Tristan

Tristan by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 43

Chapter the Last

Gluck' was one of the more interesting composers of opera in the Eighteenth Century and his contributions to that art form are many, as learned musicologists will tell you, but perhaps the most important to humanity was the reduction in the length of the typical performance of the Baroque Period. But it is not Christoph Willibald von Gluck to whom this word was referring when it was repeated and repeated. It was alternated with kack kack' and this second glottal utterance bore no reference to composers of any era, save for the music that was being performed at that moment with the doors and windows safely closed in the hayloft bedroom of `HMS Beagle', the student house in the Texas university town.

The soloist on this occasion was Tristan Isley, but--to continue the musical metaphor--it was actually a duet that was being performed with Colton Stone, the well-known quarterback, who was repeatedly thrusting his girthy, erect penis into the largely willing throat of Tristan, whose eyes streamed with tears and whose face was red and dripped with saliva and `throat slime'.

This throat fucking' was quite brutal and protracted and the glucks' and `kacks' and other guttural chords was counterpointed by a faint screech and squeal whose source would eventually be revealed.

"That rubber sheet was a good investment, Tris," said Colton brightly as he stood to admire the damage. There was cum everywhere; Colton had shot in Tristan's hair and all over his face. It matted Tristan's chin strip beard and stung his reddened eyes. It dripped to the prophylactic bed covering in question, where it mingled with Tristan's own more modest ejecta.

Tristan did not answer because he had collapsed forward in a faint.

"Dude," said Colton as he gently but firmly slapped his cheeks to bring him around. "Y'gotta remember to breathe. Y'all deprivin' y'brain of oxygen."

Tristan tried to speak but it was a moment before he could make even the most husky of utterances. "Thanks, Colt," he croaked. "That was hot." He tried to look up through his matted lashes. "We'd better shower."

"What's the rush, man? Ain't no one home but you and me. I feel I could go a second round and I'll put m'shoulder pads n' helmet on for y'all. Know how that gets you real hot."

"You might have to take it off to kiss me."

Colton said he'd cross that bridge...

"You plugged for me?'

"Yep, practically all day and it's driving me insane."

"That's just how I like y'all. All frosty an' British on the outside, but inside burnin' for jock meat an' gapin' wide like the slut y'are."

"Fair description."

It was some time later when Colton, who was cradling Tristan in his strong throwing arm, said, "Like it when y'all take the initiative, Tris. Y'tongue felt pert good on m'pucker an' came at it just at the right moment."

"Am I bleeding?" asked Tristan in an exhausted voice and who wasn't really listening.

Colton felt with his fingers and inspected them. "Nope, but y'sure puffy an' leakin' bad. I'll get you one of them soothing suppositories that the Doc prescribed."

"Fuck, my head is killing me. I think I may have had a stroke."

"It's just an orgasm headache, dude. Happens with real intense cums. Y'neck muscles become tense and the blood vessels in y'brain expand."

"Is that bad?"

"Nah. I get you some Tylenol and water."

"Feelin' better?" asked Colton, looking up from his phone a short time later.

"Feelin' fucking fantastic," said Tristan, managing a grin.

"Well, I might feel like doin' y'later, but just lay here for a bit and we'll both recover."

Deshawn's punkahs wafted cooling zephyrs on their sweat-soaked flesh and the rhythmic swish was the only sound in the room for some minutes until Tristan spoke. "I love you Colt."

"I know you do, Tris." Tristan waited for more. "An' I ain't never loved nobody more'n I love you."

Tristan ignored the double negative and thought that this was probably good. "More than Tammy?" he asked trying to avoid getting heavy.

"Well, I can ride her. I guess you can ride me." Tristan giggled and then rebuked himself for being girly.

The silence returned, each occupied with his own thoughts.

"It's nice being here with you," confessed Tristan at length.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You mean in the sack?"

"No, just anywhere," replied Tristan airily.

"Like?"

"Well, there was this time we went Home Depot together."

"Y'all joshing me!"

"No, I remember you wanted some barbecue tools and you said, `Let's go' and we were just laughing and joking about some shit and I remember feeling...I don't know...just completely happy--happy in some sort of abstract sense--and I realised that it was because you were with me; we were together, just doing ordinary stuff."

"So my efforts here are wasted," joked Colton. "I just need to take you to a hardware store for a screw."

"Shut up! I'm trying to say that I'm happy just being with you."

"You mean, you'd still love Colty if there was no sex?"

Tristan only had to think for a moment. "Yeah, I would, even though it's hard to separate you and sex."

"And if it were only sex an' nuthin' more?"

"That's harder. No, I don't think so. And me?"

"The sex is good, but it ain't essential."

"Well, I guess it's lucky we don't have to make a choice."

"Y'know, Tris, most chicks like me for the sex and a lot like me because I'm a footballer. I guess it's no surprise that not many like me for bein' me--the Colton Stone underneath."

"I now feel ashamed that I made you wear your armour."

"That were diff'rent; it were just fun."

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I point out that you do seem to enjoy being the football stud. That's the truth, isn't it? And you don't give a lot of girls even the chance to discover the real you."

Colton blushed. "Well, must confess that's the truth, Roomy. But you've discovered the real me?"

"Yeah and he's a real nice guy and is very affectionate and will kiss me for a long time while he's grinding our cocks together between our abs."

"Only one of us has abs, dude, but I hear y'call."

They moved to Tristan's bed because Tristan said that the squealing of the rubber sheet kept reminding him of a balloon artist at a children's party and it was putting his teeth on edge. Here Colton covered him with his bigger body while Tristan was able to let his hand roam freely over the quarterback's strong back, with excursions down to his meaty young buttocks that Parker's mother might have described (had they been reconciled) as being as perfect as Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major (which, had Tristan known it, was catalogued K.622) or perhaps more fittingly for so robust a creation, compared to the majesty of Modest Mussorgsky's `Great Gate of Kiev' as performed by the Rome Symphony Orchestra on a hot night in Georgia.

Tristan was not conscious of it, but the reader might do well to pause and reflect upon the beauty of youthful flesh--in this case the twenty year-old's handsome bottom; there might be many magnificent gym-toned buttocks belonging to forty-ish weightlifters or well-preserved long haul truckers or even geography teachers that had not entirely run to seed, but there is something about the texture and ripeness of flesh in its first bloom of youth--accompanied by muscle produced from honest farm labour-- that can never be recaptured nor delivered from the ravages of time. It was the bum of Adam, but not by Michelangelo, but as drawn by Blake who, surprisingly, understood bums better than the Renaissance practitioner--at least how to draw them. As has often been observed, such realizations are wasted on the young and although Tristan loved it and Colton was proud of it, the true profundity of such an anatomical creation naturally escaped them in their callowness and perhaps would not be realised for many years hence and when it was too late and when a chance glance in a double mirror would revel an arse like a old pair of festoon curtains.

True to his word, Colton kissed Tristan with all the abandon of which he was capable and Tristan kissed back, as always hoping he was doing it right and jealous of his partner who seemed to act only on instinct. At the same time they gently frotted their sweaty groins, Tristan loving the feeling of Colton's big piece alongside his own smaller one and the pleasant friction created by Colton's corrugated abdomen and his wiry blonde hair. Then there was the overwhelming weight of Colton above him, possessing him utterly, keeping him safe, but also making it difficult to breathe--which was difficult enough in any case.

Eventually Tristan felt himself cum, but their duelling mouths continued their passionate battle. Then Colton came and Tristan felt quite sure that he'd been holding off until Tristan had been satisfied and once again he marvelled at the control and capacity that the quarterback had over his love-making. There was a sticky mess between them.

They lay there quietly talking, Colton, who had grown considerably heavy, having rolled aside but remaining close to Tristan. Then Colton said, "We'd better shower up," and unpeeled himself. He swaggered to the Japanese bathroom, his body on full display and his cocky attitude too. "We gotta cook tonight an' we better buy those ribs. 'Course I could always take you to Home Depot if y'feelin' honeymoony."

"Shut up!" said Tristan throwing the soap at him. "That is the last time I confess anything to you!"

Colton laughed then kissed him again. Then, just using his superior strength, he managed to press Tristan's face into his butt crack and laughed some more. It was the careless way the young had with Works of Art.

Colton was sitting at his table in the student foyer when Hollis suddenly appeared before him.

"S'up, bro?" asked Colton who had passed freshman English.

"S'up bro?" came the socially correct reply from the wide receiver with the red hair and freckles.

They exchanged a few anodyne jock remarks and then Hollis settled into the plastic chair, casting nervous glances at Laura, Colton's partner for the day.

"You must hear a heap o'weird stuff here," said Hollis by way of introduction and looking around. It was the verse to some song, Colton was pretty sure, but he quickly surmised that he would not know it until Hollis was forthcoming with the chorus.

"Some..." said Colton.

"We had a girl just before who was bitten by her pet snake and there were two cases of bad acne," contributed Laura.

"No, I mean sex stuff...you know weird shit."

"Some..." repeated Colton, cautiously, wondering where this was going."

"I've been working here since I was a fresher and there's nothing that would surprise me now," said Laura fiddling with her phone.

"How weird?" probed Hollis. Colton let Laura, who had now looked up, take the lead.

"Well, fetishes: rubber, lace, ropes, diapers, chastity devices..."

"Chastity?"

"Yeah," said Colton, "Chastity belts and cock cages. The partner is given control of when the other can cum."

"Real common," said Laura in a tired voice. "Then there's weird family shit--boys obsessed with momma, grandma's panties, coach--that sort of thing."

"Oh," said Hollis with a strange look on his face.

"What's all this, bro? You can ask me stuff at home."

"Yeah, but here y'can't tell no other people what I said or make fun of me. It's like the confessional, right?"

"Yeah, strictly confidential," said Laura. "You're Hollis McGarvie, aren't you?"

Hollis didn't deny it and chanced a grin before turning back to Colton.

