Permutations

After a long flight from Paris, Julian checked into a hotel room in San Francisco. It was a foggy Friday morning. Once in his room, he did not take off his clothes or pull down the covers. He dropped face down onto the bed and immediately fell into a heavy sleep.

Much later, that night, he would meet Tony for a drink at the Sun and Moon. Afterwards, well, he thought the chances were good. They had been corresponding by e-mail for nearly a year since the break-up, sharing both serious problems and erotic remembrances.

Tony was getting back from Seattle. He taped a weekly news commentary there for the BBC. Since Alistair Cooke's death he had been assigned to do a version of the Letter from America. Julian was in San Francisco ostensibly to give a lecture at Berkeley on Tolstoy. The reason he'd accepted the invitation was to have an excuse to visit Tony.

Things had been rocky during their last year together, but once Tony had made good on his threat to leave if Julian did not curtail his promiscuous excursions, things changed. Julian was by himself. The anguish he felt at the loss would not go away. Pick-up sex did not help. Julian realized he wanted nothing more. Only Tony. It was a shock. He absorbed it. The bottomless misery helped him to.

He wrote to Tony and was surprised and encouraged when his letter was answered. After a few weeks their correspondence became intimate. Their letters were intimate the way they had been intimate when they first felt the thrill of being with each other and became focused only on each other. The affinity was still there.

I remember, Julian wrote, how you could make me get hard just by looking into my eyes.

Tony wrote back the famous five words Bogart said to Bergman in "Casablanca." And they worked.

Julian lifted himself off the bed. He had to rub his neck to get the stiffness out of it. The day was turning dusky. His head was muzzy.

He pulled his shirt out of his pants and up over his head. He was pleased how he looked in the mirror when he saw himself after his head was free of his shirt.

Good body for an old man, he kidded himself.

He did not consider forty-one old. Still, it sounded different from even thirty-eight, more ominous. But, surveying himself, Julian thought, I'd still go home with me if I saw me on the street.

That excited him. He became hard. He began fingering himself with the sensitive tips of his fingers as if he were touching a recorder. He resisted. Save it for Tony.

Stripped, he went into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as he could take it. Standing under it, he let the heavy points of water beat on him. He stretched every kink out of his body. He soaped himself and rinsed himself. Then he stood in water as cold as he could stand -- even a little colder than that. He was tight.

He shaved. He did his toilet. He ordered vodka and fresh orange juice be brought up to him.

He opened the door. There was only a white towel tied around his waist. The look in the eyes of the young man at the door pleased him. He could not take his gaze off Julian's smooth, well-wrought chest. Julian smiled at him such a smile that he could have had the boy had he wanted, for the boy was ready to melt in his arms.

Will there be anything else, sir?

Julian did not invite the boy to stay. He was waiting for Tony. He gave the kid twenty dollars and a wink.

Thank you, sir.

Be good, Julian said, gently closing the door.

He took his time getting dressed. He knew what Tony liked, and Tony knew what he liked.

Tony liked men in expensive, well-tailored suits with very sexy underwear when they finally got stripped down.

Tony himself was a leather slut. Those were his words. He used them ironically, but he also really meant them.

I like to be rewarded, Julian had written once, and sometimes the only reward I am worthy of is punishment.

Tony knew that and he knew how to use it.

Julian slapped his cheeks with some Eau Sauvage, readjusted his tie in the mirror by the door, stepped into the corridor, took the elevator down to the great marble lobby and turned onto the street through the grand revolving doors.

The night was cool and strong. It had a latent energy that penetrated to the heart.

Julian's cell rang.

Tony! he said with delight. Where are you?

Hey, Jules. I got stuck at a meeting, and now I'm going out for a few drinks with some of the guys.

What meeting.

We stopped at the BBC to discuss where the Letter was going.

But it's quarter to nine and I'm in the street on the way over to the Sun and Moon. We have a date.

Sorry, kid. Business comes first. How 'bout midnight we meet there for a drink.

But then, what about? Julian began to object.

We don't have to do it at all, Julian, Tony said, if it's gonna bend you out o' shape to accommodate me.

