B & G


Chapter 3

The following fictional narrative involves sexually-explicit erotic events between men.  If you shouldn't be reading this, please move on.

In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms.  In the real world, you should care enough about yourself and others to always practice safe sex.

The author retains all rights.  No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.

The titles of all of my Nifty stories are listed in the Authors section under Tim Mead.

Thanks and love to Tom for always patiently and carefully doing the editing chores, and to the rest of my Nifty Six colleagues.


Things got busy after the Schumann concert.  Much of Rae's spare time was taken up with rehearsals for the faculty string quartet recital scheduled for early January.  We were all busy getting ready for term papers and final exams, which came the week before Christmas.

When I found out the Theater Department was doing Ibsen's "Enemy of the People," I reserved two tickets for the Friday night performance.  Gabe had called to congratulate me the day after the Schumann concert, but I had seen him only in passing for the last couple of weeks.  When I called B & G I was told he was out on campus somewhere and they'd have him get back to me.  When I returned to my office after my next class, he was waiting by my office door.

"You could have gone on in," I said.  "I know you have a master key."  I unlocked the door and we went in.

"Don't like to do that except in emergency.  You having trouble with your thermostat?"

"No, this is social.  Got time to chat?"

He grinned.  "A minute, maybe two if I turn off my pager."  He sat.  "How've you been?"

"Things have been pretty busy lately.  Everyone seems to have realized suddenly that the term's going to be over soon.  But I've missed our get-togethers."  I hadn't meant to say that, but it was true.

He smiled.  "Really?  So have I."

I was relieved to hear that because when he didn't show up after the concert, I thought maybe he'd lost interest in me.

"Gabe, I've got two tickets for the Friday evening performance of `An Enemy of the People.'  Would you like to go with me?"

"Indeed I would, professor."

"Great!  Maybe we can stop for a glass of wine afterward."

"I've got a better idea.  Why don't we go to my place?  I'll have something to drink and nibbles of some kind, and we can kick back as long as we want since it's a Friday night."

"Sounds good to me."  It sounded fantastic, actually.  I'd never been to his place or he to mine, so this was a step in the right direction for the friendship I hoped we were building.

He stood and switched on his pager.  "Shall I meet you at the theater?"

"Let me pick you up, since we're going back to your place later."

"Do you know where it is?"


He took a pad from my desk and wrote his address on it.

"Thanks, Gabe.  I'll be by about 7:30, okay?"

Another of those dazzling smiles.  "I'll be ready."

He turned to leave, stopped, and turned back toward me.  "Brent, I need to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"You know, I looked for you after the Schumann concert.  I wanted to tell you how fine it was, how fine you were.  But by the time I got to the Green Room, you were gone.  I'd hoped we could go somewhere afterward, but I should have known you'd have other plans."

I got a lump in my throat, but I managed to say, "Actually, I didn't have any plans.  When Rae Menzies asked me back to her place, I hadn't seen you, so I went with her."

"Right.  Well, I'm sure you and she had a good time.  Thanks for the theater invitation.  I'll see you Friday."  

I left my office door open whenever I was in the building so anyone looking for me would know I'd be back soon.  I went up a flight of stairs and down the hall to Rae's studio.  She was just finishing with a student, a short, serious-looking young woman who hadn't yet outgrown her acne.

"Bye, Sue, see you next time."  The girl nodded at Rae, ignored me, and left.  Rae flashed me one of her beautiful smiles.  

"Rae, I think we need to talk."

"Oh, my, that sounds serious."

"Nothing dire, if that's what you mean.  You free for supper this evening?"

"Well, yes – "

"I'd like to take you out as a thank-you for the nice champagne party after the concert."

"It's not necessary, Brent, really."

"Maybe not, but will you come?"

"Sure."  She gave me a puzzled look.  "Maybe we SHOULD talk."

Although it was December, it was a clear night, so we decided to walk from her apartment to a little mom-and-pop Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away.  Though we were both wearing gloves, she grabbed my hand and held it until we got to Galucci's.  While we were waiting for our salads, we had some good red wine and crusty rolls to dip into herb-flavored olive oil.  She complained good naturedly that she was too busy rehearsing for the quartet recital in January to think much about what she would play in her own recital in February.

"Sounds like bad scheduling to me.  Why don't you ask the dean if you can postpone it?"

"I don't know whether those things are carved in stone or not, and as a second-year person, I'm reluctant to ask for a favor."

"I'd at least ask.  All she can say is `no.'"

She smiled at me as she said, "Maybe I will.  Now, what's new with you?"

