Date: Tue, 14 May 2002 09:29:46 -0400
From: Ganymede
Subject: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT VII

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT VII, by Ganymede

WARNING:


This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts
between men and MINOR boys. It is not true! The story is not
intended to promote illegal acts against minors. I do not  condone
child abuse, however the love of boys is a different  matter.
Despite the prevalent attitudes of western society, men have loved
boys throughout recorded history. It is my goal  to help readers
appreciate that love can exist between men and boys. If the subject
of man/boy love offends you, if  this material is illegal in your
place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such
material, do not read further!



By downloading this story:

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perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a minor and
are entitled to have access to material intended  for mature,
responsible members of society capable of making decisions about
the content of documents they wish to read...."

Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely
accidental. The sexual acts described in the story are the result
of my imagination. I have not performed these acts, and  I do not
encourage others to perform them with minors.

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. Copies
have been placed in two archives for your enjoyment.  The story
cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story  cannot be placed
in archives that require payment for access, or  printed and dis-
tributed in any form that requires payment either directly or indi-
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FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in
your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your
thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!



Dedicated to another's friend, a boy who wanted to dance.


The  Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT VII, by Ganymede


OVERTURE


Alesha danced. He danced as he had never danced before. He
danced until his heart was ready to burst. He danced in an oval of
brilliant light, casting shadows on the floor. It was a light that
changed color as if to match the tempo of the music. It followed
his leaps and spins as if it was physically attached to him in some
way. At times, he danced in an explosion of energy, moving across
the stage with a freedom that suggested it was much larger than it
really was. For most of the performance, his eyes saw nothing but a
blur of walls and floor, and if he dared to glimpse upward, the
spotlights far above. However, amidst all that he saw, there was
one man, a man who was seated in the center of the second row. He
stood out among the audience of over a thousand people, his eyes
wide, his smile beaming delight. Alesha saw him leaning forward,
entranced by what he saw. There were thirty rows of people behind
him, yet to Alesha they did not exist. They sat camouflaged and
anonymous in the darkness, yet to the very last row they were as
mesmerized as those who sat close up. There was a single reason why
the audience was utterly attentive for exactly two minutes and
forty-five seconds. Each and every person in the hall believed that
Alesha danced for them.

Reinhold Gliere's `Russian Sailor's Dance' was Alesha's dance.
It was as if the music and the dance routine had been composed for
him as much as the sailor's suit had been tailored precisely to fit
his body, which it had. Indeed, from his name, printed in oblique
Gothic script in the program, one may have thought that the dance
had been named after him. And those few people among the audience
who knew something of his background appreciated the irony, for
many years earlier, his Russian father had danced that very same
dance in Moscow to celebrate President Gorbachev's birthday.

No matter that the dance was so short, it had been accorded
the honor of being the next to last performance. In its own way, it
was the grand finale. What would follow was merely icing on the
cake. For the audience watched with bated breath a boy who was not
even eleven years old perform at a standard equal to the very best
of the graduating class. They saw a slender boy with a hint of a
smile, a boy who by himself was able to capture every man woman and
child in the hall and hold them spellbound, awed by what they wit-
nessed on the stage. What they saw was much better than anything
anyone expected to see that evening, and they expected to see some
excellent dancing from the graduating class.

`Incredible', one person whispered. `Very professional', said
another in a hushed tone. `Unbelievable' was spoken in a muted
voice from the row behind. All for a boy who was still considered a
junior, who under any other circumstances would not be accorded a
sideways glance but for his good looks and pleasant manner. How-
ever, not a single student in the Academy could stand beside him
when he danced. Boy or girl, young and old, each envied him his
astonishing skill.

And Alesha? He was as breathless and as nervous as he could
be, frightened by the awful thumping of his heart, fearful that he
would not execute each and every move as perfectly as he was capa-
ble of. And more. Alesha Yaroshenko was sexually aroused. His penis
was as hard as it could be. Bulging, straining outward, and hard,
painfully hard. But his erection was unseen. It went unnoticed,
partly because it wasn't all that large, but also because his
mother had prevailed for once and he had worn the elastic strap. He
felt it nonetheless, throbbing urgently, demanding his attention.
However, even the slightest response would detract from the task
before him. And so, Alesha tried to concentrate on other things.
For a while, he restrained the urge to look, to grasp it, to enjoy
the feeling of the heated torture that dwelled between his lithe
thighs. It did not stop his mind from thinking and remembering what
he had done with Mr. Beaufort, who he had now taken to calling Mr.
B. He had discovered such wonderful things, such delightful feel-
ings. Some things he had never known existed let alone done before,
things that had finally unleashed the desire within him. Simple
things, like just being held. Hugged. Kissed. And more, like being
touched in places where men touched boys to give them pleasure.

Other thoughts filled his mind during his giddying spins,
thoughts born not of desperate longing or emerging desire, but
growing affection. He was looking forward to what would follow in
the night. Mr. B. had wanted so badly to take him to a celebratory
dinner at the Russian Tea Room, but he had countered quickly. He
would be too tired, at least that was the excuse that he had used.
He had planned it well.

First, he needed to get Mr. B. home for his surprise birthday
party. It was strange how he had taken to thinking of the house on
East 78th Street as his home. He had thought of having a party at
the last minute, using his charm to get his way. It was easy for him
to charm Dewon. All it took was a smile and the sweetness of his
soprano voice to get Dewon to do anything, well almost anything
that he wanted. It was harder to convince Peters that a surprise
party would be a good idea, but eventually he had conceded some-
thing might be arranged even though the cook was scheduled to be
off that night. He had agreed to order Alesha's selection of low
calorie, low fat delicacies from the store in Brooklyn and have it
laid out in Mr. Beaufort's private room for when they returned.

As he danced, as hard as steel, as hard as he had ever been,
Alesha smiled. It was a knowing smile. A smile that knew what would
happen after dinner. He was going to do the same thing that Mr. B.
had done to him, what Roland said he did to Julian all the time. He
was going to the thing that men do to boys and boys do back to them.
He nearly licked his lips. He could taste it in his mouth even
though he had never tasted a penis before. Somehow, he knew he
would like the taste. Everyone said he would. The other boys said
it tasted `slightly salty'. It was `a little slimy', `not bad at
all'. Even his mother had said he should do that to show how much he
appreciated Mr. B's support. Mr. B. called it fellatio and his
mother called it `oral sex', but boys were crude. Among other
things, they called it `sucking cock' or `giving head', or `a blow
job'. And the boy who was quickly becoming his best friend, Roland,
mostly called it `licking dick'.

Alesha swallowed, gulping air into tortured still-developing
lungs, still imagining how wide his mouth would have to stretch,
for he had seen Mr. B.'s penis when it was stiff. It would become
big and stiff, and slick with slime at the top. There was no get-
ting past the fact that it was big. It was so big that it was daunt-
ing to a boy. Then, as if obeying some subconscious test, he opened
his mouth just as he began the final sequence. He gasped for air,
still imagining the thickness of it passing between his lips as he
flung himself around. He was beyond counting, beyond remembering.
The motions came from instinct, honed by training, enhanced by days
of practice. He ached, so sore in his calf and thigh muscles from
the high leaps he had to make that he was nearly shrieking in pain.
His heart was quaking, punching in his chest. Still faster. Not
much longer.

His teachers talked of aerobic and anaerobic motion, of using
the lungs to keep the blood filled with oxygen, but Alesha could
barely breath. Even then, in that incredible climax, an outburst
that consumed all that remained of his energy, his mind dreamily
sought refuge in the night ahead.

Once upstairs, he would lead Mr. B. into the dance studio,
across the polished wood floor to the strangely wrapped gift stand-
ing in the corner. Alesha had used every cent he had ever saved,
every dollar that he had earned by delivering flyers for the Rus-
sian Community Center, all the money he had managed to put aside to
go to summer school in Paris. Two thousand dollars and change. Not
much change, certainly not enough change for what he wanted to buy.
At the end, he had been two hundred dollars short of what he
wanted. He wanted the very best for Mr. B., and the very best was
also very expensive. When the problem seemed insurmountable, Mr. B.
had unknowingly solved that problem when he provided a generous
weekly allowance. He called it `pocket money', but Alesha had dif-
ficulty with the concept of getting fifty dollars a week for his
pocket for doing nothing except what he was supposed to do. Not
only that, but Mr. B. had made it retroactive to the day that Ale-
sha first arrived.

And then, noticing one man's very attentive eyes, the dancer
smiled. He knew exactly what he would do. He would undress and
dance the Russian Sailor's Dance. He would dance like that for no
other reason than to let the man feast his eyes upon his naked
body, but inside he was hoping for much more. If what Alesha
expected to happened actually occurred, then in the seclusion of
Mr. B. private room he was going to suck his first penis, suck
until the man's semen flowed, and swallow like the other boys had
told him, swallow just as his mother had instructed. That would be
his special birthday present to Mr. B. And yet, as Alesha danced,
he had the startling revelation that he would be doing only what he
wanted to do. What he was supposed to do because Mr. B was his
patron, no longer mattered.



Act VII  Scene I



The music stopped. The dance ended much too soon, I grumbled
to myself. It seemed as if Alesha had only started when he stopped.
Yet, it also seemed as if time had stopped and he had been dancing
for an eternity. For that dance, for any dance that Alesha per-
formed, it would never last long enough for me. My mouth was open.
My hands were clammy, aching from tension, stressed with the pres-
sure of gripping the armrests. I was mute, listening to silence.
Alesha's final spin had stopped in the very center of the stage,
facing directly to me, poised on his right foot, his left leg
crooked, toes to his other knee, his hands clasped above him. He
did not move. For the briefest instant his eyes sought mine, look-
ing for approval. I nodded quickly and then, almost as if they had
been waiting for my approval, the applause began. It was a  ground-
swell of sound, building from nothing to a clapping roar. The
upsurge exploded around me, loud vibrations that deafened me. I
grasped the seat before me and used the upholstered back for lever-
age. I stood up. I clapped. Perhaps I was the first person to stand
in acclamation. Perhaps other people were already standing behind
me, but within seconds of getting to my feet, Alesha was subjected
to a standing ovation from more than a thousand people. It seemed
to go and on forever. I clapped on and on, as loudly as I could, and
I watched with pride as Alesha awkwardly bowed and hurried from the
stage. In all probability, I was the last person to sit down.

More than anything, I wanted to rush out to congratulate him.
However, as a member of the Board it would be both unseemly and
inappropriate to favor him over the other dancers who were to per-
form the grand finale. I waited, no longer interested in the salu-
tation of the graduating class. I had seen what I had come to see.
They were good, but Alesha was much better. The final dance took
much too long, and while the students put everything into it that
they had ever learned, it still failed to interest me. Fortunately,
the rest of the audience did not share my apathy.

As soon as the clapping ended, I stayed on my feet and hurried
from the hall. I was barely aware of congratulatory acknowledge-
ments from other members of the Board. I nodded, muttered something
or other that I would be sure to tell Alesha, and continued on my
way. I passed one woman whose very face turned my stomach. She smiled.
I walked on, doing my best to ignore her, yet noticing that she was
apologetic. I was certain that she thought me to quite rude, which was
only to be expected given my brusque dismissal of her poor attempt
at apology. I would never like her for she had resisted my initial
efforts to support Alesha with a special scholarship.

I lost my way of course. The corridors from the main foyer
back to the service area and changing rooms were designed to con-
fuse. I vaguely wondered who the hapless architect was. The outside
of the hall had a passing resemblance to McKim, Mead and White, but
the style was easily imitated by any number of lesser architects. I
stopped a senior student, sweaty, still dressed in her ballet
clothes and asked where the B-level dressing rooms were. She
directed me back the way that I had come, and down a flight of
stairs. I was nearly there, breathless and panicked at being so
late, when I ran headlong into Alesha mid way down the corridor. He
grinned in bashful recognition. I beamed back at him, barely able
to hold back from taking him in my arms and kissing him.

"Well?" he asked nervously. "Was I okay, Mr. B?"

I stared at him, wondering how he could possibly thing that he
was `okay'. I nodded, rather stupidly I thought, but I was lost for
words. His hair was mussed up, his cheeks still flushed, tiny beads
of sweat on his forehead. He licked his lips, looking at me hope-
fully. He was dressed in the same clothes that he had been wearing
when we arrived at the hall. A black velvety tracksuit concealed in
its loose folds everything from his neck to his slender ankles.  It
did little for his perfect form, yet I gazed in mute amazement at I
what I knew to be a lithe body, at a body that had performed incred-
ible feats for one so young.

"Okay?" I muttered. "Okay? Hm,... Yes, you might say that, Ale-
sha."

His eyes flickered, seeking something more. He did not look
away. He was thinking, trying to decide what he could have improved
upon, both of us not realizing that my hand had lifted up until I
touched his chin.

"You might say `okay', Alesha, but I thought it was,..."

I searched for the words. Superlative words with sincerity
that Alesha would appreciate. I knew one thing for certain. Too
much praise, even if it was deserved, would be disingenuous to him.

"Yes?"

"It was a performance worthy of Alesha Yaroshenko."

He trembled, suddenly shrinking back. His hands clenched in
impotent frustration. I think that was the first time that I real-
ized I had the power to hurt him terribly by saying the wrong
thing. I was dumbfounded. Clearly, it was not what he wanted to
hear. But what should I have said then? I considered other possi-
bilities, rejecting `excellent', `perfect', `superb', `magnifi-
cent'. So many superlatives. None of them captured what I felt.

"What's wrong?" I asked meekly.

"Mama always says that," Alesha murmured.

"Oh." I smiled slightly. "She's right. You know that, don't
you? You do realize why I said that, don't you?"

Alesha shrugged ambivalently. "Because I can do better, I
guess. She says it about my dancing because I'm the best judge."

I laughed. He glowered. I shook my head.

"Well she's right too. I meant more than that! It's really
very simple." I paused, letting him wait, hoping that my reason was
no different to his mother's. "Because when you are as good as you
are, there is only one standard."

"The standard that I set for myself?" he queried softly.

I nodded. "Tell me, was it a performance worthy of Alesha
Yaroshenko?"

Alesha thought about it. He smiled. "Mostly it was good. It
could have been better."

"Why do you say that, Alesha?"

"My mind wasn't on it properly."

He gave me a strange look, his expression communicating what
appeared to be,... well lust, but it seemed so out of place in that
narrow dusty corridor that I all but dismissed the thought as soon
as it appeared.

"Well?"

He giggled then, as if thinking of something else and bash-
fully averted his eyes. He stared at the floor, at the small sneak-
ers on his feet.

"What's so funny?" I asked with a sudden impatience.

"I'll tell you in the car, Mr. B," Alesha replied blandly as
he reached for my hand.

He tugged to get me going, leading the way back to the stairs
that I had just descended. It was two floors, four flights, before
we reached the main foyer. I paused and panted on the second land-
ing, while Alesha, who should have been physically exhausted from
his nearly constant practice and two-minutes-and-forty-five seconds
of frenzied motion, merely waited with a faintly bemused expression
that threatened to become a smile at my sad condition.

"What's so funny now?" I demanded once again. I struggled to
catch my breath.

Alesha shrugged, again without showing any indication that
there was anything worthy of amusement.

"Did you know that going up stairs is supposed to be one of
the best exercises there is?" he asked in a matter-of-fact voice.
"At least that's what my gym teacher says."

"Good for him."

"It's a her."

"Good for her then," I grumbled.

Alesha hesitated. Deliberately he framed his answer. "She's
cool." He smirked. If you liked women, I bet you'd like her," he
added coyly.

"Harrumph," I growled. "But I don't, do I?"

He did not reply. Instead, he took my hand, and with a jerk,
continued on up the stairs. Apparently, he wanted to hurry, but
what there was to cause a rush, I could not fathom. Alesha was well
aware that I had made a reservation at the Russian Tea Room for
nine p.m., which would provide plenty of time to get there after
the performance was over. The only thing that I was worried about
was how Alesha was attired, but for a boy of his age there was no
dress-code. Not that it mattered if there was for I already had
developed a reputation for generous tips and good compliments and
the maitre d' would overlook any infraction of the rules for me.

We emerged into a bustling crowd of dancers, parents, and
friends who had gathered in the foyer for the graduation reception.
Alesha stopped, still clutching my hand in his. He glanced around,
seeking an escape route through the crowd. An eleven-year-old boy-
dancer stood no chance of making his way through the throng. I
started forward and drew him after me, using my broad girth to open
up a path. A few people looked at us, not recognizing Alesha for he
kept his face down. A middle-aged couple greeted me, acquaintances
from Paris whose nephew was graduating, but who had yet to join
them. I nodded and made a hurried introduction of the boy who
tagged behind me. Randal waved from the far side of the foyer. I
would preferred to be in his company.

Alesha looked up tiredly, accepting their effusive greetings
with good humor.

"The poor boy's exhausted after that, I expect. he was magnif-
icent," Madam DeWare tittered.

She was about my age, but grossly overweight. Unlike a man,
whose portliness was generally inoffensive and the surplus flesh
stayed firm, a woman's flesh bulged into flabby bloated hips and
thighs and sagged ponderously from her belly. Her breasts were huge
and they jiggled up and down at the slightest motion, no doubt
drooping like her jowls. Yet another reason why men should love
boys, I thought to myself. Slender, lithe, eternally beautiful
boys, at least for a year or two before the ravages of puberty
ruined them forever by turning them into men. I loved boys, boys
like Alesha, boys whose tender hairless bodies were made for a
man's love.

"I expect he is," I agreed with what sounded like sarcasm to
me. "Though why he would be so, I have no idea."

"And to think his mother is not only beautiful but a superb
ballet dancer, too," she went on incessantly. "Such a lucky boy to
have those genes, don't you think Roger?"

Roger DeWare simply nodded and met my eyes with a hint of
exasperation.

"I've seen Ioana-Cristina dance, you know, so as soon as I saw
him on the stage, I knew."

"Here, in New York?" Alesha asked politely.

She smiled disingenuously. "Why, no child. In Paris of
course," she replied. "It was a few years ago. I expect you were
just a baby then."

"I'll be going to Paris in just over a week," Alesha
announced. "With Mr. Beaufort.  I'm attending the summer program in
Ballet."

I nodded to support his claim. I was very pround of him.

"Well lucky you," Madam DeWare said. "You're very good so I
shouldn't be surprised, should I? You're very lucky."

"I know," Alesha admitted. He glanced at me.

"Your mother will be joining you, I suppose? Paris is hardly a
place for a young boy to be by himself."

"Eventually. She's coming to visit me, only she can't go until
August. That's when her season finishes. Anyway, I won't be by
myself. I'll be staying with Mr. B," Alesha added.

Her attention suddenly turned to me. "Really? Sheldon, is that
such a good idea? You're not married and, well,... I'm sure you real-
ize,...  You know how people talk."

I frowned at her before I could stop myself. "Actually, he's
staying with me now," I said emphatically. "I don't see what there
will be to talk about."

She glanced at Alesha pointedly, then back at me. Her expres-
sion said what words did not. My mood darkened.

"Really dear. Stop insinuating," Roger interrupted.

"I'm not insinuating anything!" she exclaimed under her breath
in a vain pretense that Alesha or me could not hear her.

"Well, it sounds like it to me."

"It's just that I don't think he should be,...." She stopped
herself, looking at Alesha with an expression of dismay. "He's
so,..."

"So effeminate?" I suggested wearily, finishing what she dared
not say aloud.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Her emphatic tone said other-
wise. "Not at all, Sheldon. I meant to say young. I was going to say
that he's too young to be by himself," she explained haltingly.

"However, he's not by himself, is he, not if he's staying with
me?" I repeated with increasing agitation.

I met her eyes and glared at her, giving her no opportunity
but to either let the matter go or be more explicit. More often
than not a bluff was as effective as outright confrontation. Above
all, I needed to stay calm. Guilty people panicked. I intended to
brazen it out, hoping that Alesha was going to follow along.

"Actually, it's been quite an experience having him at my
house," I continued candidly. At the same time I affectionately
placed my hand on Alesha's shoulder. "It seemed like a good idea at
the time, but I had no notion of what it was like to have an eleven-
year-old boy around. I've never had the pleasure of a son, or a
nephew for that matter. He's a ball of energy from dawn to dusk.
Not that he's been any trouble. One could hardly ask for a better
house guest. My staff tells me that he even makes his own bed in the
morning before he goes to school."

Perhaps it was overkill, but she almost got the point. She
digested that, but if she ever thought  before she spoke, I would
have been surprised.

"All I'm trying to say, Sheldon,  is that one hears so much
nowadays about,..." Again she lowered her voice. "Well,... Child abuse
to put it plainly. One has to be so careful about the possibility
of, well, any impropriety,... I'm sure you know what I mean. At the
very least, he's too young to be trusted by himself. And he is so
good looking that he'd be very tempting,..."

I felt Alesha tense beside me. His cheeks had flushed. "He
hasn't touched me," he said softly.

Her expression was shocked. Her eyes darted first to me and
then to her husband, looking for support in her moral crusade.
Could she see through the lie? One look at Alesha should have been
enough. He radiated lust. It shone from his eyes. It came with his
boyish sweaty smell, seeping from every pore like an aphrodisiac.
It seemed so obvious to me, although outwardly Alesha was doing his
best to be without guile, to speak in a subdued indifferent voice.
His expression was pouty and just a little bit too girlish for com-
fort. Oh how I loved his moods, from sulky to sultry, and every-
thing  in between. He tried them on like clothes, suiting them to
his personality and the situation of the time.