No, no, Julian said, I want to see you.

So, you can see me at midnight.

Ok.

Great. I got to go now. They're waiting for me. See you later.

Later, Julian echoed, his spirit slumping. He snapped the phone shut.

When Tony finally did show up, it was quarter after one. Julian was in a bitter mood.

I was just about to leave, Julian said.

I'm not stopping you, Tony said, kissing him on the cheek.

I've been waiting an hour and a quarter.

I'm here now. Do you want to go into a sulk and I'll leave, or can we enjoy ourselves?

Julian pursed his lips and furrowed his brow and made a contrite face.

It's been a while since we've seen each other, Tony said. A reward for his success at overcoming himself.

A little over a year, Julian said.

You're looking good, Tony said.

Thanks, Julian said. You look^Åit's beyond words^Åbetter than ever.

Tony was as lean as ever, but with greater muscular definition and contour. His black leather pants seemed like a second skin, showing his long muscular thighs to advantage. His chest was perfect. His taut nipples pressed against the thin, skin-tight, snow-white fabric of his sleeveless tank top. He held his head high and his hair was luxurious and abundant.

My new life agrees with me, Tony said light-heartedly and Julian cringed at the implication.

Was it really that bad?

Hiding what needs to be out in the open is never good.

I did not know.

It would not have mattered if you had.

Why not?

You wouldn't have bee able to accept it.

Julian was silent.

Are you getting laid? Tony asked.

Not the way I like.

How come?

I need you for that.

The night was cool and the air was moist as they drove through the dirt roads in the woods of Marin County. There was a rich moist smell of earth and trees, of brown and green in the air.

I need you for a lot more than that, Julian said watching Tony drive and gazing upon his silhouetted profile framed by the side window.

Tony remained silent as he drove and turned on the radio just as a performance of the St. Matthew Passion was beginning.

I loved you once, he said breaking the silence that resonated with Bach,

How I have wanted to hear that. What about now? Julian hesitated to ask and voiced it in a self-consciously shy voice.

Now that's a failed love.

Can it be saved?

No. It's blessed and buried, the adumbration of another time. It's as inaccessible as one of last month's rainstorms. I have changed. I'm stronger and more definite. I'm not afraid to say it.

Does that mean, Julian asked, that we cannot -- I don't know how to say it.

Be lovers, be partners? Not the way we were.

It was my grandfather's, Tony said of the house near the top of the steep hill they drove up. It was strange. I came out here and a week after I visited he died. He was ninety-seven, but very much alive.

It was not a large house, but it was not small either. It was definitely Victorian and had been very well maintained. You could see it had been painted within the last few years.

You hoped I'd bring you back here.

I did, Julian answered.

You even expected it.

Let's say I hoped.

No. Let's be honest. You expected it and would have been disappointed and resentful had I not brought you back here.

Disappointed, why not? Of course. But resentful?

Resentful, Tony insisted. It was the way you held on to me.

I wasn't, Julian began.

It doesn't matter, Tony said smiling. He put his arms round Julian and drew his to him and kissed him.

Julian melted at the shock of the kiss. He had lost the feeling of it even in his dreams. But here it was now. He responded with his entire body.

Tony pressed the point of his knife against the tip of Julian's nipple.

Do you still get off on fear and pain?

But there was no need for Julian to say anything. His body answered.

I'm afraid I do.

Tony pricked the nipple with the knife, something he had never done. It felt like when you cut yourself shaving.

Julian gasped more in surprise than in pain.

It's going to be different this time, Tony said.

You're not going to hurt me, Julian said.

If I am, chained to the four posts of the bed as you are, my friend, you couldn't do anything about it.

He spoke and prodded Julian's nipple with the point of his knife.

If you want me back, it's a different me you'll be getting. And together we're going to have a different kind of relationship from the one we had.

It did not matter what sort. Julian knew it: the affinity was there.

Nevertheless, What kind? Julian asked.

Tony applied a slight increase in the pressure of the point of his knife on Julian's nipple.

No questions, he said. I'm in charge now.

