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One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 01

By: Ken Nitsua



 K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

The persistent beeping of an alarm threads its way into my consciousness. Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes to an unfamiliar light and unfamiliar surroundings. Where am I? In a moment my brain orients itself.

The small travel clock on the dresser, which I only use here, reads six-thirty a.m. Despite the whirring of the portable fan in front of the open window, the room is warm and stuffy. Buildings this far north are constructed to retain heat, and during a summer hot spell they perform that function all too well.

I'm in a sparsely furnished dormitory single on the campus of the University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point, about to begin a week of teaching violin for the twentieth year at the American Suzuki Institute. I put my hands behind my head and stare up at the tiles of the false ceiling, trying to energize myself for the day and the week to come.

The Suzuki method asks child and parent to collaborate in the experience of learning to play a musical instrument, helped by the teacher. Suzuki Institutes are workshops, where kids and their parents come for four or five days of intensive instruction--family music camp.

Faculty members at institutes work very hard, teaching five or six hours a day, frequently performing at night. To say that a Suzuki Institute is not a gay-friendly place is an understatement. The focus is overwhelmingly on the family. Sure, there are gay faculty. But they are mostly women, men I've already slept with and satisfied my curiosity about, or men about whom I have absolutely no curiosity.

Lying naked under the sheet and thin blanket, I remember that it wasn't always like that. One summer at Stevens Point, when I was twenty-eight years old, unexpected and marvelous things happened. Despite the little voice inside nagging me to get up, memories begin to flow into my mind. For a few moments I let myself be carried away by the tide.

***

It was the fourth year I taught at Stevens Point. The American Suzuki Institute was no longer the mammoth event that it had been in the early eighties, when Shinichi Suzuki himself, the originator of the method, paid several visits here. There was something mystical about this old, frail Japanese man, sort of a musical Dalai Lama, descending on this modest college town in Central Wisconsin and transforming it with his vision.

Suzuki was dead now, and Stevens Point no longer had his particular aura. But it was still one of the largest summer workshops devoted to the Suzuki method in the United States, and to be on the faculty carried considerable prestige, or so I thought.

I was pretty exhausted by the time I got to the Institute, which was always held late in the summer, the first two weeks of August. I'd already taught at several other institutes across the United States that summer. Still, I welcomed the activity, since it saved me from having to think about the disarray of my life. I had broken up that spring with a longtime lover back in my hometown of Chicago. It had been a messy divorce, climaxing with shouted curses, slammed doors, and possessions pitched out of the third-story window of the apartment we had shared. My ex-lover had pulled this last stunt just as one of my most refined Asian mothers was pulling into the parking lot with her young daughter for their weekly violin lesson.

When the summer was over I'd have to think about whether to keep the place that was now solely mine. One reason for my frantic teaching schedule was the need to bolster my financial state, now that the two of us were no longer sharing expenses, or anything else.

I certainly wasn't going to catch up on sleep at the Institute. Like that of all of the Stevens Point faculty, my schedule was heavy and demanding. My first class was at eight in the morning and I taught until four o'clock every day of the week. This particular summer I had one teacher training class, adults who wanted to learn how to teach the violin using the Suzuki Method. I'd be doing a lot of lecturing and explaining, not to mention reading papers. It was too much like teaching college to be my favorite activity, though it paid well. The large group classes also took a lot of energy, particularly ones with students between eleven and thirteen years old, sullen pre-adolescents thinking they were too old to be here and daring you to teach them something they didn't know. Staying focused and positive in such a situation could be an ordeal.

I much preferred the small master classes of three or four students where I could work with each one individually. Occasionally you encountered a child with exceptional ability--Stevens Point was big and well-known enough that the best Suzuki teachers from many regions of the United States sent their students here. I'd had six- and seven-year olds playing Bach Concertos with impeccable intonation and musicianship--really amazing kids.

It didn't look like I'd have any such students in my classes this year, but nevertheless, I decided that I was certainly going to enjoy my ten o'clock class, consisting of four girls, aged between eight and ten. One in particular seemed to connect with me. Her name was Molly Wagner and she was a petite, pretty girl with a beautiful playing position and bow hold -- qualities which predisposed me to like any student. She had the notes to all three movements of the Vivaldi Concerto down, her father assured me.

