Date: Tue, 13 Mar 2001 16:14:13 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 26

Chapter 26:  Being Mauled

	When practice broke, the boys changed quickly, and we headed toward the
car.  Matt and Doug raced for the front seat, jostling each other out of the
way good-naturedly until Adam arrived and indicated with a thumb pointing to
the rear that the front seat was his.  I unlocked the car, and we piled in -
Doug and Dan sandwiching Matt in the back seat.  I cranked the air
conditioner to full and peeled out of the driveway.  Despite my speed, Doug
still managed to have enough time and space in the cramped back seat to moon
Brad out the window as we passed him.
	A few minutes into the drive, two-thirds of the back seat began chanting
for music.  I popped in a CD, and the car became filled with the complex
harmonies of Brahms' Dies Irae.  Well, that and howls from the back for
"real" music.  A disc was passed forward.  Adam took the liberty of taking
the Brahms out and replacing it with the new selection.  It was a
wanna-be-black rapper whose career would undoubtedly be ruined if the truth
that he grew up in some comfortable suburb became known.  Honestly.  If it
was written after 1905, I just wasn't interested.  But the boys liked it -
the four of them began chanting the words along with the music like some
Delphic ritual.  Looking in the rear view mirror, I could see Matt
seat-dancing as he sang, shoulders rocking to the music, fists raised
alternately to the beat.  He caught my eye in the mirror and smiled as he
sang.  The music was awful, but the combination of blasting AC, blaring
music and freedom from the confines of the camp served to make them happy,
and that was enough for me.
	"So where are we going?" Asked Doug.
	"There's a mall I know about - it's enormous.  Lots of stores, lots of
restaurants, all air-conditioned and an indoor amusement park kind of thing
with a few rides."  This information was met with enthusiastic approval.
"Little bit of a hike, though," I added.  "It's about 2 hours away."
	"Drive faster," said Doug.
	"Faster," echoed Matt.
	We were still in the mountains, though descending.  The road was narrow and
twisty.  "Now, children," I said, "daddy is driving the fastest he can.
You'll just have to be patient."
	"Are we there yet?" Matt asked.
	"Faster," Doug repeated.
	"I have to go to the bathroom," Matt added.
	"Faster," Doug repeated.
	It was going to be a long, long ride.
	Two hours, a few "don't make me come back there"s and an "I'm going to stop
the car.  Do you want me to stop the car?" later, we pulled into the massive
parking lot.
	"Okay," I said, "It's six o'clock now.  We meet at seven-thirty at the
steak house on the lower level near the Sears.  Got it?"
	"Mickey-Dee's," called Doug, quickly echoed by Matt.
	I looked at Adam with private pleading eyes.
	"Steak house at seven-thirty," he said.
	"Mickey-Dee," whined Doug, plaintively.
	Adam just looked at him sternly until he backed down.
	"We can stop at McDonald's on the way home, if you want." I offered, which
was considered a grand idea by all.
	Inside the Mall, Doug headed off toward the rides.  I suggested clothes
shopping.  Adam declined for him and Dan and, at his suggestion, the two of
them left us to fend for ourselves.
	"Alone at last," Matt said, with suggestively raised eyebrows.  I grinned
and headed him off down the main street of the mall.
	"This was a great idea," he said as we strolled past the stores enjoying
the cold air.
	"Hope so," I replied.  "You want to go try on some clothes?"
	"Sure," he said.  "But I gotta warn you - I suck at shopping."
	"Clearly, sweetheart," I replied, "I've seen how you dress.  That's why I'm
here."
	I brought him to a store on the second level that I liked and headed for
the shirts.  He followed me like an eight-year-old in tow to his mother.
	"I missed you, amigo" he said while I thumbed through the selections in the
racks.
	"It's been so fucking hot," I replied, "I haven't been feeling particularly
romantic.  That okay?"
	"Sure," he said, "of course."
	A fey salesman about two decades past his prime noticed Matt and made for
us like a fox to a chicken.
