Date: Mon, 28 Jan 2002 03:10:44 -0800 (PST)
From: "Michael Davidson, II" <ageismfree@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Green-Eyed monster"  Part 01

"Green-Eyed Monster"
Part One of Three
By Michael Davidson, II
Ageismfree@yahoo.com


DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of erotic and romantic fiction involving
teenage and adult males.  All the usual rules apply.  If you shouldn't be
reading this, then don't continue, or at least try not to be caught.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE: This story is copyrighted February 2002 by the author,
who retains all rights.  You may distribute or copy this story however you
like PROVIDED that this copyright notice remains intact and that you do NOT
change the story in any way.  I give it freely to all, please continue on
that way.

DEDICATION: This story is dedicated to all men who have tried to love a boy
in their life well, truly, safely, and honorably.  You are not alone.

NOTE: I write this series using the name of the only actual Michael
Davidson.  A British journalist and author who died in the 1960's, he
blazed the trail for men who love males from other generations than their
own.  His book, "Some Boys" and his amazing autobiography called, "The
World, the Flesh, and Myself" are must reads for anybody interested in this
topic.  All those who have received his legacy of self-awareness, truth,
and proud honesty will never forget him.

I write other stories, sometimes using another pen name.  Tell me what you
think of "Larry's Love" on Nifty Adult Youth and "Holding On For Dear Life"
on Nifty Young Friends or Gay Writer's Guild.  Both are ongoing series.
Constructive criticism, comments, suggestions, and questions are all
gladly---no---EAGERLY accepted!  I answer all emails.  I might even answer
flames, if they're interesting enough.  Please send to me at
ageismfree@yahoo.com

Special Thanks to my friend Charlie. He helped me with ideas, editing, and
proofreading for this story!

"Green-Eyed Monster"
Part One of Three


"He really likes you, you know."

"He does?  Andrew doesn't pay much attention to adults.  How can you tell?"

I was trying to keep the tone as casual as it had been up until that point.
But my heart was suddenly pounding and my face felt flushed.  I hoped it
wasn't.  But there was no way I could help being distracted by an image
that flashed before my eyes.  A young guy's upper body partially revealed
by a tank-top tee shirt.  Smooth bronze colored skin, an almost but not
quite hairless armpit and a quick glimpse of one nipple enlarged by the
process of puberty.  A sheen of sweat on his arched neck making the whole
image shine in my memory.  A perfect snapshot in my mind, from just last
weekend.  My curiosity peaked; I listened intently to my best friend's
answer.

"Not sure, just a feeling I have." she shrugged.  "He asked about you the
other day.  Nothing special, just wondering what you were up to and when
you'd be coming by again."

"Hmmm.  He's never asked me about my plans before. He doesn't talk to me
that much."  I kept my tone carefully even, but my mind continued to race.
It couldn't mean anything.  Another snapshot presented itself to my memory.
The side-view of a young man caught in the light of a window, a slight but
noticeable bump protruding from the front of some loose cut-off sweats, and
the edge of the plaid boxers underneath. This perfect youth had asked about
me?

But it was probably nothing.  Her family had kind of adopted me a few years
back while I was going through a very painful break-up, and Isabel and I
had known each other for ages before I even met the others.  It was
probably nothing, for sure.

"They all like you, Theo.  You're great with kids.  You should do more work
with adolescents and families."  It was something she said often, and I
feigned disgust like always.

"Me?  Work with those creatures?  Yuck..." I had always pretended to not
like young people that much, just to add a layer of protection against
being accused of being TOO interested.  You know how it is.

Another photo op entered my uncooperative mind.  A boy in red Speedo's. Not
the baggy kind, the bikini style.  Enclosing an absolutely magnificent set
of bubble-shaped buns, gliding through the air from the diving board of
their pool, entering the water with a gentle swish.

I tried to swallow the mouthful of BLT that I had been chewing for too
long, and continued, "So when AM I coming over again?  I haven't had any of
your home cooking for almost a week!"

"Yeah, like I cook all that much.  Thank God for Grace.  She's a wonder in
the kitchen, and I never want her to work anywhere else.  Come any time you
want except Thursday night.  Tim's got some Bank thing I have to go be the
Wife at."  I know she is really bored by those inevitable occasions.  To
often the assumption was that she didn't have a personal or professional
identity of her own.  Her statuesque good looks, combined with the
expensive high fashion she sported for these affairs belied her incredible
mind, though.  Just because all the jewels and the Cartier watch are real,
why can't she think, too?  Thank God this had never been a problem for Tim
the way it had been for some members of her family back in Venezuela.

