Date: Sat, 29 May 2021 22:49:17 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Tristan Chapter 43 (Gay College)

Tristan
by Henry H. Hilliard

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Chapter 43

Chapter the Last

`Gluck' was one of the more interesting composers of opera in the
Eighteenth Century and his contributions to that art form are many, as
learned musicologists will tell you, but perhaps the most important to
humanity was the reduction in the length of the typical performance of the
Baroque Period.  But it is not Christoph Willibald von Gluck to whom this
word was referring when it was repeated and repeated.  It was alternated
with `kack kack' and this second glottal utterance bore no reference to
composers of any era, save for the music that was being performed at that
moment with the doors and windows safely closed in the hayloft bedroom of
`HMS Beagle', the student house in the Texas university town.

The soloist on this occasion was Tristan Isley, but--to continue the
musical metaphor--it was actually a duet that was being performed with
Colton Stone, the well-known quarterback, who was repeatedly thrusting his
girthy, erect penis into the largely willing throat of Tristan, whose eyes
streamed with tears and whose face was red and dripped with saliva and
`throat slime'.

This `throat fucking' was quite brutal and protracted and the `glucks' and
`kacks' and other guttural chords was counterpointed by a faint screech and
squeal whose source would eventually be revealed.

"That rubber sheet was a good investment, Tris," said Colton brightly as he
stood to admire the damage.  There was cum everywhere; Colton had shot in
Tristan's hair and all over his face.  It matted Tristan's chin strip beard
and stung his reddened eyes.  It dripped to the prophylactic bed covering
in question, where it mingled with Tristan's own more modest ejecta.

Tristan did not answer because he had collapsed forward in a faint.

"Dude," said Colton as he gently but firmly slapped his cheeks to bring him
around. "Y'gotta remember to breathe. Y'all deprivin' y'brain of oxygen."

Tristan tried to speak but it was a moment before he could make even the
most husky of utterances. "Thanks, Colt," he croaked.  "That was hot." He
tried to look up through his matted lashes. "We'd better shower."

"What's the rush, man? Ain't no one home but you and me. I feel I could go
a second round and I'll put m'shoulder pads n' helmet on for y'all.  Know
how that gets you real hot."

"You might have to take it off to kiss me."

Colton said he'd cross that bridge...

"You plugged for me?'

"Yep, practically all day and it's driving me insane."

"That's just how I like y'all.  All frosty an' British on the outside, but
inside burnin' for jock meat an' gapin' wide like the slut y'are."

"Fair description."



It was some time later when Colton, who was cradling Tristan in his strong
throwing arm, said, "Like it when y'all take the initiative, Tris.
Y'tongue felt pert good on m'pucker an' came at it just at the right
moment."

"Am I bleeding?" asked Tristan in an exhausted voice and who wasn't really
listening.

Colton felt with his fingers and inspected them. "Nope, but y'sure puffy
an' leakin' bad. I'll get you one of them soothing suppositories that the
Doc prescribed."

"Fuck, my head is killing me.  I think I may have had a stroke."

"It's just an orgasm headache, dude. Happens with real intense cums. Y'neck
muscles become tense and the blood vessels in y'brain expand."

"Is that bad?"

"Nah.  I get you some Tylenol and water."



"Feelin' better?" asked Colton, looking up from his phone a short time
later.

"Feelin' fucking fantastic," said Tristan, managing a grin.

"Well, I might feel like doin' y'later, but just lay here for a bit and
we'll both recover."

Deshawn's punkahs wafted cooling zephyrs on their sweat-soaked flesh and
the rhythmic swish was the only sound in the room for some minutes until
Tristan spoke.  "I love you Colt."

"I know you do, Tris." Tristan waited for more.  "An' I ain't never loved
nobody more'n I love you."

Tristan ignored the double negative and thought that this was probably
good.  "More than Tammy?" he asked trying to avoid getting heavy.

"Well, I can ride her.  I guess you can ride me."  Tristan giggled and then
rebuked himself for being girly.

The silence returned, each occupied with his own thoughts.

"It's nice being here with you," confessed Tristan at length.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You mean in the sack?"

"No, just anywhere," replied Tristan airily.

"Like?"

"Well, there was this time we went Home Depot together."

"Y'all joshing me!"

"No, I remember you wanted some barbecue tools and you said, `Let's go' and
we were just laughing and joking about some shit and I remember feeling...I
don't know...just completely happy--happy in some sort of abstract
sense--and I realised that it was because you were with me; we were
together, just doing ordinary stuff."

"So my efforts here are wasted," joked Colton. "I just need to take you to
a hardware store for a screw."

"Shut up! I'm trying to say that I'm happy just being with you."

"You mean, you'd still love Colty if there was no sex?"

Tristan only had to think for a moment.  "Yeah, I would, even though it's
hard to separate you and sex."

"And if it were only sex an' nuthin' more?"

"That's harder. No, I don't think so. And me?"

"The sex is good, but it ain't essential."

"Well, I guess it's lucky we don't have to make a choice."

"Y'know, Tris, most chicks like me for the sex and a lot like me because
I'm a footballer.  I guess it's no surprise that not many like me for bein'
me--the Colton Stone underneath."

"I now feel ashamed that I made you wear your armour."

"That were diff'rent; it were just fun."

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I point out that you do seem to enjoy being
the football stud.  That's the truth, isn't it?  And you don't give a lot
of girls even the chance to discover the real you."

Colton blushed.  "Well, must confess that's the truth, Roomy.  But you've
discovered the real me?"

"Yeah and he's a real nice guy and is very affectionate and will kiss me
for a long time while he's grinding our cocks together between our abs."

"Only one of us has abs, dude, but I hear y'call."

They moved to Tristan's bed because Tristan said that the squealing of the
rubber sheet kept reminding him of a balloon artist at a children's party
and it was putting his teeth on edge. Here Colton covered him with his
bigger body while Tristan was able to let his hand roam freely over the
quarterback's strong back, with excursions down to his meaty young buttocks
that Parker's mother might have described (had they been reconciled) as
being as perfect as Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A Major (which, had
Tristan known it, was catalogued K.622) or perhaps more fittingly for so
robust a creation, compared to the majesty of Modest Mussorgsky's `Great
Gate of Kiev' as performed by the Rome Symphony Orchestra on a hot night in
Georgia.

Tristan was not conscious of it, but the reader might do well to pause and
reflect upon the beauty of youthful flesh--in this case the twenty
year-old's handsome bottom; there might be many magnificent gym-toned
buttocks belonging to forty-ish weightlifters or well-preserved long haul
truckers or even geography teachers that had not entirely run to seed, but
there is something about the texture and ripeness of flesh in its first
bloom of youth--accompanied by muscle produced from honest farm labour--
that can never be recaptured nor delivered from the ravages of time. It was
the bum of Adam, but not by Michelangelo, but as drawn by Blake who,
surprisingly, understood bums better than the Renaissance practitioner--at
least how to draw them. As has often been observed, such realizations are
wasted on the young and although Tristan loved it and Colton was proud of
it, the true profundity of such an anatomical creation naturally escaped
them in their callowness and perhaps would not be realised for many years
hence and when it was too late and when a chance glance in a double mirror
would revel an arse like a old pair of festoon curtains.

True to his word, Colton kissed Tristan with all the abandon of which he
was capable and Tristan kissed back, as always hoping he was doing it right
and jealous of his partner who seemed to act only on instinct.  At the same
time they gently frotted their sweaty groins, Tristan loving the feeling of
Colton's big piece alongside his own smaller one and the pleasant friction
created by Colton's corrugated abdomen and his wiry blonde hair.  Then
there was the overwhelming weight of Colton above him, possessing him
utterly, keeping him safe, but also making it difficult to breathe--which
was difficult enough in any case.

Eventually Tristan felt himself cum, but their duelling mouths continued
their passionate battle.  Then Colton came and Tristan felt quite sure that
he'd been holding off until Tristan had been satisfied and once again he
marvelled at the control and capacity that the quarterback had over his
love-making. There was a sticky mess between them.

They lay there quietly talking, Colton, who had grown considerably heavy,
having rolled aside but remaining close to Tristan. Then Colton said, "We'd
better shower up," and unpeeled himself. He swaggered to the Japanese
bathroom, his body on full display and his cocky attitude too. "We gotta
cook tonight an' we better buy those ribs. 'Course I could always take you
to Home Depot if y'feelin' honeymoony."

"Shut up!" said Tristan throwing the soap at him.  "That is the last time I
confess anything to you!"

Colton laughed then kissed him again.  Then, just using his superior
strength, he managed to press Tristan's face into his butt crack and
laughed some more.  It was the careless way the young had with Works of
Art.

****

Colton was sitting at his table in the student foyer when Hollis suddenly
appeared before him.

"S'up, bro?" asked Colton who had passed freshman English.

"S'up bro?" came the socially correct reply from the wide receiver with the
red hair and freckles.

They exchanged a few anodyne jock remarks and then Hollis settled into the
plastic chair, casting nervous glances at Laura, Colton's partner for the
day.

"You must hear a heap o'weird stuff here," said Hollis by way of
introduction and looking around.  It was the verse to some song, Colton was
pretty sure, but he quickly surmised that he would not know it until Hollis
was forthcoming with the chorus.

"Some..." said Colton.

"We had a girl just before who was bitten by her pet snake and there were
two cases of bad acne," contributed Laura.

"No, I mean sex stuff...you know weird shit."

"Some..." repeated Colton, cautiously, wondering where this was going."

"I've been working here since I was a fresher and there's nothing that
would surprise me now," said Laura fiddling with her phone.

"How weird?" probed Hollis.  Colton let Laura, who had now looked up, take
the lead.

"Well, fetishes: rubber, lace, ropes, diapers, chastity devices..."

"Chastity?"

"Yeah," said Colton, "Chastity belts and cock cages. The partner is given
control of when the other can cum."

"Real common," said Laura in a tired voice. "Then there's weird family
shit--boys obsessed with momma, grandma's panties, coach--that sort of
thing."

"Oh," said Hollis with a strange look on his face.

"What's all this, bro?  You can ask me stuff at home."

"Yeah, but here y'can't tell no other people what I said or make fun of me.
It's like the confessional, right?"

"Yeah, strictly confidential," said Laura. "You're Hollis McGarvie, aren't
you?"

Hollis didn't deny it and chanced a grin before turning back to Colton.