"You won't make fun of me, Colt, or tell the others?"

"I'm a professional, dude. Spill."

This must have been enough to reassure Hollis or else he was so desperate that he was prepared to risk ridicule.

"Well, when I get off I like to play with m'ass," This came out in a great rush and was followed by a pause. Then, more considered: "Colton knows this already, Laura." He was now red in the face, but still probably appeared sexy to Laura, Colton divined.

"What's the problem, Hollis McGarvie?" she asked in an authoritative tone but eyeing him carefully.

"That is the problem. It's weird. Guy's aren't supposed to touch themselves down there."

"Sez who?"

"Sez everybody. It's a fact of society."

"No it ain't. Go away and play with your anus and stop taking up our time."

"What Laura is tryin' t'say, Holly, is that it ain't even faintly weird. All men have done it. Many do it. Some can't get off without doin' it."

"But why is that?"

"Lotta nerve endings in the rectum and around the sphincter."

"I guess it is kinda sensitive."

"Sure is. There is the prudendal nerve that connects directly to the dorsal nerve that goes right to the end of your cock and others that go to your balls. Then there is your inferior anal nerve..."

"Y'blindin' me with science, man."

"Same nerve goes to a girl's clit," added Laura bluntly. "I'm going to get us some coffee and let you two jocks talk in private."

"Coffee, Holly?" asked Colton.

Laura went off with their orders and the two bros settled down. "So you can't get off without playing with your butt."

"Can get off, but it's better if I do it. More satisfyin'. Bigger loads."

"Well that's important," said Colton, perhaps departing from strict science for the sake of supporting his buddy. "So, just play with y'pucker and maybe wash y'fingers good afterwards."

"But that ain't the problem. Parker's there and he don't go nowhere near his pucker when he beats off. He's from Georgia and they don't do no weird stuff there."

"Bull-shit," opined Colton. "Parks is as weird as the rest of us. Hey! Have you thought of gettin' a vibrator?"

"A vibrator! They're for desperate chicks and fags!"

"Twenty-first century, y'hayseed. Course they're not. Rachel and Leesha have them..."

"They do?"

"Yeah, Leesh gave me the batteries out of hers just yesterday when the TV remote died. Mine plugs in."

"You use a vibrator?"

"Sure, sometimes, but mine is a big heavy duty model; could jackhammer an asphalt road. You'd just need a little slim one."

"Hey! My ass can take anything your butt does, Stone. I might just get the biggest one available." The whiff of competition had stirred his blood.

"Well," said Colton scratching the blonde stubble on his chin and turning his eyes to the ceiling, "there's the new 5G model coming out soon," and added in a further flight of fantasy, "They say it will make all other models obsolete. Lots of guys have already pre-ordered theirs, but perhaps you should just start with a cheap, simple one."

Hollis was conflicted. "I don't want one with no cock and balls. It's just to go outside, if'n you know what I mean."

Colton was doubtful of this circumscription but played along. "Sure," he said. "We'll order one on-line."

"But we can't," said Hollis in despair, "...Parker."

"Can't you jack off in private?"

"Well, suppose I could, but Parks might think it a might unfriendly-like after all this time."

"You leave it to me, dude. I'll sort out Parks and I promise your ass will thank me."

Hollis was relieved and evidently placed a great deal of faith in his teammate. After a moment he said: "Hey, this Laura, do you thinks she likes me?"

"Might could. At least she knows how she'd have to please you straight up. Here she comes with our coffee. I'll go to the john and let you two visit a spell."

It was only a few days later that Colton caught up with Parker who had just come in from lacrosse practice.

"Hey man."

Parker had pulled off his top and was now bare-chested. "Yo, Colt!"

"You seen Holly? I've got his medicine."

"Nope. Medicine? Is the dude sick or somethin'?" Parker was now down to his plaid boxers.

"Oh, it's personal, but I thought he might have told y'all."

"Told me shit. What's eating him?" asked Parker, now jiggling his freed balls.

"Not eating him but itching him, man. He's got hemorrhoids--subcutaneous hemorrhoids. They're the worst."

"What's that mean?"

"Well you know ordinary `piles'?" Parker nodded. "Well these can't be seen and they still itch like hell."

"Shit! That's bad luck for the poor bastard. I suppose some ointment...?" Perhaps unconsciously, Parker scratched his arse through the checked cotton.

"Oh yeah, but there's a new treatment."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You know that Revitive shit?"

"You mean the thing that vibrates y'legs for better circulation?"

"Yeah, like that, but for haemorrhoids."

"You mean like a slut's vibrator?"

Colton was aghast at the narrowness of his buddy's view but said, "Yeah, exactly and that's why Holly doesn't want to use it. You'll laugh at him and make fun of him."

"No I won't. I'm his best bud."

"I can tell him that?"

"Sure."

There was a pause while Colton pretended to be lost in thought. "Well, even better, I have two of the Rectal Circulation Boosters--a shipping error--and if you could use one too..."

"But I ain't got subcutaneous haemorrhoids or even reg'lar ones. My ass is nice and tight."

Colton was nearly going to ask to inspect it but satisfied himself by saying, "It won't cause you no harm. You might even like it--I mean your blood and seminal fluids will pump around better."

"You mean m'cum?"

"Sure, they don't call it a booster for nothing an' it might make you cum like a porn star, but if you don't want it I'll send it back for a full refund..."

"Hang on a minute, dude. I didn't say I wouldn't try it. I mean if it will make Holly feel better--he has been awful grumpy lately...."

"It's the itch. He craves relief, dude. You shoulda realised that as his bro."

"I suppose I didn't see the signs."

There was the briefest of pauses. "I'll get the other one," said Colton brightly. "And some batteries--they're not included. You won't need no instructions--course you ain't got a strict medical need like our boy, Red, but if he sees you using one too, well, he'll be as happy as a pig in shit."

Colton returned in a flash and handed over the unmarked box. Parker was still standing, dazed, just where he had left him, his lacrosse gear pooled on the floor.

"Here you are, man. You might like to practice before Holly gets back. It's real good of you to offer moral support for him in his time of need."

"That's what a bro is for, Colt," said Parker who was now eagerly opening the box.

Colton closed the door on his way out and smiled to himself. It was only a short time later that he returned, beer in hand, and put his ear to the hardwood door. From inside could be heard a low groan and a faint hum that might have been mistaken for a hive of bees busy at work making honey, which was not far from the truth.

Tristan found that Professor Macpherson's latest project was more interesting than his last one on the origins of the Great War. It was a look at American social history and already Tristan could detect a quite excoriating tone that had been absent in previous works, but perhaps suited the troubled times--perhaps `unprecedented'--that the United States was going through.

"I've found another one, Iain," said Tristan.

"Yes?"

"Well it's a cartoon, actually; a Warner Brothers cartoon from the 1950s with Sylvester the Cat." Iain raised his eyebrows in amusement. "And it's all about explaining the triumphs of mass production and mass consumption to this visiting mouse from old Europe. It was written for the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation--you know, General Motors. It's called by `Word of Mouse' and is a real piece of Cold War soft propaganda."

"American Exceptionalism?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Classical capitalist economics and there's the throw away line, `Most are just ordinary working guys'." There was a snort of laughter.

"I'll have to check it out, Tris. You know, consumption and convenience were both such powerful national goals right from the 1920s onwards--perhaps even before--that most people still can't see any more to life beyond what shit they can buy for their homes. We actually call it `lifestyle', don't we? It's a shifting mirage and it's been exported right around the world."

"Well, what else is there?"

"You mean as how else could we could live our lives?"

"Yeah."

Macpherson tossed off ideas as if he were broadcasting grain for chickens. "Look at the counter culture in the 'sixties, Tristan. Look at sustainability and environmentalism today. Look at the reforms of the Progressives in the 1910s. There's equality: racial and economic. There are plenty other good things that could be the goals of American life. You know about Bhutan?"

"They have happiness as a national goal, I know, but I don't know if I want to be told to be happy by the government and isn't that in the American Constitution anyway--the pursuit of it, at least?"

"Well, they don't reference that bit as much as the Second Amendment."

"So, is a country with spray-on cheese what it's all come to?"

"Hey! I love that shit," said Parker as he crossed the room to the front door.

"But," continued Tristan as he drank his coffee, "the other side of the coin is that all the abundance of stuff has made the USA a better place than a lot of other countries--and better than the USA was in the 1800s."

"At a price, Tris! At a price! There's massive inequality, greed, obesity, environmental degradation..."

"Yeah, but if the people wanted other things they would strive for them. They like consumerism."

"They're brainwashed into liking it by the manufacturers, the big corporations, the retailers and, of course, Madison Avenue."

"The Great Satan, eh?"

"I think so."

"This series, Iain: you can't make it too heavy, if you don't mind me saying so. Look at how the public turned against the muckrakers during the First World War. Lots of people hate Michael Moore and there's a lot of the American public who won't hear a word against their way of life."

"Yes, that's the problem--and a symptom."

"Symptom? Are you saying it's an illness?"

"That is going a bit far, I admit," Macpherson leaned back in his bentwood chair. Tristan held his breath that it didn't tip. "Of course, it won't ever air on US network television, I know that. But this is just a chat between you and me."

Tristan was thoughtful for a minute. "I liked the stuff on the Production Code in Hollywood."

"I think that's important because it presented models to the public that they could-- or rather should-- aspire to, from Andy Hardy in Louis B. Mayer's ideal Carvel' in the Depression, right down to I Love Lucy' and their twin beds in the 'fifties."

"And they were pretty dishonest?"

"Yes, of course, but it was worse than that because it was so prescriptive. It became about what it meant to be American'; that's why I said symptom'. They rarely showed real life--struggle, exploitation, injustice, racism, homosexuality, family dysfunction; all that was edited out. Anything bad like injustice and corruption and hard times was always made right in the end without altering the system--the system that we might call, `The American way of Life'. "

"Do you think so? I would have thought that most people saw it for what it was--fiction, entertainment. Anyway, today's movies and sitcoms don't go in for morality and they show same-sex couples, sex outside of marriage and really how we live now--look at `Friends'.