Isabel and I had met while we were both working at a huge New York City
Mental Health Clinic on the Lower East Side.  There were more than 30 of us
on staff, but we had found that we shared similar ideas about life as well
as views on how to work with patients and clients.  Yes, you guessed it;
we're both Clinical Social Workers...shrinks.  Don't let that scare you
off, though.  Shrinks are just people, too!  Isabel and I also shared the
same twisted sense of humor, just to prove to you that we're human and not
some Freudian robot creatures.

And then Isabel and I had been promoted to supervisor at about the same
time, and we really began to rely on each other.  Not only with our own
cases, but also with our staffing problems and all the organizational
politics.  She watched my back and I watched hers.  People that didn't know
us well thought we were a couple, we were that close.

Not like that could have ever have happened.  I'm an out and proud and
politically involved "GUPPY", you know, one of those Gay Urban
Professionals.  Isabel's husband Tim is a fast-tracked Financial Guru at
one of the Multi-national Banks.  They've been married since they were 18,
and they are raising three sons.  The subject of our lunch conversation,
Andrew, is the middle one. You've just been viewing some pictures of him in
my mind.

Meanwhile back at our lunch, I asked, "How about sometime on the weekend?"

"Make it Sunday, you can join us for movie and left-over night.  We'll
order in something if there's not enough leftovers, like always.  How was
your date the other night?"  Isabel was asking about the blind date that
I'd been on two nights before.  Yes, he'd been cute.  A 20-something
musician, and yes, we'd done the Big Nasty afterward back at my place, but
probably wouldn't either of us call the other again.  There'd been enough
sparks for a fun evening but no chemistry to take it further.  Maybe he
hadn't liked my mid-30's, casual, and decidedly NOT gym chiseled self.  Or
maybe it was my slightly balding hairstyle.  His avid shopping stories were
pretty boring to me.  We hadn't shared many interests.  Maybe a combination
of all of the above.  Who knows?

"Nope, he wasn't a keeper. Want me to bring some flicks, or do you have
some already?"  We all had huge collections of DVD's, VCD's and video's,
even the boys.  New York is wonderful for that.

"Too bad.  That's quite a string of duds now, isn't it?  Guess this one
wasn't the Secret Admirer either, huh?"

I had received six emails in the past month or so, all from a Yahoo account
I'd never heard of before.  They were all signed "Your secret admirer".  I
had shown the second one to Isabel, mostly out of concern that it might be
one of the clients at the Clinic stalking me.  But they seemed pretty
innocent, really, and quite flattering.  Mostly, they were very short.
Just a few lines about how much he liked me, and wanting to make sure I
didn't mind if he introduced himself to me sometime soon.  I had always
replied with encouragement, although no promises, of course.  I had asked
him, with some concern, how he'd gotten my email address, and he just said
he was somebody I already knew.  Isabel and I had spent quite a bit of time
trying to figure out who he might be.  He actually did seem to know quite a
bit about me, so it was an interesting game.

"Nope, I don't think so.  Surely he would have told me if he were.  And his
style at dinner didn't match the emails somehow.  So it's still a mystery.
More news at 11.  You want to see the latest one?  I brought it to show
you."

"Sure!  Any more clues about who he is?"

"I don't think so, but maybe you'll see something I missed."  And I passed
her the printed out email:

Dear Friend, Thanks for your last reply.  I'm glad you don't mind that I'm
shy.  I'm not as experienced in the world as you are, so I worry more.  I
don't want to do anything to turn you off.

I'm pretty sure you'll like my body.  I'm just not sure you'll like
everything else about me.  I might not be enough for you or something.

But you've been so nice to me in these emails.  I think I'm getting readier
to tell you who I am.  Promise you won't go ballistic when you learn my
name?  Your Secret Admirer


Isabel looked up from the note, her brow furrowed by thought.  "He's
definitely younger than you.  But that should be good news, really.  You're
never attracted to men our age, are you?"

"True.  That's the way I'm wired.  But I just can't think of any guys I
know who are this shy and anxious."

