Date: Mon, 28 Jan 2002 03:10:44 -0800 (PST) From: "Michael Davidson, II" Subject: "Green-Eyed monster" Part 01 "Green-Eyed Monster" Part One of Three By Michael Davidson, II Ageismfree@yahoo.com DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of erotic and romantic fiction involving teenage and adult males. All the usual rules apply. If you shouldn't be reading this, then don't continue, or at least try not to be caught. COPYRIGHT NOTICE: This story is copyrighted February 2002 by the author, who retains all rights. You may distribute or copy this story however you like PROVIDED that this copyright notice remains intact and that you do NOT change the story in any way. I give it freely to all, please continue on that way. DEDICATION: This story is dedicated to all men who have tried to love a boy in their life well, truly, safely, and honorably. You are not alone. NOTE: I write this series using the name of the only actual Michael Davidson. A British journalist and author who died in the 1960's, he blazed the trail for men who love males from other generations than their own. His book, "Some Boys" and his amazing autobiography called, "The World, the Flesh, and Myself" are must reads for anybody interested in this topic. All those who have received his legacy of self-awareness, truth, and proud honesty will never forget him. I write other stories, sometimes using another pen name. Tell me what you think of "Larry's Love" on Nifty Adult Youth and "Holding On For Dear Life" on Nifty Young Friends or Gay Writer's Guild. Both are ongoing series. Constructive criticism, comments, suggestions, and questions are all gladly---no---EAGERLY accepted! I answer all emails. I might even answer flames, if they're interesting enough. Please send to me at ageismfree@yahoo.com Special Thanks to my friend Charlie. He helped me with ideas, editing, and proofreading for this story! "Green-Eyed Monster" Part One of Three "He really likes you, you know." "He does? Andrew doesn't pay much attention to adults. How can you tell?" I was trying to keep the tone as casual as it had been up until that point. But my heart was suddenly pounding and my face felt flushed. I hoped it wasn't. But there was no way I could help being distracted by an image that flashed before my eyes. A young guy's upper body partially revealed by a tank-top tee shirt. Smooth bronze colored skin, an almost but not quite hairless armpit and a quick glimpse of one nipple enlarged by the process of puberty. A sheen of sweat on his arched neck making the whole image shine in my memory. A perfect snapshot in my mind, from just last weekend. My curiosity peaked; I listened intently to my best friend's answer. "Not sure, just a feeling I have." she shrugged. "He asked about you the other day. Nothing special, just wondering what you were up to and when you'd be coming by again." "Hmmm. He's never asked me about my plans before. He doesn't talk to me that much." I kept my tone carefully even, but my mind continued to race. It couldn't mean anything. Another snapshot presented itself to my memory. The side-view of a young man caught in the light of a window, a slight but noticeable bump protruding from the front of some loose cut-off sweats, and the edge of the plaid boxers underneath. This perfect youth had asked about me? But it was probably nothing. Her family had kind of adopted me a few years back while I was going through a very painful break-up, and Isabel and I had known each other for ages before I even met the others. It was probably nothing, for sure. "They all like you, Theo. You're great with kids. You should do more work with adolescents and families." It was something she said often, and I feigned disgust like always. "Me? Work with those creatures? Yuck..." I had always pretended to not like young people that much, just to add a layer of protection against being accused of being TOO interested. You know how it is. Another photo op entered my uncooperative mind. A boy in red Speedo's. Not the baggy kind, the bikini style. Enclosing an absolutely magnificent set of bubble-shaped buns, gliding through the air from the diving board of their pool, entering the water with a gentle swish. I tried to swallow the mouthful of BLT that I had been chewing for too long, and continued, "So when AM I coming over again? I haven't had any of your home cooking for almost a week!" "Yeah, like I cook all that much. Thank God for Grace. She's a wonder in the kitchen, and I never want her to work anywhere else. Come any time you want except Thursday night. Tim's got some Bank thing I have to go be the Wife at." I know she is really bored by those inevitable occasions. To often the assumption was that she didn't have a personal or professional identity of her own. Her statuesque good looks, combined with the expensive high fashion she sported for these