"Don't make me laugh, Tris! Is Friends' real life any more than The Brady Bunch'? Don't you find it all still rather `groomed' by the network producers? Still rather prudish? And they never really question American values. These reassert themselves neatly at the end of each episode."

"South Park does."

"True. But generally the moguls don't think that the American public will go for anything less than a happy ending or for anything in the least bit challenging or that will make them think. Only a Spaniard could have buried Ryan Reynolds--or perhaps the Coen Brothers," he added with a whimsical smile. "I'll give you another example in relation to the production code. You know `A Streetcar Named Desire'?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking about it the other day. Great film. Brando was hot and sexy as fuck." Tristan blushed, realising that his mouth had run away with him. "I mean..."

"No, you're right and that's how Williams intended him to be, perhaps. In any case, Stella loves him, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, the sex made up for the loss of `Belle Reve' and living in a dump."

"And for living with a brute?"

"Yeah, I guess so. A real `wifebeater' film although with Brando it was a tee-shirt."

"But in the play, Tris--it was a Broadway play before it was a film--Stella goes back to Stanley when he calls her, even though she knows he raped her sister and drove her mad."

"I thought she left him?"

"In the film she does. Why would she do this when the whole play is about the power of sex? It was because of the production code; it couldn't be let to be seen that proper American virtues would not triumph over perverted sexual attraction and so Eliah Kazan rewrote the ending."

Long after his chat with Iain Macpherson, Tristan was preoccupied with the notion that sex--perhaps love too--would be more powerful than other forces in one's life and even more so than the forces in society more broadly--these that he knew were termed `mores'. It was a frighteningly dangerous realization. Would Tristan ever give up his home, his family, his education, if Colton asked him to? If Colton ever left him--an unthinkable thought, but Tristan entertained it just long enough for him to mount the question to himself as he sat in a tutorial group, his eyes focussed on the greasy broken ceiling fan in Dr Skinner's room--what wouldn't he do to get him back? If amputating his own pinky would do it, would he? He held it up.

"Yes, Mr Isley?"

"Oh nothing, Dr Skinner."

"But you looked as if you want to say something."

Silences were deep and drawn out in Dr Skinner's classes and Tristan felt sorry for him.

"Didn't Berkeley say that we had no control over our perception of objects--`ideas'--unlike our control of our own thoughts and that this was part of God's plan?"

"Yes, something like that and it raises Locke's rather interesting point..." Tristan drifted off again, having done his duty. Could he ever know Colton's mind other than by his actions? He thought that he could, but perhaps this was just the illusion of practice born of intimacy or the flattering of oneself that one had the mind of God... The tutorial had come to an end without either Tristan's dilemma or Bishop Berkeley's being completely solved and made watertight and would therefore just have to wait a little longer as he was due to meet the others in the cafeteria for lunch.

"What's on your phone?" asked Tristan as he lay next to Colton, idly jerking his cock.

"Two bi-lesbians have kidnapped the pizza delivery boy." He turned the screen to Tristan who watched for a few minutes.

"He looks a bit too old for that job. Must be forty."

"Yeah, I guess so an' I think he's Russian. `Pitstsa budket kholodnoy' doesn't sound like Ainglish t'me."

"And he looks a bit like Putin, don't you think?--yuck!"

"Yeah, but the babes is hot. They're tying him up and forcing him to cum"

"`Milking' that's called."

"They're so cruel but real fuckin' sexy."

Tristan looked again. The girls, both blonde, had long hair that just seemed to keep getting in the way of their task which was taking place in a room with dreadful furnishings--perhaps a Stalinist era flat with communal facilities, mused Tristan. There were other actions that Tristan thought were unsatisfactory and that if he were the director he would make them shoot again, because the girls were not able to sufficiently convey the enthusiasm that the script evidently demanded and the pizza boy looked as if he was thinking only of the roubles and perhaps a better brand of vodka, but he doubted the budget ran to second takes.

"Huh! I could do better."

"Yeah? Does Tris want to let his inner mean dude loose?"

"Shut the fuck up!" snapped Tristan, falling into character. He gave Colton's arse a slap. "Get those plaid boxers off and roll over and show me that slut hole."

Colton was laughing but complied. He lifted himself up on to his knees. Tristan smacked his buttocks again, much harder this time. It left a handprint. Then he savagely pulled Colton's cheeks apart. He didn't know quite what to do next but thought of a documentary he had recently seen on the Actors' Studio and tried to channel Brando or Montgomery Clift--or better still--James Dean. He hawked up some spit and spat into the ravine. Colton laughed again and with his superior muscles flexed his cheeks.

"I didn't say you could close up..."

"Vladimir?"

"...Boris. Let me see that Cossack cunt."

Colton was laughing still as Tristan licked and spat. Tristan flicked Colton's dangling ball sac with the back of his hand."

"Ow!" cried Boris.

When Tristan had had enough he reached down between the Russian delivery boy's meaty legs and seized his cock and slid his hand up and down, it running with the amply lubricated folds of silky foreskin.

"Slap my Urals!" gasped Colton. Tristan did and again he cried "Ow!" but had him do it again, just the same.

Tristan glanced at the action on Colton's phone, which was still running. He tried to flip Colton over but couldn't until Colton co-operated. Then Tristan left Colton suspended while he rushed to the pool table whose closed top contained Tristan's work for Iain Macpherson. He returned quickly with two foldback paper clips. Colton's eyes went wide with horror. "They'll fuckin' kill!"

"Yeah. You man enough?"

Colton--like most Russian pizza delivery operatives--was not one to shirk a challenge and so reluctantly nodded.

Tristan applied the fiendish stationery devices to Colton's vulnerable nipples, heedless that his notes on the Hays Code were now hopelessly confused with those on Levittown.

Colton was shot through with pain and hissed, his eyes squeezed shut and sweat forming on his brow.

"They hurt?" asked Tristan unnecessarily.

"Of course they fuckin' hurt!" shouted Colton. Tristan was not sure whether that this was in-character or not. "Why do they always want to do stuff to the quarterback?" he complained.

"You're a pizza boy in St Pizzaburg and you've got big juicy nipples," replied Tristan.

"Yeah?" said Colton momentarily pleased with himself and forgetting the pain.

Tristan laughed at his arrogance and flicked the nipples. "Our game is over. I'll take them off. It might hurt as the blood..."

"No," said Colton sheepishly, "leave 'em on an' milk me dry like them Russian babes."

And so Tristan did, making Colton cum twice. Tristan himself, in a flash of inspired improvisation worthy of Lee Strasberg, came on Colton's red and pouting jock nipples, still held in their fierce embrace by the binderclips.

"That was hot," said Colton predictably after he had finished his contortions of agony when the clips were removed. He grinned. The video had long finished and the screen was now showing an advertisement for Sildenafil Citrate, which is well known under various proprietary brand names (should product placement not have been discouraged in this story) and for which the young footballer had no legitimate need.

"Yeah, it's always good with you, Cowboy."

They shared a fleeting tender moment' (as some novelists would write) but this was broken when Colton scooped up two fingers full of cum and rubbed it on Tristan's nose. There was a protest that turned in a wrestling match. Colton won of course and then he dragged Tristan off to shower up', as the Texans expressed it.

"Come on, Tris, we're showering downstairs with Holly this mornin'."

"What? Why?" replied Tristan, still groggy from sleep.

"Just because. Grab y'stuff."

Tristan pulled on a pair of boxers and took his towel and went barefoot down the narrow stairs that emptied onto the screen porch. He crossed the polished floor and entered the kitchen where Rachel was at the coffee machine. He grunted hello and this was returned; Rachel was grumpy in the morning before coffee too.

It might be interesting to notes that by agreement, the boys were allowed to appear in their boxers, but not in anything briefer. The girls had their own set of rules that included a prohibition on face peels and applying nail polish when downstairs. In any event, Rachel was modestly clothed in a short Chinese dressing gown and would not be putting on her `face' until she could decently concentrate sometime after her second cup.

Colton was just a few steps ahead of him and had already intercepted Hollis at the door of the bathroom. Greetings were exchanged and they went in together.

"Your plumbin' broke?" Hollis asked.

"No, just wanted to catch up with my bro," said Colton.

They began to talk about football, for the first game of the season was fast approaching. Tristan was puzzled that this was only going to be about football. Colton squeezed the shampoo bottle on Tristan's head as he continued to talk. He did the same to Hollis.

"You seenin' Laura tonight?"

"Yeah, I thought we'd go to The Speakesay," he replied, naming a venue in Sunset as he massaged his scalp.

"Who's Laura?" asked Tristan as he used the hand held spray.

"She works at the Clinic," said Colton replying for him. "Course we're not supposed to date the clients--but we won't spilt on y'Holly."

"Thanks, man. She seems real nice--kinda interestin'."

"Body's nice."

"Yeah."

"Holly, y'all got something you'd like to tell Tris?"

"Nah, not really."

"Holly, you don't have to tell me anything. Colt!"

"Well, there is this thing..."

"Really, Holly, don't tell me..." said Tristan rubbing soapy circles on Hollis' chest and looking up into his green eyes.

"No, Colt is right. It'll feel better to fess up. You'll understand too."

"Shit! What have you done?"

"Nothin' bad, dude. It's just that I've discovered that I like to play with m'ass when I jerk off."

"Oh," said Tristan, relieved.

"Yeah, well perhaps I've always liked to do it but I was just too ashamed."

"Tell Tristan what you do."

"Colt, stop being a cunt!"

"No, it's all right. Colt's been great, Tris." Hollis smiled and handed Colt the body wash. "I like to use m'finger on m'pucker--tease it like."

"No more?" asked Colton.

"Well, I just push m'middle finger in aways. Sends a little shock through me, y'know."