	"May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked Matt with a toothy, obsequious grin.
	"Do you have anything in a vertical-ribbed cotton crew in black or gray?" I
asked.
	"Ah," he said, "a wonderful choice.  That will suit you wonderfully," he
said to Matt, as if I were but the interpreter.  He brought us two
selections, at which point I asked him to show us microfibers.  When I had
six good shirts from which to choose, I led Matt toward the changing rooms.
	"Well, you made his day," I said when we were alone in the booth.
	"You think he's gay?" Matt asked stripping off his shirt in one fluid
motion.  I handed him the first pullover.
	"Are you serious?"
	"I can never tell," he said.
	"He's *definitely* a sister," I said, "and he has the hots for you, pup.
You want me to get him for you?"
	Matt giggled and crinkled his nose in distaste.  "You think they got
cameras in here?" he asked.
	"Not inside the booths, I don't think.  Why?  You planning on stealing
something?"
	"Just this," he said leaning forward pinning me against the mirror on the
wall of the booth.  He kissed me wetly.  I kissed him back, overcome with
fondness for him.  I must be nuts, I thought, chewing on his sweet lower
lip.  How could I not want this?
	I brought my hands up and pushed him off me, sweeping my knuckles across
his nipples a few times for good measure.
	"You're delicious," I said, trying to keep the sadness out of my voice.
"Let's try on the shirt."
	He pulled the shirt over his head.  It lay perfectly on him, of course.
Hugging his waist, the ribbing expanding generously where his chest filled
it.
	"Is this good?" he asked.
	"Mmm hmm."  I was finding it difficult to stay soft around him.
	We went through the other five shirts, each one looking perfect on his
perfect form.  Asshole, I thought.  He couldn't make clothes look bad if he
wanted to.  The black silk's smoothness was irresistible on him.  The
microfiber shone like his skin.  When he took the last one off, I returned
his attack with a parry of my own, pushing him against the bench on the
other side of the cubby and taking one of his perfect nipples into my
imperfect mouth.  He took my hand and put it on his crotch.  I felt his
hardness, slipped underneath his waistband and stroked it a few times.
Breaking off the suckle, I looked into his eyes.
	"What the hell am I going to do with you?" I asked.
	"I got a few ideas," he said, grinning.
	"I bet you do.  So what's your pleasure?"
	"Think we could suck each other off?"
	I laughed.  "I mean about the shirts."
	"Oh," he said, reaching for my dick.  "The shirts."  He stroked me stiff in
no time.  "Of course.  The shirts."
	I kissed him again, soulfully, passionately, but broke it before either of
us was sated.  "We can't do this," I said.
	"Why not?"
	"Not here," I laughed.  "We'll be arrested!"
	"Cool," he said, grabbing for my dick again.  I caught his wrist and pulled
it away from me.
	"Johnston would have my ass," I said.
	"Not before I did!"  He swatted my butt playfully with his free hand.
	"Put your shirt back on, pup."
	We left the store to the disappointment of the clerk and strolled with no
particular destination in mind.  I became aware of the sheer number of
people, male and female alike, who seeing Matt in the distance, stared at
him shamelessly until they passed.  I wondered if he were aware of it.
	Halfway through the mall, the same thing caught both our eyes and in
unison, without volition, we turned to lean on the railing and stare at the
promenade below where Adam and Dan were holding court.
	Adam was surrounded by four girls, each prettier than the last.  He was
sitting on a bench, leaning back with arms spread out on the seat back, a
girl within hugging distance on either side.  His legs stretched out in
front of him, creating a picture of perfect, open, confident comfort.  He
was laughing and though talking with one, he was including them all in the
conversation by generously spreading his gaze among them.  Their lips moved,
but their words were lost in the distance and the background din of the
mall.  One of the girls said something, and Adam nodded.  She made a muscle.
