Date: Mon, 13 Aug 2001 13:07:40 EDT
From: Keybedder@aol.com
Subject: One Summer at Stevens Point (first of two parts)

ONE SUMMER AT STEVENS POINT by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2001 by the author.

The persistent beeping of an alarm threads its way into my unconsciousness.
Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes to an unfamiliar light and unfamiliar
surroundings. Where am I? In a moment my brain orients itself. The small
travel clock on the dresser, which I only use here, reads six-thirty a.m.
Despite the whirring of the portable fan in front of the open window, the
room is warm and stuffy. Buildings this far north are constructed to retain
heat, and during a summer hot spell they perform that function all too
well.

I'm in a sparsely furnished dormitory single on the campus of the
University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point, about to begin a week of teaching
violin for the twentieth year at the American Suzuki Institute. I put my
hands behind my head and stare up at the pasteboard tiles on the ceiling,
trying to energize myself for the day and the week to come.

The Suzuki method asks child and parent to collaborate in the experience of
learning to play a musical instrument, helped by the teacher. Suzuki
Institutes are workshops, where kids learning musical instruments by the
Suzuki method and their parents come for four or five days of intensive
instruction. It's family music camp, in other words.

The faculty at these institutes work very hard, teaching five or six hours
a day, frequently performing at night. To say that a Suzuki Institute is
not a gay-friendly place is an understatement. To put it in a nutshell, the
focus is overwhelmingly on the family. Sure, there are gay faculty here.
But they are mostly women, men I've already slept with and satisfied my
curiosity about, or men about whom I have absolutely no curiosity.

Lying naked under the sheet and thin blanket, I remember that it wasn't
always this way. One summer at Stevens Point, when I was twenty-eight years
old, unexpected and marvelous things happened. Unbidden, and despite the
little voice inside nagging me to get up, memories begin to flow into my
mind. For a few moments, I let myself be carried away by the tide.

***

It was the fourth year I taught at Stevens Point. The American Suzuki
Institute was no longer the mammoth event that it had been in the early
eighties, when Shinichi Suzuki himself, the originator of the method, paid
several visits here. There was something mystical about this old, frail
Japanese man, sort of a musical Dalai Lama, descending on this modest
college town in Central Wisconsin and transforming it with his vision.
Suzuki was dead now, and Stevens Point no longer had that particular
aura. But it was still one of the largest summer workshops devoted to the
Suzuki method in the United States, and to be on the faculty carried
considerable prestige in the world of Suzuki Talent Education, or so I
thought.

I was pretty exhausted by the time I got to the Institute, which was always
held late in the summer, the first two weeks of August. I'd already taught
at several other institutes across the United States that summer. Still, I
welcomed the activity, since it saved me from having to think about the
disarray of my life. I had broken up that spring with a longtime lover back
in my hometown of Chicago. It had been a messy divorce, climaxing with
shouted curses, slammed doors, and possessions pitched out of the
third-story window of the apartment we had shared. My ex-lover had pulled
this last stunt just as one of my most refined Asian mothers was pulling
into the parking lot with her young daughter for their weekly violin
lesson.

When the summer was over I'd have to think about whether to keep the place
that was now solely mine, like it or not. One reason for my frantic
teaching schedule was the need to bolster my financial state, now that the
two of us were no longer sharing expenses, or anything else.

I certainly wasn't going to catch up on sleep this week. Like that of all
of the Stevens Point faculty, my schedule was heavy and demanding. My first
class was at eight in the morning and I taught until four o'clock every day
of the week. This particular summer I had one teacher training class,
adults who wanted to learn how to teach the violin using the Suzuki Method.
I'd be doing a lot of lecturing and explaining, not to mention reading
papers. It was too much like teaching college to be my favorite activity,
though it paid well. The large group classes also took a lot of energy,
particularly ones with students between eleven and thirteen years old,
sullen pre-adolescents thinking they were too old to be here and daring you
to teach them something they didn't know. Staying focused and positive in
such a situation could be, and often was, an ordeal.