"Well, speaking of Dean Bledsoe, she's asked me to take on a couple of horn students next semester."

"Wonderful!  Or I suppose it is.  Will you be paid?  Will they give you a studio?"

"Yes and no.  I'll get a little extra money, but I'll share a studio with Derek Fulkes, the adjunct who teaches some of the trumpet students."

"I've met him.  He seems nice enough.  And for two students you won't really need a studio all by yourself."


The salads came, so we busied ourselves with them.  It wasn't until the salad plates were cleared, our wine replenished, and the pasta served that she narrowed her eyes a little and asked, "So, Brent, why are we here?  It looks a lot like the scenario where the woman gets dumped."

"Oh, shit, Rae!"

I relaxed a little when she grinned.  "So I'm right?"

"Well, first of all, I thought we were friends.  I don't think `dump' is appropriate here.  And I hope we'll stay friends."

"That's what they all say!"

"Rae, I'm about to tell you something that's really difficult for me, something I've never told anyone."

Her smile continued, but it became softer.  She reached across the table and put her hand on mine.

"It's all right, Brent.  I think I know."

I set my wine glass down so quickly some of it spilled onto the checked table cloth.  "You do?"

"You're gay, aren't you?"

"Sort of."

She laughed.  "How can you be `sort of' gay?"

"You know, this isn't a laughing matter for me."

"Poor baby!  I suppose it isn't."

"I said `sort of' because I've had no sexual experience with male or female since I was in the eighth grade."  I think I blushed.  "I'm a total virgin.  But by inclination, instinct, urges, I'm totally gay.  If I weren't, I'd have been all over a sweet, intelligent, and very attractive woman like you."

"I'd just about come to that conclusion.  About your being gay, that is."

"Rae, please don't think I was using you.  You're a wonderful woman, great to look at, fun to be with.  But ever since that kiss the night of the concert, I've felt guilty for not being honest with you.  I don't suppose you can forgive me?"

Our pasta was growing cold, forgotten in the discussion.  Rosa Galucci came over to the table to ask if there was something wrong with the food.  When we both assured her that it was delicious, she went away looking doubtful.  For a few minutes, largely to placate Mama G., we worked on the pasta, which was indeed very good.


Her comment took me by surprise.  "I'm sorry.  Yes what?"

"Yes, I can forgive you.  But dammit whoever said all the best men are either married or gay was right."

"I'm so sorry, Rae.  But look, you're beautiful, smart, and talented, a prize catch for some lucky guy."

She grinned.  "Well, forgive me, but it's been a while since I've straddled anything but my cello, and I was hoping maybe I'd found a hunky substitute."

I couldn't think of anything to say.  It was gratifying that she felt like that about me.  I'd never thought anyone would find me particularly attractive, certainly not `hunky.'  We finished our meal without talking much.  She declined coffee or dessert.  I left a substantial tip so that Mama G. would be mollified.

As we walked home, Rae asked, "So you intend to stay in the closet?"

"Yeah.  I've always tried to be inconspicuous.  It's been almost a first for me to date you, if that's what we've been doing."

"But so many men are out these days, especially in places like this.  Why not find yourself a good man?"

"Rae, it's a long story."

We had gotten to her building by then.   "Come on up.  I'll make some coffee, and then you can tell me."

"Are you sure you want to?  I'd understand if you – "

"Sweetheart, we are obviously not going to be lovers, but we can still be good friends.  Do you have any sibs?"


"Okay, then I'm your new sis."  When we were both sitting across the kitchen table from each other with mugs of coffee in front of us, I told her the whole story.  About the beating, about Scott, about shutting myself off from the whole dating scene, about trying to be Mr. Cellophane, like the character in "Chicago."

"So, I brought you out of your shell, if not out of the closet?"

"Yeah, I guess you have.  And, Rae, you've got to understand that I have come to feel close to you, and I treasure our time together.  So I hope you won't think I was just using you for cover."

"You've already said you weren't, and I believe you."

"Then we're okay?  You'll be my sis?"  I liked the sound of that.

"Yes, and I'm going to exercise a sister's prerogative right away by giving you some advice."

"And that would be . . . ?"

"Brent, baby, you're a very handsome man.  You're excellent company, very caring and thoughtful."


"Maybe you should just not worry so much about being gay and simply be yourself.  Being gay is a part of who you are, certainly.  You don't want to flaunt it, but you really don't need to hide it, either.  You just might find the right guy out there."  She paused.  "Or perhaps you already have."

"What makes you say that?"

"You and that guy from B & G, Gabe something or other, the one with the great ass, seem pretty friendly."