"Young man, I wasn't trying to imply,..." she rebuked.

"Well, it isn't what you think." Alesha glowered indignantly
as only a preteen boy can when his ire was aroused

"Dear boy, I'm sure you don't appreciate how serious this is."

Before I could say anything, Alesha continued. He met her eyes
with boldness, not evading her gaze as if he was ashamed of some-
thing.

"Actually, I do," he replied with surprising calmness. His
voice had authority. "It's not as if I don't know what happens
between men and boys. A lot of the boys here have sex together.
Some even do it with the teachers. It's no big secret."

What was her name? D-something. Deirdre? Danielle? Delores? In
the stunned silence that followed Alesha's muttered outburst, I
tried to think. I was glad that the ambient noise was so high. We
were surrounded by a babble of voices, so loud that one could
barely  hear a person speaking an arm's length away.

"Really!" She sounded appalled. "Sheldon, it isn't proper!"

Alesha, on the other hand looked slightly amused.

"I'm still a virgin, but none of the other boys my age
aren't," he said matter-of-factly. "There's one boy. He's eighteen,
I think. He's right over there,..." Alesha pointed absently towards a
group of much older boys. "He's been with nearly every boy I know.
Some of them are even a year or two younger than I am and he's had
it in them."

"For goodness sake!" she choked.

Her face reddened. She glanced again at the group of graduat-
ing boys, boys in their teenage years. Her nephew was among them. I
had only met him once or twice in Paris. I wondered if he was the
promiscuous one. Probably there was more than one who met Alesha's
description.

"Now Deborah," I began, hoping I was right. "I'm sure you
realize how important the ballet is like for boys like Alesha. Most
of them are gay. I'm sure you've heard all about male dancers. It's
no different when they're younger. Having a boy like Alesha
involved in the ballet brings a responsibility to make sure that
he's properly educated."

"Sheldon,..."she began arrogantly. "I'm not blind, you know."

"No, I'm sure you're not, but please allow me to finish."

"There's nothing you can say to change my mind," she said in
an impenitent voice.

Her beleaguered husband actually backed away a pace, trying to
separate himself from his obnoxious wife. Again, I wondered why men
married and gave up their freedom for nearly constant abuse. How-
ever, had it been possible to marry Alesha, I would have jumped at
the chance. Why couldn't men marry boys? It was an interesting
proposition.

"What I was going to say," I began with my pedantic voice, my
mind still thinking about a wedding ceremony with Alesha dressed
all in white. "And I think you'll agree having seen him dance, is
that Alesha needs our utmost support. It's obvious that he is the
most talented student to enter the Academy in years. I'm doing what
I can by providing for him the things that his mother cannot. My
joy is seeing him become the very best he can."

"Sheldon,..." she tried to inject.

I stared her down and then went on, my monotone unabated yet
demanding her undivided attention. "If I were so inclined, no doubt
you'd be very right in saying that Alesha would be a temptation to
the even the most resolute of men, however,...." I paused there and I
drew Alesha closer to me. "If you must know, I think of him like my
son, Deborah. In fact, I've only known him for a few weeks but he's
become the son I've never had. Alesha doesn't know it yet, but he's
been named as my heir in my will. What doesn't go into the Founda-
tion will be held in trust for him until he's twenty one."

That stopped her `dead'. She was open-mouthed and dumbfounded.
It was likely that she had some notion of what the Beaufort estate
was worth.

"Well,.... That's a very different situation, isn't it?" she
muttered to herself in sudden puzzlement.

Alesha did not say anything. He appeared bewildered, but not
like her, for his confusion was a matter of inexperience, not pre-
conceptions whose foundation had been shattered. She continued to
speak but I was not listening.

I didn't acknowledge her apology. After a curt farewell, Ale-
sha and I continued on our way, making slow progress across the
increasingly crowded foyer as more and more people emerged from the
hall and gathered to meet that year's graduates as they emerged
from the backstage area. I waved to Randal when he reappeared in
the throng. He was accompanied, of course, by Raymon and his
younger brother, Darius. Of course, there was no sign of Darius'
twin sister. Knowing his preferences, I was not surprised that Ran-
dal was already making a move on Darius.



ACT VII Scene II



Dewon, true to form, was waiting expediently right outside the
main door, as if screening the people who were leaving. When we
came through the doorway, I observed his eyes following a short-
haired youth as he walked down the stairs. He had hungry, wolfish
eyes. Did I look at Alesha like that? As if I wanted to taste his
bare flesh? I hoped not, at least not that obviously.

"Hiya Mr. B," Dewon began ebulliently as he straightened up
from his possessive posture overlooking the Bentley. "Hey, I hear
you done great, Lee-babe?"

"Uh huh," Alesha answered, somewhat shyly. He smiled slightly.
"Did you see me, Dewon?"

"Nope. They wasn't `bout to let me in, not without a ticket.
What I jus' heard was coupla `em talking about some cutie-pie boy
who danced. It was just `fore the show was done. Figured it had to
be you, kid. They said he was,... now what did that man say `bout
you,.... Yeah. Like watchin' Nur-rah-eff it sounded like? Only bet-
ter."

"Better than Nureyev?" I suggested. "Yes, that would be about
right, I think."

Alesha grinned. "Finally!" he exclaimed.

"Huh?"

He raised his eyes brows in mock disbelief that I would conde-
scend to compliment him at all. With my arm protectively around his
narrow shoulders, I led the way down to the Bentley. By the time we
got there, Dewon rushed ahead and had the door open. He gave Alesha
a friendly salute as the slender boy slid easily into the luxurious
Connolly leather seat.

"Home, Massa?" Dewon asked with a playful smirk as I took my
place next to Alesha.

He had not moved all the way across but had stopped in the
center of the seat. His leg brushed against mine, and slowly inched
closer until he was pressing firmly against me. I glanced up at
Dewon. He couldn't see beyond me, yet I  was not mistaken that he
gave me a knowing wink.

"I have a nine o'clock reservation at the Russian," I
answered. I consulted my watch. "It's just after eight now. How
long will it take to get there, Dewon?"

"Reckon it'd take most of it, Mr. B. The traffic is always bad
on Friday night. You and him could get up to all kinda fun and be
back in yer clothes `fore we get there. Ain't no one gonna know
what's happenin'."

Thinking of Madam DeWare, I very nearly laughed. Before I
could answer, Alesha piped in.

"I'm so tired, Mr. B. Couldn't we just go home?" he sighed.

I had been looking forward to celebrating my birthday since I
had started the `Alesha diet'. There was no reason why he should
know that I had planned a special meal for my birthday. Surely, he
could allow me one meal of gluttony before I went back on his rig-
orous diet of fruit and vegetables? Yet, even as I considered what
I was going to say, I realized that he always get whatever he
wanted from me. His voice was so,... so sweet. Pure, innocent, like
musical notes that kept ringing through my head as if every sylla-
ble was somehow precious and had to be remembered. He was a
soprano, of course, with a voice so perfect that he could have been
a wonderful singer if dancing did not consume his every waking
moment. Nothing was more important to me than making Alesha happy.

"Dewon, forget the Russian for tonight and take us home," I
said humbly "We can order pizza or something."

Dewon closed the door and hurried around to the driver's door.
The engine started, purring softly yet, the note of unleashed power
was detectable in the subdued growl. The car surged forward and I
sank back into the seat, thinking about pizza. I could not remember
the name of the boy who had introduced me to the delights of eating
pizza after sex. It was in Naples,. not Italy but Florida. We lay
in a hotel bed together, munching, dripping sauce, our bodies still
glowing with the aftermath of sex. What was his name? He was thir-
teen and half negro, not that I cared about that. He stayed until
the morning.

"Mr. B?"

"Yes, Alesha."

"That woman,..." he explained hesitantly. "In the foyer."

"She was totally out of line, Alesha. She had no right to say
those things. I'm sorry."

Alesha shrugged and then he turned to me, his expression seri-
ous. "I was angry."

"Don't be! She is the worst example of her kind."

"What's that?"

His gently melodious voice melted my anger. I wanted to hold
him, hug him, make love to him with a desire that could be barely
kept under control. Increasingly, it had been like that. My need
surged without no more warning than I had thought of Alesha. Day or
night, it made no difference. I existed between unacknowledged love
and rampant lust. I took a deep breath.

"A meddling, self-indulgent bitch who is old enough to know
better but isn't smart enough to realize how stupid she is," I
chuckled.

"But I was dumb," Alesha muttered to himself. "I should not
have said that. Should I?" He turned back to me.

I shrugged, trying to imply it was unimportant. I could appre-
ciate his motivation. It was all about self esteem and self-image,
so tenuous for a young gay boy given society's perceptions and his
peers condemnation of anything and anyone that was remotely differ-
ent.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes. Yes is does. Mr. B?"

"Yes Alesha."

"She was making it sound as if, well if you and I were, you
know,... doing it."

"Having sex?" I queried.

Alesha nodded slightly. "Maybe we are, but it's none of her
business."

"Maybe?" I teased.

He smiled slightly. "Okay, so it is true. But I didn't want
her saying it was bad to be gay."

I thought for a moment. "Is that why she was upset, you think?
Because she thought that being gay was bad?"

Alesha thought about it. "I guess."

"It it that bad? I mean, do you think it is?" If I sounded hum-
ble, it was because I did not want Alesha to resent my affection
for him.

"No,... Well maybe,.... I don't know. Why else would she hate me?"

"Alesha, honey, I don't think she was saying that."

"It's really because I'm still a kid, isn't it?"

"Yes. Some people don't like the idea of boys your age having
sex. Of course, one might say that she's too old  and fat to have
sex."

Alesha giggled gleefully. "Do you think her husband still does
it to her?"

"Does what?"

"You know,...." He smirked. "Have sex?"

"Oh,...." I smiled. "Perhaps," I ventured."

Alesha kept smirking. His eyes were fixed on me, blatantly
teasing. Those piercing eyes of blue, eyes that should have been
innocent, but weren't. Not any more. When he breathed, he inhaled
deeply, making his chest rise perceptibly, his nostrils flaring
every time. I was so focused on him that I was nearly unaware that
Dewon had closed the partition. Suddenly, the rear seat of the
Bentley seemed very small. Alesha was so close that I could smell
him. It was a sweet smell, the scent of boy after vigorous exercise
but before masculinity had tainted his sweat. Then, deliberately he
licked his lips.

I felt my heart lurch. His tongue moved slowly across his
lips. His lips were red,  darker, more passionate than I remem-
bered. Makeup from the performance, perhaps, or was I seeing him in
a different light? His tongue stopped at the corner of his mouth,
lingering, delicate enticing pink protruding very slightly. It was
then that I recognized the yearning I had to hold him as being
nothing other than the insistent urge that came from being in love.
I had felt that way before for other boys, but never so intensely.
It was a longing, so strong that I was desperate. Slowly, his
tongue traveled back the other way, then disappeared from sight.
His lips were wet, begging to be kissed.

"Alesha,..." I whispered urgently.

His head came forward, lifting up, eyes closing, even as my
arms extended and brought his slim body into my embrace. Our lips
barely touched before we parted. Yet, I tasted his softness,
inhaled the smell of him, the freshness of unsullied breath. So
close. Our faces were barely inches away. His eyes looked into
mine, seeking, searching, as my eyes gazed into his soul. That that
was what the liquid pools of blue were, the gateway to his inner
being.

Somehow, Alesha's arms had found their way around my neck. He
pulled against me, bringing our faces closer. In the instant
between when his eyes closed and when we kissed again, I realized
that he was doing only what he wanted. There was no mother's invis-
ible hand pushing him forward.

We kissed, gently. So gently that I could barely feel his
silken touch for a while. Until his tongue poked into my lips and
wriggled eagerly to find a gap. I parted my lips to let his tongue
pass through. It did not penetrate very far, just far enough that
it touched my teeth and moved back and forth against the inside of
my lips.

A moment later we parted again.

"Do you want me to take my clothes off?" he whispered. "Or do
you want to do it?"

I swallowed, nodded hesitantly. Alesha smiled shyly.

"You don't have to," I began awkwardly. "I mean that, you do
know that, don't you Alesha?"

He didn't answer immediately. He merely regarded me with a
child's patience for an adult who really doesn't understand.

"Then you don't want me naked?" he asked gravely.

"No. Well, yes, of course I do. You're beautiful. I love to
see you without your clothes."

Somehow I could not bring myself to say `naked'. It seemed so
tasteless, so uncouth. Not that Alesha would expose himself to me
and reveal the absolute perfection of his bare smooth body, but
that such a marvelous sight would be a travesty if it occurred in a
place like a car, even a Bentley. I resolved to keep him dressed.

He giggled when my hand playfully groped between his lithe
legs, fonding his firm flesh beneath the warm fleece of his track-
suit. My hand nearly encompassed his leg just above the knee. My
hand eased back, caressing his muscled thigh. Higher, slowly
higher, gliding towards his slight mound. He was tense, but so was
I. Instinctively, I leaned forward to kiss him again before I made
contact with his private parts.

Again, that incredible softness, alive beneath my lips, seek-
ing curiously, then accepting, opening to allow my tongue to enter
in turn. I held back, resisted the urge to push in further, touched
and tickled just as he had done to me. He relaxed. My hand drifted
onto his groin with the softest touch I can manage, barely touching
that precious warmth with my fingertips. He trembled, as if I had
never touched him there before.

We broke apart and Alesha moved back, until he was far enough
away from me that he could see my hand. He watched it with a shame-
less curiosity, with a boy's inquisitive study of something strange
and foreign. Warily, I pressed into the small bulge, trying to
decipher what was what form what I felt. Under the cloth was so
soft  and formless that it was difficult to determine how much was
him and how much was not.

"I got a stiffie while I was dancing," Alesha confided.

"You did?"

He nodded. "You didn't see it, did you?"

"No."

"I didn't think you would." Suddenly he giggled. "I was wear-
ing a pouch. "I'm older enough now that I need one, even though it
isn't very big."

"What isn't very big?"

"My peenie, of course," he giggled. "Do you want to see it?"
he added teasingly.

Without giving me a chance to answer yes or no, his hands
dropped down, lifted away the elastic waistband, pulled it down far
enough for both of us to see.

All Alesha wore to cover his small maleness was the pouch. It
had the sleek shiny surface of silk, pure white, with satin trim
along the edges. His genitals were contained to a small hemisphere
of flesh. It was difficult to see what good it possibly do in the
event of his becoming aroused. It was as if Alesha anticipated the
question. His penis began to stiffen instantly. However, instead of
thickening, extending, and lifting upward as his erection swelled,
it merely stretched the cloth tighter where it held his penis. His
erection pointed up, but was held securely against his lower belly
so that the protuberance was concealed from sight. His eyes met
mine with a child's secretive but unashamed delight.

"See," he announced.

"Yes, I see."

"It was like that while I was dancing."

I did not dare ask him what had caused it. I was not at all
sure that I wanted to hear the answer since he had been surrounded
by more than a dozen luscious teenage boys.

`Well, I'm glad you had this on," I answered.

Alesha grinned. "So am I. I'm always getting hard when  you're
around."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then I could not
believe my eyes. Not ears, but eyes, for Alesha had slipped his
fingers under the tiny silk jockstrap and extracted his pink-hued
penis. I licked my lips.

"You can,... if you want to,..." he offered coyly.

I lowered my head in silent homage to my god. For that was
what Alesha had become to me, although when it had occurred I could
never be sure. He was a boy-god, a boy whose perfect body deserved
my reverence. My lips brushed across the puckered nozzle of his
foreskin. There was the slightest hint of `cock', not like some
boys whose scent is overwhelming. It was sweet, refreshing, warm
and soft. My lips tingled at the touch. I paused, poised to engulf
him, absorbing the closeness of touching my lips to the tiny deli-
cate lip, yet knowing that it would pale beside the intimacy of
taking his penis into my mouth. He would achieve climax quickly. I
could feel it growing inside him, for no other reason than he trem-
bled erratically. Without warning, his hips lifted higher, driving
his penis between my lips. Simultaneously, my head lowered and I
sucked his little male-organ into the lush heat of my mouth. I
bathed it in saliva, using my tongue to coat it thoroughly. I even
slid my tongue to the sides, sliding down the short throbbing
length of his shaft and onto the tender skin of his scrotum as he
hastily jerked his pouch out of the way.

I was barely aware of his frenzied motion, his arms twitching,
his hands grasping at my head. The sound I heard was almost pain-
ful. Gasping as the peak approached. I tried to move my mouth, to
give him the up and down motion that all males craved, but his
hands held my head tightly. I could not move. I felt his penis
quiver, then the sudden rapid-fire pulses of orgasm. He whimpered
as it finished, exhausting whatever energy was left to him.\

Anxiously, he pushed my head away from his glistening wet
penis. It stood straight up, convulsing with the remnants of sensa-
tions that  come and gone all too quickly. I had never seen a boy
achieve orgasm so swiftly.

"Hurts,..." he groaned almost incoherently.

"I'm sorry," I muttered.

Alesha slumped back, protectively cupping his hand over his
groin. He breathed deeply, as if the effort of inhaling was almost
too much for him to bear. And yet, he smiled faintly, a mystical
smile that said he was happy and without speaking, he looked
towards, reaching into me with his gentle gaze.

The Bentley filtered out the world around us so that even the
discordant loud sounds and bright lights of Times Square nearly
passed us by. There was a world outside the darkened glass, a world
of  humble things, of people trying to make a living. It was very
different to the Times Square of my youth, when boys could be found
cruising with their pimps hiding in the shadows, Yet, my world lay
within the leather and burled walnut doors. It was increasingly
evident that I lived for a single purpose, a boy whose name was
Alesha Yaroshenko.

"You want me to drive on home, Mr. B."

I sat up quickly, realizing that in my haste I had forgotten
to turn off the intercom. Dewon had listened in, and this was his
way of drawing my attention to my oversight. Alesha was still in
that dozing, drowsy bliss that pursued orgasm, no less intense
despite its suddenness. I fancied that I could still taste his
penis in my mouth, yet had I tried to describe it I would have fal-
tered. Hot, yes, and soft, with a rigid core that throbbed, of
course. But the taste was, indescribable other than sweet. Sweet,
yes, that was it, I mused.

"Mr. B. You want me to go on home, or look fer somewhere
quiet?" Dewon persisted.

I winced, realizing that my thoughts were so fixed on Alesha
that I had been entranced.

"Go on home, Dewon," I muttered.

I used the controls to switch of the intercom. Had he heard
everything? Everything that had been said? He would have heard lit-
tle that could be considered even remotely obscene. Even Alesha's
request was innocent on the surface. But his breathing? The sound
of my lips, wet, sucking on his succulent spike of flesh? Had Dewon
heard that?

Even the sound of a nearby horn was muted. Just us, I real-
ized. Together. Alesha giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"He heard us, didn't he?" he whispered shyly.

"Yes, he did,... at least I think so. I'm sorry, I forgot to
switch the thing off."

I regarded Alesha guiltily. Alesha did not seem to mind one
way or the other. I raised my eyebrow, hesitated. I inclined my
head, and waited. His smile widened.

"It doesn't matter. I told him what I was going to do," Alesha
muttered self-consciously.

"You what?" I began awkwardly. "You mean,?..."

He nodded once. "Dewon and I talked about it earlier," he
answered uneasily.

"You talked about what exactly?"

He chewed on his bottom lip momentarily. "Sex stuff," he said
softly. "I wanted to know something,...."

"Like what?" I asked, like a smell that refused to go away.

Alesha shrugged, pretending that whatever he had talked about
with Dewon held no interest for me. The silence lengthened. Then,
he smiled.

"Okay, out with it, Alesha."

I tried to make my voice sound as if I would not give in, yet
I heard myself faltering, yielding to his teasing smile.

"You'll have to trust me like I trust you," Alesha said
sternly, mocking me and what I had said on any number of occasions.

I scowled at him and he smiled back. I realized then the
essence of my problem stemmed from my love for Alesha. I trusted
him as I trusted no one else. And worse, I would never be able to
force him to tell me something that he did not want to share. What-
ever he had talked about with Dewon was not something that I needed
to worry about.

"No! I'm not telling," he said firmly but with respect that
reassured me at the same time. "But only because it involves you,
Mr. B. Anyway, you'll find out before much longer."

I gave in and grinned at him. Daintly, his fingers stroked his
now-limp penis. A single finger poked at the nozzled tip, cau-
tiously trying to find a way into the puckered end before playing
with the slight bulge underneath the sleek veil of skin.

"That's really very sexy," I mused.

"Huh?" Alesha looked up.

"One of the sexiest things possible I think, is a boy playing
with his dick. I imagine that feels very nice."

Alesha giggled. "It's okay. He feels even nicer if he's being
sucked."

"Oh, he does, does he?"

Alesha nodded. "You got spit all over," he added as he
inspected between his thighs.

His skin glistened. The wetness extended almost to the seat.
His scrotum was shiny as well, with streaks of saliva still in  the
folds. Alesha stopped playing with his penis.