All children who took classes at Stevens Point had to have a parent accompany them to all of their classes. Molly was unusual in that the parent was her father--overwhelmingly in Suzukiland it was mothers who did the lion's share of helping a child practice and learn. There were fathers around, but they mostly served as assistants to their wives, carrying instruments, driving vans and RVs, watching younger siblings. So Molly's father attracted my attention from the very first day of class. He also caught my eye because he was an exceptionally attractive man in his mid-forties, tall, lean and tanned, with curly dark hair beginning to be peppered with gray and a similarly colored, neatly trimmed beard. Mr. Wagner's eyes were easily his most striking feature--a vivid blue. He smiled easily and obviously doted on his daughter.

Stevens Point had a small YMCA where you could get a guest membership for the week of Institute. I always plunked down the few dollars in order to have access to their pool. The University pool was available free to Institute participants for a couple of hours every day, but I was interested in swimming laps for exercise, not in fighting my way through hordes of screaming kids and their water toys. There was always the danger, too, that a mother in one of your classes would waylay you and insist on an impromptu conference then and there about her budding young Mozart.

I much preferred the laid back clientele that frequented the town Y. You hardly ever had to swim circles with more than one or two other folks in a lane. Having to pay a guest fee kept most of the Institute Suzuki families away, and the Institute faculty, with one or two exceptions, was remarkably immune to the fitness craze.

It had been a while since I'd exercised and I was eager to get back in the pool. So I stashed my violin back in my dorm room as soon as my last class ended, and headed down the street to the modest yellow brick building just off campus. When I entered the men's locker room I saw one of my colleagues had had the same idea. Jack Gormley, a cello teacher at the Institute, was standing in front of one of the other day lockers in my aisle, stripping off his clothes. He boomed a cheerful hello in his deep bass voice.

Over the years Jack and I had become acquaintances, then friends, after we had cautiously figured out that we had a bit more in common besides a love of music and teaching youngsters. Not that I ever slept with him--Jack was in the umpteenth year of a happy monogamous partnership back in Madison. But he was something better than a hot trick--he was someone I could talk to here at Stevens Point. His intelligence and goofy sense of humor had kept me entertained, and sane.

"So how'd your first day go?" he asked.

What I also respected about Jack was that he was a damn good teacher. I had watched him at work here when I was a trainee, and had marveled at how such an easygoing man could effortlessly keep a room full of unruly pre-adolescents on task and productive.

"Not bad," I answered. "I'll tell you though, I can sure use this swim."

"Can't argue with that." Naked, Jack rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out a pair of fire-engine red Speedos. Sizing him up discreetly as he pulled them on, I thought that not too many forty-plus men could get away with such a choice of swimwear. I had to admit Jack's lean, six-foot body looked pretty good in them, though. He'd also made sure I'd caught a glimpse of his long, floppy dick that teasingly bent just a little to one side. Not for the first time I grudgingly admired the man's skill at simultaneously flirting and keeping a safe distance.

"I'll tell you, though," he added, picking up his goggles and towel, "The scenery is pretty good today."

"Scenery?"

Jack winked. "You'll see what I mean when you get to the pool. Have a good swim."

He slammed his locker shut and headed for the pool entrance. I wouldn't see him again that afternoon. Jack swam much faster than me and was always gone when I got out. I quickly changed and got to poolside. My friend was already in one of the expert lanes, swimming with long, sure strokes. I went to one reserved for swimmers of average speed. A young man was sitting at the end, legs in the water. He looked up as I approached.

"All right if we swim sides until someone else comes?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, holding my gaze a bit longer than I thought was necessary. I saw his eyes drop quickly before he turned away and lowered his goggles. My interest perked up. He was younger than me, probably in his early twenties, with blue eyes and blond hair cut very short, military style. His shoulders and back were fair, broad and muscular, tapering down to a shapely butt, packed into a black bikini that made Jack's Speedos seem demure in comparison.

So this was the scenery Jack had been talking about. Not bad. I slipped into the water and began my laps, intrigued by the vibes I

sensed coming from the boy--nothing like this had ever happened at the Y before. He was too old to be a Suzuki student at the Institute, and I didn't recognize him as a new faculty member. Maybe he was a UWSP student here for the summer, or a townie. I didn't know, but I wanted to find out.

