Date: Tue, 27 Nov 2001 18:21:47
From: Ganymede
Subject: The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT II

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT II, by Ganymede


WARNING:


This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts
between men and MINOR boys. It is not true! The story is not
intended to promote illegal acts against minors. I do not
condone child abuse, however the love of boys is a different
matter. Despite the prevalent attitudes of western society,
men have loved boys throughout recorded history. It is my goal
to help readers appreciate that love can exist between men
and boys. If the subject of man/boy love offends you, if
this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you
are under the legal age for such material, do not read further!

By downloading this story:

"... you implicitly declare and affirm under penalties of
perjury that you are not a minor or in the company of a
minor and are entitled to have access to material intended
for mature, responsible members of society capable of making
decisions about the content of documents they wish to read...."

Any similarity to individuals, living or dead, is entirely
accidental. The sexual acts described in the story are the
result of my imagination. I have not performed these acts, and
I do not encourage others to perform them with minors.

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. Copies
have been placed in two archives for your enjoyment.
The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. The story
cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or
printed and distributed in any form that requires payment either
directly or indirectly.



THE NIFTY ARCHIVE:

The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading
this story, please remember that it is available only because of
the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home
page for how to provide support.

COMMENTS AND SUPPORT:

Now available        http://www.ghouldrool.com/ganymede


FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in
your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your
thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!




The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, ACT II, by Ganymede

Dedicated to another's friend, a boy who wanted to dance.


OVERTURE



Alesha danced. He always danced. It did not matter whether
it was sunny or snowing, or whether he was happy or sad. He
danced because that was what he did. It did not strike him as
unusual that dancing had become the sole reason for his life,
that other children did not start in professional ballet programs
until they were eight or nine years old, that he had been taking
dance classes in one form or another from the time he turned
four. When other children played games and watched television, he
dreamed of being a student at the Kirov Academy, the Vaganova
Academy, or the Royal Ballet School. And he dreamed of being a
soloist when he was older, although his mother often told him
that he would be a 'principal par excellence' with one of the
world's great companies before he was twenty years old. With hard
work he could become another Baryshnikov, Nijinsky, or Nureyev.
His mother and his teachers told him that he had what it took to
achieve success, from drive and talent to the natural 'Balanchine
body' that so many dancers both male and female strove to
achieve.

After warming up à la barre (lit. at the bar) with demi
pliés, tendues, and ports de bras, he began to practice the
movements of Grand Allegro. A grand jeté with a developé, then
sissonnes and assemblés. He followed with assemblé en tournant,
several in quick succession so that he spun around, sometimes
several times. Unlike his mother he had not been trained entirely
in the Vaganova technique of the Kirov Ballet, but also in the
method of George Balanchine and the American School of Ballet.
Whatever had caused him to integrate the two into his own style
was a stroke of genius.

Finally, after completing his assignment of the bluebird
dance from The Sleeping Beauty, he danced for himself. The music
was from one of his favorite CDs, waltzes by Johann Strauss. He
glided across the floor in a ballet waltz that could have been
choreographed especially for him. He heard the music in his head,
each note, every pattern, committed to memory, each repetition
further refined, expressed in fluid motion. His graceful swirl, a
fleeting pirouette, then the twirling return along the practice
hall. He smiled for a bare instant before his pain returned. He
was unable to forget what lay ahead no matter how hard he tried.
Self pity overwhelmed him. Not that he had lost the competition,
for with Mr. Beaufort's generous offer it now seemed that he had
won far more than he dared imagine. But only yesterday, right
after dinner, came the startling announcement from his mother
that she was leaving even sooner than she had promised. Just a
few more days and she would be gone.



Begging, pleading, imploring while he cried, but nothing
that he could say or do would change her mind. He turned and
began the process all over again, no longer concentrating on his
movement. The change would have been immediately obvious to
anyone who saw him. Still, even without that exceptional effort
that defined his character, his dancing was better than any other
junior boy in the Academy. He could not think of anything except
that his mother was abandoning him. He didn't hate her for
leaving him alone. He wanted her to be happy, and if that meant
that she had to go to Texas, then so be it. However, he resented
her inability to consider the option that he suggested. He could
stop dancing. He would not care if it meant that he could travel
to Texas with her. She would not listen. Her son was meant to be
a dancer 'par excellence'. Then, he countered that there was no
reason for her to go to Texas, not when she already had a
position with a much better ballet company in New York. Did it
really matter that she danced in the second row? Yet even as he
blurted it out, and he saw the pain on her face, he knew
differently. It was all because of her ankle, a bitterly cold
morning, and a sheet of ice where there was not supposed to be
one.

He sniffed to hold back his tears. With all his mind, he
tried to concentrate, to use the ability that was his alone.
There was a noticeable improvement immediately.

It was nearly half an hour later when his mind began to
drift again, into a distant consciousness that came from boredom.
This time he was stretching at the rail, doing the 'cool-down'
exercises that were supposed to prevent his muscles from becoming
sore. The possibility of injury scared him as it did for every
dancer, but his fear was not enough to stop what he was doing.
One foot was on the rail, the other pointed to the floor. He knew
of no other boy who could hold himself up on toes alone for so
long. He had been doing ti for years. 'En pointe' strengthened
his calf, his ankle, the long muscles in his thigh. He stayed
like that until it hurt, then guardedly relaxed. He leaned
forward, laying his slim torso upon his leg, reaching out for his
foot, pulling back. Without warning, he thought of what his
mother had said that morning, a conversation that reprised the
night before.

'Some men loved boys,....' She had said it loud and clear so
that he could not pretend that he had not heard her. 'It wasn't
wrong.' It was peculiar how his mother had emphasized that, as if
she had some special worry that involved him. He inclined his
head and glanced around. Everyone else had gone. His heart,
already beating fast from his strenuous exercise, started
pounding in his chest.

'.... and there were boys who wanted to be loved by men'. He
remembered how she had said that, watching him closely to see how
he reacted. His mother did not have to tell him what he knew
already to be true. He was like that. How long had he known it?
Not long. He had to be that way; gay; given how often he looked
at Monsieur Ricard. How strange he felt each time their eyes met.
He didn't even like the man that much. He still looked and felt
that funny feeling in his groin. Even worse, were the disturbing
thoughts that for the last few days had run through his head. He
felt a shiver, a tremble in his belly, and then a moment later it
was gone.

A minute passed, no longer than that before his mind
reprised the conversation once again. It had not ended there
despite the fact that he was beginning to show that he was
uncomfortable by avoiding her eyes. What else had she said? 'A
lot of dancers are gay'. His mother was right about that. A lot
were gay. Anyone who was even remotely involved with ballet knew
male dancers who were like that. He had even seen some older boys
paired together at school, ostensibly just friends, but he had
also heard the whispered comments of his friends. Among the boys,
they secretly acknowledged what was going on, for it would soon
apply to most of them. He swallowed, changed feet, rose up upon
his toes again, closed his eyes and waited for the pain to start
once more. Sometimes he could count beyond one hundred before the
aching started. For some reason he did not understand, the pain
was almost bearable when he was tired. His mother encouraged him
to practice 'en pointe' daily, for not only were his legs getting
stronger, but with increased agility the chance for injury was
less. At eleven years old, he was still too young to suffer the
afflictions of older dancers, but he was well aware of the effect
of repetitively stressing his body beyond its natural limits.

Alesha glanced down. It was almost too cold in the studio to
be without tights. He smiled, reflecting on the lithe shape of
his supporting leg. There was a nearly perfect straight line from
the ridge of his hip to the tip of his extended toe. He observed
the contour of his elongated muscle, the tendons stressed, the
bony knee, the smooth hairlessness of his skin. All of the other
boys, and most of the girls he danced with, had a sheen of peach
fuzz on their lower legs, but not him. Other than his head, there
was no hair on his body, not even on his arms.

While he held that position, his mind drifted once again,
losing count somewhere after thirty-six. His mother had also
talked about the needs he would have when he grew older. He had
known some of it already, yet he still had blushed quite red as
she talked. She had not spared him much, and what she omitted was
not to save him from embarrassment as much as from her own
deficient knowledge. 'Needing to be loved is not something to be
ashamed of'. Then why had her voice suddenly become so low, as if
confiding a secret that only he should know. 'This is how gays do
it'. He trembled when he heard the details. Why did the idea of
doing that thrill him so? It should be disgusting. What she had
said about him being held by a man, kissing, touching that
private part of him, having that thing done to his bottom, all of
it sent a tremendous surge through him, filled his mind until
there was no room for anything else. It aroused his body and made
his penis ache with hardness. Fortunately for Alesha, his mother
had not seen it. She spoke in French and Italian, using words
like 'la queue' and 'par derriere'; 'il cazzo' and 'da dietro',
as if completely unaware of her son's discomfiture. Had it ended
there, Alesha might not have been quite so humiliated. Would he
really put it in his mouth as well?

And the man who would take care of him when she was in
Texas? He really did not understand the meaning of 'patron', but
he accepted that Sheldon Beaufort, the Third would provide his
home. He vaguely remembered the man from the competition, the man
who had smiled at him, and with startling frankness said that he,
Alesha Yaroshenko was the very best of all. This was the man who
would be his benefactor. What had his mother meant when she said
that Mr. Beaufort would more than likely, love him very much?

'Some men loved boys and there were boys who wanted to be
loved by men.' That was what his mother had said, not once, or
twice, but at least three times. The idea overwhelmed his mind
again as his slender abdomen lifted up and down against his
outstretched leg. She had said that it wasn't wrong for him. That
was how it was supposed to be. Then, he felt it for the third
time in his life. The hardness sticking out between his legs,
throbbing nerves on the very tip that brushed against the sleek
lycra of his leotard and send a surge through him. Alesha
shivered with excitement and glanced around the empty studio
again. Secure in the knowledge that no one was observing him, he
came back down to rest his foot. He looked down, just to make
certain. Without briefs or dance belt, his protruding penis was
outlined beneath the leotard even to the extent of revealing the
slight swelling of the foreskin-covered head. There was even a
tiny bulge beneath that indicated the shape and size of his
otherwise insignificant scrotum. Not really understanding why,
his hand slid down to touch his stiffened penis. That faint
caress and the suddenly increased heat that resulted, made him
tremble for several seconds.

It was both reassuring and unsettling how his fears and
worries disappeared within seconds of his hand settling between
his legs. His palm awkwardly cupped over it, pressing gently onto
his erection. At first, he was content to simply hold it. For a
long while he did not move, yet his penis remained as stiff as it
could get. With just the thin elastic film of lycra separating
skin from skin, the feelings were nearly as good as they could be
given his lack of experience. However, instinct eventually took
over. His fingers, which had been splayed out like bridges to his
thighs, moved to encircle, to fondle and absently caress the
rigid spike between his thighs. Alesha sighed softly. He pondered
the sensations that came, finding instantaneous and gratifying
pleasure that seemed to have no limit. He realized quickly that
this was 'masturbating', although his mother had employed
different words.

His heart raced, but his breathing slowed, not from the end
of vigorous exercise as much from an intuitive need to relax and
enjoy the feelings that came from below his waist. Alesha was a
curious boy and it did not take long for his small hand to begin
the process of self-exploration, albeit still separated from his
new discovery by his leotard. He quickly realized that the
sensations were very different when his fingers and thumb stroked
instead of squeezed. Not that one was better than the other, it
was simply different when he rubbed.