Adam weighed her bicep appreciatively, laughing and, I'm sure, praising.  He
returned the favor - her intention all along, of course - flexing his arm
and causing his bicep to swell.  The girl touched it tentatively, but after
an encouraging nod from Adam, caressed it in the guise of measuring its
size.  There was more talk, and Adam returned his arm to the seat back,
being sure to brush the girl's shoulder accidentally as he did so.  The girl
on his other arm began to talk, and he turned to her, smiling easily,
clearly enjoying being the focus of all eyes.  He had dimples, I realized
for the first time.  As he listened, his tongue rested on his lower lip like
when he worked out.  His smile was a living thing - changing contour and
intensity in detailed reaction to the story the girl was telling.  With the
hand on her side, he took some strands of her long hair and moved them from
her far shoulder.  She swept her head around so that the mass of silky hair
ended on the shoulder near him.  She said something else, and he began
stroking it.
	I was watching the dance.  I was Margaret Mead, I had traveled half way
around the world to a culture so foreign to mine that communication was all
but impossible and now, I was experiencing the culmination of all my effort
and expense.  I was watching the dance being danced.  And it made me
miserable.
	Jealousy?  Well, of course I was jealous.  But there was more to it than
that.  The Adam I knew did boys - or, rather, had boys do him.  The Adam I
knew used sex as a tool for social adjustment among his willing (mostly)
cohorts.  The Adam I knew had made me cum three times without ever touching
my dick.  But this was a different Adam.  And this Adam was straight.
	If you had asked me if Adam were straight or gay, I would have probably
waffled, thought, analyzed, and concluded he was straight.  That was a very
different knowledge, though, than the knowledge that was presenting itself
to Matt and me as we stood, leaning dumbly over the rail, watching the dance
unfold below.  Here he was in action, juggling four girls as easily as could
an octopus.  His hand moved to his abdomen, and he began stroking.  One of
the girls standing in front of him sat down on the floor and leaned on his
knee.  She started absent-mindedly twirling the hairs on his legs into
little ponytails. If she were like me, she wouldn't even be realizing she
was doing it yet, and Adam, of course, took the attention entirely in
stride, as if to have girls falling at your feet was the most natural thing
in the world.
	"Makes me kind of sad," I said quietly.  "Know what I mean?"
	"I'm used to it," replied Matt, who then added, "but yeah.  I know what you
mean."
	Dan stood a few feet away, talking with a buxom blond.  His black T-shirt
set off his pale skin, and I felt myself yearn once again for him.  The girl
on whom he was focused was leaning with her back against the rear corner of
a glass elevator shaft, her hands tucked into the small of her back.  Dan
had one hand on the glass, leaning close to her, invading her bubble.  It
was a vaguely menacing posture - at least in that she would have had
difficulty escaping him should she have chosen to try.  While her back was
to the wall, though, she didn't seem to mind his proximity.  They talked -
she with a goofy smile on her face, he in seriousness.  At one point, he
brought his free hand up and, with the back of his forefinger, lightly
stroked the exposed flesh on her upper arm a few times.  She shivered, said
something and laughed.  He nodded in response.  I detested her immediately.
	Watching Adam made me sad.  Watching Dan made me angry.  To see Adam prefer
girls left my heart wistful, melancholy.  To see Dan with a girl filled it
with rage.  I was supposed to let myself go, give myself over, free fall
into the arms of this man?  What was to say that when I landed, his arms
would not already be full with some woman?  Recognizing how angry I was
getting served to underscore just how completely I was falling for him.  I
wanted this man to take me.  I wanted him to take me and to take me to
places I hadn't yet even dreamed about.
	"Let's go," I said.  "This is depressing."
	Matt nodded, and followed.
	Seven-thirty found us at the entrance to the steak house.  Dan and Adam
showed up a short time later - alone, I was relieved to see.  I shot Dan an
unhappy look.  He returned it with an impassive one.  Doug arrived at a
quarter to with a Rubensesque young thing on his arm.  We were about to find
a table, when I heard a call from nearby.
	"Mark?" said the woman's voice, "Mark, is that you?"
	"Sharon!" I cried in delighted surprise.  "What the hell are you doing
here?"