"Hm,.... Did I do all that?" I asked, taking my handkerchief
from my jacket pocket and unfolding it for him..

"I guess."

He dabbed the crisp linen against his groin until it was dry.
Like boys his age, once the urge was sated his mind quickly moved
on to other things. Of course, it could return in a instant, such
is the recuperative power of the pre-teen boy.

"Those people at the hall?" Alesha began after a while. "I
shouldn't have said what I did, should I?"

I thought for a moment. "I already said she was very wrong to
say what she did, Alesha, and I meant it. I can understand your
reaction."

"But it was pretty dumb of me, wasn't it Mr. B.?"

It was both amusing and strange to hear his reverting to the
American idiom while speaking with his continental accent. When he
spoke it sounded both refined and startlingly out-of-place.

"Maybe, it would have been better to have ignored her," I ven-
tured. "There's no point in drawing attention to things that should
be kept private."

He nodded thoughtfully. "She just made me so mad. Her nephew
is Jason Vuitton, I think."

"That was her name before she married DeWare," I acknowledged.

Alesha laughed. "I wondered if he was.  He flaunts it too, so
she must know that he's gay."

"Okay, what's so funny?"

"Jason and Kyle!" Alesha replied as if the names explained
everything.

"What about Jason?"

"He's the boy I was talking about before," he explained, not-
ing that I did not look away. "He's like you a bit, I think."

I raised my eyebrow at that, wondering what would cause Alesha
to make the comparison.

"He likes younger boys too, Mr. B," Alesha explained with a
playful giggle.

"Jason does?"

Alesha nodded. "But he's weird about it too, at least from
what I've heard."

"Weird how?"

His eyes flickered. "There's a boy in Pilotis. Kyle Singleton.
He's only nine, but he's very good at jazz movement so they put him
into the exercise class with us."

I nodded encouragingly, while my mind raced ahead. Weird how?
Wasn't it weird for a man my age to love boys? What else could be
considered weird by a boy who was eleven years old? Alesha hesi-
tated to reply, which only served to exacerbate my curiosity.

"Mr. B., Jason came into the toilet while Kyle was there-. I
guess it was about two weeks ago,..... And Jason,... well he wanted
Kyle to go into the stall with him,... and Kyle, well,... he did,... and
they did stuff."

I nodded again, biding my time, holding back a sigh of anger
and frustration. It did not sound unduly bizarre. Older boys fre-
quently sought out younger boys for sexual relationships. What
bothered me was that so very easily, it could have been Alesha. Not
that he was necessarily promiscuous, but some boys were like that.
When temptation came, it came in a tangled demanding rush of needs
and emotions that they could not resist.

"He fucked Kyle," Alesha added in a factual voice that sug-
gested anal sex was as common at the Academy as standing at the
bar.

"What else happened?" I asked gently.

"Jason hurt him." Still unemotional, but hinting at something
much worse.

"How?"

Silence. Not until Alesha had taken a deep long breath did he
speak. "He did it to Kyle really hard, Mr. B. He does that when he's
ready to stop. He says it's to make sure the boy doesn't forget
it!"

"So your friend Kyle wasn't the first he's done that to
then?" I prompted, hoping that Alesha would not confirm that he had
suffered at Kyle's hand as well.

Alesha nodded. "I heard that he's done it to other boys, and
it's always the same. He always tries to hurt them." He lowered his
voice. "He doesn't cum."

"Kyle told you that?"

Alesha nodded again. His expression indicated that he clearly
understood that something was wrong.

"But he gets hard?" I persisted. Suddenly I realized how silly
it was to say that. He had to be erect to achieve penetration.
"Well me must I suppose. But nothing came out?"

"Kyle said he didn't. He put his finger in there later on,...
but he didn't find anything,.... So he didn't,... you know,... finish the
way you do. Nothing came out."

Alesha knew about the mechanics of male orgasm. Indeed, I had
illuminated him myself only minutes earlier. He accepted my ejacu-
lation as a natural outcome of sex, even if it was still denied to
him.  I rubbed my chin.  I was surprised that Jason was unable to
achieve gratification. Teenage boys usually had no problems unless
they were suffering from guilt. Jason was consumed by guilt. Wasn't
that Freud's position? Id drove lust and superego drove guilt, with
ego stuck in the middle to arbitrate sanity. I felt sorry for
Jason, understanding what he was going through. I had been through
a period of guilt myself when I first realized how boys affected me
was something that society condemned. There were times when even
erection was denied to me.

I made a mental note to talk with Jason at a later time. I
watched absently as Alesha refastened the pouch and placed his
sweat pants back in place. We were nearly home again.



Act VII Scene III



We passed the rest of the time simply sitting close together,
my arm around Alesha's slender shoulders, looking out the window.
It was strange, though only to be expected, how close to felt to
him. It was a lot more than sharing human warmth. My arm held us
together, allowing something, I was not quite certain what, to flow
between us. Alesha followed the passers by with his eyes, attentive
in a way that most boys were not. It seemed as if the world was his
alone to discover, by merely looking and watching with his liquid
pools of blue, he could somehow grasp the meaning of life. Like
that, withdrawn into himself, his mind cogitating on I knew not
what, he appeared much older. Not precocious, or even more mature,
but somehow wiser. Watching Alesha had become my primary preoccupa-
tion.

He was startled when Dewon turned around in his seat and slid
the partition open that separated us from him. He smiled knowingly,
Dewon that is, when he saw that we were both properly attired. I
merely nodded to acknowledge that we had arrived safely and that he
was free to go home. He hurried around to the door and opened it for
me, stepping back and greeting me with a curt salute, marine-style.
I smiled. He winked at Alesha and whispered something in his ear as
he slid out from his seat. It sounded like, `watch your teeth' but
it could have been `watch you head'.

I walked over to the elevator suddenly feeling tired and
rather glad that we had not gone to the Russian Tea Room, although
the prospects of a pizza dinner  were depressing to say the least.
Alesha came up beside me and casually slipped his hand into mine.
We stood there, waiting for the elevator to descend to the garage
level. I had held his hand before, of course, but I had never real-
ized just how special it was. Small, fragile, moist and hot, and so
very soft compared to mine. Yet, his thin fingers were strong, not
letting go. I turned, looked down, discovered his face uplifted,
greeting me with a shy smile.

"Okay Lee-babe?" Dewon called from the Bentley as he carefully
backed up. "Just `member what I said `n you'll do great.

Alesha nodded and smiled warily. He waved, still clinging to
my hand. He watched until the car was out of sight. The elevator
door opened. I pressed Alesha forward and stepped inside behind
him. The door closed. For some reason the architect had provided
very few lights in the elevator. The walls were polished wood, hand
rubbed cherry like one might find on the grand schooners that the
Rockefellers and their friends once sailed from the New York Yacht
Club.  In that golden glow, Alesha looked more beautiful than ever.
His eyes were fixed on mind as if seeking answers within my mind
that only he could find. His eyebrows were very thin. And above his
eyes it looked as if the shadow had benefited from a little mascara
or whatever it was that makeup artists used to elaborate the beauty
that nature had already provided.

Alesha breathed. He moved closer. He seemed to quiver with
life, with the growing expectancy that something important was
about to happen. His eyes flickered.

"Mr. B.?'

His voice was little more than a whisper. Nervous. Even
frightened.

"Yes Alesha?"

"I,... I want,..." He stopped, swallowed, touched his tongue to
his lips. "Iwantyoutokissme." He gasped, held his breath, swallowed
once again.

"Okay. If you're sure that's what you want?"

His head barely moved in assent before my head began its down-
ward journey. At the same time, Alesha's head lifted up, tilting
back, eyes closing instinctively, then reaching higher as he lifted
onto the tips of his toes. Straining upward to greet my lips. We
kissed. Smooched more like. More play than passion, enjoying the
touch of lips and tongue. Rubbing noses like randy eskimos. I found
myself being pushed up against the wall, Alesha's body squeezing
against me, his groin squashed to my thigh, his belly forced into
mine. Still kissing. But play was gone and our lips were hot and
wet. We kissed the way that lovers kissed. Open-mouthed, extended
tongues, shamelessly sharing bodily fluids. My hands wrapped around
him, grasped his firm small buttocks and jerked him tighter,
straining to bring his body higher. The elevator clicked on, trav-
eling upward, like my sex as it expanded and rose inside my trou-
sers.

I found myself wondering what would happen when the doors
opened. Where would the elevator stop? I had not pressed the but-
ton, but Alesha had, just before he stepped forward. How many
floors were left?

And still he kissed me, squirming with rapacious energy. He
was very aware of my arousal. His entire body was dedicated to tor-
menting it, rubbing back and forth, up and down. That slender wrig-
gling boy had taken on a potently charged sexuality, responding to
a desire  that had blossomed within the space of a few seconds.
Then, without more warning that a playful slobbering lick, he
pulled back. His lips glistened. A dribble of saliva was on his
chin.  He smeared it away and grinned, deliberately eyeing my mid-
dle section where his efforts had been focused.

"Are you ready for more?" he asked with an audacious look.

"More?" I repeated.

My lips tasted of him. Even as he regarded me with a curious
almost out-of-character boldness, I still felt his tantalizing
tongue probing beyond them, seeking my heat. Alesha was learning
quickly. My heart was pounding at the very implication that there
could be `more'.

The elevators opened with an abrupt jerk. The fifth floor. The
doors worked smoothly on all of the other floors. Alesha took my
hand again and tugged, drawing my out and into the hall. The door
to the studio was closed.

"You have to close your eyes, Mr. B."

"Why?"

"Because of the surprise, of course."

I obeyed. He instructed my not to look, his giggling almost
out of control. He guided me by the hand, with constant admonitions
not to peek. Twenty steps, maybe less, before we stopped.

"Okay, you can open your eyes."

His excitement was matchless. I opened and looked, and for a
moment I did not recognize what was before me. It was an exercise
contraption of some sort, like those you see in sports clubs or in
the glass-fronted gymnasium on 54th Street.

"It's a stairmaster," Alesha bubbled effusively.

"Yes, I see." I did not see.

"It's too big to wrap," he added. "I didn't have the time to
get a bow."

"Huh?"

Vaguely I wondered what a stair machine was doing there. It
had not been there even as recently as a few hours ago.

"It's your birthday present," Alesha explained.

"It is?" I stepped back with surprise.

"It's from me," he announced proudly. He beamed at me with
boyish glee.

"Alesha,... how,... I mean,... It's very nice. But the money?"

Money. It always came down to money. Where could he have got-
ten the money to buy it? I had given him a few hundred dollars since
he'd arrived. But a few hundred dollars would not be enough. A few
thousand dollars perhaps. Even though I had never used a stairmas-
ter, I could recognize quality. And this one was the best. The very
best that money could buy.

"I used my Paris money," Alesha said awkwardly. He blinked at
me, visibly nervous. "I wanted to get you something nice,... well
because you've done so much for me and,..."

"But Alesha, that's,... what you bought,.. it's so expensive.
Your mother said you worked so hard to save that money."

"Don't you like it?" He sounded miserable.

"Like it? Alesha, I love it. It's very, very nice."

At that moment, the thought uppermost in my mind was that I
would have to use it a great deal for he had given it to me. To me!
No other boy had given me a gift, beyond the obvious one of physi-
cal gratification. This was different. It was a gift from the
heart, from the purest of hearts.

"Do you know why I bought it?" Alesha asked with a teasing
giggle.

"So I lose some weight?

"Well that too, but mostly because of something else." He
glanced down at his feet. "You don't have to, but,...."

"Yes, Alesha?" I prompted. "But what?"

"I get lonely up here by myself. I thought,... well maybe you
could come up and exercise while I'm practicing."

"What a wonderful idea," I replied.

I paused. I liked the suggestion of being with him while he
danced. Often, I worked in my private room while Alesha practiced.
I always left the door open so that I could hear him and the music.
The idea came from out of the blue and grew.

"It's a deal, but on one condition," I added teasingly.

"Okay." Alesha was bubbling with happiness.

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

He shook his head.

"Maybe you won't agree?"

"I will, Mr. B. No matter what, I want you to watch me dance."

His eyes flirted with me. His smile was enough to melt the
hardest resolve.

"I thought,..." I stopped. There was no point in explaining to
him that I had believed that he wanted privacy, that I thought I
was intruding when I watched him dance.

"I want you to dance naked," I said in a muted voice.

"Naked?" His eyes were wide. It was the last thing he had
expected.

"Not all the time," I hastened to add.  I felt ashamed that I
had even asked, dared to require that of him, that he expose him-
self to my lewd eyes. "Not unless you want to. Just every now and
then. Maybe once a week."

Alesha did not answer. Not right away. He seemed to ponder my
request. He tilted his head, watching me through his coy eyes. He
backed away slowly, his right hand slowly coming up to his chest.
One finger and a thumb grasped the metal pull of the zipper. It
inched down before my gaze, exposing a slit through which I could
see the pale skin of his chest.

"Like this," he murmured seductively.

To say I swooned, would make me sound like a dowager, and
indeed, I remained conscious, but my knees went weak. So weak that
I had to lean against the Stairmaster.  His hand crept lower,
steadily drawing the zipper closer to its destination. The slit
widened, revealing his knurled navel like a tiny perfect gem stud-
ded in his belly. Then, suddenly, the zipper was apart. His arms
moved casually backward, widening the opening until I glimpsed the
tiny dots of his nipples. So unobtrusively small, not like some
boys whose nipples look as if they be more at home atop of tits. His
chest was defined by not by flabby breasts like mine, but thin
lines of ribs lifting up to his sternum, concaving slightly before
dipping to his rippled belly. Then, as his simple unaffected ges-
ture of disrobing was completed by angling his arms downward, the
black-velvet top slid from him and fell silently to the floor. His
upper half was bare and my mouth was agape. He smiled shyly, yet
that timid uncertain look concealed a very brazen boy.

"Yes," I growled. "Now the pants."

Lust came from my mouth only because lust filled my mind with
lurid shameful thoughts. His hands moved to his waist. Silently, as
if revealing a precious gift, he shed his fleecy pants. No sooner
than he had eased them past his hips, they dropped of their own
accord to his knees. There was nothing underneath, nothing to hide
that boyish part of him. The little silk pouch had apparently been
untied and had tangled in his pants. Such utter perfection. Alesha,
formed by divine inspiration, stood before me. He performed that
miracle of boyhood, removing his sneakers simply by pressing one
heel against the toes of the other foot. With a kick, he knocked
his shoes to the side so that they slide across the floor. His eyes
had not left mine.

"Take them off."

Oh, that voice. Soft, husky, potent with unbridled juvenile
sexuality. But unlike the boys who frequented the streets and sold
their bodies, Alesha's soprano rang clear and shameless.

He commanded me, and like a willing servant, a slave to serve
a boy, I dropped to my knees. His lewd boyhood, so small and squat
and stiffly erect was but a few inches from my face. How I longed to
reach out, to extend my tongue and embrace it with my love.

"Alesha,...." I muttered.

"I can't dance like this. Well, can I?"

He was teasing me. My heart pounded as my hands moved outward.
There was nothing I would have loved more than to touch him, to
stroke the smooth leanness of his slender lithe legs, yet, even the
touch of a mere mortal would have destroyed what the gods had
wrought. Instead, my hands dropped lower, taking hold of the warm
cloth and tugging gently as he lifted first one leg and then the
other, until his clothes were lying on the floor.

He stepped back, reaching behind him. It took him but a few
seconds to place his feet into his soft ballet shoes, the ribbon-
trimmed shoes that he had borrowed from my mother's collection. In
one simple graceful move, he skipped away, leaving me beside the
Stairmaster. I gazed longingly, filled with thoughts of love and
lust, and whatever it was that drove men to boys like him. The
music of the Russian Sailors' Dance filled the studio, coming from
all four walls as if an orchestra surrounded us.

And Alesha danced. Naked, jutting vertically, so hard that it
slapped and bounced against his taut belly. His scrotum was pulled
up, wrinkled to nothing but a faint bulge beneath. He spun, pirou-
ette around, then performed the spin that piqued my desire. Front
and back in a whirling ecstasy of motion. Perfect bottom, pinched
and firm, untouched by any other man, yet so inviting that it was
all that I could do to restrain myself from rushing forward.
Indeed, as I gazed amazed, I fantasized. What man would not when
confronted by that shameless dervish.

I had always marveled at the elegance of dance, but that night
I was consumed by a little naked boy. He did with dance, more than
the masters of any art can do. It was the expression of his soul,
and more. He had been born to dance, and he danced for me. His gift
to me, never to be seen by anyone else. Not even his mother would be
so fortunate. I was breathless within the first few seconds. His
dance lasted all of two minutes and forty-five seconds. It took me
less than that to realize that now I could die a happy man. Yet,
even as I gazed longingly, consumed by love, I lived for him.

Like before, his dance was not long enough for me. It would
never be long enough. Almost as soon as he commenced, he was at the
end. It lasted barely a few minutes, but what a few minutes it had
been. I had watched him with mouth open, my eyes lingering where he
had been, longing growing like an overpowering epidemic inside me
until death was the only recourse.

This time, unlike before, he concentrated entirely on the
dance.  I had the distinct impression that he was all but unaware
of my existence, yet it was apparent that everything he was was for
me. He danced for me, and only me, and he used his skill to capture
whatever of my heart he did not already possess. The leaps were
higher, the twisting spinning swirling motion faster, more precise.
And always, throughout his wonderful expression of liberated move-
ment, his boyhood stayed rigid. It danced with him, alive and
crudely jutting upwards. One thought of the dances of Bacchus, the
raw sexuality of Dionysian rites, and the Russian Sailors' Dance.

It ended in a crescendo of motion, a wild frenzy of rotation.
Indeed, it seemed as if it would go on and on, and never end, until
it came to a shuddering conclusion. Alesha poised, still on point,
elevated, arms extended, gasping for breath. Had any dancer ever
captured the ecstasy of orgasm? Surely, if anyone could do it, Ale-
sha could. I stared at him in amazement.

Ever so slowly, he came down, standing with a tremble as his
muscles relaxed. His arms lowered to his sides. He was shining with
a silver sheen that I suddenly realized was sweat, a thin glisten-
ing film that covered his body from elbow to knees. When he managed
to catch his breath, he smiled weakly.

"Well?"

"It was better that time," I said critically. "Do you always
get a hard-on when you dance?"

Alesha burst into a fit of giggles. Certainly, every time that
I had seen him dance in a fit of passion, he had been aroused. He
was euphoric, while at the same time shivering with the onset of
exhaustion. I stepped forward, several paces until I could reach
out to hold him. Uneasily he came into my embrace. I hugged him
very gently, rubbing my hand up and down his bare boney spine. His
head pressed weakly against my chest, his arms hung limply. He was
so hot, so unresponsive, so slippery with perspiration that he wor-
ried me.

"Are you okay?" I asked nervously.

Alesha looked up and met my eyes and nodded ever so slightly.
"I'm tired."

"You've been practicing too hard. Now that tonight's over
you're going to have to slow down for a while," I said firmly. "At
least until you're in Paris."

"That's right. It's nearly summer break," Alesha muttered.
"You probably won't believe me, Mr. B., but I lost track."

"The way you've been working the last few  weeks, I can
believe it. However, you didn't forget my birthday, I see."

I could see that pleased him. He smiled with his shy-boy
smile, still looking deep into my eyes. I had the strangest feel-
ing, that he was thinking what I was thinking. Perhaps it was wish-
ful thinking on my part. Despite what should have been obvious to
me, I could find no reason why he would think of me in the same way
that I thought of him.

"That was the best present I ever received," I said. "And the
best birthday too, Alesha."

"The Stairmaster?"

"That too, but I was thinking mainly of your dance."

"Oh that! It was okay, I guess." He sounded pleased despite
his self appraisal.

"Just okay?" I teased back.

"I wanted to do it specially for you."

He was filled with pride for he knew, as I knew that it had
been special. It was more than his nudity, although that surely
added to my enjoyment. He had given that dance everything he had.
No wonder he was physically exhausted.

He eased his body away from mine. Sometime during that all too
brief interlude, his erection had subsided. He broke my embrace and
stepped away, not far, but far enough that we were no longer touch-
ing.

"It isn't over yet," Alesha murmured.

"What? There's more?" I laughed.

He nodded gleefully. "We haven't had dinner yet."

He emphasized `yet' so strongly that I realized there was
something else. I played along.

"I'd better get Peters to order a pizza, I suppose."

"Could I have olives and anchovies on mine?"

For an American boy, olives and anchovies were an abomination
on a pizza. However, for Alesha I would not have been surprised if
he ate them straight from the can.  His smile grew even as I
watched. Finally, he could not contain his amusement any longer and
he burst into laugher. He grasped my hand and dragged me after him,
through the changing room and into my private room.

A veritable feast had been laid out on the table.  All of my
favorite delicacies were there, but in much smaller portions that I
was used to eating. For weeks I had hungered for caviar, foie gras,
grueure cheese, truffles, smoked salmon, and oysters. I laughed.

"Oysters too?"

"Huh?" Alesha said in surprise. "What's that?"

"Oysters? These, dear boy," I said pointing to the bowl of
oysters soaking in brine. "These are oysters. Sometimes they're
smoked, but usually they're eaten raw."

"Oh. Don't you like them?"

"I love them, my boy."