I much preferred the small master classes of three or four students where I
could work with each one individually, and get to know each child and his
or her parent. Occasionally you encountered a child with exceptional
ability--Stevens Point was big and well-known enough that the best Suzuki
teachers from many regions of the United States sent their students here.
I'd had six- and seven-year olds playing Bach Concertos with impeccable
intonation and musicianship--really amazing kids.

It didn't look like I'd have any such students in my classes this year, but
nevertheless, I decided that I was certainly going to enjoy my ten o'clock
class, consisting of four girls, aged between eight and ten. One in
particular seemed to connect with me. Her name was Molly Wagner and she was
a petite, pretty girl with a beautiful playing position and bow hold --
qualities which predisposed me to like any student. She had the notes to
all three movements of the Vivaldi Concerto down, her father assured me.

All children who took classes at Stevens Point had to have a parent
accompany them to all of their classes. Molly was unusual in that the
parent who came to class with her was her father--overwhelmingly in
Suzukiland it was the mother who did the lion's share of helping a child
practice and learn. There were fathers around, but they mostly served as
assistants to their wives, carrying instruments, driving vans and RVs,
watching younger siblings. So Molly's father attracted my attention from
the very first day of class. He also caught my eye because he was an
exceptionally attractive man--in his mid-forties, tall, lean and tanned,
with curly dark hair beginning to be peppered with gray and a similarly
colored, neatly trimmed beard. Mr. Wagner's eyes were easily his most
striking feature--a vivid, almost startling blue. He smiled easily and
obviously doted on his daughter. Yes, I was going to enjoy my ten o'clock
class, I decided.

Stevens Point had a small YMCA where you could get a guest membership for
the week of Institute. I always plunked down the few dollars in order to
have access to their pool. Sure, the University pool was available free to
Institute participants for a couple of hours every day, but I was
interested in swimming laps for exercise, not in fighting my way through
hordes of screaming kids and their water toys. There was always the danger,
too, that a mother in one of your classes would waylay you and insist on an
impromptu conference then and there about her budding young Mozart.

I much preferred the laid back clientele that frequented the town Y. You
hardly ever had to swim circles with more than one or two other folks in a
lane. Having to pay a guest fee kept most of the Institute Suzuki families
away, and the Institute faculty, with one or two exceptions, was remarkably
immune to the fitness craze.

It had been a while since I'd exercised regularly and I was eager to get
back in the pool. So I stashed my violin back in my dorm room as soon as my
last class ended, and headed down the street to the modest yellow brick
building just off campus. When I entered the men's locker room I saw one of
my colleagues had had the same idea. Jack Gormley, a cello teacher at the
Institute, was standing in front of one of the other day lockers in my
aisle, stripping off his clothes. He boomed a cheerful hello in his deep
bass voice.

Over the years I had taught here Jack and I had become acquaintances, then
friends, after we had cautiously figured out that we had a bit more in
common besides a love of music and teaching youngsters. Not that I ever
slept with Jack--he was in the umpteenth year of a happy monogamous
partnership back in Madison. But he was something better than a hot
trick--he was someone I could talk to here at Stevens Point. His
intelligence and goofy sense of humor had kept me entertained, and sane.

"So how'd your first day go?" he asked.

What I also respected about Jack was that he was a damn good teacher. I had
watched him at work here when I was a trainee, and had marveled at how such
an easygoing man could effortlessly keep a room full of unruly
pre-adolescent cellists on task and productive.

"Not bad," I answered. "I'll tell you though, I can sure use this swim."

"Can't argue with that." Naked, Jack rummaged in his gym bag and pulled out
a pair of fire-engine red Speedos. Sizing him up discreetly as he pulled
them on, I thought that not too many forty-plus men could get away with
such a choice of swimwear. I had to admit Jack's lean, six-foot body looked
pretty good in them, though. He'd also made sure I'd caught a glimpse of
his long, floppy dick that teasingly bent just a little to one side. Not
for the first time I grudgingly admired the man's skill at simultaneously
flirting and keeping a safe distance.

"I'll tell you, though," he added, picking up his goggles and towel, "The
scenery is pretty good today."

"Scenery?"

Jack waggled his brow playfully. "You'll see what I mean when you get to
the pool. Have a good swim."