"You've already told him you won't get upset and embarrass him, even if you
do end up turning him down, right?"

"Yup, and I answered this one by saying that it might be better to actually
tell me and find out rather than live with this constant nervousness about
what might happen."

"Well, I can't think of anything else to do.  Just reinforce that, I
suppose.  You seem pretty blase about it..."

"Iz, I can't really get all excited if I don't know who he is.  I've always
found reality much more compelling than fantasy."  Little did she know that
my major fantasy was very real and specific.  My feelings for Andrew were
much more exciting than these emails were.  So I had told part of the
truth, at least.  I continued, "So, what about those flicks?"

"Nah, I'm sure we've got about a dozen movies we haven't watched yet.  Just
bring yourself."  For her family, Sundays were private, a time for the
family. None of them attended outside activities, and outsiders were seldom
invited, so this invitation was another sign that I had become part of the
inner circle.

We finished our lunch chat and headed back to the Clinic for the rest of
our Tuesday.  I felt like I'd safely steered us away from the topic of
Andrew.  I always tried to keep Andrew and everything I ever said about him
neutral and casual.  Why do I have to do that?  Hasn't it been obvious from
the beginning?  I have had a Thing for him ever since our first
meeting. Even though I fully intended never to do anything about it beyond
enjoying the fantasies in my head.

I have always had very firm beliefs about entanglements with the young.  I
wasn't against it in theory, if all the conditions were right and nobody
was being abused, and all the bases were covered about the possible power
differential between an adult and a youth.  I'd always assumed that
`informed consent' is possible to achieve.  But I'd only ever considered it
in an abstract sort of way.  I'd never thought about actually having sex
myself with any of the young guys that I so regularly found attractive.  It
would be too easy to get hurt, or to hurt the boy.  And, of course, the
moral condemnation from society is usually justified.  I never wanted to
hurt anybody, and I knew well what happened later to people who had been
abused or manipulated into sex or relationships too soon.  I knew because
it was my career to fix what got broken in those situations.  So the last
thing I wanted to do was to cause such harm myself, no matter how rosy the
fantasies were sometimes.  I just always thought such things were forbidden
territory for me.

And then of course, there was Isabel to consider. Isabel isn't just a very
gifted shrink.  Her insight into people's minds and hearts is almost
psychic, she's that good.  And she's fiercely protective of her sons.  She
would be capable of murder if anybody harmed one of her children, I was
sure about that.  She's never even let them join the Scouts or ever be
alone with a Priest, because of the heightened risk of being around men who
might be Too Interested in her sons.  It was almost a phobia with her.  One
of her brothers had been molested when they were young, so she worried
about it a lot more than Tim did.  Tim just figured that his kids would be
smart enough to run for help in any situation that threatened them.

I'll never forget the first time I'd met the boys, almost five years ago.
Stephen had just shook my hand and said, "Hello, sir".  Very polite, as
they all had been taught to be.  Andrew had studied me solemnly and asked,
"Are you Mom's gay friend from work?"  I had gulped and just nodded and
blinked.  Noel, who was irrepressible even then, had said, "Wow!  Gay like
Uncle Che?"  Isabel had answered him affirmatively.  Noel had grinned at me
and said, "Good! Uncle Che is my favorite relative." And they had started
calling me Uncle Theo from then on.

Cut to the present.  The eldest, Stephen, is now 15 and a budding sports
star and straight A student.  Even at the exclusive private day school
they're in, Stephen stands out.  Now that he's begun dating, his girl
friends are also stunners, naturally.  He's almost six feet tall, with his
father's Nordic good looks, light hair, and blue eyes.

The youngest, Noel, now 12, is into everything. A whirlwind of enthusiasm,
he is developing interests in about 47 different things.  He has no verbal
inhibitions at all; he just blurts and bubbles all the time, like a little
conversational volcano.  Noel shows more of his mother's Latin blood, and
he looks like a little Sherman tank.  Short, sturdy, and solid.  Dark,
curly hair and black flashing eyes.

Then there's Andrew. I was smitten by him from the very beginning.  Even
though I'm a therapist and have seen 4 shrinks myself at various times,
I've never been really able to explain the depths of my response to Andrew.
Usually, I don't even notice kids that age at all.  But he immediately
became the center of my radar screen.  BAM.  Just like that.  Maybe because
he seemed to be the most like me.  He was astute, studying people and
things from behind a carefully crafted wall of reserve.  That's me, all
over.  He seems to speak only when he's considered carefully what he's
going to say.  Again, like me, except in those rare occasions I feel
comfortable with others.  Perhaps it was no accident that the first thing
Andrew asked me was about my being gay.  That had caught my attention.