He grinned, revealing happiness that equaled my mood. "Peters
gave me a list of things that the shop in Brooklyn sold. Um,.... I
forget what it's called."

"Cerullo's?"

"Yes, that's it," Alesha answered.  "So I picked out some
things I thought you'd like."

"And you picked oysters, Alesha? How come?"

Alesha giggled. "Promise you won't get mad?"

"I'll never get mad at you unless you do something incredibly
dumb or bad. And even then I'll always,..."

I stopped suddenly, aware of the words that were forming in my
mind. I touched my upper lip with the tip of my tongue. I had almost
said `love you'. How would Alesha respond to my assertion of undy-
ing love? Would he reprimand me or deny the very possibility? I
shuddered at the possibility of rejection. Infatuation was having
its effect on me.

Instead, after a disconcerting silence, I finished. "-. want
you to live here with me."

Alesha smiled, meeting my eyes with virtuous calm, yet those
innocent eyes hinted that he anticipated I was about to say some-
thing else. Only a few seconds passed, but it was a very awkward
time.

"I looked at the list until I found what I knew you liked,
like caviar and that pate stuff. I saw it was always the most
expensive. So I figured you'd like oysters as well because they
were expensive too."

"Very logical," I commended. "Of course, people do say that
oysters are,...."

"Are what?"

I laughed, at myself to diminish what I had to say. He was
going to ask anyway. "Oh, an aphrodisiac."

"What's that?" he asked on cue.

"Um,..." I was caught. However, there was nothing to be ashamed
about. "An aphrodisiac is something that turns a person on,.... Um,...
well, sexually. It makes him,... I guess the word is horny."

He  was incredulous, but also disbelieving. "Oh." Suddenly he
grinned at me. "I should have bought more then."

I laughed. "I'm sure there is enough. How on earth did you
manage to get this up here?"

"I had Peters bring it up while we were gone," Alesha
answered. "See, I thought well,... it would be nice if,... so we could
eat it together and, well,... celebrate your birthday."

"It's rather like having a picnic by ourselves."

Alesha nodded. His expression was that curious mix of mystery
and coyness that I'd seen before on him, and on no other boy but
him. Perhaps it was because he had matured beyond his years in many
ways.

"And a bottle of champagne too, I see."

I walked to the table and pulled it out from the ice bucket.
Dom Perignon, 1985, a good year. In fact it was a very good year,
and one of the best bottles from the cellar.

"A good choice, Alesha. You picked this out too?"

Alesha nodded. "I was worried I was doing something wrong
because Peters said it seemed a little extravagant. But I've seen
you drink it before so I knew you liked it, Mr. B."

"It's  not his wine to worry about," I remarked.  "Besides,
it's my birthday. A man only turns fifty once in his life."

I had made a point of explaining to Peters that Alesha was to
be extended all the rights reserved to me. The precocious boy
stepped back and picked up a towel. With his thin fingers he peeled
away the foil and unraveled the metal twisted clasp that fastened
the cork. He deftly wrapped the towel around the end of the bottle,
a fascinating display considering that he had never done it before.
With care, he eased out the cork. A teaspoon of citrine-sparking
bubbles escaped before he managed to hold it over a glass. He
filled two. One for  me and one for himself.

"To you, Mr. B.," Alesha toasted. "Happy birthday."

We drank together. If a boy like Alesha was to drink alcohol,
expensive champagne was the only way to go. I managed to restrain
my lecture on the bouquet. He made a wry face as the dryness struck
his palate.

"What happened to the Alesha diet?" I teased as we began to
spoon food onto our plates.

"Tonight we eat, tomorrow we starve again," Alesha laughed.
"Besides, I ordered single portions and there are two of us."

"I'll have to arm wrestle you for the caviar then."

We both laughed and then began a game of trying to leave more
than half of each dish for the other person. Alesha, true to form,
made his selection sparingly. Indeed, unlike my plate, there were
large sections of china to be seen when we had made our selections.
We made our way over to the divan, placing our respective plates on
the low table as we sat down side by side.

"Now, you know that I'm truly a gourmand," I remarked, lifting
my fork. The oyster slid down my throat.

"Gourmand?" Alesha asked as he carefully loaded a lump of cav-
iar onto a slice of toast.

"A connoisseur of food," I explained. "Actually, I'm more than
that. I'm a connoisseur  of things of sensory delight. Food
involves the sense of taste. As much as I enjoy good food I also
appreciate good music for the ears."

"And perfume for the nose," Alesha giggled. "But it has to be
French perfume like my mother wears."

"Ah, perhaps. I think it depends on who is wearing it more
than the place of origin."

He giggled. "That woman tonight stank."

"Yes, she did. Now, for touch? Hm, that's harder."

"So is sight," Alesha added. "Unless it is art? From the
paintings everywhere, you have to be a connoisseur of art, Mr. B."

"Not as much as my mother was, I fear, Alesha. Hm,... I, how-
ever, can do both touch and sight together," I announced.

"Sculpture," Alesha guessed haphazardly, without giving it
much more than a passing thought before he answered.

"Marble is too cold to spend much time enjoying how it
feels."

"Okay. Touch and sight? Together?" Alesha ascertained.

He was eager to play and his innate intelligence made the game
a challenge. He had turned to look directly at me. His eyes spar-
kled with life.

"Let me think. And it's not sculpture?" he asked.

I nodded. "In a way. A sculpture in living flesh."

"Huh?" he queried. "Oh, like a beautiful person?"

"Actually, I was thinking of a boy," I answered softly.

"A boy?" He sounded surprise.

I nodded again. "I can't think of anything more beautiful than
a naked boy," I said pointedly.

I stopped there, gazing at his lean lithe body and wanting to
touch him more than I could stand. His bare flesh was unsullied by
even the faintest trace of peach-fuzz. His skin was flawless and
smooth, and the part that was more delicate than any other enticed
me, made my heart beat faster.

"What about the touch part?" he asked softly.

He could sense it too, that timeless demanding urge to touch
and be touched by another person. His eyes lowered. In that
instant, his penis, which had softened, lurched slightly and began
to lengthen. It was like watching a flower grow into bloom, extend-
ing outward, thickening slightly, lifting up with a graceful curve
that was soon exchanged for a rigid stalk. And the flower, that
delicate bulb that was hinted at, concealed as a slight bulge
beneath its gossamer foreskin.

"That's easy. From hair of silk, to smooth and sleek, to warm
and alive. There's nothing I would rather touch."

Alesha laughed. "You're really a connoisseur of boys, Mr. B?"

"Me? Yes, I suppose I am, at least I am with you." The moment
was right. "I was thinking of you, Alesha," I admitted.

Alesha smiled. "Me?"

He looked away quickly then, as the words stuck home. Both of
us were aware that his penis had attained full erection, but not at
all sure what to do about it. He nibbled on his toast, laden with
black salty caviar. I consumed another oyster with gastronomic
gusto. He smiled slightly and tried an oyster for himself. His
mouth opened as he lifted the fork. His tongue touched the end of
it, seeking the flavor that was so unique. Awkwardly, he closed his
mouth, his delicious lips sucking the oyster off the end of the
fork as it pulled back. Again, that sardonic face, his little nose
wrinking at the taste in his mouth, uncertainty fleeting in his
eyes as his palate engaged the slimy substance. Would he swallow?

"Alesha?"

He turned swiftly, still contemplating what he should do with
the strange substance that was inside his mouth.

"If you don't like it you can spit it out," I suggested help-
fully. "Or just swallow," I added.

He swallowed, still wrinkling his nose as his tongue swept
around inside his mouth to remove the traces of it. He swallowed
again, and then one more time before he reached for his glass of
champagne.

"Well?"

"It was slimy."

I smiled and nodded. "I'm not surprised. It's an acquired
taste I think, Alesha. Like so many things, oysters take some get-
ting used to."

Our eyes met. I realized then that something was changing
between us, perhaps had already changed between us. The beautiful
guileless boy studied me as earnestly as I examined him. It was no
secret to me that I had fallen in love with him. What was there
about him not to love? He was so shameless in his nakedness, so
perfect in his beauty. I breathed in, out, watching his eyes
flicker in a rapid blink. There would be no other boy after Alesha.

And that glorious boy-penis standing straight up between his
slender muscled thighs, the skin at the end pulling back just
enough to reveal the darkened tip within, the opening like lips
around his precious glans. His scrotum was taut, dark and wrinkled
underneath. I sensed his nervousness, the pounding of his heart,
the anticipation, the expectation of what would happen any moment,
for it was imminent. We gazed at each other.

"Alesha?" I said nervously.

He did not answer. Instead, he pushed my plate away and coming
off the divan, eased down onto his knees. I saw a hovering acolyte
before me. After a few seconds, he looked up away from my crotch.

"It's not fair if I'm the only one who's naked."

His voice was hesitant and meek, a timid whisper.

"Alesha,... you don't have to,...." I muttered.

"Unless I want to,... and I want to, Mr. B."

He sounded more confident, but there was still a tremor in his
voice. His slim chest rose and fell rhythmically. Still blinking,
rapidly, almost as if he was going to cry any moment.

"Alesha,...."

"You have to stand up," he instructed breathily.

I stood as directed. His head moved closer hiding beneath the
overhang of my belly. I felt his hands fumbling at first, then
increasingly adroit, making precise motions as he opened my zipper,
unfastened my belt, cautiously pulled the sides of my trousers
apart. He stopped there, merely looking. His hands moved to my
sides, pulling down against my trousers, revealing my bulging  box-
ers. My penis would be considered big by most men, but it was enor-
mous compared to his. It was still hidden underneath the floral
patterned silk, yet its thickness was very apparent. He was sub-
sumed by it, submitting as it aggressively pushed out towards him.

I stroked his head lightly, fondling his silky hair, waiting.
I did not have long to wait. After a minute or two of looking, his
hands moved to my hips, his fingers hooking, then peeling away the
elasticized waist band. Carefully, he lifted it over my erection,
but not reluctantly, not at all. He stared before he nervously
looked up to meet my eyes again.

"You can sit down now, Mr. B."

"Alesha,... you don't have to do this."

"This is my special present," he murmured suggestively.

Almost as soon as I was seated, he leaned closer. His cheek
brushed my sex, lingering, soft and sensitive brought into warm
energizing contact. Nothing more than press his smooth cheek
against my penis. He was overwhelming with his gentle boyish affec-
tion. Moving his head slightly, my glans touched his ear, leaving
its slippery slime on his earlobe.  I had to concentrate just to
continue breathing. He kissed my scrotum.

"Oh,..... Oh, Alesha,.... Oh."

I groaned aloud at that intimate touch. His delicate lips
caressed my hairy skin, tantalizing the sensitive junction of penis
and pouch. He kissed again, a little higher up the shaft, and then
again, and again, and again. He left a trail of tingles as he
kissed along the length of my penis, getting ever closer to the
end. And then he was there and his lips opened and his hand slipped
underneath and grasped my hardness, placing it so that his lips
could settle on the end. He kissed first, then licked, then suckled
gently on the tip, using his lips to nibble playfully.

After a minute, perhaps two, he shyly looked up to me.

"Am I doing it wrong, Mr. B?"

"Wrong? Oh Alesha, you're doing it perfectly."

"Ramon said I should just try to suck it,until I get used to
it, but I don't know,..." He swallowed, tasting my excretion.

"What's wrong? Does it taste bad?"

Quickly, he shook his head. "Do I really just suck on it?" he
asked curiously.

"Yes, if you want."

"Oh? That's all?"

"If you want. Some people like to go up and down," I suggested
boldly.

"How?"

"How do I do it to you, Alesha?"

He nodded uncertainly. "I wondered if that was how I was sup-
posed to do it. But your's is so big. I don't think all of it will
fit in my mouth."

I grinned. "Then just do what fits. Some boys like to lick it
and suck on the head. If you want you can rub what's left with your
hands."

He giggled. His head lowered again. Automatically, my legs
moved further apart. His breath was hot. His hands trembled ner-
vously. His mouth came closer. He licked the end suddenly, then
glanced up again. I  nodded reassuringly. He kissed the end, once,
quickly, then again, slower. The third kiss stayed even longer and
his tongue swirled across my exposed glans. With the fourth kiss
his lips sank slowly down until the helmeted ridge was just under
his lips and my glans was nearly inside his mouth.  He lifted off
and giggled as he looked at me again .

"Was I okay?"

"Okay? Oh, Alesha, can't you tell that I loved it," I said
encouragingly.

His eyes sparkled. His head dropped. His mouth opened. He went
further the second time, down until his lips were behind my glans
and it was pushing against his tongue. Somehow, his tongue moved
away, finding space elsewhere within his mouth. His hand held my
penis, tighter than I would have liked, but doubtlessly reassuring
to him since he could control the depth easily. And it did go
deeper, bathed in his hot, slick saliva, sliding through his lips.
His teeth scraped, but just once until he realized how far his
mouth had to be open. He took my penis into his mouth as far as he
dared before he stopped. Simultaneously, his fingers inched down-
ward to make more room. His head twisted around to look up at me. I
nodded encouragingly, hoping that he understood that my eagerness
was not intended to persuade him to go down further, but let him
know that I was perfectly content with what he was doing.

Slowly, he backed away and my penis pulled back through his
lips until he gave it a parting kiss. He sat up, smiling shyly. His
lips were wet, shining as if they had been stretched too far.

"It isn't that bad," he admitted. "It's not at all like I
thought it would be," he added after a moment.

"No it's not," I agreed. I hesitated to ask what he expected
it to be like. It was enough that he was doing it in the first
place.

"Rollie said that some boys really like doing it to a man,
even more than having it done to them," Alesha volunteered diffi-
dently. "I guess I got the impression it was difficult from what he
said, but it's not. The hardest part is getting my mouth open far
enough."

"You were very good," I said quietly. "Especially for your
first time."

He shrugged. "I guess it's because I like doing it."

"You do?"

He glanced away bashfully, but his eyes slowly lifted up and
he shyly nodded in agreement.

"I know what it makes me, Mr. B," he said awkwardly. "Rollie
said if you enjoy it, it's because you're a,..." He lowered his
voice. "Dick-licker," he finished secretively.

"I don't mind, if you don't," I quipped.  I smirked at him.
"I'm one too, but I like to suck smaller ones."

"Like mine?" Alesha asked with a sudden glimmer of interest.

"Hm,... what do you think?"

He giggled. "Ah,..." He pretended to consider other possibili-
ties. "Do you like sucking on mine?"

"That's obvious I would have thought. There's nothing I'd like
to do more, but not if it means you stop sucking on mine," I added
hastily

"Oh."

His dismayed expression conveyed what he was thinking. By
then, I had performed fellatio a dozen times on him. Our sexual
exploits began the same way, following the same course as if the
slightest deviation would somehow cause the magic to disappear.
After dinner I would wait for Alesha in my private room, making
sure that the door to the hallway was closed. As soon as he had fin-
ished his evening practice session, he would wander in. The routine
was never varied. We had a standardized protocol. He was tired and
hot and sweating and he dropped down onto the divan to rest, usu-
ally turning onto his front and propping his head up while he
watched me working. After a few minutes he would complain of sore-
ness, usually in his legs. It was the invitation that I needed to
offer my services as a masseur.

It seldom took longer than a few minutes for me to undress
him, all the while rubbing his lean, firmly muscled legs, working
up to his thighs to squeeze his buttocks. When he turned onto his
back he was always erect and ready for relief.  Sometimes I pro-
longed the wait and caressed his belly and chest until he was
twitching with anticipation, sometimes, I went straight for his
straining penis and slathered it with saliva. He enjoyed not know-
ing what to expect, but other than his throbbing little erection,
he gave little sign of his arousal. Indeed, he seemed ambivalent to
what I was doing until he could no longer hold back his body's
response to stimulation.

Then, grinning from ear to ear, his knees lifted up to hold my
head in place and his grasping hands found there way onto my hair
and with  a succession of quick pushes  he sought the up and down
motion that he so desperately needed. Yet, despite his enthusiasm,
he was learning to hold back his orgasm. It amused me to see him try
to relax when I did it, sucking hard and swallowing all of his
penis, lathing his scrotum with my drool. He managed to hold back
almost every sign of ecstasy except his increasingly anxious
breathing until the last few minutes. Then, with his toes curling
up, his thigh muscles straining, his teeth gritted, gasping and
writhing he yielded to his senses as the peak approached. Always
the end came too soon for me. I slowed as soon as he peaked, relish-
ing the jerking spasms of his slippery pulsing penis between my
lips. There was no change in taste for nothing was ejaculated, but
it pleased me greatly to know that I had pleasured him. Finally,
when I released his captive penis he was able to lie back on the
divan, his legs apart, his eyes closed to mere slits, his mouth
showing a faint smile to convey that I had conveyed him to nirvana.
I dried him off and replaced his leotard.

"There is a way that we can suck each other at the same time,"
I suggested softly.

Alesha brightened at that. His hand still possessively held my
penis. "How?"

"Ah," I laughed. "That interests you, I think my darling boy."

He made a silly face and rolled his eyes, looking at me as if
I was out of my mind.

"Hm,... the technical term is a sixty-nine," I explained, won-
dering if he had heard it before.

Alesha nodded. "That's what Rollie and Julian do."

"Yes, I expect they do. Did Roland tell you what it was?"

"No. Well,...." He smiled. "I kind of figured it out for myself
I think."

He drew a number six, followed by `9' in the air, exaggerating
the tails of each number so that there was no doubt that they had
another meaning.

I laughed. "I think you have the basic idea. Would you like to
do that with me?"

Alesha was curious. "But aren't I too small?"

"Small? Not for me. I love small ones."

"Not that, silly," Alesha rebuked. "Rollie is a lot taller
than me, and Julian is shorter than you. I don't see how it will
work."

"It will, you'll see," I said confidently. "Do you want to lie
down on the divan and I'll show you?" I suggested.

He raised himself, smiling as he climbed onto the divan and
lay down beside me. He looked nervous, but he did not move away as
I lay down beside him. My face was only a few inches away from Ale-
sha's hard little penis, his pale pink scrotum, his compact hair-
less groin. I glanced down. My thick hair-covered penis was fully
engorged. The head was purple and swollen and almost hitting Alesha
in the nose.

"Scoot down a few inches," I instructed.

Alesha wriggled into position, oblivious to the face that my
penis almost poked his eye out.

"Now what?" he teased.

"I would have thought that was obvious," I replied.

"Well, I can reach yours fine, but there's no way you can do
mine at the same time," he observed. "I knew this wouldn't work."

"Ah, but it will, my beautiful little fairy."

I moved away from him a little, not far, just a few more
inches, then craning my neck forward, brought my mouth down and
onto his penis. He quivered like a leaf in a breeze.

"Oooooh," he sighed. "You can. Oh that feels so nice."

He stopped talking. For a long while all that could be heard
was the sound of our lips smacking as we kissed, licked and sucked
on each other's genitals. Alesha was timid at first, but he quickly
got the basic method figured out by mimicking what I was doing to
him. It was easy for me to take his penis and scrotum in my mouth at
the same time. I pulled his flesh into me, careful of my teeth,
using my tongue to probe his testicles before I eased them out
again. I pursed my lips around the small shaft and pushed down to
bring his foreskin back. With the head exposed, I concentrated on
the glans. Alesha winced, gasped, tightened his grip on my penis.

Until then he had been content to lick and kiss, occasionally
sinking down until my glans was behind his teeth. It was only to be
expected  since experience was as nonexistent as ejaculation. Sud-
denly, he pushed further, taking my penis against his cheek until
it bulged obscenely. He was trying to do more than what he knew to
do. Cock-sucking obviously meant that the other person's penis had
to be physically sucked and that meant that it had to be inside his
mouth. I felt him sucking, sucking urgently as he vacuumed his
mouth, yet it was inept, with more effort than was necessary. His
fingers cradled my testicles, playfully squeezing. Like most young
boys, he applied too much pressure. I did not complain.

A long while ago I had learned that sexual ecstasy was a mix
of pain and pleasure. The trick was knowing how to mediate between
the extremes.  If Alesha was going to do it, I could see no reason
why he should not learn how to do it properly. I sucked hard on his
glans and swirled my tongue back and forth across that most deli-
cate part of a boy's body.  I used my teeth carefully, rasping into
the groove behind the helmet-head, chewing Alesha into a trembling
writhing fit before I stopped. Then, as he groaned around my glans,
gently caressing that tender part to restore whatever of his con-
centration remained.

Alesha was a fast learner. He began to use his lips and tongue
to replicate what I had done, finally bringing his teeth into play
when he was confident of not biting me. The tip of his tongue bored
into my meatus, almost widening the hole that nature had provided.
There was enough sensitivity in the glans to bring on orgasm for
all but the most resolute of males, yet I wanted to teach Alesha
other ways of giving oral pleasure. I shifted my attention to the
underside, directly below the head. This was the part of the penis
that is supposedly the most sensitive. I used my tongue to tickle
him, then my lips to nibble on the tender flesh. Alesha caught on
quickly. It was time for the next lesson. Lovingly, I smooched my
way along his short hard shaft until my nose nuzzled his scrotum. I
pulled back and licked along his penis from the rounded tip to
where it ended in his pouch. I licked his scrotum thoroughly, won-
dering even as I did it whether he would reciprocate, fully expect-
ing that the difference between a boy's smooth hairless skin and my
hair-covered wrinkled scrotum would be enough to put him off. It
took almost a minute before Alesha tentatively licked. His little
tongue felt delicious, so unspeakably wonderful that I groaned. I
could see no reason to deny him the other pleasures of his body.
Tenderly, my hands moved to his firm buttocks. Yet, I hesitated,
not because there was time to spare, but anticipation was as impor-
tant as the loving caresses that  I wanted to lavish on him.