"You won't make fun of me, Colt, or tell the others?"

"I'm a professional, dude.  Spill."

This must have been enough to reassure Hollis or else he was so desperate
that he was prepared to risk ridicule.

"Well, when I get off I like to play with m'ass," This came out in a great
rush and was followed by a pause.  Then, more considered: "Colton knows
this already, Laura."  He was now red in the face, but still probably
appeared sexy to Laura, Colton divined.

"What's the problem, Hollis McGarvie?" she asked in an authoritative tone
but eyeing him carefully.

"That is the problem.  It's weird.  Guy's aren't supposed to touch
themselves down there."

"Sez who?"

"Sez everybody.  It's a fact of society."

"No it ain't. Go away and play with your anus and stop taking up our time."

"What Laura is tryin' t'say, Holly, is that it ain't even faintly
weird. All men have done it.  Many do it. Some can't get off without doin'
it."

"But why is that?"

"Lotta nerve endings in the rectum and around the sphincter."

"I guess it is kinda sensitive."

"Sure is.  There is the prudendal nerve that connects directly to the
dorsal nerve that goes right to the end of your cock and others that go to
your balls.  Then there is your inferior anal nerve..."

"Y'blindin' me with science, man."

"Same nerve goes to a girl's clit," added Laura bluntly.  "I'm going to get
us some coffee and let you two jocks talk in private."

"Coffee, Holly?" asked Colton.

Laura went off with their orders and the two bros settled down. "So you
can't get off without playing with your butt."

"Can get off, but it's better if I do it.  More satisfyin'.  Bigger loads."

"Well that's important," said Colton, perhaps departing from strict science
for the sake of supporting his buddy.  "So, just play with y'pucker and
maybe wash y'fingers good afterwards."

"But that ain't the problem.  Parker's there and he don't go nowhere near
his pucker when he beats off.  He's from Georgia and they don't do no weird
stuff there."

"Bull-shit," opined Colton.  "Parks is as weird as the rest of us.  Hey!
Have you thought of gettin' a vibrator?"

"A vibrator!  They're for desperate chicks and fags!"

"Twenty-first century, y'hayseed.  Course they're not. Rachel and Leesha
have them..."

"They do?"

"Yeah, Leesh gave me the batteries out of hers just yesterday when the TV
remote died. Mine plugs in."

"You use a vibrator?"

"Sure, sometimes, but mine is a big heavy duty model; could jackhammer an
asphalt road.  You'd just need a little slim one."

"Hey! My ass can take anything your butt does, Stone.  I might just get the
biggest one available." The whiff of competition had stirred his blood.

"Well," said Colton scratching the blonde stubble on his chin and turning
his eyes to the ceiling, "there's the new 5G model coming out soon," and
added in a further flight of fantasy, "They say it will make all other
models obsolete.  Lots of guys have already pre-ordered theirs, but perhaps
you should just start with a cheap, simple one."

Hollis was conflicted. "I don't want one with no cock and balls.  It's just
to go outside, if'n you know what I mean."

Colton was doubtful of this circumscription but played along.  "Sure," he
said.  "We'll order one on-line."

"But we can't," said Hollis in despair, "...Parker."

"Can't you jack off in private?"

"Well, suppose I could, but Parks might think it a might unfriendly-like
after all this time."

"You leave it to me, dude.  I'll sort out Parks and I promise your ass will
thank me."

Hollis was relieved and evidently placed a great deal of faith in his
teammate.  After a moment he said: "Hey, this Laura, do you thinks she
likes me?"

"Might could. At least she knows how she'd have to please you straight up.
Here she comes with our coffee.  I'll go to the john and let you two visit
a spell."



It was only a few days later that Colton caught up with Parker who had just
come in from lacrosse practice.

"Hey man."

Parker had pulled off his top and was now bare-chested. "Yo, Colt!"

"You seen Holly? I've got his medicine."

"Nope.  Medicine?  Is the dude sick or somethin'?" Parker was now down to
his plaid boxers.

"Oh, it's personal, but I thought he might have told y'all."

"Told me shit.  What's eating him?" asked Parker, now jiggling his freed
balls.

"Not eating him but itching him, man.  He's got hemorrhoids--subcutaneous
hemorrhoids.  They're the worst."

"What's that mean?"

"Well you know ordinary `piles'?" Parker nodded. "Well these can't be seen
and they still itch like hell."

"Shit!  That's bad luck for the poor bastard.  I suppose some ointment...?"
Perhaps unconsciously, Parker scratched his arse through the checked
cotton.

"Oh yeah, but there's a new treatment."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.  You know that Revitive shit?"

"You mean the thing that vibrates y'legs for better circulation?"

"Yeah, like that, but for haemorrhoids."

"You mean like a slut's vibrator?"

Colton was aghast at the narrowness of his buddy's view but said, "Yeah,
exactly and that's why Holly doesn't want to use it.  You'll laugh at him
and make fun of him."

"No I won't.  I'm his best bud."

"I can tell him that?"

"Sure."

There was a pause while Colton pretended to be lost in thought. "Well, even
better, I have two of the Rectal Circulation Boosters--a shipping
error--and if you could use one too..."

"But I ain't got subcutaneous haemorrhoids or even reg'lar ones.  My ass is
nice and tight."

Colton was nearly going to ask to inspect it but satisfied himself by
saying, "It won't cause you no harm.  You might even like it--I mean your
blood and seminal fluids will pump around better."

"You mean m'cum?"

"Sure, they don't call it a booster for nothing an' it might make you cum
like a porn star, but if you don't want it I'll send it back for a full
refund..."

"Hang on a minute, dude.  I didn't say I wouldn't try it.  I mean if it
will make Holly feel better--he has been awful grumpy lately...."

"It's the itch.  He craves relief, dude.  You shoulda realised that as his
bro."

"I suppose I didn't see the signs."

There was the briefest of pauses. "I'll get the other one," said Colton
brightly. "And some batteries--they're not included.  You won't need no
instructions--course you ain't got a strict medical need like our boy, Red,
but if he sees you using one too, well, he'll be as happy as a pig in
shit."

Colton returned in a flash and handed over the unmarked box.  Parker was
still standing, dazed, just where he had left him, his lacrosse gear pooled
on the floor.

"Here you are, man.  You might like to practice before Holly gets back.
It's real good of you to offer moral support for him in his time of need."

"That's what a bro is for, Colt," said Parker who was now eagerly opening
the box.

Colton closed the door on his way out and smiled to himself.  It was only a
short time later that he returned, beer in hand, and put his ear to the
hardwood door. From inside could be heard a low groan and a faint hum that
might have been mistaken for a hive of bees busy at work making honey,
which was not far from the truth.

****

Tristan found that Professor Macpherson's latest project was more
interesting than his last one on the origins of the Great War.  It was a
look at American social history and already Tristan could detect a quite
excoriating tone that had been absent in previous works, but perhaps suited
the troubled times--perhaps `unprecedented'--that the United States was
going through.

"I've found another one, Iain," said Tristan.

"Yes?"

"Well it's a cartoon, actually; a Warner Brothers cartoon from the 1950s
with Sylvester the Cat."  Iain raised his eyebrows in amusement. "And it's
all about explaining the triumphs of mass production and mass consumption
to this visiting mouse from old Europe.  It was written for the Alfred
P. Sloan Foundation--you know, General Motors. It's called by `Word of
Mouse' and is a real piece of Cold War soft propaganda."

"American Exceptionalism?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  Classical capitalist economics and there's the throw
away line, `Most are just ordinary working guys'."  There was a snort of
laughter.

"I'll have to check it out, Tris. You know, consumption and convenience
were both such powerful national goals right from the 1920s
onwards--perhaps even before--that most people still can't see any more to
life beyond what shit they can buy for their homes.  We actually call it
`lifestyle', don't we? It's a shifting mirage and it's been exported right
around the world."

"Well, what else is there?"

"You mean as how else could we could live our lives?"

"Yeah."

Macpherson tossed off ideas as if he were broadcasting grain for
chickens. "Look at the counter culture in the 'sixties, Tristan. Look at
sustainability and environmentalism today.  Look at the reforms of the
Progressives in the 1910s. There's equality: racial and economic. There are
plenty other good things that could be the goals of American life.  You
know about Bhutan?"

"They have happiness as a national goal, I know, but I don't know if I want
to be told to be happy by the government and isn't that in the American
Constitution anyway--the pursuit of it, at least?"

"Well, they don't reference that bit as much as the Second Amendment."

"So, is a country with spray-on cheese what it's all come to?"

"Hey! I love that shit," said Parker as he crossed the room to the front
door.

"But," continued Tristan as he drank his coffee, "the other side of the
coin is that all the abundance of stuff has made the USA a better place
than a lot of other countries--and better than the USA was in the 1800s."

"At a price, Tris!  At a price!  There's massive inequality, greed,
obesity, environmental degradation..."

"Yeah, but if the people wanted other things they would strive for them.
They like consumerism."

"They're brainwashed into liking it by the manufacturers, the big
corporations, the retailers and, of course, Madison Avenue."

"The Great Satan, eh?"

"I think so."

"This series, Iain: you can't make it too heavy, if you don't mind me
saying so. Look at how the public turned against the muckrakers during the
First World War.  Lots of people hate Michael Moore and there's a lot of
the American public who won't hear a word against their way of life."

"Yes, that's the problem--and a symptom."

"Symptom? Are you saying it's an illness?"

"That is going a bit far, I admit," Macpherson leaned back in his bentwood
chair.  Tristan held his breath that it didn't tip.  "Of course, it won't
ever air on US network television, I know that. But this is just a chat
between you and me."

Tristan was thoughtful for a minute. "I liked the stuff on the Production
Code in Hollywood."

"I think that's important because it presented models to the public that
they could-- or rather should-- aspire to, from Andy Hardy in Louis
B. Mayer's ideal `Carvel' in the Depression, right down to `I Love Lucy'
and their twin beds in the 'fifties."

"And they were pretty dishonest?"

"Yes, of course, but it was worse than that because it was so
prescriptive. It became about what it meant to be `American'; that's why I
said `symptom'. They rarely showed real life--struggle, exploitation,
injustice, racism, homosexuality, family dysfunction; all that was edited
out.  Anything bad like injustice and corruption and hard times was always
made right in the end without altering the system--the system that we might
call, `The American way of Life'. "

"Do you think so? I would have thought that most people saw it for what it
was--fiction, entertainment. Anyway, today's movies and sitcoms don't go in
for morality and they show same-sex couples, sex outside of marriage and
really how we live now--look at `Friends'.