Then, an even stranger thing occurred. He thought of a man's
hand, a big hand instead of his small hand. The image in his mind
was hazy, but the hand that was there was a hand that he had seen
before, a hand that he had shaken recently. In life as in
fantasy, the man wore a beautifully tailored suit such as he had
seen on the mannequins in the windows of Fifth Avenue, a
sparkling golden cuff-link inserted through the sleeve of a shirt
whose weave was so tight that he could not see the threads, a
square-faced watch with a brown reptilian strap that looked as if
it might once have belonged to an animal in the Bronx Zoo. It was
an un-roughened hand that had shaken Alesha's hand, a hand with
manicured nails like his mother's, but with black and scattered-
gray hair extending down the wrist. It was a strong hand, a
reassuring hand. Alesha closed his eyes, pretending that hand
held his throbbing penis. The sensations were even better than
before, more satisfying to his mind. For a while, only his hand
moved and time stood still. He stopped only when his legs
suddenly felt weak.

Alesha had only ever hugged his mother, and then for the
last few years it had been perfunctory, reflecting an only son's
devotion. Yet, he fantasized while he rested with his back
against the bar. In ignorance of what it really meant, he sighed
softly, imaging strong arms around him, holding him tightly.
There was happiness implicit in that manly hug, an inner longing
satisfied. And the man who held him? Perhaps that was why his
mother had said that it was very likely that he would enjoy
living with Mr. Beaufort, for he was the man who held him from
behind.









Act II. Scene I.



And so it had been decided over dinner, that while not
irrevocable, we established that on Friday afternoon, Alesha and
his mother would arrive on my doorstep. As planned, they arrived
promptly and in time for dinner. For no other reason than I could
not concentrate enough to read, I had been waiting for an hour in
the Parlour. The door bell had barely stopped ringing before I
was out of my seat and opening the door to greet them. The mini-
van that Ioana had purchased only a day earlier for her trip to
Texas was parked behind the new Bentley that was outside my
house. I shook Ioana's hand, and with barely suppressed eagerness
greeted Alesha.

We looked at each other. That was all. For nearly a minute,
a very long, very short minute, until I reached out and his hand
cautiously met mine. Nothing else. Not even moving, just holding
his thin cool fingers.

"Hello Alesha."

Was the voice mine? It sounded distant. Hollow. A bell was
ringing in my ears. Alesha said something. 'Hello'? His sky-blue
eyes met mine. His eyelids fluttered like a girl's. The bell kept
ringing. I opened the door, still holding Alesha's hand in mine.
Peters stood there, carrying Alesha's things. Had I really closed
the door on him? His belongings fitted into two banged-up
suitcases and a back-pack that had seen better times. While
Peters headed off with both hands full, I took my guests on a
tour.

Alesha dragged behind, his eyes constantly moving, taking in
the world around him with a curiosity of a cat. His head
inclined, he walked up to a sketch by Vaslav Nijinsky, a charcoal
drawing of a face and torso that could have been a man in drag.

"I didn't know that Nijinsky was an artist too," Alesha
murmured.

"It's passable as art. 'The God of Dance' couldn't draw
nearly as well as he danced," I acknowledged with a smile. "He
did this shortly before he was committed to an asylum."

"I knew he went mad," Alesha said softly.

"Like all great dancers, he contributed a great deal to
culture," Ioana added. "It does not matter that he was gay, my
son."

Alesha shrugged. He moved away, not seeming to listen while
I explained how my mother had acquired the painting when she was
in Switzerland with my father just before the war.

I watched in fascination while he explored his room. Like my
room below, by virtue of its corner position, it enjoyed the
sunshine throughout the day. In the late afternoon light, his
room was filled with pastel hues, reminding me of the great
Impressionist art. It was easy to imagine Degas painting there,
applying the paint to a tightly stretched canvas, capturing the
mood of a boy, of light and dark and a myrid  tones between.
Ioana thought the room was delightful. Alesha merely nodded his
approval. Although I did not know it at the time, it was a sign
of what lay ahead.

His mother was ready to leave an hour or so later, hoping
to drive a couple of hundred miles before she stopped for the
night. She wanted to be in Texas, rested and ready to begin
preparing for a new ballet by mid-afternoon on Monday. I left
them together for a while in the dining room. From the Atrium
across the hall, I could hear Ioana talking in hushed tones.
Alesha was very quiet. Only once, I hear his voice above a
whisper.

"I don't want you to go."

They came out shortly afterwards. I had never seen a sadder
face. He chewed his bottom lip, blinking constantly, his hands
clenched to make impotent fists by his sides. He breathed deeply,
making his nostrils flare. He followed her, hanging his head as
he walked down to the van, stood beside her barely listening to
her last words of good bye. I thought of Russian steel, tempered
to the harsh reality of a frozen winter. She got in and wound the
window down, still speaking. He shook his head, then nodded
slightly. The engine cranked, then again. On the third or fourth
attempt it started with a muffled roar. He stepped back. From the
steps I could see him shaking. His head was shaking back and
forth, denying to the very last moment that she would leave him
alone. Finally, she began to back the van. The wheels turned
outward, the van pulling forward into the street. Alesha stood
there silently, his hands still balled. He glanced back towards
the house, to the porch where I was waiting. He swallowed, half-
closing his eyes, almost squinting, for most boys a clear sign
that tears were on the way. Instead, as he closed the distance
between us and came slowly up the steps, he shrugged stoically.
When he passed me, our eyes met briefly. We went inside.

As soon as his mother had departed, Alesha went up to his
bedroom and closed the door. After dinner I stayed downstairs in
the Library and sipped Armagnac until it was time to go to bed.
The liquor was thirty-year-old Dartigalongue, and it was one of
my favorites, but it did not relieve what I felt inside. Alesha
had finally cried after his mother left. Each sob tore through
me, yet I could not find it in me to comfort him while she was
still there, dwelling in his mind.

Like Alesha, I would never forget that day. We had watched
her car until it was gone from sight. He was shaking. His face
was strained, barely holding back a flood of tears, his jacket
opened and blowly in the breeze. I had not needed to hear what he
was saying to know how hurt he was by her leaving him alone.
Unlike Alesha, I found solace in the amber liquer.

Not even my memories of driving through the Bas-Armagnac
region in the south-west of France, of a small yet very
picturesque hotel in a village near Gers, and delightfully rude
French boy whose name I no longer remembered, none of it helped
to quell my pain. That day, life had been very cruel to Alesha
Yaroshenko. By the time I reached to offer my arm to comfort him,
he had rushed inside. Could I ever forgive myself for being so
cruel? Could he?

During the weekend that followed, I saw Alesha several
times, none of them reassuring that I had done the right thing by
bringing him into my house. I tried one time to talk to him
through his bedroom door, inviting him to have some breakfast in
the Atrium. I had Peters take him a sandwich on Saturday
afternoon, and again later on, both of which he left untouched
outside his door. He joined me for a late breakfast on Sunday and
managed to eat a few bites of an omelette in utter silence before
he excused himself and scurried upstairs. In the afternoon,
Peters informed me that Alesha was in the attic. I did not want
to disturb his practice, at least that is what I told myself.
Dinner time was a reprise of the earlier meal. My cook had
followed my instructions and tried hard to prepare a meal that an
eleven-year-old boy would find appetizing. At least he ate,
although sparingly of anything except the vegetables.

I enjoyed a bottle of '81 Chateau Margaux and even tried to
get Alesha's attention by talking about the elegant Palladian
facade that adorned the label. Unfortunately, my discourse became
a lecture on the Bordeaux region, why Médoc wines were probably
the finest wines in France, and why Chateau Margaux was superior
to most if not all of the others in my opinion. His eyes lit up
momentarily when I added that the price was 'probably over $300',
then dimmed again when I started to talk about the power,
structure, and lovely fruit, a wine that only the word, 'finesse'
could describe. I am certain that Alesha thought I was boring.

I retired to the Library again for the third night in a row.
For a long while I sat and thought. It did not help that every
time I tried to clear my mind, all I could think of was Alesha,
and the dismal expression on his face when his mother drove off
without him. I tried to read. I gave up after a few
disinteresting pages. I found solace for loneliness just as I
always found it. My liquor of choice was neither cognac or
armagnac. Instead, I opened a bottle of Absente and enjoyed what
the Parisian Bohemians had known for a hundred years. I much
preferred it over its cousin, Absinthe, which had a long
reputation as inspiring literature and art.

"La fée verte!" I toasted aloud while I swilled the dazzling
emerald green liquid to mix in the sugar that I had just spooned
in.

I was unaware that Peters had come to the door.

"Excuse me, Sir," he said softly.

I turned around, loudly banging the spoon into the glass.
"Yes?"

"I don't mean to disturb you, Sir, but I thought you should
know."

"Know what, Peters?"

"About the boy, Sir. He's upstairs in the attic, again. He's
still dancing."

I shrugged and sighed loudly. "He's a dancer. We knew he
would need to practice a lot. That's why we cleaned the attic."

"He's been dancing almost non stop all day," Peters said.
There was an urgent tone in his voice that suddenly got my
attention. "It was the same yesterday. He didn't stop until quite
late. It's nearly ten p.m."

"That late?" I muttered. I glanced at my Cartier Tortue
watch and made a mental note to get the alligator-leather band
re-polished at the jewellers.

"I'm afraid he'll hurt himself, Sir."

"He misses his mother, Peters. I know that's the problem. He
hasn't spoken more than a few words to me since she left him
here." I sighed and shook my head. "Do you know if my mother ever
had a problem like this?"

"Most of the girls were homesick for a while, Sir. They
generally stayed in their room for a few hours. I can't remember
anything like this."

"He's not quite the boy I expected, that's for certain," I
said glumly. "Of course, it's only to be expected that he's sad.
His mother's gone off and left him with a complete stranger."

Peters contemplated answering, yet held back from speaking
what was on his mind. I stroked the cat, a sleek Abyssinian who
went by the elegiac name of Oedipus. He had just climbed into my
lap for his nightly rub. He purred, his body vibrating like a
mechanical contraption with fur.

"Mr. Beaufort?" he began uncertainly. I nodded. "Perhaps it
is not my business, and I would never say it to anyone else, but
I think that boy badly needs a father."

"How so?"

"Well,... It's as if he's not like other boys, Sir."

"He's a dancer," I said obliquely, implying that somehow
dancing could explain the difference that Peters had observed.

"He's,... well, he's a bit of a pansy."

"A pansy?" I queried.

"It's an English term. What I mean to say is he's something
of a glitter-boy isn't he?... I mean he's rather effeminate,
don't you think, Sir?"

"Yes," I replied honestly while I wondered what had happened
to cause Peters to discuss the blatantly obvious. "He's also very
talented. It's not unusual for boys who dance. Many of our better
dancers happen to be gay."

"Do you think?...."

I nodded vaguely, filling in what peters had not said. "he's
gay? I would be surprised if he wasn't, Peters. However, it
should not matter one iota what he is or isn't. Our role is to
provide him with a good home."

"I think he needs a father-figure, Sir," Peters emphasized.
"I talked with him briefly yesterday when I took up some milk and
cookies. He as much as told me that he had never met his father."

I nodded, remembering my conversation with Ioana. "He has
met him,... I'm sure, he has. It's just been so long that he's
forgotten."