After a few moments I took his testicles back into my mouth,
sucking hard against his skin as my hands caressed his cheeks. I
made slow circles on the rounded mounds, barely intruding into the
sweaty crevice, lingering at the very start below his back bone as
if daring myself to risk intrusion. Alesha offered a sigh and
pressed back, forcing my finger along the groove that led to his
crack. My heart leaped, knowing that he wanted what I wanted.  I
was pleased and cautiously I began that timeless game that men have
always played with boys to prepare them for the ultimate act of
love. Of course, I realized that would be denied to me, an impossi-
bility of lust.

Still, I took Alesha's penis within my mouth and bathed his
scrotum with my saliva as I gently drew my trembling fingers fur-
ther into his chasm until they were deep enough that I had to part
his cheeks to make way. With my thumbs resting on his buttocks, I
pulled outward, easing them to the sides to expose his prize. From
where we lay, positioned face to groin, I could see the puckered
skin around his anus, pinkish brown, a small circle that was a lit-
tle darker than the adjoining skin. In my entire life, I had looked
upon only one other virgin. The opening was unblemished. There was
no sign of the bruising that came with penetration. It was not red-
dened like the other boys I had been with over the years. There was
no abrasion to distort the pucker and turn it into a swollen sore
ring.

My finger came very close as I traced down to the dividing
line of his body. A mere fraction of an inch closer to the hot
moistness would have been enough to bring my fingertip into contact
with that most private of places. Had he tensed as my finger came
closer, or was it simply my imagination, the product of my desire
to have Alesha want what I wanted so badly to do?

His swell was sweet, not foul, as I inhaled. My nose was
filled with his scent, earthy like the forests of the Burgundy
region where I sometimes went to visit my good friend, Pierre de
Landegort and Martin, of course. The chateau's grounds encompassed
a forest renowned for its truffles and in a time-honored tradition,
I accompanied Pierre on the season's first foray to locate the del-
icacies. Such a smell, lingering in my olfactory senses. Only a
boy, sensual, sexual, enticing, had that aroma. It would a lie to
say that it was not slightly fecal, because of course it was, but
it was not unpleasant. I inhaled deeply, barely able to resist the
urge to bring my nose closer to him, to burrow it between his but-
tocks. And then, the thought crossed my mind that I should lick him
there and a simultaneous shiver ran through my body. Dare I do that
to him?

Once the thought had formed it planted itself in my conscious-
ness as an unwavering demand. Just one lick? A single swipe along
his deep crevice? Just touch the tip of my tongue to his sacred
opening? If he reacted negatively perhaps I could pretend it had
was accidental?

And all the while Alesha was exploring, familiarizing himself
with my reproductive organs with his deft fingers and silky-soft
touches. His lips were so soft that often I could barely feel his
kisses. His tongue was hotter than anything else and I waited with
bated breath for each cautious caress. He seemed to become more
adventurous as my penis became wetter with his saliva. He smeared
his lips up and down the full length of it, planting a myriad
kisses as he went, sucking whenever he paused. He lavished ever
greater attention on my glans, depositing copious quantities of
saliva before he began to move his up and down. Sometimes he
sucked, or pressed the tip of his tongue into the opening, or nib-
bled with his teeth behind the flared fat rim. His fingers tangled
in my pubic hair, rubbed against my shaft, scooped under my scro-
tum.

"That feels so nice," I whispered when it seemed impossible
that it could go on much longer.

He lifted away, breathing in erratic gasps. He smiled.  His
chin and his right cheek were glistening wet. Nervously he licked
his lips.

"If you keep doing that, Alesha,..." I murmured. "You might want
to stop. I will try to warn you before I do it."

He gave me a quizzical look.

"Semen, Alesha," I explained. "I told you about that, remem-
ber? I did, didn't I?"

He smiled and nodded. "Rollie says it tastes funny, but it's
not that bad," he said shyly.

"You don't have to do that."

"Unless I want to," Alesha finished.

"Do you?"

He ignored me. His mouth slipped over the end of my penis, and
I looked down to watch him suckling like an infant. Such a beauti-
ful boy, doing only what he wanted to do. Or was he? What could a
boy like Alesha possibly see in a man like me, beyond the obvious
access to wealth and connections in the world of dance? Yet, even
as I wondered, as any man would surely wonder, he gave me cause for
further uncertainty. He smiled, ambiguous amusement at what he was
doing or from the satisfaction of a deep-down longing? I could only
hope for the later, impossible as the situation seemed. His fingers
squeezed along the shaft of my penis as if trying to extract my
juices to satisfy his thirst. Was it possible that he touched me
willingly? And his tongue, sliding around, searching for my
essence? Was it of his volition? The very notion that he was doing
this because he thought it was expected of him as service to his
patron, depressed me.

Then, as his tongue curled behind my glans and retracted to
make a place for his lips to contain my sex, I wondered whether the
other boys, Rollie and Matt, and even little Ramon, had pressured
him with their sexual awareness, their precocious desires. How much
I wanted it to happen because Alesha wanted it to happen.

And so it went on, precious unforgettable minute following
each minute, me dumbfounded by the sheer joy of it and lingering in
the bliss that I had known with one other boy. It was far more won-
derful than words could ever describe as my senses responded.  I
felt my scrotum draw tighter, impossibly taut until I was barely
able to hold back every time his slippery lips slipped down, then
up in that timeless rhythm. Of course, other boys had used their
mouths to pleasure me, allowing my engorged sex to bulge into their
cheeks and coat their tongues with the slick slime of my loins.
Most boys preferred to do that instead of turn and part their
cheeks.

I felt the pressure building and the irresistible urge to
clasp my sex and force it deeper and my thighs began to strain for-
ward. My body was  preparing for the pulses, waiting, pulses that
would come as sudden vicious cramps and send my juices spurting
out.

"Alesha," I warned.

In that moment my voice had become husky, urgent, filled with
stress of impending climax.

He looked at me, his eyes flashing a silent warning as he
pressed down, all but swallowing my swollen root. Deep within his
mouth the texture changed. The canal that opened beyond his teeth
was slick and smooth, so soft and embracing, yet hard as well but
without the muscular action of his other place.

"Alesha,.... Any second,.... You might not want to,...."

I groaned, placing my hands on his head, scraping through his
hair, then gripping his scalp as I bucked and jerked and spurted my
semen onto his tonsils, for surely that was where my penis reached.
Vaguely, I was aware of Alesha grunting, his throat gurgling with
spasms around my thrusting penis. In the lost few seconds, I had
done what I had feared. I had lost control. Yet, even as I realized
what I had done, the knowledge shamed me. Far more than Alesha
whose understanding of the consequences of oral sex were limited at
best to what he had been told, I should have known better.

Hurriedly, I backed away, still ejaculating the last of it,
gushing white thick fluid across his nose and cheek as if finally
pulled free. I was shaking with guilt as I twisted around and ner-
vously looked down to Alesha. He was swallowing, or trying to swal-
low. His Adam's apple was moving up and down in his slender neck,
his tongue licked against his lips. His mouth stayed open as if my
penis was still lodged between his teeth. I could see nothing of
what I had deposited inside him. What did I expect to see? A trail
of egg-white semen drooling from his lips like some story for pedo-
philes to read while masturbating?

Alesha flinched, still trying to get the taste from his mouth
as my ejaculate dribbled down his cheek. Awkwardly, I wiped my fin-
gers against his cheek, smearing  the wetness in my guilty effort
to remove it. He wriggled away. He breathed in erratic gasps, try-
ing to recover his breath. And then, he did what I least expected.
He smiled slightly, barely able to look me in the eyes.

"Was I okay?" he asked shyly, his voice barely above a muted
whisper.

"Alesha,... Oh Alesha,.... I'm so sorry. Please, please forgive me
dear boy. I tried to warn you," I beseeched.

Yes, I beseeched him. The horror of what I had done consumed
me. I had soiled him. Alesha Yaroshenko. The boy I loved. He swal-
lowed again. Then, he licked his lips cautiously. Absently, his
fingers brushed his cheek where my fingers had touched just seconds
early. He felt the slipperiness. His fingertips sought more it,
moving to nose, to where my fingers had not touched. He smiled
again, then giggled softly.

"There's so much of it," he mused. "aaaa said there wasn't
very much, but it's a lot."

"I sorry you swallowed," I muttered self-consciously. "You
shouldn't have done that."

His expression changed, blanching to humiliation, before the
color returned to his cheeks.

"I thought I was supposed to do that. I didn't mean to do it
wrong."

"Oh Alesha. You didn't do it wrong. You did it perfectly. But
I was wrong. I shouldn't have."

"Shouldn't have what?" he asked apprehensively.

"Doing that,..." I paused to find the words. "It wasn't right."

"I don't understand," he said meekly.

"My semen,..." I tried to explain. "I should not have made you
do that, dear Alesha. I'm so sorry."

"Made me?" He regarded me with a strange look.

"It was wrong of me, Alesha. A man should never make a boy do
something he doesn't want to do."
"You didn't make me do it, Mr. B. What makes you think you did?" he
asked.

"I,... I don't know,... but to do that, well it's very special,.....
I don't know why you'd want to do that,..." My voice trailed off.

Alesha regarded me thoughtfully.

"Because I wanted to, of course. It's,... well,... it's sort of a
birthday present. I guess you could say that it's my special gift,
Mr. B."

"You can say that again," I quipped. He missed both the joke
and the compliment. "Oh, Alesha! It's the best present that I've
ever received," I said honestly.

"Better than the Stairmaster?" he teased.

"Hm, I'll have to think about that."

After a moment, he moved his tongue around his mouth to pick
up the lingering taste. Then, he smirked.

"Okay, okay, out with it," I pretended to admonish. "What's so
funny?"

He giggled, his little thin fingers gently caressing my penis
as if trying to coax it back to erection. Oh to be young again and
have the resilience of a teenager.  He continued to smile.

"Okay, Alesha. Out with it."

"Do you know what it tastes like?"

"Huh? Oh,... I don't know. It's probably not very nice."

"It tastes just like that oyster I ate."

I laughed. "Was it that bad?"

"The oyster wasn't bad. It didn't have much taste. It was just
strange, sort of slimy. I felt like I was going to puke when it slid
down my throat."

"Puke? My but you're turning into an American boy, aren't
you?"

"Is puke tha' wrong word?" he asked, his imitation accent
mocking his New York peers.

We both laughed, and it was laughter that diverted our mood to
other matters, primarily the fact that we had barely started eating
dinner when lust took over. Alesha jumped up and brought back his
almost untouched glass of champagne. He held it to my mouth and I
sipped some. He handed me the glass and I lifted it to his lips.
Strangely, that simple gesture was even more indicative of our
changed relationship than what had happened a few minutes earlier.
We gazed at each other  for a long while, content merely to watch.
His lips were perfectly shaped for kissing. His lips were fuller
and redder than most boys, with a pronounced ridge that made his
lips even more pronounced. I imagined what it would be like to
press my lips to his, to cradle his slim body in my arms and whisper
in his ear how much I loved him. In my fantasy, he would return the
words with love. Then, we would kiss again, exchanging tongues the
way that lovers were supposed to kiss.

Suddenly, Alesha trembled as if an electric shock had suddenly
traveled through him. He pulled back slightly, averting his eyes. I
longed to caress his face, touch his lips, even if I had to use my
fingertips to do it. His tongue protruded for an instant, wetting
his lips. He breathed deeply. He seemed to wince as he moved fur-
ther away from me, then awkwardly he stood up and went in search of
his clothes. Food followed upon his return and between the two of
us we made the delicacies quickly disappear. We talked about our
upcoming trip to Paris for the other topic was too dangerous to
discuss.

Only when we pushed our plates aside did it strike me that it
was probably fortunate that we had interrupted our sexual escapade.
I was left with the nagging question of what would have transpired
had we continued. Would Alesha have returned my kiss? It was no
more than a hunch, but I had a distinct feeling that he wanted to
kiss me as much as I wanted to kiss him.



Act VII Scene IV



The last few days before we departed for Paris were very hec-
tic, and as a result passed very quickly. Needless to say, Alesha
still practiced in the attic studio every day for long hours at a
time, even though the semester had ended on the night of his grand
debut, as we referred to his solo dance in jest. Not one to reduce
his effort when the opportunity arose, practice occurred twice
daily, before breakfast and after dinner, which left him the rest
of the day to enjoy New York with me. Over those quickly passing
days, we took in all of the useums, art galleries, and the sights
of New York in a feeding frenzy of culture.

Alesha's official grade report arrived in the mail of the very
morning we were due to depart. He brought it into the library where
I was working on some Board correspondence of no account, but which
needed to be completed nonetheless. I lifted my head and with some
amusement noted that his face was glowing with pride as he laid the
sheaf of papers on the desk before me. He stepped back, dutifully
folding his hands in front of him. I scanned the list of subjects
and nodded slowly. There were no surprises, even the `B' in `Clas-
sical Ballet' had been discussed during my recent lunch with Randal
Wilson. I had made plans accordingly. Alesha's otherwise exemplary
performance in the non-academic subjects was only to be expected
given how hard he worked. The grades on his academic subjects were
also deserved, and should have been a matter of pride, but in all
honesty were more a function of his natural intellect than consis-
tent effort. His grades for the final quarter were evenly split
between As and Bs, not bad at all given the rigorous curriculum and
high standards at the Academy,  but remarkable considering that he
had suffered greatly for a few weeks when his mother left for
Texas. Of course, what Alesha did not know was that I had already
received advance notice of his grades and had prepared accordingly.
Absently, I stroked my lips as I perused the list.

My prolonged silence made him nervous, although it was impos-
sible for his second semester academic grades to be any better
given his outpouring of effort to prepare himself for the Russian
Sailor's Dance. He had little time to study when nearly every wak-
ing moment had been used for practice. However, it was almost a
matter of principle that there was never a straight A student at
the Academy. With deliberation, I read the comments on the attached
sheets. The academic teachers were thorough and fair in their
appraisals. For dance students, academic subjects always had lower
priority. I turned the page to read the comments on Alesha's dance
classes. There were a few comments, three it total, that could be
considered negative and those were from the instructor who had
given Alesha the `B'. What Alesha did not know was that the highest
grade that instructor had ever given in thirty years of teaching at
the Academy was a `B'.

"What about this B in Classical Ballet?" I began in a voice
that hinted at reprimand. "I thought that was supposed to be your
forte."

Alesha tensed. He was as excited about the trip to Paris as I
was. He shivered slightly, repressing his nervous energy. He licked
his lips. He swallowed. He scratched his right ear lobe. He glanced
at me and quickly looked away again. His eyes stopped on the paint-
ing above the mantle. The ballet girls were carefully posed to make
the most of the light that filtered through high French doors that
opened onto a flower-bordered terrace. It was a scene that was very
familiar to me. Their white lace tutus fanned out about their
stick-thin waists, each girl balanced precisely on point. I was
reminded of Alesha by the girl in the center. But for her budding
breasts, she was as poised and beautiful as Alesha. Had my mother
loved her as much as I loved Alesha? Slowly, his eyes came back to
meet mine.

"I tried my best, Mr. B." He shuffled his feet self-con-
sciously. "I really did. I don't think Madam Picard likes me very
much."

I shook my head. He still wore his track suit, no different to
the one that he put on every morning and evening when he had fin-
ished practicing. My experience of his evening attire was that he
was usually naked underneath. Just knowing that he was bare
beneath, that his smooth soft skin was brushed by the fleecy cloth,
was usually enough to send a thrill through me. That morning was no
different, although in all probability, he wore something under-
neath given our imminent departure. I lowered my eyes unobtru-
sively, trying to avoid the thought that kept persistently in the
forefront of my mind. I knew it was unlikely, even as I relished
the possibility. That he was wearing a track suit was my idea in
the first place. I had suggested that he dress comfortably for the
flight from New York to Paris in case he wanted to sleep. It was, of
course, a subterfuge and I harbored a secret fantasy of fondling
him through the loose cloth.

Then, using as a pretext the need to find something to write
with in my desk drawer, I continued my examination of his compact
crotch. Alesha stood patiently beside me. There was a  noticeable
bulge in the soft material, a pronounced ridge that suggested his
penis was more than a little bit aroused, if not yet fully erect.
Increasingly, that was a condition that affected both of us when-
ever we were together. I could only hope that it meant what I
wanted it to mean, that he found me sexually interesting, yet I was
also realistic to know that boys sometimes had spontaneous erec-
tions when they began to approach puberty. I looked up quickly as
Alesha coughed.

"I tried so hard, Mr. B," he said morosely. Even hearing his
sadness was upsetting to me.

"Alesha," I began.

"I really did. I tried so hard, but anything I did, well, it
was never good enough for her. If she said do it more precisely,
then I would, but she would say I wasn't smooth enough,..... Some-
times I think she didn't want me in her class."

I nodded mutely. Randal had confided much the same thing. Her
days at the Academy were drawing to a close as her retirement
loomed closer. For a lot of people, her departure could not come
soon enough.

"The kids at school,.... they say,...."

"What do they say, Alesha?"

"I'm not making excuses," he added quickly.

I nodded again.

"Madam Picard never gives anything higher than a B. No one
ever gets an A from her"

"Oh?" I said. "Why is that do you suppose?"

Alesha shrugged. "I don't know. Leah was saying it's because
she never got more than a B herself when she was a dance student."

"Do you think that's true?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know. I would have liked to get an
A, but it really doesn't matter. When I'm in her class I don't
think of her even being there. I listen to what she says and I do
what she asks, but I,... I don't know. It's like nothing she says has
any meaning for me. I don't dance for her."
"Who do you dance for then?"

"Myself, I suppose. And Mama. I can't help it."

"What can't you help?" I asked.

"I think about you too, of course," he added shyly.

"Me?"

He smiled slightly.  "I always think about you when I'm danc-
ing."

If the truth were to be told, I spent most of my waking day
thinking about Alesha. Was it the same for him? Oh, how I wanted
that to be the case. I smiled at him reassuringly, hoping he would
say more. Did he dream about me at night as I dreamed about him?
However I looked at the last few weeks, he had given me a reason to
live.

Alesha swallowed and averted his eyes. He ended by staring at
the tassels on the rug.

"Are my grades not good enough, Mr. B?" he murmured nervously.

"Hm,... well it depends,... on how hard you tried," I said softly.

"Did you try hard, Alesha?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. He thought for a few seconds. He
relaxed visibly. Clearly, he was happy to be off the hook. "I
couldn't study as much as I needed to, Mr. B., because of all the
time I spent getting ready for the dance,.... But,... I did try hard."

"Then, I suppose you'll have something to strive for next
year," I said simply. "If that's what you want."

He smiled and nodded. "It is, Mr. B. Next year it will be all
As, I promise," he added seriously.

I regarded him. The tone of his voice confirmed his words.
Something would have to go awry for him not to fulfill his promise.

"Are you all packed?" I asked, changing the subject suddenly.

I glanced at my watch. Alesha's mother was going to call at
eight a.m. to say goodbye to him. I expected the telephone to ring
at any second.

"Mostly. Mrs. Davis is going to pack the last of my things.
Peters brought my suitcase down to the kitchen for her." Alesha
grinned. "It's strange you know. Every time I think about it, I get
excited.  When I wake up in the morning we'll be landing in Paris,
" he mused aloud.

"Hm,.... Yes, that's true. I'll be lucky if I get any sleep at
all. It's such a long flight," I commented dryly.

I heard the muted ring of the telephone, and a few seconds
later the phone on my desk buzzed. I gestured to Alesha.

"I think that's for you, darling boy," I said jovially.

Ioana Yaroshenko was nothing if not prompt. I appreciated
punctuality, particularly when I was rushed for time. I prided
myself with never being late to an appointment. Alesha lifted the
receiver and murmured `hello'. His eyes lit up with joy before he
had a chance to say anything else. Politely, I rose from my seat.

"Say hi to your mama for me and tell her we'll call from
Paris," I said. "And hurry. I need you off the phone in ten min-
utes."

"I'll be done in a few minutes, Mr. B."

I left Alesha in the library, chatting enthusiastically with
his mother about the last few days. True to form, the farewell
would be perfunctory and hurried at the end of the conversation. It
hurt both of them too much to drag out saying goodbye. They made up
for it with calling each other often.

Outside, I hurried to the kitchen to find Dewon. He nodded
expectantly.

"He's saying good-bye to his mama," I explained in a hurry.
"Will there be enough time?"

"Sure. I got it all worked out. We oughta beat tha' worst of
tha' traffic, Mr. B.," Dewon answered jovially. "Mos' people's
goin' the other way."

"We're all ready to leave?" I asked of the three of them.