For the moment I put lustful thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on getting my exercise. Before I knew it forty-five minutes had passed and I lifted myself out, panting. My companion in the lane, though, stroked doggedly on.

I went back into the locker room, which was now deserted. I stripped, got my stuff and stepped into the shower, turning on the spray and cleaning myself at a leisurely pace. I tried to make my mind a blank and not think about the young man finishing his swim, since my cock began to get hard every time I pictured that toned body in those tight black trunks.

My lane companion did not appear. I began to wonder if he had slipped out without showering, avoiding an encounter. Finally I gave up, got out and began to dry myself off, disappointed.

At that moment I heard the door from the pool open. Seconds later the young man passed quickly by the shower entrance, rubbing his head with a towel. He barely raised his head in response to my greeting. It was getting late and I was hungry after my workout. Maybe this was a lost cause. Besides, I was dried off and couldn't linger without making my own motives obvious. I got out and headed toward my locker.

I had barely got it open and started putting my things in my gym bag when I sensed someone watching me. I turned and there he was, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt that set off his trim, athletic body. Our eyes met and his expression hit me with almost tangible force. I'd seen that look on a man's face many times.

I kept my voice casual. "You didn't shower."

He shook his head. "Yeah, it's late and I need to be getting back."

I nodded. "Well, I hope you had a good workout."

"It was okay." He seemed in no hurry to leave. On the other hand, he wasn't doing anything either. Someone had to make a move. I draped my towel over my shoulders and turned toward him, subtly thrusting my hips and slightly aroused dick at him.

"Had a pretty good swim myself," I said. "Gave me energy for--other things, you know?"

The blond nodded. Then without a word he walked away. I stood, disappointed and a little annoyed. Moments passed and I didn't hear any other sound. Curious, I began to walk through the locker room again, keeping my towel with me.

Adjacent to the showers were the men's room facilities. I walked in and caught sight of him poised in front of the urinal furthest from the entrance. He looked up with a start. His jeans were pushed down, baring his pale, firm butt. In the shadow of the urinal I saw that the cock he was holding was jutting straight out.

I let my hand drop to my own cock. His eyes went to my crotch. He licked his lips but made no other move. I wanted to walk up to this skittish cruiser, grab his goods and force the issue. Instead I kept my cool, and slowly walked toward the stalls opposite the row of urinals. I chose the one directly behind him, shut the door and latched it, then sat on the toilet, peering through the crack between the stall and the door. He was still standing at the urinal, and could see me if he turned and looked.

Sure enough, moments later I saw his anxious eyes trying to scope me out. I played with myself, nodding my head slowly, encouragingly. My heart leaped as he moved toward my stall. A moment later his jean-clad legs and battered Nikes came into view underneath the door.

I raised my hand and released the latch. The door swung open toward me. The blond boy stood just beyond my reach. He wore no underwear, and I saw that his cock was springing up now in full erection out of a sparse, reddish-blond bush, his pink, compact balls underneath.

With the prize so near I threw caution to the wind. I grasped one of his thighs and propelled him forward, tumbling off the toilet seat in my eagerness. My knees hit the cold tiled floor. I caught a whiff of pool chlorine mixed with his scent as I grabbed his buttocks and swallowed him whole. I began to suck him, quick and hard. My own cock rose stiff between my legs.

The boy stood still, blocking the stall door partially open. He kept his hands passively at his sides, pretending that he wasn't really a part of this scene. Soon I heard his breathing quicken and deepen. I cast a glance upward and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth open. I clutched his ball sack as I stepped up my pace, sliding back and forth on his shaft, flicking my tongue over his rounded smooth head.

A faint moan began to rise from the blond boy's throat. Then, to my surprise, I felt one of his hands touch my hair--the first hint of reciprocation. This spurred me on to even more passionate efforts. In another moment I heard muttered words. "Oh fuck. Do it man. Quick. Quick!"

I couldn't speak but made inarticulate noises, trying to indicate my assent. In a few more seconds the blond's breathing deepened into harsh, rasping gasps. Both his hands clamped around my head as he began to fuck my face with hard thrusts. I felt a first blast of fluid hit the back of my throat, then his thick, hot juice filled my mouth.

