Best Gay Romance 2013 (22 page)

No more waking up with a warm cat nestled in the crook of my legs. My coffin-sized enclosure sat over the lair of a selfish,
entitled Grinch. The pleasant vibes emanating from a purring cat had been supplanted by sizzling stress, much like a high-tension wire crackling in the night.

 

The next morning found me seated in a large lecture hall in the physics building. At eight fifty-five, a tall man with a medium build, thin glasses and a crowlike plume of thick dark hair entered. He wore a rumpled, brown, threadbare tweed jacket, despite the early fall heat. He ambled toward the center of the long lecturer's platform, stared at his captive audience, and stepped into the wastepaper basket. None of us moved a muscle as he leaned over, grabbed the container, and yanked his shoe free. He scrutinized the room as if nothing had happened.

“I'm Professor Knapp, chairman of the physics department. I'm pleased to see so many aspiring physicists in the freshman class. More than we've ever had. I'll spare you the cliché of, ‘Look to your right, and look to your left,' but the truth of the matter is, only a third of you will graduate with this major. But welcome anyway.” He pointed to a pile of papers on the table. “Take one of these. It's a list of your respective advisors. Good luck.” He left the room.

With the help of a map, I found my advisor's office and we worked out my courses for the first semester, the usual for a physics major, except I talked my way into a sophomore philosophy course. I again consulted the map, and headed to the gym to register, where an assemblage of tables on the basketball court, sprouting raised signs like delegates at a political convention, announced each department. I likened the maelstrom of milling students to the interior of a confused beehive. Nonetheless, I obtained signatures for all my class choices and collected the appropriate booklists, then headed for the bookstore.

My physics text was the first in a three-volume set, but I
grabbed all three hefty tomes so I could browse ahead to assuage my curiosity about upcoming topics, especially during the summer. My philosophy text was the two-volume boxed set of the complete dialogues of Plato. Would Plato even hint at Greek homosexuality, and if he did, would the instructor skedaddle around it? Math, German and English lit texts quickly followed, until all that remained to pick up was my gym uniform.

I approached the only likely counter to face a young female student, not much older than me.
Shit!

She grinned. “You want a gym uniform, huh?”

I stammered a soft, “Yes.”

She looked at my chest. “You take a medium, huh?”

An even softer, “Yep.”

She reached under the glass counter—could she see my crotch through the display case?—and said, “You'll need one of these.” She pushed a box containing a size-large jock toward me. I blushed and went to the register.

An older woman rang up my purchases. I used my new checkbook for the first time.

“All your books won't fit into one bag,” she said. “Not even two.”

“I'll just carry them,” I said. “But can you put these in a bag?” I bunched my gym jersey, shorts, and jockstrap into a clump behind the books.

“Yeah, sure.” She smirked. Salesmen selling bras had to control their reactions better than that.

And with that, I started across the campus, my books stacked precariously in my arms, held from the bottom at waist level, the paper bag with my gym equipment tucked between the top book and my chin. I was reminded of the giants in
Das Rheingold
sealing off the last vestige of Freia with a final golden brick.

I was staggering across the quad between bookstore and dorm when I spotted Mark walking toward me. He waved and broke into a trot.

“Here, let's put those down,” he ordered as he maneuvered books and me to the grass. The tower of books toppled. I sat cross-legged amid the wreckage. Mark sat opposite me, leaned back on his elbows, and laughed. He wore black running shorts that accentuated his crotch as he spread powerful legs. His flexed biceps flowed into muscular shoulders that gripped the tops of firm pecs. His nipples and washboard stomach were outlined through a tight, sweat-soaked red singlet. A grungy white facecloth dangled from his shorts; he yanked it out and threw it to me. I wiped sweat from my forehead and tossed it back. We caught our breaths and stared at each other.

“Quite a load,” he observed.

“Yeah,” I answered.

He looked into my brown paper bag and grinned. “I'd like to see you in that.”

“They're just gym shorts.”

“I mean the jock, man.”

I blushed for the second time that day.

