The usual disclaimers apply. It's copyrighted stuff, so please ask if you must.

Thanks for your patience. Busy times at the old corral, but I need to get this sent out. Apologies for the Perils of Pauline finish. Stay tuned. We're still in southern Mexico, but the next episode should land us back in icy Cambridge. I know, I know. In the words of one of Dickens's narrators, ". . . I am getting on irregularly as it is." Comments to dorsalslit@hotmail.com.

COMING OF AGE AT HARVARD. PART 11.

Cold. Dim. Fireplace noises. Fire-building. Kindling caught. Cedar smell. Coffee smell. Morning already? Where am I? Metaphysical question. Shit. After last night, how was I to know? Maybe last night didn't happen. Triple shit. Maybe I just dreamt it. If only. Dad? Daddy? It happened all right. Klaus fucked DaDa. But good. And me? Vicarious participant?

A case of conscience. A tender hard-on. The morning woody. John Thomas's standard response. No moral quandaries. Hey boss. Let's get it on boss. Let's fuck something. I'm ready boss. Oh, yeah. Fuck, yeah. Oh fuck.

Looked over at Dad's bed. Occupied. By himself alone. Hugging his pillow, half-smiling, looking five years younger. A living, breathing advertisement for the youth-giving benefits of hard Teutonic screwing. No sign of Klaus, but plenty of activity by Joselito, the mozo who'd brought coffee, raked out the fire, and got a new one going. Too much noise, Little Joe. Gracias. Hasta. And enter Klaus, back from his shower looking big and damp, kicking Dad's bed.

"Up up up, Hansi boy. Shower time. Nobody's in there now. Not much hot water, either. Take the flashlight. Power's off."

Dad groaned, stretched, climbed into his ratty robe, grabbed his kit, and headed for the portal without a word. But not before I saw him give Klaus a quick pat on the butt. Klaus looked over, saw I was awake, saw I saw, and grimaced. "Coffee, Juanito?"

"Sure thing. Please." Klaus poured a couple of cups from the blue-and-white pot, added sugar to mine, and brought both over to my night table. He looked even more blonde-god-like than ever, but maybe that's because I could see more of him--towel draped around his neck, another towel around his waist, slim hips, big chest, golden-hairy legs. I was supposed to hate the father-fucker. Wasn't I? My life had changed. Hadn't it? He's a depraved faggot. Right? The beautiful monster touched my hair, sat on the bed.

"We need to talk, joven." Klaus was serious. "About last night." He took a sip of his coffee, then replaced the cup on the table. "We don't have much time right now. But you saw, right?"

I sat up in bed, not looking. "Yeah. I saw plenty. Does Dad know I was awake?"

"I don't think so. No. I'm sure he doesn't. He was pretty far gone. And I don't think he needs to know that you know about us. Not yet. Not now, anyway. What do you think?"

I thought. Or tried to. I swallowed some of the strong, sweet coffee. Klaus may have had, surely did have, every motive of his own for concealment. But I agreed. "You're right. Dad would not be happy. If he knew his kid knew that you and he were . . . what you both are. Whatever that is." I took a deep breath and looked at Klaus for the first time.

"'Whatever that is.'" He echoed me. "That's what we need--I need--to talk about. Seriously. For me and for you. And for your father. Can we?"

I nodded. "We have to. I'm all messed up. Can't think straight. You saw what was happening with me last night. Didn't you?"

"Oh, yes. In that last flash. I'll never forget it. Never want to. But for now . . . you going to be OK?"

"Honestly? Dunno. Hope so. I'll try. For Dad's sake." And I added, without thinking, "And for yours."

"Thanks, joven. We'll talk later. Today. Just don't hate me. " He rose from the bed, looked down, picked up something from the floor. "Scheiss, Juanito. What's this? Your cum-rag? You want the maid to find it?" He held up my cold, soaked cum-sock. "Ditch it."

"Dumb. I'll get rid of it. Hey. What's wrong?" He looked hard at the sock and then at me. Seriously.

"There's blood on it, Juanito. What's going on? You've been bleeding? You sure you're OK?" I heard concern in his voice. He drew back the coverlet and sheet. I lay naked and exposed before him. And in a low, slow voice, he spoke. Not what I was expecting.

"Wie schön du bist. You know that?"