His hands shoved my face into his crotch, forcing his cock all the way down my throat as I swallowed, trying not to choke. I was desperate to breathe but just as determined to get every drop.

Finally I broke his grip and let go, taking in air in great gulps, tears running out of my eyes, the salty bitter taste of his cum in my mouth. I looked at his cock, the head still purple with excitement, the shaft, glistening with a mixture of his semen and my saliva, beginning to relax and curve downward. It was a beautiful sight. I leaned forward and covered the head and shaft with soft kisses, then moved upward and began to kiss his lower abdomen. His skin there was silky soft, milk white and threaded with pale blue veins.

Suddenly something struck my left temple. It took me a moment to realize that he had cuffed me with one of his hands. "What--what did you do that for?" I demanded, more startled than hurt.

"Don't kiss me like that," he hissed. "I'm not queer."

I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't help myself. A derisive little snort escaped my lips.

"Wow. You just shot your load down a man's throat. That ain't exactly straight, is it?"

This time the palm of his hand caught my cheek with stunning force. I cried out in pain as the other side of my head slammed against the stall.

"Shut up!" the boy said. He raised his arm, as if to hit me again.

I realized I had no easy escape route. I shrank back, dazed and now plenty scared. "Hey, take it easy. Let's just talk this over--" I lifted my own arm, trying to ward off further blows. The blond boy looked at me with revulsion, as if I were a roach or some other loathsome vermin.

"Get the fuck away from me or I'll call the police." He backed away and quickly buttoned up his jeans. "Fucking faggot," he said. He spit at my feet, then was gone, slamming the stall door shut with a crash. A moment later I heard the door to the locker room squeak open and shut, then footsteps fading down the corridor outside.

I sat rigid for a minute longer until I was sure he wasn't returning, then sagged on the toilet seat, weak with relief. It took a while longer for my heart to stop racing. At last I drew a few deep breaths, then said to the empty air, "You're welcome." I took a piece of toilet paper and blew my nose. I got up on shaky legs, hitched my towel around my waist, and headed toward the sink to clean myself up. I scooped up cold water in handfuls, eager to wash the taste of him out of me as quickly as I could.

I went back to my locker, still reeling from the assault. I hurried to get dressed, looking over my shoulder, afraid the boy would come back for another round, maybe with a friend. It wasn't until I'd left the YMCA and saw that the street outside was empty that I finally began to relax. As I walked back toward the University my head throbbed. I gingerly touched my right temple, feeling a sizable bruise starting. All in all, my first-ever sexual encounter in Stevens Point had been a disaster. I could only hope that would be the end of it.

TO BE CONTINUED

One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 02



 Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night, and it wasn't just because the bruise on my head prevented me from lying in my favored sleeping position. I knew I'd gotten off lightly--there was nothing to have prevented my trick from beating me to a pulp in the empty locker room, or to have come back with a cop, accusing me of making indecent advances.

It wasn't just around the students and parents at the Institute that I had to be on guard. Even searching for quick, anonymous relief seemed fraught with danger here. I found myself becoming profoundly depressed, not only for myself, but also for the boy who had come on to, then assaulted me. I could only imagine the conflicts that raged within him.

It was probably around one when I finally fell asleep. Inevitably I was awakened around six by the high piping voices of small children going past my door on their way to breakfast. My head throbbed and I knew I'd have to take something for it. I lay in my bed and groaned at the thought of a full day's teaching ahead in my dazed and confused state. There was no point in trying to fall asleep again--I'd have to be up for real in less than an hour.

I decided to try a walk before breakfast. The cool, slightly misty morning air hit my face as I left the dorm, and in spite of myself my spirits begin to lift. The bad taste of the events of yesterday afternoon finally began to fade. Needless to say, I hadn't cum during yesterday's abortive encounter. I sighed as I realized that, despite everything, I was still incurably, ragingly horny. Would I never learn? Shaking my head, I began to walk toward the athletic fields.

I kept to the sidewalk at the edge of the large grassy rectangle that held the Stevens Point outdoor track. Even at this early hour there was already someone on it, setting a brisk pace. It was a man, dressed only in a pair of turquoise running shorts. The color seemed startlingly bright in the morning light and emphasized the top condition of his body. He drew close and I noted that the hair on his chest was peppered with gray. Not bad looking for an old guy, quite nice, in fact...