"You know about that?"

She grinned.  "Well, duh!  I've seen you two together at recitals.  And I think you were looking around for him when I dragged you away after the Schumann last month."

"You did not drag me away.  I came quite willingly, and our champagne party was lovely."

"Yes, it was nice, but I think you had thought about going somewhere with the studly electrician."

"He's a very interesting guy, you know."

"And hunky."

I smiled as I thought of Gabe.  "Yeah, that too.  But he's really smart and well informed."

"And he doesn't know you're gay?"

"Oh, my God, no!"

"Don't you think you should tell him?"

"I'm so afraid he wouldn't want anything to do with me if he knew I was gay."

"Doesn't he deserve to make that choice for himself?  You say you felt guilty for not telling me.  What about your friendship with Gabe?  Do you feel guilty for not telling him?"

I promised her I'd think about it.

On Friday night I found Gabe's two-story duplex without trouble.  He came out as soon as I pulled up.  I was nervous as he slid into the seat beside me, fastened his belt, and said, "Hi!  I've really been looking forward to this."

I nodded, not trusting myself to say how eager I'd been for that evening to arrive.

On the way back to his house afterward, he asked what I thought of the production.  "You've just come from New York.  I suppose this is pretty small-time stuff for you."

"Look," I said, more sharply than I had intended, "I'm from here in Ohio.  I went to college here.  This is like being home for me.  Besides, even though I went to a lot of music performances in New York, I couldn't afford to go to Broadway more than a couple of times a year."

"Okay, professor, sorry!  So tell me what you thought."

"It was well mounted, well directed, and, for the most part, well acted.  But the play seemed a little dated."

He thought about that for a while.  "Dated?  Yeah, maybe.  But look at it this way.  Here's perhaps the first play in Western Theater that's about the environment.  Which makes it pretty timely, I'd think."

That was the first time Gabe had ever really challenged me on anything, and I loved it.  As I thought about it, he was right.  "Given all that's happening these days, the play just seemed somehow pretty tame to me.  But Ibsen WAS a pioneer in raising issues like that, wasn't he?"

"You bet your ass he was!"

I'd spent so much time fantasizing about his ass that it was startling to have him mention mine, even if it was in a cliché.  It was fun when he was assertive.  A great face, a body to die for, and a first-rate mind?  Too good to be true.  But then, of course, he was straight.  I was increasingly curious to learn more about Gabe, so I wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize our friendship, whatever Rae had suggested.

When we went inside, I looked around as he was hanging our coats in a closet inside the front door.  I was impressed with how well decorated the place was and told him so.  He explained that he owned the building and that the rent from the other unit covered the mortgage payments.

"I don't want to be pushy, but could I have `the tour'?"

He made a little mock bow.  "Right this way, sir."  He showed me the kitchen, which had a coffee grinder, an electric juicer, and a rack with some pretty professional-looking cookware.

"You must enjoy cooking."

"Sure do.  I'll have to fix supper for you one of these days.  Do you cook?"

"Well, I can't afford to eat out all the time, so yeah, but it's mostly tv dinners and such."

There was a nice-sized living/dining combination area with sliding doors onto a patio.  Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with an en suite bath.  When we got back downstairs, he told me there was also a basement where the laundry pair, furnace, and hot water tank were located.  "Great place, Gabe," I said.  "I envy you.  This sure is nicer than my apartment."  I was about to comment on how well he'd decorated it, but I thought that might sound gay.  Or as if I thought he was gay.

"So, Brent, I've got a decent shiraz which we could have with some brie, or I've got scotch, bourbon, cognac, or beer."

"I'm not particularly hungry, so how about just some cognac?"  After I was settled in the living room with my drink, he lighted a fire in the fireplace and kicked off his loafers, inviting me to do the same.  I did.

We sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the fire.  It was perfect, natural, something I'd needed all my life.  I think it was then, with the Remy warming my insides, the fire radiating its warmth into the room, and the glow of Gabe's companionship giving me an overall sense of well being, that I realized what I was feeling wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before.

He interrupted my reverie.  "Brent, you remember some time ago you asked about me and I promised I'd explain?"

Hooray!  Perhaps I was finally going to get some answers to questions I'd had.  "Sure do," I said.

"Would you like to hear it now?  I mean, I hate going on about myself, but there are some things that I'd want a good friend to know."

Wondering what sort of revelations were to come, I gestured toward him with my snifter and said, "Good friend, huh?  I'd be honored to hear anything you feel like telling me."