Peters and Mrs. DavisMartin nodded in reply, somewhat dis-
agreeably I thought. Only Dewon would be joining us in Paris.
Still, I needed them to take care of the house. There was a cat to
be fed and they would have the opportunity for extended vacations
of their own while Alesha and I were in Paris. I glanced at my watch
again. An hour to the airport. Another hour to takeoff, and a third
hour to clear customs and immigration at Charles de Gaulle. It was
almost as long as the flight would take from New York to Paris if we
went on the Concorde. Unfortunately, my usual mode of transporta-
tion was still grounded after the unfortunate crash of the previous
July. Perhaps it would be flying again in time fore our return to
New York in late August. Still, flying first class made the best of
a bad situation. With luck, we would be in time for a late dinner at
La Tour Argent.

"Bring the car around, Dewon," I instructed.

Dewon headed off to the basement garage while I collected my
sports jacket and examined my attache case. Everything was in
order, but as an experienced if tense traveler I hated to leave
without a last minute check of the important things. I closed the
lid just as Alesha came into the kitchen.

"Mama thinks my grades are better than okay," he grinned hap-
pily.

"And so she should," I laughed agreeably. "Well, say goodbye
and let's get going."

"Good-bye?" he asked. "Do we have to leave already?" He
glanced at the kitchen clock. "I thought the flight wasn't until
one p.m.? That's five hours away."

"Well, I've always preferred to arrive early," I answered. It
was difficult not to smile. "I hate to miss a flight."

"It'll take forever to get on board," Alesha said, somewhat
chagrined.  "Do you really want to wait that long, Mr. B.?"

"We can buy some magazines and read," I suggested. "Well,
let's get a move on. Dewon has the car parked outside."

It was a secret up to the very end. Doubtless given our prema-
ture departure, Alesha suspected something was going on, but when
we pulled up at the International terminal he had no idea of what
was in store. He believed that we were going by 747.  As planned, we
were met by Martin de Lyon. He stilled looked very much as I remem-
bered him nearly twenty years earlier. His hair was shorter than it
had been last time, more in keeping with his business role. He had
been in the U.S. negotiating contracts to supply wine to a dozen
well-known restaurants. Like any vinter who was proud of the prod-
uct of his vineyards, only the best would do.

"Bonjour mon ami, Sheldon," he said effusively, stressing the
syllables of my name so that it had greater consequence.

"Martin," I laughed as we shook hands.

It had been a long while since we had done more than shake
hands. A very long while. The almost four years when we were lovers
were in the distant past, but not forgotten.  Never forgotten.

"It's been such a long time, Martin. It's good to see you
again."

His eyes communicated affection. There was still love between
us even if it did not manifest itself in a physical attraction. He
was a very handsome man with features that almost always gained a
woman's attention if she was not shortsighted. However, Martin was
not the sort to return a woman's glances.

"Oui, it is good to be with you again, Sheldon. And this
charming boy must be,.... Alesha. He is Alesha, non?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. This is Alesha," I admitted to my old friend.
"Alesha, this is Martin de Lyon, an old friend from France."

Alesha shook hands as well, then promptly stepped back until
he was almost hidden beside me. His hand fumbled in his pocket.

"He is enchanting. And so beautiful. He is everything you
said, and much more, Sheldon. You are very lucky, I think."

"I think so," I agreed wholeheartedly. I glanced sideways and
down at Alesha, his hair glistening with a brilliant sparkle in the
afternoon sun. Until Alesha came into my life I could not have con-
ceived of a boy ever being so perfect. He was breathtakingly beau-
tiful. I could tell that Martin was in awe as well.

Behind us, Dewon was arranging the transfer of our suitcases
to the curb-check-in attendant. He came up behind Alesha and gave
him a friendly hug.

"You take good care of Mr. B., Lee. Don't be givin' him no
problems." Dewon winked and whispered, but not so quietly that we
could not hear him.  "'n don't be startin' somethin' less you got
time to finish what you start."

"I will," Alesha grinned. He was used to Dewon and his occa-
sionally crude suggestions. "I promise won't let him out of my
sight until you get there."

"I can just `magine," Dewon laughed. "Hey, I nearly forgot,
Lee. I got ya a kinda goin' `way  present." He fumbled in his jacket
pocket. "It ain't much, but I always carry one when I travel."

He handed a small box to Alesha. We watched as he opened it
and lifted out a multi-function Swiss Army knife, complete with
three blades, scissors, a corkscrew, a wood saw, and half-a-dozen
other useful implements.

"Dewon, it's so nice," Alesha said gratefully. He grinned,
proud of his new gift. In a way it was more than a token of affec-
tion.

"And useful too."

"Yes, see I can even open a bottle of wine for Mr. B. with
this," he said, pulling out the small corkscrew.

"Yep, them Swiss knives are babes but it  comes with every-
thin' `cept a condom."

"A what?" Alesha inquired as if he had never heard the word
before.

Dewon guffawed. "Sorry, Mr. B. I guess you'll have to explain
that one."

"Dewon was just trying to be funny, Alesha," I said sarcasti-
cally. "But thank you, Dewon. It's a very nice gift, and thoughtful
of you too."

He smirked at me. "Well, you know how I feels `bout `im.
`bout time he started poppin' your corks. I reckon it's time to say
good-bye, Mr. B. Be cool, Lee." He gave Alesha a friendly squeeze
on the shoulder and they embraced quickly. Dewon swallowed as they
parted. He smiled bravely. "Geez, it's only a week till I get there
and I'm ready to bawl like a baby. You take care of Lee. He's a
growin' boy."

"Good-bye Dewon," I said formally. "We'll expect to see you in
a week."

"I think after a week in Paris, our little dancer should be
ready to see some of the French countryside. Perhaps a Chateau or
two?" Martin remarked. He winked at me.

Martin led the way inside the terminal.

"Are you excited, mon cheri?" he asked Alesha.

Alesha nodded eagerly. "I've been to Paris before with Mama,
but I was much younger. I don't remember very much except the bal-
let we saw. And the Louvre too, but that's mostly because I got
lost there."

Martin and I laughed, sharing sweet memories of winter after-
noons roaming through the Louvre's grand halls and rooms. We had
been discovered in the basement, pressed up against a marble statue
of Antinous, the boy who was so loved by the Roman emperor, Hadrian
that he was proclaimed a god. We were kissing, perhaps as Hadrian
and Antinous had kissed to show their love. The guard merely raised
an eyebrow and discretely walked away.

"Ah, this will be a summer you will never forget, mon cheri
garcon, I think," Martin considered. "What do you think, Sheldon?"

"I hope so," I agreed as we by-passed the check-in counter.
"We'd better hurry," I added as I checked my watch. Boarding, if
the plane was to take off as scheduled, had to occur within the
next ten to fifteen minutes.

We walked quickly, actually a speed that was much closer to a
trot. It was enough to make me breathless within a hundred yards.
We hurried  through the metal detectors having deposited our
belongings in the plastic dish. With due diligence, Alesha handed
over the small Swiss Army knife and it was promptly handed back to
him by the official who smiled at him and said that it probably did
not pose much of a threat. We continued down the concourse. Martin
walked on the other side of Alesha, making a formidable threesome
for his scowl cleared a path. Finally, we reached the lounge that
was reserved for Air France's Concorde passengers, but which was
currently available for International charter flights.

"I think I need a drink after that," I complained breath-
lessly.

"You need more exercise, Sheldon," Martin commented dryly.

He glanced at Alesha and smiled slightly. It was a private
joke between us. Exercise to Martin meant `sex'. "Alesha gave me a
Stairmaster for my birthday. I've been very conscientious about
using it, haven't I Alesha?" I said quickly.

Suddenly I was very aware that the look in Martin's eyes was
one that I knew all too well. I had loved him as a boy, and in turn
he had become a boylover himself. His boy, a delightful Moroccan
boy by the name of Raffi, had remained in France for this trip. He
was fourteen years old, an age that still tended to arouse suspi-
cion if a boy was not traveling with his parents.

>From the curious glances I realized Martin was appraising Ale-
sha in terms of desirability. From his frequent protestations of
enduring love for Raffi, and from my recollection of his previous
companions, I would have said that Martin preferred teenage boys
with darker complexions, but perhaps it was a more a matter of
availability than penchant.

Alesha grinned and nodded enthusiastically as Martin moved
with a flourish to hold the door open for both Alesha and me.

"Mr. B. gets on it every day. He watches me while I'm practic-
ing."

"I'm sure he does, mon cheri, " Martin said smoothly. "I'd get
on it too, to watch you dance," he added with a sideways glance at
me. "I assume that Alesha is worth seeing, Sheldon?"

"Quite. I never miss it," I said with what I hoped was a dis-
couraging tone. I did not relish competing with Martin for Alesha's
affections.

Oblivious to the tame innuendo, Alesha glanced around him and
suddenly noticed the lavish modernistic decor of the lounge area we
had entered.

"Wow! This place is really nice."

He kept turning until his eyes came to the huge mural of the
Concorde on the point of taking off. The long nose seemed to reach
into the sky and the plane practically leaped into the air. It was
very dramatic against the distant skyline that could only be New
York given the twin towers that loomed above everything else.

"I really want to fly on a plane like that one day," Alesha
added. "It's the greatest plane ever. See how it looks, like its
springing into the air. You can feel the power. It's just like
watching a dancer like Rudolf Nureyev, when he leaps. "

"Really," I said. "Would you like to do that for a reward for
working so hard at school this year?"

"Huh?" he replied absently. "I don't need a reward, Mr. B. But
it would be cool, don't you think?"

I could not help smiling. Martin started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Alesha demanded.

"Because this is the Concorde lounge. Didn't you see the sign
when we came in?" I asked.

Alesha shook his head. "But why are we here? We can't possibly
be going on the Concorde because it's still grounded."

"Well, that's true. The Concorde passengers  wait here until
they are called for boarding," I continued. "But until it's flying
again, they're using the lounge for private charters."

The realization began to dawn as Alesha glanced out the window
and saw the long sleek body of the Lear jet, model 60. It started
slowly and as it gathered momentum, his eyes grew wide.

"We're going on that? We are, aren't we? Mr. B., this is so
incredible."

We board shortly afterwards. Needless to say I had Alesha sit
in the window next to the seat. That way I could also talk to Martin
who was sitting across the aisle. There were seats for a dozen
other passengers, about half 0f the occupied by the business elite
who had forsaken commercial flights to Europe while the Concorde
was grounded. Alesha was trembling with excitement as the hostess
came to offer pre-takeoff drinks. Alesha requested his usual  Diet
7-UP and I, true to form, requested a Pernod.

"This is so cool," Alesha said gleefully as he gazed around
the aircraft, taking in it's elegant detail. "How long will it
take?" He thought for a moment. "Hm,... it cruises at about 550 mph.
That's almost as fast as 747. The flight on the 747 takes just over
seven hours," he said.

"Takeoff is at 9.00 a.m. sharp," I added.

"Plus the time difference, so that means we'll be in Paris for
dinner?"

"Yes, I know. We have reservations at La Tour Argent," I
chuckled. I lowered my head close to his ear and whispered. "You
don't mind if Martin comes to dinner too, do you?"

"No. Of course not. I like him. Who is he anyway?"

"Martin is an old and very dear friend," I began. "I've known
him since he was a boy. He wasn't much older than you when we first
met. He had only just turned thirteen. We were very close for many
years."

Alesha nodded. Suddenly, he giggled. "He's a lot younger than
you."

"Yes, by about twenty years."

"Hm,.... He used to be your boyfriend, didn't he?" Alesha said
quietly. "He was, wasn't he?"

"Huh? How? How did you guess?" I asked awkwardly.

Alesha smirked. "I don't know. Your voice, I think. It got all
warm and soft.  When you look at him,... it's almost the same way you
look at me. Like you're remembering something nice."

"Oh. I'm that obvious, am I?"

He nodded gleefully, then promptly elbowed me to draw my
attention to the hostess who had just arrived with our drinks. As
soon as she was gone, I leaned over and tapped Martin on the fore-
arm. He gave me a questioning look. I nodded. Martin laughed and
looked at his watch.

"Fifteen minutes. It didn't take him long at all. It looks
like you've managed to find yourself a smart chicken."

"Hah. I told you he's brighter than you were, Martin," I
joked.

"He's certainly better looking," Martin admitted.  His head
lowered and I leaned across the aisle. "Oh, I know when I was a boy
I was good looking, enough to get almost any man I wanted, but Ale-
sha's something else."

I nodded in agreement and turned back to Alesha. He was sip-
ping his drink and gazing out the window.

"I think we're almost ready," he observed.

I rested my hand on his knee and squeezed gently. He smiled.
His hand closed over mine, pressing onto it. Surreptitiously, his
smaller hand inched upward, pulling my hand with it until my fin-
gertips were but a few inches from his groin.

"We can't," I said awkwardly. "Not here."

I had a mental image of having sex with him right there with
a blanket over us, not copulating of course, because it was impos-
sible with everyone awake.  Would it be a first onboard the plane?
I wondered if having sex above the ground was different.

Alesha gave me a strange look, but before he could respond the
plane gave a slight lurch and began to move backwards. I crossed
the fingers of my other hand.

"Wow!" Alesha murmured. "Mama will never believe this. Is it
very expensive?"

"Very? Not when you hate sitting in a plane as much as I do,"
I joked. "If we went by Concorde one-way tickets would cost about
$9,000. We're sharing the cost with Martin, so it isn't all that
much," I added.

Alesha glanced sideways, fascinated by Martin who had taken to
reading the complimentary Fortune magazine. Not surprisingly, he
had opened it at an article on the status of the year's grape har-
vest. It was not predicted to be exceptional. He muttered under his
breath, disagreeing with some of the assessments of the Bordeaux
region.

"Mr. B.?"

"Yes Alesha."

"Thank you for everything."

"You're very welcome."

"Um,... I wouldn't be going to Paris if it wasn't for you. Or
the Academy," he added. "I would have gone to Texas with Mama if
you hadn't come along."

"Perhaps. There are some good dance schools in Texas I
expect."

"Hmph," Alesha rebuked without meaning to. "Line dancing prob-
ably."

"I'd like to see you do that. I think you'd be very good at
line dancing," I teased.

"Ha ha," he said dryly.

"See, I can imagine you getting all dressed up in white boots
with silver studs, and velvet britches with sequins and rhine-
stones, so you'd look very, very sexy," I said softly. "You'd give
a whole new meaning to the word, `cowboy'."

"And that frilly stuff, whatever it's called," Alesha giggled.
"That would be one outfit that would cause a stir at the club,
wouldn't it? Instead of wearing all black leather?"

I nodded. "Actually, we could get you a pair of leather chaps
like Roland's, while we're in Paris. Only I think we should get
them in white rather than black."

"Cool." Alesha smirked. He glanced at me. "You're not joking,
are you?"

"Um, well I was, but know I think about, no, I'm not. I'd like
to see you dressed up like that, Alesha, if you want to," I added
hastily.

As the plane taxied out to the runway, I took a pen from my
jacket pocket and pulled out a magazine from the holder. Finding a
page that was not covered with ink was difficult, but eventually I
located a page where there was room to draw. Quickly, I made an
outline sketch of a slender body, proportioned as closely as possi-
ble to Alesha. I was not very good at drawing, but it sufficed to
convey the necessary shape. It was supposed to be nude, leaving out
the essential details. With the addition of some hair that looked
remotely like Alesha's style, almost anyone should have been able
to tell that it was a boy.

"First of all, the boots, because what's a cowboy without
boots," I said.

I drew an extended heel and toe, then the sides. It looked as
if it would be better suited to a woman than a young boy, even one
who was unequivocally gay.

"How tall should they be? Hm,.... About here, I think," ending
the line close to the knee.

I used some small dots to indicate several lines of studs up
each boot. Alesha laughed as I completed the second boot.

"Okay, that's enough," he instructed seriously. "Now do the
sexy stuff."

"Sexy stuff? Boots can be sexy though. Don't you think so? I
like these."

"I suppose so," he agreed amicably.

I thought for a moment. Cowboys called the their leg protec-
tion against brush and beast, `chaps', but over the last few years
the apparel had been appropriated by gays as the height of macho
fashion. I carefully drew the lines of the chaps down each leg,
making them very loose and flared out at the bottom. I added more
dots, this time representing patterned sequins.

"Put some of that frilly stuff on as well," Alesha instructed.

"Hm,... Good idea," I replied.

I went down each leg, using small horizontal strokes of the
pen to represent edging. I added an oversized belt and buckle at
the waist. The `chaps' worn by Roland and other boys at AppleBoys
usually had lacing down the thighs. Instead, I used straps with
little buckles, one at mid thigh and another close to the knee. I
made a small U at the crotch. Perhaps it was creative inspiration,
but I continued the sides of the U upwards to join the belt, then
added a second line that suggested the U was a strap around the
genitals.

"What do you think?"

"Cool," Alesha giggled nervously. He brought his head close to
mine and whispered conspiratorially as he pointed at the strap.
"Okay, if that's my dick, I need to know what that is? What you just
drew, Mr. B.?"

"Hm,... Good question. I was drawing it as a sort of strap, but
the more I think about it I think it should look a harness. I'll put
some studs along it."

"Do I get a shirt as well?"

"A shirt? I rather like the idea of you going bare-chested," I
teased.

I was met with a sour look that was intended to be in jest. I
pondered the top half of my sketch, doodling by adding minute dots
for nipples and navel. A shirt would be too conventional for what I
had in mind. What would a cowboy wear? Whatever it was, it had to
reveal most of the splendid torso. I considered an open shirt with-
out arms. Better still, a vest. Did cowboys wear vests? At the last
moment I changed my mind. Vests were becoming quite common at
AppleBoys.

At that moment the jet turned onto the runway. There was a
momentary pause as if it was summoning its vast power. The engines
whined, but the sound was a long way away. We began moving, faster
and faster. Through all the passengers there was a rush of adrena-
lin that matched the onward rush of the plane. It felt very differ-
ent to taking off in a large plane. It was a sensation very similar
to flying on the Concorde. I gripped the armrests while Alesha was
awestruck as the aircraft literally leaped into the air. The surge
kept on, an unsettling push into my belly, the seat pressing from
behind. I was barely aware of Alesha's hand, gripping mine, forcing
it down and onto his groin. He was excited, rigid. He trembled
beneath me. I dared to look sideways. His eyes were nearly closed,
his teeth clenched, his mouth open in a grimace. It was almost as
if he was in pain, but he was smiling.

The plane banked steeply, still climbing. Already we were over
the ocean. The noise faded. My heart was pounding. I massaged the
small bulge beneath Alesha's fleecy tracksuit, marveling at the hot
hardness. His penis was inflexible, poking upward, pointing into
the palm of my cupped hand. My fingers enclosed the softness below,
fondling his testicles, still so tiny that I could not feel them
through the cloth. Awkwardly, I glanced to the side. Martin was
engrossed in his magazine. Not that I was worried about Martin see-
ing what was I was doing. He would not have responded noticeably
even if I had oral sex with Alesha.

With my other hand I stroked Alesha's cheek. He sighed softly,
moving his legs further apart to give me more access. I lifted my
hand away, then placing my fingertips against his slim belly, slid
them under the elasticized waist. Alesha trembled. He licked his
lips. He half-turned his head, watching me, nervously using his
peripheral vision to look to the side.

I felt his smoothness, encroaching on the incredibly softness
of bare flesh as I neared his pubis, discovering the silky warmth
of the side of his penis. His penis was to the side. I moved my hand
to enclose it. It twitched beneath my fingers. Then, as my grip
tightened and I cautiously eased my fingers downward to retract his
foreskin, his entire body twitched. He nodded urgently, suddenly
breathing through his mouth in quick gasps.

I started to rub. Up and down, all but oblivious to the ten-
derness of his glans when it was exposed. He gasped again. His
thighs tensed. His pelvis oscillated, jerking, moving his sex
involuntarily.

My hand was somewhat constrained by his pants but there was
enough looseness, enough freedom that I could masturbate him. I
rubbed quickly, concentrating on the most sensitive place, the
glans and the region just beneath it. Alesha twitched again. A lit-
tle jolt. A shudder. His breathing had become erratic in a few sec-
onds. But already the plane was leveling off. Faster, Gripping his
penis tightly, rubbing furiously. His body jerked, once, then
again, then half a dozen rapid fire spasms from his penis, pumping
pure ecstasy through his convulsing body. He slumped into his seat,
breathing as heavily as he did after an energetic dance. It did not
matter that his orgasm had been dry, that it had taken less than a
minute, his smile was exhilarating.

"Ah hem."

I hurriedly removed my hand when I heard Martin's warning
cough. The hostess was already making her second of many rounds
through the cabin, taking orders for drinks and appetizers. The
captain's voice was precise and technical, in English, then in
French, as he explained the flight plan. We would be cruising at
35,000 feet. Our estimated time of arrival in Paris was 8.00 p.m.
local time. Alesha still quivered with pent-up excitement.



Act VII Scene V



Once we landed at Charles De Gaulle Airport it was a frantic
rush to collect our luggage, get through customs and out of the
terminal. Fortunately, Martin had arranged for a limousine and a
chauffeur to be waiting so we were excused from taking a taxi to
the city. It had been my plan to stop by my apartment to allow Ale-
sha to change his clothes, but the traffic from the airport was
moving so slowly that we would have been very late getting to the
restaurant. On the positive side, the pace enabled Alesha to take
in the sights. He was full of questions and I was ready and eager to
provide answers. Martin sat quietly back and listened, occasionally
nodding or adding comments of his own. We talked incessantly until
we passed the Arc de Triomphe and suddenly, our conversation
switched to the pressing matter of dinner.