"Don't make me laugh, Tris! Is `Friends' real life any more than `The Brady
Bunch'? Don't you find it all still rather `groomed' by the network
producers?  Still rather prudish? And they never really question American
values.  These reassert themselves neatly at the end of each episode."

"South Park does."

"True.  But generally the moguls don't think that the American public will
go for anything less than a happy ending or for anything in the least bit
challenging or that will make them think. Only a Spaniard could have buried
Ryan Reynolds--or perhaps the Coen Brothers," he added with a whimsical
smile. "I'll give you another example in relation to the production code.
You know `A Streetcar Named Desire'?"

"Yeah, I was just thinking about it the other day.  Great film. Brando was
hot and sexy as fuck."  Tristan blushed, realising that his mouth had run
away with him.  "I mean..."

"No, you're right and that's how Williams intended him to be, perhaps.  In
any case, Stella loves him, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, the sex made up for the loss of `Belle Reve' and living in a dump."

"And for living with a brute?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  A real `wifebeater' film although with Brando it was a
tee-shirt."

"But in the play, Tris--it was a Broadway play before it was a film--Stella
goes back to Stanley when he calls her, even though she knows he raped her
sister and drove her mad."

"I thought she left him?"

"In the film she does.  Why would she do this when the whole play is about
the power of sex?  It was because of the production code; it couldn't be
let to be seen that proper American virtues would not triumph over
perverted sexual attraction and so Eliah Kazan rewrote the ending."

Long after his chat with Iain Macpherson, Tristan was preoccupied with the
notion that sex--perhaps love too--would be more powerful than other forces
in one's life and even more so than the forces in society more
broadly--these that he knew were termed `mores'. It was a frighteningly
dangerous realization. Would Tristan ever give up his home, his family, his
education, if Colton asked him to?  If Colton ever left him--an unthinkable
thought, but Tristan entertained it just long enough for him to mount the
question to himself as he sat in a tutorial group, his eyes focussed on the
greasy broken ceiling fan in Dr Skinner's room--what wouldn't he do to get
him back?  If amputating his own pinky would do it, would he? He held it
up.

"Yes, Mr Isley?"

"Oh nothing, Dr Skinner."

"But you looked as if you want to say something."

Silences were deep and drawn out in Dr Skinner's classes and Tristan felt
sorry for him.

"Didn't Berkeley say that we had no control over our perception of
objects--`ideas'--unlike our control of our own thoughts and that this was
part of God's plan?"

"Yes, something like that and it raises Locke's rather interesting
point..."  Tristan drifted off again, having done his duty. Could he ever
know Colton's mind other than by his actions?  He thought that he could,
but perhaps this was just the illusion of practice born of intimacy or the
flattering of oneself that one had the mind of God...  The tutorial had
come to an end without either Tristan's dilemma or Bishop Berkeley's being
completely solved and made watertight and would therefore just have to wait
a little longer as he was due to meet the others in the cafeteria for
lunch.

****

"What's on your phone?" asked Tristan as he lay next to Colton, idly
jerking his cock.

"Two bi-lesbians have kidnapped the pizza delivery boy." He turned the
screen to Tristan who watched for a few minutes.

"He looks a bit too old for that job.  Must be forty."

"Yeah, I guess so an' I think he's Russian. `Pitstsa budket kholodnoy'
doesn't sound like Ainglish t'me."

"And he looks a bit like Putin, don't you think?--yuck!"

"Yeah, but the babes is hot.  They're tying him up and forcing him to cum"

"`Milking' that's called."

"They're so cruel but real fuckin' sexy."

Tristan looked again.  The girls, both blonde, had long hair that just
seemed to keep getting in the way of their task which was taking place in a
room with dreadful furnishings--perhaps a Stalinist era flat with communal
facilities, mused Tristan. There were other actions that Tristan thought
were unsatisfactory and that if he were the director he would make them
shoot again, because the girls were not able to sufficiently convey the
enthusiasm that the script evidently demanded and the pizza boy looked as
if he was thinking only of the roubles and perhaps a better brand of vodka,
but he doubted the budget ran to second takes.

"Huh! I could do better."

"Yeah? Does Tris want to let his inner mean dude loose?"

"Shut the fuck up!" snapped Tristan, falling into character.  He gave
Colton's arse a slap.  "Get those plaid boxers off and roll over and show
me that slut hole."

Colton was laughing but complied.  He lifted himself up on to his
knees. Tristan smacked his buttocks again, much harder this time.  It left
a handprint.  Then he savagely pulled Colton's cheeks apart.  He didn't
know quite what to do next but thought of a documentary he had recently
seen on the Actors' Studio and tried to channel Brando or Montgomery
Clift--or better still--James Dean. He hawked up some spit and spat into
the ravine.  Colton laughed again and with his superior muscles flexed his
cheeks.

"I didn't say you could close up..."

"Vladimir?"

"...Boris.  Let me see that Cossack cunt."

Colton was laughing still as Tristan licked and spat.  Tristan flicked
Colton's dangling ball sac with the back of his hand."

"Ow!" cried Boris.

When Tristan had had enough he reached down between the Russian delivery
boy's meaty legs and seized his cock and slid his hand up and down, it
running with the amply lubricated folds of silky foreskin.

"Slap my Urals!" gasped Colton. Tristan did and again he cried "Ow!" but
had him do it again, just the same.

Tristan glanced at the action on Colton's phone, which was still
running. He tried to flip Colton over but couldn't until Colton
co-operated.  Then Tristan left Colton suspended while he rushed to the
pool table whose closed top contained Tristan's work for Iain Macpherson.
He returned quickly with two foldback paper clips.  Colton's eyes went wide
with horror.  "They'll fuckin' kill!"

"Yeah. You man enough?"

Colton--like most Russian pizza delivery operatives--was not one to shirk a
challenge and so reluctantly nodded.

Tristan applied the fiendish stationery devices to Colton's vulnerable
nipples, heedless that his notes on the Hays Code were now hopelessly
confused with those on Levittown.

Colton was shot through with pain and hissed, his eyes squeezed shut and
sweat forming on his brow.

"They hurt?" asked Tristan unnecessarily.

"Of course they fuckin' hurt!" shouted Colton.  Tristan was not sure
whether that this was in-character or not.  "Why do they always want to do
stuff to the quarterback?" he complained.

"You're a pizza boy in St Pizzaburg and you've got big juicy nipples,"
replied Tristan.

"Yeah?" said Colton momentarily pleased with himself and forgetting the
pain.

Tristan laughed at his arrogance and flicked the nipples.  "Our game is
over. I'll take them off.  It might hurt as the blood..."

"No," said Colton sheepishly, "leave 'em on an' milk me dry like them
Russian babes."

And so Tristan did, making Colton cum twice.  Tristan himself, in a flash
of inspired improvisation worthy of Lee Strasberg, came on Colton's red and
pouting jock nipples, still held in their fierce embrace by the
binderclips.

"That was hot," said Colton predictably after he had finished his
contortions of agony when the clips were removed. He grinned.  The video
had long finished and the screen was now showing an advertisement for
Sildenafil Citrate, which is well known under various proprietary brand
names (should product placement not have been discouraged in this story)
and for which the young footballer had no legitimate need.

"Yeah, it's always good with you, Cowboy."

They shared a fleeting `tender moment' (as some novelists would write) but
this was broken when Colton scooped up two fingers full of cum and rubbed
it on Tristan's nose.  There was a protest that turned in a wrestling
match.  Colton won of course and then he dragged Tristan off to `shower
up', as the Texans expressed it.

"Come on, Tris, we're showering downstairs with Holly this mornin'."

"What? Why?" replied Tristan, still groggy from sleep.

"Just because.  Grab y'stuff."

Tristan pulled on a pair of boxers and took his towel and went barefoot
down the narrow stairs that emptied onto the screen porch. He crossed the
polished floor and entered the kitchen where Rachel was at the coffee
machine.  He grunted hello and this was returned; Rachel was grumpy in the
morning before coffee too.

It might be interesting to notes that by agreement, the boys were allowed
to appear in their boxers, but not in anything briefer. The girls had their
own set of rules that included a prohibition on face peels and applying
nail polish when downstairs. In any event, Rachel was modestly clothed in a
short Chinese dressing gown and would not be putting on her `face' until
she could decently concentrate sometime after her second cup.

Colton was just a few steps ahead of him and had already intercepted Hollis
at the door of the bathroom.  Greetings were exchanged and they went in
together.

"Your plumbin' broke?" Hollis asked.

"No, just wanted to catch up with my bro," said Colton.

They began to talk about football, for the first game of the season was
fast approaching. Tristan was puzzled that this was only going to be about
football. Colton squeezed the shampoo bottle on Tristan's head as he
continued to talk.  He did the same to Hollis.

"You seenin' Laura tonight?"

"Yeah, I thought we'd go to The Speakesay," he replied, naming a venue in
Sunset as he massaged his scalp.

"Who's Laura?" asked Tristan as he used the hand held spray.

"She works at the Clinic," said Colton replying for him.  "Course we're not
supposed to date the clients--but we won't spilt on y'Holly."

"Thanks, man.  She seems real nice--kinda interestin'."

"Body's nice."

"Yeah."

"Holly, y'all got something you'd like to tell Tris?"

"Nah, not really."

"Holly, you don't have to tell me anything.  Colt!"

"Well, there is this thing..."

"Really, Holly, don't tell me..." said Tristan rubbing soapy circles on
Hollis' chest and looking up into his green eyes.

"No, Colt is right.  It'll feel better to fess up.  You'll understand too."

"Shit! What have you done?"

"Nothin' bad, dude. It's just that I've discovered that I like to play with
m'ass when I jerk off."

"Oh," said Tristan, relieved.

"Yeah, well perhaps I've always liked to do it but I was just too ashamed."

"Tell Tristan what you do."

"Colt, stop being a cunt!"

"No, it's all right.  Colt's been great, Tris." Hollis smiled and handed
Colt the body wash.  "I like to use m'finger on m'pucker--tease it like."

"No more?" asked Colton.

