Absolute Convergence
Chapter 25

By John Yager

This is the twenty-fifth chapter of an ongoing series. I want to thank all the readers who have written to me concerning this story. I continue to be surprised and pleased by all the responses this series has prompted. All your comments are read and given serious consideration. I try to respond to all e-mail promptly. If there is a delay in my response it is usually because I am traveling.

My objective in this series is to deal with issues which have impacted and influenced the lives of gay people in the period between the 1960s and the present time, or from pre-Stonewall days to the era of "don't ask, don't tell."

Many readers have asked if this story is, at least in part, autobiographical. I would not be honest if I said it was not. But I want to make it clear to readers that I am not Rob or Rick or any other specific character in the story and none of them, individually, is me. The story is raising many more questions than it is supplying answers and I certainly make no claim to know the answers. It is my hope that by raising the questions I may prompt more consideration of the issues facing gay people in the USA and throughout the world.

Andrew continues to provide much needed proofing and editorial help, for which I am sincerely grateful. I could not post chapters as quickly as I have been doing without his assistance.
This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

This is a work of gay erotic fiction. If you should not be reading such material, or if such material is not to your liking, please exit now.

This work is copyrighted © by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

All the stories I have posted on NIFTY can be found by looking under my name in the NIFTY Prolific Authors lists.

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It would be on that Friday that I'd receive the first letter I'd gotten from Rick. I'd sent a couple of notes to him and Deb. I sent the first one to Memphis while they were there during the summer, along with the wedding gift I'd settled on, a small crystal bowl with their names and their wedding date engraved on the rim. I had no idea what to give them and no idea what they'd do with the bowl, but when I saw it, it seemed right.

There'd been a thank you note, obviously written by Deb, and then in September, just after reaching Oxford, I'd sent them a second letter to their Starkville address. Again, a short reply had come from Deb, telling me about the classes they'd both be taking and about Rick's involvement with the Mississippi State University football team.

The letter which arrived that Friday, though, was obviously different. The envelope was addressed in Rick's handwriting and the letter covered almost four pages. I tore it open in the mail room and began to read it as I walked across campus toward my first afternoon class. It read:

Dear Rob,

You know I'm not much of a writer so I guess this letter will be as big a surprise for you as it was for me. I'm sorry to be so slow writing but my classes have been taking a lot of time. I don't think I'm doing all that well but I should make good enough grades to play football. That's important because without the football scholarship Deb and I couldn't afford to stay here.

I miss you a lot and think about you all the time. Every day I remember our times at the cabin and dream about them at night. When I think that I will probably never be with you like that again I cry. In bed at night I wake up and reach for you. Deb is there but I reach for you.

Will you be home for Christmas? I want to see you but am afraid at the same time. We told Ted Tucker we'd not be alone together for a year. I hope I can at least see you.

The rest of the letter told me more about his courses and the football team, nothing I didn't know from Deb's earlier letter. At the very end, he continued:

I know I shouldn`t say this, but I love you. You know that and I know that, so I might just as well write it, even though I know I shouldn`t.

Your friend,

Rick Carlson

I stood under one of the big trees on the quad, tightly holding the pages as they fluttered in the cool breeze. I refolded them and tucked them into the inside pocket of my jacket. How should I react? I wasn't sure. My senses were numbed by Rick's strange and unexpected letter, all the more so because it had arrived the very day I would be with Steve for the first time.

As I've been writing this account of my life as a high school student and then as a freshman at Ole Miss, I've begun to see the events of my life in a clearer way. I don't think my view of the actual events has changed, but their significance and influence on later events has become more understandable to me. I guess that's always the case with our own lives. At the time the events that I've been describing were taking place, I was too caught up in the business of living them to step back and look at them with any sense of perspective. Now, from the distance of a good many years, I can see patterns and directions I was unaware of then.

Was I typical of guys my age? Yes, in many ways I was. I was very capable of putting myself before others and my immediate needs and desires before long term goals. That's certainly typical of young men in their late teens.