I fondled Oedipus behind the ears. He was an elegant feline
with a muscular body, a beautiful arched neck, large ears and
almond-shaped eyes not unlike those cats depicted in the stylized
sculpture of ancient Egypt. Despite generations of breeding it
still retained the jungle traits of felis lybica, the wild
ancestor of all domestic cats. Oedipus reminded me of Alesha, not
by being wild, for they were both very cultured, but by virtue of
having a body that nature had perfected for a role. Feline or
effeminate? I thought 'feline' was far more appropriate a
description of Alesha, yet the later was also strongly present.
It made an interesting combination. He was very different to
other boys.

"I hope you will excuse me for saying so, Sir, but I do
think you could be helpful to him. It was a very brief talk that
I had with him, but I got the impression that he is enamored with
you."

"Enamored?" I replied with a smile. It was a word that I had
not heard in years. "Hardly that, I'm sure Peters. He's probably
a bit in awe. The house and everything. It's more than he's used
to, even coming from Europe. He'll get over it in a few days I
expect."

Peters started towards the door after bidding me good night.
Oedipus, thinking it was time for dinner once again, bounded from
my lap and chased him towards the kitchen. That cat could always
eat, although how it managed to stay so trim defeated reason. I
doodled with my pen where I had been making notes before Peters
came into the Library. What was supposed to be a brief speech to
the Board outlining my proposal was but a single line on the
paper: 'The Sheldon Beaufort Fellowship for Boys'. I sighed,
suddenly moody. Things were not working out the way they were
supposed to. Certainly, Ioana had warned me that her son might
have a few problems adjusting, but he was taking the separation
from her very hard. I would need to be patient. It would take
time for him to settle down in his new home. However, this was
far worse than anything I had anticipated. Still thinking of what
I could say to reduce Alesha's pain, I stood up and walked
towards the elevator.



ACT II, Scene II.



Alesha was dancing, just as Peters had informed me. He was
also crying, sobbing softly as he went through the motions of
dancing Act II of Don Quixote, where the champion challenges
Gamache to a duel, but is mocked and chased away. He was
obviously very tired. Each step was awkward and uncoordinated. I
stood at the doorway and watched him, completely unaware of my
presence. His torment ebbed and flowed, sometimes racking his
slender frame until he nearly collapsed, always trembling. It
hurt to watch him. On and on, his muscles and tendons stressing,
tensing, forcing his limbs to move in time to the music. Even
despite his distress, his body maintained the rhythm, finding
harmony, achieving relief through dancing. He tripped when he
tried to execute a leap. He fell to his knees and wailed. He did
not try to regain his feet. I heard his voice amid the crying,
his small thin-fingered hands smearing away the tears that
streamed down his cheeks, his shoulders pitifully slumped.

"Mama, why? Why did you have to leave? Mama! Mama, why? I
want you to come back!"

Quietly, I walked across the polished oak floor until I
stood behind him. His head was bowed, so when I reached out to
touch him, the tips of my fingers brushed lightly through his
hair. It was just like touching silk. Other than shaking his
hand, it was the first time that I touched him. A shiver ran up
my arm. I would love this boy I realized then. There could be no
other, not when I had Alesha. He did not appear to notice, either
my touch or my presence next to him.

"It's okay, Alesha. I'm sure she'll telephone the moment she
arrives. She should be there soon."

Then, his head twisted back. His face was contorted in
anguish. His eyes were red. His cheeks were flushed as if he had
a fever. His tears glistened amid a shine of perspiration. Even
his hair was damp and tangled, yet he was still beautiful, more
beautiful than any boy I had ever seen. His bottom lip quivered
as another wave swept over him. tears trickled down both cheeks.

"....Sorry,....Can't help it,.... I want her to come back,"
Alesha sniveled.

"I understand," I said sympathetically.

I extended my hand, brushing my fingers through his sweat-
soaked hair, guiding it back from his smooth forehead. His eyes
were a beautiful shade of blue, yet he had cried so much that the
color was nearly gone. He shuddered, his hands clenching
impotently.

"Why did she have to leave?"

"You know why as well as I do," I answered gently. "It
wasn't something that she wanted to do. You know she would give
anything to stay here in New York with you. She couldn't take you
with her."

"I could give up dancing," Alesha managed to say before
yielding to another burst of tears. He formed a fist and struck
at his thighs.

"No. We both know that wasn't an option," I said firmly.
"You were born to dance, Alesha."

"It isn't fair."

"No, it's not fair." I nodded in agreement, still caressing
his hair.

"I hate being like this," he whimpered.

"You have a great gift. It would be a pity to waste it."

"That's what Mama says. I have to practice some more,"
Alesha said tiredly.

He started to rise, trembling when his legs began to take
his weight.

"Alesha, I think you've practiced enough for tonight."

He shook his head. "No! I have to! I have to get it right!"

He stood, tottering, about to fall. His hands were shaking
by his sides so badly that he folded his arms tightly to his
chest. He was so exhausted that he would collapse if his
concentration weakened even the slightest amount. Without
thinking, I placed my arm around his back to support him. How
natural it was to hold him; that frightened, bewildered, little
boy. His mother had been so confident that he would quickly
settle down. Perhaps she was merely trying to convince herself
that she was doing what was right, what she thought was in
Alesha's best interest. I was no longer certain that it was not
all a big mistake. And Peters had the gall to suggest that I
might provide an adequate 'father figure' for the boy. However,
most fathers did not lust after their sons, although over the
years I had known a few who did, and all of them without the
adverse effects that society would claim attended incest.

"No, Alesha," I said, gently fondling his bony shoulder.
"You've done enough. Tomorrow you have school."

Alesha sniffed and turning, looked up into my eyes. There
was intelligence revealed in his gaze, inside his too-pretty-for-
a-boy head. And more. I tried to put my finger on it. Trust.
Respect. Awe. And more, so much more that it took my breath away.
I could see it in his eyes, the questioning, the longing, the
confusion of feelings he had never realized could exist inside
his head. He needed me. Without warning, his legs gave way. As
soon as he started to slump, I grasped his arm to keep him
standing. Instinctively, I dropped to one knee and placed my
other arm behind his thighs. I lifted him up and regained my
feet, surprised at how light he was.

"I'm okay," he murmured. "My legs are just a little numb,
that's all. They sometimes get like that when I practice too
hard."

"I know. I think you'd better lie down for a while," I said
tenderly.

For an instant I thought about using the elevator to take
him downstairs to his bedroom. That 'I could be his father
figure', ran constantly through my head. Yet, deep within, I
wanted to be more than that. His 'father' would never be enough.
If I took him to his room, I would not be able to stay more than
a few minutes without arousing Peters' attention. I needed to
spend time with Alesha, a lot of time.

With not much more consideration than that, I carried Alesha
into what had once been my mother's 'private room'. Now, it was
my 'private room', and I had no compunction in closing the door
behind me. I placed Alesha on the divan and sat back a safe
distance. Then, for the first time, I noticed that he was nearly
naked.

He wore a skin-tight leotard and nothing more except thin
ballet shoes on his feet. That the cobalt-blue lycra leotard was
a tank-type with a thong bottom, and of a type that I had only
seen worn by girls, startled me. It also excited me. His skin was
creamy, flawless, sleek, completely hairless. A juvenile harmony
of muscle, bone, tendon, a human body without equal. Now, it was
my turn to gaze in awe. After a minute, I struggled to my feet
and quickly turned away.

"What's wrong?"

His whisper brought my eyes back. Had I really heard panic,
urgency, fear?

"Nothing," I answered.

I licked my lips, reluctant to resume my seat so close to
him. His slender chest was rising, falling, taking deep strong
breaths the way that he had been trained.

"Sometimes when I get tired like this,... Mama rubs my
back," Alesha mumbled awkwardly.

I smiled. "Would you like me to rub your back?" I asked
ingenuously.

He nodded once, and rolled onto his side. By the time I
resumed my position on the divan, Alesha was lying face down. He
had such a beautiful body that I could not bring my hand to touch
it. Most of his back was visible, and what was covered by the
leotard, was barely covered at all. His ridged spine was just
slightly curved. His shoulder blades extended out beneath the
skin like hidden wings, his ribs were prominent on the sides but
soon disappeared beneath the lean muscles of his back. His bottom
was not large like some boys I had known over the years. It was
small and compact, visibly firm, the lycra revealing twin globes
that had been pinched and left compressed. I reached my hand out,
still not daring to touch. Where should I begin?

I began where it was safest, close to his head, along his
narrow shoulders. As soon as my hand touched his skin, I
trembled. I think Alesha did as well. My fingers made circles,
ovals actually, around and around, traveling from his deeply
indented collar bones, across the lycra straps, following the
curve of each small shoulder blade. After ten or twelve slow
rotations, Alesha sighed. Taking that as a reflection of my
skill, I tentatively began a process of enlarging, of varying the
technique that I had practiced so seldom that each change in
pace, pressure, or direction, seemed foreign to me. My thumbs
caressed the hard humps of his spine, my fingers spreading the
flesh on either side. My fingers flowed across the lines of his
ribs, ridge, valley, ridge again. Up and down, along the boy's
lithe sides. Beyond his ribs the unyielding firmness of bone
became the softer resilience of flesh and muscle, but no less
strong. His skin was smooth, still moist, remarkably supple. Each
careful caress relaxed him, each kneading rub relieving the
stress in his small body. One sigh was longer than the others.
His head settled down into the fur-covering of the divan. He had
accepted my hands upon his body.

After a while, my desire became so strong that I could
barely longer resist the need to touch him in a different way.
Yet, I sensed that he was not ready, not for that. Not yet.
However, he was very relaxed. His eyes were closed. As I lovingly
stroked his back, I resolved that whatever happened would have to
be on his terms, not mine. I owed him that. He was not like other
boys. He was very different to the Puerto Rican street boys who I
enjoyed in the past few years. Certainly, I loved their warm
brown skin, and I usually managed to appreciate their macho ways,
but they lacked what Alesha possessed in great abundance. Even
the boys I had met in Paris over the years, while older and
despite their gallic humor, would still have paled beside him if
they were younger.

His bottom lured me closer. It was there, so perfectly
shaped, twin small mounds of idealized, reflected symmetry
awaiting a caress. Every time my fingers closed the gap and
brushed the lower edge of his leotard, my fingers extended and
sought to cross onto the lycra, into forbidden territory. A few
more inches, and my fingers would touch the place where his
buttocks began to swell. Time and time again, I fought a losing
battle. After each small victory I rewarded myself by going just
a little bit closer the next time.

Alesha wriggled slightly, ostensibly to become more
comfortable. It had the effect of lifting his buttocks higher.
Was it a sign of what he wanted, that he expected more? I traced
a line along his spine, nearing the shallow depression that
identified the beginning of his crack. I heard a soft mewing
sound, not a warning. Encouragement? Enjoyment? I was not sure.
Alesha did not move. My fingers lightly grazed the lycra, still
centered on his spine, but now on his tailbone, still inching
down. Alesha quivered. I should have stopped and listened to
myself. He had been devastated by his mother's departure, and I
was busily enjoying my shameful pursuit. I had to stop before I
went too far. His little bottom flexed beneath the lycra.

I licked my lips, glad that Alesha could not see my lust-
filled face, or worse, the enormous drooling bulge that was
pushing up into my trousers. Casually, as if it was the most
natural thing in the world to do, I glided my fingers away from
Alesha's crack to gently cup his right cheek. I squeezed
slightly. His body quivered and I quickly took my hand away.