"Well, I just push m'middle finger in aways.  Sends a little shock through
me, y'know."

"Oh yes, Holly, I know," said Tristan.

"Well, Colt n' Laura explained that it was okay to do stuff like that and
it wasn't gay--no offense--it's just that..."

"Huh! I don't think any of you straight boys are completely straight," said
Tristan, feeling a little fed up.

"Don't be like that, Roomy, said Colton grinning broadly.  "You love us
straight boys."

"Not sure I know any," muttered Tristan.

"Well, Colt squared things with Parks, so he doesn't think I'm a freak and
he bought us vibrators."

"What!"

"Yeah I did, Tris.  And wasn't I right, Holly?"

"Damn straight!"

"So you and Parker lie on your beds and use vibrators on your arse?"

"And other places--still on our beds I mean."

"I see," said Tristan trying to imagine the sight.

"Colt," continued Hollis in a practical voice as he rubbed his calves,
"it's plum hard to jerk off, use a vibrating circulation booster and use
your phone at the same time"

"S'ppose it is.  Could Parker do you?"

"Nah, he wouldn't be up for that, but he did suggest we get a smart TV for
porn an' we wouldn't need our phones.  Would look at it as an
investment. Course we have to agree on what t'watch first."

"I'm with you, bro."

"Thanks, Colt," said Hollis taking the handheld and rinsing himself down.
"So you aren't here to make fun o'me or stick your finger or your tongue up
my butt?"

"Course not, Holly-man, this is a welfare check up.  That is, not unless
you'd like a bit o'Colty tongue."  He stuck his tongue out lewdly."

"Fuck!  Look at the length of that thing."

"That's just what Kellie said."

"I don't wanna hear about it."

"Practically tickled her ovaries." Tristan pulled a face and Colton laughed
and squirted him with the spray. "But I can get it up a long way, can't I
Tris?"

"Another reason why I think your daddy was an anteater."

"If you want to talk some more, man, feel free. Also, Tris might have some
stuff you might want to borrow--you know, for y'butt."

"Shit!" said Hollis.

There was some more silent washing as each was occupied with his own
thoughts and Tristan chanced to wash Hollis shoulders.

"Holly," said Tristan at length "I think you'd look hot in a pair of Colt's
Marine silkies--with your colouring.  They're very masculine and Laura
might appreciate the picture--that is if things move in that direction."

"Y'reckon?"

"Yeah, you'd look hot, wouldn't he, Colt."

"Don't know about dudes lookin' hot."

"Bullshit!  Take no notice, Holly, he's trying to straight-shame you."

"Sure, borrow m'undies, bro.  It might bring y'luck." Colton made to leave
the shower.

"Where y'goin'?  Ain't y'all goin' to jerk off?"

"This was a professional house call, Holly, it wasn't about me."

"It's always about you, Colt," ventured Tristan.

Colton chuckled. "Ya'll pay for y'im-pudence, Tristan." There was a minute
pause.  "But p'haps it is," he conceded then grinned.  "Right, o-fficical
business has finished.  Now we all bust a nut."

And so they did, Tristan thinking he was in heaven and looking from one
footballer to the other.  Hollis was now doing it `backhand' and his free
hand drifted lower.

Colton saw it and nodded slightly while saying softly, "Go for it, man."
Hollis may have given a look of relief, but it was hard to see under the
fall of steamy water.  Colton copied him--probably to make him feel
better--but also possibly for more selfish pleasures--and Tristan thought
he should make it three and massaged his own sphincter.

Not much more than five minutes later Hollis was wrapped in a towel and was
passing Deshawn in the doorway.  "Colton and Tristan just came all over
me," said Hollis neutrally.

"Yeah?" said Deshawn as he removed his own towel.  "Are we gwin' to
practice that screen with a hook play this afternoon, man?"

"Talk to Colt about it.  He's still in there."

****





Tristan parked the truck and crossed his front lawn in the dark, but the
way was well marked by Japanese lanterns mounted on rocks. He wiped his
brow.

Although it was October, Central Texas was oppressively hot and humid.
Everyone seemed enervated by it and had been going about their business
drenched in perspiration and with nerves frayed.  Air-conditioning had been
struggling to make headway but evening saw great black clouds building up
in the southwest and many wise heads turned in that direction and
confidently predicted that a storm was brewing, with the promise of
bringing a welcome change in the atmosphere.

Tristan mounted the steps to the verandah and felt for his key in his
sweat-soaked pocket.  The front room was dark and Tristan wondered at first
if everyone had gone to bed, but when he opened the door he could see
Colton, Hollis, Parker and Carlos sitting at the dining room table playing
poker.

"Hi..." began Tristan as he took off his backpack.

"Where the fuckin' hell have you been?" shouted Colton, rising from his
place and sending an avalanche of chips to the floor.

"Well, hello to you too, Colt..." said Tristan, recovering from the shock
and dropping his pack to the floor.  Colton looked furious and then he
noticed that the other card players were staring at the quarterback, mouths
agape.

"I was at the GSA, as you know."

"Till this hour?"  He hurled several other calumnies in Tristan's general
direction.

"No, afterwards I went out with Daryl and Braxton."

"Who's..." began Colton, still fuming, but then he must have realised that
he was being stared it.  He made a good recovery.  "I was worried. I tried
to phone you..."

"It was flat."

Then Colton turned to the others.  "I was worried seenin' Tris was beat up
after that other meetin' an' when he wasn't answerin' his phone,
well...well...I was plum... worried."

Whether anyone was convinced by this explanation was doubtful, but all in
the room loved Colton, so nothing was said, except by Tristan who covered
for him. "Sorry to have alarmed you.  I didn't think of getting mugged
twice.  I would have used Daryl's phone, but it didn't have your number in
it."

"Yeah, well, you're all right, that's the main thing."

"Yeah, here safe n'sound, Colt," said Tristan brightly.



"Are you awake?" asked Tristan in a low voice.

There was no reply, but Tristan felt sure that Colton was not asleep,
despite the quantity of beer that he had consumed with the others on the
screened porch and then playing cards.

It seemed too hot to touch on the mattress but Tristan could see, even in
the low light, that Colton's body glistened with a varnishing of sweat that
seemed to highlight the various attractive topographic features of the
quarterback's anatomy. He continued to stare for a few minutes and thought
of Tennessee William's Desire.

"It's very hot," said Tristan uselessly.  "I can't get comfortable."

"Put your head on m'pec," said Colton in the dark.

"Won't that make you too hot?"

"No one's ever said that before!" said Colton making a joke.  "'sides, I
like it there.  I know 'xactly where you are an' y'all can't get into no
trouble."

Tristan wriggled over and laid his cheek on Colton's hard-muscled pillow,
the ring in his nipple sure to leave its imprint by morning.

"I'm a might ripe."

"I like it.  I must stink too."

Colton turned slightly and Tristan felt his nose pressing into the hair on
the top of his head. "Y'all just smell like `Tristan'--I kinda like that
smell too.  Nice n'familiar."

There was silence for a time until Tristan spoke again.  "Did you hear
that?"

"Nope."

"Listen, Colt."

They both listened and there was the sound of a tiny explosion in the note
of C. Then, after a pause, another-- C sharp, then E and finally a heavy
drop that was surely in A flat.  It was rain on the tin roof and it
increased in intensity until all the separate notes merged into chords and
then swelled into the great symphony of a rainstorm.

"Come on, let's go outside and look at it."

"I'm too drunk."

"Come on!" Tristan was galvanised into life and pulled Colton up from the
swampy mattress.  "Put your camouflage briefs on."  He reached to the floor
for the discarded garment and handed them over.

"Why?"

"Because you look fucking hot in them and I want to see them drenched."

"You're plum loco," said Colt but he did what Tristan wanted, perhaps being
unable to resist `looking hot'.

They went out through the glass doors to the landing at the top of the
wooden steps from the back yard. "This rain is cold!" gasped Colton softly.
Indeed it was and the big drops were refreshing.  They both looked up to
the dark sky, wetting their faces.

"Do you think Alex and Carlos can see us?" asked Tristan. As there was no
light in the attic bedroom and no apparent figures on the balcony, they
assumed they were unobserved.

They were now both soaked.  Tristan, naked himself, massaged the rainwater
into Colton's body, making slow circles.  Colton's hair, now grown down to
just above his shoulders, was plastered over his face.  Tristan bobbed down
and ran his hands up and down Colton's hairy thighs and taut calves.  Thus
he was at eye level with the saturated camo briefs and was pleased to note
how heavy Colton hung in them and how the material (some synthetic product)
was now almost transparent and hugged every contour of Colton's goods and
was, in fact, deceitfully not really camouflaging very much at all.  It was
just as he had fantasized it.

"Happy now?" asked Colton just a trifle impatiently.

"Yep!" replied Tristan.

"Well, inside and dry off."

Soon they were back in bed.  It was already slightly cooler and the fresh
breeze accompanied by the white noise of the rain came drifting through the
open doors in such a delightful way that it made Tristan shiver.  Colton
put his arm around him and muttered something about him being a `weirdo'
but Tristan, snuggling against the beefy slab of young footballer, couldn't
have cared less--or `could have cared less', as he had learnt to say in
Texas.

***

Foreigners would have little idea of the hoopla that attends the opening
college football game of the season--`homecoming' as it is known
here. Besides the first home football game, there were all sorts of rah-rah
social activities that preoccupied the cheerleaders, Rachel and Leesha. One
of these was a big party to be held at `HMS Beagle'.  It would be a full
house with Deshawn's parents visiting from Tupelo and Brady and Beau coming
up from Colton's hometown.  Parker's mother had apparently declined an
invitation but more of a surprise was that Hollis' sixteen (soon to be
seventeen, he kept reminding them) half-brother would be visiting. He was
getting a lift to Temple with a friend of his parents and Hollis would pick
him up from that town in Tristan's truck.

"Little dude!" cried Colton when the front door opened.  "Ready for some
fun?"

"Hi Colt!  Sure I'm up for it. Told Mom and Grandpaw that I was goin' to
check out the School an' see about studyin' Theology. Let them see me
talking to the deacon after church for the last few Sundays an' then I left
some books he lent me layin' around. Never read a word of them
o'course. Then got the deacon to talk to the rents about me studyin' to be
a minister. Brilliant, eh?"

"But we don't have Theology here," said Tristan as he shook Grady's hand.