"Oh yes, Holly, I know," said Tristan.

"Well, Colt n' Laura explained that it was okay to do stuff like that and it wasn't gay--no offense--it's just that..."

"Huh! I don't think any of you straight boys are completely straight," said Tristan, feeling a little fed up.

"Don't be like that, Roomy, said Colton grinning broadly. "You love us straight boys."

"Not sure I know any," muttered Tristan.

"Well, Colt squared things with Parks, so he doesn't think I'm a freak and he bought us vibrators."

"What!"

"Yeah I did, Tris. And wasn't I right, Holly?"

"Damn straight!"

"So you and Parker lie on your beds and use vibrators on your arse?"

"And other places--still on our beds I mean."

"I see," said Tristan trying to imagine the sight.

"Colt," continued Hollis in a practical voice as he rubbed his calves, "it's plum hard to jerk off, use a vibrating circulation booster and use your phone at the same time"

"S'ppose it is. Could Parker do you?"

"Nah, he wouldn't be up for that, but he did suggest we get a smart TV for porn an' we wouldn't need our phones. Would look at it as an investment. Course we have to agree on what t'watch first."

"I'm with you, bro."

"Thanks, Colt," said Hollis taking the handheld and rinsing himself down. "So you aren't here to make fun o'me or stick your finger or your tongue up my butt?"

"Course not, Holly-man, this is a welfare check up. That is, not unless you'd like a bit o'Colty tongue." He stuck his tongue out lewdly."

"Fuck! Look at the length of that thing."

"That's just what Kellie said."

"I don't wanna hear about it."

"Practically tickled her ovaries." Tristan pulled a face and Colton laughed and squirted him with the spray. "But I can get it up a long way, can't I Tris?"

"Another reason why I think your daddy was an anteater."

"If you want to talk some more, man, feel free. Also, Tris might have some stuff you might want to borrow--you know, for y'butt."

"Shit!" said Hollis.

There was some more silent washing as each was occupied with his own thoughts and Tristan chanced to wash Hollis shoulders.

"Holly," said Tristan at length "I think you'd look hot in a pair of Colt's Marine silkies--with your colouring. They're very masculine and Laura might appreciate the picture--that is if things move in that direction."

"Y'reckon?"

"Yeah, you'd look hot, wouldn't he, Colt."

"Don't know about dudes lookin' hot."

"Bullshit! Take no notice, Holly, he's trying to straight-shame you."

"Sure, borrow m'undies, bro. It might bring y'luck." Colton made to leave the shower.

"Where y'goin'? Ain't y'all goin' to jerk off?"

"This was a professional house call, Holly, it wasn't about me."

"It's always about you, Colt," ventured Tristan.

Colton chuckled. "Ya'll pay for y'im-pudence, Tristan." There was a minute pause. "But p'haps it is," he conceded then grinned. "Right, o-fficical business has finished. Now we all bust a nut."

And so they did, Tristan thinking he was in heaven and looking from one footballer to the other. Hollis was now doing it `backhand' and his free hand drifted lower.

Colton saw it and nodded slightly while saying softly, "Go for it, man." Hollis may have given a look of relief, but it was hard to see under the fall of steamy water. Colton copied him--probably to make him feel better--but also possibly for more selfish pleasures--and Tristan thought he should make it three and massaged his own sphincter.

Not much more than five minutes later Hollis was wrapped in a towel and was passing Deshawn in the doorway. "Colton and Tristan just came all over me," said Hollis neutrally.

"Yeah?" said Deshawn as he removed his own towel. "Are we gwin' to practice that screen with a hook play this afternoon, man?"

"Talk to Colt about it. He's still in there."

Tristan parked the truck and crossed his front lawn in the dark, but the way was well marked by Japanese lanterns mounted on rocks. He wiped his brow.

Although it was October, Central Texas was oppressively hot and humid. Everyone seemed enervated by it and had been going about their business drenched in perspiration and with nerves frayed. Air-conditioning had been struggling to make headway but evening saw great black clouds building up in the southwest and many wise heads turned in that direction and confidently predicted that a storm was brewing, with the promise of bringing a welcome change in the atmosphere.

Tristan mounted the steps to the verandah and felt for his key in his sweat-soaked pocket. The front room was dark and Tristan wondered at first if everyone had gone to bed, but when he opened the door he could see Colton, Hollis, Parker and Carlos sitting at the dining room table playing poker.

"Hi..." began Tristan as he took off his backpack.

"Where the fuckin' hell have you been?" shouted Colton, rising from his place and sending an avalanche of chips to the floor.

"Well, hello to you too, Colt..." said Tristan, recovering from the shock and dropping his pack to the floor. Colton looked furious and then he noticed that the other card players were staring at the quarterback, mouths agape.

"I was at the GSA, as you know."

"Till this hour?" He hurled several other calumnies in Tristan's general direction.

"No, afterwards I went out with Daryl and Braxton."

"Who's..." began Colton, still fuming, but then he must have realised that he was being stared it. He made a good recovery. "I was worried. I tried to phone you..."

"It was flat."

Then Colton turned to the others. "I was worried seenin' Tris was beat up after that other meetin' an' when he wasn't answerin' his phone, well...well...I was plum... worried."

Whether anyone was convinced by this explanation was doubtful, but all in the room loved Colton, so nothing was said, except by Tristan who covered for him. "Sorry to have alarmed you. I didn't think of getting mugged twice. I would have used Daryl's phone, but it didn't have your number in it."

"Yeah, well, you're all right, that's the main thing."

"Yeah, here safe n'sound, Colt," said Tristan brightly.

"Are you awake?" asked Tristan in a low voice.

There was no reply, but Tristan felt sure that Colton was not asleep, despite the quantity of beer that he had consumed with the others on the screened porch and then playing cards.

It seemed too hot to touch on the mattress but Tristan could see, even in the low light, that Colton's body glistened with a varnishing of sweat that seemed to highlight the various attractive topographic features of the quarterback's anatomy. He continued to stare for a few minutes and thought of Tennessee William's Desire.

"It's very hot," said Tristan uselessly. "I can't get comfortable."

"Put your head on m'pec," said Colton in the dark.

"Won't that make you too hot?"

"No one's ever said that before!" said Colton making a joke. "'sides, I like it there. I know 'xactly where you are an' y'all can't get into no trouble."

Tristan wriggled over and laid his cheek on Colton's hard-muscled pillow, the ring in his nipple sure to leave its imprint by morning.

"I'm a might ripe."

"I like it. I must stink too."

Colton turned slightly and Tristan felt his nose pressing into the hair on the top of his head. "Y'all just smell like `Tristan'--I kinda like that smell too. Nice n'familiar."

There was silence for a time until Tristan spoke again. "Did you hear that?"

"Nope."

"Listen, Colt."

They both listened and there was the sound of a tiny explosion in the note of C. Then, after a pause, another-- C sharp, then E and finally a heavy drop that was surely in A flat. It was rain on the tin roof and it increased in intensity until all the separate notes merged into chords and then swelled into the great symphony of a rainstorm.

"Come on, let's go outside and look at it."

"I'm too drunk."

"Come on!" Tristan was galvanised into life and pulled Colton up from the swampy mattress. "Put your camouflage briefs on." He reached to the floor for the discarded garment and handed them over.

"Why?"

"Because you look fucking hot in them and I want to see them drenched."

"You're plum loco," said Colt but he did what Tristan wanted, perhaps being unable to resist `looking hot'.

They went out through the glass doors to the landing at the top of the wooden steps from the back yard. "This rain is cold!" gasped Colton softly. Indeed it was and the big drops were refreshing. They both looked up to the dark sky, wetting their faces.

"Do you think Alex and Carlos can see us?" asked Tristan. As there was no light in the attic bedroom and no apparent figures on the balcony, they assumed they were unobserved.

They were now both soaked. Tristan, naked himself, massaged the rainwater into Colton's body, making slow circles. Colton's hair, now grown down to just above his shoulders, was plastered over his face. Tristan bobbed down and ran his hands up and down Colton's hairy thighs and taut calves. Thus he was at eye level with the saturated camo briefs and was pleased to note how heavy Colton hung in them and how the material (some synthetic product) was now almost transparent and hugged every contour of Colton's goods and was, in fact, deceitfully not really camouflaging very much at all. It was just as he had fantasized it.

"Happy now?" asked Colton just a trifle impatiently.

"Yep!" replied Tristan.

"Well, inside and dry off."

Soon they were back in bed. It was already slightly cooler and the fresh breeze accompanied by the white noise of the rain came drifting through the open doors in such a delightful way that it made Tristan shiver. Colton put his arm around him and muttered something about him being a weirdo' but Tristan, snuggling against the beefy slab of young footballer, couldn't have cared less--or could have cared less', as he had learnt to say in Texas.

Foreigners would have little idea of the hoopla that attends the opening college football game of the season--homecoming' as it is known here. Besides the first home football game, there were all sorts of rah-rah social activities that preoccupied the cheerleaders, Rachel and Leesha. One of these was a big party to be held at HMS Beagle'. It would be a full house with Deshawn's parents visiting from Tupelo and Brady and Beau coming up from Colton's hometown. Parker's mother had apparently declined an invitation but more of a surprise was that Hollis' sixteen (soon to be seventeen, he kept reminding them) half-brother would be visiting. He was getting a lift to Temple with a friend of his parents and Hollis would pick him up from that town in Tristan's truck.

"Little dude!" cried Colton when the front door opened. "Ready for some fun?"

"Hi Colt! Sure I'm up for it. Told Mom and Grandpaw that I was goin' to check out the School an' see about studyin' Theology. Let them see me talking to the deacon after church for the last few Sundays an' then I left some books he lent me layin' around. Never read a word of them o'course. Then got the deacon to talk to the rents about me studyin' to be a minister. Brilliant, eh?"

"But we don't have Theology here," said Tristan as he shook Grady's hand.