At the moment what I mostly knew was that I was naked and hard. Exposed. My cock was up, flat against my belly. Erect. Looking big against my lean body. Not totally hard, but hard enough. It was morning, remember? Woodpecker time. Dammit, Klaus, cover me back up. J.T. couldn't help being J.T., could he? Still, I didn't grab the sheet or hide my erection, which was starting to lift off my stomach in regular jerks. Klaus was staring, and I must be liking it. Oh, man. Was I fucked up or what?

Now in a thicker voice. "Ja. There's an abrasion on your penis. On that funny tab of skin left over from where they cut you when you were a baby. You must have rubbed it raw last night. Doing . . . what we were doing. Put some salve on it. You don't want an infection down there. Now we'd better get going. Your Dad will be back. I need to get dressed and you need to get up." He cracked a smile for the first time. "Of course, I can see you're already up, chico."

Laughing, he pulled the towel from his waist, tossed it onto my erection. And in covering me, presented his own manhood to my wondering eyes. I'd been sitting up in bed. Now Klaus stood next to the night table not two feet away. I couldn't breathe. I'd never been that close to a real man, naked. My eyes were level with his groin. My mouth, too. I couldn't look away. He didn't move.

The first thing I took in was his dense golden-brown pubic bush, gleaming in the growing daylight, fragrant from his shower, with a few drops of moisture still glistening in its golden bristle. His impressive penis, circumcised with a dark-red glans, responded to my stare, stirring lazily, lengthening, thickening, just beginning to jut from his bush. He looked bigger than me, but not by much. And, God, last night he'd fucked the daylights out of Dad with that big thing. OK, OK. Stop thinking and just look. One heavy ball hung lower than the other. One hand caressed the golden fuzz covering his upper thigh. He took a small step towards the bed. An invitation? I'd stopped breathing and so had he.

My eyes travelled quickly upwards, past his stiffening cock, its pisshole beginning to gape slightly, up along his golden pubic trail, his wide navel and tight stomach, stopping for an instant on his hairy pecs and tits--one of them seeming to bear a blue bruise. Then I raised my eyes to his and met his gaze. No smiles now. Just an eyelock. The same long look we'd shared last night when the lightning flashed and the hail stormed down and the beds rocked and we were both stupid with lust. Not stupid now, but no less fixed. In his eyes, a beckoning. In mine, a response?

Voices on the portal. My inspection, our exchange, had lasted only a few seconds. Klaus, his gaze still on mine, took the towel from his neck and covered his straining erection, pulling it tight against his body. Rising, I did the same with the other towel. Mutual bulges, but Dad and Tim Lafarge, the man I'd met last night from the Peabody Museum, were talking outside the room and wouldn't notice. Dad came in. Walking a bit uncomfortably? Like he might be sore?

"Tim was just saying--power got knocked out in the storm. That's Trudi's generator--hear it?-- chugging away for the kitchen and main rooms. Otherwise, it's out here, and in most of town, too. A landslide's blocked the road up from Tuxtla, and God only knows what the airstrip looks like. Thank the Lord we got the Cessna put away last night."

So that's why the guys were late getting in--they'd heard about the weather and found a beat-up shelter for the little four-seater. While I was wanking away.

"Time for breakfast, gents. We need to head down to the plane, pronto. See what's what. Hijo, grab a quick shower so we can get going." Emergencies always brought out the heroic in Dad. He'd always loved telling people what to do. "Easy on the water. Soap up and rinse off. Let's move."

I knew what would happen if I didn't. Tossing the cum-sock (presence of mind) into my kit, getting a hand-off with the flashlight, I was on my way. Thank God the toilet worked as well as it ever did. Uh-oh. House rules. Don't flush toilet paper down the pot. Remembered in time. Remembered plenty more, too--about last night and the scene just played. As if I didn't have enough to process already. At least my mind, or what was left of it, flashed along while I brushed and soaped and rinsed (me and sock, both) as directed.

Sort it out. Dad, Klaus, me--all fags? But they're both married with kids, right? Straight, right? Including me, the kid in the next bed? Not so simple, never so simple again. The world just thickened up. What to do? Obviously, nothing to do right now. Talk to Dad? Forget it. Talk to Klaus? He'd mentioned it. OK. Try it. He'd also mentioned wie schön I was. Bullshit. I'd always been the ninety-eight pound weakling that got the sand kicked in his eyes. Or so I thought. Or so Dad made me feel most of the time. No jock, I. But maybe not such a skinny jerk, either. I'd filled out some in the last year. Even had some pecs. Got rid of the glasses. Been getting a shorter haircut in Cambridge. Acne clearing up. Shaving every other day. Um--pleasuring myself early and late. Hey, looking good down there, John Thomas. Klaus doesn't have you beat by much. Dad's equipment, whenever I'd had a peek in the changing room at the Club pool, was OK. Long, thin, not circumcised. Aroused, who knew? Oh. Klaus sure knew. And if Klaus had been coming on to me just now back in the room, I hadn't kicked him out of my life. Come to think about it, he may have thought I was inviting him in. Was he a jerk? Was I?