"Yeah, I know that, but they don't and stupid Grandpaw was real
pleased. Arranged with the Thompsons to drive me to Temple as they was
drivin' to see their son in Sugar Land.

Colton and Tristan shared a look.

"How are things going with Penny Post?" asked Tristan as he carried Grady's
backpack into Hollis' bedroom.

"Pretty good, Tris," he said grinning.  "We've been out for pizza an' to a
dance at her church.  That's where I got the idea of studying Theology.
Smart eh?"

"And the other girls?"

"I'm saving myself for Penny--reckon I can wait until November, but after
that I reckon I'll need some relief."

"Well, you can't say fairer than that," said Tristan with sarcasm that was
lost on Grady.

"I'm sleepin' here with Holly, but he tells me he's got a new girlfriend,
so it might be a tad crowded."

"I think you'll come first this weekend, Grade."

Grady had met Alex, but was little prepared for the double barrel of Rachel
and Leesha in the cheer outfits.  Initially he was struck dumb and had to
stop himself from hiding shyly behind his big brother's leg like an infant.
But gradually he loosened up, especially when Hollis outlined Grady's
success in junior varsity football. As he talked, Leesha was getting Grady
to help put up the bunting and Rachel was offering a running commentary,
first on football and then on Grady's love life--a topic that formed a
natural segue.

"So this Penny isn't interested in football?" asked Rachel, incredulously.

"No, she likes quiet stuff--you know, craft, readin', helpin' her Mom with
the Convoy of Hope.  Then there's the choir...Don't know what she sees in
me."

"Aw, isn't that just so sweet?" said Leesha from up on a stepladder with a
mouthful of pins.

"Grady, I think you better have a heart-to-heart with Leesh n'me before you
go back to Hicksville."

"Holly's been..."

"I don't think Holly's an expert on women, pumpkin," said Leesha.

"Hey!" said Holly who was not far away



Not long afterwards Tristan found himself sitting on the swing seat with
De's mother, Pearl, while her husband joined in with the boys for some
touch football on the front lawn.  "You've done a great job decoratin' the
house, Tristan," she said.

The college colours were given full affect in streamers and bunting tacked
up all over the verandah and in the front windows and even Dino's
inevitable bra gave `support' of the sporting kind. Up and down the street
the houses were similarly arrayed and already parked cars and busses were
making it impossible to get through, for Baxter Drive was very convenient
to the stadium. "Well, that was the girls," admitted Tristan.

"I ain't had such a fine cup of hot tea since--I don't know when," said
Pearl. "And in such a darlin' little teapot." She was a lovely lady--quite
beautiful, with sparkling eyes under long dark lashes, and now Tristan knew
from where De got his fine features.  "They all drink cawfee at home, but I
grew up with my grandma drinkin' tea-with-lemon just like this!"

"Where was that, Pearl?"

"In Oxford Mis'sippi.  Gra'ma lived in Freeman Town."

"But you moved to Tupelo?

"Yeah, when I married Roy--big mistake.  Mean Tupelo, not Roy--but you
know...  We had De and his three brothers and then our Sou--short for
Soujourner. Do you know who Soujourner Truth was?"

"Yes, I do actually; we studied her in History last year."

They sipped their tea quietly while the joyous sounds of the footballers
drifted up from the big front lawn.  Pearl called out to her husband `to be
careful'.

"Roy n'I have to thank y'all Tristan. We didn't have a college fund for
Deshawn and we just couldn't find the money if'n De had to rent somewheres
or stay in a dorm. He's living here rent free he tells me."

"Well, we all have to still pay for food and utilities...but I had this
inheritance from my grandmother."

"But still, Tristan..."

Tristan felt uncomfortable so he changed the subject.  "You know, my
grandmother's family were in the tea trade in the 1800s.  I feel a bit like
a traitor when I drink coffee." He smiled.

"Did they use slaves to pick the tea?"

Tristan was shocked. "Well, they didn't grow it, just, you know, shipped it
from China and India and then auctioned it--I don't think the pickers were
slaves, but they probably were paid a pittance, I imagine. In Sri Lanka it
was the Tamil women, I think."  He paused in thought. "I suppose all that
tea meant they needed sugar..."

"Sorry, Tristan, I shouldn't have said that.  Forgive me.  It's just that
so many fortunes were based on slavery."

"Yes, they were," conceded Tristan and then was lost in thought as he
stirred his tea unnecessarily until he said carefully: "My grandfather's
grandfather was a Quaker.  They opposed slavery. He was the one who started
the business in Liverpool and then London, but my father works for a big
oil and gas multinational and I suppose they exploit the natural
environment, even if they don't buy and sell human beings.  I guess the
money I get from him is tainted money too."

"Don't mind me none, Tristan," Deshawn's mother in a conciliatory tone.
"None of us is pure. You can't help where you come from; it's what you are
now that God sees. De says you're real brainy and went to a fancy school in
Britain.  I can see that your one smart dude and real polite."

"Well, the School was pretty fancy, but I'm not half as smart as De
is. You've seen that thing in his room and get him to show you the punkahs
in mine. How his brain works!"

Pearl looked pleased.  "Bless you, Tristan. I love all my chicks, but
Deshawn's somethin' real special.  Building stuff, football and that pretty
face!"  She laughed.  "He's made of different stuff to his brothers, and
that's no lie! Reckon he takes after my father--always inventin' stuff as a
boy, he was, but never made a dime outta it.  He shouldda gone to
college. Now my De has a chance to make somethin' of hisself."

"I'm sure he will, if not in football, then in engineering."

"Do you know what he said to me?  He said, `Momma, when I make it big I'm
gwine t' buy you a house in the suburbs and get you outta the projects'.
Ain't that sweet?"

"It's just like him," opined Tristan.  "He said it isn't very nice where
you live."

"Ain't like here, that's f'sure.  Some of the neighbours is bad news--but
most are just ordinary folks wantin' to get by."  She lowered her voice.
"Roy got into some trouble when De was about eight year-ole, Tristan.  He
was outta work durin' the recession an' he got mixed up with some stolen
goods--car tyres--that his no-account brother an' our eldest boy,
De'Ontrey, had `obtained'.  Knew they was hot--no excuse! The judge came
down pretty hard considerin' it was a first offense; six months for each
o'them an' twelve for De's uncle. Didn't matter none that Roy had been a
footballer for the state."

"Jesus, Pearl!  I didn't know.  De has never said anything."

"Well, he wouldn't.  Loved his daddy an' took it hard at that age."

"I suppose the judge wouldn't have been so hard on a white family."

"Said the community was `fed-up' with burglaries an' the court-appointed
lawyer wasn't very interested.  Kept calling Roy `Ray'.  Z'way it is in
Miss'sippi."

"That's terrible.  I'm an outsider here and maybe it's not my place to say
anything--or maybe if I do, I'm being presumptuous because it's `not
authentic'--I haven't lived the life of an African-American, but..."

"If you see injustice, of course you should speak out.  `Injustice' ain't
owned by nobody--it is injustice to all Americans--to all people.  Ain't
that the truth?"

"Yes, that's the truth, Peal," said Tristan with conviction.

"Now, has that boy of mine been agoin' t'church regular?"

Tristan was shocked and fumbled for an answer.  "Well, I don't know.  You'd
be best to ask De what..."

Pearl `bust up' laughing.  "I was joshin' y'all.  You don't have to tell on
him.  I'd be a fool to think he was still goin' t'Sunday School when he' a
growed College footballer!"

"He's still a very good person, Pearl, and I don't think he'd fallen into
bad company, unless you count me and the others."

"Bless you, of course I don't, Tristan.  You've been good for my little
Dede."

The tea was finished and Tristan left Pearl to rock alone in the swing seat
when a noise announced that Beau and Brady had arrived.  They barely had
time to say hello to the footballers, as they had to depart for preparation
for the late afternoon game against Baylor College.

Tristan was pleased to see that Brady looked better than he had months
earlier and it might even be said that he looked well-fed, but he was still
a scruffy and scrawny young man compared to the others.

Beau was given the `grand tour' of the `HMS Beagle' and marvelled at all
its `lions' and made all the appropriate noises.  "Where are we to sleep?"
he asked.

It was a good question.  Pearl and Roy were in the basement bedroom and
Leesha's father (if too drunk to drive back to Dallas) was to sleep on the
Murphy bed upstairs. Carlos' cousin was to `crash' in the maid's room if he
decided to come down for the game. "I thought up in the loft with Colton
and me.  There's the two mattresses on the floor and we could share."  Just
how they could share, Tristan was not exactly sure.

"There won't be no gay stuff?" asked Brady.

"Oh, won't there be?" said Beau with disingenuous disappointment.

"Of course not," said Tristan, far from sure.  "It's just a Coyotes'
sleepover," he added, waggling the little medallion about his
neck. "Probably without shorts," he conceded.

"I'll check the Coyote Rule Book," said Brady, "But I might get lucky with
some college pussy."

"That's a possibility.  There's Rachel and Leesha and the cheer squad will
be well represented, I imagine."

"Daryl's coming from the GSA, Beau.  He's unattached."

"He's a country boy?"

"No, raised on concrete, I'm afraid, but you'll just have to see for
yourself."

"And young Grady?"

"He's Hollis' brother and he's straight and only sixteen."

"I'm only seventeen. He sure is a cutie."

Tristan changed the subject. "Colt said to give you this."

"What is it?" asked Brady.

"Don't know; he didn't say." Tristan handed over a shopping bag.  Brady
tipped it onto the bed and Beau spread out the articles wrapped in tissue
paper.

"Boxers!" laughed Beau.  He held them up. They were made of cheap synthetic
silk and were in the football team's lurid colours and with the repeated
imaged of their mascot, a farmer in overalls.

"Put them on," encouraged Tristan.

Beau slid down his shorts.  He was wearing a pair of black trunks--what
Americans confusingly called `boxer briefs'.  These came off too.

"Easy to see that he's Colt's cuz, eh Tris?" commented Brady.

"Yeah, it's a nice piece for seventeen."

"Shut the fuck up!" laughed Beau, but he didn't deny it.

He pulled on the boxers and did a little jiggle.  Beau's cock was outlined
by the material--one of the little farmers looking as if he were
convulsing.

"Turn around," said Brady when it was his turn.  Neither Beau nor Tristan
took the slightest notice.