He slammed his locker shut and headed for the pool entrance. I wouldn't see
him again that afternoon, I knew. Jack swam much faster than me and was
always gone when I got out. I quickly changed and got to poolside. My
friend was already in one of the expert lanes, swimming with long, sure
strokes. I went to one reserved for swimmers of average speed. A young man
was sitting at the end, legs in the water. He looked up as I approached.

"All right if we swim sides until someone else comes?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, holding my gaze a bit longer than I thought was necessary.
I saw his eyes drop quickly before he turned away and lowered his goggles.
My interest perked up. He was younger than me, probably in his early
twenties, with blue eyes and blond hair cut very short, almost military
style. His shoulders and back were fair, broad and muscular, tapering very
satisfactorily down to a shapely butt, packed into a black bikini that made
Jack's Speedos seem demure in comparison.

So this was the scenery Jack had been talking about. Not bad, I thought, as
I slipped into the water and began my laps. I was intrigued by the vibes I
sensed coming from the boy--nothing like this had ever happened at the Y
before. He was too old to be a Suzuki student at the Institute, and I
didn't recognize him as a new faculty member. Maybe he was a UWSP student
here for the summer, or a townie, I didn't know. I wanted to find out, if I
could.

For the moment I put lustful thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on
getting my exercise. Before I knew it forty-five minutes had passed and I
was ready to get out. My companion in the lane, though, stroked doggedly
on. I knew he'd have to get out in a few minutes when the lap swimming
period ended, and I was inwardly elated that he was still here.

I went back into the locker room. A quick inspection up and down the aisles
between the lockers and in the shower revealed that the place was
deserted. I stripped, got my stuff and stepped into the shower, turning on
the spray and cleaning myself at a leisurely pace. I tried to make my mind
a blank and not think about the young man finishing his swim, since my cock
began to get hard every time I pictured that toned body in those tight
black trunks.

As much time as I took, though, my lane companion did not appear. I began
to wonder if he had slipped out without showering, avoiding an encounter.
Finally I gave up, got out and began to dry myself off, disappointed.

At that moment I heard the door from the pool open. Seconds later the young
man passed quickly by the shower entrance, rubbing his head with a towel.
He barely raised his head in response to my greeting. It was getting late
and I was hungry after my workout. Maybe this was a lost cause. Besides, I
was dried off and couldn't linger in the shower without making my own
motives obvious. I got out and headed toward my locker.

I had barely got it open and started putting my things in my gym bag when I
sensed someone watching me. I turned and there he was, wearing jeans and a
white t-shirt that set off his trim, athletic body. Our eyes met and his
expression hit me with almost tangible force. I'd seen that look on a man's
face many times.

I kept my voice casual. "You didn't shower."

He shook his head. "Yeah, it's late and I need to be getting back."

I nodded. "Well, I hope you had a good workout."

"It was okay." He seemed in no hurry to leave. On the other hand, he wasn't
doing anything either. Someone had to make a move. I draped my towel over
my shoulders and turned toward him, subtly thrusting my hips and just
slightly aroused dick at him.

"Had a pretty good swim myself," I said. "Gave me energy for--other things,
you know?"

The blond nodded. Then without a word he walked away. I stood, disappointed
and a little annoyed. A closet case and a cockteaser, I thought. Moments
passed and I didn't hear any other sound. Curious, I began to walk through
the locker room again, keeping my towel with me.

Adjacent to the showers were the men's room facilities. I walked in and
caught sight of him poised in front of the urinal furthest from the
entrance. He looked up, with an almost guilty start. His jeans were pushed
down, baring his pale, firm butt. In the shadow of the urinal I saw that
the cock he was holding was jutting straight out.

I let my hand drop to my own cock. His eyes went to my crotch. He licked
his lips but made no other move. I wanted to walk up to this skittish
cruiser, grab his goods and force the issue. Instead I kept my cool, and
slowly walked behind him toward the stalls opposite the row of urinals. I
chose the one directly behind him, shut the door and latched it, then sat
on the toilet, peering through the crack between the stall and the
door. There was enough of a gap so that I could see him, still standing at
the urinal.