"Don't stop."

The urgent words that had come out so quickly hung in the
air between us. Alesha's long thin legs shifted position, moving
further apart. It had the effect of slightly separating his
buttocks, not much, but far enough. I rubbed my fingers together.

"Are you sure?"

My voice was nervous. Again the words remained between us,
lingering. He nodded his head and whispered back.

"It's nice."

Carefully, I lowered my hand, fingers outstretched, placing
my palm on his right cheek once again. Alesha wriggled once,
lifted up, settled down again. I began to caress in circles, one
finger on each side, going around and around. Alesha twitched.
His buttocks tightened defensively, closing the gap, becoming
very firm.

"Sorry," I said glumly.

"It tickles, that's all," Alesha said sleepily. I waited for
permission to be restored. "I like you doing it."

"Good, because I like doing it to you. You don't mind me
rubbing your bottom?" I asked as my fingers began to circle over
the offended cheek.

"No. It's okay. Mama does it too,.... rubs me when I'm
tired. I like it on my butt,... Sometimes,...."

"Yes, Alesha?"

I waited for him to answer.

"Sometimes I take my leotard off,...." he murmured.

I squeezed his cheek playfully, feeling the rubbery muscled
flesh resist my fingers. Only a thin layer of lycra separated us,
my hand from the delicate skin of his bottom.

"Bare bottom, huh?" I teased. "That would be worth seeing, I
bet."

Alesha glanced over his shoulder and smiled shyly. His eyes
met mine, engaged, locked, sharing an unspoken need. The voice of
my conscience was insistent, but not nearly loud enough. The
longer we gazed at each other the quieter it became. Until it
wasn't there anymore. There was Alesha and me, and the lycra that
was against my gently rubbing hand.

"Mr. Beaufort?"

His voice was a soft whisper; tired, but not listless. My
hands kept moving, shifting so that each hand entirely covered
each small cheek, my thumbs stroking along the length of his
hidden crack, pressing ever so slightly into the lycra, yet not
hard enough to reach the bottom.

"Yes, Alesha."

"Mama said,.... She said you would want to see my butt."

His eyes narrowed. He looked perplexed, but not annoyed. His
expression was as if there was no reason why I would want to see
something so private, but he would not stop me if I did.

I smiled. It was impossible not to. "Did she now?"

Alesha turned onto his left side and slowly nodded his head.
He appeared wise beyond his years.

"Why would she say that I wonder?" I pretended innocence,
still thinking that Ioana had explained only a little of what was
in store for him with me as his patron.

"Because you like boys."

"Oh!"

I was taken aback. Coming from Alesha's mouth, the
acknowledgement of something that even I found to be a depressing
affliction should have been shocking, but he said it so openly,
so acceptingly, that I was merely surprised at his candidness.

"I'm a boy," Alesha said suddenly.

Only then, was I truly startled. I had spend my entire adult
life being ashamed and trying to hide what I was. Unlike some
boys who regard men like me with distaste when they finally
understand the real nature of their interest in them, Alesha
observed me with a shy affectionate smile. I saw understanding in
his eyes, not hatred, not furtive denial that he was the object
of my lust, but accepting me for what I was. For the first time
in my life I gazed at a boy without shame or guilt. He was more
at ease with his knowing smile than even the most street-wise
boy-prostitute who took a hundred dollars for a few minutes of
what could euphemistically be called 'work. I wondered what else
Ioana had told her son. A lot more than I would 'want to see his
butt', I suspected. She was not the type of woman to allow her
son to go into a relationship completely uninformed. She had made
that very clear over our dinner discussion.

"Yes, you are, Alesha," I said quietly. "You're a very
special boy."

"You can take it off,... I mean if you want to, Mr.
Beaufort?" he offered uncertainly. His voice lowered, a hint of
something that seemed out of place. "I don't mind if you see me
naked."

"I'm not sure I know how to," I muttered.

"'Course you do."

His words stung my ears, yet his smile was still there,
encouraging, accepting, giving way.

"I've never had the honor of taking off a ballet dancer's
leotard before. It looks quite hard," I said seriously.

Alesha giggled. "It's not hard. You have to pull on it."

A moment later, as if the words had struck a sensitive
nerve, he suddenly glanced down and looked between his long thin
legs. He was blushing when his eyes came back to mine. Until
then, I had not noticed his erection either. I grinned at him.

"It's supposed to get like that," I explained. "It happens
to all boys."

"I know," Alesha admitted shyly. "Mama told me."

"Maybe we should leave your leotard on this time," I
suggested feebly.

Alesha shrugged absently, almost disinterested it seemed to
me. "If I lie on my belly, then you won't be able to see my
peenie will you?"

However bored he might have appeared, and despite a
lethargic openness that bordered on blasé, he sounded hopeful. He
had certainly not said 'no'. Of all the things that could have
happened, this sudden turn of events changed everything. Peters'
image of the 'father figure' was getting further away in my mind
as we talked, but it was being replaced by something else,
something that I liked the idea of very much. Then, Alesha
yawned.

"Okay then. I give up. You'd better show me how to get this
thing off before you fall asleep," I chuckled.

Alesha returned an impatient look. "It stretches, Mr.
Beaufort," he explained tiredly. "You just pull it down my arms
and chest."

Without offering any further guidance, he resumed his
previous position by turning over onto his belly with his slender
arms along his sides. I stared. I could not believe that he
actually wanted me to undress him.

"Um,.... I think you should do it," I muttered.

Alesha made a sound that could have been exasperation or
frustration.

"Mama has to take it off all the time for me. Just pull it
past my shoulders. It's so hard for me to reach."

He giggled like a girl. Obviously, he knew what an erection
was for if the word 'hard' was sufficient to set him off.

"I mean it's difficult for me to do it by myself," he added
with a tinge of guilt.

"I'm sure it is."

I gave in to my lust, at least in so far as I dared submit
to my craving to touch him. I placed both hands on Alesha's
shoulders, taking a few seconds to slip my fingers underneath the
lycra straps. He had not exaggerated. It was very stretchy. I
peeled the lycra back, outwards, lifting away from his smooth
skin, until I reached his shoulders, then down his arms. Alesha
assisted by taking his weight on his elbows and knees and lifting
his belly up from the divan. As soon as the elastic material
reached his waist, he promptly slumped down again, bashfully
hiding what I had been looking forward to seeing for the very
first time.

"You're comfortable, I hope?" I inquired in a teasing voice.

Alesha nodded and giggled. The majority of his little bottom
was still sheathed in intoxicating blue, the same vivid tone of
some agave liquors, but the form was intensely sensual, and all
about 'boy'. Already, there was a hint of what would follow where
the lycra had pulled down far enough to see his paler skin. There
was an inflection in each perfectly symmetrical form, a
transformation from convex to concave, then outward once more.
That it all occurred in the space of just a few inches and
without the help of complex mathematics created the miracle of
human form. And there was the start of a valley, a slight
depression beneath his spine, a darker tone where the crevice
deepened. It was but an inkling of what was still concealed, a
place that was treasured by men like me. My heart pounded. I
barely realized that the cat had entered, jumped up onto the
divan, stretched its long languid body out beside Alesha.

"Do you want the slow and sensuous or the fast and furious?"
I asked, watching his fingers slide through the cat's short hair.

I gulped as soon as I heard my own words in my ears. For a
few moments, Alesha appeared not to hear as well. Perhaps he had
no idea of the meaning. I nearly fainted when he looked back
across his now naked shoulder.

"You pick," he grinned.

The cat shifted position and curled closer to him. Both boy
and cat were contented. I was amused. Oedipus was seldom around
when strangers visited, and was never one to allow someone else
besides me to pet her.

"I think we'll do the fast way for tonight because it's so
late."

Lovingly, I drifted my fingertips down his lean lithe back,
my palms following the swelling of his cheeks, one finger from
each hand tracing the center line of his body, tucking underneath
the folds of lycra until I found a place that had never been
touched by anyone except his mother and a few people who might
have been accorded the great honor of changing his diapers as a
baby. And now, it had been touched by me. One finger rubbed
lightly across the crinkle, barely touching not even hard enough
to tickle.

He sighed, making a soft mewing sound that reminded me once
again of Oedipus when he was curled up in my lap. The cat purred
contentedly as well. Just for a second I dared to look when I
pressed both thumbs into the firm flesh of his cheeks, levering
every so gently. It was puckered, tiny with the unmistakable
tightness of a virgin, immaculately clean, a darker tone of brown
and mauve and something else, a mystery hue like the lipsticks at
an expensive Parisian boutique. There was just the slightest hint
of a smell, mostly sweat. Playfully, I slapped his bottom
lightly, but hard enough that it made a smack.

"Your mother was right," I teased lightheartedly.

"About what?"

"She said you have a gorgeous little butt, and you do," I
laughed.

Alesha groaned. "She didn't!"

"She did!" I stood up. It was past eleven p.m. He needed to
be in bed. "If you go down to your bedroom and put your pajamas
on or whatever it is that you wear, I'll see if I can reach her
on the telephone. She should be at the motel by now. When the
telephone rings, just pick it up and it should be her."

Alesha's eyes lit up with joy.



ACT II, Scene III.



After that first long telephone call to his mother I knew
that the worst had passed. He was much happier the next morning
when he came downstairs for breakfast. He even smiled at the new
chauffeur while I endeavored to give him directions to Alesha's
school, a difficult undertaking since I had no notion of which
streets were the busiest in morning traffic. That Monday morning,
as every morning that followed, I watched Alesha leave, standing
on the porch until the car was out of sight. Because he had
gymnastics after school, he would be gone until nearly six p.m. I
would be counting off the hours until he came home. I wondered
what happened while he was at school.

In the days that followed, I came to realize that Alesha was
resilient, as only the young can be. There were times when he
brooded and was obviously homesick, and for the next few nights
he practiced in the attic for long stretches at a time. However,
I was happy to see that he always came down for meals. Even dour
Peters confided to me after Thursday's late supper that the boy
was 'going to be a joy to have around'. That Alesha was polite to
him probably had a lot to do with his sudden change of opinion.

Alesha was a joy to have around, and not merely because he
provided an opportunity to feast my eyes upon a body that could
have sent nations off to war, at least in my opinion.
Increasingly, I found myself watching him for reasons other than
lust, although desire was seldom far away. Every movement, every
gesture was gracefully fluid, elegantly controlled. Just watching
him eat was a ballet in itself. The image of his long slender
fingers buttering a piece of toast at breakfast would keep me
entranced until he returned from school. At meal times, he talked
with me, expressing thoughts and opinions that would have been
appropriate for a much older person. I listened to his jokes,
many the same as the one that I had told as a child. I enjoyed
seeing how he delighted in the simplest things, his child's
curiosity about the world around him, his deliberating
seriousness when confronted by something beyond his experience. A
few days transformed him, re-energized him, revealed an
intellectual and emotional depth that was both provocative and
heartening. I think I fell in love with Alesha sometime during
that first week we were together, although I was very careful to
be no more than a friend and confidant.

It seemed that my enigmatic cat had found a friend at last.
Indeed, it was late on Thursday evening when I went to find
Alesha to tell him that his mother was on the telephone that I
found him sound asleep on his bed, still dressed in his leotard
with Oedipus curled up and snoozing happily in his lap. I stood
perfectly still, not daring to move in case I awakened him, and
gazed. I also wanted to tell him about the Board meeting I had
just returned from.