Brady struggled out of his old skinny black jeans and a voluminous pair of
white boxers ballooned into view like a poorly packed parachute.

"Jesus, Brade, how do you get your jeans on?"

"Shut up, man, they're comfortable."

Tristan and Beau chuckled until Tristan noticed scars on the top of Brady's
thighs.  His smile faded and Brady saw him looking."

"Yeah man.  Sick, eh?"  He turned his wrists towards Tristan to reveal two
more faded scars.  Tristan felt sick in the stomach.

"Brade!"

"I know. Got into cuttin' myself awhile back.  Seemed t'help at the
time--when things were real bad.  It kinda took m'mind of m'other pain.
Leastwise that's what Moira thinks.  She's m'psych."  There was a pause.
"These ones," he said, referring to his wrists, "were just `a cry f'help'
she said.  If'n I wanted to kill myself I'da done it lengthwise, not
crosswise--harder to stop the bleedin'."  There was another pause. "Trouble
is, I didn't know that then.  Hey, man!"

Tristan was crying and Brady shuffled over in the ridiculous boxers and
with his jeans around his ankles and awkwardly embraced him--for he was
shorter than Tristan.

"Don't cry, Tris.  I'm better now.  Don't feel like cuttin' or nothin'.
Life's good."  He hugged Tristan tighter.  "Savin' up for a new truck,
ain't I Beau?"

"Yeah."

He now held Tristan at arm's length. "The Stones have been great, Tris.
Moira has made me see some stuff better.  Grandpaw an' me have been
talkin'. He's m'family now an' so are Colt's folks.  So, I'm pretty good
for a `no account', all things considered."

"With me it was drugs," gulped Tristan, looking at another version of
himself standing there. "Pills, prescription medications.  I felt...I
felt...I don't know how I felt."

"I know how you felt, man."

Tristan realised that his lachrymose reaction was not helping Brady, who
was clearly helping himself. "Sorry, Brade," he sniffed. "Put the boxers on
and let's look at you."

Brady slithered out of his ratty old jeans and dropped his bloomers.
Tristan noted that he'd trimmed down below.  On went the College boxers and
Brady stood next to Beau, grinning.  He twirled around and fell to
laughter.  "Ooh! Yeah! feels good on m'piece."

Not to be outdone, Tristan reached into his wardrobe and emerged with a
felt `ten- gallon' hat in the College colours and put it on his own English
bonce.  "We ready to go?"



The big game against Baylor did not begin well and there had been six lost
fumbles, one down to Bobby the freshman walk-on whom the coaching team had
elected to start.  Then there were missed field goals and poor
intercepts. Doctor Baddeley was beside herself and kept slapping Tristan's
knee in her frustration. "What's the matter with Colt?  He's calling dogs
of plays!"  Tristan felt he had to agree with her as the game dragged on in
the stop-start fashion of American football and Tristan was trying to come
to terms with a certain defeat.  During the breaks there was much earnest
discussion in the crowd. It was a far from cold autumn afternoon, but hot
drinks from the doctor's thermos flask was a welcome balm none-the-less.

Then the fortunes of the game miraculously began to slowly transform until
there was only five minutes of regulation time to play. The excitement rose
and carried Tristan along in it joyous flood and he wondered how he had
ever felt so despondent. He grinned at Dr Baddeley as they looked to see
Colton lead the offensive team onto the field late into the game to rousing
cheers. Colton looked so impressive--so impossibly heroic--that Tristan's
heart swelled. "Looks fuckin' awesome!" said Beau in rapture. Brady agreed
and pointed out how Colton commanded the attention of the whole offensive
team and was no doubt decisively outlining his strategy.  Doctor Baddeley
now slapped his knee in excitement.

Beginning from their own fourteen yard line, and following two incomplete
passes, Colton connected with Marques Washington, the halfback, and an
eleven yard play started moving the offence up the field to the cheers of
the home crowd.  Colton missed on a long pass to Lavan Young before
focussing on his favourite target, Hollis McGarvie.  On a second-and-ten he
found him for a twenty-five yard gain to the midfield.  The excitement rose
higher. Then Colton looked down the left side and connected with Hollis for
another fifteen yards. One more hook-up between the two friends was good
for twenty-two yards and put the team on Baylor's thirteen-yard line. With
seven seconds to play in regulation time, Parren Mitchell, the kicker
trotted onto the field and effortlessly booted a field goal from a distance
of twenty yards, sending the game into overtime--`sudden death'.

Baylor won the toss but was forced to punt after they went three-and-out.
Colton now seemed to gain control of his team and methodically moved eighty
yards on thirteen plays.  Finally, Deshawn punched through the line in a
one yard game-winning touchdown after eight minutes and fifteen seconds of
overtime and Tristan looked up to see that they had won 23:17.

It was a great victory and everyone hoped that it would set the tone for a
successful season.  There was so much delirious noise in the stands that
Tristan thought he would go mad.

"You're coming tonight?" Tristan asked Dr Baddeley as she packed up.

"Yep, sure am. Thanks for the invite Tristan. Orison never takes me out,
but I suppose I'll bring him.  Might have to dump his ass if I get lucky."

"Well, there is Mr Burridge from next door.  His wife's in a home and
Colton thinks he might be low on magnesium."

"Huh, just my type."  She laughed and bid farewell.

There was no tailgate for some reason, but Tristan's friends all trooped
back to the house where the party would soon get underway and Tristan hoped
that Colton would be home directly and not waylaid by some female, as had
happened all too frequently for his liking, in the past.

Alex and Carlos had not been to the game and had already started preparing
for the party when Tristan, Beau and Brady returned. Hollis had arranged
for his half-brother to sit with the team and even now the youth was a
special guest in the locker room.  Tristan imagined how excited he must be,
particularly as Hollis had played so well.

A keg of beer was being set up by the milk float and another was held in
reserve in the stable.  Tristan would have been happy with just potato
crisps and some olives, but he saw that there was a big platter of
marinated meat ready for the grill and Pearl was now preparing other dishes
whilst unable to contain herself, for Deshawn had played a brilliant game
too.

Tristan did a few preparatory tasks himself and then made a short trip to
buy some bags of ice. He then thought there were enough hands at work and
treated himself to a beer and a shower.  He was asleep in the loft when he
was woken by Colton's return.

"Yo, Roomy!"

"Hi Colt.  How are you?"

"Good.  A bit sore, but good."

"You were brilliant today--especially in the second half."

"Yeah, well, knew I had to lift m'game.  I threw the playbook away and went
with my own.  Coach was pissed but couldn't say much because we won!
Sometimes y'just have to play it the way you want it, y'know? Your way."

"Yeah, I understand."

"But the main thing was just how fuckin' great the whole team was--Holly,
De, Marques, Parrin...It wasn't just me and I was pretty damn ordinary in
the first half."

"Well, I think you're a genuine hero and so does everyone else."

"Shucks, Tris.  Y'makin' me blush," said Colton not quite
seriously. `Y'know what I was thinkin'?  I was thinkin', what would Tristan
think of this play, what would Tris do if he was down here right now."

"I don't believe that for a moment! What would I know?  Don't even know the
rules. You were one hundred percent in the zone when you were out there and
I was the farthest thing from your mind."

Colton had the grace to grin. "Y'know, Tris, I think I might need another
shower an' I might need to go over some of the finer points of the game, if
you'd like to hear 'em."

"What is a `Hail Mary' exactly?" asked Tritan as he shed his own clothes
with commendable simplicity and followed Colton into the Japanese--inspired
bathroom.

This was never explained for Tristan's mind was suddenly focussed
elsewhere--and he had no further opportunity to voice questions had the
need arisen.  In fact Tristan was kneeling before Colton in supplication
with a view to sucklication.  He smiled to himself at the indignity and how
he just didn't care.

Colton's man-sized member was hanging flaccid--which, by way of interest,
Tristan pronounced with a hard C in the sure belief that this was the
Queen's English, although how many times and under what circumstances Her
Majesty herself had uttered the word is a topic for speculation.  It was a
meaty offering and not at all resembling the `ugly anteater', that the
circumcised Parker had pejoratively described it.  Indeed the folds of
foreskin were so that, while the equator may have been covered, the area
that might be regarded as being beyond the Tropic of Cancer was visible,
forming a shiny dome and of an attractive dark pink hue somewhat resembling
that of the Echinacea purpurea--a flower native to Hill Country. The `piss
slit' was unusually large, as has been observed, and Tristan had an
unnatural desire--or perhaps a natural inclination--to penetrate it with
his tongue or pinkie.

"Give it a little, kiss, Roomy," said Colton gently from above.

Tristan did, from front on and in the manner of a teenager with his date on
Prom Night.  Colton sighed appreciatively from on high.  Then Tristan
started to employ his repertoire of moves honed, if not gained, from his
year of rooming with Colton.  Colton's penis began its
transformation--although Colton was more a `shower' rather than a `grower',
to employ the vernacular.

Tristan thought to himself that it would be nice to say, as they did in the
stories that he read on-line with his own dick in his hand, that Colton's
cock was so thick that he could not get his fingers around it.  However, as
it hardened before Tristan's very eyes, he found to his delight that he
could barley touch his thumb and middle finger together without causing
Colton acute pain and he marvelled, once again, that some of the tropes in
these stories were actually accurate. Then he thought of the pleasure and
pain that this girthy organ caused in his decidedly average rectum.  He was
thus conflicted.

"What y'all waitin' for Tris? Won't suck itself."

Tristan set to work, enjoying it and even getting a good length down his
throat, which was always a challenge.

"Why ain't you hard, Tris?" said Colton from somewhere above Tristan.

"Sorry, I was busy concentrating on getting you off."

"That's not how this works, dude.  I want you fuckin' hard and drippin'
with lust."

"No, it's all right; I'll jack off later."

"No, it ain't all right! It implies that I'm just usin' you for m'own
selfish pleasure--by the way, just nibble on m'balls some--and I won't get
off unless you get off. Understood? You have t'cum first."  Colton felt
behind Tristan.  "What ain't you plugged?"

"I took it out, Colt," said Tristan in a small voice.  "I couldn't sit
through the whole game on those hard benches with that thing up me."

"Tristan!" growled Colton.

"No, honestly.  And if I had it in and I was watching you in your football
gear...Well, I might just have cum right there in front of everyone."

"Really?" exclaimed Colton in a high voice. "Just looking at me would make
you cum?"