Oh, hell. Let it happen. Whatever "it" is. For now, get dry and head back, get dressed, get breakfast, and see what the day holds. Dramatic possibilities, anyway.

Meanwhile, back in the room. Dad, pulling on his boots, gave me the "What have you been doing in the bathroom" look. Klaus, fully dressed, stood by my night table with a funny look on his face, holding the woven fabric strip I'd tied around my cock last night. Uh, oh. I dressed fast.

Klaus: "Do you know what this is?"

Me: "Nope. What is it?"

Klaus: "Where did you get it? What's in this box?"

Me: "From an old guy down by Santo Domingo. Open it up."

Dad: "For Pete's sake. Get a move on. Screw the box."

Klaus: "It won't open. Something's inside."

Me: "Give it here." I pushed and poked and like last night the top popped open.

Klaus, inspecting the beads and strips of fabric: "Gott im himmel. What did you pay for this? How did you find it?"

Me: "He just gave it to me. I found it on a shelf behind a bunch of stuff. What is it? What's it for?"

Dad: "Stop messing around. We've got things to do. Jesus."

Klaus, back with the original strip: "Judging from the smell and feel of this, joven, I think I know what you used it for last night. And, if my guess about the box is right--well, well, well."

Me: "Come on, Klaus. Stop screwing around. What's your guess?"

Dad: "Can we get going? Now?"

Klaus: "I need to show it to Tim. He should know for sure. Let's go. Your dad needs his breakfast. Wonder why he's so hungry. I've been doing all the work around here." I caught the wink. Hoped Dad hadn't.

Klaus handed me the cajita. I slipped it in my poncho pocket, and we headed for the dining room. A sideboard loaded with breakfast things beckoned: pitchers of orange juice, baskets of pan dulce and fresh bolillos, pots of preserves and honey, boiled eggs, platters of fruit. We filled plates, retrieved napkins from the central bowl, and joined the throng at the table. A highly nervous throng since twelve seminar types were scheduled to fly out of the Tuxtla airport this afternoon. Hard to accomplish since the Tuxtla road, never much to begin with, was now kaput. For how long?

Nobody knew. Trudi hadn't appeared. She'd been up taking care of business for hours--the roar of the generator proved that. The phones still worked, and Tim, one of the seminar leaders, had heard that somebody from the U.S. consulate in Tuxtla was flying up today to help out. All pretty vague. The pressing concern: see if we'd be able to fly over to Palenque as planned--depending on the condition of the Cessna and the Las Casas airstrip.

So. We bolted breakfast, borrowed Franz's jeep, and headed out to collect our pilot, Enrique, who was staying with cousins in town. When we got down to the strip, things looked sad--limbs down, detritus on the runway, and the storm had cut a channel through the tarmac halfway along. But the sun was out, and Enrique said that things would dry up fast. The town's mayor-domo already had a work gang patching up the runway. Obviously Trudi had pulled strings. The men thought they'd be finished with a temporary job by noon if all went well.

Next, the plane. The guys had hauled the 170 into a makeshift shelter last night, a corrugated metal shack barely large enough for tie-down. Three or four of the aircraft outside looked battered, but our little Cessna had come through, or so it seemed. Enrique and Dad climbed around the plane, checking engine and controls, then worrying that the right aileron wasn't responding well. The wing may have been damaged slightly in the move? At any rate, they'd have to fiddle with a control wire to make all well, and that might take a few hours--if the right kind of wire were available. Decision time.

Klaus needed to sit in on at least one session of the seminar, so they'd drop him and me back at Na Balom while Dad and Enrique found a hardware store, located supplies, and tried to fix the plane. With luck, we might get away by mid-afternoon. A deal. Next thing, Klaus and I were back in Trudi's sala, and she'd appeared, looking more imperious than ever. Klaus took her aside for quiet conversation. She looked me over, nodded, and stalked out to the courtyard while Klaus brought Tim Lafarge over.