“You have great calves,” he said. “Do lots of running? Let's back up, what sports are you into?”

“I'm no athlete. But I did develop into a good swimmer at summer camp.” I took a deep breath. “So, I tried out for the swimming team freshman year. Within a week I had the worst case of athlete's feet the family doctor had ever seen. Had to soak my size elevens in purple glop twice a day for ten days. So that ended that. But, I figured, running can't be too different from swimming, just opposite body parts moving in sync. Hell, anyone can run around in circles—well, ovals, to be precise. Got to be pretty good. But the guys made fun of me, like, skinny
and all that. Hell, I always thought runners were supposed to be thin. Well, it was the
sissy
part that really got to me.”

Mark grimaced. I continued.

“I'd go to the track after practice to run solitary laps and I'd gaze at the hills as the setting sun cast long shadows. It was very peaceful.”

“You're poetic,” Mark interjected.

“Thanks. We lived in a valley, a typical New England factory town built up around a river, and I'd walk a mile home from school up steep hills. And often, weather permitting, I'd hike in the woods.”

“You're quite something,” Mark said.

“Well, along with being a nerd, I do like nature. Especially since trees and brooks don't poke fun at me. The gift of nature is that she returns, indeed amplifies, whatever you give her.”

Mark leaned back, his hands under his head, bunching his biceps, and stared at the sky. Then he sat up.

“Like to go on a hike tomorrow?”

My mouth dropped. “Er, yes. Where? No, I mean yes, but wherever you want to go.”

“Ever hear of the White Mountains?”

“Of course. I've read a lot about Mount Washington, the cog railway, the two-hundred-mile-an-hour winds at the top, fierce weather that can change in an instant. And Franconia Notch and Crawford Notch. And Lucy Crawford and her loneliness.”

I paused after the last word. Silence hung between us like a sheet of glass, a transparent barrier.

Finally Mark spoke. “We'll start out easy—Mount Chocorua. Bring a jacket and be at the house at six a.m. I have a car and I'll take care of the food.”

I blanched at the early hour. “Can I bring anything?”

“Just yourself.” Mark stood, grabbed my hand, and hoisted me to my feet. “Back to the dorm with you.” He grabbed most of my books, I took the remainder and my brown bag, and we moseyed to my room.

Winston, attired in spotless plaid Bermuda shorts and a tailored polo shirt, looked up when we entered. Mark and I deposited my books on the unclaimed desk in the living room; he said, “See you tomorrow,” and left.

“
I
didn't have anyone to carry my books home,” Winston snorted. He raised an eyebrow. “Where are you two going tomorrow?”

“Hiking.”

“You mean walking in the woods?”

“What else, numb-nuts?”

Winston cut short a comeback, looked at my stack of books, and sneered, “Christ, you've got a lot of books. What're you majoring in? Have you even decided?”

“Of course. I knew what I wanted to study when I was in high school. Physics.”

“Physics! What the hell is that good for?”

“Oh, it's led to a few things here and there, like electricity and airplanes.”

“Well, I've got lots of thick books too. I'm premed. My dad's a doctor.”

“And what's your specialty gonna be? Have you even thought about that?”

“Of course! Whatever makes the most bucks.”

No Albert Schweitzer complex there. Better living through med school. I dashed into the bathroom to piss.

“Christ,” I yelled. “There's a goddamn fish in the shower. A big one!” I dashed back into the room.

“Yeah,” said Winston, hands on hips. “We each got our
specimen today for biology class. It's on ice. We're going to dissect it this semester.”

“Ice or no ice, it smells,” I yelled.

“You'll get used to it.”

I went nose to nose with Winston. “I thought you biology creeps started with worms.”

“We did that in high school. Go shower downstairs.”

Jim came out of his room. “You gonna name it?”

“Goddamn!” Winston shouted and stormed out, probably to have dinner with his preppy friends. I felt like pitching his frozen fish after him.