"Perhaps.  And with The Gherkin tormenting my prostate gland..."

"That's so hot, Tris. Might just have liked to see that--and in front of
all the folks too!"

"You have a cruel streak."

Colton kissed Tristan again in an effort to apologise but still said, "Go
and get it and I'll put it in you?"

"Colt..." whined Tristan.

"Go on!"

Tristan made a soggy unscheduled departure from the shower and returned
with the sex toy. Some body wash provided lubrication and Tristan stood
awkwardly with one foot on the seat. Colton applied some more body wash and
spent a minute teasing Tristan's sensitive aperture.

"Far double-wing right, hum short, 76, halfback shallow cross, on
two. Ready, break!" chanted Colton and with that thrust the butt plug home.
Tristan groaned.  "Feel good?"

"Yeah," Tristan said with his eyes still tightly shut.

"Right, back to work."

Tristan now attempted to suck Colton and manipulate his own member, which
was still not hard.  After a few minutes: "No, won't do!" said Colton with
authority.  He pulled out of Tristan's mouth with a slurp that sounded
something like a bathtub being emptied upstairs in a tenement flat.  "Up
here!"

He lifted Tristan with ease onto the slatted wooden bench at one end of the
shower and groped Tristan's privates while uttering, "Humm!"  He then bent
and tilted Tristan's head by the chin towards his own.  His kissed him in a
way peculiar to Colton and pulled away after a long time.  Tristan's eyes
were watering.

"That's got y'motor runnin'," said Colton, grinning and feeling between
Tristan's legs.

To Tristan's surprise, Colton got down on his knees and took Tristan's
penis into his own mouth.  He went to work after his own fashion until he
was able to say, "That's it Tris. Now keep that fucker hard for me!" He
switched to vigorously using his fist on the spit-soaked organ.

"Suck me again," gasped Tristan and Colton did not demure and did so until
Tristan pulled out.

"Am I doin' it wrong?"

"No, that was great, but I just don't think I'll be able to cum from just
sucking--you know."  Colton did know and set about finding actions that
would get Tristan off.

They were both standing now and Colton was variously, smacking Tristan's
cock with his own and causing them both to laugh, rubbing the sensitive tip
in his wiry blonde hair, bending it and nestling it under his heavy balls
and between his meaty thighs and finally, turning around and allowing
Tristan to rub it up and down his muscular arse crack.  "Don't go getting'
no ideas."

"I thought that was the whole idea," Tristan managed to gasp. Then, "I'm
close, Colt."

"Shoot it, bro."

Colton aided Tristan's final moments by moving his arse up and down while
flexing his cheeks whose muscles were toned from years of squats and
stacking bales of hay.

Tristan let out a strangled cry.

"Feel good?"

"Yeah," Tristan gasped.

Colton managed to scoop up a few drops of Tristan's cum and lewdly fed it
to him, then, grinning, tasted some himself.

"I like my Roomy randified," said Colton grinning.  "Now watch me!"

Colton stroked himself and Tristan did watch, his own cock now flaccid once
more under the fall of water from the shower. Then, with a look from
Colton, Tristan knew that he wanted his nipples twisted.  He did so just in
time, for Colton came in a great rush, most of which anointed Tristan's
sexual organs.

"Ah! That was damn good, Tris, but I'm goin' to have to be a lot more
strict about you gettin' off; it's not all about me.  Want to go again?"

"No thanks, Colt," said Tristan weakly.  "I don't have your stamina and we
have to get ready for the party."

"Well, if you're sure, dude.  What undies?"

Tristan was washing himself down with the handheld spray.  "I think the
red-and-green plaid boxers--you know the ones with the short leg."

"Your favourite?"

"Perhaps.  You look hot in them.  You were wearing them the first day I met
you."



`There was music from my neighbour's house through the summer nights,'
murmured Tristan to himself as he clopped down the wooden stairs into the
backyard to find that the party had begun. Then he pulled himself up; this
was his house, the summer was already over and he was not in the Great
American Novel. He looked around. Perhaps he had been hasty in dismissing
the idea of having a pool, he reflected, but then Joe Gillis had always
wanted one and so had Jay Gatsby-- to their cost.

Alexinia came up to him and kissed him on the cheek and handed him a beer.
"Who's this `Sunflower'?" she asked indicating Tristan's tee-shirt.

"Indie soul-pop-rock group from Australia. I think they're cool and my mate
Saskia sent it to me."

She nodded, perhaps a little contemptuous of white-boy soul music. "The
house is sure great, Tris," she said, looking around at the crowd.  "You
know, I'm powerful grateful."

"Thanks, but it is me who's the grateful one."

Alexinia smiled at him and brushed his rather unruly hair from over his
left eyebrow in an affectionate gesture. "If you weren't gay n'a rich white
boy..."  Tristan knew he was being teased, but he blushed anyway and
Alexinia cruelly laughed at him. "Where y'man, Tris?"

"Shh! Don't be a bitch!  Colton is not my man."

"Is too."

"He's upstairs brushing his teeth.  He'll be down shortly."

The Homecoming party was an assured success.  The emphatic victory in the
football game had united the little community.  Mr Burridge was grinning
like a schoolboy and was talking excitedly to some neighbours. On the porch
stood Dr Baddeley and her husband with Leesha who was explaining one of
their cheer formations.  Iain Macpherson was talking to Parker and one of
the other girls from the cheer squad. Grady was surrounded by a group of
female sophomores who Tristan knew to be Rachel's friends from
Psychology. Just then Hollis came out of the kitchen with Laura from the
Clinic and Tristan hoped that Dr Baddeley would not be cross for this
non-professional mixing.

"If this was a story," said Tristan to Colton as he helped him with the
grill, "Dr Baddeley would have brought her beautiful daughter with her and
you would have fallen for her instantly.  She'd end up as your
mother-in-law."

"Well this ain't a story.  She has got a growed-up daughter who's a doctor
in Boston, but she's married and looks the spittin' image of her
mother--showed me a photograph."

"Well, both a narrow escape and a literary cul-de-sac."

"Don't know what y'all talkin''bout half the time, Tris."

"Never mind.  Hey you look hot!"

Colton was wearing a new pair of crisp white shorts.  They were tailored,
but quite brief by the time the cuff was taken into account and they showed
off his legs.  There was a new vivid white tee-shirt that Colton filled out
to perfection and a loose, unbuttoned shirt in some neutral colour.

"Mom an' Dad sent me some money.  They're sorry that they couldn't be here
for Homecoming."

"If I was an American, I'd say you should go into the modelling business;
turn your assets into something commercial."

"This from the guy who got me to sell my underwear."

"Well, they were desperate days and you enjoyed it."

"Yeah, I did actually.  Might do it again. You're a great guy, Tristan
Isley."

"Your not so bad, for a jock, Mr Stone."

They grinned at each other before Carlos came up to relieve Tristan at the
grill.

Then Iona Macpherson was by his side.  "Tristan," she whispered, "I've had
an offer from a studio for one of my stories."

"For that one about the college footballers in the Bangkok bondage
dungeon?"

"Yes, for `Thais that Bind'?  You liked it?"

"It had its moments.  The songs in it were an unusual inclusion."

"Well, I cribbed those from the `King and I'--I suppose I ought to
apologize to Oscar Hammerstein for changing the lyrics."

"Well, I don't know what to say..."

"Just `secret congratulations' will do.  Iain--and Colton--must never know!
Of course the film will be made in Miami, I think. That's where the studio
is--if you can call a warehouse with some flats a studio."

"What will you do with the money?"

"All of $500?  I think `Horney Dude' might donate it to the Clinic," she
said looking in the direction of the Doctor.

Tristan moved from group to group and was pleased that so many of his
friends were present and that the house functioned so smoothly as a student
party venue. In fact he said so to Ben and Ivy who were talking to Daryl
from the GSA on the porch.  Daryl was intrigued by Deshawn's steam punk
fans. "What's your favourite part of the house, Tris?" asked Ivy.

"The bathroom in the loft.  I love how the whole wooden floor is the
drain. Then I love the copper roof here.  It looks great against the
black-stained wood.  See where I've planted a grape vine?"

"You'll be able to make your own wine?" asked Daryl as he sipped his own
wine through pursed lips.

"No, still have to buy it; it's sterile and so no fruit and no mess."

The mention of wine seemed to cause Tristan to look up. There in the yard
was a man he could not quite place.  He saw him speak to Colton and then it
dawned on him: it was Officer Collins from the local precinct, the man who
had arrested Colton and who had come to Tristan's hospital bedside.  For a
moment Tristan thought they must have been breaking one of the draconian
American drinking laws--serving beer to sophomore students in a private
house-- and the loss of his driving license flashed before his eyes. Then
he saw Grady.  Would Collins examine the contents of the sixteen year-old's
red Solo cup? He saw himself for an instant in Colton's police cell.  Then
he relaxed.  Collins was in civilian clothes and was laughing and accepting
a beer from Colton, the hero of the day.

It was quite late when Colton found Tristan who was talking to Roy and
Pearl and stood there quietly until Deshawn came to take his parents away
to introduce them to Professor Troost who was preparing to perform his own
arrangement of the third movement of Franz Liszt's Piano Concerto Number
One in E flat major and indeed had brought his own instrument with him in
his trouser pocket.

"Come on, Tris, let's get out of here."

"Okay," said Tristan.

Colton grabbed a bottle of Stone's shiraz and two red Solo cups and they
left the illuminated back yard and skirted the house in the dark, where
even now they could just hear the soft pinging of Professor Troost's
triangle in the living room.

They walked into the dimly lit night and looked back at the house, all
aglow and in festive mood.

"Great party," said Tristan.

"Yeah, awesome," replied Colton.  "Y'know y'did a great thang when y' made
this house, Tris."

"It's all of you guys who have made this house--this `home' I should say."

"Know what y'all mean, but what I said is still true."

"Thanks."

As they walked Tristan could not help but think of Brady. "You know, you
saved my life."

"When you were beat up by Meigs?"

"No, I mean how I was last year."

"You mean with all them pills?"

"Yeah, I reckon I would have died--maybe-- an accident, perhaps, or
maybe..."

"Jesus, Tris!  You can't be serious!"

"I don't want to be dramatic or anything, but yeah, I reckon I could have
just OD'ed and slid away into oblivion.  Felt that would have been for the
best for everyone when I was at my worst."