In my defense I could say that I had most, if not all, of my priorities in order. I was tempted to say I had my priorities straight, but given the more recent meaning of that term, I guess in order is a better choice of words.

I tried to be sensitive to others and I don't think I was ever intentionally cruel. I was capable of thoughtlessness but I was never a bully.

I knew my success as a student and on the football field were important but I had no solid idea of what I really wanted to do with my life. I was willing to work hard to achieve academic success as well as success in sports. I was willing to put in the effort to build up my body and improve my playing skills, and on both fronts, I was beginning to see results.

All these thoughts rattled around in my brain as I walked toward my class in Baker Hall. My mind was a fog and I couldn't keep from thinking about all the "What ifs." What if Rick had not married Deb? What if he and I had been able to go to college together, share a room and continue our relationship?

I'd had too little sleep. All I could manage was to get through the rest of the day on nervous energy; one class, pick up the keys from Bardwell, football practice.

At five, when I came off the football practice field, Steve was waiting for me.

"You look like hell," he greeted me, and I nodded my agreement, not knowing if he meant my appearance or my performance during the practice.

"Couldn't sleep," I said as we walked toward the locker room.

"Bad conscience?" He grinned, for which I gave him a hard slap on the butt.

We changed into shorts and went off to the weight room. I don't think either of us had the heart for a real workout that afternoon. We were just killing time until we could get the car and do our shopping. Finally, at about five o'clock we stopped and headed for the showers.

Standing under the hot steaming water, I kept a sort of sideways eye on Steve. We'd seen each other naked so often that there wasn't anything we didn't know about the other's body, or so I thought. He caught me looking at him and winked.

"Still checking me out?" he said with a slight smile.

"Yeah, right," I laughed, my brain working too slowly for a witty reply.

I turned and stared openly at him and for a moment I thought he blushed. We were within a fraction of an inch of each other in height, and nearly the same weight. Our demanding workouts had begun to show results.

We'd both been in good shape, actually really great shape, when we'd begun working out together, but the extra weight training and the grueling runs had begun to give our bodies a more mature hardness, a honed definition which was new, and to me, very rewarding.

I kept thinking of Rick. Why did my mind do that to me? Had Rick also changed since I'd last seen him?

"You just going to stand there checking me out, or can we go get the car and do our shopping?"

"Let's go shopping," I grinned. "I'll have time to check you out later."

"Pervert," he said under his breath as we headed for our lockers.

We got the car from Bobby Ray with strict promises to get it back in an hour. It wasn't as if we couldn't easily walk from our dorms to Bardwell's house, we'd already done it several times when the honors seminar had been there. This time, however, we were taking the few clothes we'd need for the weekend, and picking up food and a few supplies. We headed for the Winn-Dixie and quickly gathered our purchases; a gallon of milk, bread, cold meat and cheese for sandwiches, cereal, eggs, a pair of great looking steaks and potatoes for baking, plus potato chips and dips and ice cream, all the things we`d been shunning while on our crash workout schedule. The list was surprisingly long for two guys, just for one weekend. But we were growing boys, after all and it was a very special weekend.

We paid, loaded the stuff into the car and pulled around to Bardwell's house on Jackson Avenue, just a few blocks from the campus. Steve and I carried all the stuff in and then I left him to get organized while I drove the car back to the dorm. By the time I'd walked back to Bardwell's, it was almost six-thirty and the cool, autumn evening was closing in.

There had been some talk among Steve and me and seminar group about Bardwell and what sort of background he'd come from. There was no doubt about it, he was an interesting guy and he seemed to prompt speculation.

By then we knew he was twenty-eight and he'd completed his PhD two years before, an early age by anyone's account. He'd arrived at Ole Miss in the fall of 1966 and had quickly made a name for himself.

Soon after he moved to Oxford, Bardwell bought a fine old house for himself and began renovating it. There had been the predictable speculation about family money or some hidden source of funds.