affairs belied her incredible mind, though. Just because all the jewels and the Cartier watch are real, why can't she think, too? Thank God this had never been a problem for Tim the way it had been for some members of her family back in Venezuela. Isabel and I had met while we were both working at a huge New York City Mental Health Clinic on the Lower East Side. There were more than 30 of us on staff, but we had found that we shared similar ideas about life as well as views on how to work with patients and clients. Yes, you guessed it; we're both Clinical Social Workers...shrinks. Don't let that scare you off, though. Shrinks are just people, too! Isabel and I also shared the same twisted sense of humor, just to prove to you that we're human and not some Freudian robot creatures. And then Isabel and I had been promoted to supervisor at about the same time, and we really began to rely on each other. Not only with our own cases, but also with our staffing problems and all the organizational politics. She watched my back and I watched hers. People that didn't know us well thought we were a couple, we were that close. Not like that could have ever have happened. I'm an out and proud and politically involved "GUPPY", you know, one of those Gay Urban Professionals. Isabel's husband Tim is a fast-tracked Financial Guru at one of the Multi-national Banks. They've been married since they were 18, and they are raising three sons. The subject of our lunch conversation, Andrew, is the middle one. You've just been viewing some pictures of him in my mind. Meanwhile back at our lunch, I asked, "How about sometime on the weekend?" "Make it Sunday, you can join us for movie and left-over night. We'll order in something if there's not enough leftovers, like always. How was your date the other night?" Isabel was asking about the blind date that I'd been on two nights before. Yes, he'd been cute. A 20-something musician, and yes, we'd done the Big Nasty afterward back at my place, but probably wouldn't either of us call the other again. There'd been enough sparks for a fun evening but no chemistry to take it further. Maybe he hadn't liked my mid-30's, casual, and decidedly NOT gym chiseled self. Or maybe it was my slightly balding hairstyle. His avid shopping stories were pretty boring to me. We hadn't shared many interests. Maybe a combination of all of the above. Who knows? "Nope, he wasn't a keeper. Want me to bring some flicks, or do you have some already?" We all had huge collections of DVD's, VCD's and video's, even the boys. New York is wonderful for that. "Too bad. That's quite a string of duds now, isn't it? Guess this one wasn't the Secret Admirer either, huh?" I had received six emails in the past month or so, all from a Yahoo account I'd never heard of before. They were all signed "Your secret admirer". I had shown the second one to Isabel, mostly out of concern that it might be one of the clients at the Clinic stalking me. But they seemed pretty innocent, really, and quite flattering. Mostly, they were very short. Just a few lines about how much he liked me, and wanting to make sure I didn't mind if he introduced himself to me sometime soon. I had always replied with encouragement, although no promises, of course. I had asked him, with some concern, how he'd gotten my email address, and he just said he was somebody I already knew. Isabel and I had spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out who he might be. He actually did seem to know quite a bit about me, so it was an interesting game. "Nope, I don't think so. Surely he would have told me if he were. And his style at dinner didn't match the emails somehow. So it's still a mystery. More news at 11. You want to see the latest one? I brought it to show you." "Sure! Any more clues about who he is?" "I don't think so, but maybe you'll see something I missed." And I passed her the printed out email: Dear Friend, Thanks for your last reply. I'm glad you don't mind that I'm shy. I'm not as experienced in the world as you are, so I worry more. I don't want to do anything to turn you off. I'm pretty sure you'll like my body. I'm just not sure you'll like everything else about me. I might not be enough for you or something. But you've been so nice to me in these emails. I think I'm getting readier to tell you who I am. Promise you won't go ballistic when you learn my name? Your Secret Admirer Isabel looked up from the note, her brow furrowed by thought. "He's definitely younger than you. But that should be good news, really. You're never attracted to men our age, are you?" "True. That's the way I'm wired. But I just can't think of any guys I know who are this shy and anxious." "You've already told him you won't get upset and embarrass him, even if you do end up turning him down, right?" "Yup, and I answered this one by saying that it might be better