Brent kept me guessing.  One time he was off with Rae Menzies, the next he was inviting me to the theater.  After he performed in the Schumann piece, I missed him because the two of them, as I learned later, went back to her place.  Needless to say, my mind was full of ideas about what they did there, none of them very pleasing to me.  I was beginning to give up hope, to think my gaydar was all wrong, and he was straight and interested in the undeniably beautiful cellist.  Thus his invitation to see the Ibsen play lifted my spirits considerably.  Assuming we'd do something together afterward, I resolved to satisfy his curiosity about me, his sense that I hadn't always been an electrician.  When we were comfortable at my place in front of the fire with our cognac, I told him a little about myself.

"My dad's a contractor, owns the Sutton Construction Company in Medina, builds new homes.  He's not a giant in the industry, but he does okay.  I have an older sister, by the way, but no brothers.  I played soccer from middle school until I graduated from high school.  Summers I worked for Dad.  In the process I learned a lot about carpentry, plumbing, and such.  But I was most interested in the work the electricians did.  I kept working for Dad during summers while I was in college, becoming a licensed electrician in the process."

I took a sip of my cognac and glanced at Brent.  He was cradling his snifter in both hands and looking steadily at me.  He said nothing, so I continued.  "This may be the part that has puzzled you about me.  I went to Miami of Ohio, down in Oxford, and majored in English.  I decided early on that I wanted to be an English professor.  I thought living on a university campus and getting paid for talking about literature sounded like a pretty cool life."

"Aha!" he said, grinning.  "That explains a lot.  But what happened to change your plans?"

"I wonder whether you'll understand this."  I went over and poked the logs, so the fire, after sending up a cloud of sparks, flamed brightly again.  "My grades at Miami were good enough that I got a teaching fellowship at OSU."


"By the time I was ABD, I'd seen enough to make me reconsider my career goals.  This is not to knock State, but I saw how cut-throat life is for young English professors, and how depressing.  They get to teach nothing much but freshman composition for years, but they are expected to keep doing research and cranking out articles or books if they are ever to have a hope of promotion or tenure.  Most colleges and universities pay some sort of lip service to good teaching, what they like to call `excellence in the classroom,' but what they really want from their junior staff is a string of publications.  I also saw all the campus politics, and the endless round of meetings."

"I hear you," Brent said, "and I know a little of what you're describing.  But it must be worse in English than in music."

"Maybe so."

"So, how did you wind up here?"

"As I said, I really liked campus life.  Short of living in a major city, a university is the best place for a guy who loves music and theater.  So I decided to chuck the doctorate and look for a job that I could enjoy without all the stress but that offered the cultural opportunities I wanted.  And here I am."

"And you're really happy doing what you're doing?"

I grinned.  "Yup.  I've got a job I like, with all the goodies of university life but without the aggravation of being a junior English prof.  And, you know, there's something satisfying about working with your hands.  At the end of the day you can point to tangible things and say, `I did that'."

He frowned.  "Gabe, how do your parents feel about your decision?"

"Mom was really upset for a while.  She thought because I made Phi Beta Kappa at Miami I was wasting my abilities.  I think Dad was secretly pleased, though he's never come right out and said so.  But then, he's still hoping I'll take over the company when he's ready to retire."

"Do you think you might do that?"

"At this point, who knows?  Dad won't retire for at least another ten years, and lots could happen between now and then.  I'm not ruling it out, but at this point I'm pretty content."

Brent lifted his snifter to me.  "You're an amazing man, Gabe Sutton."

"Why, thank you, sir!"  We touched glasses.

"How many people around campus know about your academic credentials?"

"You're the only person I've told since I got the job.  I asked Frank, the superintendent of B & G, to keep it quiet when I was hired, and so far as I know, he has."

"Why don't you want anyone to know?"

"Because the people I work with would probably look askance at me if they knew.  And I just want to be one of the guys."

"Guys including Ms. Narbone?"

I laughed.  "We have a couple of women in the department in non-clerical positions, as a matter of fact."

"Gabe, that gal's infatuated with you!"


"Uh huh."

"Surely not.  She's good at what she does, and, probably because of her size or being a woman or both, she works harder than anyone on my crew.  But I can't believe she's interested in me."

"You better believe it.  I can tell by the way she looks at you."  He looked at me seriously.  Obviously he wasn't joking about Sherry. "How would you feel if she were?  If she is?  Shit, you're the English major.  You know what I mean."

I shrugged, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "She's not my type."