The house was on a street of fine old houses, most of which were larger and a good deal grander. If not Antebellum, they certainly dated from the third quarter of the nineteenth century, well before the days of automobiles. All of them sat back from the tree-lined street and had ornate iron fences across the full width of their lawns, usually entered through ornate gates up a wide brick walk. They all backed up to a service alley, along which interesting old coach houses or stables had been built. With the coming of automobiles, they had been converted to garages, often with rental apartments above.

Bardwell's house was of a type you could find anyplace across the South from older towns in eastern Texas, to Georgia and northern Florida. It had a simple plan with all the rooms on one floor. A wide porch ran across the front of the house and the entire structure sat over a high basement. Basements in the area were only excavated two or three feet below the natural contour of the land, which meant that they were built up five or six feet above ground, usually with rough stone walls, elevating the main floor well off the ground and giving even a smaller house like Bardwell's an imposing façade. To get to the porch and the front entry, you therefore had to mount a series of wide steps. The exterior of the house above the high stone foundations was of wide horizontal wood siding which Bardwell had painted a soft dove gray with white trim around the windows and doors.

The interior was divided into only a few rooms, all spacious and with high ceilings. The living room was in front, just to the left of the entry. It had a fireplace and high French windows opening onto the front porch. Behind the living room was a dining room, and further back the kitchen.

To the right of the entry, a passageway opened to two bedrooms, a smaller one in front, also with a French window, which matched the one in the living room, giving the front façade the expected symmetry. Behind the front bedroom, the passageway led back by a spacious bathroom, to a larger bedroom on the back right corner of the house.

On previous visits with the seminar group, I'd only been in the rooms on the left. All of which had light, ivory colored walls and wide plank pine floors. The furnishings were an odd mix of some very fine old pieces interspersed with stark, contemporary furniture. There were a few rather large abstract paintings, which Bardwell had said were by artist-friends of his. The overall result was a kind of informal, relaxed setting, one where a young, single man of academic interests could be comfortable and at ease.

"I'm back," I called as I entered the front door.

"I'm in the kitchen," Steve responded, and I walked back through the house to join him. He'd turned on the record player in the living room and the house was filled with soft piano jazz.
Steve had changed into gray sweat pants and a loose white T-shirt, which made him look very much at home and very sexy. I walked over and put my arms around his chest, leaning against him as he busied himself with our dinner. I ran my hands over the sharp cleft of his chest and marveled at the muscular hardness of his body.

"You look very domestic," I said as I nibbled on the lobe of his right ear, "just like a proper housewife."

"Get your grubby hands off me," he said in a mock snarl. Instead I nuzzled closer. "Go look around. Have you seen the bedroom?"

"I thought there were two."

"The small one in front is really more of a den. There's a day bed in there so Bardwell could use it as a guest room."

"Does that mean I have to share the real bedroom with you?"

"'Fraid so, but you'd better go have a look."

"Why, has Bardwell done it up like a French bordello or something?"

"Go see for yourself. It's definitely a contrast from the rest of the house."

He'd aroused my curiosity and I went off to take a look. I walked back to the front of the house and peeked into the front bedroom as I went by. Its wall were also painted in the same ivory tone but almost hidden behind a series of high, crowded bookshelves. There was a desk and a couple of chairs and the single bed Steve had mentioned, made up with cushions and several throw pillows.

I walked back further and looked into the bathroom, which was surprisingly large and equipped with obviously expensive contemporary fixtures. It, too, was bright with walls and floor of light colored ceramic tile.

Further back, at the end of the passageway, was a closed door, which obviously led to the bedroom. I opened it and stepped into an opulent world of Edwardian splendor. Rather than the ivory walls common to the rest of the house, this room was done in rich tones of brown and dark forest green. The walls were glazed with several layers of dark brown paint, making them look for all the world like deeply textured leather.

There was a chair rail about three feet off the floor and a cove moulding just below the ceiling, both of which seemed to be made of beautifully carved dark wood. Even the ceiling was glazed in a dark brown, only slightly lighter than the walls.

The floor was covered with a green carpet which looked and felt like soft, dark moss. Against the right wall stood a huge old four-poster bed. It was covered with a heavy comforter which seemed to be made of dark green velvet worked with two or three lighter shades of green and a dark royal blue.