"I'm sure it will be not a problem," Martin remarked after I
had asked about stopping by my apartment to change our clothes and
refresh ourselves before going to dinner. "I will talk to Pierre,
if you wish, Sheldon."

"Well,..." I thought for a moment.

"If you think it will would not be acceptable,... Sheldon, you
should worry less. There are many more important things that you
should concern yourself with," Martin suggested with a flippant
shrug.  He winked at Alesha. "When a garcon is so,... so handsome, it
is not a problem how he is attired."

"But I'm wearing sweats," Alesha muttered, without slowing to
make the translation. "And where we're going for dinner, well it
has to be very expensive. It is, otherwise Mr. Beaufort wouldn't be
going there."

I glanced at Martin who was sitting on Alesha's other side.

"Hah! Trust me, mon cheri. You should not worry. All it will
take is a single smile from you. If I know Pierre, you will have him
eating out of your hand before the first course is finished."

"Who is Pierre?" Alesha asked.

"Ah, Pierre? He is the Maitre d', and a famous connoisseur of
wines. His restaurant serves only the very best wines from France.
There is none of that Californian swill there."

I laughed. "You're biased, Martin. There are some good wines
from there."

"A few," Martin admitted grudgingly. "But more than excellent
wines, he shares with Sheldon and me, the appreciation of boys.
Unless I am mistaken, he will probably insist on all his boys being
in casual attire once he has feasted his eyes on you."

Alesha glanced nervously at me.

"It won't be a problem, Alesha."

"I just don't want to look stupid."

"You stupid? You are anything but stupid, Alesha. This from
the boy who achieved such wonderful results at school this year?
Did I tell you that already, Martin? If by stupid you mean you are
worrying about looking out of place, Martin is right. A boy such as
yourself can avail himself of opportunities that are denied to oth-
ers who are less fortunate. Besides, you are with me. If it is up to
me, you would always wear clothes that are comfortable."

When Alesha did not respond, Martin leaned forward and spoke
rapidly to the chauffeur, giving instructions. A few minutes later
we pulled up outside the restaurant. It had changed very little
since I had last seen it about a year earlier. I did not go there
unless it was with Martin. The last time, Raffi accompanied us.
Martin was probably right about Pierre. He was if the most notori-
ous homosexual in the Latin Quarter, certainly close to it. And
from the  way he looked at Raffi, then all of thirteen, it was obvi-
ous that he found younger males to be just as interesting as the
older youths who were his usual conquests.

As if to spite the passing of another year, Pierre had changed
even less than the restaurant. Impecably groomed as always, obse-
quious as always. His flattering and fawning did amuse me. Much
better that jesting repartee than the usual tedious welcome
extended to well-known patron. He bowed low and gestured with a
flourish even before the door closed behind us. The table was
reserved, already laid out with an array of burnished silver cut-
lery, and Limoges plates.

I passed the honor of wine selection to Martin, appreciating
that his taste was at least as good if not better. He surprised me
with his selections.

"To begin, a fragile bouquet. For Sheldon's refined palate,
there must be a pleasant hint of fruitiness," Martin began with
pretended sarcasm.

He had carefully turned the bottle so that I could not see the
label. The wine was very pale and as clear as any wine I had seen.
I smelled the glass and touched my lips. The fragrance was very
refined, a blend of,... I tried to place the tastes I had memorized
over half a lifetime of living in France.

"Not a good Chardonnay from Chagny," I said cynically.

"Hah! Chagny indeed. You'll be guessing all night. You'll have
to be more specific, Sheldon," Martin began. "I fancy it's not a
wine you've had before."

"I don't believe so," I said after a second sip. "It's dry."

"Yes it is. Do you want a hint? The vintage for example?"

"It's recent. A good year, but a little too fresh for my
taste. 1998," I said flatly.

"Yes. You can tell the vintage and not the cellar?"

"I'm working on it. It's not one of yours, although there are
some suggestions to the contrary. Chateua Ribbeneau?" I suggested
slyly.

Chateau Ribbeneau was a few miles from Martin's Chateau Vil-
leau. It was on the fringe of the Cote d'Or, not far from Beaune.

"Some might say too close. They've started doing something
very similar," Martin admitted. "A hundred francs says you won't
get it."

Alesha grinned. "My money is on Mr. B."

Martin laughed. "A bet is a bet. I will take your money if you
lose, mon cheri."

"And I'll take yours," Alesha returned. "A hundred frances
says Mr. B. will get it right."

"Alesha," I began. "I'm not at all sure I can figure this one
out."

"Yes, you can," Alesha answered proudly. "Take your time."

"You should make it worth his while," Martin said sugges-
tively to Alesha.  "We used to play this game when I was a boy.
Sheldon almost always won. Of course, there were times when I dis-
tracted him,...."

"How?"

"A boy like you needs to ask how to get a man to do whatever
you want?"

Alesha giggled and blushed. "Okay." He turned to me, smirking.
"I'll make it worth your while, Mr. B," he whispered seductively.

His tongue licked across his lips. His eyes flashed, burning
into me with unleashed arousal. I could sense the passion building
inside him. I fancied I could taste his bare skin, the lingering
odor of day's activity, the hint of salt, the slick softness of his
most sensitive parts. It was all I could do to concentrate on the
wine.

"But not Chateau Ribbenteau?" I mused. It was time to play
the game. "Hm,.. let me think. It is on the east side, isn't it?
Further upstream if I'm not mistaken."

Martin smiled suddenly. "You're playing the game with me for
him. Do you know it, Sheldon?"

"No, I don't, Martin. At  least not yet," I drank again, let-
ting the taste linger as I savored the complex flavors.

"Come on Mr. B. You can do it," Alesha prompted.

"They've mixed in some grapes from further south. There's some
of your Semillon in it as well. Not much, but enough to change the
clarity."

"One more guess," Martin said perfunctorily. "And then I will
take my hundred francs from your darling garcon."

"Too close for comfort, Martin" I teased. "What will you do to
make it worth my while, Alesha?" I teased.

Alesha smirked. "Whatever you want, Mr. B," he murmured, his
eyes fixed on mine.

"Ah. Then it's Chateau Vienne, 1998 with a delectable some-
thing. Unless I'm wrong there is a hint of your Semillon in the
blend."

Martin glared at me for a moment before he smiled. "Tres bon.
You're good, Sheldon. Like the wine, you become better with age."

"For Alesha's sake we can only hope that is so," I joked. "I
was right?"

Martin rotated the bottle until the label came into view. "We
bought the label a few years ago. The Pinot has an excellent local
reputation, but they hadn't managed to develop the market. I think
it's the equal of my mid-range, of course. The Chardonnay is pass-
able."

"By your standards?"

Martin smiled and shrugged ambiguously. "Actually, at the time
buying the castle was a bit foolhardy, even for me. I was more
interested in acquiring the cellars and the vineyard. As you know,
storage has always been something of a problem for us. Still it's
paid off. We came up with more storage than we need, a hundred
hectares of vines, and some pleasant enough wines, but with the
blend,...."

"It's simply superb," I agreed.

I moved the bottle closer and inspected the label. From the
etched picture, I saw that the chateau was relatively small by
French standards. It was situated on the top of rocky summit that
had been sculpted into terraces. It had crenellated stone walls
with steeply pitched conical roofs that had elaborate patterns of
colored slate. It overlooked a river, the Saone.Martin

"It's postcard picturesque. It looks like a good investment
you've made," I acknowledged agreeably.

"Yes it is. It's a beautiful setting. In fact I was thinking
of the day we spent at Azay le Rideau when I bought it."

I laughed. It had been a sunny spring morning when Martin and
I visited Azay. After a tour through the chateau we wandered off
into the woods and did not return until late in the afternoon. Mar-
tin walked bow-legged, but he never complained about being sore or
uncomfortable.

"It's a bit run down in places but the basic structure is
sound," Martin agreed, meeting my laugh with a fond smile of his
own. "The Board would like to see it sold off of course because it
doesn't make sense to have the capital tied up. I suppose it makes
sense to sell it, but the market is soft for 14th Century castles at
the present time, particularly when the buyer has to follow state
standards. It's registered so it's more or less got to be restored
to original condition, and that's very expensive, as you know Shel-
don."

"I can see why you've had a problem selling it."

"We've almost given up trying to sell it. You've always wanted
a place of your own in the country, Sheldon. You've said so many
times. It would be good to have you living closer than in Paris."

"Indeed  I have said that, but I'm not sure I'd want to get rid
of my apartment in Paris," I admitted.

"You should buy it even if it's for my satisfaction of knowing
it won't belong to one of those Arab sheiks. Are you interested,
Sheldon?" Martin suggested.

I laughed. "How much are you asking?"

"For you, my old friend? Or for rich obnoxious Americans? The
price to an Arab is even higher. Most of them are either terrorists
or strongly support them, I think.  There was even a rumor that Bin
Laden was seen in Paris."

I shrugged, barely familiar with the name. "Ha. Well, Martin,
I'm no Arab, that's for certain, but am I obnoxious?"

"Only when you're judging my wines. For you, Sheldon,...." Mar-
tin smiled. "The hundred francs I owe to Alesha will be all it
takes to get it off my hands."

"Don't be silly," I remarked dryly. I regarded him patiently
and wondered whether he was `cutting me a deal' because of our past
relationship, or because his successful enterprise was founded on
money that I had originally invested on his behalf.

"I'm not," Martin replied with a vague smile at Alesha.

"Okay, I am interested. How much do you really want?" I con-
tinued abruptly.

"As I said, Sheldon, it will take a fortune like yours to ren-
ovate it properly. I want you to have it, for old time's sake, but
because I know you'll do a good job."

"Hm," I mused. "We'll come down to visit next week. If I like
it, I'll sign a contract while I'm there."

And so it was agreed that Alesha and I would travel to Beaune
when Dewon arrived. Actually, I had planned to take Alesha to see
the vineyards in which I still had a one-third interest, although I
kept my involvement to a minimum, preferring to give full decision
making responsibility to Martin

Dinner was spectacular, which was only to be expected given La
Tour's reputation. The Chateau Vienne, 1998 was enjoyable and pro-
ficiently followed by Chateau Villeau's finest Pinot, a full bodied
wine that supported game better than any wine I knew. The best
years in recent vintage by far were the 1993 and 1995, and the 1996
was not far behind.

"You are ready for more, Monsieur Beaufort? Un escallope per-
haps. I will have the chef prepare it in a sauce of truffles, a lit-
tle rosemary?"

"More? Your chefs will cause the end of my domicile in New
York, Pierre," I said approvingly.

It seemed as if Alesha's diet was beginning to have an effect.
I had the distinct feeling that if I ate anything more, I would
burst.

"Compared to this gastronomy the food there is not fit for
eating. I will never be able to dine elsewhere again."

Pierre had come to our table himself after the main course,
dismissing our waiter with a flip of his hand. He laughed at my
exaggeration, although in reality it was an honest commendation to
the kitchen. All too often, his customers were tourists who did not
appreciate fine cuisine.

"Et tu, mon jeune ami?" he asked of Alesha. "Did you also
enjoy your repast?"

Alesha giggled.  "Very much. It was excellent."

He had consumed only half of the food on his plate, Poisson
d'Almondine, but what he had eaten was enough to show that he had
enjoyed the meal.

"And surely there will be something to follow?" Pierre asked.
"What a shame it is if a boy cannot enjoy something sweet. He is so
thin. He must eat more if he is not to shrivel away."

"He's a dancer," Martin explained before I had a chance to
speak.

"And a very good dancer too, I expect. Ballet, non?" Pierre
smiled. "I can tell. You are very good?"

Alesha sunk lower in his seat and glowered slightly with his
eyes averted. He was always reluctant to admit that he possessed
any skill at all when he danced, although he knew that he had few
equals.

"Hah, the beautiful boy is bashful," Pierre teased.

He gazed at Alesha, as enamored as any man could be by the
sight of a boy for whom the word `perfect' was reserved. Like me,
Alesha also observed the sudden interest, the man's relentless eyes
boring into him. He swallowed and leaned closer to me, showing
where his affection lay. At least, that was my hope.

"So seldom does one see a boy who knows his place nowadays.
Usually, they are so brash and conceited that they bore me. It is
even more enchanting when he possesses more than a modicum of tal-
ent."

"Talent? Me? Hardly, I dance like a,... gymnast," Alesha replied
diffidently, although the final word gave him cause to hesitate.

He glanced at me. I wondered who had said that to him. It was
a comment that had been intended to hurt since it struck at his
agility, his flexibility, his natural sense of rhythm and movement.

"My Alesha dances like a gymnast? Never," I said emphatically
as I placed my hand possessively over his. His skin was smooth and
very soft, and hot enough to melt any man's resolve.

I was ready to expound on my boy's incredible ability, to tell
everyone in the restaurant that they were in the company of a young
Nijinsky or Nureyev.  Alesha's eyes flickered to mine and then
dropped away again. The problem, as Randal explained it, was that
Alesha was `too good for his own good'.  His genes alone would have
meant that he excelled at dancing, but his commitment was the
deciding factor. He would be a famous dancer,  that much was obvi-
ous to anyone who had watched him dance. He attracted envy like
bees were drawn to honey.

"Madam Picard?" I asked.

Alesha nodded slightly. All of the teachers at the Academy
were very critical, but a few went further and personalized their
comments. Sometimes it was about esteem, about driving the student
to fight back and become passionate about dancing, and sometimes
just plain mean-spirited jealousy of an emerging dancing. Over the
next few years Alesha would meet all kinds. There were some people
who would be happy to watch his dance, a few who would give their
lives to see him achieve the pinnacle of success, and most who
would be resentful. My task was to protect him from them. At the
same time, I was adamant that Alesha should continue in Madam
Picard's class when he returned to the Academy after summer.

"Let us decide on the dessert," Martin said pointedly. "Then,
you can tell me about Madam Picard, Alesha. She sounds like a per-
son I would not care to be acquainted with. Pierre, Sheldon will
have,..."

He paused, and glanced at me. Surely, he had not forgotten my
favorite dessert? Had it been that long since we had dined
together? He smiled slightly.

"Unless I am mistaken he will have the creme brulee. Perhaps
with some Almondine?" He turned to Alesha even as I nodded my
approval.

"Let him pick for you, Alesha," I said cheerily. "Martin has
an uncanny ability with desserts."

"Me? Uncanny?" Martin mocked. "Hm, for mon petit cheri, I
think he worries about his weight too much, but what I suggest will
be so good he will not mind. La Peche Napoleon, Pierre?"

"Avec le Courvousier, Monsieur de Lyon?"

"Oui. But not too much, Pierre. Un petit. Enough for him to
taste, no more. And for me, I will have the same, but with the
usual. For such delicious lips, it must be enough that I will taste
the same thing he is eating."

Alesha did not realize that Martin's passing comment was an
expression of his desire to kiss him, perhaps even to make love to
him. I regarded Martin, wondering.



Act VII Scene VI



We bade farewell to Martin and waited until his Mercedes lim-
ousine had disappeared around the corner. He planned to drive back
to his Chateau before stopping  for the night. He had given as an
explanation the fact that he had a business meeting early in the
morning, but the truth was otherwise. Doubtless, I would do the
same thing if I had not seen Alesha for the best part of two weeks.
I half-closed my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired.  It was past
ten p.m. and the excitement had turned what should have been 5.00
p.m. New York time into a long day. Beside me, Alesha groaned.

"Our suitcases, Mr. B. They're still in the car."

"OH! Oh, no! What will we do?"

I held my hand to my forehead and pretended to be both
shocked and dismayed. I managed to last for a few moments before I
burst out laughing.

"What's so funny? Maybe you have some things here, but I don't
even have a toothbrush," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry. The chauffeur brought the suitcases here while we
were having dinner. If I know Madam Girard our things are already
upstairs and unpacked, I expect."

"Phew!"Alesha mocked. "I was worried I'd have to wear dirty
underpants tomorrow."

I grabbed his hand and drew him towards me. "Did you have a
good evening?"

Alesha grinned and nodded. "It was incredible. I can't believe
all there is to see here. It's all so exciting. Just being here in
Paris with you would be enough for it to be great."

I appreciated his sentiment. "Alesha, you know I've lived
almost half of my life here, but tonight was the first time I
noticed the things I've always taken for granted. It's going to be
fascinating having you with me for the entire summer," I said hon-
estly.

"Thank you for everything," Alesha said quietly.

He looked around him, taking in the tree-lined Avenue, the row
of five and six-storied buildings with their intricate sculpted
detail. The sound of music floated down to us. I remembered the
tune for it was music that Alesha danced to occasionally, although
I could not remember the composer. I  breathed out. In the dark-
ness, it could almost be New York. But it wasn't New York. The
smell was very different. It was a familiar smell. I sighed.

"You made everything wonderful, Mr. B. I was so worried after
the competition."

I turned back to Alesha. He had stepped closer. A gnarled tree
trunk was almost at my back. He was so close that I could feel his
body's warmth. His eyes flickered, dark liquid pools under the dim
light cast by the distant street light.

"Did you worry when you didn't win the scholarship?" I teased.

Alesha nodded. "I didn't want Mama to go to Texas, but I
didn't want to leave the Academy either. I was angry because I knew
I was the best dancer there. And then you gave me the special fel-
lowship and it was so much better than the scholarship.  Thank you
so much."

"Alesha,...." I choked. "You know why I did that, don't you?"

"I like Martin."

Alesha stopped, realizing that he could not avoid the subject
now that it had come up. He shrugged.

"Mama told me you loved boys."

"Does that bother you?" I asked.

His lips pursed, and for a moment his tongue touched his upper
lip. His eyes lifted and he gazed up at me.

"No, not really." He hesitated. "Not at all!"

"But I did it, created the fellowship and all, because,..." I
sighed. "Alesha, I think,... no I know,... that I,..."

He leaned forward until his chest touched my belly. Awkwardly,
or at least that is how it seemed to me, his arms moved to wrap
around my girth. We hugged briefly. My words, my worries, my fears
were quieted. Did he realize how close I had come to telling him
that I loved him? Paris was the city of love. Perhaps here, amid
the bustling streets and romantic parks, the quixotic boy would
discover that he could love me.

He licked his lips,  still looking up at me. I had the dis-
tinct impression that he wanted to say something, yet he was unable
to say it. Tenderly, I stroked his hair, brushing my fingers
through it, pushing the strands back from his forehead. My fingers
touched his ear, my thumb stroked his smooth cheek.  I felt him
exhale then, as our faces drew closer, I smelled the sweetness of
his breath. We were going to kiss. There, on the sidewalk, under-
neath the spreading branches of the tree, where people could see
us. A small tremble ran through Alesha, no more than a quiver but
it was enough to reveal his excitement. Our mouths came together
but just before we touched, we hesitated. Somehow, intuitively, I
recognized that this kiss would be very different from the other
times that I had kissed Alesha. If there was any doubt, Alesha
sighed softly and pressed closer, bringing our bodies into firm
contact. I felt him, warm, hard, energetic despite the languorous
embrace that he gave me. Our kiss came from within, deep inside
that complex interplay of thoughts and emotions that is a person.
We parted quickly. Alesha released his hold on me, stepped back
until we were no longer pressed together. His eyes met mine for an
instant.

"Maybe we should go inside, Mr. B," he whispered.

The immediacy of the moment was lost as we waited in the foyer
for the elevator. Alesha gazed around, taking in the elaborate
architecture. The ceilings were painted tromp d'oeil with half-a-
dozen cherubs cavorting across the heavens, their midriffs con-
cealed by swirling fabric. Elaborate gilded iron enclosed the ele-
vator cage. It had been wrought into floral patterns, complete with
vines and leaves. Alesha reclined against the marble balustrade.

"It was designed by a very famous French architect," I
explained. "He built this for his wife's parents. I think he wanted
to show what he could do."

"It's nice," Alesha said in awe. "Do you own it?"

"Not really. I own the top floor, and a fourth share of the
rest. There are three apartments on every floor, except on the top
floor."

The elevator door opened like a concertina of folded brass
slats. We stepped inside and I inserted my key to unlock the switch
that allowed the elevator to reach the uppermost floor. It jolted
and began the slow climb up.

"Do you have staff here too, Mr. B?" Alesha asked.

"Only Madam Kahle," I explained. "She comes in every day to
cook and clean, at least when I'm in town. She's an excellent cook,
which is the reason I employed her in the first place. She's been
with me now for almost thirty years."

"She doesn't live here?"

"She prefers not to," I replied. "She has a life of her own,
Alesha."

I did not mention that she was also very discreet. She had
started working for me shortly before I met Martin. She realized
the nature of our relationship within a few days when she changed
the sheets on my bed. After that there was always a folded towel
hanging at the foot of the bed.

"Not like Peters and Mrs. Davis," Alesha observed.