"Fuck!"

"Well, you just appeared in my life and put your foot down and I
practically went cold turkey."

They walked on, having crossed Howard Taft, and headed into the deserted
university.

"I mean, until I met you, nobody would have cared that much if I was gone.
Mum had her new life and Dad had wiped me.  You cared and that made all the
difference."

Colton now had his arm around Tristan's shoulder. "Y'plum wrong in one
respect, Roomy.  Y'dad did care."

"No he didn't.  Not then and he's only just started talking to me again
after Cylvah. He cares now."

"No, he cared then, Tris.  There's something that I shouldda told you way
before."

"What do you mean?"

They had reached the stadium.  Colton was silent, marshalling his thoughts
perhaps, as he took out his keys and opened the players' door.  He turned
off the alarm.  He pulled Tristan by the hand down through the cinderblock
corridors until they reached the stands.

"Show me where y'all sit."

They walked up the steps and Tristan found the spot in the moonlight.  "I
sit here.  Doc Baddeley sits there. Beau sat next to me today and Brady sat
next to him."

They sat and Colton opened the bottle and poured out the wine.  Tristan
took a sip; it was not good out of plastic, but he didn't care because he
was there with the guy he loved.

"You were great today, Colt.  When it counted you wrote your own playbook.
You and Holly were a real team."

Colton was looking out across the now colourless turf but his mind was
obviously elsewhere.  Tristan was turned sideways looking at him.

"You and I rooming together: it wasn't just an accident.  I thought y'all
woulda worked that out for yourself."

"How do you mean?" asked Tristan quite perplexed.

Just then the sprinklers came on down below. Suddenly there was a confusion
of leaping arcs of silver caught by the moonlight.

 "Well, y'know now that y'dad went upfront to see Barlow before you came
here."  Tristan nodded. "Pulled some strings, I suppose, and he wanted you
to be placed with someone who would take care of you--not quite like
that--but be good for you, look out for you and that sort of
stuff--especially bein' a stranger here in this country."

"I don't believe it!"

"It's true, I tell, ya. As their star recruit they said I could have my
pick of roommates.  I know that's plum unfair, but that's how it was. They
sent me the dorm applications of half a dozen guys--all jocks and all but
one were footballers--that was Parks, believe it or not."

"Well, that would make sense, I can see you or Holly being peas in a pod.
Not Deshawn?"

"There wasn't a black dude among them.  Isn't that fucked?"

"Anyway..."

"What?"

"Anyway, I came across what y'dad wrote about you."

"And you still picked me?"

"No, man, you don't understand.  Your dad wrote the most beautiful thang
I've ever read and it was all about you--real lit'rary--and I was cryin'
like a baby when I read it, ask Mom n'Dad."

"What did he write?" asked Tristan, an odd panic rising in his chest.

"He said what a clever and beautiful human bein' you were an' how life had
thrown you a curved ball--although he didn't use baseball lingo.  Here,
read it for yourself; I kept it."

Colton fiddled with his phone for a long time in the dark but finally found
what he was looking for and handed the instrument over to Tristan.

Tristan embarked on his task with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.
He read and read.  It was not a long document, so he read it for a second
and then parts for a third and even fourth time.  Tears welled up and
burned hot on his cheeks.

"Wow!" He managed to gasp through his tears.  He wiped his eyes with the
back of his hand.  "I never knew he thought like that.  I mean, he never
said a tenth of what he wrote--hardly said anything at all, in fact.
Didn't even yell at me all that much."  He looked up at Colton.  "I guess I
was doing most of the yelling."

"See, he does love you."

"He loves the guy in that letter; I don't recognize that person as me."

"I do.  Every word."

"Oh fuck, Colt!" Tristan started to cry again and Colton stood over him and
used the hem of his new shirt to staunch the flow.  "Thanks," said Tristan
at last, managing a watery smile.

"Just think, Parker or Holly could have been your roommate."

"Or yours."

"An attractive thought, but you know what my answer would have been, had I
even been consulted. Besides, they might have run a mile if they'd read
that testimonial by Dad.  Might have thought it was way over the top and
creepy."

"So maybe it was luck that it was read by me?"

"Yeah, and luck that you were the starting quarterback and not Matt or
someone."

"Not fate or God's will?"

"No, of course not. Nothing is `written', is it?"

"Yeah, exactly."

They were silent for a long time. The tut-tutting of the sprinklers seemed
to register old-maidish disapproval of the world. Their cups were emptied
and refilled.

"Iain's quite gloomy about the future," said Tristan at last.  "It's a bit
scary."

"What's he say?"

"That America is fucked.  That we're heading towards fascism."

"You said `we'."

"I must be becoming an American," laughed Tristan.  "Said it was world-wide
drift as well--populism, dictators, fundamentalism, nationalism, `the big
lie', just like the 'thirties; `a slide towards the abyss', he says."

Colton was silent for a long time. "Don't know enough about politics, Tris.
We're young; the future might be real good. It's hard to predict, ain't
it?"

"I guess so.  Historians are inclined to look for patterns and precedents,
I suppose.  Maybe 2020 will be a better year."

"Sure to be, dude."

"Put your arm around me, no one can see."

Colton laid his heavy arm across Tristan's shoulders and said, "Does it
matter if someone sees?"

"Yeah, I don't want them to think I'm easy for footballers. That's why I
like to read those stories, it gives me precedents as a guide to how things
will turn out."

"Y'can't be serious, Tris!" said Colton, astounded.  "We chart our own
course--you just said, `nothin's written'."

Tristan was conflicted. "Maybe. We'll chart our own voyage in the Beagle?"

"Yeah, sure we will."

"You know, those stories really helped me when I was low--even before, when
I came out at School--it made me recognise the tropes that gay guys can
expect to find in Life. I really do believe that Life imitates Art."

"Y'all can't call jerk-off stories `Art'!"

"They have their moments. You must admit they have correctly predicted some
things that have happened: Hecht Gleeson, sex in a cabin, my
gay-bashing..." Tristan turned to Colton with a raised eyebrow.  "My
roommate turning gay."

"I have not turned gay!"

"Oh, sorry, of course not.  I was thinking of the quarterback in `Nancy of
Notre Dame'--or was it `Fishnet Finnegan', the running back?"  Colton
snorted as usual and Tristan, emboldened went on.  "In Jock Batter the star
pitcher finally comes out of the closet during the World Series and
proposes to his roommate right there on the scoreboard, just when the Mets
took at three run lead into the top of the ninth.  Can't remember who won,
but."

"Look, Tris, I'm not even twenty-one yet--we've got a lot of life to live.
You know what I'm like--and I ain't the proposin' kind. I don't want to be
classified or made to conform to some plot in some crappy story.  Ain't
sexuality supposed to be on a spectrum? Why do I have to be boxed in? I'm
attracted to girls--older women too--you know that.  I don't chase guys, do
I?"

Tristan conceded that this was `a truth universally acknowledged'.

"However, I love you--really love you-- even if I'm not attracted to you."
Colton pulled himself up.  "I know that didn't come out right.  What I mean
is that I'm not `attracted' in the same way as I am to Gioia, for example."

"Who's Gioia?"  asked Tristan.

"New Italian babe in Calculus with great tits--`grande tette'.  My eyes are
attracted to them--to her--when I should be concentrating on binomial
expansion or somethin', but I won't be doin' nothin' 'cause Dade King has
asked her out. What was I sayin'?"

"How you don't find me attractive."

"Hey! I didn't say that.  You're amakin' it hard.  Let's just say, I love
you so much it hurts, Tris.  Can't those two things co-exist?"

"How exactly do you love me then?"

"Don't know," said Colton with a trace of despair in his voice. "You
remember when you said that thing about Home Depot?  It's the same for
me. I just like bein' with y'Tris.  I find myself lookin' for you when I'm
out in a crowd.  Listenin' for y'voice. My eyes look for y'all when I come
home too--even if you don't have bouncy boobi. I like the smell o'your hair
when we're in bed.  I like talkin' about stuff with you.  I can talk to you
about stuff that I can't do with no one else--even Holly--and we both love
Holly, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do."

"Well, I love you a heap more than I love Holly."  He paused and Tristan
realised that he was weeping.  "I don't know what I'd do without you." His
voice had a rent in it.  "I'd rather wake up with you than the hottest
chick--even Océane Sapion."

Tristan couldn't answer, but instead said, "But the sex?"

"I love having sex with you.  I love givin' you pleasure and seein' how you
react--react with so much love. I get off on that.  And you like doing it
with me?"

"Of course, more than anything.  I don't want any another guy."

"Good, 'cause I gotta confess that I'm jealous--like the asshole I made of
myself the other night.  For some dumb reason I thought you'd gone off with
Daryl or Sam Rice or someone from the GSA.  I was real mad but at the same
time ashamed that I couldn't control myself. I also felt real guilty and I
couldn't blame you if you did want a proper boyfriend."

"I'm more than content to have just what we have now, Colt.  I don't want
more and I don't want less.  I just want to go along as we are now--even if
we can't put a name to it."

"But we can put a name to it, Tris," said Colton with a burning sincerity.
He turned to him, just inches from his face. "The name is `love'.

"The name of the ceramic cowboy," murmured Tristan softly to himself.

"What?"

"My gran's string holder on the wall."

Colton wasn't quite following and wondered if Tristan was drunk. "And if
what we have doesn't conform to some jerk-off story line?"

"Yeah, well some people will be disappointed."

"What people?  What are you talking about?"

"Never mind.  I guess those stories are no guidance in our case."

Tristan laid his aching head on Colton's broad and comforting shoulder. He
didn't mind Colton being the `man' in their relationship.

"Well, Tris," breathed Colton into Tristan's ear.  "That just means you
n'me will have to write our own story."

THE END

***

Thank you for doing me the honour reading my story each week and special
thanks to all those readers who were kind enough to email me with their
feedback--some on a regular basis. It was greatly encouraging and indeed a
real buzz. I hope that no emails went unanswered. "Tristan" is my second
attempt at a novel.  My first (with Pete Bruno) is called "Noblesse Oblige"
and can be found under "Gay Historical". You might enjoy this too, although
I warn you that it runs for many chapters over five `books' covering the
years 1909-1940. Please do continue to email me at h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
and put "Tristan" or "Noblesse Oblige" in the subject line.