I was shaken out of my increasingly lustful reverie by a voice calling my name.

"Good morning, Mr. Hewitt!" The figure raised one arm in a friendly wave.

The runner knew who I was. I peered closely at his face for the first time and saw eyes that even at this distance were blue, the face framed by curly, graying hair and beard.

It was one of the parents in my ten o'clock master class--Molly's dad. I desperately searched my brain for his name, hoping he hadn't noticed that I'd been checking him out.

The man had stopped on the track opposite where I was on the sidewalk, breathing hard, glistening with sweat, his muscular chest rising and falling. I was very conscious of his superb physique. Even though I was probably ten or twelve years younger I felt flabby and inferior.

"Mr. Wagner." I'd finally remembered his name. It was, after all, only the second day of Institute.

"Call me Mike, please. You're out early."

"So are you. Molly still asleep?"

Mike Wagner was shaking out his legs, corded with muscle.

"No, she's eating breakfast. One of the other moms down the hall was nice enough to take her, so I could get in my daily run. I usually do it before she gets up, but today I overslept."

"You're very dedicated." Feeling bold, I added, "It shows."

Molly's father smiled. "Thanks. It gets me out of bed in the morning."

There was a pause. I found myself wanting to keep the conversation going. I said with mock severity, "I hope you and Molly did her assignment last night."

Mike nodded vigorously. "Oh yes sir. Twenty-five times on 'the jungle.'" "The jungle" was the trickiest passage in the movement of the Vivaldi Concerto Molly was playing. "Setting the metronome a little faster each time. She complained a bit, but we did it."

"Good," I said. "We'll hear that first today."

Mike grimaced a bit. "I hope I got it right. Lois--my late wife--was a musician herself. Since she's been gone I've often wondered whether I was really helping Molly. I've worried a lot that I was messing her up."

I sensed he was talking about more than violin playing. Some impulse made me answer in kind. "You're doing a great job with her. I can tell she's having the time of her life here this week. She really looks up to you." I stopped, wondering whether I'd said too much.

Mike Wagner was looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks. That means a lot to me." He left the track and came toward me. I kept my eyes on his face with a conscious effort, but the impact of his presence was palpable. My breathing quickened and I felt lightheaded.

"You know, I've come to Stevens Point several years, and Molly's had a different teacher every year. None of them have been bad, and some of them have been really good. But you're the best ever." He reached out and grasped my upper arm, startling me. "Mr. Hewitt, it's a privilege for Molly and me to work with you."

"Well, thank you," I managed. "And call me Alan."

Still gripping my shoulder, Mike offered his other hand. I shook it, dazed by his smile and charisma. "Okay, Alan. But Molly's still going to call you Mr. Hewitt. I've got to finish my run. See you in class."

Something changed in our relationship after that early morning conversation, though the lessons with Molly went on pretty much the same. I worked her hard in the ten or twelve minutes I had with her every morning, and gave her an assignment for each evening, tempering my demands with humor. Molly laughed a lot, quite unfazed by my attempts at sternness.

Occasionally, though, I would catch sight of Mike, not watching his daughter or the teaching point I was trying to illustrate, but me. I should have been flattered that he was following my every move so intently, but I found it disturbing. It got so I avoided looking in his direction while teaching his daughter, not that that was easy. Mike came to class every morning dressed in a T-shirt or polo shirt, and shorts that showed off his narrow hips and long, sinewy legs. One day he wore a tank top, and I even caught one or two of the mothers of the other students eyeing him covertly. If only they knew the teacher felt the same way.

I tried to relieve my tensions in the way I usually did, by swimming. I'd thought about not going back to the Y but decided what the hell. The chances were that I wouldn't see the blond boy who had decked me, and even if I did, he probably wasn't eager for another encounter either. As it turned out, I never saw him again. So I had to content myself with Jack Gormley in his Speedos. I found myself idly speculating about my chances with him. But it wasn't in me deliberately to try and disrupt a long-term relationship, no matter what unconscious signals Jack might be sending out.

Wednesday evening of Institute week I was slated to play on a faculty recital. As I was practicing my piece with the Institute accompanist in the gymnasium that afternoon, I sensed someone sitting in the very back, listening. After casting a few glances in that direction I realized it was Mike. I didn't acknowledge him, but noticed that he stayed until I had finished playing.