	"We thought we'd take a day away from work."  She had Shmu on her arm.  He
and I shook hands.  I smiled and nodded at him conspiratorially.
	"Hey, Mark," he said, "where you been hiding yourself?"
	I explained the job - well, the g-rated aspects of it anyway - and asked
them if they'd like to join us without first checking if it was okay with
the boys.  The two of them agreed in unison and faster than they should
have, I thought.
	"Gentlemen," I said, beginning the introductions, "this is Sharon.  She's
in a grad program at school.  Sharon, this is Adam, Dan, Matt, Doug, and..."
	"Cindi," Doug's new friend said.  I knew for certain just looking at her it
was with a terminal i.
	"Why, hello," Sharon said directly and singularly to Adam.
	"Hey," he answered, turning his smile on her.  Sharon was not stunning, but
she could hold her own at a party and she had clearly primped in preparation
for her visit -- ostensibly to the mall.  For his part, Adam was, it seems,
willing to flirt with anyone who wanted to flirt with him - which was, of
course, everyone.
	"You're at school?" she asked.  "Funny, I would have expected to remember
having seen you around."
	"Maybe you're just looking in the wrong places," he said.
	"And where *should* I be looking?" she asked suggestively.
	"And this," I said, interrupting them and indicating Shmu, "is someone else
in the universe.  Another friend of mine. This is Shmu."
	"Shmu?" asked Doug.
	"It's short for Shmuel."
	"Shmool?" asked Doug.
	"It's a Hebrew name, Doug," I said.  "Shmu was born in Israel."
	"You can call me Sam, if you prefer," Shmu said, shaking Doug's hand.  Half
the people I knew called him Sam, the other half called him Shmu.  It made
it curious when he was discussed in absentia.  The uninitiated assumed he
was two different people.
	We were brought to a table where a minor scene from some forgotten Marx
Brothers movie ensued.  Sharon inserted herself clumsily between Adam and
me, with Matt on my other side, and Shmu forced himself into the seat to
Matt's right.
	"So what do you do, Sam?" asked Matt.
	"I'm going to be a senior," he said.  "You?"
	"Sophomore."
	"Sam is one of the stars of our baseball team," I added.
	"Cool," said Matt.  "What position?"
	"Shortstop."
	"You should see him out there.  Poetry in motion," I said.
	Shmu and I had had a fling a few years before.  His too-long, auburn hair
always hidden beneath a cap, deep brown eyes, patchy beard that he only
bothered to shave on even days, strong arms, perfect chest and an ass you
could rest a beer on had swept me off my feet when I had first met him.  But
his inability to discuss anything other than sports, be curious about the
world at large, or interested in anything other than his possible trip to
the Majors convinced me that we were not meant to be.  Well, that and four
months.  It would have been sooner, but the sex we had had was blindingly
perfect.  Since then, we had remained good friends, going out for a drink
every once in a while, clubbing together when the opportunity arose and
sharing the occasional friendly fuck if the circumstances were right.
	Sharon interrupted my train of thought, leaning over, cocking her head
slightly to indicate Adam and whispering in my ear, "cha-ching!"
	"Careful," I said back, as quietly as I could, "he has a way of getting
what he wants."
	"Mmmm," she said.  "Think he wants me?"
	I frowned at her.  She nodded and turned back to him to continue flirting.
	Sam and Matt and Doug were talking about the All-Star game, whose roster
had, evidently, just been announced.  It could have been Finno-Ugric, for
all I understood about the sport.  Cindi listened politely, her arm
disappearing under the tablecloth at an angle that indicated that Doug was,
indeed, able to concentrate on two different things at the same time.  Dan
listened in to their conversation but did not participate.  I avoided making
eye contact with him, angry as I was with him.
	Halfway through the salad, I began to be aware again of the number of
people in the restaurant who found themselves glancing too often at the
table.  In particular, a party of three high school girls were having
difficulty concentrating on their own food.  When they finished paying the
bill, but only after a heated whispered exchange among them, they arose en
masse and approached the table.