I knew he could at least catch a glimpse of me if he turned and looked.
Sure enough, moments later I caught a glimpse of his anxious eyes, trying
to scope me out. I continued playing with myself, nodding my head slowly,
encouragingly. My heart leaped as he moved toward my stall. A moment later
his jean-clad legs and the battered Nikes he was wearing came into view
underneath the door.

Slowly I raised my hand and released the latch. Slowly the door swung open
toward me. The blond boy stood just beyond my reach. He wore no underwear,
and I saw that his cock was springing up now in full erection out of a
sparse, reddish-blond bush, pink, compact balls hanging underneath.

With the prize so near at hand I threw caution to the wind. I grasped one
of his thighs and propelled him forward, tumbling off the toilet seat in my
eagerness. My knees hit the cold tiled floor. I caught a whiff of pool
chlorine mixed with his scent as I grabbed his buttocks and swallowed him
whole. I began to suck him, quick and hard. My own cock rose stiff between
my legs.

The boy stood still, blocking the stall door partially open. He kept his
hands passively at his sides, pretending that he wasn't really a part of
this scene. Soon I heard his breathing quicken and deepen. I cast a glance
upward and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth open. I clutched his
ball sack as I stepped up my pace, sliding back and forth on his straight,
steely shaft, flicking my tongue over his rounded smooth head.

A faint moan began to rise from the blond boy's throat. Then, to my
surprise, I felt one of his hands touch my hair--the first hint of any
reciprocation. This spurred me on to even more passionate efforts. In
another moment I heard muttered words. "Oh fuck. Do it man. Quick. Quick!"

I couldn't speak but made inarticulate noises, trying to indicate my
assent. In a few more seconds the blond's breathing deepened into harsh,
rasping gasps. Both his hands clamped around my head as he began to fuck my
face with hard thrusts. I felt a first blast of fluid hit the back of my
throat, then his thick, hot juice filling my mouth.

His hands were a vise, keeping my face pressed into his crotch, forcing me
to keep his cock all the way down my throat. Faint gulping sounds rose from
me as I swallowed, trying not to choke. I was desperate to breathe but just
as determined to get every drop.

Finally I broke his grip and let go, taking in air in great gulps, tears
running out of my eyes, the salty bitter taste of his cum in my mouth. I
looked at his cock, the head still purple with excitement, the shaft,
glistening with a mixture of his semen and my saliva, beginning to relax
and curve downward. I had never seen anything so beautiful as that cock at
that moment. I leaned forward and covered the head and shaft with soft
kisses, then moved upward and began to kiss his lower abdomen. His skin
there was silky soft, milk white and threaded with pale blue veins.

Suddenly something struck my left temple. It took me a moment to realize
that he had cuffed me with one of his hands. "What--what did you do that
for?" I demanded, more startled than hurt.

"Don't kiss me like that," he hissed. "I'm not queer."

I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't help myself. A derisive
little snort escaped my lips.

"Wow. You just blasted your load down my very masculine throat. That ain't
exactly straight, is it?"

This time the palm of his hand caught my cheek with stunning force. I cried
out in pain as the other side of my head slammed against the stall.

"Shut up!" the boy said. He raised his arm, as if to hit me again.

I realized I had no easy escape route. I shrank back, dazed and now plenty
scared. "Look, guy, take it easy. Let's just talk this over--" I lifted my
own arm, trying to ward off further blows. The blond boy looked at me with
revulsion, as if I were a roach or some other loathsome vermin.

"Get the fuck away from me or I'll call the police." He backed away and
quickly buttoned up his jeans. "Fucking faggot," he said. He spit at my
feet, then was gone, letting the stall door fall shut in my face. A moment
later I heard the door to the locker room open and close noisily, then
footsteps fading down the corridor outside.

I sat rigid for a minute longer until I was sure he wasn't returning, then
sagged on the toilet seat, weak with relief. It took a while longer for my
heart to stop racing. At last I drew a few deep breaths, then said to the
empty air, "You're welcome." I took a piece of toilet paper and blew my
nose. After gingerly touching my right temple, where a sizable bruise was
starting, I got up on shaky legs, hitched my towel around my waist, and
headed toward the sink to clean myself up. I wanted to wash the taste of
him out of me as quickly as I could.