Through the open door to the passageway the soft, romantic music drifted in, increasing the romantic mood of the room.

A small fireplace with a dark wood mantle a cast iron grate was fitted into the left wall. The room was not only surprising because of the dark, rich colors, but also because of the subtle scent which hung in the air, a mixture of pine and lavender and spice. In the back wall of the room was another of the large French windows, and beyond it, a small balcony or deck, which obviously looked down into the now dark back garden.

As I turned to leave the bedroom, I saw that to my right, the front wall of the room was nearly filled with a huge old wardrobe, made of some dark, heavily carved wood. I stood gazing at it, wondering if through it, Steve and I might enter some enchanted world.

The room did not look like the French bordello I had jokingly suggested, but like some rich, masculine fantasy. I stood looking around in awe. Every corner, every detail suggested a male presence.

I opened the wardrobe carefully and saw that Bardwell had thoughtfully moved enough of his own things to leave room for ours. On its floor my bag and Steve's sat side by side, symbols of domestic bliss.

I pulled out sweat pants and a T-shirt to match Steve's and stripped off my clothes. I wondered if Steve was wearing anything under the baggy, fleecy pants, figured he wasn't and pulled off my boxers. Then, dressed like the second Bobbsey Twin, returned to join Steve in the kitchen.

"What do you think?" Steve said as I rejoined him.

"It's amazing. I would never have thought Bardwell would have put together a room like that for himself, especially after seeing the clean, light design of the rest of the house."

"I've been thinking about it while I was waiting for you."

"Come to any conclusions."

"Yeah, I have, but there's another surprise." He turned from the salad he'd just finished and wiped his hands. "Come on, I want to show you the basement."

"Don't tell me he's got some sort of dungeon down there."

"No, not a dungeon."

"Oh, I know, a model train layout," I grinned.

"Come on," he said, leading me to a little extension of the kitchen from which there was a door to the back deck and, on the interior side, another door which I assumed correctly had to lead down to the basement.

Steve went ahead of me, flipped a switch and the stairs were illuminated by a series of bright lights. At the bottom of the stairs we made a sharp turn to the right and came out into a large space which more or less conformed to the areas of the kitchen, dining room and living room above. There was a door on the left side which Steve told me led to a laundry area and workshop.

"It's fairly well equipped," he said. "He even has a lathe."

Around the sides of the larger room were a series of cabinets and shelves, some open, some closed and locked. But what made the area surprising and unique was the mat in the center of the space. It was made of tan canvas, about two inches thick, and obviously stuffed with some sort of firm material. It was, in effect, a large gym mat about twenty-four feet square. A white strip ran around the entire mat, about two feet in from the edge, creating a large square within the larger square of the mat. In the center was a circle about six feet in diameter, marked with the same sort of white strip.

"What do you think it's for?" I asked.

"I think it's for wrestling," Steve said. "There aren't any ropes so it can't be a boxing ring. I think it's for Greco-Roman wrestling. I don't remember much about the rules but I don't think this is large enough to meet the official size. I guess Bardwell and whoever he wrestles with make up their own rules.

"I never heard Bardwell mention anything like this."

"I know," Steve said.

We stood in silence for a moment as my eyes roamed over the rest of the basement. At the far end was a workout area with a bench and a good selection of weights. The entire area was very well lit by a series of almost institutional flourescent lights running down the center of the space.

"So what conclusions have you come to?"

"Well, for one thing, he must feel comfortable with us. I mean, he offered us the use of his home, knowing we were desperate to be together and had no place to go."

"Yeah, he really is doing us a big favor. But he did it in such a way that he could always plead innocence, saying he'd just asked us to house sit for him."

"He must also feel completely comfortable letting us see all of his house, you know, sides of his personality he doesn't show to many students, probably not to many of his fellow faculty members either."

"Well, I guess there is nothing too weird about this basement."

"I don't think you'd find another one like it in Oxford, probably not in all of Mississippi. But then there's that bedroom."