to actually tell me and find out rather than live with this constant nervousness about what might happen." "Well, I can't think of anything else to do. Just reinforce that, I suppose. You seem pretty blase about it..." "Iz, I can't really get all excited if I don't know who he is. I've always found reality much more compelling than fantasy." Little did she know that my major fantasy was very real and specific. My feelings for Andrew were much more exciting than these emails were. So I had told part of the truth, at least. I continued, "So, what about those flicks?" "Nah, I'm sure we've got about a dozen movies we haven't watched yet. Just bring yourself." For her family, Sundays were private, a time for the family. None of them attended outside activities, and outsiders were seldom invited, so this invitation was another sign that I had become part of the inner circle. We finished our lunch chat and headed back to the Clinic for the rest of our Tuesday. I felt like I'd safely steered us away from the topic of Andrew. I always tried to keep Andrew and everything I ever said about him neutral and casual. Why do I have to do that? Hasn't it been obvious from the beginning? I have had a Thing for him ever since our first meeting. Even though I fully intended never to do anything about it beyond enjoying the fantasies in my head. I have always had very firm beliefs about entanglements with the young. I wasn't against it in theory, if all the conditions were right and nobody was being abused, and all the bases were covered about the possible power differential between an adult and a youth. I'd always assumed that `informed consent' is possible to achieve. But I'd only ever considered it in an abstract sort of way. I'd never thought about actually having sex myself with any of the young guys that I so regularly found attractive. It would be too easy to get hurt, or to hurt the boy. And, of course, the moral condemnation from society is usually justified. I never wanted to hurt anybody, and I knew well what happened later to people who had been abused or manipulated into sex or relationships too soon. I knew because it was my career to fix what got broken in those situations. So the last thing I wanted to do was to cause such harm myself, no matter how rosy the fantasies were sometimes. I just always thought such things were forbidden territory for me. And then of course, there was Isabel to consider. Isabel isn't just a very gifted shrink. Her insight into people's minds and hearts is almost psychic, she's that good. And she's fiercely protective of her sons. She would be capable of murder if anybody harmed one of her children, I was sure about that. She's never even let them join the Scouts or ever be alone with a Priest, because of the heightened risk of being around men who might be Too Interested in her sons. It was almost a phobia with her. One of her brothers had been molested when they were young, so she worried about it a lot more than Tim did. Tim just figured that his kids would be smart enough to run for help in any situation that threatened them. I'll never forget the first time I'd met the boys, almost five years ago. Stephen had just shook my hand and said, "Hello, sir". Very polite, as they all had been taught to be. Andrew had studied me solemnly and asked, "Are you Mom's gay friend from work?" I had gulped and just nodded and blinked. Noel, who was irrepressible even then, had said, "Wow! Gay like Uncle Che?" Isabel had answered him affirmatively. Noel had grinned at me and said, "Good! Uncle Che is my favorite relative." And they had started calling me Uncle Theo from then on. Cut to the present. The eldest, Stephen, is now 15 and a budding sports star and straight A student. Even at the exclusive private day school they're in, Stephen stands out. Now that he's begun dating, his girl friends are also stunners, naturally. He's almost six feet tall, with his father's Nordic good looks, light hair, and blue eyes. The youngest, Noel, now 12, is into everything. A whirlwind of enthusiasm, he is developing interests in about 47 different things. He has no verbal inhibitions at all; he just blurts and bubbles all the time, like a little conversational volcano. Noel shows more of his mother's Latin blood, and he looks like a little Sherman tank. Short, sturdy, and solid. Dark, curly hair and black flashing eyes. Then there's Andrew. I was smitten by him from the very beginning. Even though I'm a therapist and have seen 4 shrinks myself at various times, I've never been really able to explain the depths of my response to Andrew. Usually, I don't even notice kids that age at all. But he immediately became the center of my radar screen. BAM. Just like that. Maybe because he seemed to be the most like me. He was astute, studying people and things from behind a carefully crafted wall of