"Yeah, I know that, but they don't and stupid Grandpaw was real pleased. Arranged with the Thompsons to drive me to Temple as they was drivin' to see their son in Sugar Land.

Colton and Tristan shared a look.

"How are things going with Penny Post?" asked Tristan as he carried Grady's backpack into Hollis' bedroom.

"Pretty good, Tris," he said grinning. "We've been out for pizza an' to a dance at her church. That's where I got the idea of studying Theology. Smart eh?"

"And the other girls?"

"I'm saving myself for Penny--reckon I can wait until November, but after that I reckon I'll need some relief."

"Well, you can't say fairer than that," said Tristan with sarcasm that was lost on Grady.

"I'm sleepin' here with Holly, but he tells me he's got a new girlfriend, so it might be a tad crowded."

"I think you'll come first this weekend, Grade."

Grady had met Alex, but was little prepared for the double barrel of Rachel and Leesha in the cheer outfits. Initially he was struck dumb and had to stop himself from hiding shyly behind his big brother's leg like an infant. But gradually he loosened up, especially when Hollis outlined Grady's success in junior varsity football. As he talked, Leesha was getting Grady to help put up the bunting and Rachel was offering a running commentary, first on football and then on Grady's love life--a topic that formed a natural segue.

"So this Penny isn't interested in football?" asked Rachel, incredulously.

"No, she likes quiet stuff--you know, craft, readin', helpin' her Mom with the Convoy of Hope. Then there's the choir...Don't know what she sees in me."

"Aw, isn't that just so sweet?" said Leesha from up on a stepladder with a mouthful of pins.

"Grady, I think you better have a heart-to-heart with Leesh n'me before you go back to Hicksville."

"Holly's been..."

"I don't think Holly's an expert on women, pumpkin," said Leesha.

"Hey!" said Holly who was not far away

Not long afterwards Tristan found himself sitting on the swing seat with De's mother, Pearl, while her husband joined in with the boys for some touch football on the front lawn. "You've done a great job decoratin' the house, Tristan," she said.

The college colours were given full affect in streamers and bunting tacked up all over the verandah and in the front windows and even Dino's inevitable bra gave `support' of the sporting kind. Up and down the street the houses were similarly arrayed and already parked cars and busses were making it impossible to get through, for Baxter Drive was very convenient to the stadium. "Well, that was the girls," admitted Tristan.

"I ain't had such a fine cup of hot tea since--I don't know when," said Pearl. "And in such a darlin' little teapot." She was a lovely lady--quite beautiful, with sparkling eyes under long dark lashes, and now Tristan knew from where De got his fine features. "They all drink cawfee at home, but I grew up with my grandma drinkin' tea-with-lemon just like this!"

"Where was that, Pearl?"

"In Oxford Mis'sippi. Gra'ma lived in Freeman Town."

"But you moved to Tupelo?

"Yeah, when I married Roy--big mistake. Mean Tupelo, not Roy--but you know... We had De and his three brothers and then our Sou--short for Soujourner. Do you know who Soujourner Truth was?"

"Yes, I do actually; we studied her in History last year."

They sipped their tea quietly while the joyous sounds of the footballers drifted up from the big front lawn. Pearl called out to her husband `to be careful'.

"Roy n'I have to thank y'all Tristan. We didn't have a college fund for Deshawn and we just couldn't find the money if'n De had to rent somewheres or stay in a dorm. He's living here rent free he tells me."

"Well, we all have to still pay for food and utilities...but I had this inheritance from my grandmother."

"But still, Tristan..."

Tristan felt uncomfortable so he changed the subject. "You know, my grandmother's family were in the tea trade in the 1800s. I feel a bit like a traitor when I drink coffee." He smiled.

"Did they use slaves to pick the tea?"

Tristan was shocked. "Well, they didn't grow it, just, you know, shipped it from China and India and then auctioned it--I don't think the pickers were slaves, but they probably were paid a pittance, I imagine. In Sri Lanka it was the Tamil women, I think." He paused in thought. "I suppose all that tea meant they needed sugar..."

"Sorry, Tristan, I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me. It's just that so many fortunes were based on slavery."

"Yes, they were," conceded Tristan and then was lost in thought as he stirred his tea unnecessarily until he said carefully: "My grandfather's grandfather was a Quaker. They opposed slavery. He was the one who started the business in Liverpool and then London, but my father works for a big oil and gas multinational and I suppose they exploit the natural environment, even if they don't buy and sell human beings. I guess the money I get from him is tainted money too."

"Don't mind me none, Tristan," Deshawn's mother in a conciliatory tone. "None of us is pure. You can't help where you come from; it's what you are now that God sees. De says you're real brainy and went to a fancy school in Britain. I can see that your one smart dude and real polite."

"Well, the School was pretty fancy, but I'm not half as smart as De is. You've seen that thing in his room and get him to show you the punkahs in mine. How his brain works!"

Pearl looked pleased. "Bless you, Tristan. I love all my chicks, but Deshawn's somethin' real special. Building stuff, football and that pretty face!" She laughed. "He's made of different stuff to his brothers, and that's no lie! Reckon he takes after my father--always inventin' stuff as a boy, he was, but never made a dime outta it. He shouldda gone to college. Now my De has a chance to make somethin' of hisself."

"I'm sure he will, if not in football, then in engineering."

"Do you know what he said to me? He said, `Momma, when I make it big I'm gwine t' buy you a house in the suburbs and get you outta the projects'. Ain't that sweet?"

"It's just like him," opined Tristan. "He said it isn't very nice where you live."

"Ain't like here, that's f'sure. Some of the neighbours is bad news--but most are just ordinary folks wantin' to get by." She lowered her voice. "Roy got into some trouble when De was about eight year-ole, Tristan. He was outta work durin' the recession an' he got mixed up with some stolen goods--car tyres--that his no-account brother an' our eldest boy, De'Ontrey, had `obtained'. Knew they was hot--no excuse! The judge came down pretty hard considerin' it was a first offense; six months for each o'them an' twelve for De's uncle. Didn't matter none that Roy had been a footballer for the state."

"Jesus, Pearl! I didn't know. De has never said anything."

"Well, he wouldn't. Loved his daddy an' took it hard at that age."

"I suppose the judge wouldn't have been so hard on a white family."

"Said the community was fed-up' with burglaries an' the court-appointed lawyer wasn't very interested. Kept calling Roy Ray'. Z'way it is in Miss'sippi."

"That's terrible. I'm an outsider here and maybe it's not my place to say anything--or maybe if I do, I'm being presumptuous because it's `not authentic'--I haven't lived the life of an African-American, but..."

"If you see injustice, of course you should speak out. `Injustice' ain't owned by nobody--it is injustice to all Americans--to all people. Ain't that the truth?"

"Yes, that's the truth, Peal," said Tristan with conviction.

"Now, has that boy of mine been agoin' t'church regular?"

Tristan was shocked and fumbled for an answer. "Well, I don't know. You'd be best to ask De what..."

Pearl `bust up' laughing. "I was joshin' y'all. You don't have to tell on him. I'd be a fool to think he was still goin' t'Sunday School when he' a growed College footballer!"

"He's still a very good person, Pearl, and I don't think he'd fallen into bad company, unless you count me and the others."

"Bless you, of course I don't, Tristan. You've been good for my little Dede."

The tea was finished and Tristan left Pearl to rock alone in the swing seat when a noise announced that Beau and Brady had arrived. They barely had time to say hello to the footballers, as they had to depart for preparation for the late afternoon game against Baylor College.

Tristan was pleased to see that Brady looked better than he had months earlier and it might even be said that he looked well-fed, but he was still a scruffy and scrawny young man compared to the others.

Beau was given the grand tour' of the HMS Beagle' and marvelled at all its `lions' and made all the appropriate noises. "Where are we to sleep?" he asked.

It was a good question. Pearl and Roy were in the basement bedroom and Leesha's father (if too drunk to drive back to Dallas) was to sleep on the Murphy bed upstairs. Carlos' cousin was to `crash' in the maid's room if he decided to come down for the game. "I thought up in the loft with Colton and me. There's the two mattresses on the floor and we could share." Just how they could share, Tristan was not exactly sure.

"There won't be no gay stuff?" asked Brady.

"Oh, won't there be?" said Beau with disingenuous disappointment.

"Of course not," said Tristan, far from sure. "It's just a Coyotes' sleepover," he added, waggling the little medallion about his neck. "Probably without shorts," he conceded.

"I'll check the Coyote Rule Book," said Brady, "But I might get lucky with some college pussy."

"That's a possibility. There's Rachel and Leesha and the cheer squad will be well represented, I imagine."

"Daryl's coming from the GSA, Beau. He's unattached."

"He's a country boy?"

"No, raised on concrete, I'm afraid, but you'll just have to see for yourself."

"And young Grady?"

"He's Hollis' brother and he's straight and only sixteen."

"I'm only seventeen. He sure is a cutie."

Tristan changed the subject. "Colt said to give you this."

"What is it?" asked Brady.

"Don't know; he didn't say." Tristan handed over a shopping bag. Brady tipped it onto the bed and Beau spread out the articles wrapped in tissue paper.

"Boxers!" laughed Beau. He held them up. They were made of cheap synthetic silk and were in the football team's lurid colours and with the repeated imaged of their mascot, a farmer in overalls.

"Put them on," encouraged Tristan.

Beau slid down his shorts. He was wearing a pair of black trunks--what Americans confusingly called `boxer briefs'. These came off too.

"Easy to see that he's Colt's cuz, eh Tris?" commented Brady.

"Yeah, it's a nice piece for seventeen."

"Shut the fuck up!" laughed Beau, but he didn't deny it.

He pulled on the boxers and did a little jiggle. Beau's cock was outlined by the material--one of the little farmers looking as if he were convulsing.

"Turn around," said Brady when it was his turn. Neither Beau nor Tristan took the slightest notice.