"She's not my type."  That was ambiguous enough to give me an inkling of hope.  Did he mean that Sherry Narbone was, of the women he might want to have a relationship – or a fuck – with, not the one he'd choose?  Or was he perhaps suggesting obliquely what I hoped was true, that he preferred men?

I wanted very much to grab him and kiss him at that moment, to declare the strong feelings I had for him, but cowardice and ten years of caution and restraint won out.  I needed more evidence.  Besides, if he was gay, why hadn't he been more open about it?  I was sure he liked me.  He seemed to enjoy being with me as much as I enjoyed being with him.  So I could only conclude that he thought of us as just straight guys with a growing friendship.

I finished the last of my cognac and put the glass on the coffee table.  "Gabe, I'm honored that you trusted your deep, dark secret to me, and I promise I won't tell anyone."  I grinned.  "God forbid people in this university should know that the guy who keeps the plant running is a Phi Bate and has nearly finished his PhD."

"Nearly finished is as far as it's ever going to be, too."

We talked a while longer, but it was getting late, so I stood.  He stood.  "Your promise includes Ms. Menzies, right?  You two seem pretty close."  He looked worried.  Worried!  That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"Gabe, Rae and I are good friends, but that's all.  We've decided that we're sort of like brother and sister.  There's nothing romantic between us.  What I promised you just now goes for everyone.  Your secret is safe with me."  I was wondering as I said that what it would be like to be kissed by a man with a mustache.  Shaking my head to clear it of such thoughts, I thanked him for the hospitality.  

He helped me into my topcoat.  Then he surprised the hell out of me.  He hugged me.  "Thanks for the theater, Brent.  This has been a good evening."

Still a little flustered by the hug, I said something clever like "My pleasure."  After we promised to see each other again soon, I left.  On the way home, I told myself that something had to give.  I didn't want to lose Gabe's friendship if he was straight.  What was I to make of the hug, and the worried look when he asked about Rae?  

I went to bed horny and confused.


The hug was entirely spontaneous.  I think, though, that if he'd stayed longer, I might have come out to him.  But then it seemed as if he left sooner than he needed to.  I didn't think telling him about my life and my education had done anything to turn him off, but he seemed a little uncomfortable as he left.  He did say, however, we should get together again soon.  I was greatly relieved when he said there was nothing romantic going on between him and the beautiful cellist.  Maybe my gaydar hadn't been wrong after all.  

At any rate, I decided to try to keep the friendship going and see what happened.

That night I had a vivid dream.

Kling Hall, the newer of the Conservatory's two buildings, was three stories tall.  Its flat roof had about a thirty-inch parapet running all around it.  Since the A/C units were on the roof, I'd been up there many times.  Only B & G people had access to the roof, and I'd always enjoyed its view of the campus, with its well-tended lawns, big old trees, and buildings of different vintages and architectural styles.

It was a mild summer evening.  Brent and I had spread out an old tarp and covered that with a blanket and were having a picnic of cheese, a baguette, and some merlot, which we were drinking from the bottle.  The bread wasn't sliced, so we tore off hunks and ate them.  

We were both wearing tees, khaki shorts, and our Birks – without socks, of course.  I lay stretched out, propped up on one elbow, munching a piece of bread, looking at him as he sat cross-legged facing me.  I admired his long, thin feet with their long toes.  Then I began, as they say, undressing him with my eyes, imagining him naked.  Nice image.

He held out a piece of cheese.  I opened my mouth, and he popped it in.  I chewed, swallowed, and took a drink of the wine.  Then I handed him the bottle and he drank.

"Lie down," he said.  I complied.  He unfastened and unzipped my shorts. "Lift your butt," he said.  I lifted my butt.  Since I wasn't wearing underwear, my hard cock immediately flopped against my belly when he pulled off my shorts.  Brent lay on his stomach between my spread legs and began to lick my thing, getting it really wet with his saliva.  

"Oh, suck me, baby!" I moaned.  He grinned and took as much as he could of me in his mouth.  When I was nearly ready to scream with pleasure, he pulled off and stood up.

"Brent, what's wrong?  Why did you stop?"  

He held his hands down and helped me stand up.  "Come with me," he said, giving me a sexy smile.  He led me over to the parapet on the west side of the building.  The sun was just setting.  Brent dropped his shorts, revealing his own beautiful erection, leaned over and put his hands on the top of the parapet.  

"Fuck me, Gabriel!" he growled.

I chuckled.

"What's funny?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"You could have said, `Blow me, Gabriel, blow'."

"Right now, stud, you look more like a satyr than an archangel.  So get on with it, please."

I stuck my still-wet dick into him, and we fucked as we watched the sun set.

To be continued.