"Well," I said, trying to put the most ordinary slant on it, "it's certainly different from the rest of the house, but there's nothing all that weird about it, either."


"Well, maybe a little over the top, that's all."

"Rob, it's a fucking seduction chamber. He's spent a bundle on it and I'd bet it's put to good use." He paused and then asked, "Did you look up under the canopy of the bed?"

"Don't tell me. Mirrors, right?"

"One huge fucking mirror."

"Well that does surprise me."

"So you do think it's weird."

"Maybe, but that's not what I mean. It just seems too over the top for Bardwell, even in bad taste. I thought he was the kind of guy who'd stop short of such an obvious cliché."

"Well, like I've been telling you, Rob, it's a seduction chamber."

"Remember me telling you what he said about supporting the policies banning sex between faculty and students? If he's bringing guys back here and `having his way' with them, I'd guess they aren't Ole Miss students."

"Well, maybe he looks further a field," Steve said, then sensually stroking my rear, added, "or maybe you just aren't his type."

His hand felt wonderful through the fleecy fabric of my sweat pants.

"Um," Steve said, his voice suddenly lower. "you aren't wearing anything under there, are you?"

"Naked as the day I was born. What about you?" I asked, reaching for his crotch.

"Don't touch the merchandise, Buster, at least not yet."

I withdrew my hand but said, "Okay, I'll wait `till we've had dinner, but answer my question."

"I've got a jock strap on. I didn't want to embarrass myself."

"Well, you don't mind embarrassing me," I grinned. As he'd continued to stroke my ass, my cock had come to full mast, tenting the sweat pants suggestively.

"That's different."

"How different. I can get embarrassed, too."

"Yeah, but you're so cute when you blush."

"You're sure you don't want to save dinner for later and do a little wrestling, or maybe go try out Bardwell's bed?"

"Nope, dinner first. Then maybe I'll take you up on a little wrestling. I'd love to pin you to that mat a few times."

"You wish.

"You never wrestled, did you?"

"No, did you?"

"I didn't go out for it, but I did work out with a couple of high school friends." He gave me an evil grin and added, "At least I know a couple of holds."

"Should I be scared?"


I looked at him with new seriousness and asked, "Steve, I'm wondering after what you've said about the mat and the bedroom, are you going to feel uncomfortable with us sleeping in Bardwell's bed?"

"Hell no, I can't wait. Besides, the more I think about that mirror, the hotter I get."

"Hey, maybe we can play Wilde and Lord Douglas or something like that."

He looked solemnly at me for a moment and then put his arms around me and drew me into a warm embrace. His lips hovered over mine without quite touching. "I don't want to play anyone but us. This isn't about fantasies or role-play, Rob. It's about me loving you and you loving me." Then his lips pressed against mine and we kissed deeply and lovingly. My hard cock was prodding his crotch and the front of my sweatpants felt very damp.

"Yeah," I agreed as we drew apart.

"Well," he said, taking my hand and leading me back up the stairs, "let's eat. We'll need a lot of energy later, whether we wrestle down here or in bed."

Steve had put the potatoes in to bake, made a salad and seasoned the steaks. He'd fired up the gas grill on the rear deck and we had them hot and bloody after about four minutes per side. We both liked them red, we discovered, so the grilling was fast and the eating slow. We sat across from each other at the little table in the kitchen and enjoyed the food and the view, his of me and mine of him. I don't think my cock went down through the entire meal.

Just three weeks earlier Steve and I had seen Tom Jones when it was shown at the Student Union Saturday evening film series. The film was four or five years old at that point, but I'd not seen it before. It wasn't the kind of film which made it to Spring River. There's a scene in it where Tom and a "Harlot" are eating together at a country inn. Everything they were eating seemed to take on sexual connotations, culminating in the very ripe fruit they had for dessert. In the movie it was very raunchy and also very funny, ending with them racing to Tom's room, where they had hasty, lively sex.

I couldn't help thinking of that scene as I watched Steve shove bites of bloody beef into his mouth. When I reminded him of the movie, we both got more and more amused as well as more and more aroused.