It was more than just a sexual thing.  I have always liked guys younger
than myself.  Teenagers really turn me on, although I have almost always
managed to find legal dates and boyfriends. They just look a bit younger
than they are.  You know my type, don't you?  Yeah, I thought so.  Very
attracted, yes.  But also with very strong moral scruples.  And a powerful
urge not to get into trouble.  That's me.

Andrew had really gotten under my skin, despite my shields.  Andrew
Compton. He is a classic middle child.  The quiet one, very neat and
precise, like a cat.  The self-contained one.  Intense, usually focused
inward, it seemed.  It was usually difficult to tell what he was thinking.
He was often the one with the least to say, so whatever he did say seemed
to have more weight somehow.

He seemingly liked his own company just fine.  But he wasn't shy or
isolated, mind you.  That would have been impossible in his family.  Each
and every one of them is self- confident, assured of themselves and their
place in the Universe, suave, urbane, cultured.  They're rich financially,
too, of course.  Tim inherited oil money from his Oklahoma ancestors.

Isabel's family is Venezuelan aristocracy.  They own most of Maracaibo, not
including the far-flung ranches.  When I say Isabel is Old Money, I'm
talking 17th century, Spanish Grandees and Conquistadors, like that.  At
home, they all speak Spanish and English inter-changeably.  Between Isabel
and Tim, they could also manage in French and Italian.  The boys all study
at least two other languages.  Andrew is tackling Japanese, just because
nobody else in the family has, I think.

And yet, even with that marvelous and endlessly talented and fascinating
family, Andrew has always shone the brightest star of them all for me.  As
he grew into puberty, my little obsession with him became my biggest and
guiltiest secret.  Nobody, and I mean nobody at all, ever heard any of my
thoughts about Andrew.  And I am an openly gay man with plenty of gay and
tolerant straight friends.  I have a good career, and my own interesting
family history and a small legacy invested from my father's business
interests in Connecticut.  I look sort of OK in a normal sort of way.  I
have had a few long relationships.  Well, longer than some, I guess.  My
sex life is usually a little boring, but I live with it like most other
people I know.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I was felt so at home with Isabel and her
family with me.  They didn't see anything weird or strange about me.  Even
though I coveted their middle son, I wasn't threatened or jealous of their
accomplishments or their wealth.  I didn't have even 1/10th of their money,
but I didn't need any of it either.  We were all cool with most things like
that.

I would never want to lose their friendship, their respect, or their love.
They were all very important to me.  That's why I will never tell them
about my fixation on Andrew, and also most of the reason why I could never
act on it.  What's that old saying, something about not shitting where you
eat?  That way, I got a great family to be part of, and also got to enjoy
my little secret life, too.

Ok, ok, I admit, I have wandered a bit far afield.  Back to the subject at
hand.  Andrew.  So, how can I describe him physically?  Middling tall,
lithe, graceful, perfectly proportioned. He'll be my height eventually, I
think.  Right now he's about 5'6", more or less.  I have no idea how much
he weighs.  It all fits his frame perfectly, though.

He's built like a dancer or a swimmer, although his favorite activities are
actually soccer and chess and everything related to computers.  Jet black
straight hair, not a curl in it that he doesn't put there himself with gel.
And his eyes.  Lots of people have tried to write about green eyes, for
some reason.  His don't flash like emeralds.  They're more like jade.  They
make you think of Aztec or Incan jungles, somehow.  You could sink into
those eyes without a trace and never be seen again. Sort of an Oriental
cast to them, but it's subtle.  That extraordinary Latin American mix of
Spanish and Indian with his father's Scandinavian sturdiness thrown in.

So Isabel and I went back to work and finished the day as usual.  And I
went home as usual.  My home is pretty cool, I have to admit. Lots of
leather furniture, hand-rubbed hardwood, and fine antiques from my family's
collection. And books everywhere, because I love to read. Add all that to
huge airy spaces, high ceilings, and big windows with views out over the
Hudson and the George Washington Bridge.  It was totally my space.  None of
my previous boyfriends had ever managed to achieve residence there.  It's
my fortress.

