, that sounds like a place where I'd enjoy teaching. And at least I'm used to those dreary northern Ohio winters.
Perhaps, using him as my model, someday I'll be able to come close to being the kind of teacher Doug was. I hope so. But I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of the remorse I feel over what I did to him. It's been five years since I graduated from Cranmer, since Doug left Cranmer. I think about him. I feel more rather than less guilty as time passes. I miss Doug. I've had "lovers" since then, but no one I loved.
As I said earlier, Ned and I kept in touch. He got his MBA at Harvard and then got a CPA. He moved back home to Indianapolis, where he soon had a lucrative practice. He's the one who kept me up to date on what was happening with Marcus. Marcus lived in a small town in rural Indiana. Not good enough for the NFL and not smart enough for grad school, he had gone into his father's insurance business on graduation. One day about a year ago, Ned sent me a picture of Marcus and his wife that had been in the local paper. He'd been elected president of the Chamber of Commerce. She was a tall, thin, horsy-looking woman with buck teeth and terrible hair. Marcus was wearing a suit that looked as if it came off the rack at Sears, his hairline was receding, and he had an obvious paunch.
Just a few months ago, Ned sent me another newspaper clipping. No picture this time. Just an article saying that the former president of the C of C had been caught diddling with his clients' money and had been sent to prison.
So, Marcus got what he deserved. But when is it going to be my turn? I keep thinking of what I did to Doug.
[This is the end of "Out of the Night." Will there be a part 2? Perhaps. Meanwhile, Stan and Doug, will show up from time to time in "Dr. Tim and the Boys" in the College section, and Rick will become a regular character in that series. --TM]