	"Excuse me," one of them said in a breathlessly timid voice, "but are you
Adam Hudson?"
	"Yeah," Adam said, "that's me."
	"That's so cool," the girl who had asked said, this time with more volume
and self-assurance.  The other two looked at each other in excited,
wide-eyed silence, pressing their lips together to keep from breaking out in
giggles.  "And you're Dan Magnusson, and Doug Bomer," she continued,
pointing at each of the boys in turn, "and Matt VanLuyken, and..." she came
to me and asked, "...you...you're..."
	"I'm Bela Karoli," I said in an improvised Romanian accent.  "Pleased to
make your akvaintans."
	"No, seriously," the girl said, "are you anyone?"
	"I'm no one at all," I replied, to which Sharon let out a very unladylike
chortle.
	A second girl managed to find her voice.  "You're, like, my absolute
favorite," she said to Adam, then added, as if clarification were necessary,
"of anyone.  Ever."
	"Thanks, he said.  What're your names?"
	"I'm Pam," the first one said.
	"Kristen."
	"Also Kristen," the third one said.
	"Well, Pam, Kristen, Also Kristen," Adam said, "you got a camera?"
	"No way!" Also Kristen gushed.  "Really?  You'd do that?"
	"For girls as pretty as you?  Of course," he said.
	They huddled and whispered together feverishly.  "Okay," Pam said, "we're
going to go buy a camera.  Don't move, okay?  We'll be right back.  Don't
Move!" she added for emphasis, as if we were about to leave before our
dinners arrived.  They left almost at a gallop.
	"There'll be three wet pillows come morning," Sharon remarked sardonically.
  "That happen often?"
	The boys all nodded.
	"It's a wonder you don't carry guns," she said, rolling her eyes.
	"The price of fame," Adam answered.  "Without them, the USOC would get no
funding, and we'd have to go back to paying for everything ourselves."  The
others nodded in agreement.
	"Besides," added Doug, "it's a kick."
	When the girls returned, the four boys got up from the table and
intermingled with them, placing their arms around the girls' waists. The
young ladies fairly swooned in response.  I was handed a disposable camera,
which I removed from its package.
	"Okay," I said, "on three.  One, two, three..." The moment I said three,
the boys all turned to the nearest cheek and kissed it, just as the flash
went off.  By the coordination, it must have been something they did all the
time.  As it was, the girls would have a photo of four gods kissing the most
shocked, surprised faces under the sun.  Two dozen thanks were offered, and
the girls, light-headed and giddy, tripped out of the restaurant.
	The boys took their seats again.  The momentary silence was broken by
Sharon.
	"I got a camcorder in the car," she said to Adam.  "What'll you do for
*that*?"
	Adam laughed and raised his eyebrows suggestively.  I poked her in the ribs
with my elbow.
	When dinner had ended, we paid and made for the exit.  Doug took me aside.
	"Hey, bud, can I have the keys to the car?"
	"You can't be serious."
	"Please, man," he said, "I'm beggin' ya."
	I looked at him. He pleaded with his eyes.  How could I turn him down?  I
dug into my pockets and handed him the keys.  "If you get into an accident,
you better die, 'cause if you don't, I'm going to kill you," I said.
	"You're the greatest, guy," he said.  "Anything you want, you just ask."  I
believed him.  Doug was like that.  I felt like I could call him with a flat
tire and he'd pick me up - in Nome.
	"Be back by ten," I said.  "We'll meet right here."
	He nodded as he trotted away from me to collect the very lucky Cindi.
	"And clean up after yourself, for Christ sake."  He waved without turning
around.
	That left the six of us until Adam put his arm around Sharon's shoulder and
said, "you're cool.  I like you.  You'll have to look us up when we're back
in school."
	"I will indeed," she replied, taking his wrist in one hand and intertwining
the fingers of the other with his.
	"But we gotta go now.  Dan and I got something we have to do."
	Dan looked over at Adam questioningly, but said nothing.