The dishes didn't get washed until Saturday afternoon.

We'd both showered at the gym and opted to skip another shower in favor of getting into Bardwell's huge bed; even the thought of showering with Steve in private and being able to run my soapy hands over his magnificent body was very tempting. Later, I told myself. We did have all weekend.

Steve insisted on lighting the candles on the bedside tables and also starting a fire in the fireplace which, he'd discovered in his earlier exploration, was gas and needed only a turn of the valve and a match to create a wonderful flickering glow and a wonderful warmth.

We stood in front of the hearth watching the flames dance and hiss. Steve pulled off his T-shirt and then slowly pulled mine off over my head. Our bare torsos pressed together as we kissed.

"I've been dreaming about this for weeks."

"Yeah," I whispered, "me, too."

His hands ran down my back and under the elastic waistband of my sweatpants. He kneaded the globes of my ass and pulled me closer into him. My cock was raging and I could feel the steady pulse of his, trapped in the pouch of his jockstrap.

"Which side of the bed do you want?" He asked as we backed apart.

"Your call," I said, watching the flickering light dance over his muscular chest.

"Well, I'll take the side by the windows," he said, moving away from me.

I went to the other side, toward the huge wardrobe, pulled off my sweats, and turned to face him."

He stood on the far side of the bed, his hands at his own waistband, frozen, staring at me.

"Oh, god, Rob," he whispered, his voice barely audible across the bed. "You're beautiful, the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

"I was just thinking the same thing about you."

"I've never seen you hard before."

"Well, if you don't get those sweats off I may never see you."

"You have seen me," he teased.



He slowly, sensually lowered his sweats, leaving his jock strap in place. He rotated his body a little, moving his hips in a totally erotic way.

"Fucking exhibitionist," I growled and dove across the bed toward him. I more or less landed on my stiff cock, which didn't feel too good. But cocks are very self protective and it just slapped up against my abs real hard and sent a couple of strong objections to my brain.

Steve just backed up, of course, laughing at my failed attempt to grab him, then standing just out of my reach and continuing his erotic little dance.

"Get up, you fiend," he laughed, "before you track your spunk across Bardwell's fancy bed spread."

"Oh, shit," I said, realizing I'd probably done just that.

I rolled onto my back and scooted across to my own side of the huge bed, then rose so we could pull the elaborate comforter down and fold it neatly at the foot of the bed. Under it we found two light blankets and then a sheet, which we turned down part way. The fire in the grate was warming the room a little but the air was still cool. I slid under the sheet and one blanket as Steve sat on the far side of the bed and pulled off his jock. The time for frivolity was over.

Steve quickly joined me under the light covers and we moved together. We embraced each other eagerly and our lips met. We kissed deeply and then Steve pulled away to move slowly from my mouth to my chin, then up over my left cheek and then lightly over my eyes. My eyelids fluttered involuntarily as his lips caressed them.

"Oh, Rob," he crooned, "you can't imagine how much I've wanted this."

"Yeah, I can. I've been aching for it, too."

He moved back from me a little and rose up to support himself on one elbow, just looking down at me from a foot or so above me, his eyes looking deeply into mine.

The fire sputtered and hissed and the light of the low flames danced over the dark walls. Music drifted in from the record player in the living room, something soft, slow.

I looked up from his face to our forms drifting in the mirror above us, floating like disembodied spirits in infinite space.

The situation couldn't have been more romantic. Maybe Bardwell's bedroom was doing its magic. Steve's assessment of it was right. It was a fucking seduction chamber and we certainly didn't need that. Seduction was necessary when one potential partner was less than ready to reciprocate. With Steve and me it had been clear well before that night that we were ready for one another. The only thing lacking was the place and the opportunity. I had to admit that this elegant room really was over the top. In fact, it was so theatrical that it could have put us both off. But I don't think that night anything could have kept us from consummating our feelings for one another.

We didn't need dark walls and a canopy bed with a mirrored ceiling. We didn't need flickering firelight and soft music. Not that any of those things hurt and it really had been great of Bardwell to offer us the use of his place. But this wasn't about architectural trappings. It was about Steve and me, just the two of us, stripped, naked, in each other`s arms.