Klaus began. "You remember Dr. Lafarge from last night, ja?"

I sure remembered. This guy makes an impression--youngish, tallish, built, with a short dark beard and an air of authority. "You bet." He shook my hand, hard. "And call me Tim, like everybody else. Look forward to seeing you when we get back in Cambridge. Call me. What's up, Klaus?"

"Juanito here picked up something in town yesterday that we'd like you to look at. If you don't mind."

"Sure. We've got a few minutes till things get started around here." Tim snorted. "And we might be stuck in Las Casas all week. Show me what you've got."

I pulled the box out of my pocket and handed it over. Tim weighed it in his hand, turned it over a few times, and frowned. "Let's go over here and sit down."

We pulled chairs up to a low table. Tim opened the box, removed the beads and woven strips, and tapped the box on all sides. He picked it up again, seemed to weigh it, pushed something, and revealed another, lower, space. "If this is what I think it is, it's pretty rare. I've only seen two others. One's at the Peabody. The other's at the Museo Nacional. Let's have a look."

He spread a handkerchief on the table and placed the objects from the hidden compartment onto it: six thin jade awls about four inches long, tapering to a sharp point at either end, several small pieces of fine silk fabric, and a leather pouch containing a razor-sharp obsidian blade protected by an ivory blade guard that flipped down to become a handle for the blade--an odd sort of pocketknife.

"I'll bet you'd already guessed it, hey Klaus? Juanito's stumbled on a blood-letting kit. In A-1 condition, ready-to-use. Anybody feel like giving blood?"

"A what?" Tim had to be kidding.

"No joke, joven." Klaus was talking. "It's for real. Quick summary. You can check a monograph later. Mayan religion was big on blood-letting. From the big guys--priests and kings. Accept no substitutes. Make the gods happy. Three types of blood. Tongue-blood when fancy oratory was an issue. Ear-lobe-blood for enhanced super-normal hearing skills. Foreskin-blood for really really big occasions--fertility, appeasing angry wargods, getting geared up for battle. They'd take this obsidian knife to the appropriate organ. Quick slit. Soak up blood on cloth. Burn cloth to appropriate deity. Major ceremony. Documented on stelae all over the peninsula. Wait till we hit Uxmal. You'll get an eyeful."

No shit. So this is what anthropology is all about? I shot a funny look over to Klaus.

"What's wrong, Juanito? You look a little green."

I was feeling a little green, seeing as how I'd already sacrificed some precious foreskin-blood of my own in the thrilling events of the past night. "Who, me? No, I'm fine. So this is, what, really something special?"

Tim replaced the contents of the box. "You bet it is. And the big deal, besides rarity, is its condition. Like new, almost. Like it's just been used. Like the ceremonies are still around. I've got an odd feeling. I'll need to talk to the fellow you got it from. And the Peabody would like to look at it, for sure. Mind if we borrow your cajita for a while? That is, unless you're planning to use it yourself?"

Sure, Tim. Ha ha. Very funny, Tim. "Well, um, not tonight anyway. So take it. You can tell me all about it when we're back in Cambridge."

"Thanks, Juanito. I'll give you a receipt. But gotta go now. Seminar time. Want to join me and Klaus?"

I didn't think so. I wasn't sure what I wanted. Privacy. Time. Klaus. Everything. Nothing. Hell. Klaus said he'd be free in an hour, that he'd find me, to stay around. I thought I knew what he meant by that and headed back to the room. All tidied up. Fresh sheets on Klaus's and my beds. I fell onto mine and into a deep, heavy, sudden, necessary sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I woke, it seemed like I'd been gone for a long, long time. Someone was watching me, someone sitting on my bed, Klaus. "What time is it? How long have you been here?"

Looking serious. "It's a little past eleven, chico. The seminar finished five minutes ago. I came back to see if you were here. Just waiting for you to wake up. Big night last night, no?" A half smile. Raised eyebrows.

Big night, yes. It all came back in a rush. I was wide awake. And felt hollow in my stomach. "Klaus. What's going on? I don't even know where to start asking. With you and Dad? How long?"

"OK, Juanito. You're a big boy, even if your dad doesn't always realize it. I sure do. We've got time now. He said they'd be back up here by one at the earliest. OK." A deep breath. "Understand: your dad and I go back a long way."

"So, how long?" Was I sounding hostile?