Performing in public has always been a difficult experience for me, even when I know the audience is mostly children and parents, and safely uncritical. I was shaking, palms sweaty when I walked out onstage, and counted myself lucky to get through my piece without a major disaster. I bowed and left, feeling my usual mixture of relief that it was over, and annoyance that my nerves had torpedoed some of my best intentions.

I escaped the congratulations as soon as I could--I never felt I deserved them--and took refuge in my dorm room. During the year in Chicago, chilling out after a performance usually meant going out, usually to a bar, or if I were really keyed up, to one of the bathhouses. Drinking and sex were usually enough to keep me from dwelling on the performance just past, replaying the imperfections over and over in my mind like a defective CD. Of course, doing such things here was out of the question.

My moody thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anybody to stop by. I fervently hoped it wasn't one of the adult trainees in the teacher development course I was doing this week--they could easily stay for an hour or more, plying me with questions I'd heard countless times before, and that could easily have been taken care of in class.

I opened the door. Mike Wagner stood there, smiling. He was dressed a bit more formally than usual, in a short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis. In one hand he held two clear plastic cups; in the other, a bottle of scotch.

"I was hoping you'd be here," he said. "I thought I'd offer to throw a little reception, in honor of your wonderful performance."

Taken by surprise, I blushed and stammered. "Aw Mike, you didn't have to do that."

"I know. I wanted to. Do you have any ice? I rented a refrigerator for the week--I can go back to my room and get some if you don't have any."

"I have some. This is damn nice of you."

"So I can come in, before someone sees me with this illegal contraband?"

Settled in with our Scotches, him in the one chair in the room, me sitting on the bed, Mike raised his drink. "To you, Alan." He swallowed.

"Thanks," I said. I raised my plastic cup in turn. "To children, and parents who care enough to give them the gift of music."

Mike said nothing, but smiled as he raised his glass. We drank again. The strong liquor started to go to my head. The top two buttons on Mike's shirt were unbuttoned, and I caught myself staring at the hair on his chest peeking out through the opening.

"Not that it's any of my business, but where's Molly tonight?"

"She's become great pals with one of the other little girls in your class--Sarah Wilkes. They decided they wanted to do a slumber party. Sarah's mom is great, she said, sure, come on over. She told me she's going to sit in the dorm lounge and watch TV until they fall asleep. Knowing Molly, she's in for a long night," Mike chuckled.

He paused, then added, "Mrs. Wilkes is a single mom--divorced. I've caught her looking at me once or twice this week as if she'd like to invite _me_ over for a slumber party." He laughed self-consciously.

"Well, you are one of the few unattached men around here." Imbibing had loosened my tongue, and it seemed I was on a roll, for I continued, "Think you'll ever marry again, Mike?"

Mike took a long time to answer, staring into space. Maybe he was feeling the buzz too. "No," he said, finally. After a pause, he added, "I don't think I have it in me."

"Do you ever think Molly might need a mother?" I regretted asking the question as soon as the words had left my lips. Mike raised his head and looked at me, not angry or offended as I had expected, but with a strange and sorrowful expression.

"It's weird when you're widowed and have a kid," he said. "Especially here, no one sees you as anything except a parent. Molly's dad. Sarah's mom. You can't imagine how many people have said that to me. My own parents are the worst. Get married again for the sake of the child, they say. No one thinks about whether it would be good for me."

"Mike, I'm sorry," I said, abashed. "I was out of line."

He shook his head. "It's okay. You just touched a nerve, that's all."

We sat in silence and sipped our drinks. Soon Mike drained his plastic cup and rose. "Guess I'd better turn in."

"So soon?" I bitterly regretted what I'd said earlier.

Mike smiled. "Alan, it's okay, really. It's just that I'm rather looking forward to a night by myself in the room."

"Thanks for the Scotch. That was very thoughtful," I said, still feeling like I'd ruined the evening.

"Don't mention it. And keep the rest. You may need it after Friday's grand finale."

We were both standing, facing each other. I didn't know exactly what I was expecting, and Mike seemed irresolute as well. Then he clapped me heartily on the shoulder. "Good night, Alan," he said, and was gone.