That very evening I had made a presentation of my new two-
million-dollar endowment to ballet, the Sheldon Beaufort
Fellowship for Boys. My speech lasted all of five minutes and was
met with restrained applause, as was to be expected of those aged
and wealthy benefactors, the scions of New York society who were
members of the Board. The guidelines I proposed, while not
explicitly explained by my disgust at the outcome of the prior
competition, were defined by principles that would be acceptable
to all. The Foundation, under my direct control, would award a
six-year fellowship with full tuition and expenses to a junior
boy whose ability was outstanding. There would be no formal
competition, but advice would be provided by a select committee
who I appointed. The boy would be selected from the Academy or
other applicants based on potential as well as skill. What
differentiated this fellowship from the Beaufort Scholarships
established by my mother, was the increased opportunities for
travel and advanced study around the world. In addition, the boy
would have accommodation at my house, if he so desired. The vote
of the Board was unanimous, following which I introduced Randal
Wilson to discuss potential candidates. As soon as he had
finished describing the only viable candidate in very glowing
terms, the first question was raised by the elderly Mrs. Hampton.

"What I don't understand is if this Russian boy is so
outstanding, then why wasn't he awarded one of the Beaufort
Scholarships in the first place?"

Knowing the Board's aggressive position on affirmative
action, I kept silent. There was no point in antagonizing anyone,
especially her. Randal stepped forward to answer on my behalf
just as we had planned in our earlier meeting. It was important
that my proposal was viewed as being supportive of the Academy.

"An excellent question, and one that explains why Mr.
Beaufort's endowment is so important," he began generously.

I tensed, thinking, hoping that he would follow our prepared
line of argument and not reveal the biased voting that had
occurred during the competition. The Board was well intentioned,
and in large part I agreed with what they were trying to do, but
most institutions did not like to be confronted with injustice,
especially injustice that its policies had created.

"Because of his background, Alesha Yaroshenko employs both
the Vaganova and Balanchine techniques," he answered simply.

Mrs. Hampton regarded him with an expression of impatience,
tapping her ivory pen on her leather-covered writing pad. Of all
the Board members, she was one who I expected to make trouble.
Her enjoyment of ballet was purely vicarious. Her knowledge of
the art of dancing was limited to attending cocktail parties and
organizing fund raising endeavors.

"That's all?"

"As I'm sure every one here knows, the American School of
Ballet techniques are almost exclusively used by our Academy,"
Randal continued. "I believe the judges found Alesha's technique
difficult to evaluate as a result. Not being strictly Balanchine
could account for twenty points in the scoring alone."

"But the child's dancing is still outstanding?" she
persisted with a sneering look at me. "Outstanding enough to
justify a fellowship of this amount? The fellowship is very
generous."

"The child is very special, Madam," Randal said slowly.

He spoke as if Mrs. Hamilton was hard of hearing, expressing
each word distinctly. Like me, he did not appreciate her
insinuations, or the use of 'child' to imply the unimportance of
gender when every one was well aware of the difficulties of
recruiting good male dancers.

"I have seen many young dancers over my twenty years of
teaching," Randal continued. "I can say that without question,
Alesha Yaroshenko is not one of the best, but the very best of
all of them, both boys and girls. In my opinion, having him at
the Academy would be the same as having Baryshnikov as a
student."

There was a murmur around the Board. Mrs. Hamilton stopped
tapping her pen. At last she had heard a name she knew, and that
alone interrupted her in pursuing whether Alesha was worthy of
the award.

"This business of having the child stay at Mr. Beaufort's
house is something else that I don't understand," she said. She
gestured dismissively. "If the other out-of-town students can
stay at a boarding house in Chelsea, I don't see why this child
can't do the same."

I had anticipated a question in that regard and I had
prepared an elaborate answer, however before I could begin to
explain, Randal answered. He seemed to enjoy baiting her.

"Mrs. Hamilton, as I have said several times already, Alesha
is truly remarkable. He deserves every possible opportunity to
take advantage of his God-given abilities."

"That really doesn't answer my question, does it Mr.
Wilson?"

"I think it does," Julian Kalmann said loudly.

Everyone's eyes turned to the Chairman of the Board.

"This young boy can derive a tremendous amount by being
exposed to the right people," Kalmann continued placidly. "I
think we all know how important the network can be to our younger
dancers, especially those who are destined for great things. We
are talking about a young boy who has already been accepted at
the Summer Program in Paris. While I know of a few students who
have been admitted in their early teens, I have never heard of an
eleven-year-old being accepted."

I nodded, picking up the thread. "And of course, while
Alesha is staying in Paris with me, he will be exposed to the
culture in a way that would be impossible if he were living in a
dormitory. When the program is finished I will take him with me
to Moscow and London, and very likely to Rome and Berlin as well.
By the time he returns to New York in the fall he will have seen
all of the major European ballet companies at work."

"Then he's certainly a very lucky boy, isn't he?" Mrs.
Hampton said sarcastically.

"No! He's exceptionally talented. It's not a matter of him
being lucky," Kalmann said loudly. "If there is any luck
involved, it is the Academy that is very lucky to have him
attend. We do need to move on to the next item on the agenda, but
before we do, on behalf of the Board I would like to extend our
sincere appreciation to Mr. Beaufort for his very generous
donation."

Applause, when it was directed to me, always made me feel
uncomfortable. This time, all I could think about was Alesha. In
my mind, they were applauding him, not me.

Almost as soon as the Board meeting was over, Julian Kalmann
caught up with me on the way to the foyer and said that he would
like a few minutes of my time. It was not often that I spoke to
him in public, but I had more than a vague idea of what he wanted
to discuss. Randal smiled vacuously and excused himself. The
Chairman walked out to the street with me, taking more time than
was needed because he stopped on the way to chat with two of the
other members about the continuing problem of dancers' salaries.
My car was parked at the head of a line of limousines.

"A Rolls, Sheldon?" he laughed. "And a chauffeur too? I
thought you were committed to an automobile-free life."

"Actually, it's a Bentley," I replied.

"Well, no matter. It's a very nice car," he said admiringly
when we reached the curb. "Understatement is always better in my
opinion. It's so easy to be deceived by something flashy.
Although I must say I've been thinking about getting myself a
baby-buggy. Maybe one of those new Carerra-4s or a red Ferrari
that the boys all like so much."

I waited patiently, curious to see whether what he wanted
was what I expected. More than likely he would come to the point
quickly because the Board meeting had gone longer than expected.
It was getting late, and like me, he probably had not eaten
dinner yet.

"That woman is a pain in the ass," he continued.

We both knew who he was referring to, but if there was any
doubt, his next comments aptly removed it,

"Which, of course, is precisely what one should expect from
a Radcliff graduate. If it wasn't for her funding a large part of
the renovation program,..." He smiled and left the sentence hang.
"I haven't seen you at the club for quite some time, Sheldon."

Julian was looking directly at me, but from his tone he
could just have easily been talking about one of many private
clubs in New York. Indeed, we were both members of the Harvard
Club. We were used to talking in ambiguous terms about the other
interest that we had in common.

I shrugged. "There hasn't been much point in going lately,
Julian. Going by oneself can be a little dull," I added dryly.

Julian returned a knowing smile. "I expect this new addition
to your life will change things somewhat? Your very own,... what
is the word,.... baguette?"

Strangely, I had not given any thought at all to taking
Alesha to the best kept secret in New York.

"Really!" I began with exasperation. It was difficult not to
smile at Julian's terminology. It was one of the reasons why I
enjoyed his company.

"I do hope you're going to show him off soon?"

"I hadn't been planning to," I answered vaguely. "Not for a
while at least. He isn't ready for something like that."

"Oh, he's ready!" Julian exclaimed. "I agree he's a bit on
the young side, but most boys are starting younger. There was a
little darling at the club a few weeks ago with Marius. His real
name is Ramon, but he insisted I call him Ramona. He couldn't
have been more than nine or ten, Sheldon, and he was flirting
like he'd been doing it for years. He was very young to be
mincing about, but that's how it is for a lot of fairies. They do
tend to come out earlier."

"You're implying that Alesha's a fairy," I said coolly. "And
you've never even met him."

Julian gestured to the building across the street. There
were still lights on in some of the upper floors where the
Academy's dance studios were located.

"Oh, but I have, Dear. I've even seen him dance. Don't you
know Alesha was one of the mice in last year's Nutcracker?"

I was startled. "But I thought he played one of the
children. His application said he had a part in the ballet. It
didn't say which one. I guess I assumed,..."

"Oh he was far too good for that. I had Ricard choreograph a
special part for him as a mouse. Olsen wasn't too pleased. He's
not that keen on the younger boys, but he warmed up to the idea
once Alesha was on the stage. You remember the little mouse don't
you?"

"The one who was always getting pushed out of the way?" I
asked. Julian nodded. I chuckled. "That was Alesha? I thought it
was one of the shorter girls."

Julian smirked. "I'm sure you weren't the only one who
thought that, especially with his name. Actually, I had a few
words with your Alesha after the first performance. You remember
that we were doing the Santa Claus receptions for the afternoon
shows? He was absolutely charming. I hope you know how lucky you
are, Sheldon?"

He did not need to elaborate. His eyes narrowed. His smile
was elusive, like the meaning of his words. I stepped back from
the curb. "Alesha is one in a million," I agreed. "Thanks for
your help in there by the way."

"You're welcome. It was a pleasure to help a kindred
spirit." Julian winked lewdly. His voice lowered to a whisper
that I had to strain my ears to hear. "Your fellowship really is
an excellent idea. I wish I had the money to do one of my own.
And to think that wonderful boy will be staying at your house."

"It's not what you think," I claimed ingenuously.

"It never is." Julian folded his hands together and closed
his eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm praying," he murmured. "That I should be so fortunate."

"For Heaven's sake. You already have your nephew,... Roland
isn't it? I thought you were planning to have him move in with
you."

"Oh my! You do have to get out more, Sheldon. Rollie's been
living with me since the middle of last month. With my sister's
blessing too, because she can't control him now that he's a
teenager."

"Lucky you."

"Don't get me wrong, because I really do love him and he is
more than cute enough to keep me happy for a few more years, but
your boy is something else again," Julian tittered.

His effervescent voice had gone up an octave, becoming more
like the Julian Kalmann I knew.

"Thank you for the compliment, I think."

Julian smirked. "It's true. Alesha is simply divine and he's
so delightfully camp. Tell me, Sheldon, have you?...."

"Of course not!" I rebuked. "Not that I wouldn't if the
chance arose," I added flippantly.

"You really need to bring him to the club," Julian smirked.
"There is nothing like having all those sexy young boys around to
reduce one's inhibitions. My Rollie can be very affectionate at
times, but when he's showing off it's quite amusing."

He stopped for a moment to acknowledge two of the other
Board members with a wave. It was also a wave of dismissal and
they continued on their way.

"Last week there was a Puerto Rican boy at the club who
Rollie was flirting with for a while. Both of them were dancing
with their dicks hanging out. It was quite a sight. Rollie was as
hard as I've ever seen him. I'm absolutely certain that those two
would have gone off for a while if I wasn't watching like a hawk.
I heard later that there were a couple of puppies in the back
room playing the piano," he snickered.

"You always were a fan of Korsakov, Julian," I remarked. I
had mixed feelings about what happened in the back room.