	"Too bad," Sharon said, "but I understand completely."
	There was an awkward silence while nobody moved.
	"I'll need my hand back," Adam said.
	"Pity," replied Sharon, "I was so looking forward to using it later."
	He smiled, and removed his hand from hers.  He and Dan made off down the
promenade.
	And then there were four.  We set off together, having decided to go toward
the amusement park at Shmu's suggestion.  Matt and Shmu were now talking
about gymnastics - how it was and wasn't like baseball.  Sharon took my arm,
as we strolled, and veered us away from them.
	"He's amazing," she said.
	"He sure is."
	"Who does he play for?"
	"Anyone who'll pay," I said.  She raised her eyebrows at that.  "No, not
that.  Pay emotionally."
	"I felt the transdermal at work, you know," she said.  "I was wet just
sitting next to him."
	"TMI, Sharon."
	"Shut up, you little faggot, and be professional," she laughed.  "I'm
talking business.  We have a lot of money at stake here."
	"Did you feel the tingle when he touched you?"
	"In fact I did.  I was going to ask you about that.  I didn't know if it
was me or not."
	"No, it's him.  Listen, Sharon, I have a little present for you," I said,
taking my knapsack off and rummaging around inside it.  I pulled out the
Ziploc bag and handed it to her."
	"And here I tell people you never get me anything!"  She swished the liquid
around in the bottle, assessing its weight.
	"That going to be enough?"
	"Plenty.  It'll be a good start, anyway.  This will last me the month.
Good job."
	"I was worried about the plastic contaminating it, but there was nothing I
could do about that."
	"I can work around that.  I know what plastic looks like close up," she
said.  "Anyway, how's your end of it coming?"
	"He's extraordinary, Sharon."
	"That I can see.  How does he do it?"
	"Well first, it doesn't affect everyone.  He has this theory that..."
	"*He* has a theory?" she interrupted, "*He* does?"
	"Yeah..."
	"You can't publish *his* theory, Mark.  Don't ever use those two words
together again, you understand?  We're talking millions of dollars here."
	"A theory is being developed," I said, "that there's an
aggressive/permissive continuum on which he is an outlyer on one end of the
scale.  The factors at his disposal work better the farther you get from his
end of the spectrum.  I'd like to test that out - get a bunch of volunteers,
give them the Myers-Briggs and design an instrument to see if we can assign
a number on this continuum.  Then put them in contact with Adam and do some
controlled experiments."
	"Is he willing?"
	"Yeah, I think he is."
	"What does he want out of it?"
	"I think just self-knowledge."
	"Would he be willing to sign a standard waiver that makes that binding?"
	Sharon, a good friend, was seeming less and less appealing as the
conversation went on.  "Look, Shar, we're talking about a friend of mine."
	She stopped and dropped my arm.  "I can't believe it, Mark," she said in a
disgusted voice, "you got involved, didn't you?"
	"Well, not 'involved' involved..."
	"You did.  You're totally in the box.  I can't believe it.  What's the
matter with you?!  Do you know what this means?"
	"Look, toots," I said testily, "I have it under control.  I know what I'm
doing.  Psych research is different than yours.  You put some chemicals in a
box, you read the numbers. Big shit. There's a little more art to it on our
end, you know.  I know how to do research, and more importantly, I know how
to write a paper that passes peer review.  So you do your job and let me do
mine."
	"You're a shit, you know that?" she said angrily.
	"Shar," I said, taking her arm again, "here's something I know: this fight
that we're having?  It's not real.  It's because of him.  It's the residual
effects.  I'm jealous that you got to flirt with him, you're jealous that I
get to be around him.  The fight is his..fog...working through our system.
It doesn't mean anything.  You understand?"
	"How very curious," she said.  I am feeling kind of crabby right now for no
apparent reason.
	"That's what he does to you.  Cool, huh?"
	The smile returned to her lips.  "Yeah, actually.  I wonder if we could aim
him at people?"
	"But listen - he may be a potential million for us, but he's a person.