After the usual getting home and relaxing rituals, I switched the computer
on to check for emails, like everybody always does.  Sure enough there was
another one from that same Yahoo address:

"Dear Friend, You're right.  I have to find out if I'll be ok for you.  And
I'll never know if I am unless I tell you who I am.

Thanks for being so kind and so patient.  And for being so sexy.  You don't
think you're very sexy, do you?  But you are, at least to me.

I'm going to tell you who I am.  Sometime in the next week, for sure.  At
least I think so.  Your Secret Admirer"


Well, that was good news.  Finally I'll find out who this guy is.  He
thinks I don't find myself sexy?  He's astute; I'll give him that. But that
might mean that I won't find him sexy either.  So many of these blind date
things turn out that way.  I was going to continue my policy of not being
overly excited about the unknown.  The latest email didn't make a dent in
my anticipation of Sunday with the Comptons.  Being able to be near Andrew
as well as all the rest of my favorite family.

 I went over to their place on Sunday, just as we'd planned.  It wasn't far
from my Riverside Drive digs across Central Park to their apartment
over-looking the East River on Sutton Place.  Well, `apartment' doesn't
really do it justice.  Palatial might be a good word to describe it.  I
knew how much they'd just spent on re-decorating the 6 bedrooms and the
family living quarters.  I mean, look, there are a total of 8 bathrooms in
that place.  It's set up with several lavish formal rooms for entertaining
at one end, which is also where the kitchen (larger than some restaurants,
I swear) was located.  But the family area wasn't formal at all, really.
All the rooms and facilities there were designed for comfort and ease of
living, and strangers never saw it.  Kind of like what the upstairs
non-public space must be like at the White House.

Sunday afternoon.  Tim and Isabel and I caught up on news of the week,
mutual friends, his work and ours. Economic trends became interesting when
he talked about them.  The boys mostly chattered amongst themselves at the
big table, with occasional questions and comments lobbed back and forth
with the adults.  Noel asked me about my date last weekend, which they had
all known about.  Stephen said, "Well, Uncle Theo, anybody who plays the
oboe for a living, what did you expect?"  Andrew smiled at that, but came
to my defense.  "Come on guys, I bet it isn't as easy for Uncle Theo to
find boyfriends as it is for you to hook up with the babes, Steve-o." Which
I thanked him for, sort of.

And we'd then gone into the family room, or the media room, or whatever it
was, and settled in for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  It was a
two-movie marathon.  I don't remember what they were.  Because that was the
night that Andrew started his campaign.

The opening salvo didn't seem like much.  "Do you like me, Uncle Theo?"

He was sitting on the other side of a medium-sized sofa, a little distance
between us. He had never been a snuggler like Noel sometimes was.  He was
just near enough that he could lean toward me slightly and not be
overheard.  He had murmured only loud enough for me to hear over the dialog
of the movie and the running commentary being provided by everybody else in
the room.

I just said, "Umm-hmm, sure I do." Even with my secret fascination with
him, it hadn't registered right away as a Significant Communication.  And
then Andrew said, "Good.  I thought you did.  I like you, too, you know."
He sounded enormously satisfied and content.

That got my attention.  Suddenly the movie receded into the background and
I felt my head snap towards him in surprise.  "Huh?" I replied.  Brilliant
reposte, wasn't it?

Andrew just smiled at me and went back to watching the movie.  There wasn't
anything else unusual about the evening until the end, even though all my
force fields were set at their most sensitive level, so to speak.  When I
was headed out the door, Noel kissed me good-bye like he still feels free
to do at his age.  There were hugs all around, except for Stephen and
Andrew.  Stephen was too old now for such things.  And Andrew usually said
good-bye with a handshake.

Tonight was the same, but he maintained the contact just a second longer
than usual, and squeezed twice. That was when I noticed the scrap of paper
he was pressing into my palm.  I looked at him with a question, and he
slightly shook his head for me to shut up about it, so I did.  He'd never
done anything like that before.  I stumbled out with nobody the wiser.

In the lift on the way down to the lobby ("Good evening, Mr. Adams", "Hi,
George" to the attendant) I opened the paper and read it.  All it said was
"ICQ #059673921".  I hailed a cab and went home in a daze.  It was a state
that I would experience quite often in the weeks to come.