"Oh yes, Rimski and I go back a long way," Julian replied
flippantly. "Just so long as it's a boy I'm rimming. The idea of
doing that otherwise turns me off completely." He glanced around
to make sure that we were not being overheard. "How far are you
along with him? Have you played leap frog yet?"

The expression on my face indicated my answer. I was not
overly surprised for Julian had a reputation of being very overt
with his close friends.

"How about a little stinky pinky?" he teased. "With those
skinny hips of his, I'm sure he needs to be loosened up a lot. Or
are you still playing solitaire?"

"I don't think Alesha's anywhere near ready for something
like that," I repeated seriously. "For Heaven's sake, Julian, he
might not even be gay."

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course he is, Sheldon. He's just
like any poppy. All he needs a little push in the right direction
and he'll open right up for you. Now do be a dear, and bring him
to the club soon.

"I'll think about it," I replied.

"It's good for the boys to be around their own kind."

"I know."

"It's very different to when we were boys, but I still
wouldn't want to be a gay kid today," Julian added seriously. "I
remember going down to Barrow Street when I was fifteen or so.
And there was that other place too, the one in the Village. In
fact it wasn't far from Plato's Closet. On the second floor it
was, just like Appleboys only without the shop below. What was
that place called? The Tenth of something,..."

"I never went there," I said.

Julian shrugged. "It was great for the kids, well mostly
good. We had a few bad times. I was there the night a friend of
mine nearly killed himself. He'd only just arrived from Georgia.
Jeff couldn't have been more than seventeen. He had it bad for
another boy, Billy. I think he was fourteen or so."

"What happened?" I asked disinterestedly but trying hard to
be polite.

I wanted to go home to be with Alesha. With luck he would
not have gone to bed by the time I arrived.

"They broke up," Julian answered. "Jeff took it pretty
badly. Some priest had a chat with him, but it didn't help much,
at least not right away. He overdosed in the john, but a couple
of boys found him before it was too late." Julian smiled.

"What's so funny?"

"Jeff and Billy. They're still together you know, Sheldon,
after,... how long has it been,... thirty-five years nearly."

"True love," I remarked cynically. Most gay couples were
lucky to survive a few years.

"The kids who went there were confused and lonely," Julian
continued. "There was no where else for them to go, not one that
was safe anyway. It certainly wasn't as safe as the club," he
added deliberately.

"I'll think about it."

"This Friday?" Julian said hopefully. I didn't respond. "We
need some new faces. That boy of yours will be all the rage so
you had better keep him on a tight leash if you don't want to
share him. You know as well as I do how some of the older boys
carry on with fresh meat."

"Julian!" I said with pretended exasperation.

"Well, I'd best be going, Sheldon," Julian laughed. "Rollie
promised he'd stay up until I came home. And I still have to
check his homework before I pop it in the toaster. Oh, the
obligations of having a young friend!"

I left him standing there on the curb waiting for his car to
arrive. There was no sign of Randal otherwise I would have
offered him a ride. I slid into the sumptuous interior of the
Bentley, filling my nose with the smell of Connolly leather. My
newly hired chauffeur hurried around to the driver's side and a
moment later we were on our way home.



ACT II, Scene IV.



I lifted the telephone next to Alesha's bed and punched the
third button. I very nearly hit the wrong button because I was
staring at Alesha. He had fallen asleep wearing his leotard and
nothing else. There were two tiny dots in the bright-red skin-
tight material where his nipples were and a shallow ripple lower
down to mark the location of his navel. However, Oedipus hid the
part than I wanted to see more than anything else. The cat looked
up at me and gave me possessive feline 'smile'. I nearly laughed.
Instead, I took a deep breath and forced myself to look away.

"Ioana?" I asked.

"Yes. It's me. Is Alesha there with you?"

"I'm in his room. Unfortunately, he's just fallen asleep,' I
answered. I stepped back. "I'll wake him if you wish, but Peters
told me that he's been practicing non-stop since seven p.m."

"Oh," Ioana replied. "Don't wake him then! He needs to
sleep. How has he been getting on?"

"Much better," I answered. "He seems to be settling down
quite nicely."

The cat snuggled closer, burrowing its head into Alesha's
crotch. It must have been a comfortable pillow because Oedipus
purred.

"Thank God. I'm sure it helped that you bought him that cell
phone," Ioana continued. "Being able to call me whenever he wants
to was an excellent idea."

"It was Dewon's idea," I admitted. I used the compulsory two
syllables with the exaggerated gap. "He's my new chauffeur, and
something of a character. He's been driving Alesha to and from
school each day. It seems that he's taken quite a liking to your
son."

I did not add that Dewon had barely managed to avoid being
court-martialed for the sodomy of a teenage boy while he was
stationed on Okinawa. According to his version of the story, the
boy was more than willing, but the Japanese policeman who found
them naked on the beach did not agree. Had Dewon been white it
likely would have been a different story, but given the Japanese
intolerance for blacks, the outcome was predetermined. Only his
outstanding military service six years earlier in Kuwait and Iraq
had saved him. So far, I was very happy with my decision to hire
him.

"I'm glad that things are beginning to work out."

"It's been much better the last few days. He's still dancing
until he's exhausted," I added.

Even then, when I glanced down I saw that Alesha's forehead
was hot and shiny, a sign that he had been sweating recently. I
wished that he did not push himself so hard, yet I realized that
punishing his body was his way of dealing with his worries.

"I'm so sorry to put you through this."

"I don't mind, Ioana. I just don't want him to hurt himself.
I'm hoping that he can relax a bit this weekend. We've both been
so busy the last days it would be good for us. Perhaps we'll take
in a movie, or if the weather stays nice, we might go for a
drive."

"He'd like that I expect. Some of our happiest times were
when one of my friends would take us for a drive up to some of
those beautiful old towns in New England."

"How is the new company?" I asked.

"Okay."

She did not elaborate, which was the same as saying that the
quality of dancing was far from being exceptional. I did not
pursue the subject.

"I made a presentation to the Board about the fellowship
tonight, Ioana," I said. "They accepted my donation and the
recommendation of Alesha as the first recipient, so it's official
now. I expect there will be something about it in the Times, if
not tomorrow then in the Sunday edition. I had my secretary
provide a package of information to the Board with a dance photo
of Alesha just in case. I'll make certain to send you a copy."

"Does he know?"

"Not yet. I'll tell him in the morning"

"He'll be so surprised." Ioana paused. "How are you and he
getting along?"

I knew what she was after. I sighed. "Okay,... I think he
likes me, or at least he's starting to get used to me. I want to
move slowly. Very slowly," I answered candidly. "I don't want to
rush him into something he's not ready for."

I told her about rubbing Alesha's back.

"Yes, he told me when I called on Sunday night. He does like
you by the way."

"Oh!"

Ioana laughed. "Alesha said you were very good at giving
back rubs."

"Hm. Well I tried my best!"

"He also said that the best part was when you rubbed his
butt," she added with a snicker.

I felt guilty for a second. However, his mother was
obviously amused. "Um, well I must admit that I enjoyed that part
too."

"I'm glad that you're being patient with him, Sheldon. After
what happened to me, I truly think it is better if it happens at
a slower pace," Ioana continued. "However, I also know that
Alesha sometimes needs a little push to get him started."

"Ioana?..."

"Yes."

"Nothing has to happen between us," I said softly.

I gazed down at Alesha. I wanted to tell her that I was in
love with her son. What I felt inside had to be love. It hurt
when I was not with him. I had only felt that way with Martin and
that was a very long time ago.

"I respect him a great deal, Ioana. I want you to know that.
I'll provide anything he needs, no matter what."

She did not respond. Yet, in that enduring calm was her
conscious approval. Her silence was an unspoken understanding
that I was developing a relationship with Alesha, and that while
it could not be ignored, she would not stand in the way. Despite
my denial, we both realized that it was just a matter of time
until her son and I had sex.

"Ioana," I began awkwardly. "I've been watching him the last
few days. What I've seen leads me to believe he's very lonely. I
was thinking that it might be a good idea if he met some boys
like himself."

I did not elaborate, not at first. I wanted to see how Ioana
would respond.

"That would be wonderful. He doesn't seem to have any
friends at school, at least not among the boys. I'm sure the
other boys are very jealous of him."

That would be a natural reaction, I expected, and not only
because the vast majority of gay boys suffered tremendous pain
while growing up. However, his problems at school were not from
being gay. Nine out of ten of his friends would be that way. In
my experience, most people often resented those who had truly
remarkable abilities.It applied to both young and old.

"I'd like to take him to a club that is, um,...ah,....
frequented by men and boys. It's in Greenwich," I added
uncertainly.

I was as nervous as I had ever been while I waited for her
response. Not even my first meeting with Martin in the Luxembourg
Gardens could compare with how I felt. I took a deep breath. It
was as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It was the
first time that I had ever openly acknowledged the existence of
the club to an outsider. It was tantamount to an admission of
guilt, although exactly what I was guilty of was no longer quite
as clear as it had been before I met Alesha. Was it so terribly
wrong for a man to love a boy?

Perhaps I made a mistake in telling her, but in my opinion,
Alesha's mother had a right to know what I was doing with her
son. Although I had taken advantage of other boys over the years,
I did not want it to be that way with Alesha. She did not answer
right away.

"I've heard about some of those gay clubs in the Village
from other dancers. I rather he didn't,...." Ioana stopped

"Ioana, I'm very fond of him. I hope you realize that I'll
never let anything bad happen to him. The place I'm talking about
is different to the usual gay bar you find down there. It's a
closely guarded secret and membership is by invitation only. Most
of the men are very wealthy or closely associated with the arts.
And the boys, well most of them are very sweet and the few that
aren't so nice, I can keep him away from."

"It isn't that." She sighed. "I'm sure he's safe with you.
And he does need to meet boys like himself. It will help him to
come out."

"He'll certainly do that," I chuckled. "There are usually a
couple of boys there who are close to his age. Anyway, I still
haven't decided if taking him to the club is the best way to do
it."

"Well, I'm sure you'll do the right thing." She sounded
perturbed.

"Is there something else that's bothering you?" I asked
nervously.

"No, not really, Sheldon,.... It's just that,..."

"Yes."

"He needs someone like you. Sooner or later he'll find out
what life is all about. I'd much rather he learned from someone
who has his best interests at heart."

Randal had said that Alesha was being 'dropped into my lap'
and now it sounded as if his mother was encouraging me,
encouraging me to do what most boy lovers dreamed about. At that
moment, Alesha stirred in his sleep and the cat lifted its head
before settling down again. The two of them appeared so innocent
and natural together that I smiled.

"I'd better go to bed," Ioana said. "It's been a long day
and tomorrow will be just as bad."

"Are you sure you don't want me to wake him up?" I asked.

"No, that's all right. I'll call him tomorrow morning when
he's up."

"That's probably the best idea. The poor boy was so tired
he's fallen asleep still dressed in his leotard," I mused.

"Oh. Sheldon, would it be too much to ask if you could take
it off him. They can become quite uncomfortable at times."

My eyes traveled down, following the graceful contour of
Alesha's body. The cat was covering his groin, but there was
nothing to indicate that he was wearing anything beneath the
leotard.

"Um,..." I muttered self-consciously. "He's not wearing
anything underneath, at least I don't think he is."

His mother laughed. "He never does! So what? I'm sure you've
seen plenty of naked boys by now. Besides, you've already seen
his derriere, so why not what's in front?"