Brady struggled out of his old skinny black jeans and a voluminous pair of white boxers ballooned into view like a poorly packed parachute.

"Jesus, Brade, how do you get your jeans on?"

"Shut up, man, they're comfortable."

Tristan and Beau chuckled until Tristan noticed scars on the top of Brady's thighs. His smile faded and Brady saw him looking."

"Yeah man. Sick, eh?" He turned his wrists towards Tristan to reveal two more faded scars. Tristan felt sick in the stomach.

"Brade!"

"I know. Got into cuttin' myself awhile back. Seemed t'help at the time--when things were real bad. It kinda took m'mind of m'other pain. Leastwise that's what Moira thinks. She's m'psych." There was a pause. "These ones," he said, referring to his wrists, "were just `a cry f'help' she said. If'n I wanted to kill myself I'da done it lengthwise, not crosswise--harder to stop the bleedin'." There was another pause. "Trouble is, I didn't know that then. Hey, man!"

Tristan was crying and Brady shuffled over in the ridiculous boxers and with his jeans around his ankles and awkwardly embraced him--for he was shorter than Tristan.

"Don't cry, Tris. I'm better now. Don't feel like cuttin' or nothin'. Life's good." He hugged Tristan tighter. "Savin' up for a new truck, ain't I Beau?"

"Yeah."

He now held Tristan at arm's length. "The Stones have been great, Tris. Moira has made me see some stuff better. Grandpaw an' me have been talkin'. He's m'family now an' so are Colt's folks. So, I'm pretty good for a `no account', all things considered."

"With me it was drugs," gulped Tristan, looking at another version of himself standing there. "Pills, prescription medications. I felt...I felt...I don't know how I felt."

"I know how you felt, man."

Tristan realised that his lachrymose reaction was not helping Brady, who was clearly helping himself. "Sorry, Brade," he sniffed. "Put the boxers on and let's look at you."

Brady slithered out of his ratty old jeans and dropped his bloomers. Tristan noted that he'd trimmed down below. On went the College boxers and Brady stood next to Beau, grinning. He twirled around and fell to laughter. "Ooh! Yeah! feels good on m'piece."

Not to be outdone, Tristan reached into his wardrobe and emerged with a felt `ten- gallon' hat in the College colours and put it on his own English bonce. "We ready to go?"

The big game against Baylor did not begin well and there had been six lost fumbles, one down to Bobby the freshman walk-on whom the coaching team had elected to start. Then there were missed field goals and poor intercepts. Doctor Baddeley was beside herself and kept slapping Tristan's knee in her frustration. "What's the matter with Colt? He's calling dogs of plays!" Tristan felt he had to agree with her as the game dragged on in the stop-start fashion of American football and Tristan was trying to come to terms with a certain defeat. During the breaks there was much earnest discussion in the crowd. It was a far from cold autumn afternoon, but hot drinks from the doctor's thermos flask was a welcome balm none-the-less.

Then the fortunes of the game miraculously began to slowly transform until there was only five minutes of regulation time to play. The excitement rose and carried Tristan along in it joyous flood and he wondered how he had ever felt so despondent. He grinned at Dr Baddeley as they looked to see Colton lead the offensive team onto the field late into the game to rousing cheers. Colton looked so impressive--so impossibly heroic--that Tristan's heart swelled. "Looks fuckin' awesome!" said Beau in rapture. Brady agreed and pointed out how Colton commanded the attention of the whole offensive team and was no doubt decisively outlining his strategy. Doctor Baddeley now slapped his knee in excitement.

Beginning from their own fourteen yard line, and following two incomplete passes, Colton connected with Marques Washington, the halfback, and an eleven yard play started moving the offence up the field to the cheers of the home crowd. Colton missed on a long pass to Lavan Young before focussing on his favourite target, Hollis McGarvie. On a second-and-ten he found him for a twenty-five yard gain to the midfield. The excitement rose higher. Then Colton looked down the left side and connected with Hollis for another fifteen yards. One more hook-up between the two friends was good for twenty-two yards and put the team on Baylor's thirteen-yard line. With seven seconds to play in regulation time, Parren Mitchell, the kicker trotted onto the field and effortlessly booted a field goal from a distance of twenty yards, sending the game into overtime--`sudden death'.

Baylor won the toss but was forced to punt after they went three-and-out. Colton now seemed to gain control of his team and methodically moved eighty yards on thirteen plays. Finally, Deshawn punched through the line in a one yard game-winning touchdown after eight minutes and fifteen seconds of overtime and Tristan looked up to see that they had won 23:17.

It was a great victory and everyone hoped that it would set the tone for a successful season. There was so much delirious noise in the stands that Tristan thought he would go mad.

"You're coming tonight?" Tristan asked Dr Baddeley as she packed up.

"Yep, sure am. Thanks for the invite Tristan. Orison never takes me out, but I suppose I'll bring him. Might have to dump his ass if I get lucky."

"Well, there is Mr Burridge from next door. His wife's in a home and Colton thinks he might be low on magnesium."

"Huh, just my type." She laughed and bid farewell.

There was no tailgate for some reason, but Tristan's friends all trooped back to the house where the party would soon get underway and Tristan hoped that Colton would be home directly and not waylaid by some female, as had happened all too frequently for his liking, in the past.

Alex and Carlos had not been to the game and had already started preparing for the party when Tristan, Beau and Brady returned. Hollis had arranged for his half-brother to sit with the team and even now the youth was a special guest in the locker room. Tristan imagined how excited he must be, particularly as Hollis had played so well.

A keg of beer was being set up by the milk float and another was held in reserve in the stable. Tristan would have been happy with just potato crisps and some olives, but he saw that there was a big platter of marinated meat ready for the grill and Pearl was now preparing other dishes whilst unable to contain herself, for Deshawn had played a brilliant game too.

Tristan did a few preparatory tasks himself and then made a short trip to buy some bags of ice. He then thought there were enough hands at work and treated himself to a beer and a shower. He was asleep in the loft when he was woken by Colton's return.

"Yo, Roomy!"

"Hi Colt. How are you?"

"Good. A bit sore, but good."

"You were brilliant today--especially in the second half."

"Yeah, well, knew I had to lift m'game. I threw the playbook away and went with my own. Coach was pissed but couldn't say much because we won! Sometimes y'just have to play it the way you want it, y'know? Your way."

"Yeah, I understand."

"But the main thing was just how fuckin' great the whole team was--Holly, De, Marques, Parrin...It wasn't just me and I was pretty damn ordinary in the first half."

"Well, I think you're a genuine hero and so does everyone else."

"Shucks, Tris. Y'makin' me blush," said Colton not quite seriously. `Y'know what I was thinkin'? I was thinkin', what would Tristan think of this play, what would Tris do if he was down here right now."

"I don't believe that for a moment! What would I know? Don't even know the rules. You were one hundred percent in the zone when you were out there and I was the farthest thing from your mind."

Colton had the grace to grin. "Y'know, Tris, I think I might need another shower an' I might need to go over some of the finer points of the game, if you'd like to hear 'em."

"What is a `Hail Mary' exactly?" asked Tritan as he shed his own clothes with commendable simplicity and followed Colton into the Japanese--inspired bathroom.

This was never explained for Tristan's mind was suddenly focussed elsewhere--and he had no further opportunity to voice questions had the need arisen. In fact Tristan was kneeling before Colton in supplication with a view to sucklication. He smiled to himself at the indignity and how he just didn't care.

Colton's man-sized member was hanging flaccid--which, by way of interest, Tristan pronounced with a hard C in the sure belief that this was the Queen's English, although how many times and under what circumstances Her Majesty herself had uttered the word is a topic for speculation. It was a meaty offering and not at all resembling the ugly anteater', that the circumcised Parker had pejoratively described it. Indeed the folds of foreskin were so that, while the equator may have been covered, the area that might be regarded as being beyond the Tropic of Cancer was visible, forming a shiny dome and of an attractive dark pink hue somewhat resembling that of the Echinacea purpurea--a flower native to Hill Country. The piss slit' was unusually large, as has been observed, and Tristan had an unnatural desire--or perhaps a natural inclination--to penetrate it with his tongue or pinkie.

"Give it a little, kiss, Roomy," said Colton gently from above.

Tristan did, from front on and in the manner of a teenager with his date on Prom Night. Colton sighed appreciatively from on high. Then Tristan started to employ his repertoire of moves honed, if not gained, from his year of rooming with Colton. Colton's penis began its transformation--although Colton was more a shower' rather than a grower', to employ the vernacular.

Tristan thought to himself that it would be nice to say, as they did in the stories that he read on-line with his own dick in his hand, that Colton's cock was so thick that he could not get his fingers around it. However, as it hardened before Tristan's very eyes, he found to his delight that he could barley touch his thumb and middle finger together without causing Colton acute pain and he marvelled, once again, that some of the tropes in these stories were actually accurate. Then he thought of the pleasure and pain that this girthy organ caused in his decidedly average rectum. He was thus conflicted.

"What y'all waitin' for Tris? Won't suck itself."

Tristan set to work, enjoying it and even getting a good length down his throat, which was always a challenge.

"Why ain't you hard, Tris?" said Colton from somewhere above Tristan.

"Sorry, I was busy concentrating on getting you off."

"That's not how this works, dude. I want you fuckin' hard and drippin' with lust."

"No, it's all right; I'll jack off later."

"No, it ain't all right! It implies that I'm just usin' you for m'own selfish pleasure--by the way, just nibble on m'balls some--and I won't get off unless you get off. Understood? You have t'cum first." Colton felt behind Tristan. "What ain't you plugged?"

"I took it out, Colt," said Tristan in a small voice. "I couldn't sit through the whole game on those hard benches with that thing up me."

"Tristan!" growled Colton.

"No, honestly. And if I had it in and I was watching you in your football gear...Well, I might just have cum right there in front of everyone."

"Really?" exclaimed Colton in a high voice. "Just looking at me would make you cum?"