He's actually a pretty good person.  We can't do one of these Stanley
Milgram things on him.  It wouldn't work, I don't think, because he's to
savvy, and more important, it wouldn't be fair to him.  So you let me play
it, okay?  I'm the one in the trenches.  You do what you're brilliant at.
Let me do what I'm brilliant at.  Deal?"
	"Deal," she said and turned me back toward the amusement park.
	When we got there, Matt and Shmu had found the indoor batting cages.  They
were in adjoining booths, matching machine-thrown ball for machine-thrown
ball.  Shmu's went farther, of course, hitting the nets higher and with
greater strength, but Matt was matching him hit for hit.  Sharon and I
watched the two of them play with the same sad wistfulness that Matt and I
had earlier watched Adam and Dan play.
	"Life's not fair," Sharon said.  "You know that?"
	"Yeah," I sighed, "otherwise it would freckle in the sun."
	She looked at me for a beat and laughed.
	At ten we all met and said our good byes. Damp, red-faced Doug and the
somewhat disheveled Cindi closed with a sloppy kiss, Sharon and I with a hug
and a private word whispered into an ear, and Matt and Shmu with a hearty
handshake that was held three times longer than the legal straight limit for
male-male body contact.
	We piled into the car, this time Adam allowing Dan to sit in front.  I
scowled at him vaguely.
	"Mickey Dee's," Doug said from the back, as I began to pull out of the
parking lot.
	I laughed.  "Christ, Doug, we just ate."
	"Worked up an appetite," he said.  Adam looked over at him, smiled, and the
two high-fived across Matt.
	I navigated to a McDonald's, pulled into the drive-thru and let Doug and
Matt order.  I found the highway, more horrible music was selected and we
made off toward the camp.
	An hour later, the three boys in the back were fast asleep.  I looked over
at Dan again and frowned.
	"What?" he asked.
	"Nothing," I replied icily.
	"Don't do the coy shit," he said.  "If there's something bothering you, say
it.  Otherwise, get over yourself."
	I hit the fade button on the radio so that the sound came primarily from
the speakers in the back seat.  Confident that the boys were really asleep
and speaking softly, I asked, "Dan, look...Are you gay or straight?"
	"Do I have to be one?" he asked.
	I frowned.  "I saw you with that blond before dinner," I said.
	"What's your point?"
	"Well, if you're straight, I think I have a right to know."
	"You have a right?"
	"Yeah.  I have a right.  If I'm going to be...putting myself in your hands,
I think I have a right to know if you're just going to use me and then throw
me away for some chick as soon as the camp is over."
	He looked at me for almost a quarter of a mile before he sidled over to me,
put one of his arms around my shoulder and the other in my lap, lightly
stroking the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh as I had seen him do
to the arm of the girl.  He put his lips close to my ear and began to
whisper in it.
	"I'm straight," he said, sotto voice, his fingernail on the skin of my legs
making me instantly hard, "I'm gay."
	I tried to pull away from him, but it was impossible as I was driving.
Instead, I was merely able to jiggle a little in my seat.  "That's not an
answer," I said, as he continued stroking me.
	"Are you jealous?" he whispered.
	"...Yes.  I guess I am."
	He took my right hand from the steering wheel and brought it to his crotch.
  The mound there was prodigious.
	"Cool," he whispered.  "This is what happens to me when y'all get jealous."
  His breath tickled my ear.
	I wasn't placated.  "You get hard," I said, "what do I get?"
	He licked my earlobe, and I shivered.  "This is what y'all signed on for,
Mark," he said.  "If it's not what you want, take my hand away from you and
that'll be it."
	We drove on for a mile in silence with his fingernails still running
figure-eights in my lap, and my hand still, inexplicably, in his, outlining
just how large his great mass of flesh had become within his shorts.
	"That's what I thought," he whispered in my ear, "it's like the trampoline.
  Don't confuse what you want with what you need."  He grabbed my crotch in
his strong hand and squeezed it tightly, somewhat painfully.  "We'll begin
tomorrow."