I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night, and it wasn't just
because the bruise on my head prevented me from lying in my favored
sleeping position. I knew I'd gotten off lightly--there was nothing to have
prevented my trick from beating me to a pulp in the empty locker room, or
to have come back with a cop, accusing me of making indecent advances.

It wasn't just around the students and parents at the Institute that I had
to be on guard. Even searching for quick, anonymous relief seemed fraught
with danger here. I found myself becoming profoundly depressed, not only
for myself, but also for the boy who had used, then assaulted me. I could
only imagine the conflicts that raged within him.

It was nearly one o'clock when I finally fell asleep. Inevitably I was
awakened around six by the high piping voices of small children going past
my door on their way to breakfast. My head throbbed and I knew I'd have to
take something for it. I lay in my bed and groaned at the thought of a full
day's teaching ahead in my dazed and confused state. There was no point in
trying to fall asleep again--I'd have to be up for real in less than an
hour.

I decided to try a walk before breakfast. The cool, slightly misty morning
air hit my face as I left the dorm, and in spite of myself my spirits begin
to lift. The bad taste of the events of yesterday afternoon finally began
to fade. Needless to say, I hadn't cum during yesterday's abortive
encounter. I sighed as I realized that, despite everything, I was still
incurably, ragingly horny. Would I never learn? Shaking my head, I began to
walk toward the athletic fields.

I kept to the sidewalk at the edge of the large grassy rectangle that held
the Stevens Point outdoor track. Even at this early hour there was already
a runner on it, setting a brisk pace. As he approached me down the
straightaway I saw that it was a man, dressed only in a pair of turquoise
running shorts. The color seemed startlingly bright in the morning light
and emphasized the top condition of his body. He drew close and I noted
that the hair on his chest was peppered with gray. Not bad looking for an
old guy, quite nice, in fact, I thought, then was shaken out of my
increasingly lustful reverie by a voice calling my name.

"Good morning, Mr. Hewitt!" The figure raised one arm in a friendly wave.

The runner knew who I was. I peered closely at his face for the first time
and saw eyes that even at this distance were blue, the face framed by
curly, graying hair and beard.

It was one of the parents in my ten o'clock master class--Molly's dad. I
desperately searched my brain for his name, hoping he hadn't noticed that
I'd been checking out his body.

The man had stopped on the track opposite where I was on the sidewalk,
breathing hard, glistening with sweat, his muscular chest rising and
falling. I was very conscious of his health and physique. Even though I was
probably ten or twelve years younger I felt flabby and inferior.

"Mr. Wagner." I'd finally remembered his name. It was, after all, only the
second day of Institute.

"Call me Mike, please. You're out early."

"So are you. Molly still asleep?"

Mike Wagner was shaking out his legs, corded with muscle.

"No, she's eating breakfast. One of the other moms down the hall was nice
enough to take her, so I could get in my daily run. I usually do it before
she gets up, but today I overslept."

"You're very dedicated." Feeling bold, I added, "It shows."

Molly's father smiled, acknowledging the compliment. "Thanks. It gets me
out of bed in the morning."

There was a pause. I found myself wanting to keep the conversation going. I
said with mock severity, "I hope you and Molly did her assignment last
night."

Mike nodded vigorously. "Oh yes sir. Twenty-five times on `the jungle.'"
"The jungle" was the trickiest passage in the movement of the Vivaldi
Concerto Molly was playing. "Setting the metronome a little faster each
time. She complained a bit, but we did it."

"Good," I said. "We'll hear that first today."

Mike grimaced a bit. "I hope I got it right. Lois--my late wife--was a
musician herself. Since she's been gone I've often wondered whether I was
really helping Molly. I've worried a lot that I was messing her up."

I sensed he was talking about more than violin playing. Some impulse made
me answer in kind. "You're doing a great job with her. I can tell she's
having the time of her life here this week, being here with you. She really
looks up to you." I stopped, wondering whether I'd said too much.

Mike Wagner was looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Thanks. It
means a lot to me to hear someone say that." He left the track then and
came toward me. I kept my eyes on his face with a conscious effort, but the
impact of his presence was palpable. My breathing quickened and I felt
lightheaded.