"I,... well,... it's just that,.... He's asleep,.... It
doesn't seem right,... I don't want to wake him up," I muttered
self-consciously.

"Wake him up? Not that boy. He'll sleep through anything
when he's worn out."

"Um,... I don't know,..."

"Of course, if he does wake up, he'll never be able to do it
by himself."

"I suppose I could," I ventured awkwardly. "I don't want him
to be uncomfortable."

"Have fun. And tell him I said good night," Ioana said
gayly.

A moment later the telephone clicked. I regarded it and
slowly smiled before replacing it beside the bed. Unlike the
leotard that he normally wore, this one had short arms which
undoubtedly made it much harder to take off. I wondered how
Alesha had managed to get it on in the first place. Perhaps one
of the staff had helped him, or perhaps there was a zipper I
could not see. Very carefully, I eased my hand under his back.
The thin cloth was hot and very sleek, but there was no telltale
ridge to suggest a zipper. I eased down to sit on the bed next to
him.

"I'm sure you're very comfortable, but you're going to have
to move for a while," I whispered to the cat.

I had to use both hands to lift Oedipus up.

"Where to start?" I mused aloud.

The cat meowed. It stretched, stalked around the bed, and
after giving the situation some thought, relocated itself beside
Alesha's bare pale feet.

"God, you are so beautiful," I whispered.

I licked my lips and breathed through my mouth, inhaling
deeply as I studied the perfect body that was stretched out
before me. Awkwardly, I reached out. My fingers brushed across
his firm flat belly before rising to his ribs, then along his
lean hard chest. If there an ounce of fat on him I could not find
it.

I remembered one boy who I had met in a village outside
Rouen. He was fat and soft, with flesh that reminded me of jelly.
It took forever to get him naked. His genitals were puny, hidden
by a flabby belly. There was just a trace of pubic hair, no more
than a dozen black strands. He had giggled eagerly, when I got
behind him, when I had split his vast behind, and placed my penis
where it was supposed to go. Even his insides were soft and
spongy. It had only been five years ago, but I could not remember
his name. I had given him a hundred francs.

I assumed that all leotards were taken off the same way.
Indeed, there seemed to no other way to remove it. With trembling
fingers I managed to take hold of the right arm sleeve and
carefully stretch the neck opening out far enough that I could
work it down Alesha's small shoulder. Fortunately, the leotard
had a large neck opening. I did the same on the other side so
that the leotard was soon halfway down his upper arms. Before I
realized it, I was gazing at his tiny nipples. Each one was
perfect, a minute slightly rounded dot within a dime-sized circle
that was a shade darker than the adjacent skin.

The leotard had become tightly stretched and I had to pull
it down an inch at a time, changing from one side to the other.
More of his body came into view. Each prominent rib was like
revealing a precious gift. I reached the last one, the floating
rib, at the same time as the top of the leotard reached Alesha's
elbows. Not much further and I would be able to get his arms
free. Another inch and his slim belly fell away, dipping down
from his ribs, the line of his sternum continuing on to become
two narrow ridges of muscle. He was thinner in the middle and the
leotard moved lower with every careful tug. I licked my lips when
I realized that the next slight pull would reveal his navel. I
had always thought that a boy's navel and belly were among the
most beautiful parts of his body, nearly the equal of the parts
of sexual sensation.

Alesha's navel would have been an 'innie', but he was so
slender that there was not enough flesh for his navel to be
pulled in, at least not in the way that I had preferred up to
that point. His navel was pushed forward, becoming less prominent
because it was partially covered by a fold of skin from above. It
was the sexiest navel I had seen in a very long time. I very
nearly stopped there, gazing longingly at Alesha's lithe abdomen,
the shiny lycra of his leotard bunched up on his lower belly, a
small rounded bump a few inches lower down.

It took more than a minute before my lust caught up.
Cautiously, I extricated his arms, placing them by his sides. The
leotard was much looser, but it was still skin-tight. I glanced
down. The little bulge was now very inviting. It was the part
that made a boy a boy. I wanted to see it. I had to see it. I
placed my hands on Alesha's slim hips, scooping my fingers
underneath the cloth. At the same time, I tried to tell myself
that my excitement was not because of what I was doing. I was
undressing him only to make him comfortable. I tugged gently for
several times before I realized that the leotard's continued
downward movement was restricted by his buttocks and the bed.

I eased my left hand underneath the small of his back and
lifted up. No matter how hard I tried, I could never have lifted
that boy I met outside Rouen. Lifting Alesha was very easy. I had
suitcases that were heavier. With my right hand I tugged on the
leotard. With three good pulls, I had reached the middle of his
thighs.

Whatever I had expected, what I saw was far more delightful.
The first thing that I noticed was that he was uncircumcised like
me. However, Alesha's foreskin was much longer, at least in
proportion to my own. The tip was wrinkled where it closed to
form a tiny nozzle, revealing a darker tone from the last eighth
of an inch to just within. It was a color that was almost
crimson. His penis was about the size of my little finger, or so
it appeared to me. It was just as long and thick, yet flaring
noticeably where it passed the head, although I dared not bring
my finger close enough to validate my analogy by comparing the
size. It drooped down limply against his slender thigh.

Beneath, I could see his scrotum. It was a tiny thing, more
like a flap of skin than the fuller, rounded pouches that I was
used to with other boys. However, I could discern the shape of
his testicles. About the size of jellybeans, they were very close
to his body, which resulted in the silky folds of his scrotum
appearing to be empty at first glance. Again, I dared not touch,
not for fear of waking him although that thought did cross my
mind, but because a single touch would mar his absolute
perfection. And so, I simply stared.

Of course, I wondered what his glans was like. One of the
joys of boys whose penises are kept intact, is revealing that
hidden gem. I knew of many men, mostly in New York, who much
preferred the other sort. No doubt their preference stemmed from
availability as much as the similarity to themselves, although
increasingly there were more boys, usually Puerto Rican, who were
covered at the tip. I gazed, my longing barely under control,
licking my lips frequently while I tried to imagine what it would
be like to taste it, to savor his boyhood, to have it quiver hot
and alive beneath my touch.

It was only with the greatest effort of self control that I
managed to complete my assigned task of removing Alesha's
leotard. From his thighs to his ankles was very easy, at least in
terms of pulling the cloth down. What was nearly impossible was
resisting the urge to reach up, to fondle, to caress his penis,
to tease it to erection. I was in the process of pulling the
leotard over his feet when Alesha awoke. He stirred, kicking
slightly when he felt my hands on the soles of his feet. Later, I
would discover just how ticklish he really was, but at that
moment, I was startled. I sat up quickly, bringing the leotard
with me.

"Wazup?"

I met his eyes, blinking, sleepy, barely aware of where he
was.

"Hi," I answered softly. "You fell asleep."

"Huh?" He yawned. "Whayoudoinghere?"

"Your mother was on the telephone, Alesha," I answered
quickly. "She's probably getting ready for bed now."

Instinctively, my hand reach out and gently brushed the hair
back from his forehead. His eyes were half-open, still blinking,
trying to adjust to the light. It took a moment for him to
realize what I had said.

"Oh," he murmured.

"It's okay. You can call her in the morning on your way to
school."

"Okay." That seemed to satisfy him.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took this off," I said,
holding up his bright red leotard.

Alesha did not answer and when he did it was with a shy
smile after he had glanced down and saw what I had been staring
at for quite some time. His eyes flickered quickly back to meet
mine.

"Your mother said I should,... take it off I mean, because
it might be uncomfortable," I added guiltily.

Alesha said nothing. I could sense his nervousness. He did
not move.

	"Um,... We thought you might wake up in the middle of
the night." I sounded nervous. I shared the blame. "I'm sorry."

"You were looking at me," he said accusingly, but not
angrily.

A moment later we both looked down. His face was beginning
to flush.

	"Please don't be embarrassed because I saw you naked.
There is really nothing to be ashamed about."

"I don't mind. Mama said you would want to see my peenie,"
Alesha said awkwardly.

Despite what he said, his face was getting redder.

The cat had gotten up and was walking casually back from
where he had been lying beside the boy's feet. Oedipus placed one
paw on Alesha's prominent hip, leaned forward with a hungry look,
exploring forbidden territory, at least for me. His whiskers
grazed the smoothest thinnest belly that I had ever seen. It
seemed that the cat could get away with anything. Alesha giggled
as the whiskers came very close to his penis.

"That tickles!" he claimed, pushing one hand towards the cat
to ward him off.

Oedipus probably thought he was about to be petted and
promptly placed another paw on Alesha's hip in preparation for
resuming his prior position.

"I think the cat wants to lie on your belly again," I
laughed. I stood up. "Good night, Alesha."

"Good night, Mr. Beau,..." He caught himself. "Sheldon." He
smiled.



ACT II Scene V.



After Dewon had returned from taking Alesha to school I had
him drive me to the Harvard Club. It was in midtown, and like
Harvard in the late-nineteenth century, the main building had
been designed by McKim, Mead, and White. At shortly after 10.30
a.m., it was, of course, far too early to have lunch on the
balcony, and the speaker I wanted to hear was not due to arrive
until just before midday. I thought about going to the Gordon
reading Room. It was a sunny place, a perfect place to settle
down in a quiet nook and read the paper. With luck I would find
someone to play a game of chess with. However, I changed my mind
before we got to West 44th Street.

"Let's stop for coffee, Dewon, and then you can take me for
a drive," I instructed.

He turned and headed east, used the tunnel, taking the Long
Island Expressway away from the noise and bustle.

"How is the traffic?" I remarked.

"Not bad, Mister Beaufort. We're makin' good time. There
anywhere special you want me to go?"

"Hm,... Not particularly. I just want to get out of the city
for a while."

"495 will take us all the way out to Riverhead," Dewon
observed.

He glanced in the mirror, watching a car moving up behind
him before he changed lanes. I was glad to see that he kept both
hands on the steering wheel. A lot of taxi drivers used one hand,
and sometimes no hands. They steered with their knees,
gesticulating wildly.

"Them dancers, the ones who do ballet, most of 'em are gay,
ain't they?"

"Pardon?" I had heard exactly what he said.

"I was saying that most of them ballet dancers, the guys I
mean, they're gay, ain't they?"

"Yes, most of them," I agreed.

I wondered what made him bring the subject up. It was the
first time that we had talked about homosexuality, although I
expected that Randal Wilson had shared some confidential
information. It was time Dewon and I talked.

"I was readin' this book on one of 'em las-night. Nurayuff,
I think,..."

"Rudolf Nureyev," I suggested, with the proper accent.

"Yeah, 'im. He's gay as a goose."

"Yes, he was. He was also one of the most famous ballet
dancers of the twentieth century. He revolutionized ballet for
male dancers," I added pointedly.

"That's what the book said. Um, how did the dude put it....
'he sexualized ballet',.... somethin' like that. There was
somethin' else about him tattooing it on the dance world's
butt,..."

"He pretty much did that," I chuckled.

"He died of Aids," Dewon added. "I guess he hung it out at
too many clubs. The book said he scored tail all the time."

I smiled. For an instant I turned my head. The car from
behind was in the process of passing. I looked into the rear
window. The only passenger was a young boy. He was dark-haired
and very good looking. There was very little chance of him seeing
me through the deeply tinted glass. A moment later the car had
passed.

Dewon's head had turned to the side as well.

"Very tasty. That one's gotta be a nine or ten on the
chicken-meter," he observed. "You want me to catch 'em up, Mr.
Beaufort?"