I stood, feeling as if a chance to unravel whatever it was that was going on between us had been lost.

Halfway through Institute week it always seems as if it will never end, but finally it was Friday. The grand finale, the group concert of all the Institute violin students, would take place at night.

I wasn't jaded yet like some of the veteran teachers, and I still found the spectacle of hundreds of violin students standing in the UWSP gymnasium, playing the Suzuki songs in unison, young and old together, to be a thrilling experience. Still, it had turned out to be a rather strange week, and the distractions definitely affected my playing. I found myself wandering off course during some of the songs, easy ones that I could play in my sleep. I hurriedly looked around to see if any of the other teachers playing near me had noticed. My performer's ego had apparently survived the week intact, at any rate.

The final concert being over didn't mean that I was finished yet. I still had to read through observations that the members of my teacher course had written about classes they'd watched that day. Back in my room, I looked at the pile of sheets on my desk, sighed and set to work. Then there was the task of returning them, since we had already met for the last time and I wouldn't see my trainees again before they left. Fortunately, most of them were in the same dorm I was in, so I walked up and down the hallways, sliding papers under room doors, hurrying away so as not to get into conversations. When I was done at last, it was almost midnight. The heat wave that had rolled into Stevens Point in the last day or so showed no signs of letting up, and the room was warm and close. I really needed another shower before I turned in.

As I walked down the hall toward the men's bathroom, soap, shampoo and towel in hand, I heard water running. My first reaction was annoyance. I'd waited until now to take a shower precisely so that I could have some privacy. I heaved a sigh, opened the door and stepped into the bathroom. There was a bathrobe hung on one of the hooks outside the entrance to the communal shower. I put my stuff down on the tiled floor, peeled off my T-shirt and gym shorts, and hung my clothes and my towel on another hook.

If the Stevens Point men's dorm had been cruisy, the shower in this bathroom might have been an interesting place because it was so small. There were just four shower heads, set close together. A man stood under the spray rushing out of the one furthest from the entrance. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. His legs were lean and roped with muscle, his buttocks dimpled. He turned at that moment. It was Mike Wagner.

I drew in my breath sharply. Mike seemed a bit taken aback as well, but nodded and said hello. Trying to stay calm, I turned on the spray and began to soap myself, keeping my back to Mike. I willed myself not to stare at his body, even though I wanted to, desperately.

Mike, though, began to make conversation. "Great concert, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," I answered, half wishing he would finish up and leave, at the same time wishing he would stay.

"Lord, it's hot tonight. I waited till now to take a shower. Hate it when half the world's walking through this bathroom. Reminds me of high school gym class."

I smiled weakly, not saying anything. At that moment I didn't need to be reminded of high school gym class and its frustrations.

"Besides, some of the guys on this hall shouldn't be allowed to take their clothes off in public."

A bubble of astonished laughter escaped from me, and I looked at Mike. There was something in his smile that made me hold his gaze.

"Present company excepted, of course, Alan."

My throat felt dry. "Thanks," I managed. To my horror I felt myself getting hard. Here I was, giving myself away in front of the father of one of my students. I turned away again and began to rinse off. I had to finish up and get out of here.

"Alan?"

"What?" I said, brusquely.

"Could I borrow some of your shampoo? I forgot to bring mine."

There wasn't any way to refuse. With a sigh I picked up my bottle and turned. Mike was facing me, and my eyes couldn't stop from wandering down to the area below his flat stomach. His crotch was forested with a dense mass of pubic hair, out of which rose a long, uncut, and definitely stiffening cock.

The sight of his arousal sent a jolt of electricity through me. I looked up, and our eyes met and locked. So the signals I thought I'd been receiving from this man all week were real. What was I going to do about it? Frantic voices in my brain reminded me of where I was, and the trouble I could bring upon myself.

The desire and frustration that I had brought with me to the Institute and that had increased during the past few days were too much, though. As if in a dream I stepped closer. I saw my hand reach out and grasp what was being offered, my brain half expecting Mike to pull away, shouting in indignant protest.

Nothing happened. I breathed in the steamy heat of the shower, felt the water splash over my skin. I felt the hard smooth flesh of Mike's dick in my palm, watched the rounded purple head emerge from the foreskin as I slowly moved my hand back and forth.