The elevator clanked to a halt and the door clattered open. I
led Alesha towards the door, wondering whether he would like my
abode. Martin said that it was an expression of my actual and
unfathomable self, and as in most things, he was correct. Unlike my
mother, who had decorated the house in New York in an eclectic com-
bination of furniture and art work, my preferences were purely Neo-
classical. In its own way the bric-a-brac I had amassed during my
travels took on the quality of a museum, the valuable pieces of my
collection haphazardly displayed with mementos from a lifetime.
With its nook and crannies filled with things to examine, it resem-
bled a treasure house.

Alesha ambled behind me as I gave him a quick tour.  I think it
was the combination of countless books and marble and bronze sculp-
tures that filled him with awe. Finally, he stopped and pivoted on
his toes.

"Wow! All this stuff is yours?"

"I'm afraid so. I enjoy buying things," I explained.

"So I see," Alesha grinned. "You'll have to stop soon. There's
nowhere else to put things."

"Ha! There's always the place in New York," I laughed.

I rubbed my fingers over the translucent alabaster arm of `The
Neapolitan Boy' by Francois Rude, not unlike the similar `Fisher
Boy' Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux.  It was on a pedestal that brought it
to my height. Of all the sculpture, it was my favorite, and not
only because I had bought it in memory of Martin. Unlike Martin, or
Alesha for that matter, the marble flesh was cold and lifeless.
Alesha yawned.

"You're getting tired," I remarked.

He shrugged. "Oui, Monsieur Beaufort."

"We promised your mama that you would call when you arrived in
Paris," I said. "It could wait until the morning I suppose, but I'm
sure she'd like to hear from you."

He smiled and nodded, and waited patiently as I made the call.
His mother answered on the second ring. She sounded breathless,
perhaps just back from her afternoon ballet rehearsals. I handed
the telephone to Alesha and meandered into the kitchen for a snack.
`How can you possibly be hungry?' I asked myself. I smiled. I was
nervous of course. It was one of the reasons why I ate so much. The
other reason was that I enjoyed good food. I could hear Alesha's
voice beyond the door. I wandered around inspecting the kitchen.
The refrigerator was well stocked. The floor was spotless. There
was a note on the table welcoming me back and a number to call if I
needed breakfast before 7.00 am. It was typical of Madam Kahle.
After a few minutes, I heard the telephone being replaced and I
went back to join Alesha in the salon.

"How is Mama?" I asked before I could see your face.

"She's good. She said to say `hi'."

Alesha sniffed. His face was flushed. He blinked, then
squeezed his eyes tightly closed as if trying to block out some-
thing he did not want to see.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I miss her I guess."

Well, you can call her whenever you want, you know that don't
you Alesha?" I replied. He nodded sliughtly, unconvinced. "It's
time we were both in bed. Come on, let me show you your room," I
said, leading the way down the hall.

For once I omitted the rest of the lecture I had mentally pre-
pared. We walked past Corot's `Farm on the River Dorlogne'. There
would be time in the next few days to show Alesha the things I con-
sidered important. Alesha's bedroom was next to mine. I opened the
closet door to show him that his suitcase had been unpacked and his
things put away. He nodded tiredly and tried to stifle another
infectious yawn.

"You should be able to find everything you want, Alesha," I
said with a vague gesture. Madam Kahle was very good at her job.
"If there's anything you want, I'm right next door."

"Mr. B?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." His voice was little more than a soft murmur. His
eyes flickered.

I smiled at Alesha and stepped back until I reached the door.
The last thing I wanted to do at that time was to leave him and go
to my own bedroom. Only a few minutes earlier when we were under
the tree, I had the distinct impression that we were racing toward
a conclusion that until then had always seemed out of reach. I
turned to leave him.

"Mr. B,...."

He seemed to be struggling, to say the three words that he had
never said before. Not to me at least. I felt the thrill of impend-
ing victory, the rush of sexual arousal.

"What is it, Alesha?"

"Um,... ah,.... I,.... Ah,... Haven't you wanted?-. Do you?-."

"Yes," I prompted.

Then I was struck by the sheer undeniable wonder of it, the
certain knowledge that there was some force that attracted us, that
had brought us together. It was as if all of my life had been build-
ing up to this moment.

"I,... Alesha,...I,... " I mumbled.

Usually so erudite, now barely coherent. My heart pounded,
more anxious than I had ever been. So much depended on what he was
thinking at that moment. I remembered the evening when Martin had
finally uttered the words I needed to hear. It had happened the
same day that we had been discovered, kissing in the Louvre. By
then we were accomplished at sex, but that evening as the hours
wore on and the sky darkened, only then had we become true lovers.
That night, after we had telephoned Martin mother, we loved with
renewed vigor and found satisfaction that had hitherto evaded us.

We stood in mute acknowledgement of what it was that we were
trying to say but could not and we gazed at each other with knowing
eyes for several long seconds before Alesha suddenly rushed forward
and into my arms again. He shuddered, plunging his wiry hard body
against me, locking his lean arms around my waist in a brash eager
hug.

"Don't go," he murmured awkwardly.

His head tilted back, his lips pursed. He offered himself to
me and I accepted his gift. Was the French kiss truly invented by
the French? Not that it mattered, for Alesha and I invented it
again, with refinements suited to our different sizes. His arms
lifted up and hung around my neck. My hands dropped down and cupped
his firm buttocks, lifting him higher. Our mouths plunged together,
bruising our lips in an explosion of emotion. Alesha's powerful
dancer's legs wrapped around my waist and gripped my hips with
indefatigable need. He was able to support himself like that, and I
used one hand to hold his head in place as I forcefully returned
his kisses. One of us moaned, or perhaps we moaned in unison. Our
tongues dueled relentlessly, exchanging fluids without remorse,
barely able to breath as we exposed our inner selves and discovered
ecstasy in the process.

I carried him out of his bedroom and into mine, into a place
where I felt at home, where our privacy was assured once the door
was closed. With Alesha clinging to me, not tiring from kissing, I
pushed the door closed and  continued to the bed.

My bed was no larger than Alesha's bed yet it was far more
suited to my purpose, although I doubted what I hoped for would
transpire that night. It was made of wood, carved in elegant forms
of a time when grandeur and opulence were the order of the day.  Its
provenance was curious. It was supposed to have belonged to Napo-
leon's mistress, although I had discovered a remarkably well done,
but small panel carved in low relief that suggested there was truth
behind the rumors. The panel showed a man and boy embracing. The
bed was covered with gold foil that had become burnished with age.
It was irreplaceable. It was an acquisition made in a moment of
self-delusion that I would ever have a worthy companion to share it
with.



I placed Alesha on the bed and clambered over him so that I
was kneeling above him. My hands shook.

"Are you sure?" I breathed.

He slowly nodded, not once or twice, but several more times as
if I needed convincing.

"Um,.... You don't have to do this, Alesha,...." I stroked his
cheek.

He did not move as my fingers came to his chest, moved to take
hold of the brass ringlet that was attached to the zipper of his
tracksuit top. I swallowed, breathed out, tried to stop my hand
from shaking as I began to draw it downwards. Slowly, ever so
slowly revealing the wondrous pale flesh. When I reached the end,
Alesha smiled. I smiled back at him.

Martin and I had indulged in sex many times before we
announced that love we shared was more than physical gratification.
How often had I plunged my sex between his buttocks, relentlessly
robbing him of his innocence while I struggled with the doubt of
not having my love returned? Would I dare to do the same with Ale-
sha?

He breathed out slowly. He lifted up slightly to allow me to
slip the top half of his tracksuit off. Haphazardly, I flung the
warm cloth across the room. Alesha giggled.

"Now you, Mr. B," he announced.

>From his supine position he had a little difficulty in remov-
ing my jacket and unfastening the buttons of my shirt. Yet he was
determined and his deft fingers pushed and pulled until all of the
buttons were undone and he was able to peel my shirt away.

Since I had begun my regimen of diet and exercise, every morn-
ing after my shower I confronted my mass in the mirror with
increasing distaste. Now, as Alesha removed my shirt, I wondered
what he was thinking. Did he loathe the flabby flesh that ballooned
around my torso? He was unemotional as he lay back and waited for
me to remove his pants.

"Alesha," I began self-consciously. "Perhaps I should turn the
lights off?"

Without giving him a chance to answer, I dismounted from my
position above him and hurried to turn off the lights. The room
became much darker, lit only by the lamps on either side of the
bed. I came back to the side of the bed. Again, in that instant of
sitting back down, I was plagued by guilt, by the possibility that
his mother had encouraged him to go further with me as part of his
obligation to his patron.

Alesha reached for my hand, holding it for a few seconds
before he pulled me closer towards him. He lay beside me, turned
side-on. I looked into his tranquil eyes, seeing mysterious liquid
pools in the dim light offered by the lamps. He licked his lips and
cautiously brought his lips back to mine. We kissed again, touching
the tips of our tongues together. After the third of fourth kiss,
Alesha rose up and climbed onto me.  For a moment he hesitated.
Together we looked down between our bodies. His penis matched mine
for hardness if not for size. Then, with a giggle than made me
smile back at him, he lay down, pressing his thighs against my
erection, pushing his own hardness deliberately into my belly. We
kissed again, longer, harder than before.

"That's better," I sighed when we parted for a moment. "You
feel so good," I added. "So warm and soft,... well not everything is
soft, of course. There's one part that is very hard,.... "

Alesha grinned. "I'm not squashing you?"

"Of course not. I could lie like this all day. And all night
too," I added hastily as Alesha playfully began to lift away. "Damn
but you feel nice."

"Me too."

"I like having you on top."

"Why?" Alesha asked. "I thought I was supposed to be the one
on the bottom."

"Hm, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Because,... well I'm the boy,... and you're the man. And when we
have sex, you put yours inside me."

"Ah, well,... that's true. Most of the time anyway."

"Do boys ever do it to men?" he asked curiously.

"Sometimes. Usually, not so much when they're your age, but
when they're older-."

"Like teenagers?"

"Yes."

"Because it's too small now?"

"More or less. It takes a certain size to,... well to make it
worthwhile."

Alesha laughed. Suddenly, he lifted away and his expression
turned serious.  "Do you want to?" he asked.

"Do I want to what?" I tried to sound innocent, but within my
mind, I was ecstatic.

All of my dreams, every fantasy, would be realized if,... It
would be the most wonderful experience of my life. I imagined the
first time. It would be painful for him but he would be brave. Ale-
sha was like that, torturing his body to the limit of his endurance
because he knew that in the long term it would be worth the effort
and discomfort. We gazed at each other. I wanted so badly to say
`yes', to wrap him in my embrace and roll him over and onto his
back. I fancied I could feel his virgin anus pinching on my penis
as we struggled to get through the tiny opening. I would have to
get him as loose as possible beforehand. The formula was tried and
tested. Two fingers and a tongue, though not necessarily in that
order or at the same time. From my experience I knew that some boys
relaxed quickly while others took forever and never really became
loosened up the way that made intercourse enjoyable. Which type
would Alesha be?"

He swallowed nervously, obviously having second thoughts as
soon as the words had left his mouth.

"You don't have to," I said casually while I hoped that he
would repeat the offer.

Then, without warning, he scooted back until his buttocks were
above my knees. He leaned forward and down, bringing his mouth to
my penis. He kissed it gently, using the tip of is tongue to tanta-
lize the head. I groaned, willing his to open his mouth and take my
penis inside him. His slender chest rose and fell, pushing against
my thighs. His cheek brushed my penis, his chin nudged my scrotum,
his tongue returned. This time was more aggressive than the last.
He sucked gently, drawing some of the skin between his lips, then
teasingly nipping with his teeth on the most sensitive region. I
sighed, groaned, lifted up with the vain hope that his mouth would
push back to take my penis deeper.

He lifted up quickly. "Am I doing it right?"

"Uh, ahhhh,.... Yes."

He smirked and lowered his head again, repeating the introduc-
tory exercises, but added more control of his tongue. After a
minute he tilted his head so that I could see a single eye. He
winked, then boldly opened his mouth wider as he moved his head
down again. I felt my penis slide into a hot spongy cavern. He
stopped when half or more of my penis was contained within his
mouth.

His head moved very slowly as if savoring the taste. It was
not an unfamiliar sensation, but it seemed to me that every time
was different with Alesha. Gently he licked across my glans, keep-
ing his lips closed behind the rim so that the head could not
depart unless he wanted it out of his mouth. I was perfectly con-
tent to lie there, yet I realized that he also needed to be plea-
sured before sleep overtook him.

With my hands under his armpits I lifted him up and away from
his self-assigned task and repositioned him so that we were in the
classic position, my groin directly under his face, my face buried
between his cheeks. I parted his sleek firm buttocks with my hands,
opening his crack until I could see his anus. Taut puckered, still
untouched in the only way that counted. As I feasted my eyes and
engaged in the lewd thoughts that any man would have if he was
attracted to young boys. The anus was tiny, puckered at the rim,
and slightly darker than the surrounding skin. I knew then, that he
would be safe, for I could never violate such perfection until he
was ready. Would there ever come a time when he was eager?

I contented myself with licking his scrotum, tantalizing it
until it shriveled and tightened and became so small that it
appeared insufficient to contain even the smallest testicles. Yet,
the two tiny bulges that rubbed against my nose evidenced his male-
ness. I licked and inhaled and played a game of sliding my nose
back and forth through his slippery crevice. Frequently, I used my
tongue, licking, squirming, pressing it into that most inviolate
place. For it was sacred in my mind, the most secret, private part
of Alesha's body.

"Hm,... that's good., so good,.... Ohhhhh," Alesha groaned aloud.

I pressed my tongue further than before and felt his anus
opening, yielding to my intrusion and offering the possibility that
with very little effort I could actually penetrate even deeper. I
lost my nerve.

However, even as I lifted away, reneging on the promise of
infinite pleasure, I brought my first finger to touch the dimpled
node. Carefully, I increased the inward pressure, burrowing into
the slippery saliva covered flesh. Alesha trembled at the sudden-
ness of a very different sensation. I began the process of with-
drawal, slow reinsertion, massaging the tender rim and that first
inch within his body. He clamped down after the first stroke, then
struggled to relax, to accommodate the finger that was gradually
pushing deeper into his body.

"It doesn't hurt, does it?"

Alesha  shook his head quickly. "Deeper."

I smiled at his guttural urgency. My fingertip was barely
inside his anus, certainly no further than the first joint, and
already he was the prisoner of his own juvenile lust. He was expe-
riencing feelings that few boys his age never realized existed. I
trembled with excitement, relishing the role of being his teacher.
Quickly, I removed my finger and coated it with a copious amount of
saliva. That added lubrication was invaluable. The second time, my
finger disappeared almost of its own accord. His sphincter tight-
ened instinctively, grasping my finger in its strangle hold before
he managed to regain control before his anal spasm had eliminated
my finger entirely.  He pushed back deliberately, restoring the
depth to the finger. I pushed with him, firmly applying pressure,
feeling his anus tighten and then relax, sliding deeper until it
was buried inside him. He sighed softly, showing what he needed.

"Oh yes," he murmured.

I smiled to myself. I could think only of a few boys who did
not enjoy simulation of their rectum. Sometimes it was difficult to
convince a boy to engage in anal games, but once they did, they
always came back for more. Alesha was the same way. With a sudden
backward movement, he pushed even harder, driving my finger through
the ring of muscle until it was embedded and my knuckles were
lodged in his crevice and it could go no further. Again, his body
shuddered as a tightening spasm gripped my finger and threatened to
squeeze it off. This time I resisted the outward pushing by gently
rotating my finger. Alesha's spasm finished abruptly and he trem-
bled.

"There! Oh, yes!"

Within his bowels, my finger was surrounded variously by slick
hot mush, by a vibrant pulsating tube, by a powerful squeezing mus-
cle. I began to move my finger back and forth, endeavoring to time
my motion to the waves that seemed to pass through him every few
seconds. Back and forth, sawing in and out of that lubricious
canal, becoming looser and more slippery with every minute. Alesha
sucked urgently, also timing his reciprocal motions to what I was
doing to him. His penis became even harder, until it was throbbing
between my fingers. Following the innate urge of males,  Alesha's
hips began to thrust, quickly building in speed and vigor until he
drove against me, forcing my finger through his rectum as he tried
to achieve even more pleasure.

He lasted a minute, perhaps two before he stiffened like a
board. He gasped, stopped, awed by the sensations that had come
from inside his body. His body twitched, shuddered, and then tensed
as he realized the sheer wonder of what he was feeling. That
moment, of trying to hold back the inevitable explosion, seemed to
last forever. His body was glowing, clammy with moist heat. Sud-
denly, he jerked and in that release, his anus clamped around my
finger with unbelievable strength. I felt the orgasm begin inside
him as a ripple, his erratic thrusting giving way to little pulses
around my finger. Just knowing that Alesha was experiencing that
ultimate of pleasures was enough. I had been close to the edge for
some time, but the erratic motions of his mouth had kept me from
achieving climax. I was no longer in control. Ielt the semen ris-
ing. I strained, trying to stem the flow.

"Alesha,... Alesha,.... Stop! I'm going to,..." The words burst from
my mouth.

He continued, impregnable, relentlessly sucking, his fingers
squashing into my scrotum. I tried to give a final warning, but it
was already too late.  My semen spurted out, blasting hot and thick
into the back of his mouth. He struggled for a moment and then
began swallowing, taking my semen down into his stomach. Finally
when he could gulp no more, his head jerked away. There was a muf-
fled cry, then quiet.

He slumped down beside me, quaking until the end of it, until
his sanity returned. It was a long time before his body was calm. I
could hear, sense his lips and tongue moving. He could taste me
still. I closed my eyes, waiting for his disgust to erupt.

"Wow!" His voice was ragged, stressed, nervous with excite-
ment.

"Yes, I know," I whispered.

"I did it."

"Yes, you did," I agreed.

"I tried to warn you. I'm sorry Alesha"

"I wanted it in my mouth, Mr. B. It wasn't bad at all. It even
tasted okay."

"Then I'm glad," I said with relief.

"I was scared I wouldn't like it-.."

I nodded, then lovingly patted him on the back. "It's okay,
Alesha. I think everyone is scared at first."

"I didn't know it would be like that, Mr. B," he said in awe.

Finally, Alesha had realized the pleasure to be attained by
having sex. No wonder adults tried to keep children from discover-
ing their bodies' capacity for sexual release. Once experienced, it
was a pleasure that would always be sought.

His penis was still erect, although the arousal that had made
it so hard that it seemed inflexible had diminished somewhat during
the last few minutes. It was with deliberation, that I extended my
tongue and caressed his hardness. By the time it was wet with my
saliva it was rigid once again, inviting me to take it back into my
mouth and finish what I had started. Alesha sighed. It was encour-
agement, of course. The sign that he wanted me to continue.

Lovingly, I caressed its length, feeling his silky skin slide
beneath my fingers as I gradually pulled from the base to the tip.
His glans was firm, a noticeable swelling under the delicate cover-
ing of his foreskin. I leaned closer and touched my tongue to the
tip, teasing the still puckered nozzle-end. There were many other
pleasures I could give him, but one in particular.

"Can I give you a special treat, Alesha?" I asked as the idea
took hold.

"You want to put your penis inside me? You can if you want."

"Hm,... well I'd like to that's for certain and it's very nice
of you, but you're not ready yet. One day you will be, and if you
still want to do it, then I would be honored. However, I'd still
like to something else to you."

Alesha nodded, his eyes flickering with curiosity, yet holding
back. I suspected what was on his mind. He knew what men did to
boys. Most boys confronted anal sex with some trepidation.

"Rollie said you'd want to other things to me once I started
to enjoy it. You don't have to do anything Mr. B. You've already
made me feel so good."

"You realize that some things are different between us now,
don't you Alesha?" I asked gently.

Alesha nodded once, uncertainly. It was as if we both under-
stood what happened next. Neither of us spoke as I sat up and
leaned over him. My mouth closed over his penis and I suckled him
gently, laving his sex organs with saliva until they were wet and
slippery. I nuzzled his testicles with my nose, then kissed along
his slender thighs and nibbled wherever my lips were at the moment.
I enjoyed making him giggle, yet my circuitous path was headed
lower. Finally, my own inhibitions were so fractured by lust that
the desire was unstoppable. I pulled him towards me, then rolled
onto my back as I positioned Alesha above me, his legs to either
side of my head.  His head dropped onto my belly, his hand clasping
my penis possessively. After what he had just done, I was content
for him merely to hold it.

My view was in a word, spectacular. His lean muscular thighs
merged at his crotch  to create the perfect form, drawn inward
between the ridge of his thick tendons, small hollows rounding into
the outward curves of his buttocks. The veins were just beneath the
surface, bluish, bulging lines. The natural scar led down his
perineum disappearing And his scrotum? A small and wrinkled bulge
of distant manhood, the skin darker there than anywhere else on his
body. From behind, his penis was almost hidden, standing horizon-
tally along his flat belly. With my fingers pressed into his but-
tocks, I parted his crack to reveal the little gem of his anus. It
was slightly redder and a little larger than when I had last seen
it, but it was hardly a gaping hole. Still, there were signs of
where my finger had been. The pucker was less pronounced, the sur-
rounding flesh still glistening with my saliva. And the smell. Not
fecal but sweet, a boy's smell that was like musk, a natural aphro-
disiac, at least for men like me.

He did not move when my tongue touched his anus, when it set-
tled into folds of the tiny puckered opening. By then, Alesha was
fast asleep.


INTERMISSION