"That won't be necessary, Dewon," I said calmly.

"Randal told me you were somethin' of a hawk," Dewon said.
"I usually like mine a bit older, but I've had some great honey-
fucks over the years. Some of them boys in the Phillipines don't
know how to say 'no'."

"So I've heard."

"You mind me talkin' vulgar like this, Mr. Beaufort?"

I shook my head. "Just don't do it around Alesha," I warned.

"Wouldn't think of it. Lee's a real sweetie. 'sides, he's
got the hot's for you."

"What did you say?" I swallowed.

It was the first time I had heard anyone use a nick name for
Alesha.

"Lee's got it real bad for ya. He talks about you all the
way to school."

"He misses his mother."

"It ain't that."

"He's probably got a case of puppy love," I added.

"More 'n that. I'm s'rpised you ain't saddled him up yet."

I choked. Dewon smirked into the rear vision mirror.

"You gotta move fast soon as they start gettin' horny. Lee's
a pussy-boy, if I ever seen one."

We passed Grand Central Parkway and I enjoyed the view of
Meadow Lake to the right. The traffic leaving Manhattan was so
light that Dewon was driving well over the speed limit. I settled
back into the seat.

"What makes you say that?" I asked as blandly as I could
manage under the circumstances.

"Everythin'," Dewon answered vaguely. "The way he wobbles
his fanny, you can tell he's itchin' to have his cherry popped."

"Really?" I said sarcastically. The words alone were enough
to make my heart skip a few beats. "You can tell that by how he
walks."

Dewon laughed. "Nah, it's more 'n that, Mr. Beaufort. It's
how he looks at yer. Like he's figuring out what's down there.
He's gettin' ready to come out. I seen any number of bennys in
Harlem that are hot to trot if you give 'em a sign. They all
dress the same way with them real tight leather pants to show off
what they've got. They might be virgins, but you'd be a fool not
to use a cum-drum with 'em. Of course, Lee ain't doin' that,
least ways not yet anyway. But it won't be all that long for he
does."

I did not say anything for a while. I sat, thinking,
watching the streets pass by. They were like perpendicular
fingers reaching out into suburbia. The same fingers also reached
in St. Mary's Cemetery, except the residents were dead. What
Dewon had said about Alesha was true. It was obvious that the boy
was sending signals. They all did sooner or later. Some boys did
it with eye contact. They simply looked at men and did not look
away when the men looked back. Martin had been like that. A
'looker'. It was like an arcane mating ritual, searching out a
partner to fulfill a need that could never be satisfied. Every
time my eyes met Alesha's, I had an intuitive feeling. His eyes
revealed his inner self, his unrealized desires, a recognition of
sharing something that had not been defined but was there
nonetheless. Alesha was also a 'looker'.

"How is it that he's not?" I asked absently.

"How's what, Mr. Beaufort?"

"What you were saying about Alesha? How is he different?"

We crossed Clearview Expressway, still heading east. The car
with the boy in the back seat was a long way ahead. It had taken
the Clearview Exit. I watched it disappear. If that boy had been
a nine or ten on the 'chicken-meter', what was Alesha?

"Well for one thing he's smarter. And he likes them fem
clothes I think," Dewon remarked.

"What makes you say that?" I asked curiously.

"This mornin' when we passed that girl's school between 62nd
and 63rd, I caught him watchin'."

"Maybe he likes girls," I joked feebly.

"And maybe Japs have big dicks," Dewon guffawed. "Only I
never seen a slant-eye with one anywhere near seven."

For some reason, seven inches was the magic dimension for a
lot of men. Perhaps it was because of the mysticism associated
with 'seven'. Perhaps because it was realistically achievable.

"I finally figured Lee was checkin' out their clothes,"
Dewon explained. "You seen them new glitter jeans, ain't ya Mr.
Beaufort?"

I shook my head. "Not if girls are wearing them," I laughed.

Dewon turned quickly and grinned. "Well that was what he was
lookin' at. You oughta get a pair for Lee."

"A pair of girl's jeans?" I asked.

"Sure. It ain't like girls' stuff won't fit a boy. I can
find a mall if you wanna stop, Mr. B."

I laughed again. I didn't say anything because I was in a
good mood, but if Peters ever heard Dewon call me 'Mr. B.' he
would go 'ballistic'.

"Find a mall, Dewon."



We found a mall at the next interchange, although we missed
the turn and had to go quite some distance down the divided road
before we managed to turn around. Dewon parked close to one of
the department stores and, at my invitation, accompanied me into
the store. If I had to shop in the girl's section because of his
suggestion, I was not going to do it by myself. Between the two
of us we managed to get hopelessly lost in row after row of
women's clothing. It was only by circumambulating the entire
store that we managed to find what we were looking for.

"Over there, Mr. B.," Dewon said eagerly, pointing to a
neon-lettered sign that said 'Young Teens'.

We stopped in front of a circular rack. It was easy to see
why a boy like Alesha would find glitter jeans attractive. The
jeans were stone-washed and made of a cotton blend with a
sparkling thread, that the label claimed was 'Lurex'. The sparkle
was distinctive and added a character that while not 'lurid', was
certainly exciting. I lifted a pair from the rack and held them
up. The jeans were designed to sit low on the waist, which for a
girl meant clinging to the hips. They were flared at the hem,
from the knee down in the latest style. If there was any doubt
about the fashion statement, yellow retro-inspired stitching ran
down the legs.

"It's different to the ones Lee was looking at," Dewon said.
"Over there is more like it."

We went across the aisle to another rack. The jeans were
similarly shaped, but appeared to be made of a stretchy material
with a lot more glitter. The stitching was also glittery. I
pulled out a pair of blue-gray jeans and held it up. The legs
were much thinner than the other style, and to my eyes, shaped
closer to Alesha's body.

"The only problem is what size he'd take," I said furtively.

Dewon shrugged. "Shit, don't ask me, man. Sorry, Mr. B.
You've seen him more than me. I only see him gettin' in and out
of the car."

"I don't know!' I replied with exasperation. "He's as skinny
as a rake. His middle can't be more than 23 or 24 inches. His
hips are a bit bigger. Maybe an inch or two at the most."

Dewon nodded. "There's gotta be some kind a chart 'round
'ere. How tall ya figure Lee is?"

I held my hand to my chest, indicating about where his head
would come to. It was a few inches below five feet.

"About the size of that model over there maybe?" Dewon
suggested hopefully.

We walked past several racks of clothes until we came to a
nearby mannequin. Fortunately, the mannequin, a skinny girl with
a bristling-blond wig, was dressed in the glitter jeans and a
shimmery top. The mannequin appeared to be nearly the same size
at Alesha, although I was a long way from being certain. I
examined the labels.

"Size eight?"

"It looks like somethin' Barbie might wear," Dewon smirked
as he glanced from the mannequin to the jeans I was holding.
"He'll be so sexy in these, you'll be tearin' 'em off jus' soon
as he puts 'em on."

I gave Dewon a disparaging look, holding the jeans close to
the mannequin.

"May I help you, Sir."

The voice sounded like a woman's, but when I turned, I was
amused to see a man about forty years old. His face looked as if
he used make-up.

"I'm trying to find something for my,... er,... niece," I
lied unsuccessfully.

The man looked down his nose, studying the jeans I was
holding. I had no doubt that he had overheard Dewon's lewd
comment.

"Then she must be a very fashionable young lady," he lisped
with a hint of a smirk.

"I was trying to figure out the size," I explained brazenly.
"I think they're about the same size," I added, gesturing to the
bronze-colored mannequin.

"Oh. A size eight?" His voice went up an octave. "You can't
really tell from these mannequins though." He held his hands
apart, still using his 'queen' voice. "They make them so thin.
It's all about fashion, you know."

"Maybe taller by a few inches," I continued.

His smile fleeted. "Perhaps a size ten might fit. Of course,
you wouldn't want them loose on the hips. They're supposed to be
worn low but not so low you see panties."

"My niece is quite slender," I hurried to add.

"How old is she? Age is usually a good indication of size,"
he continued.

Was it my imagination that he had emphasized 'size'?

"Alesha just turned eleven."

"Alesha? Such a delightful name. Is she pretty? I just bet
she is with a name like that."

"Very pretty," I replied dryly. From the corner of my eye, I
could see Dewon beginning to smile.

"Well,... Now most eleven year olds are tens or twelves.
I've seen some that can get into an eight mind you, but only a
few. Girls start to fill out at that age. Not like boys. They get
to keep their delightful bodies for a few more years."

I narrowed my eyes. The man flicked his finger across his
lips.

"What you probably need is ten-slim, but those sizes are
mostly in the boy's department, and of course, you won't find
glitter jeans there. And they won't fit nearly as well because of
the hips. The seat is shaped differently too. A boy's behind is
much smaller," he added with a titter.

"What do you suggest?"

"You could try a ten?" he suggested gaily. "At least the
length would be right. Altering them would be difficult. The
glitter thread, you know."

"It looks like I'm out of luck then?"

He patted down his coiffured hair and sighed. His hand
cupped his chin, pretending to think.

"Dear oh dear, what to do. Alesha has narrow hips, you
said?"

I nodded.

"Hm,... and an eight is not nearly long enough in the legs.
I wonder if we have some fractionals left."

He pushed through the rack, sliding one coat hanger after
the other. "Eight,... eight,... ten,... twelve,...
ten,...,another eight,... I do wish girls would put things pack
in the right order. I'm constantly redoing these. Oh, another
ten,... Oh, oh, here's one. A nine! This should fit."

He lifted if off the hanger and handed to me with the legs
hanging down. It was a blue-gray, but a slightly different color
to the others. It was the color of steel.

"Nines are cut long usually. Some girls have a little
growth spurt before they start puberty. The long bones, you know,
always grow the fastest."

"These should fit nicely." I breathed out in relief.

"We do have matching belts." He turned around and walked a
few paces to a display of fancy belts, all of them glittering.

"Hm,... something to work with the blues and grays?... This
one, perhaps?"

He held up a light blue belt with a bright-chrome buckle.
There were two lines of chrome-encircled grommets all the way
around. I checked the size on the label and nodded. With the belt
it would not matter too much if the jeans were a little loose on
his hips.

"Is this going to be all, Sir. We have some very nice tops
to match as well. Shimmer shirts are very popular with the under-
twelves. Over here we have some tie-dyes. I don't know any other
store around here that's carrying anything besides plain colors."

I held out the shirt he passed me at arm's length. It was
faded navy blue with diagonal purple streaks in the typical
patterns of tie dye. The shiny material felt and looked like
silk, but wasn't. It had a wide un-collared neck and long loose
arms. It was ideal for where I had in mind taking him that very
same day. My mind was made up, although I could not remember ever
deciding. It was time I started introducing Alesha to boys like
himself.

"Now these come in alpha-sizes," he continued. "I don't know
why they do that. About how much does Alesha weigh?"

I had to think for a moment. "Hm,... not a lot. Eighty
pounds or so I expect."

"Ah, size,.... hm,... This should fit a girl about four foot
six or so. They're cut loose so it shouldn't matter too much."

"The color is perfect," I mused.

"This will be quite an outfit. Your Alesha is certainly
going to be very happy," he said.

I followed him over to the counter and waited patiently
while he rang up the total and processed my credit card. I
wondered if I was doing the right thing. It would be interesting
to see how Alesha reacted.

END ACT II


INTERMISSION