I looked in Mike's face again. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this. Feeling bolder, I moved closer and put one arm around him. His own arms rose and encircled me in a tight, wet embrace. Trapped between our bodies, our hard cocks pressed against one another.

"Come to my room," I whispered in his ear.

I'd said the wrong thing. Mike's eyes flew open and an expression of alarm appeared on his face. He shook his head.

"I can't. I've got to get back to Molly."

He pulled himself from my grasp and hurriedly stepped from the shower into the drying area, grabbing his towel and rubbing himself in quick, jerky motions. Completely at a loss, I stood watching him, soap still on my body, my arousal forgotten.

"Mike, what's the matter?"

He was putting on his bathrobe.

"I'm sorry, Alan. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry... It's just--"

Frustration made me speak without thinking. "It's just what, Mike? It's just that you were leading me on?"

"Shh. Please--not so loud." Mike tied the belt of his robe around his waist. "Let's forget it. Good night."

He flung open the bathroom door and almost knocked over a sleepy-eyed man coming to brush his teeth. He disappeared as the new arrival looked at me, startled. I realized I was standing stark naked, dripping water and suds. There was nothing to do but get back in the shower.

TO BE CONTINUED



One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 03



 Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated. I jerked my head insistently. I knew he had gathered all his courage to be here and I wasn't going to let him get away now.

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

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

"Want to sit down?"

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

"Yes you do," I said.

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

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

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

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

"Trade?"

"I'm not into men who stand and do nothing," I said. This, of course, was not quite true. "Your turn, Dad."

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

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

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

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

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

"Feels nice," I encouraged him.

"May--may I suck it?"

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

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

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

"Watch those teeth, man."

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

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

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


"I don't want to cum yet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike nodded.

"Well, I don't know." All of sudden I was the uncertain one. "You know, it can be hard the first time. I don't want to hurt you."

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

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

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

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

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

"Now let's see." I fished out a bottle of Cornhusker's Lotion. "Hmm—oil free. That ought to do."

Mike was lying on his back, his eyes following my every move.

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

"Hurt?" I asked.

"No. Just feels strange."

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

"Nice."

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

"Damn, that's sweet, Alan."

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

"God, yes."

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

I lay on my back on the bed. "Straddle me." Mike obediently knelt above my prone form, his cock pointing stiffly outward, dripping precum. I took a twisting swipe at it with my greased hand, grinning at him as he gasped.

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

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

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

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

"Mike, listen to me. Your muscles cramped, that's all, they're not used to it. Rest a moment and we'll try it again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not safe, is it?"

I smiled at him. "I trust you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED 



One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 04



 (Conclusion) by K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.

I can't postpone getting up any longer. I haul my body out of bed--for a guy in his mid-forties I'm holding up okay--and get ready for the first class day. It's business as usual this year--three master classes, each with four children and their parents, and two larger groups. No teacher course this year, thank goodness.

I go through the motions of teaching, cajoling, exhorting the students to improve, using lots of positive reinforcement. By the middle of the first day I find that I'm having fun in spite of myself. Stevens Point has that effect on almost everyone.

There's a boy in my final afternoon class named Jared Morgan, five years old. His mother is dark-haired, pretty and very attentive to my instruction. She and the home teacher have taught her son well. We work on polishing his song as the week flies by.

"You're playing so well," I praise him one day.

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

"So you play?" I ask her.

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

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

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

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

"You were my student?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jared jumps in the air. "Goody!"

Mike says, "Great."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I keep my voice casual. "Mike, all that was long ago. It looks like we're both doing just fine. Why don't we just leave it at that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To do what?"

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

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

"She told me you had someone."

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

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

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

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

"Years later I saw them at some weekend workshop. The boy was older but I recognized him. I went up to the mother. She was embarrassed but I have to give her credit, she stood and talked to me.

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

"I see."

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

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

Mike said nothing.

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

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

I storm on. "Did it ever occur to you how I felt about that night? It was damn terrific for me too. I knew it might not happen again. But I wanted it to."

"You did?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about George?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Electrolysis?"

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you."

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




One Summer at Stevens Point Ch. 04



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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have to laugh at that one.

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

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

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

"So," Mike says, then stops.

I look at him inquiringly.

"Are we okay now?"

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at me gratefully.

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

"I hope so too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END