"You know, I've come to Stevens Point several years, and Molly's had a
different teacher every year. None of them have been bad, and some of them
have been really good. But you're the best ever." He reached out and
grasped my upper arm, startling me. "Mr. Hewitt, it's a privilege for Molly
and me to work with you."

"Well, thank you," I managed after a moment. "And call me Alan."

Still gripping my shoulder, Mike offered his other hand. I shook it, dazed
by his smile and charisma. "Okay, Alan. But Molly's still going to call you
Mr. Hewitt. I've got to finish my run. See you in class."

Something changed in our relationship after that early morning
conversation, though the lessons with Molly went on pretty much in the same
way. I worked her hard in the ten or twelve minutes I had with her every
morning, and gave her an assignment for each evening, tempering my demands
with humor. Molly laughed a lot, quite unfazed by my attempts at sternness.

Occasionally, though, I would catch sight of Mike, not watching his
daughter or the teaching point I was trying to illustrate at the violin,
but me. I should have been flattered that he was following my every move so
intently, but I found it disturbing. It got so I avoided looking in his
direction while teaching his daughter, not that that was easy. Mike came to
class every morning dressed in a T-shirt or polo shirt, and shorts that
showed off his narrow hips and long, sinewy legs. One day he wore a tank
top, and I even caught one or two of the mothers of the other students
eyeing him covertly. If only they knew the teacher felt the same way.

I tried to relieve my tensions in the way I usually did, by swimming. I'd
thought about not going back to the Y but decided what the hell. The
chances were that I wouldn't see the blond boy who had decked me, and even
if I did, he probably wasn't eager for another encounter either. As it
turned out, I never saw him again. So I had to content myself with Jack
Gormley in his Speedos. I found myself idly speculating about my chances
with him. But it wasn't in me deliberately to try and disrupt a long-term
relationship, no matter what unconscious signals Jack might be sending out.

Wednesday evening of Institute week I was slated to play on a faculty
recital. As I was practicing my Kreisler piece with the Institute
accompanist in the gymnasium that afternoon, I sensed someone sitting in
the very back, listening. After casting a few glances in that direction I
realized it was Mike. I didn't acknowledge him, but noticed that he stayed
until I had finished playing.

Performing in public has always been a difficult experience for me, even
when I know the audience is mostly children and parents, and safely
uncritical. I was shaking, palms sweaty when I walked out onstage, and
counted myself lucky to get through my piece without a major disaster. I
bowed and left, feeling my usual mixture of relief that it was over, and
annoyance that my nerves had torpedoed some of my best intentions.

I escaped the congratulations as soon as I could--I never felt I deserved
them--and took refuge in my dorm room. During the year in Chicago, chilling
out after a performance usually meant going out, usually to a bar, or if I
were really keyed up, to one of the bathhouses. Drinking and sex were
usually enough to keep me from dwelling on the performance just past,
replaying the imperfections over and over in my mind like a defective
CD. Of course, doing such things here was out of the question.

My moody thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a knock on my door. I wasn't
expecting anybody to stop by. I fervently hoped it wasn't one of the adult
trainees in the Short Term Teacher Training course I was doing this
week--they could easily stay for an hour or more, plying me with questions
I'd heard countless times before, and that could easily have been taken
care of in class.

I opened the door. Mike Wagner stood there, smiling. He was dressed a bit
more formally than usual, in a short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis. In one
hand he held two clear plastic cups; in the other, a bottle of scotch.

"I was hoping you'd be here," he said. "I thought I'd offer to throw a
little reception, in honor of your wonderful performance."

Taken by surprise, I blushed and stammered. "Aw Mike, you didn't have to do
that."

"I know. I wanted to. Do you have any ice? I rented a refrigerator for the
week--I can go back to my room and get some if you don't have any."

"I have some. This is damn nice of you."

"So I can come in, before someone sees me with this illegal contraband?"

Settled in with our Scotches, him in the one chair in the room, me sitting
on the bed, Mike raised his drink. "To you, Alan." He swallowed.

"Thanks," I said. I raised my plastic cup in turn. "To children, and
parents who care enough to give them the gift of music."

Mike said nothing, but smiled as he raised his glass. We drank again. The
strong liquor started to go to my head. The top two buttons on Mike's shirt
were unbuttoned, and I caught myself staring at the hair on his chest
peeking out through the opening.