"Perhaps. And with The Gherkin tormenting my prostate gland..."

"That's so hot, Tris. Might just have liked to see that--and in front of all the folks too!"

"You have a cruel streak."

Colton kissed Tristan again in an effort to apologise but still said, "Go and get it and I'll put it in you?"

"Colt..." whined Tristan.

"Go on!"

Tristan made a soggy unscheduled departure from the shower and returned with the sex toy. Some body wash provided lubrication and Tristan stood awkwardly with one foot on the seat. Colton applied some more body wash and spent a minute teasing Tristan's sensitive aperture.

"Far double-wing right, hum short, 76, halfback shallow cross, on two. Ready, break!" chanted Colton and with that thrust the butt plug home. Tristan groaned. "Feel good?"

"Yeah," Tristan said with his eyes still tightly shut.

"Right, back to work."

Tristan now attempted to suck Colton and manipulate his own member, which was still not hard. After a few minutes: "No, won't do!" said Colton with authority. He pulled out of Tristan's mouth with a slurp that sounded something like a bathtub being emptied upstairs in a tenement flat. "Up here!"

He lifted Tristan with ease onto the slatted wooden bench at one end of the shower and groped Tristan's privates while uttering, "Humm!" He then bent and tilted Tristan's head by the chin towards his own. His kissed him in a way peculiar to Colton and pulled away after a long time. Tristan's eyes were watering.

"That's got y'motor runnin'," said Colton, grinning and feeling between Tristan's legs.

To Tristan's surprise, Colton got down on his knees and took Tristan's penis into his own mouth. He went to work after his own fashion until he was able to say, "That's it Tris. Now keep that fucker hard for me!" He switched to vigorously using his fist on the spit-soaked organ.

"Suck me again," gasped Tristan and Colton did not demure and did so until Tristan pulled out.

"Am I doin' it wrong?"

"No, that was great, but I just don't think I'll be able to cum from just sucking--you know." Colton did know and set about finding actions that would get Tristan off.

They were both standing now and Colton was variously, smacking Tristan's cock with his own and causing them both to laugh, rubbing the sensitive tip in his wiry blonde hair, bending it and nestling it under his heavy balls and between his meaty thighs and finally, turning around and allowing Tristan to rub it up and down his muscular arse crack. "Don't go getting' no ideas."

"I thought that was the whole idea," Tristan managed to gasp. Then, "I'm close, Colt."

"Shoot it, bro."

Colton aided Tristan's final moments by moving his arse up and down while flexing his cheeks whose muscles were toned from years of squats and stacking bales of hay.

Tristan let out a strangled cry.

"Feel good?"

"Yeah," Tristan gasped.

Colton managed to scoop up a few drops of Tristan's cum and lewdly fed it to him, then, grinning, tasted some himself.

"I like my Roomy randified," said Colton grinning. "Now watch me!"

Colton stroked himself and Tristan did watch, his own cock now flaccid once more under the fall of water from the shower. Then, with a look from Colton, Tristan knew that he wanted his nipples twisted. He did so just in time, for Colton came in a great rush, most of which anointed Tristan's sexual organs.

"Ah! That was damn good, Tris, but I'm goin' to have to be a lot more strict about you gettin' off; it's not all about me. Want to go again?"

"No thanks, Colt," said Tristan weakly. "I don't have your stamina and we have to get ready for the party."

"Well, if you're sure, dude. What undies?"

Tristan was washing himself down with the handheld spray. "I think the red-and-green plaid boxers--you know the ones with the short leg."

"Your favourite?"

"Perhaps. You look hot in them. You were wearing them the first day I met you."

`There was music from my neighbour's house through the summer nights,' murmured Tristan to himself as he clopped down the wooden stairs into the backyard to find that the party had begun. Then he pulled himself up; this was his house, the summer was already over and he was not in the Great American Novel. He looked around. Perhaps he had been hasty in dismissing the idea of having a pool, he reflected, but then Joe Gillis had always wanted one and so had Jay Gatsby-- to their cost.

Alexinia came up to him and kissed him on the cheek and handed him a beer. "Who's this `Sunflower'?" she asked indicating Tristan's tee-shirt.

"Indie soul-pop-rock group from Australia. I think they're cool and my mate Saskia sent it to me."

She nodded, perhaps a little contemptuous of white-boy soul music. "The house is sure great, Tris," she said, looking around at the crowd. "You know, I'm powerful grateful."

"Thanks, but it is me who's the grateful one."

Alexinia smiled at him and brushed his rather unruly hair from over his left eyebrow in an affectionate gesture. "If you weren't gay n'a rich white boy..." Tristan knew he was being teased, but he blushed anyway and Alexinia cruelly laughed at him. "Where y'man, Tris?"

"Shh! Don't be a bitch! Colton is not my man."

"Is too."

"He's upstairs brushing his teeth. He'll be down shortly."

The Homecoming party was an assured success. The emphatic victory in the football game had united the little community. Mr Burridge was grinning like a schoolboy and was talking excitedly to some neighbours. On the porch stood Dr Baddeley and her husband with Leesha who was explaining one of their cheer formations. Iain Macpherson was talking to Parker and one of the other girls from the cheer squad. Grady was surrounded by a group of female sophomores who Tristan knew to be Rachel's friends from Psychology. Just then Hollis came out of the kitchen with Laura from the Clinic and Tristan hoped that Dr Baddeley would not be cross for this non-professional mixing.

"If this was a story," said Tristan to Colton as he helped him with the grill, "Dr Baddeley would have brought her beautiful daughter with her and you would have fallen for her instantly. She'd end up as your mother-in-law."

"Well this ain't a story. She has got a growed-up daughter who's a doctor in Boston, but she's married and looks the spittin' image of her mother--showed me a photograph."

"Well, both a narrow escape and a literary cul-de-sac."

"Don't know what y'all talkin''bout half the time, Tris."

"Never mind. Hey you look hot!"

Colton was wearing a new pair of crisp white shorts. They were tailored, but quite brief by the time the cuff was taken into account and they showed off his legs. There was a new vivid white tee-shirt that Colton filled out to perfection and a loose, unbuttoned shirt in some neutral colour.

"Mom an' Dad sent me some money. They're sorry that they couldn't be here for Homecoming."

"If I was an American, I'd say you should go into the modelling business; turn your assets into something commercial."

"This from the guy who got me to sell my underwear."

"Well, they were desperate days and you enjoyed it."

"Yeah, I did actually. Might do it again. You're a great guy, Tristan Isley."

"Your not so bad, for a jock, Mr Stone."

They grinned at each other before Carlos came up to relieve Tristan at the grill.

Then Iona Macpherson was by his side. "Tristan," she whispered, "I've had an offer from a studio for one of my stories."

"For that one about the college footballers in the Bangkok bondage dungeon?"

"Yes, for `Thais that Bind'? You liked it?"

"It had its moments. The songs in it were an unusual inclusion."

"Well, I cribbed those from the `King and I'--I suppose I ought to apologize to Oscar Hammerstein for changing the lyrics."

"Well, I don't know what to say..."

"Just `secret congratulations' will do. Iain--and Colton--must never know! Of course the film will be made in Miami, I think. That's where the studio is--if you can call a warehouse with some flats a studio."

"What will you do with the money?"

"All of $500? I think `Horney Dude' might donate it to the Clinic," she said looking in the direction of the Doctor.

Tristan moved from group to group and was pleased that so many of his friends were present and that the house functioned so smoothly as a student party venue. In fact he said so to Ben and Ivy who were talking to Daryl from the GSA on the porch. Daryl was intrigued by Deshawn's steam punk fans. "What's your favourite part of the house, Tris?" asked Ivy.

"The bathroom in the loft. I love how the whole wooden floor is the drain. Then I love the copper roof here. It looks great against the black-stained wood. See where I've planted a grape vine?"

"You'll be able to make your own wine?" asked Daryl as he sipped his own wine through pursed lips.

"No, still have to buy it; it's sterile and so no fruit and no mess."

The mention of wine seemed to cause Tristan to look up. There in the yard was a man he could not quite place. He saw him speak to Colton and then it dawned on him: it was Officer Collins from the local precinct, the man who had arrested Colton and who had come to Tristan's hospital bedside. For a moment Tristan thought they must have been breaking one of the draconian American drinking laws--serving beer to sophomore students in a private house-- and the loss of his driving license flashed before his eyes. Then he saw Grady. Would Collins examine the contents of the sixteen year-old's red Solo cup? He saw himself for an instant in Colton's police cell. Then he relaxed. Collins was in civilian clothes and was laughing and accepting a beer from Colton, the hero of the day.

It was quite late when Colton found Tristan who was talking to Roy and Pearl and stood there quietly until Deshawn came to take his parents away to introduce them to Professor Troost who was preparing to perform his own arrangement of the third movement of Franz Liszt's Piano Concerto Number One in E flat major and indeed had brought his own instrument with him in his trouser pocket.

"Come on, Tris, let's get out of here."

"Okay," said Tristan.

Colton grabbed a bottle of Stone's shiraz and two red Solo cups and they left the illuminated back yard and skirted the house in the dark, where even now they could just hear the soft pinging of Professor Troost's triangle in the living room.

They walked into the dimly lit night and looked back at the house, all aglow and in festive mood.

"Great party," said Tristan.

"Yeah, awesome," replied Colton. "Y'know y'did a great thang when y' made this house, Tris."

"It's all of you guys who have made this house--this `home' I should say."

"Know what y'all mean, but what I said is still true."

"Thanks."

As they walked Tristan could not help but think of Brady. "You know, you saved my life."

"When you were beat up by Meigs?"

"No, I mean how I was last year."

"You mean with all them pills?"

"Yeah, I reckon I would have died--maybe-- an accident, perhaps, or maybe..."

"Jesus, Tris! You can't be serious!"