reserve. That's me, all over. He seems to speak only when he's considered carefully what he's going to say. Again, like me, except in those rare occasions I feel comfortable with others. Perhaps it was no accident that the first thing Andrew asked me was about my being gay. That had caught my attention. It was more than just a sexual thing. I have always liked guys younger than myself. Teenagers really turn me on, although I have almost always managed to find legal dates and boyfriends. They just look a bit younger than they are. You know my type, don't you? Yeah, I thought so. Very attracted, yes. But also with very strong moral scruples. And a powerful urge not to get into trouble. That's me. Andrew had really gotten under my skin, despite my shields. Andrew Compton. He is a classic middle child. The quiet one, very neat and precise, like a cat. The self-contained one. Intense, usually focused inward, it seemed. It was usually difficult to tell what he was thinking. He was often the one with the least to say, so whatever he did say seemed to have more weight somehow. He seemingly liked his own company just fine. But he wasn't shy or isolated, mind you. That would have been impossible in his family. Each and every one of them is self- confident, assured of themselves and their place in the Universe, suave, urbane, cultured. They're rich financially, too, of course. Tim inherited oil money from his Oklahoma ancestors. Isabel's family is Venezuelan aristocracy. They own most of Maracaibo, not including the far-flung ranches. When I say Isabel is Old Money, I'm talking 17th century, Spanish Grandees and Conquistadors, like that. At home, they all speak Spanish and English inter-changeably. Between Isabel and Tim, they could also manage in French and Italian. The boys all study at least two other languages. Andrew is tackling Japanese, just because nobody else in the family has, I think. And yet, even with that marvelous and endlessly talented and fascinating family, Andrew has always shone the brightest star of them all for me. As he grew into puberty, my little obsession with him became my biggest and guiltiest secret. Nobody, and I mean nobody at all, ever heard any of my thoughts about Andrew. And I am an openly gay man with plenty of gay and tolerant straight friends. I have a good career, and my own interesting family history and a small legacy invested from my father's business interests in Connecticut. I look sort of OK in a normal sort of way. I have had a few long relationships. Well, longer than some, I guess. My sex life is usually a little boring, but I live with it like most other people I know. Maybe that's one of the reasons I was felt so at home with Isabel and her family with me. They didn't see anything weird or strange about me. Even though I coveted their middle son, I wasn't threatened or jealous of their accomplishments or their wealth. I didn't have even 1/10th of their money, but I didn't need any of it either. We were all cool with most things like that. I would never want to lose their friendship, their respect, or their love. They were all very important to me. That's why I will never tell them about my fixation on Andrew, and also most of the reason why I could never act on it. What's that old saying, something about not shitting where you eat? That way, I got a great family to be part of, and also got to enjoy my little secret life, too. Ok, ok, I admit, I have wandered a bit far afield. Back to the subject at hand. Andrew. So, how can I describe him physically? Middling tall, lithe, graceful, perfectly proportioned. He'll be my height eventually, I think. Right now he's about 5'6", more or less. I have no idea how much he weighs. It all fits his frame perfectly, though. He's built like a dancer or a swimmer, although his favorite activities are actually soccer and chess and everything related to computers. Jet black straight hair, not a curl in it that he doesn't put there himself with gel. And his eyes. Lots of people have tried to write about green eyes, for some reason. His don't flash like emeralds. They're more like jade. They make you think of Aztec or Incan jungles, somehow. You could sink into those eyes without a trace and never be seen again. Sort of an Oriental cast to them, but it's subtle. That extraordinary Latin American mix of Spanish and Indian with his father's Scandinavian sturdiness thrown in. So Isabel and I went back to work and finished the day as usual. And I went home as usual. My home is pretty cool, I have to admit. Lots of leather furniture, hand-rubbed hardwood, and fine antiques from my family's collection. And books everywhere, because I love to read. Add all that to huge airy spaces, high ceilings, and big windows with views out over the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge. It was totally my space. None of my previous