"I think you know this is a real commitment for me." Steve's voice was very low, almost a whisper.

"I know. It is for me, too."

"You're okay with that? I mean, you really want to make that kind of commitment?"

"Yeah, Steve, I want it. I want us be monogamous. I know that's important and I want it." I couldn't help thinking that Sammy was still a shadow lurking in a dark corner of Steve's mind. I wanted to reassure him and I needed to reassure myself.

He pulled back a little and looked piercingly into my eyes.  "How about faithful? I think I like that better."

I leaned over and kissed him softly, just as he'd kissed me a moment before.

"I'm okay with any word you want."

I rolled onto my back and pulled him over onto me. The pressure of his body on mine was exquisite. I wanted him to take me. I wanted to yield my whole being to him.

Steve adjusted himself as I spread my legs. I felt his oozing cock dancing with mine. I lifted my legs and locked them around his hips. The gentle rocking of our bodies became an overriding thrust.

His lips were locked over mine. Our kisses were no longer tender, tentative. I opened my mouth to him and his tongue darted in, skipped over my teeth and plunged into my throat. It was so sudden I almost gagged but resisted the need to protect myself and let him invade me as deeply as he desired. I was completely caught up in him.

I used my legs to pull his body against mine, then released him a little, only to pull him back again. By doing so, I nudged us deeper into the rhythm of our mating, feeling the muscles of his torso press against my own, two hard male bodies sparring, thrusting, melding into one.

This had nothing to do with dominance and submission. There was no feigned feminine role here. We were two men, hard, muscular men, meeting as equals, joining as peers.

We were both groaning now, chest-deep groans which coupled, becoming one.

Steve broke away a little and rolled to his side. I wanted him in me, to feel him invading me. I needed to yield completely to him, to assure him of my trust. Why had he pulled away? I wanted to give myself to him.

"Slow down, Rob. We need more time."

"I want you in me."

"I know."

"Fuck me, Steve."

He moved a little further to my side and leaned over to kiss me softly on the cheek.

"Let's take it slow," he whispered. "You may be asking for more than you can handle."

I reached down under the sheet and ran my hand over his abs, feeling his firmness, letting my fingers wander though his thick public hair. I grasped his throbbing shaft and moved my hand along it, marveling at how something so hard can feel so soft. My hand reached the flare of his glans and stopped. My fingers circled it and my thumb ran across the oozing tip.

I stopped and looked questioningly at him.

"Like I said, lover, you may be asking for more than you can handle."

I'd seen Steve naked many times and it had looked to me as if he and I were very similar is size. In length and girth, we both had cocks which fell well within the average range. Until that night, however, I'd never seen him erect. First by touch, and then by sight when I threw the covers off of us, I realized that when erect, the head of his cock took on amazing proportions. Its head was far bigger than mine even though the shaft was about the same length and the head was about the same as mine when we were both soft.

"You have a monster there, fellow," I whisper in awe as I looked down at his cock.

"It's not going to put you off is it?"

"No way, Steve. I don't want you for your cock."


"Well," I grinned, "not just for your cock." He leaned over to kiss me again. Our bodies pressed together and he rolled over me again. I couldn't get over the wonderful sensation of his body on mine, the weight and substance of his muscular torso pressing into, fitting, meshing with my own body.

I know there's a lot of clichéd language about the bodies of lovers becoming one. It may be a cliché but I really felt that with Steve. This was the guy I'd worked out with, whom I'd watched as he and I had become more muscular, more defined. I'd seen our physiques develop and improve and I'd seen the tenacity and self discipline with which he'd worked, pushing himself and me, not letting either of us slack off. I'd learned to know him on a lot of different levels and had come to admire his character and his body and his mind. This was the man I'd come to love.

"I really want you in me, man," I said again.

He pulled back a little and looked deeply into my eyes. "It'll happen, Rob, but not tonight, okay?"

"Why not tonight?"