"I don't want to be dramatic or anything, but yeah, I reckon I could have just OD'ed and slid away into oblivion. Felt that would have been for the best for everyone when I was at my worst."

"Fuck!"

"Well, you just appeared in my life and put your foot down and I practically went cold turkey."

They walked on, having crossed Howard Taft, and headed into the deserted university.

"I mean, until I met you, nobody would have cared that much if I was gone. Mum had her new life and Dad had wiped me. You cared and that made all the difference."

Colton now had his arm around Tristan's shoulder. "Y'plum wrong in one respect, Roomy. Y'dad did care."

"No he didn't. Not then and he's only just started talking to me again after Cylvah. He cares now."

"No, he cared then, Tris. There's something that I shouldda told you way before."

"What do you mean?"

They had reached the stadium. Colton was silent, marshalling his thoughts perhaps, as he took out his keys and opened the players' door. He turned off the alarm. He pulled Tristan by the hand down through the cinderblock corridors until they reached the stands.

"Show me where y'all sit."

They walked up the steps and Tristan found the spot in the moonlight. "I sit here. Doc Baddeley sits there. Beau sat next to me today and Brady sat next to him."

They sat and Colton opened the bottle and poured out the wine. Tristan took a sip; it was not good out of plastic, but he didn't care because he was there with the guy he loved.

"You were great today, Colt. When it counted you wrote your own playbook. You and Holly were a real team."

Colton was looking out across the now colourless turf but his mind was obviously elsewhere. Tristan was turned sideways looking at him.

"You and I rooming together: it wasn't just an accident. I thought y'all woulda worked that out for yourself."

"How do you mean?" asked Tristan quite perplexed.

Just then the sprinklers came on down below. Suddenly there was a confusion of leaping arcs of silver caught by the moonlight.

"Well, y'know now that y'dad went upfront to see Barlow before you came here." Tristan nodded. "Pulled some strings, I suppose, and he wanted you to be placed with someone who would take care of you--not quite like that--but be good for you, look out for you and that sort of stuff--especially bein' a stranger here in this country."

"I don't believe it!"

"It's true, I tell, ya. As their star recruit they said I could have my pick of roommates. I know that's plum unfair, but that's how it was. They sent me the dorm applications of half a dozen guys--all jocks and all but one were footballers--that was Parks, believe it or not."

"Well, that would make sense, I can see you or Holly being peas in a pod. Not Deshawn?"

"There wasn't a black dude among them. Isn't that fucked?"

"Anyway..."

"What?"

"Anyway, I came across what y'dad wrote about you."

"And you still picked me?"

"No, man, you don't understand. Your dad wrote the most beautiful thang I've ever read and it was all about you--real lit'rary--and I was cryin' like a baby when I read it, ask Mom n'Dad."

"What did he write?" asked Tristan, an odd panic rising in his chest.

"He said what a clever and beautiful human bein' you were an' how life had thrown you a curved ball--although he didn't use baseball lingo. Here, read it for yourself; I kept it."

Colton fiddled with his phone for a long time in the dark but finally found what he was looking for and handed the instrument over to Tristan.

Tristan embarked on his task with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. He read and read. It was not a long document, so he read it for a second and then parts for a third and even fourth time. Tears welled up and burned hot on his cheeks.

"Wow!" He managed to gasp through his tears. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I never knew he thought like that. I mean, he never said a tenth of what he wrote--hardly said anything at all, in fact. Didn't even yell at me all that much." He looked up at Colton. "I guess I was doing most of the yelling."

"See, he does love you."

"He loves the guy in that letter; I don't recognize that person as me."

"I do. Every word."

"Oh fuck, Colt!" Tristan started to cry again and Colton stood over him and used the hem of his new shirt to staunch the flow. "Thanks," said Tristan at last, managing a watery smile.

"Just think, Parker or Holly could have been your roommate."

"Or yours."

"An attractive thought, but you know what my answer would have been, had I even been consulted. Besides, they might have run a mile if they'd read that testimonial by Dad. Might have thought it was way over the top and creepy."

"So maybe it was luck that it was read by me?"

"Yeah, and luck that you were the starting quarterback and not Matt or someone."

"Not fate or God's will?"

"No, of course not. Nothing is `written', is it?"

"Yeah, exactly."

They were silent for a long time. The tut-tutting of the sprinklers seemed to register old-maidish disapproval of the world. Their cups were emptied and refilled.

"Iain's quite gloomy about the future," said Tristan at last. "It's a bit scary."

"What's he say?"

"That America is fucked. That we're heading towards fascism."

"You said `we'."

"I must be becoming an American," laughed Tristan. "Said it was world-wide drift as well--populism, dictators, fundamentalism, nationalism, the big lie', just like the 'thirties; a slide towards the abyss', he says."

Colton was silent for a long time. "Don't know enough about politics, Tris. We're young; the future might be real good. It's hard to predict, ain't it?"

"I guess so. Historians are inclined to look for patterns and precedents, I suppose. Maybe 2020 will be a better year."

"Sure to be, dude."

"Put your arm around me, no one can see."

Colton laid his heavy arm across Tristan's shoulders and said, "Does it matter if someone sees?"

"Yeah, I don't want them to think I'm easy for footballers. That's why I like to read those stories, it gives me precedents as a guide to how things will turn out."

"Y'can't be serious, Tris!" said Colton, astounded. "We chart our own course--you just said, `nothin's written'."

Tristan was conflicted. "Maybe. We'll chart our own voyage in the Beagle?"

"Yeah, sure we will."

"You know, those stories really helped me when I was low--even before, when I came out at School--it made me recognise the tropes that gay guys can expect to find in Life. I really do believe that Life imitates Art."

"Y'all can't call jerk-off stories `Art'!"

"They have their moments. You must admit they have correctly predicted some things that have happened: Hecht Gleeson, sex in a cabin, my gay-bashing..." Tristan turned to Colton with a raised eyebrow. "My roommate turning gay."

"I have not turned gay!"

"Oh, sorry, of course not. I was thinking of the quarterback in Nancy of Notre Dame'--or was it Fishnet Finnegan', the running back?" Colton snorted as usual and Tristan, emboldened went on. "In Jock Batter the star pitcher finally comes out of the closet during the World Series and proposes to his roommate right there on the scoreboard, just when the Mets took at three run lead into the top of the ninth. Can't remember who won, but."

"Look, Tris, I'm not even twenty-one yet--we've got a lot of life to live. You know what I'm like--and I ain't the proposin' kind. I don't want to be classified or made to conform to some plot in some crappy story. Ain't sexuality supposed to be on a spectrum? Why do I have to be boxed in? I'm attracted to girls--older women too--you know that. I don't chase guys, do I?"

Tristan conceded that this was `a truth universally acknowledged'.

"However, I love you--really love you-- even if I'm not attracted to you." Colton pulled himself up. "I know that didn't come out right. What I mean is that I'm not `attracted' in the same way as I am to Gioia, for example."

"Who's Gioia?" asked Tristan.

"New Italian babe in Calculus with great tits--`grande tette'. My eyes are attracted to them--to her--when I should be concentrating on binomial expansion or somethin', but I won't be doin' nothin' 'cause Dade King has asked her out. What was I sayin'?"

"How you don't find me attractive."

"Hey! I didn't say that. You're amakin' it hard. Let's just say, I love you so much it hurts, Tris. Can't those two things co-exist?"

"How exactly do you love me then?"

"Don't know," said Colton with a trace of despair in his voice. "You remember when you said that thing about Home Depot? It's the same for me. I just like bein' with y'Tris. I find myself lookin' for you when I'm out in a crowd. Listenin' for y'voice. My eyes look for y'all when I come home too--even if you don't have bouncy boobi. I like the smell o'your hair when we're in bed. I like talkin' about stuff with you. I can talk to you about stuff that I can't do with no one else--even Holly--and we both love Holly, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do."

"Well, I love you a heap more than I love Holly." He paused and Tristan realised that he was weeping. "I don't know what I'd do without you." His voice had a rent in it. "I'd rather wake up with you than the hottest chick--even Océane Sapion."

Tristan couldn't answer, but instead said, "But the sex?"

"I love having sex with you. I love givin' you pleasure and seein' how you react--react with so much love. I get off on that. And you like doing it with me?"

"Of course, more than anything. I don't want any another guy."

"Good, 'cause I gotta confess that I'm jealous--like the asshole I made of myself the other night. For some dumb reason I thought you'd gone off with Daryl or Sam Rice or someone from the GSA. I was real mad but at the same time ashamed that I couldn't control myself. I also felt real guilty and I couldn't blame you if you did want a proper boyfriend."

"I'm more than content to have just what we have now, Colt. I don't want more and I don't want less. I just want to go along as we are now--even if we can't put a name to it."

"But we can put a name to it, Tris," said Colton with a burning sincerity. He turned to him, just inches from his face. "The name is `love'.

"The name of the ceramic cowboy," murmured Tristan softly to himself.

"What?"

"My gran's string holder on the wall."

Colton wasn't quite following and wondered if Tristan was drunk. "And if what we have doesn't conform to some jerk-off story line?"

"Yeah, well some people will be disappointed."

"What people? What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. I guess those stories are no guidance in our case."

Tristan laid his aching head on Colton's broad and comforting shoulder. He didn't mind Colton being the `man' in their relationship.

"Well, Tris," breathed Colton into Tristan's ear. "That just means you n'me will have to write our own story."

THE END

Thank you for doing me the honour reading my story each week and special thanks to all those readers who were kind enough to email me with their feedback--some on a regular basis. It was greatly encouraging and indeed a real buzz. I hope that no emails went unanswered. "Tristan" is my second attempt at a novel. My first (with Pete Bruno) is called "Noblesse Oblige" and can be found under "Gay Historical". You might enjoy this too, although I warn you that it runs for many chapters over five `books' covering the years 1909-1940. Please do continue to email me at h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and put "Tristan" or "Noblesse Oblige" in the subject line.