Julian ought not have stayed in San Francisco. Julian ought to have flown back to Pennsylvania and his comfortable professorship. His book on "Haji Murad," "Tolstoy's Brief Epic," had garnered praise in all the right scholarly publications. It had gotten him a promotion and a raise, and he had already begun to outline the next book, a study of the social implications of Pablo Neruda's love poetry. "Love Inside a Hurricane" he thought he would call it.

What are you doing? Emory said as they sat in the faculty lounge instead of Emory's office, pretending something of no great importance was happening.

I'm quitting, Julian said with a smile.

You can't do that, Emory said.

Yes, I can, Julian said.

But it will mean the end of your academic career^Åfor good. No one will hire you with this kind of thing on your record.

I'm not worried about that, Julian answered.

You're burning your boats. You know that.

Got a match?

I'm frightened for you, Julian, and I have to admit, I'm a bit spooked.

No need, said Julian, patting his knee.

Nevertheless, Emory said.

Julian did not think about what he was doing. He followed the instructions Tony had laid down. Within two weeks, the identity it had taken forty-one years to construct had been deconstructed.

Tony met him at the airport. Julian had nothing but the few clothes he was wearing. He had no luggage. He gave Tony his wallet and the few documents he had needed for flying. The proceeds from the sale of his house, furnishings, clothing, books, paintings, CDs, etc. had all been transferred electronically to Tony's bank account.

A commotion in the mind is not compatible with living successfully the lives we must day to day.

What was it in Julian that made him wish to throw out his entire life and live as the embodiment of another man's will, I do not know. Although I am his biographer, I am not him. I do not understand him. I can guess, though, that there was a commotion in his mind, a commotion of desire, a commotion of dark forces pursuing him from which he was in continuous panic flight. He was a man apparently with perfect balance who was struggling every moment lest he fall.

I couldn't replace you, Julian said.

That's too bad.

Why?

You would have spared yourself what you're in for now.

Julian thought he did not want Tony to slap him.

Julian thought he did not want Tony to punch him.

Julian thought he did not want to feel the anger it brought up in him. Julian did not want to feel anger towards Tony. Julian did not want to hate him. But it was inevitable that Julian would. It was necessary. Tony insisted on it by his treatment of Julian. He had become a skillful master of determining how reality would appear.

He slapped Julian again. Julian staggered.

He punched Julian in the stomach. Julian doubled over and held his sides.

I was a fool to come back. I hate you, Julian said.

Thank you, Tony laughed. It will make your obedience that much more valuable. When you obey me it will have nothing to do with whether you want to or not. In fact you probably won't want to.

He was laughing as if it were very funny.

It was perverse. The more Julian did not want to obey him, the more exciting it was to obey him. It showed the force of Tony's power. It drove Julian crazy with excitement to submit to him. Julian thought he wanted to resist him, to vanquish him with the strength of his resistance. But he was mistaken. His resistance was the essential prelude to his defeat.

Of course, resistance was the necessary condition for submission. Tony knew how to do with Julian what he wished. Moreover, it seemed he really did not have to do anything. His predominance was part of the nature of things. Julian could do nothing except to obey him. Tony's power overwhelmed him. Julian was the slave of unslakably intense desire.

First Julian's mind went blank. Then it began to re-form.

He was not aware when it happened, but he realized it had happened when his mind became still, quiet and constant, hovering endlessly over him like a cloudless blue sky on a comfortable summer day.

It was no longer his root. Tony was his root. Tony was the soil he grew in. Without Tony he would be a plucked grass blade or some-such.

Without understanding the strange affinity between them, without sensing the intangible that united them, it will be impossible to understand how their diurnal interactions had the force and significance they did, for they were after all, the same routine things that make up the mass of lives, the daily chores, routines, habits, and obligations that most of us share, despite what else separates us.

Julian's mind was not his root. It was the foundation upon which he stood. It was through the mind that Tony entered him. It was that act of possession that he reenacted when he translated it to the corporeal realm, hovering bodily above Julian, piercing his eyes, penetrating him, and stretching out rigidly, suspended over him, inside him like iron, unmoving, until orgasms tore at them like vicious dogs as they clawed at each other with teeth and fingers and nails.

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