"Tonight's tender time, okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when I fuck you it's going to be rough and aggressive it's going to hurt like hell. For now I just want to love you."

"I've been fucked before, remember."

"Yeah, right, once by a guy with a normal cock. That doesn't make you ready for me."

"You've fucked other guys, Steve, you told me so. They took it and I can, too."

"I know you can, and once you get over the initial shock you'll love it, too, as much as I'll love it when you fuck me. But trust me, okay? Let's just take it slow and gentle and get to now each other a little bit better tonight. I want us to start out slow and tenderly, Rob. I want to assure you of my love."

"Well, I guess I can't argue with that."

He lowered his lips to mine again and we kissed slowly and lovingly, feeling our passions rise and our bodies begin to move again with the languid cadence of our desire.

Our cocks, trapped between our bodies, moved together in the increasingly hot dampness. My legs again came up to lock him to me, to nudge his body into closer bonding with mine.

Steve thrust against me and I rose to meet him, feeling the tide of our passions build, feeling the urgency of our yearning, knowing that as we pressed together in this timeless dance of love, we would soon pass the point of reckoning. Good things can't last and the best things last the shortest time of all.

We were both moaning. Our mouths were pressed together and our tongues were deep in each other's mouth. I felt a catch in my own breathing and its echo in Steve's. It was about then that we both knew that a dramatic climax was about to overtake both of us. That in itself was a foregone conclusion, I guess. Two guys can't thrust and rub their bodies together like we were doing for long without it resulting in orgasm. The French have a name for it, frottage. But what is more important than the fact that we were getting off like that is the fact that in doing so we were expressing some important things about our feelings for each other.

Steve had said he wanted to assure me of his love. I wanted him to know I loved him, too. I'd experienced some of those same emotions with Rick. But I'd lost him and I had to go on. It would take time for me to feel as deeply about Steve as I'd felt about Rick, and Rick, after all, was the first person I'd ever loved. I wanted that with Steve but I was willing to be patient. I was willing to let love grow between us and I knew he felt the same way. It was worth waiting for.

When we came that night it was incredibly sweet. I know that's a kind of weird word to use about feelings between two guys, but I don't know any other word for it. I felt the first wave of my climax hit me and my body stiffened. Steve knew what was going on and his response was to hold me even closer. His powerful arms pressed me to him and his big, masculine hands moved along my back, moving between my skin and the bed, gentling me like you'd calm a powerful horse at the end of an especially exhausting race.

In the middle of his loving, his own climax hit him. His body responded just the way mind had done seconds earlier, his groin pressing into me, his cock erupting the way mine had done. Our bodies were pressed so close there wasn't anyplace for our seed to go, so it just pulsed out of us, mixing, melding, bonding.

Steve's head had arched back when his orgasm had hit and I held him just as he'd held me, comforting him, calming him, just loving him. When it passed he brought his lips to mine again and my lips welcomed his. The struggle was over now and our lips pressed together tenderly.

It took a while for our bodies to relax. Our breath was coming in gasps as our lungs cried out for air.

I was again aware of the wonderful feeling of his muscular body pressed against mine. It was as if all those long hours in the gym had moulded us into a sort of matching pair.

"Oh, Rob," Steve finally moaned as he lifted his mouth from mine.

"Yeah," I said, reaching behind him to press my hand into the back of his head and pull him down against my shoulder. He nuzzled into my neck, his mouth still wet and hot. He moved lower, pressing into the curve of my shoulder.

"I'm worn out."

"Me too," I whispered. "Thank God we have all weekend."

"Oh, yeah," he managed to whisper as I felt a change in the rhythm of his breathing and I knew he was asleep. I lay there for a long time, feeling his weight on me, loving it, not wanting to move, not wanting to risk waking him.

Eventually he moved a little so his shoulder slid off me to my right. He lay with his face pressed into Bardwell's luxurious sheets. Our lower bodies were still pressed together, cemented together with our drying sweat and seed.

I slowly drifted off to sleep, peaceful, complete.

Thank God we had all weekend.

To be continued.