boyfriends had ever managed to achieve residence there. It's my fortress. After the usual getting home and relaxing rituals, I switched the computer on to check for emails, like everybody always does. Sure enough there was another one from that same Yahoo address: "Dear Friend, You're right. I have to find out if I'll be ok for you. And I'll never know if I am unless I tell you who I am. Thanks for being so kind and so patient. And for being so sexy. You don't think you're very sexy, do you? But you are, at least to me. I'm going to tell you who I am. Sometime in the next week, for sure. At least I think so. Your Secret Admirer" Well, that was good news. Finally I'll find out who this guy is. He thinks I don't find myself sexy? He's astute; I'll give him that. But that might mean that I won't find him sexy either. So many of these blind date things turn out that way. I was going to continue my policy of not being overly excited about the unknown. The latest email didn't make a dent in my anticipation of Sunday with the Comptons. Being able to be near Andrew as well as all the rest of my favorite family. I went over to their place on Sunday, just as we'd planned. It wasn't far from my Riverside Drive digs across Central Park to their apartment over-looking the East River on Sutton Place. Well, `apartment' doesn't really do it justice. Palatial might be a good word to describe it. I knew how much they'd just spent on re-decorating the 6 bedrooms and the family living quarters. I mean, look, there are a total of 8 bathrooms in that place. It's set up with several lavish formal rooms for entertaining at one end, which is also where the kitchen (larger than some restaurants, I swear) was located. But the family area wasn't formal at all, really. All the rooms and facilities there were designed for comfort and ease of living, and strangers never saw it. Kind of like what the upstairs non-public space must be like at the White House. Sunday afternoon. Tim and Isabel and I caught up on news of the week, mutual friends, his work and ours. Economic trends became interesting when he talked about them. The boys mostly chattered amongst themselves at the big table, with occasional questions and comments lobbed back and forth with the adults. Noel asked me about my date last weekend, which they had all known about. Stephen said, "Well, Uncle Theo, anybody who plays the oboe for a living, what did you expect?" Andrew smiled at that, but came to my defense. "Come on guys, I bet it isn't as easy for Uncle Theo to find boyfriends as it is for you to hook up with the babes, Steve-o." Which I thanked him for, sort of. And we'd then gone into the family room, or the media room, or whatever it was, and settled in for the rest of the afternoon and evening. It was a two-movie marathon. I don't remember what they were. Because that was the night that Andrew started his campaign. The opening salvo didn't seem like much. "Do you like me, Uncle Theo?" He was sitting on the other side of a medium-sized sofa, a little distance between us. He had never been a snuggler like Noel sometimes was. He was just near enough that he could lean toward me slightly and not be overheard. He had murmured only loud enough for me to hear over the dialog of the movie and the running commentary being provided by everybody else in the room. I just said, "Umm-hmm, sure I do." Even with my secret fascination with him, it hadn't registered right away as a Significant Communication. And then Andrew said, "Good. I thought you did. I like you, too, you know." He sounded enormously satisfied and content. That got my attention. Suddenly the movie receded into the background and I felt my head snap towards him in surprise. "Huh?" I replied. Brilliant reposte, wasn't it? Andrew just smiled at me and went back to watching the movie. There wasn't anything else unusual about the evening until the end, even though all my force fields were set at their most sensitive level, so to speak. When I was headed out the door, Noel kissed me good-bye like he still feels free to do at his age. There were hugs all around, except for Stephen and Andrew. Stephen was too old now for such things. And Andrew usually said good-bye with a handshake. Tonight was the same, but he maintained the contact just a second longer than usual, and squeezed twice. That was when I noticed the scrap of paper he was pressing into my palm. I looked at him with a question, and he slightly shook his head for me to shut up about it, so I did. He'd never done anything like that before. I stumbled out with nobody the wiser. In the lift on the way down to the lobby ("Good evening, Mr. Adams", "Hi, George" to the attendant) I opened the paper and read it. All it said was "ICQ #059673921". I hailed a cab and went home in a daze. It was a state that I would experience quite often in the weeks to come.