 

That night I climbed into bed. Winston was already snoring. I thought about Mark. I sure would have liked to see him naked. Probably looked like the full-size reproduction of the discus thrower statue in high school. Of course, Mr. Thrower wore a fig leaf, but so what. He looked like a
Physique Pictorial
model. I retrieved an unused wad of Kleenex from under my pillow, spit on my right palm, and coaxed my boner to a hardness I seldom achieved.

“What're you doing up there?”

“What d'ya think?”

“What?” Winston must have pried out one earplug.

“I said, ‘What d'ya think?'”

“Stop shaking the bed, you woke me. Go get off in the bathroom.”

“And come all over your goddamn fish?”

“Fuck off!”

“That's what I'm doing, asshole!”

“Well, don't dribble on me.”

“Get over it—go back to sleep. I'm almost done, anyway. To paraphrase Gilbert and Sullivan's Nanki-Poo, ‘You've interrupted a private apostrophe.'”

“What the hell does an apostrophe have to do with jerking off?”

“You'd never get it, jerkoff.”

The next morning my alarm went off at five-thirty, much to Winston's annoyance. I showered in our bathroom, notwithstanding the stinky fish, which I shoved to one side. Winston would be pissed when he discovered his soapy, thawing fish.

Mark met me in dawn's semidarkness at his frat house door. He turned on the porch light, aghast.

“You can't hike in your gym shorts!”

“They're all I have. Besides, they're brand new.”

He waved me in. “C'mon upstairs. I'll set you straight.” I followed him to his room. It was surprisingly large and had a small bathroom.

“How'd you rate your own bathroom?”

“I'm the house treasurer, and a junior,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Now, get out of those shorts.” I turned to go into the bathroom. “Hold on,” he ordered, “I've seen it all before.” So I stepped out of my shorts in front of him.

He took a hard look. “So, I finally get to see you in your new jock,” he said. I blushed. “Nice. Now let me see the bottoms of your sneakers.” I put my hand on the back of a leather recliner and raised my legs one at a time. He examined my soles, coming close—deliberately?—to brushing his shoulder against my crotch. “Okay, I guess they'll do. If the terrain was really rough, you'd have to get a good pair of hiking boots.”

From his bureau, he retrieved a pair of long, dark brown walking shorts with deep side pockets. The material was durable, almost like corduroy.

“You can slide halfway down the mountain in these, and not tan your ass.” He winked. I stepped into the shorts and ever so slowly buttoned my fly.

“Let's go!” Mark thrust his backpack into my hands and we went into the kitchen. He grabbed a small cooler and led me to his car, a red '55 Ford coupe. He opened the trunk and plunked the cooler near the front. I noticed several coils of rope, white, black, and red, and what I assumed was climbing equipment, like carabiners.

“We're not going to repel?” I squeaked.

“Not to worry. No cliff walls. Not this time, anyway.”

We drove to New Hampshire, chatting along the way about our interests, hometowns, boyhood friends, and old girlfriends. His current girlfriend was also a junior. He didn't say much about her, but probed me at length about Julie until I vented my frustrations about not getting any. He nodded; he'd been there, apparently.

Finally Mount Chocorua came into view. “I'm going to take you up a fairly easy trail, but one that tourists usually don't bother with,” he said as we pulled into the parking lot. Mark slung his backpack over his shoulder, and we started up the Champney Falls Trail.

The air was nippy in the early morning autumn air, but soon heated up. After a couple of hours, we stopped by the falls, rested, and drank from the water bottles clipped to our belts. Mark took his shirt off and splashed cold water over his torso. I stared at his body. I couldn't help myself.

“Well, what're you waiting for?” he asked. I slid out of my shirt. “Nice,” Mark said, and splattered me with cold water. We played around like two kids for a spell, then resumed our hike, finally passing the tree line to an upward sloping field of open rock. We clambered up, Mark in the lead, occasionally turning to see how I was doing, and offering a helping hand when needed, which wasn't often. We reached the top, rewarded by a breathtaking view of forested hills, rocky ravines, and craggy
summits. We were alone. Mark eased his backpack off.