"Not that it's any of my business, but where's Molly tonight?"

"She's become great pals with one of the other little girls in your
A-class--Sarah Wilkes. They decided they wanted to do a slumber
party. Sarah's mom is great, she said, sure, come on over. She told me
she's going to sit in the dorm lounge and watch TV until they fall
asleep. Knowing Molly, she's in for a long night," Mike chuckled.

He paused, then added, "Mrs. Wilkes is a single mom--divorced. I've caught
her looking at me once or twice this week as if she'd like to invite _me_
over for a slumber party." He laughed self-consciously.

"Well, you are one of the few unattached men around here." Imbibing had
loosened my tongue, and it seemed I was on a roll, for I continued, "Think
you'll ever marry again, Mike?"

Mike took a long time to answer, staring into space. Maybe he was feeling
the buzz too. "No," he said, finally. After a pause, he added, "I don't
think I have it in me."

"Do you ever think Molly might need a mother?" I regretted asking the
question as soon as the words had left my lips. Mike raised his head and
looked at me, not angry or offended as I had expected, but with a strange
and sorrowful expression.

"It's weird when you're widowed and have a kid," he said. "Especially here,
no one sees you as anything except a parent. Molly's dad. Sarah's mom. You
can't imagine how many people have said that to me. My own parents are the
worst. Get married again for the sake of the child, they say. No one thinks
about whether it would be good for me."

"Mike, I'm sorry," I said, abashed. "I was out of line."

He shook his head. "It's okay. You just touched a nerve, that's all."

We sat in silence and sipped our drinks. Soon Mike drained his plastic cup
and rose. "Guess I'd better turn in."

"So soon?" I bitterly regretted what I'd said earlier.

Mike smiled. "Alan, it's okay, really. It's just that I'm rather looking
forward to a night by myself in the room. Maybe I should invite Sarah's mom
to join me, eh?"

My expression must have given away what I felt, because he quickly said,
"No, bad idea."

"Thanks for the Scotch. That was very thoughtful," I said, still feeling
like I'd ruined the evening.

"Don't mention it. And keep the rest. You may need it after Friday's grand
finale."

We were both standing, facing each other. I didn't know exactly what I was
expecting, and Mike seemed irresolute as well. Then he clapped me heartily
on the shoulder. "Good night, Alan," he said, and was gone.

I stood, feeling as if a chance to unravel whatever it was that was going
on between us had been lost.

Halfway through Institute week it always seems as if it will never end, but
finally it was Friday. The grand finale, the group concert of all the
Institute violin students, would take place at night.

I wasn't jaded yet like some of the veteran teachers, and I still found the
spectacle of hundreds of violin students standing in the UWSP gymnasium,
playing the Suzuki songs in unison, young and old together, to be a
thrilling experience. Still, it had turned out to be a rather strange week,
and the distractions definitely affected my playing. I found myself
wandering off course during some of the songs, easy ones that I could play
in my sleep. I hurriedly looked around to see if any of the other teachers
playing near me had noticed. My performer's ego had apparently survived the
week intact, at any rate.

The final concert being over didn't mean that I was finished yet. I still
had to read through observations that the members of my teacher training
course had written about classes they'd watched that day. Back in my room,
I looked at the pile of sheets on my desk, sighed and set to work. Then
there was the task of returning them, since we had already met for the last
time and I wouldn't see my trainees again before the Institute broke
up. Fortunately, most of them were in the same dorm I was in, so I walked
up and down the hallways, sliding papers under room doors, hurrying away so
as not to get into conversations. When I was done at last, it was almost
midnight. The heat wave that had rolled into Stevens Point in the last day
or so showed no signs of letting up, and the room was warm and close. I
really needed another shower before I turned in.

As I walked down the hall toward the men's bathroom, soap, shampoo and
towel in hand, I heard water running. My first reaction was annoyance. I'd
waited until now to take a shower precisely so that I could have some
privacy. It would be one thing if whoever was in there was worth looking
at, but based on the traffic in the halls this week, the chances of there
being any interesting male scenery in there were pretty low.