"Nine years, anyway. I'd just been discharged from the Army--the U.S. Army--and was doing temporary liaison with civilian scientists, Germans who'd come over after the war. Rocket scientists who'd been working at Peenemunde, mostly. Von Braun and company. Your dad was in charge of getting some of their gear back into shape. When the Allies liberated the base, most of the technical equipment had been dumped in the Baltic. In sad shape. You may not know it--all classified stuff at the time--but your dad was, is, some kind of technical genius. So he and I got assigned to the same project. He handled the technical side. I handled the prima donnas."

"This was when the family moved west, right? When I was about ten? So what happened?"

"You tell me, Juanito. Who knows? We just clicked. It hit us both like a ton of bricks. Bam. We'd neither of us had much to do with other guys. Both married. Both with two kids. Both with difficult wives. Both scared to death of what we were feeling. But neither of us ran away from it. When we figured it out, the physical thing, it wasn't like anything that had ever happened to us. To me, anyway. Made no kind of sense. Wrong wrong wrong. But there it was, and we didn't ignore it. Total mutual attraction. Make any sense to you?"

"I dunno. Maybe. What else?" Klaus sat on Dad's bed.

"Well, it's hard to say. We just recognized each other, like we'd been waiting for it. And maybe for the first time in our lives, we risked everything. Don't know if I'd call it love, exactly. Deeper? A deeper need? Anyway, we touched, and then let it happen, keep happening. Painful moments, but no regrets. Until now, maybe. You're OK?"

I didn't understand much except that Klaus was having about as hard a time getting it out as I was having taking it in. But his sympathy came through the words. And his honesty. That I could really appreciate. "Sure, I guess. But hasn't it been pretty tough? Liking guys . . . and all?"

"Oh, ja. Tough. Liking, mostly, just one guy. Seeing him, mostly, three or four times a year. Realizing that we all make mistakes, but this wasn't one of them. Well. Last night was, I guess. Figuring we could make love and you'd never know. But now you do. For me, it's a kind of relief. Hate me?"

Yes. But no. In a weird way I felt closer to him. In an even weirder way I felt closer to my dad, too. And curious. "How've you managed all these years?"

"Well, just barely most of the time. We'd only known each other for a couple of months before I went back to my job at the university. That's when we realized it was the real thing, and we had to make room for it. Your dad's had to travel. So have I. We've managed. Not easy. We take what we can get."

I did some fast figuring. Dad's business trips to the coast, his fishing trips, the elk hunts. His Christmas jaunts to faraway places. With Klaus? Not every time, probably. But maybe this accounted for Dad's restlessness, his routine impatience. I began to understand even more. That Klaus had touched something inside of myself, too. That my own restlessness and uncertainties might signal--who knows what. And that right here, right now I was intensely aware of being alone with Klaus in a bedroom with the shutters closed. Of staring stupidly at the floor.

I had to say something, break the spell, get out of where ever I was headed. "Klaus,

I - I . . . . " I faltered.

"Look at me, joven." I did. I met his gaze. Not for the first time. He spoke so softly. "This must be between us for now. Just us. You understand? Make me your promise." His eyes held mine. Not thinking, I moved to sit next to Klaus. I grabbed his hand. What was I doing? Was I nuts? He didn't move.

"You've got my word."

Klaus looked down, smiled, squeezed my hand. "Thanks, Juanito. We're together on this thing. Whatever it is." I squeezed back. "You know, it's funny. Your dad can be a jealous guy, and I promised him I wouldn't touch another man, woman, or chupacabro this trip. I keep my promises. But if another guy touches me. Like you are. Well." His eyes flashed a hint? And he lay back on the bed, with my hand still grasping his. I didn't release it. I lay next to him.

He moved his hand to his lips, tracing them with his forefinger, my finger on his. I, we, touched his lips--moist, full, soft. His mouth opened, he inserted our joined forefingers, and I felt the hot wetness of his tongue as he suckled them. Then his hand left mine. I was free to explore his features on my own. He closed his eyes and smiled again as I followed the arch of his eyebrows, moved slowly down his smooth cheeks, touched his brown neck.

Then he changed position to lie on his back, his hands behind his head, his legs parted. I climbed aboard, crouching between his legs.

"Ever touched a man before, chico?"

"Uh uh."

"Ever wanted to?"

"Uh huh."

"Well then. The door's bolted. We've got an hour. Your move."

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