I heaved a sigh, opened the door and stepped into the bathroom. The sound
of rushing water was much louder now, and I saw a bathrobe hung on one of
the hooks outside the entrance to the communal shower. I put my stuff down
on the tiled floor, peeled off my T-shirt and gym shorts, and hung my
clothes and my towel on another hook.

If the Stevens Point men's dorm had been cruisy, the shower in this
bathroom might have been an interesting place, because it was so
small. There were just four shower heads, set close together. A man stood
under the spray rushing out of the one furthest from the entrance. He was
tall, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. His legs were lean and
roped with muscle, his buttocks dimpled. He turned at that moment, and I
saw that it was Mike Wagner.

I drew in my breath sharply. Mike seemed a bit taken aback as well, but
nodded and said hello. Trying to stay calm, I turned on the spray and began
to soap myself, keeping my back to Mike. I willed myself not to stare at
his body, even though I wanted to, desperately.

Mike, though, began to make conversation. "Great concert, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was," I answered, half wishing he would finish up and leave, at
the same time wishing he would stay.

"Lord, it's hot tonight. I waited till now to take a shower. Hate it when
half the world's walking through this bathroom. Reminds me of high school
gym class."

I smiled weakly, not saying anything. At that moment I didn't need to be
reminded of high school gym class and its frustrations.

"Besides, some of the guys on this hall shouldn't be allowed to take their
clothes off in public."

A bubble of astonished laughter escaped from me, and I looked at
Mike. There was something in his smile that made me hold his gaze.

"Present company excepted, of course, Alan."

My throat felt dry. "Thanks," I managed. To my horror I felt myself
beginning to get hard. Here I was, giving myself away in front of the
father of one of my students. I turned away again and began to rinse off. I
had to finish up and get out of here without his seeing me like this.

"Alan?"

"What?" I said, brusquely.

"Could I borrow some of your shampoo? I forgot to bring mine."

There wasn't any way to refuse. With a sigh I picked up my bottle and
turned to give it to him. Mike was facing me, and my eyes couldn't stop
themselves from wandering down to the area below his flat stomach. His
crotch was forested with a dense mass of pubic hair, out of which rose a
long, uncut, and definitely stiffening cock.

The sight of his arousal sent a jolt of electricity through me. I looked
up, and our eyes met and locked. So the signals I thought I'd been
receiving from this man all week were real. What was I going to do about
it? Frantic voices in my brain reminded me of where I was, and the trouble
I could bring upon myself.

The desire and frustration that I had brought with me to the Institute and
that had increased during the past few days were too much, though. As if in
a dream I stepped closer. I saw my hand reach out and grasp what was being
offered, my brain half expecting Mike to pull away, shouting in indignant
protest.

Nothing happened. I breathed in the steamy heat of the shower, felt the
water splash over my skin. I felt the hard smooth flesh of Mike's dick in
my palm, watched the rounded purple head emerge from the foreskin as I
slowly moved my hand back and forth.

I looked in Mike's face again. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly
open. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this. Feeling bolder, I moved
closer and put one arm around him. His own arms rose and encircled me in a
tight, wet embrace. Trapped between our bodies, our hard cocks pressed
against one another.

"Come to my room," I whispered in his ear.

I'd said the wrong thing. Mike's eyes flew open and an expression of alarm
appeared on his face. He shook his head.

"I can't. I've got to get back to Molly."

He pulled himself from my grasp and hurriedly stepped from the shower into
the drying area, grabbing his towel and rubbing himself in quick, jerky
motions. Completely at a loss, I stood watching him, soap still on my body,
my arousal forgotten.

"Mike, what's the matter?"

He was putting on his bathrobe.

"I'm sorry, Alan. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry...  It's just--"

Frustration made me speak without thinking. "It's just what, Mike? It's
just that you were leading me on?"

"Shh. Please---not so loud." Mike tied the belt of his robe around his
waist. "Let's forget it. Good night."

He flung open the bathroom door and almost knocked over a sleepy-eyed man,
another Suzuki father coming to brush his teeth. He disappeared as the new
arrival looked at me, startled. I realized I was standing stark naked,
dripping water and suds. There was nothing to do but get back in the
shower.

TO BE CONTINUED